TRADING SPACES

Part 15: Withholding Information  



 

Brian

I'm awakened from a deep sleep by a curly-haired whirling dervish hurling himself at the sofa, grabbing my dead arm that was lying on the floor nearby and shaking it roughly. "Daddy, Daddy," the dervish shrieks, and when I carefully slit my eyes open against the bright sunlight streaking through a crack in the curtains, I see that Gus is leaning against the sofa, both hands on my bare arm, pushing and pulling me into consciousness.

"Daddy, wake up!" he shouts, as if I'm a block away instead of mere inches from his face.

"Oh," I groan, clutching my head, "Oh, God."

"God's probably nearby, it's Sunday, so watch your mouth," a cheerful voice informs me, and I glance up to see Lindsay standing above the sofa smiling down at me. Sunlight diffused by the living room curtains backlights her blonde hair, giving me a momentary pang of longing for another blond head that's a million miles away.

"Go away and let me sleep," I moan, knowing it's hopeless but giving it a shot anyway.

"Nope," Lindsay's relentlessly jolly, "Everybody will be here in an hour, so get up and get dressed now."

That gets both my eyes open. "Everybody?"

"Brian, we told you we were having a family brunch this morning. It's ten o'clock, brunch is at eleven."

"No."

It's a token refusal to accept the inevitable. Vaguely I remember Lindsay mentioning something about Sunday brunch, but I thought she just meant the munchers-and-son.

"Who?" I ask suspiciously, as I gingerly sit up on the sofa, moving slowly to ensure that the ticking bomb inside my head doesn't detonate. "Who is everybody?"

"Debbie and Vic, Michael and Ben, and Hunter, of course. Emmett will probably be here later, he's due back sometime this morning. We invited Ted and that friend of his, but I don't know if they're coming. And - "

"Jesus Christ." My voice is mild, in consideration of the little mocking-bird hanging onto my knee, staring up at me.

Predictably he repeats, "Cheesy Crust," causing Lindsay to lean down and smack my shoulder.

"Get up," she orders me, and Gus seconds the motion.

"Up, Daddy, up, up, up!"

"Why, Gus?" I demand, turning the tables on him and leaning forward till we're nose to nose. "Why? Why? Why?"

"Ew," he recoils slightly, then turns to Lindsay and informs her, "Mama, Daddy stinky!"

"You're ganging up on me," I complain, rising unsteadily to my feet and wrapping the blanket around me like a toga. On my way out of the living room, I complain, "Can I at least have a cup of coffee before I get in the shower?"

Mel is in the kitchen, standing at the table carving a large ham.

"Is that kosher?"

"I'm not going to eat it, asshole."

“Nice language to use in front of my son.”

“Our son.”

Gus is on my heels and he informs her, "Mommy, Daddy stinky!"

"You can say that again," Mel mutters. Gus doesn't follow up on her invitation and I choose to ignore it.

"Daddy needs coffee, and can everybody please stop shouting?" I drop into a chair at the table and steal a crumb of ham that's fallen off the plate. Lindsay pours me a cup of coffee and remembers to add sugar. I take a few gulps, letting it burn my tongue and gratefully breathing in hot steam rising from the cup.

“I’m taking Gus upstairs to change his clothes,” Lindsay informs us as she bends down to pick him up. “Is it safe to leave you two alone together for ten minutes?”

“Don’t worry,” I swallow a gulp of coffee, “Mel’s virtue is safe with me.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Linds throws over her shoulder as she heads for the stairs. Mel mutters “asshole” again and continues slicing the ham, arranging layers on a large white platter.

The kitchen’s silent with just the two of us; we’ve always kept up a front of semi-amused bickering but underneath it all, we really don’t like each very much. When the silence draws out too long, Mel speaks first. “Justin’s mother will croak if you decide to stay in LA,” she tells me, without looking up from her slicing.

“She’ll survive. Besides, she’ll have a new husband to keep her busy. And she’s got another kid to smother.”

Mel puts down the knife and asks, “So, ARE you going to stay in California?”

I shrug. “Too soon to tell. But it’s up to Justin whether he stays there or comes back here.”

She laughs then. “Oh yeah, like he’d choose to be someplace you’re not. You’ve got that boy penis-whipped.”

“Don’t underestimate him,” I answer mildly. “Justin makes his own decisions.”

“Uh-huh.”

I make a decision of my own: Discretion is the better part of valor. Or: It is better to get up and leave the room than to kick Melanie’s ass.

Gathering my suitcase from the hall closet, I hump it up the stairs to Emmett’s room, averting my eyes from the pink chiffon décor and carrying my toiletries bag into the upstairs bathroom. The shower’s halfway decent and I could spend an hour under the steaming spray to flush JB toxins from my skin, but I’m absolutely certain that Mel plans to accidentally turn on the cold tap downstairs midway through my shower, on the off-chance the surge of hot water will burn off my cock, so I rush through and then take my time shaving.

I’m tempted to let my beard go for the day, but by late afternoon the bristles would be stiff enough to rub Justin’s little ass totally raw. He wouldn’t complain but since I intend to fuck him repeatedly tonight until one of us passes out, I decide to start out with a smooth face. I smile at myself in the bathroom mirror, impressed with my amazing show of maturity and consideration for others. That’s twice so far today and it’s not even noon.


Justin

At exactly nine o’clock on the dot, I pick up the phone and call Andrew Whittaker’s home number. I knew he was due back from San Francisco late last night, too late for me to call him then, and what I need to say could not be left on an answering machine. I figured that nine a.m. is early for a Sunday morning but not so early as to be outrageous.

The houseboy answers the phone. At least I think it’s a houseboy. I tell him who I am and that I need to speak to Andrew urgently as soon as he’s up, then I’m put on hold and a couple minutes later, Andrew picks up.

“Justin?” he asks, “What’s up? Something wrong?”

“Hi. No, nothing’s wrong. Well, sort of wrong. Andrew,” I say a bit breathlessly, “Can I maybe come over, or something? I need to talk to you in person, it’s kind of complicated.”

“Well, I’m intrigued,” he says. “You can come here if you want, but I’m headed into Burbank soon, for a brunch meeting with some suits at Universal. I can stop by your place on the way. Would that be okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” I agree eagerly, “Thanks.”

“See you in a couple hours then.” Andrew hangs up and a I breathe a sigh of relief.



Brian

Debbie and Vic are the first to arrive and naturally Deb tries to horn in on the kitchen action, she loves to cook and the girls had refused absolutely to let her bring anything. Somehow they convince her to sit on the sidelines and supervise, and a couple times I notice Lindsay asking Deb's advice on something food related and I know she's just doing it from kindness, Linds is a fabulous cook in her own right.

Mostly I stay out of the kitchen and at first it's easy to avoid conflict, it's just Vic and me for a while, and we hang out in the living room talking sotto voce about ways to keep Deb off her feet without losing her mind (or more likely, causing Vic and Michael to lose theirs). Michael and I have talked her into taking "indefinite" leave from the Diner, but I know that's going to be one fucking struggle after a week or probably less. Deb's worked since she was a kid, it's ingrained in her by now. I don't envy Michael and Vic trying to put the brakes on.

Emmett shows up next, he'd spent most of the weekend organizing what he calls a Fabulous Fifties Fete for a rich queer couple with a huge mansion on the other side of town, an old place built a century ago with a turret and other architectural anomalies that Em describes in excruciatingly boring detail. Continuing my uncharacteristic streak of kindness, I don't regale Emmett with tales of the several orgies I've attended in that house, but when he floats upstairs to unpack and change clothes for brunch, I whisper a couple stories to Vic, and he admits that he went to a party there many years ago when both he and the queer couple were young.

When Michael and Ben arrive, Hunter pushes past them and hurries across the living room to throw himself, literally, at my feet. "Hey Bri, wassup?" he asks with that indomitable smile.

"Hunter," Michael rushes over to frown at the boy, "It's Uncle Brian to you, and go in the kitchen to say hi to Ma and the others right now."

"Sheesh," Hunter grumps, getting to his feet and ostentatiously grabbing his dick through his baggy jeans to rearrange it. "Uncle Brian my ass," he glares at Michael, but he moves away and goes into the kitchen.

"Practicing your dad skills?" I smirk, "The best of Irish luck to you with that one."

Ben returns from the kitchen where he' s said his own hellos and sits down next to me. "Yeah," he agrees, "Hunter's a handful all right, but he's coming along. He's really a great kid, underneath that rough exterior. And he's smart, too."

I tune out the boring proud-pop chatter, which a glance at the glazed look on Vic's face tells me is continuing unchecked and I stand up and excuse myself to go outside for a smoke. Michael insists on coming along, which prevents me from calling Justin. I don't need to call him anyway, I was just going to check his cell; besides, I realize that it's still early in California, Justin might not be up yet.

"How's the hangover?"

"What hangover?" I raise my eyebrows at Michael.

"Ha," he snorts, "You've got bags under your eyes."

"I fucking do not have bags under my eyes!" My hand snakes up and my fingers gently caress the skin there, but I know he's full of shit, I saw myself in the mirror this morning, I look as fantastic as always.

"Well, you should have bags," he amends himself, "And some day soon, you will have. You're no spring chicken, you know."

"You're older than me," I remind him, "So fuck off with the grandpa talk."

"But I don't abuse my body with chemicals and cigarettes and endless pieces of ass."

"Yeah, you always were pathetic."

"Oh, I forgot," Michael smirks at me. "Your endless pursuit of ass has finally ended. You're a do-mes-tic part-ner now!"

"Shut the fuck up. So much for your promise."

“I haven’t told anybody.”

“You will.”

I take a final drag on my cigarette and glance over Michael’s shoulder at a top-of-the-line silver Mercedes gliding by. Except it doesn’t glide by, it pulls up to the curb. Who the fuck do Linds and Mel know with a. . .

“Oh fuck.”

“What?” Michael turns around to look as the driver’s door opens and Jennifer Taylor’s doctor swings out of the car.

Oh fuck.

We watch in silence as the doctor opens the passenger door. Jennifer steps out, she glances up at the porch and sees us, gives a little wave, and Michael waves back.

Oh fuck.

Michael giggles. He actually fucking giggles. “Hey Brian,” he reaches out and pokes me in the ribs. “It’s your in-laws.”

Of course I want to turn around and flee but I’m paralyzed to the spot, either by panic or by some shred of good manners that must’ve rubbed off on me from hanging around Justin. My face feels like petrified wood while my mouth turns up in what I hope is a welcoming smile but is more likely a death-mask grimace. I stand my ground, waiting to welcome Jennifer and glad-hand her into the house.

“Hello Brian, hello Michael,” she says pleasantly as she mounts the stairs, Doctor Rob bringing up the rear.

“Nice to see you again, Brian,” he says, inclining his head politely, his eyes showing nothing but friendly warmth; he knows by now that I’m not going to give him a hard time. In any sense of the word. They pass by us and go into the house; Michael turns and follows them in.

I stay on the porch, pull out my cigarettes and light up again, pondering the unanswerable question: How the fuck did Brian Kinney acquire in-laws?

I pull out my phone and look at it for a minute. Probably Justin has his cell turned back on by now. But perversely I don’t want to talk to him, I want to see him. Now, God damn it. I want to go home. Then it hits me – LA is home. Or at least, at this moment in time LA is home. Maybe because he’s there, I suppose that could be a small part of it.

No use postponing the inevitable. I toss away my half-smoked cigarette and go into the house.



Ben

I haven’t seen much of Justin’s mother before now; she’s been at a couple family events since I’ve become part of this crazy group but I’m slightly surprised to see her here today, with Justin stuck in LA. The ladies invited her and naturally everyone welcomes her warmly, this tight-woven extended family of really good people. Well, people who are mostly good; some of them aren’t always as nice as they could be.

A few minutes later Brian slips in the front door, I had a hunch he’d be heading for the hills once he saw Jennifer Taylor arrive. There’s no love lost between those two, though nobody else seems to notice.

Jennifer’s engaged to a really handsome man in his fifties; he’s in good shape though a few minutes a day on the Nautilus would tighten his midriff a bit more – it’s not flabby but his snug pullover shows a slight softening around his waistline. His pecs are good and firm and his handshake denotes a man both strong and sincere.

After introductions we all hang around in the kitchen until the cooks shoo us away, then we move into the living room and play a subtle game of musical chairs. I sit on the sofa and pull Michael’s hand gently so he’ll sit beside me on the sofa arm. I need to help him keep his mouth shut about Brian and Justin’s commitment, especially with Justin’s mother here. We promised Brian to keep his secret and I’m determined that we do just that.

Jennifer and Rob squeeze down on the other end of the sofa, Emmett sits on a footstool, Vic takes an easy chair, and Brian sort of hovers behind Vic, sometimes putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. I’ve noticed a tight bond between the two men, though the one time I mentioned it to Michael he dismissed the obvious shared friendship, saying, “Oh yeah, Brian likes Uncle Vic.” I see more than that, I sense some kind of shared karma between them, I suspect there was a mentoring relationship there in the past. Of course it’s none of my business so I keep my thoughts to myself.

Hunter’s been in the bathroom and when he comes into the living room, I see his eyes rove around till he spots Brian and then he oh-so-subtly wanders over to sit down on the floor at his feet. Hunter’s eyes as he looks up are not so much adoring as full of juicy teenage lust. Brian doesn’t even glance at him. Michael has confided his fear that Brian will take advantage of Hunter’s obvious crush but I have more faith in Brian. For one thing (and despite evidence to the contrary), I believe that Brian is truly good at heart and he wouldn’t want to hurt the boy; and for another, I have faith in Brian’s commitment to Justin.

Michael also confided to me that he does not believe in that commitment, in spite of the fact that Brian calls Justin his domestic partner. Just because Brian never had a meaningful relationship before now, in my mind that doesn’t preclude him making a heartfelt commitment to the young man he loves. Anyone seeing the two together can tell that they are truly in love, it’s written all over them whenever they look at each other.

Emmett regales the assembled company with a description of the weekend party he just catered, keeping us all entertained until we’re called to eat. Lindsay settles Gus in the living room to watch a dvd of The Little Mermaid, and I cringe when Brian says casually, “Hunter, you want to stay here and watch the movie too?” But Hunter just laughs and punches Brian’s shoulder, and he says “Fuck you!” loud enough to get shushed by every female in the room.

The ladies have a long dining table that easily seats all of us, and I notice again that Brian maneuvers himself to be close to Vic; they’re so comfortable together that it’s easy to imagine that Vic is Brian’s uncle as well as Michael’s.

When the food is served I decide to break a few of my dietary rules – an occasional egg yolk is not a death sentence and a few extra carbs once or twice a month can be an acceptable diversion. All the food smells delicious and everyone digs in and loads up their plates. A glance at Brian shows him nibbling a single slice of crisp bacon and toying with a small mound of scrambled eggs; he’s as diet conscious as I am myself except that his concern’s more for keeping his body slim than any health worries. For a moment I feel a twinge of resentment that he’s healthy and I’m not, but it’s an unworthy thought that I banish immediately.

Brian must feel my eyes on him because he glances toward me, and I’m struck anew by the heat of a single gaze from those intense greenish-brown eyes. I have a momentary flashback to the night we spent together in his hotel room at the White Party, my God he was magnificent in bed. Before I can change my train of thought, I see recognition in Brian’s eyes and he smiles crookedly before looking away and taking another bite of the bacon in his hand.

Conversation is light at first, everyone’s busy eating and the murmured talk revolves around food, compliments to the cooks and previous breakfast feasts fondly remembered. When everyone’s sated, other subjects of conversation arise, and attention turns to Jennifer and Rob’s upcoming wedding.

“We want a small ceremony,” Jennifer explains, “Since it’s a second marriage for both of us, we’re going to keep it simple.”

“When will it be?” Lindsay asks.

“January?” Jenn looks at Rob and he nods.

“Or February. After the holidays,” he agrees. “I’m kept pretty busy around Christmas with skiing and snowboarding accidents.”

I remember that he’s an orthopedic surgeon, I suppose a lot of people get hurt on holiday vacations. Rob confirms it. “Folks get sporting equipment for Christmas and they want to use it right away, often without getting training first.”

“Where will you go on your honeymoon?” Emmett asks eagerly, leaning forward across the table to smile at Jennifer.

“Rob has a house in Puerto Rico, we’re going to spend a week down there.”

“Will Molly go with you?” Deb wants to know. “If not, she could stay with me while you’re gone, I’d love to have a little one around for a while!”

“Mel’s going to pop her cork soon,” Brian puts in, “Then you’ll have a little one around.”

“Pop my cork?” Mel bristles.

“Thanks Deb,” Jennifer smiles, ignoring the routine Brian/Melanie bickering. “But Molly will be staying with her father that week. She loves spending time with him and he’s really good with her.”

“So, he’s up for Father of the Year award, is he?” Brian asks, turning a dangerously bland smile on Jennifer.

There’s a brief shocked silence and I notice that Jennifer’s frowning. “I said he was good with Molly.”

“Well, that’s all that matters then,” Brian says, his voice edgy and his smile brittle.

“I can’t make him accept Justin,” Jennifer sits up straight in her chair and glares at Brian, “It’s not my fault that – “

Deb jumps in and says soothingly, “Jenn, nobody blames you for Justin’s dad being an asshole!”

“Brian does.” Jennifer’s face is red and she’s staring daggers across the table.

Brian says nothing, just stares back at her, then he shrugs his shoulders. “Whatever,” he says dismissively, looking away, picking up his fork and spearing a chunk of scrambled eggs.

Everyone’s silent for a moment, we’re all reluctantly plunged into the middle of what’s obviously a long-standing conflict between Justin’s mother and Brian. Then Melanie’s voice slices through the heavy silence.

“Cut the crap, Brian,” she says angrily, “As if you give a shit about Justin – you didn’t even let him come home with you this weekend!”

Debbie steps in again. “The boys are on a tight budget,” she explains to Melanie, “It was too expensive for both of them to come this time, but they’ll be here for Christmas.”

“And Brian only came because I needed him,” Michael pipes up, “He didn’t come for fun, he came to help me deal with Ma’s illness.”

“Yeah, right,” Melanie sneers, “That’s why he was out fucking around last night, till after two, and smelled like a brewery this morning.”

“He wasn’t fucking around!” Michael insists fervently.

“Shut up, Michael,” Brian interrupts. He lifts his chin and looks directly at Melanie. “In fact,” he confirms, his voice harsh, “I actually did force Justin to stay in LA this time. And I might not let him come home for Christmas. He’ll do whatever I tell him.”

“I knew it,” Melanie crows, and “How dare you treat my son that way?” Jennifer demands.

Even I recognize that Brian’s just kicking up shit, everyone in this family has known him for years, why can’t they understand what he’s doing and why? I can’t help putting my oar in the water. “Does anyone really imagine that Justin would do what Brian tells him?” I ask mildly. “Justin never does what anybody tells him.”

Brian shoots me a surprised look and he laughs.

But it’s as if nobody else heard me.

Lindsay’s sitting next to Brian and she puts a hand on his arm. “You have to let Justin come home for Christmas,” she insists.

“Sunshine needs to come for a visit!” Debbie adds, “We’ll all chip in for airfare!”

Even Rob gets in on the action. “I’ll buy a ticket for Justin,” he offers.

“I’ll think about it,” Brian says grandly, raising his eyebrows and glancing superciliously around the table. “If he behaves himself, I might let him come home.”

“Son of a bitch,” Melanie’s getting angrier, “How can you treat Justin that way? The little fucker loves you!”

“Brian loves him too!” Michael’s bristling with anger; I put a calming hand on his arm but he shakes it off.

“Bullshit!” Melanie insists, “Brian only loves himself, he doesn’t give a damn about anyone else, not even Justin.”

“That’s where you’re wrong!” Michael yells, jumping to his feet. I’m trying to pull him back down in his chair but he shakes off my hand again.

“Michael, shut the fuck up,” Brian growls, but it’s useless.

“He does so too love Justin!” Michael’s shouting. “In fact, they just got married in California!”

Suddenly everyone at the table falls silent, nobody’s even breathing, then every head turns and every eye is on Brian, who’s sitting stock-still in his chair.

The chair legs screech on the floor as Brian stands up abruptly and tosses his napkin on the table. The one swift glance he throws at Michael encompasses a thousand harsh epithets though he voices none of them, merely turns on his heel and marches out of the room, out the front door, slamming it behind him.

“Oh fuck,” Michael groans, looking the picture of guilt. “I promised not to tell.”

“Uh-huh,” I agree, then I slip my arm around his waist and give him a comforting hug.

It’s Michael’s nature to rise to Brian’s defense, no force on earth could stop that instinct. I know it, and Brian knows it too – he called it last night. “You’ll tell everybody,” he’d said, and he was proved right.



Brian

I’ve walked rapidly through the munchers’ neighborhood, going six or eight blocks before I begin to slow down, before I realize that I stormed out of the house without my jacket and it’s fucking cold. I stop abruptly and stare down at the sidewalk, I feel my shoulders sag while the anger seeps out of me. Anger at Michael, anger at Melanie, anger at Jennifer, even anger at Justin for inadvertently putting me in this position. But mostly anger at myself. I realize that I’m embarrassed, an emotion I haven’t felt for many years.

Slowly I retrace my steps, shoving hands in my pockets and shivering. I’m trying to keep my mind blank, trying not to give in to any self-analytical psychobabble, trying simply to shrug off the tumultuous emotion I feel at having this deep, dark humiliating secret so publicly revealed.

The analysis comes anyway, despite my attempts to block it. And I realize that the embarrassment I feel is not because the secret is out. No, I’m embarrassed because my reaction to the denouement is kind of an affront to Justin. An insult to his pride in our commitment. I’m remembering his face as he showed me the beautiful picture he’d made with our certificate, and I’m remembering how I felt holding him in my arms, almost bursting with happiness in that brief moment. In a way my angry reaction to the family finding out is a denial of that happiness.

When I push open the door and go back into the house, everyone’s still seated around the dining table. They were talking briskly but they all fall silent as I enter the room and take my place again at the table. “Is there any bacon left?” I ask, ignoring the staring eyes and looking only at Lindsay.

“Brian,” Deb asks quietly, “Is it true?”

Staring at my plate, I sigh heavily and shake my head, then raise my eyes and look at her. “We’re not married,” I answer quietly, “But we are registered as domestic partners.”

“Does that mean ‘married,’ in California?” she persists.

Sighing again, I murmur, “Close enough.” Then I look at Lindsay and demand brusquely, “Well, is there any fucking bacon left, or not?”



Justin

Andrew arrives about eleven, I let him in and offer him a drink.

“No thanks, I’ll be drinking at brunch, better keep a clear head.”

“Come in and sit down. I need to talk to you.”

Andrew follows me into the living room. “Mind if I use your bathroom first? My morning coffee just kicked in.”

“Sure, it’s down the hall on the left.”

I’ve been waiting all morning for Brian’s call but when the phone rings my heart sinks. Naturally it would be NOW that he calls, with Andrew in the apartment. I have to answer the phone of course.

“Hey.”

“Hey, I’m at the airport, my flight’s scheduled to leave on time.”

“Good, that’s great. So I’ll see you about four o’clock then.”

“Don’t bother to park,” Brian says, “I’ll collect my suitcase and wait outside the terminal. Don’t come by till about four-thirty, I should be out by then.”

I hear the toilet flush.

“Okay, see you then! Bye.”

Brian complains jokingly, “You trying to get rid of me? You’re in a hurry to get off the phone.”

“Well,” I say quickly, “We decided not to use long distance, remember?”

“Yeah, but we can afford a few minutes of foreplay, can’t we?” Brian laughs. “So tell me - are you naked?”

Before I can answer, I hear Andrew coming down the hall, he calls out, “Maybe I’ll have that drink after all.” He stops in the doorway and notices that I’m on the phone. “Oh, sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay,” I tell him in a whisper, “I’ll be off in a minute.”

“Who’s there?” Brian’s voice is sharp.

“Nobody. I mean, it’s not what you think.”

”What do I think?”

“I mean, well, it’s not that.”

There’s a long pause, then Brian says quietly, “Justin, you know that you’re free to fuck around. But it was you who said, not in the apartment.”

“I’m not – Brian, it’s not like that. It’s a business meeting kind of thing.”

“Business. On Sunday. “

“Yeah.”

”So,” he asks, “Who’s there? Your boss?”

“Yes, well.”

“Merry Andrew?”

“Yeah, and I can explain it all to you when you get home.”

“Explain what?” His voice is harsh. “Explain why your cell phone’s been turned off for two days?”

“No, I mean yes, and - and the business thing. I can’t tell you now, can we just wait till you get home?”

Brian’s silent for a moment, then he says, “So, you want me to hang up.”

“Brian, can you please just. . .”

“Just what?”

“Can you please just. . .trust me.”

“Ah!” he exclaims, “Trust you. Okay, I’ve got it now. I’m three thousand miles away, you’re alone in the apartment with your gorgeous sexy queer boss who has a reputation for fucking around on his partner with young guys, but I should just trust you and hang up the phone so you can continue your ‘business meeting’ with him.”

“Brian – “

“Is that it, in a nutshell? Sunshine?”

“You make it sound – Brian, it’s not like that. I promise.”

“Oh well, as long as you PROMISE.”

“Brian,” I say urgently, “I’ll meet your plane and then I can explain everything, and I promise you won’t be mad at me.”

“Who said I was mad now? Did I say that?”

“Brian, you won’t be mad later, when I explain.”

“I’ll look forward to that. I really will.”

“So,” I say quickly, “I’ll pick you up at – “

He’s clicked off his phone. I stand staring at the receiver in my hand for a moment, then I press the code to call him back. His cell’s turned off. Fuck.

Andrew's standing just inside the doorway. "You okay?"

"Yes. No. Fuck." I drop down on the sofa and Andrew comes into the room, sits on the other end of the sofa.

"So," he says, "Why don't you tell me what's up?"



Brian

“Trust me,” he said.

Justin said, “Trust me.” Why the fuck should I trust him? He said he’d explain everything when I get to LA. What the fuck is “everything?”

And now I’ve got to cool my heels and not make myself absolutely fucking insane wondering what he’s getting up to with his boss. In our apartment. Justin’s alone with the man-izer in our apartment, and I’ll be stuck at thirty-thousand feet for the next five or six hours. Fucking hell.


Justin

"So," Andrew Whittaker says, as he takes a seat at the end of the sofa. "Why don't you tell me what's up?"

I stare at him for a moment, chewing on my bottom lip, trying to decide (as if it's not practically all I've been thinking about for the past two days) what I need to say to my boss, and how to say it. "Okay," I say finally, "Okay." I turn sideways on the sofa to face him, and I take a deep breath.

"I went to see Jim Masterson on Friday, like you asked me," I begin. "I took the Flyaway sketches for him to review, and the new logo you wanted me to show him."

Andrew nods, and I take another deep breath. Then I realize that there's no subtle or tactful way to put it, so I just blurt out, "He attacked me."

"Attacked you?" Andrew's eyebrows climb high on his forehead. "What do you mean, he attacked you?"

I jump up then, I jump up from the sofa and begin to pace, almost unconsciously I'm wringing my hands. "He - I don't of course know why exactly, but I have my suspicions, and probably I can't prove it, but I think I'm pretty sure, that - that - that - "

"Justin," Andrew stands up and stops my pacing, takes my hands in his and holds them still. "Come back and sit down. Come on," he puts an arm around my shoulders and leads me back to the sofa, presses me gently down and I perch on the edge of the cushion. He sits down too, our knees are touching, and I stare at the nubby texture of his trousers. Andrew says, "Why don't you start at the beginning, just tell me exactly what happened?"

"Well," I say, pulling my eyes away from the bumpy gray fabric to look at Andrew, "Like I said, I don't know why, but I think I do, except how can I prove it?"

"Tell me the 'what,'" he suggests, "We'll worry about the 'why' later. Okay?"

"Okay." I try to put my thoughts in order, I realize that I sound like an idiot. "I went to his hotel room," I begin. "Well it was a suite really, and he welcomed me at the door, he said, ‘So you’re Andrew Whittaker’s new boy,’ and then he offered me a drink."

I stop then and look away from Andrew; I look over his shoulder and I'm reliving the scene at Masterson's hotel.

"Uh, no thanks," I'd sort-of stuttered, trying unobtrusively to pull my hand away from the tight grip of Masterson’s fingers. I pulled gently twice, then the third time I jerked my hand back roughly and he released me. Masterson grinned and turned to close the hotel room door, and somehow the solid "clunk" of the door closing made me jump slightly, which was silly. When he moved forward I discovered that I'd taken a couple steps backward, before I mentally shook myself and got a grip. I was just delivering papers to a client, there was no reason to feel a vaguely sinister overtone to the meeting.

Needing to get back on normal footing, I'd cleared my throat and pasted on a smile. "Mr. Masterson, I - "

"Jim," he insisted, "Let's not be so formal."

I nodded okay and started again, holding up the fat manila folder. "Jim, Andrew Whittaker asked me to bring the Flyaway sketches to you personally, so that - "

Masterson interrupted, "Drop them on the table, I'll look at them later." Before I could protest, he grabbed the folder from my hand and tossed it toward a high table near a pastel-blue-and-green tapestry sofa. It rested briefly on the edge before sliding off, the folder opening and the thick stack of papers inside sliding in slow motion to the floor, a cascade of fluttering white pages covered with my rough designs and sketches.

"Oh!" I'd exclaimed, turning toward the table and dropping to my knees to gather up the papers. I was intent on shoving them into a neat stack, trying to get them back in order. Masterson made no move to help, in fact he stood so close behind me that a few sheets were trapped under one of his shiny executive-type shoes.

"Leave it," he said softly, and when I ignored him and kept shuffling papers together, he reached down and took hold of my arm, pulling me roughly to my feet.

"Wait," I started to say, but he interrupted again.

"I've waited long enough, stop wasting time with those fucking papers."

"What do you mean - "

But I wasn't left long in doubt of his meaning, in one swift movement he slid his large hands inside my jacket and over my shoulders, removing the jacket and tossing it toward the sofa, before grabbing me tight around the hips and pulling me close.

"Hey!" I'd put both hands on his chest and pushed him backward. Or I tried to push him backward, he's got about seventy pounds on me, his solid body hardly budged, so I pushed him again, and growled, "Stop it! Let me go!"

"Cut the act," Masterson ordered me then, "We both know why Andrew sent you, so stop dicking around."

Struggling against the hands holding me tight, I pushed even harder on his chest, breathless with surprise and alarm, I could hardly find breath to speak. "Let me go, damn you!" I'd managed to demand, giving up on the pushing and instead twisting my body sideways till I broke his grip.

In one swift movement he got hold of me again, he grabbed my shoulders and turned me around, shoved me against the back of the sofa and pushed me face-first down onto the sofa cushions, grinding his crotch against my up-tilted ass. My face was pressed into the tapestry but I managed to turn my head and I yelled, "Let me go, let me go!"

His weight was pinioning me against the sofa, I twisted but I couldn't get away. My hands flew backwards to smack at him till he grabbed both my hands in one of his and held them still, useless to break away from his greater strength. In the midst of my struggle I felt his other hand snake around my hips and unzip my jeans, and though I was bucking as hard as I could against him, I couldn't prevent him grabbing hold of my jeans and pulling them down to my ankles.

Till that moment I'd been only furiously angry, but suddenly I realized that I was in danger, I was actually in danger, the man's greater size and strength were forcing me to succumb to his attack, and my body shivered violently with real, earth-shattering panic.

When I felt him grab my briefs and rip them down my legs, I stopped struggling. Masterson grunted with satisfaction and he growled at me, "That's more like it, now spread your legs."

"Wait," I'd choked, then cleared my throat and tried again, "Wait, please, I don't like it rough!"

"But I do," he’d countered, as he ground his rock-hard cock against my naked ass. “And it’s too late to renegotiate.”

“Huh?”

When I felt him fumble at the buttons of his fly, I knew that I was only seconds away from getting fucked. Suddenly I made my body go totally limp, slumping against the sofa cushions. Surprise made Masterson loosen his grip on my hips, he took a step backward and I slipped to the floor at his feet. He reached down and grabbed my shoulders with both hands, trying to raise me up, and that’s when I saw my chance, and I grabbed it.

I grabbed him, I grabbed his balls, grabbed his balls with both my hands and squeezed as hard as I could. Masterson yelped and he let go of me abruptly, and urgently he grabbed my wrists and pulled my squeezing fingers away from his balls. I let go and took two steps backward, watching as Masterson grabbed his own balls and doubled over, falling to the floor, groaning.

Quickly pulling up my briefs and my jeans in one swift motion, I sidestepped around Masterson, grabbed my jacket and headed for the door. I ripped it open and slammed it shut behind me, and I ran. Not waiting for the elevator, I pulled open the door to the stairs and I belted down and down and down, I ran down eight flights of stairs, till I reached the lobby level, where I stopped to catch my breath, leaning against the wall and slipping down it, to crouch in the narrow stairwell gasping for air and letting my heartbeat slow to near-normal. Then I pulled open the door and walked ever-so-casually through the lobby and out the main door to the parking lot.

“Wow,” Andrew exhaled softly, bringing me back to the present. I returned my eyes to his face and waited to hear what he would say.

“Wow,” he said again, “Justin, I’m sorry you had – such an unpleasant experience.”

“Andrew,” I took a deep breath, then I asked the first of a few hard questions. “Andrew, did Masterson think I was some kind of hooker?”

He nodded. “You’ve probably figured out that – it wouldn’t have been the first time I sent him a hooker.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, then I had to know, I had to ask, “Is that why you asked me to go there?”

“No!” Andrew gasped, his eyes widening, “Justin – no, I swear it. I wanted you to show him the new logo, to talk to him about it, as a Simpson employee, as an artist. It never occurred to me. . .” Andrew hesitated, then admitted ruefully, “I guess it should have occurred to me, I’ve known Jim Masterson for years, I know his. . .proclivities.”

Then Andrew looked me in the eye and I felt he was sincere when he said, “Forgive me, please? It’s really my fault that this happened.”

“Okay,” I said slowly, “But there’s more.”

“More?”

I stood up again then and walked over to the window, then turned and walked back, stopping in front of Andrew and crossing my arms over my chest. “Ever since Friday night, my cell phone’s been ringing and ringing – with guys calling me for sex. Asking for me by name, saying I was ‘highly recommended’ as a good fuck.”

Andrew looked surprised. “And you think Jim Masterson – “

“No,” I shook my head. “No, I don’t. In a way it’s worse. And I don’t know if you’ll believe me, and I know I can’t prove it.”

“Prove what?”

“I think Reg did it. Gave out my cell phone number.”

“Oh no,” Andrew denied it. He got to his feet and copied my stance, folding his arms on his chest. “Reg would never do anything like that. Besides, how do you know he even knows your cell phone number?”

“Because he asked me for it, on Friday. When I wanted to call Masterson to tell him I was coming to the hotel, Reg offered to do it for me. And he asked for my number, in case he needed to get hold of me.”

Still he’s shaking his head. “I know Reg, he’s a fantastic employee. Really, you must be wrong.”

“Well, I told you I can’t prove it. And maybe he is fantastic, but he doesn’t like me. And why would Masterson assume I was a hooker, if Reg didn’t call and tell him that you. . .that you were sending me over?”

Andrew stands silent, just staring at me and shaking his head. “Can I have that drink now?” When I say sure, he asks for whiskey.

“Is JB all right? That’s the only hard stuff we have right now.” I think of Brian’s well-stocked bar back home; here we have one bottle of JB and two bottles of white wine.

“It’s fine, fine.” Andrew sits down on the sofa again, and almost absently accepts the glass and takes a sip, two, before sighing and setting the glass down on the coffee table. Then he reaches inside his suit jacket and pulls out a cell phone. It must have some kind of PDA attachment because he makes a few keystrokes, then punches a number, holds the phone to his ear, and waves at me to sit down.

“Yes,” he says, “Jim Masterson, please.” He must have called the Beverly Wilshire Hotel.

A moment later he says, “Jim, hello, it’s Andrew Whittaker.” Immediately he raises his eyebrows and holds the phone away from his ear.

“Calm down, Jim, calm down!” he says, then he listens for a moment before interrupting what is probably a tirade against me, the hooker who crushed his balls two days ago. “Jim, I’m sorry, but the fact is, that was not a fucking hooker, that was – “

Andrew breaks off and listens for a moment, then I see him shaking his head. Nodding he says into the phone, “Well, you were told wrong. What did Reg say, exactly, do you remember?”

“Mmm-hmm, yes, I can see where you got the impression. But in fact, Justin Taylor is a very valued employee at Simpson Studios. An artist. I sent him to. . .oh, you did? You looked at the drawings? Yes, those are his sketches, the new logo was Justin’s idea.”

“Mmm-hmm, yes, I’d say you owe him an apology, don’t you? Yes. Yes, I’ll tell him. Maybe you should tell him too?” Andrew glances at me, a question in his eyes, and quickly I shake my head no. I don’t want to talk to Jim Masterson today. Or, like, ever.

“Sure, Jim,” Andrew’s saying now. “When are you coming back to LA again? Let’s do lunch then. And when you do, have I got a boy for you! Uh-huh.” Andrew’s openly – though silently – laughing. “Yeah, well just in case your balls ever do grow back, I’ll bring him over personally, so there’s no mistake.” After another pause, Andrew says, “Call me then. And I’ll tell the artist that you’re crazy about the new logo. Oh yes, yes he’s definitely going to get a bonus! Okay, Jim – talk to you later.”

Andrew clicks off his phone and holds it in his lap. His smile fades and he shakes his head. “Justin, my apologies. And for what it’s worth, Jim’s sorry too. It was all a terrible mistake – he misunderstood something Reg said to him. Reg told Jim that you were ‘Andrew’s new boy,’ and Jim assumed he meant, ‘Andrew’s new boy-toy.’ So you see, Reg didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Okay,” I say, unconvinced but knowing further argument is hopeless. Still, I argue anyway. “And all the hooker calls I’ve been getting on my cell phone? I’m supposed to believe that’s a coincidence?”

“It must be. Justin, I know Reg, he’s worked for me for five years. He’d never do such a thing, I promise you that.”

“Okay,” I give up.

“Change your number,” he suggests, as he stands up and pockets his own phone. “Now, I’d better get moving, my meeting’s in half an hour. Everything okay now?”

“Yeah. Yes.” It’s not exactly okay, but I know this is the best I can expect. And at least I’m going to get a bonus for the new logo I created.

As I close the door behind Andrew, I glance at my watch. I’ve got about four hours to figure out how much of my solo adventure I want to share with Brian. If he knew the truth, he’d be packing my bags to send me back home again – Brian’s answer anytime something goes wrong. The thing is, I handled myself okay. I’m a man, I can take care of myself, and it’s time that Brian accepts that and lets me deal with things on my own.



Brian

I’m not really surprised to see Justin waiting for me at LAX – even though I told him just to drive by and pick me up. After I hung up on him, maybe he was worried that I’d grab a taxi instead of waiting – which I’d seriously considered doing a couple hours ago when I was still mad. But once the plane lands at LAX and I walk quickly with the crowd from the arrivals gate, I realize that I’m not angry any more. Worried maybe, though only slightly. Very, very slightly worried, maybe. But overriding everything is the need to see Justin, it feels like I’ve been gone a few weeks instead of only two days.

When I spy him standing there scanning the crowd, waiting for me, I feel a thumping inside my chest, roughly in the vicinity of my heart, if I had one of those valentine-shaped things, and if I believed in that bullshit. When he sees me his face explodes into a huge smile and he hurries forward, and I stand still, only so I can catch him when he flings himself into my arms. I drop my carry-on bag and hug Justin to my chest, and I kiss him hard on the mouth, not giving a fuck who’s watching, and I hold him so tight that I lift him off his feet. Then I realize that I’m wearing that same silly smile on my own stupid face.

“Hey,” I say casually, losing the smile, releasing him and picking up my bag again.

“Hey,’ he repeats, slipping his arm through mine and leading the way to baggage claim. “Well, that’s one question answered.”

“Hmm?”

“You missed me,” he gloats.

We talk generically while waiting for my suitcase, about Debbie, about Gus – I tell Justin what I’d said to make Gus cry; and I tell him that his mommy and his daddy-to-be showed up for brunch at the munchers’ this morning. And that everybody sent him hugs and kisses, but warning him that I am going to deliver all those good wishes rolled into one huge mind-boggling fuck, as soon as we get home.

“Only one?”

“That’s just the first one. The rest will be from me.”

Justin insists on driving the jeep and I don't argue; he’s a good driver and he’s getting used to LA traffic, he can shout obscenities with the best of them. Traffic’s heavy on La Cienega as usual but we make it home in reasonable time and when I follow Justin through the door of our apartment, it really feels like I’m coming home. I couldn’t eat on the plane, so Justin heats up some soup while I change clothes, then we settle on the sofa, sipping butternut squash soup from mugs and sharing the last beer.

“Sorry we’re out,” Justin apologizes, “I had a couple last night.”

“It’s okay. I’ll have a shot of JB later.”

“Um, no you won’t,” he contradicts me. “It’s all gone.” When I raise my eyebrows, Justin adds, “There was only one shot left in the bottle and I gave it to Andrew Whittaker.”

“Oh yes,” my voice grows surly, I feel myself frown. “You had a ‘business meeting’ with your boss today. On Sunday. In our apartment.” It’s not that I forgot, I just chose not to remember.

“It was business,” Justin says calmly. “There was a little problem with a difficult client, but Andrew and I got it all straightened out. I’m even going to get a bonus, for a logo sketch I created for Flyaway Filmworks.”

I’ve purloined the beer, saving the dregs for myself, and I glance at him over the neck of the bottle. “Are you maybe leaving out some details?”

“About?”

“About your business meeting. About your client problem.”

“Just boring stuff,” Justin assures me. “The client was kind of rude to me, Andrew came over to talk about it, then he called the client on the phone and got him to apologize. Case closed.”

I keep looking at him, I know Mister Taylor and I know there’s more here than meets the eye. He’s not as transparent as he was a few years ago, but I know when he’s withholding information. Still, he’s holding down a responsible job, he’s working with clients, he’s getting along with his (fucking gorgeous God-damn-it) boss, so I guess he doesn’t need to share with me every little thing he does at work.

“And how was the Sunday brunch this morning? Was my mom nice to you, did you say something rude to Melanie, did you make Gus cry again?”

“Just another boring meal at the munchers.”

I can withhold information, too.

“Well,” Justin concludes, “Now that we’re both up to date, why don’t we have a quick shower and then go to bed early so we can fuck our brains out?”

“Sounds like a plan,” I agree, following him into the kitchen, waiting for him to rinse our soup mugs, then rinse the beer bottle and put it in the recycle bin. “Let’s unpack my bag first.”

We’re in the bedroom sorting laundry when I remember Justin’s cell phone. “By the way, why was your phone turned off all weekend?” I ask, taking a handful of dirty underwear to the hamper in the bathroom. I pause in the doorway waiting for his answer.

“Oh, that,” he waves a hand dismissively as he pulls off the bedspread and folds it on a chair. “I need to get the number changed, I’ve been getting obscene calls all weekend.”

“Obscene calls?”

“Seems my number is similar to some prostitution hotline or something. It was driving me crazy saying ‘wrong number’ a zillion times, so I just turned it off.”

That sounds weird but Justin’s not upset about it, so I shrug my shoulders and head for the bathroom. Just then the phone in the living room rings, and since I’m closest, I turn around and walk over to the desk and pick up.

“Hey,” the caller says, “This is Jim Masterson, I just had to call to apologize for the other day.”

“Jim Masterson?” My mind sifts rapidly through the employee list at Bradford and Slate, or maybe it’s an agency client, but I’m coming up blank.

The caller laughs. “The mad rapist, or anyway that’s what you must think of me, right? I wanted to say I’m sorry, and I hope I didn’t hurt you?”

“I think you have a wrong number,” I tell him, ready to hang up the phone.

“Isn’t this Justin?” he asks. “Andrew said not to call your cell phone, so he gave me this number instead.”

I look over my shoulder and Justin is standing in the doorway, his face completely blank.

“It’s for you,” I tell him, holding out the phone. “It’s the mad rapist.”



Justin

“Brian, I only didn’t tell you because (a) it’s all over and nothing bad happened, and (b) I knew you’d go all drama-queeny on me, and (c) then you’d announce that you were going to send me back to Pittsburgh.”

“How about (d), all of the above?”

“Yeah,” I agree, “Definitely (d).”

“So,” he concludes, “All’s well that ends well?”

“Well,” I say reasonably, “It is, you know? Nothing bad happened, I handled everything myself, and I even got a bonus out of it.” We’ve been sitting on the sofa while I filled Brian in on a few more details about my weekend adventure. “Now can we please go to bed? We’ve wasted an hour that could have been spent fucking.”

Brian shakes his head and stands up, but at least he says nothing more, his nagging is finished for one night, and he follows me down the hall to the bedroom. “I’m gonna take a piss,” he says, “Be right there.”

“I’ll get some water,” I call after him, detouring to the kitchen to grab a couple water bottles from the fridge to put by the bed, so we won’t have any more interruptions. On that thought, the phone rings again. I’m tempted to let the machine pick up, but curiosity gets the best of me, besides it’s only seven-thirty, a reasonable time for phone calls.

“Hello?”

“Hey sweetie, it’s Emmett, did Brian get home okay?”

“Yes, sure. Hey Emmett, how are you?”

“Fine – “

“Only, can I call you back tomorrow? We’re kind of busy right now.”

“You nasty boys – you’re fucking, aren’t you? Ooh, I wish I had one of those camera phones.”

“As if I’d send you a picture!”

We laugh, then Emmett says, “Okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. But I just couldn’t wait to call and congratulate you – I’m so happy for you, baby!”

”You’re happy for me?” I’m confused. “How come, Emmett?”

“Why do you think, you silly goose!” Em chuckles. “Because you and Brian got married!”

“Married?” I exclaim, then I hear a smothered groan and turn to look over my shoulder. Brian’s standing in the living room doorway, his head’s in his hands and he’s tearing at his hair. He looks so miserable that I can’t help but laugh.

“Talk to you later,” I say quickly to Em, hanging up and rushing over to throw my arms around Brian’s neck and exclaim, “You told them!”

“I was drunk,” Brian says, “I only told Michael, accidentally. And Ben. And they promised not to tell. A fucking lie – Mikey spilled the beans to the whole fucking family at brunch this morning.”

“Oh Brian,” I laugh again, “Seems like you left out some details of YOUR weekend adventure, too! Fill me in.”

“Forget it!” Brian growls, throwing an arm around my shoulders and leading me down the hall. “No more talking, no more explanations, no more phone calls.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he answers resolutely, “It’s fuck-time at the Kinney-Taylor residence!”

2/2/04

Return to Season Three Stories