Dear
Brian
Finale
Six weeks after Dennis Bream had committed suicide Brian was almost completely healed from the ordeal he had been put through, at least physically.
His shoulder had needed both emergency and follow up surgery to repair the damage and he would be in physical therapy to maximize the recovery for around a year. It would never fully come back, never be one hundred percent again and the scar was bad enough that he felt self-conscious wearing a sleeveless shirt. Yes, it would fade in time, become less obvious, less angry looking, but even with cosmetic surgery to lessen its impact, it would always be there.
Justin had boarded the next available flight back to Pittsburgh when he had heard what was happening in Brian’s building. Met at the airport, he had been driven directly to the hospital by his mother and had been given a police escort to get through the reporters who were camped out by the front doors. The cameramen still got pictures and someone made the connection between that day’s events and Justin’s bashing a year and a half ago. All of that was dragged out again, dusted off and given a fresh airing.
Justin had been in Brian’s room when he woke up. He put his hand on Brian’s cheek, trying not to disturb either the injury or he IV’s. “You look like shit.”
Brian blearily tried to focus. It took a moment. “So do you.” He seemed to be trying to gather is thoughts. “Tell me.”
He had to know. “There were four dead, including Dennis, three more were injured, including you. Seven altogether.”
Brian just looked at him, wanting more.
“The receptionist was killed and one of the junior execs—Pendleton?” Brian nodded. “One of the secretaries, a young redhead named Nancy and Mark from the art department. You were the worst injured. An intern in the art department and one of the personal assistants, but I don’t know his name. They’re both alright, though. They’ve already been released.”
“What happened to Dennis?”
“…He jumped from a window he broke in the main conference room.”
Brian closed his eyes. Shit. The nurse came in, added some more sedative to his drip. “Sleep some more, Brian. I’ll be here.” He nodded, barely moving his head.
The next day he woke up to find that, although he was in pain, it was manageable and his mind was clear. He remembered the attack in the office—or at least he remembered bits and pieces of it. Some of it was simply gone and that was fine, too.
Horvath was waiting to talk to him, waiting for the call that he was able to talk.
“I heard that you’re going to be pretty much alright, Kinney. That’s good because Debbie would have never let me forget it of you weren’t.”
Brian just looked at him. Shit, fine, the man was trying.
“We found out how he did a lot of the shit he was pulling on you. He was paying people off to let him know about your comings and goings—the garage attendant in your office building would let him know when you got there or left, your cleaning lady has a boyfriend who made a copy of your loft key and gave it to him so he had access there. One of the file clerks at Vanguard was on his payroll, too, so he could get to your account files and your personnel stuff which gave him your social security number and a lot of your personal information.”
“How did he pay for all of this?”
“He was a rich kid. His family has a lot of money. I mean what they call serious money. They all seem to have trust funds large enough to do whatever the fuck they want. He didn’t need to work, so he had lot’s of free time.”
“What happens now?”
“You’ll be questioned by the police and probably a couple of psychologists to help them determine a diagnosis for him, a profile. It’s possible that his family, his parents or his sister may want to speak to you, but you’re under no obligation to do so if you don’t want to.”
“I—don’t know about that.”
“Understandable. It might help them; it might hurt you to bring it all up. I’d ask the shrinks, if I were you.”
“So that’s it?”
“Basically, yes. He was stalking you, attempted to either kidnap or kill you, when he failed he committed suicide.”
“Case closed?”
“Pretty much. There will be an investigation, but you’re not charged with anything—you were the victim.”
Three days later he was released. Justin, who had stayed by him at the hospital, drove him home.
The loft had been cleared out of everything that might remind Brian of what had happened, all the ‘things’ were gone—the clothing, the CD’s, the jewelry. The police had insisted that they legally belonged to Brian, that they were gifts, bought and paid for and that he could do with them as he wished.
He wished that they didn’t exist.
Finally Justin suggested that they all be returned, all they ones that could be and the refund money could be donated to some charity.
Fine. Happy to have a simple solution, Brian agreed. The money, around twenty thousand dollars, was donated to the Gay Marriage Initiative. Whatever, why not.
The one thing he didn’t return was the ring. It was a custom piece and engraved. With apologies, Tiffany informed him that they would be unable to accept it back.
Not knowing what else to do with it, he put it in his safe deposit box over at Mellon Bank. It could sit there until Gus’s grandchildren stumbled across it, as far as he was concerned.
During the days he was mostly OK. The nights were when the dreams, the nightmares all came crashing back and he would find himself in a cold sweat staring at the ceiling. The first few times it had happened Justin had held him, stroked his back and his forehead, kissed his neck and his cheek—anything to comfort him. His shoulder had been too badly damaged to attempt any real sex—always Brian’s cure all, but even when Justin would use his mouth, offered him that release, he simply couldn’t.
Oh, he wasn’t impotent, nothing like that. He could get it up just fine, but just before he was about to cum the picture of Dennis holding that fucking rifle would flash inside his brain and he knew that if his gun went off, so would the steel one and he’d pull Justin away, saying nothing and rolling onto his side with his back turned.
The third time it had happened, one morning while Justin was helping him shower, the young man decided that it was time to deal.
He made a call and arranged to meet with the silver fox shrink later that day.
He explained to Justin that the trauma had reinforced Brian’s deeply held believe that love and pain were connected, that he had associated the insanity if Dennis’ actions with the deeply rooted conviction that he would bring pain to anyone who got close to him, that he wasn’t worth the trouble.
It was, unintentionally, his fault that Justin had been put in danger. Subconsciously he was trying to protect Justin from being hurt.
So—what should they do?
When Brian could come to understand that he wasn’t to blame, that he had been victimized, then he could start to heal.
Fuck a duck.
Brian returned to work ten days after the shooting. When he walked in he saw the new receptionist who, not recognizing him, asked him if he had an appointment. When he introduced himself, he saw her look turn into a stare. So he was the one that crazy fag had been after. Yup, that was me, he thought back at her.
When he got up to his office he saw that the damaged wall the bullet had entered had been repaired and he wondered if the carpet in Wilson’s office had also been replaced. Probably.
His arm still in a sling, Cynthia helped him off with his jacket.
“Would you like some coffee, Brian?” Their conversation was quiet, painful after what had happened.
“Yes, please.”
“Vance would like to see you. I think he just wants to welcome you back and catch you up.”
“Fine, whenever he wants.”
Vance came in about fifteen minutes later. They talked about the employees who had been injured and killed, Brian insisting—and Vance agreeing—that they would continue full benefits for their families as long as they wanted them, that they would establish college funds for the victims children and that they would give each family three years salary, making it clear that they could come to them with any problems from the mortgage to car payments to bills for psychologists if needed.
After Vance left, Brian went down to the art department, looking for the intern who had been hurt. Eva was sitting at one of the computers, a pair of crutches next to her.
“Eva? May I speak with you?”
She was startled, not having heard his approach. She had never spoken with Mr. Kinney before, he scared her as much as he sacred all the interns. Automatically, she started to get up; he stopped her with a gesture and sat beside her.
“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that you were caught up in this, that you were hurt.”
“…It’s alright. I mean—it’s not your fault.”
“Not directly, no, but you were still hurt. Are you better?”
She nodded. He seemed like he was nice. “It was my foot, he was shooting and I think I just got in the way. It really just chipped the bone, it’s getting better.”
He nodded. “Good. Do you need anything? Have you been taken care of?”
“Everyone has been really nice. Mr. Vance even said that when I’m done interning, that Vanguard will pay the rest of my tuition and that I can come back after graduation for a real job.”
That had been Brian’s suggestion from the hospital. Vance had agreed immediately.
“Good. I hope that you will, Eva. I know that Marty thinks highly of your work so I was hoping that you would agree to your being added to my team for the new Liberty Air spots.”
Shitabrick—everyone knew that Kinney produced the best and only worked with the best. OK, he felt guilty, but what the Hell. “That would be great, Mr. Kinney—thank you, I mean—really, thank you!”
He stood to leave. “Meeting in my office about it at two. Be there.”
Alex, the assistant who had also been hurt had elected not to return. The offer was kept open and he could reconsider later if he wished.
Brian had already written letters, handwritten and heartfelt, to the families of the other people who had been killed.
That night Justin came up to his office to take him home. With his arm in a sling, driving a stick was impossible.
On the way up they picked up the mail, Justin carrying a bottle of Brian’s favorite rose for later.
An hour later he was placing the plate of pasta in front of Brian when he saw the look on his face and the letter beside him on the table.
“Brian?”
He pushed the paper across the table. It was from some law firm in Philadelphia with about six names.
Basically it wished to inform Mr. Kinney that as per Mr. Dennis Bream’s most recent and binding will, the bulk of his estate, estimated at being worth approximately sixteen million dollars, depending on fluctuating real estate and stock market values, had been left to him.
They asked if he would please contact their office at his earliest convenience to go over the details. Thank you very much.
“Holy fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“But Brian? I mean, if he was crazy, the will might not be valid.”
“That occurred to me. I’ll call them in the morning and ask them.”
“Shit”
“Yeah.” He looked at the dinner getting cold in front of him. “It’s like I’m getting this fucked up reward for what happened. Either that or it’s like his final ‘fuck you’ so that I can’t shake him.”
“…He said it himself, he wanted to take care of you.”
“He’s fucking taken care of me.” Brian got up, walked up to the bedroom and lay down. That was the last thing he said all night. Around eleven Justin crawled in next to him, knowing that he was still awake.
“It’ll be over. It doesn’t seem like it now, but it will.”
“This, too, shall pass?”
“It will.”
“Go to sleep.”
The next morning Brian placed the call from his office. The main partner, a Mr. Mann, came on the line almost immediately. He answered all of Brian’s questions, assuring him that the will would hold up in any court, that it was completely legal, that Mr. Bream was in full control and functioning well when the will was filed.
When was his will filed?
Eleven years ago. Their law firm had spoken to Mr. Bream as recently as last year to verify that he had no changes to make to the document. It would stand as he had originally written it. He had been a functioning member of society for many years, including during the time the will was drawn. There was no reason to think that he wasn’t of sound mind when he wrote the thing. Could they send Brian a copy of the relevant portions of the will, he would like to have his own lawyer go over them if they wouldn’t mind? Of course, they would send a copy out today.
They would also arrange for the transfer of various deeds and if he would let them know the name of his broker, they would arrange for the investments to be moved, also. Oh, the properties included the contents of the various homes, too, by the way.
Two days later the wills specialist in Melanie’s office had looked the thing over and, in his opinion, it was completely legal. Congratulations.
Three days later a small package arrived containing the deeds to several local holdings, along with their keys. The one on Pittsburgh’s Fifth Ave was listed as Mr. Bream’s main residence.
Justin went over with him, driving the car for Brian again..
It was a nice, but not ostentatious duplex in a beautiful building from the twenties. The ceilings were high, the rooms large, the furniture comfortable.
They wandered through, finding a professional grade actor’s makeup kit in the bathroom. When they looked in his clothes closet, Brian recognized a couple of his shirts that had gone missing over the last couple of years. A jewelry box on the bureau held the pocket watch Brian’s grandfather had given him when he had graduated college. The new inscription, which had not been there before, read: “Dennis, I love you. I’ll always love you, Brian.”
Looking at it, Justin simply shook his head.
There was also a pair of Brian’s cuff links and his father’s wedding ring.
“What are you going to do with all this stuff?”
Brian was looking out the bedroom window. There was a pool; probably the one Dennis had wanted Gus to play in, in the manicured back garden. “I want you to think of some place you’ve always wanted to go—Italy, Paris, London?”
“Brian?”
He turned back. “You were affected by this, too. Let’s get away, regroup for a while.”
“…I don’t know if I can get away.”
“School ends next month. We’ll go then.”
“Yeah, sure…it sounds great.” Justin sounded doubtful.
Brian went up to the second floor. It seemed to just have a couple of bedrooms and a bath. There was one closed door. Feeling like he was prying, he hesitated. Fuck it.
Pushing the door open he was not all that surprised to see literally hundreds of pictures of himself mounted on the walls in a mosaic. Some of his belongings were lying around, propped up as though on display. One of his old stained soccer jerseys, a note book from Penn, the license plate from his car about six years ago—odd things. A business card from the Ryder Agency, another from Vanguard…. cartons of videotapes, presumably of him.
Jesus.
“Let’s go.”
Driving back to Tremont, Brian said, almost to himself, “Sick mother fucker.”
Justin looked at him. “Were you friends in college?”
“That’s what makes it even weirder. He barely spoke to me. I hardly remember him from school. I didn’t really get to know him until we both worked an internship at Ryder during junior year.”
“How was he?”
“Not too good. I pretty much blew him out of the water.”
“Modestly spoken.”
“Honestly spoken.”
“So what are you going to do with all of this? Even after taxes it’s, what? Eight or nine million?”
“Closer to ten, I think, something like that.” They pulled into Brian’s regular space by the building and didn’t say anything until they were back upstairs.
“I’ve been thinking. I can’t keep this—it’s fucking blood money. I’ll take enough to take us both to Europe to try to make up to you what you were put through and the rest I’ll use to set up trusts for the families of the other victims—I’ll set some aside for the wounded, too.”
“Are you sure you want to do this? That’s a shitload of money.”
“Fuck it. I don’t want it.”
“Brian, have you really thought this through?”
He walked over to the couch, throwing himself down in a sprawl, Justin beside him.
“Fucking drop it. I’m talking to Melanie in the morning.” That would be that. He wouldn’t change his mind.
He snugged himself up against the larger man, curling into him. His hand was resting on the center of his chest, slowly starting to move in languid circles. “Are you hungry?”
“Were you planning dinner?”
“Maybe an appetizer.” He started nibbling, licking Brian’s ear. Brian’s hand came up to hold him in place. “How does your shoulder feel?” He unbuttoned the chambray shirt to see for himself, sliding it down and off, his mouth tracing a line down the long neck to the injured area, kissing the healing wounds.
“My shoulder feels fine.”
“Good.”
Justin continued down, knowing how sensitive the brown nipples were, how much touching, suckling on them could arouse their owner. The deepened breathing was his cue that it was working as it should. He stayed there for several minutes then, when he judged Brian ready, started down again, pausing at his abs, opening the denim waistband, pushing the fabric apart.
Brian’s erection stood out from the firm belly, starting to leak, without giving him time to think, he took the head in his mouth, licking his way down, back up, down again, changing the pressure the timing, the angle.
It had been too long since Brian had last allowed himself to be satisfied, first because he was simply in too much discomfort and then because he simply couldn’t deal with it—within a few short minutes he’d cum, gasping, sweat standing out on his forehead and chest his breathing labored.
Swallowing, Justin sat back up against him, letting him come back to himself.
“So you’re feeling better now?”
They kissed, lightly but tasting what they had just done. “I believe that I am starting to be more myself.” The smile was sunshine.
They lounged pressed together for a bit longer before Justin got up, moving to the kitchen. “I’m hungry. Salad OK? It’s fast.”
“Fine.” Walking past him to the computer, Brian trailed his hand along the smaller man’s back in a passing caress.
He went over to the computer, booted it up.
“You’ve got mail.”