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Lofty Ideas

(Note: I am attempting to write this from a dual POV, with Brian's POV in regular script, and Justin's POV italicized.)

(B.)
Run!

The pavement sends shock waves to my knees and ankles. Inhaling the cold air is like breathing knives. I remember when this was so easy. I ran to clear my mind, find some time alone, just for the pleasure of the endorphins. Smoking, sitting on my ass all day at work, and yes, damn it, age, have taken a toll. At thirty, I feel as if a run around the park may kill me. But I couldn't stay in that loft another second without climbing the walls and swinging from the rafters, possibly by my neck.

(J.)
Run!

I increase my speed, closing the gap so I can watch his body as he runs. His broad shoulders taper into slim hips that shift from side to side with each long stride. His muscular thighs power his pace, and even the flat light can't dull the chestnut sheen of his hair, poking out from under his knit cap. God, he is beautiful. We are so close, I sometimes have to step back and remind myself of how gorgeous my lover is. How gentle he can be. How caring he is under that 'fuck you' demeanor. I remind myself, because if I don't, I may have to fucking KILL him!

(B.)
Run!

I hear the thud of rubber running shoes hit the path behind me, gaining. My competitive spirit kicks in. Despite the pain, the difficulty breathing, the stress, I pour on the speed and pick up my pathetic pace. It's one of those shitty winter days in Pittsburgh where the sky is gunmetal gray and the snowy landscape looks more dingy than pastoral. The humidity in the air promises more snow or sleet, and the wind off the Susquehanna is laced with ice.

(J.)
Run!

I know I can overtake him. He's taller than I am, and fit, but I 'm fast when I want to be, and no one can beat me in a sprint. He's always depended upon the gym to stay fit, but his membership lapsed when he could no longer afford the dues. His home fitness equipment bores him. I know why he decided to start running for the first time since college. He's trying to outrun his problems. He's deeply depressed, but he'll never admit it. He's passed through anger and denial. Now he's into surrender. Time for me to kick his fine but sorry ass.

(B.)
Run!

My sweats, worn over thermals, with gloves and a knit cap, are not enough to protect me from the weather, but too late now. My pursuer draws closer and I have no more gas in my tank. This is as fast as it gets for me. I can't outrun him, so I'll let him pass. I can't outrun my problems either, but it was worth a fucking try. The hardest thing about being unemployed, other than no money, is filling the time that stretches out before you every day in silent mockery of your personal failure.

(J.)
Run!

Being passed by me will really piss him off. Lately, I've relied on small things to shake him up. A sneaky fuck by ambush at an unlikely time of day. An evening meal of gourmet pizza served on paper plates by candlelight, as if preparing for the Apocalypse. Some rented DVD's featuring homosexual porn from the twenties and thirties. For awhile, these distractions take him outside his head, but inevitably, he slips back into his vision of impending doom.

(B.)
Run!

His footsteps nip at my heels, the sound as irritating as a yappy Chihuahua. I tense. Some protective instinct raises the hackles on the back of my neck. Hit from behind, a common fear. Especially in this era of gay bashing, a crime with which I have a painful personal acquaintance. I think of him, of how it went down when a basher hit him in the head with a baseball bat while I watched in horror, unable to help. I picture him behind me, so healthy now, so beautiful. I stop abruptly. He plows into me. We both fall off the path and into the snow.

(J.)
I laugh as he rolls me on top of him, his arms clasped at the small of my back. His smooth cheeks are red from the cold and from his exertion. His muddy hazel eyes glisten with fire as he tilts his pelvis against mine. I can feel his dick stir. One thing hasn't changed in this nightmare he's been living... his intense desire for me. Even now, we are at each other like weasels every chance we get. I lean down and kiss him squarely on the lips. His tongue slips from his mouth to mine, and I suck it inside the warmth, wondering if we can melt the snow beneath him with our combined body heat.

(B.)
"For chrissakes! In the middle of the park in broad daylight? Are you trying to get busted?" I look past Justin's red cap to the image of Michael Novotny, standing there in the middle of the path, ridiculously super-sized by a padded down jacket with a raised hood. I glare at my best friend as my gloved hand smooths over Justin's firm, rounded ass. "Your timing always sucked, Mikey."

"Yeah, well, better me than some homophobic maniac cop!"

(J.)
I smile wickedly at Brian. We both think of his trick with one of the Pitt's boys in blue. We've re-enacted that scene with some unique twists of our own. "Umm, boys in chains. Cell block bitch. Suck you for a cigarette!" He swats my ass, and I know this is my cue to get off of him. I do so, and extend a hand to help him stand, but he glares at it and hauls himself up. We both brush snow off his back. He puts his arms around me and kisses me gently on the lips. I can only imagine how much Michael hates that gesture.

(B.)
"Meet you back at the loft," I whisper against Justin's ear. "I want to talk to Mikey." He gives me one of his blazing smiles that melts the remainder of the flakes clinging to me. "See you," Justin says to Michael as he starts to walk away, crisscrossing the park to take the shortest route.

"Sunshine!" I call out to him and he pauses, glances over his shoulder at me. That smile, that half-turn, they take me back to the garage where he was bashed. He looked at me in just that way that night, before the bat hit his head. I wince at that memory, and open my arms in silent summons. He runs into them and hugs me tightly. I just need to feel his body against mine once more before he goes. There are still times when I have to reassure myself that he's fine. We kiss, separate, and then he heads for the perimeter of the park.

(J.)
I love it when he calls me Sunshine. It's his way of saying "darling", a word which he will never say to me. I know that calling me a pet name will irritate Mikey. I don't even have to glance at him to know what look he's wearing on his face. He only has six expressions. One of the six is, "I hate you with Justin, Brian." I am way over that by now. I have bigger issues than Michael's envy to deal with. I am anxious to get home and complete my latest campaign to put my lover back on track.

(B.)
"I hate it when you call him 'Sunshine'," Michael pouts as we begin walking together. "It sounds like 'darling' when you say it."

"It is 'darling' when I say it. Fuck, Mikey, your mother is the one who gave him that damn nickname."

"I'm aware of that fact. Is he always so fucking cheerful?"

"No, he can be a real bitch at times. Kind of like you are now," I remind him and he casts me a glare.

"Shouldn't you be looking for a job instead of screwing around with Justin?"

I frown, the inclement weather even more punishing without the exertion of running. "I've sent resumes to every ad agency in Pittsburgh, New York, Chicago and Philadelphia. I have a stack of 'fuck off's' as tall as you are. "

"But why, Brian? You were Ryder's top ad exec. You won a frigging award!"

"For all the same reasons Ryder fired me. I'm not only queer, but I was involved in a scandal with a young guy, that resulted in his being bashed. That was followed by an ugly, heavily publicized trial in which all our dirty linen was aired. That's not the image the makers of chocolate chip cookies and spring fresh douche will trust in a pitch about an ad campaign. After all, what could I possibly know about love and family values? At least that's what Ryder told me. Personally, I think he is a fucking homophobe who has networked to my detriment across the industry. I've become a leper."

Michael wrinkles his nose to signify confusion. "What will you do?"

I shrug and light a cigarette, undoing the health effects of the run with a few deep drags. "I guess I could become a cross country trucker. Fuck, Mikey, I don't know what I'm going to do. But if I don't do something fast, I'll lose the loft."

"That bad?" He persists and I shrug.

"Not this month or next, but soon."

"Brian, I don't have any cash after investing it all in my store, but..."

I lean over and kiss him on the mouth to shut him up. "Thanks but no thanks, Mikey. I'll pull a rabbit out of my ass. I always do. Maybe I should peddle Justin's fine ass," I say with a smirk. "About time he pulled his own weight."

"Especially since none of this would've happened if not for him," Michael says. I stop him, holding on to his down enhanced biceps with my gloved fist.

"What the hell does that mean?"

Michael meets my eyes with a defiant set to his jaw. "Brian, if that thing with Justin had never happened, there would have been no publicity and you would never have been in trouble with your boss."

I release him and take a minute to calm a flush of rage. I remind myself that Michael is my best friend, has been since we were kids. He's put up with a load of shit from me. If not for that, I would flatten him with a single punch. "You mean the way he planned to get his head cracked by some fucking gay basher, almost losing his artistic talent as well as his life, just to make things difficult for me at work?"

Michael tenses as he realizes here is the line and that his foot's on the wrong side of it. "No, I mean, he's been nothing but trouble since you picked him up on Liberty that night! You never should've touched him! He's the monkey's paw of tricking."

I grab his shoulder in the vise of my hand and squeeze a little too hard, as I respond in a deliberately cool voice, "Justin is not a trick. The monkey's paw in this story is Hobbs. If not for Justin's being here for me during this time in my life, I don't know what I would do. He gives me reason to hope."

I couldn't hurt him more if I did strike him. His eyes reflect his pain as he twists free of me and begins walking. "Fine Brian, go back to your overpriced loft that you can't afford now and pamper your spoiled boy toy and pretend all is well until the mortgage company takes your keys away. See how long he stays with you when the loft and the computer and the jeep and the designer clothes and all your other toys are gone. See who's your friend, then."

"Mikey," I call to him as he walks away, but he just waves at me behind his back without pausing. I can either follow him or go back to the loft, where Justin is waiting. I watch Michael's retreating form grow more distant, and then turn towards the edge of the park, jogging home.

(J.)
I hear the heavy metal door roll open and I rush over to greet him, kissing his cold lips. I feel the heat flow back into his face as we touch. I lift off his cap and toss it on the polished hardwood floor, running my fingers through his thick hair, spiked by the cap, as we embrace. He leans down to nuzzle my neck. "Not yet," I whisper, grabbing his hand between mine and leading him towards the couch. His gray sweats look dingy against the butter cream leather. I hand him a Jim Beam. He raises a suspicious brow. "Are you about to announce you're pregnant?" He teases me, and I laugh. "No, we're pretty scrupulous about protection, remember? Don't freak."

"Whenever someone tells me not to freak, I freak. It's like the most famous last words in the world, which are 'watch this', often closely followed by a moronic form of self inflected death."

"Don't be morbid," I curl up beside him and push the start button on the DVD player that shoots pictures onto the flat, plasma television screen.

(B.)
I wonder what he is up to as the screen is filled by the graphic, boldly colored computer-generated images that make his art so unique. In the background is jarring, synthetic trance music that pulses a beat into the stereo speakers. The graphic images take on the shape of cultural icons: Coca Cola's hourglass bottle, the tri-sected circle of Mercedes-Benz, the Nike swoop, even Snap, Crackle and Pop, the cereal pimps. Whatever it is, it's very well done, almost mesmerizing. Suddenly, all the images turn into abstract blurs, the tails of comets maybe, all converging on a room. When the combined images meld together, the lasting focus is the very room where we are now sitting. But the couch is empty. The blinds are open onto a cityscape. A logo emerges. Two words: The Loft. Fade to black.

(J.)
"Well?" I ask anxiously, awaiting his verdict. He shrugs and rests his long fingers against my thigh. "It's visually intriguing, Justin, but what the fuck is it?"

I smile and drop my bomb. "The Loft is the name I'm giving your ad agency. I think it's young and interesting and a departure from the main line firms with a thousand partner names and initials in their title." He stands, paces to the window, and back, before facing me. I know him so well, I can ask his first question in unison with him.

(B.)
"Are you fucking crazy?" He says the words along with me which adds to my irritation. His face, reflecting all the worldly wisdom of a cub scout, beams with the joy of accomplishment. I admit the graphics are good, but he has no clue what he's talking about, from a business perspective. He's smart, but he's a kid. Most of his experience in life has come from me. That's not a good thing. "Justin, I can barely pay the rent. How am I supposed to start up an agency?"

(J.)
I am SO ready for this. I go over to the desk and retrieve a folder, removing a carefully ordered presentation that I printed last night while he slept. I edited it today. He rejoins me on the couch and I hand it to him a page at a time. I explain each page as I come to it. He stares at me in mute amazement, barely glancing at my colorful pie charts and intricate spreadsheets. "I've done some checking on office space rentals and the cost of leased office equipment, insurance and preliminary staff, such as an assistant. This chart shows average rents for a small suite, with a sliding scale for more space, to be added as needed. You can probably get by with a thousand square feet to start, an executive suite, with a bathroom, reception area, small conference room and one large private office. I found a good one not far from here in an emerging commercial center, at a promotional rate. The good news is, it's near two commercial graphics firms that you may want to commission to do your artwork. Anything I can't manage, that is. Since they're starting out too, they're hungry for business and would cut you a good deal. They're also gay owned, and are anxious to promote businesses within the community."

(B.)
I stare blankly at the paper that litters my lap as he talks about the opportunity cost of a new business, the amount of loan needed as seed money, the probable interest to be paid, how much income I would need to generate in order to break even and how much to be profitable. He even has projections for what he determines I can make in year one if his presumptions about my ability to attract business are correct. I'm stunned by the amount of work and analysis that went into this presentation. I feel as if my spacey, artsy little blond twink has suddenly morphed into Donald Trump. Finally, he's silent. He looks expectantly at me. I smile, and say, "Are you completely fucking nuts?" I watch him get up, walk over to my desk, open a bottom drawer, reach under a pile of papers and remove a red file. He carries it back to me and drops it on my lap. I don't open it. I know what's in it.

(J.)
"I got the idea from this, Brian. All I did was flesh it out and name the agency."

"That was just something I threw together when I got bored because internet was not working and I couldn't hit a porn site. It's meaningless," Brian responds impassively.

I look at his handsome face and shake my head slowly. He can't fool me. "It's your thoughts for going out on your own. Written long before Ryder fired you. Before I got bashed. I assume the bashing took you off track."

"It's just a pipe dream, Justin. Written when I was flying high at the agency and believed I could steal some principal clients and go out on my own. I had money in the bank and I was on a roll. Polar opposite of where I am now."

I sit beside him and drape an arm across his shoulder. "You're exactly where you were, then. You're the same person, Brian. Everything you need to hit it big is in your brain; your creativity, your pitch. They can fire you, but they can't suck that out of you. That's your commodity. Sell it, Bri. Don't let them rob you of that too."

(B.)
I reach over and kiss him gently on the lips. His confidence in me is amazing. Where's my old self-confidence? Where's my fire? Why can't I see myself the way he sees me? "No bank would fund me, baby." He reaches into his portfolio and withdraws a business card. "This is from a senior loan officer at a major bank. He's a friend of my father's." I wince. Craig Taylor would rather suck a bubonic plague pustule than give me a hand. I'm the scum pederast who seduced his baby boy into this life. Justin just smiles. "He called me when he heard I was estranged from my dad, and why. He told me he was sorry, that he wanted to help, if he could. He informed me that he's gay too, which amazed me, and would no doubt amaze my dad. He said he found me to be very brave."

"And pretty fucking cute too, huh?" I say cynically, and he punches my arm with a knuckle.

"He's not like that. But when I told him your situation, he said you should call him. Get a proposal together and set up an appointment. He's anxious to seed gay enterprises with start up funds. His bank is trying to develop our buying segment."

"Not sure what he means by that. Gay businesses or gay customers?"

"What he means, Brian, is take a shot."

(J.)
I watch Brian pace over to the fridge, take out a bottle of water, suck it down. He is processing information. Time for me to back off and let it settle into his mind. Let him kick it back and forth between his business sensibility and his creative spirit. Now is the hour for another tactic entirely. I walk towards the bed, stripping off my shirt as I go. I let it fall to the floor. I can feel his gaze like laser fire against my spine. One great thing about the loft is that everything is in plain view. No room dividers, no doors, no hallways. Like our relationship. No apologies, no regrets, no handcuffs. Well, we did try handcuffs that once, and it was hot, but figuratively, no restraints. "Isn't it a little early for bed?" He teases me. He sets down the bottle of Evian and approaches the bed from the kitchen. He pulls off his sweatshirt, and then his thermal undershirt, exposing his deeply cut sternum and lean torso. Neither one of us has showered since our run, and that fact adds to our excitement. I love the scent of him, warm and musky from exertion, untainted by expensive soaps and other foreign smells.

I wiggle out of my sweatpants and underwear, just as he takes a flying leap on top of me, crushing me with his weight. I gasp and then laugh, his lips tickling my neck, my shoulder, my chest. His teeth pull at my nipple ring, while his hands explore my thighs, hips and cock. He is in overdrive. His sweatpants hang up on his erection as I try to yank them down. We laugh and free him. He turns on his back and gives his pants one of his powerful center forward soccer kicks to send them sailing into the main room. No time for gentle foreplay, no need for it. Sometimes, it's essential. Today it's only a barrier to what we both want. He flips me over, and presses his forearm to the back of my neck as if to pin me down. I'm going nowhere, but the sensation is hot. He raises my hips with his other arm and leans over me, getting in position. At the last minute, he remembers the lube and a condom, for we have vowed to observe safe sex until the day that we no longer have occasional lovers.

(B.)
I hate this god-damned condom. I want to feel his bare skin enclose my cock, smooth, undulating, tight. I'll wear condoms with tricks, but I want Justin bare. It's an argument we keep putting off. But now, I just want to be inside of him. Paired with him. There is no greater intimacy than what it is like between us when we fuck. The separation of two vanishes into one. I never feel this way with any other fuck. Only with Justin. He fits me, he comforts me, he completes me. The world stops. We become lost in our own strange rhythm, one conjoined body slipping from raw need to sweet ecstasy. The ride is sublime, the destination nirvana. I grip his gimpy hand tight, tighter, for nothing about his body is imperfect to me. I lick the skin on his neck, tasting his sweat, the clear, watery version of his cum. Tears, sweat, blood, cum, all the same to me. All uniquely Justin. All mine.

(J.)
I never want it to end, and yet I know I can't reach that moment of perfect bliss if I don't allow my body to let go. The pressure of his cock inside of me is unbearable at times, a wanton combination of pleasure and discomfort. Yet there is no feeling I would trade for the sensation of being penetrated by Brian. Even without looking at his face, I can gauge how close he is to coming by his pace, his breathing, the soft sounds he makes at the base of his throat. I have learned to push him to conclusion before I come, because then I get the secondary pleasure of his mouth on my cock. That's his way of returning the favor...even though he also likes to feel the strictures of my orgasm around his shaft. I know the end is imminent when he whispers hoarsely how much he loves me, the one time he is free enough to proclaim what we both know to be true. He tells me, he shoots, he collapses above me, heaving from his effort. Then he pulls out of me, breaking the connection. He rolls me over and finishes me off with his incredible expertise as a cocksucker, skills to be envied by every homo in the world. Skills I have assimilated and use for his own pleasure. I grab his hair in my fists. I shoot, he swallows, we lie together in silent celebration of our love. Our hands are still entangled. I wallow in it as long as he will let me.

(B.)
I reluctantly release his hand, and sit up on the edge of the bed. "Smells like a locker room in here."

"Only a locker room in a gay porn movie," Justin teases me and I smirk at him across my shoulder.

"Let's take a shower. We reek."

"Ok, because we need to get dressed."

I sense an announcement is behind that deceptively simple statement. "Why?"

"We have dinner plans."

I narrow my eyes at him, wondering what scheme he has now. "Since when do you make my dinner plans?"

"Since we're having dinner with the president of the largest wireless phone provider in the region. A man who is looking for a fresh perspective on his product. A man who wants to think outside the box."

"Another friend of Daddy's?"

"No Brian, a friend of yours."

I frown. "Mine?"

"Maybe friend is too strong a word. Let's just say, he's an acquaintance."

I can't summon him from my memory. "How do I know him?"

"He sucked your cock in the baths last month. He was impressed."

I suppress a smile. "Could you narrow the field?" He hits me with a pillow and laughs. "Important thing is, he remembers you."

"And you know this because...?"

"Because he hit on me at Babylon last week, and asked me if I was your boy toy."

(J.)
In the shower, he lathers my back as we continue this conversation. I can tell he is not happy about meeting a trick for dinner, especially a trick who later hit on me. "Did you tell him you were my boy toy?" He asks, his hands linger at my ass. I smile, and reach back to enclose his dick in my soapy palm. His body responds immediately. I know he'll be good to go again before this shower is over. "I told him the truth."

"Which is?"

"I'm your lover." I turn to face him. I reach up to join my hands at the back of his neck. "He must be the only faggot in Pittsburgh who doesn't know that by now," I tease.

He kisses me gently on the lips. "Knowing it and knowing what it means are two different things. I'm not sure we know what it means, so no one else can understand us."

"I understand you, Brian. And that's the biggest challenge in analyzing our relationship. What motivates the predatory Brian Kinney to lie down with the lamb?"

He arches a brow as he presses his lengthening cock against my belly. "Does the answer to that question involve your fine ass?"

"The answer to that question is that you love me truly, deeply and only."

He rolls his eyes in mock irritation and silences me with a kiss that promises much more to come.

(B.)
We are meeting a trick for dinner. I can't believe I agreed to do this. I don't want to see tricks in passing after the sex is over. Dining with one is like torture. Even when we enter the small café, I don't recognize anyone. Justin does. He waves and leads me over to a booth where an attractive man in his mid-thirties is seated alone. I try to picture him fellating my cock, but I can't get there. He's not my type, really. It must have been a slow night at the baths, or maybe he's concealing a fascinating weapon under his Brooks Brothers suit. His name is Martin. We shake hands. This is excruciating. I can't explain the ridiculous aspects of having to make small talk with a man you don't know, but who just happens to share an intimate acquaintance with your dick. He is cruising me big time with his gaze and I find that irritating since Justin is right beside me. I never do the same trick twice. I treat him with cool civility.

(J.)
I have to carry the conversation. Brian has gone into one of his remote moods, and he is virtually inaccessible when that happens. He smiles occasionally, nods. The lights are on, but Brian isn't home. Martin and I discuss the intricacies of Brian's start up, Brian's years of experience, Brian's awards, Brian's clients while working for Ryder. Dinner arrives, Brian eats but is still scanning the café and participating marginally in the conversation. Finally, over coffee, Martin says, "Brian, Justin is a great agent, you really should hire him to handle your PR. But I'm trying to place an account with a five million dollar advertising budget to be spent regionally and I need a reason to give it to you. I presume an account of that magnitude could launch your business."

I fix an eager stare on my lover's classic profile and he offers our companion one of those icy smiles that often signals trouble. I tense.

(B.)
"What can I say that Justin hasn't said before, Martin?" I ask with cool indifference. "You've seen samples of my work. You've heard how I operate. What is it you want to help swing the deal?" When Martin grins and leans back against the booth, I know my cynicism is about to be validated.

"I have seen your work and you're good, Brian. I've also seen your cock, and it's good, too. And your boyfriend, here, is divine. I think if the three of us reached an understanding together, say, at my place, we may well have a deal."

Justin reflexively rests his hand on my thigh, tight, worried. I cover his fingers with mine and continue glaring at the other man. "So all we need to do is jump into a three-way with you and we have a deal? Isn't five million a little high priced, even for a couple as obviously glam as the two of us?"

Martin shrugs. "I know you can do the work, Brian. And I like the idea of being your make or break client. That's a lot of influence for me to have over you. But if you want to close the deal, my offer is outstanding."

I glance at Justin. His expression is stricken. He forces a brave smile, because he doesn't want his reluctance to shoot down what he views as the chance for me to realize my dream. He tightens his grip on my thigh as if to encourage me and I pat his hand and smile at Martin.

"That's quite an offer, Martin. I know I'm good. I know I have a good cock. But I must admit, five million is very flattering. Even for me." I see Justin look away, at some non-existent point of interest in the café;. He can't face me as I cut this deal. He loves me enough to make the sacrifice, but he can't watch me do it. I look back at Martin. "But I'm an ad man, not a pimp. And Justin is my..." I try to think of another word for lover. I give up. "He's not a whore. So you can take your five million bucks and shove it up your ass a dollar at a time. By the way, thanks for dinner. It's on you. Let's go, Justin."

(J.)
I stare at Brian in wonder as he tries to hurry me out of the booth. I see it all slipping away. I'm relieved he turned him down, and proud of what he said, but I'm also worried that he'll regret it later. Brian has done plenty of three-ways. We've even talked about experimenting with it ourselves, one day. It's not a moral issue. If he's protecting me, I can't let him do that, not at this expense. "Brian..." I start to say, but his flinty expression convinces me to shut up. I stand and he takes my hand and leads me out of the café; without looking back. In the jeep, I stare at his profile again. "I would have done it." I announce to him.

"Shut the fuck up."

"It's just sex, Brian. That's what you always say."

"It's not just sex when it involves you."

"But five million..." I remind him and he glares at me.

"Five dollars or five million, its whoring, Justin. I've done clients before, some I like, some I don't. I've told myself its just sex, but when it involved you, the three of us, it went a step too far."

"If it was just you he wanted, would you have done it?" He shrugs and glances into the side mirror, then back at the road.

"I don't know. Maybe. But I didn't like his attitude. He had an air of entitlement that annoyed me." I lean over and kiss his cheek. "What was that for?" He demands.

"I love you, Brian."

"Yeah, yeah," he says dismissively, but the slight smile that lights his features gives him away.

(B.)
I wake up alone. I know because the first thing I do is reach for Justin. When he's not there, I find it impossible to go back to sleep. I glance at the clock. Ten-thirty. He must have an early class. I can't keep up with his schedule. Since I'm not working, I don't have any set time to haul my ass out of bed. I find myself sleeping a lot. Some might call it depression. I force myself to get up, drink coffee, shower, dress, go to the computer, stare at the screen. I end up going through Justin's slick presentation for The Loft again, this time more thoughtfully. When I hear him come in, I realize two and a half hours have passed while I am reading and making adjustments to his projections. He looks adorable in a blazer and khakis, and I wonder at his fancy attire. He kisses me, smelling of a freshly smoked cigarette and a cold winter's day. "Why the costume?" I ask as he lifts the papers off the desk, reading my edits. I take them out of his hands, and lead him over to the couch. "I asked you a question."

(J.)
I stare at Brian's unshaven face and smile as I reach in my pocket and hand him an envelope. He doesn't rip it open, instead he slaps it against his palm. "What is it?" He insists, and I shrug. "Open it and see."

He looks skeptical as he rips it open and removes the letter. He reads it once, then again. He looks up at me. I explain it as if he's too dumb to understand what he's reading. "It's an offer letter. A commitment to spend five million with you on advertising. I knew the bank would want some proof of the spend."

"How did you get this from Martin?" He asks quietly. I laugh. "How do you think I got it?"

He hits me on top of my head with the envelope and walks into the kitchen, refilling his coffee mug, but not even drinking from it. He leans his hands on the counter as he glares at me. "What the fuck were you thinking? Did you think this fucking business means so much to me that I would look the other way? Do you have so little confidence in my ability to attract a client that you had to give him your ass to seal the deal? After I made such a point last night? I look like a god damn fool!"

I shake my head and walk over to him, feeling him tense as I stand behind him and encircle him in my arms. "You are a god damn fool, Brian. I didn't fuck Martin."

(B.)
I turn to look at him, his arms still around me. My confusion is evident. "Explain."

"I went to see him at his office this morning. His company is publicly held. I figured the shareholders and Board of Directors would probably take a dim view of their CEO offering business in exchange for group sex, especially group homosexual sex, especially when one of the participants is only 18, and looks even younger."

I stare at him in amazement. It's not the first time I realize Justin has balls of steel, but, again, he has made me realize how formidable he can be despite his angel face. "You didn't."

"Didn't I?" He grins.

"Of course you did. And he said?"

"The usual bullshit about no one would believe me, but that didn't hold up. He caved early in the negotiations."

I lean down and kiss him hotly, my hands covering his rump, pulling him close to my body. "You scare the shit out of me, Justin."

(J.)
I smile. "You should be scared, Kinney. I'm on to you, you know."

His lips touch my neck, my chin, my cheek, my mouth. "I want to be in you."

I force myself to push him back. "Not now. You have an appointment at the bank in a half hour and you need to shave and get dressed."

"Are you running my life again, Taylor?"

"Someone has to do it. You are absolutely useless when left to your own devices."

"What if they turn me down for the loan?"

"With your qualifications and a locked in client? No way. But if they do, we go to another bank and then another."

(B.)
I lean back and smile at him, experiencing a surge of affection and admiration that leaves me feeling a little weak. He is so much more than my lover. He is my soulmate, my ideal, my partner. If he had any idea how strongly I feel for him, he would never take his foot off my throat. I kiss him, then go into the bathroom to shave, feeling hopeful for the first time in months. More than hopeful. Confident.

(J.)
I watch him go. He is getting that strut back in his walk, that Brian Kinney swagger that is so integral to who he really is. He knows he has this nailed. So do I. We have this odd habit of pulling each other out of the ditch. He falls in, I haul. I fall in, he hauls. If we both fall in, we climb over each other and find our way out together. I realize that more than the sex, more than the romance, more than the affection, this ability to rescue each other from the worst the world can shove at us is the strongest definition of our love. I know how strongly he feels for me, and I revel in it. I know how successful he will be running his own agency and I feel good that I had a small part in it. I listen to him humming off key as he shaves, a happy sound, unheard in a long time. I smile and slip off my tie and jacket. A key card falls out of my pocket. It's to the Sheraton, across the street from Martin's office. I quickly retrieve it and toss it in the trash, under some soggy paper towels and a used coffee filter. I didn't really lie. I did blackmail Martin, after I lured him to the hotel, promising him sex. Several hotel people saw us together. Instead of fucking him, I told him I wouldn't hesitate to create a scandal. Being out is one thing. Meeting young boys in hotels during work hours is another. Offering business to the boy's lover is the final nail. It was just a variation on the same scam I once used on the reptilian Kip, who tried to ruin Brian with a false sexual harassment claim.

I watch him dress in his Armani armor. He looks smashing and debonair. I'd loan him money without any doubt about a payback. I've packed the edited proposal in his briefcase and he takes it from me and kisses me gently. The sparkle in his eyes is enough reward to last me a long time. "Isn't it amazing what you can accomplish with your brain instead of your pretty ass?" He quips. I smile and nod, straightening his tie. "Knock 'em dead, tiger."

He hesitates at the door. He turns. He looks at me. "One thing, Justin."

I tense. Does he know? Can he guess? "Yes?"

"Thank you."

I relax and smile. "Nada." He still hesitates, and I wonder what's on his mind. Finally he slides the door open, slips on his shades and smiles one last time. "Hey Sunshine, one other thing."

"Yes, Brian?"

"I uh...." He suddenly loses his nerve. He winces and I let him twist for a moment, then rescue him.

"I know. I love you too."

He breaks into a smile, relieved and grateful. "I know," he replies, and with that, he is gone.

Go to Lofty Ideas, Part II