Brian grabbed his coat to leave his office when he heard Cynthia arguing with another woman in the hall. He opened his door, stepped out.

“Have we decided who’s off the island?”

Cynthia steamed, “Brian, I told her-”

“I have to talk to you,” Lana marched around him and into his office, Cynthia close behind.

Brian raised a hand to halt Cynthia. Her eyes widened, mouth opened to protest, but she read his eyes, shot a look of betrayal, abruptly turned and walked away.

Brian stepped back inside, shut the door and faced Lana, in fighting stance beside his desk. “I’m busy. Make it quick.”

“This security memo,” Lana briefly flashed a paper in hand. “It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

“Now why would you think that?” Brian grinned.

“Gardner didn’t hire me for Neville secrets because I told him forget that,” she edged closer as if ready to bite. “Contrary to what you might think, I DO take confidentiality agreements seriously. I know I made a mistake, and I think I paid enough for it. I was a good ad agent, and I expect to be there again whether you trust me or not.”

Truth or smoke? Brian opened the door. “Time’s up.”

Lana barged out leaving a cold wake. A moment later, Cynthia blazed in.

“I expected VANCE to put up with that bitch, but not YOU.”

“She’s his assistant now, so let’s not keep her guard up,” Brian raised a brow, went to his desk, took a card-sized envelope from under the stack in his mail tray. “A little bonus for your understanding.” He handed it to Cynthia, called, “I’ll be on the road,” and left.

Cynthia watched him turn the corner out of sight, opened the envelope, pulled the card and read the cover: UNREGISTERED. USE WISELY. She opened it. Taped inside was a plastic, blunt-nosed child’s scissors. Made her smile, and she really needed that. Damn Brian. Damn him. For being gay.

The PIFA lab tables were lined with seated students engrossed in radiuses and rulers.

Justin squinted at a copy of instructions too light for his tired eyes. He leaned over to the Retro Hippie girl on his left, whispered,“Liz? What’s number eight?”

She grabbed her copy, held it in his view. “On panel draw cube with three-inch square column projecting four inches up from the top and a three inch cylinder projecting six inches on the front and a six-inch square hole on the right side. Using techniques from one-two-three render light and shade.” She stared at him. “Justin?”

He looked up from her Mickey Mouse wristwatch. “What?”

“You’re dragging,” she lifted her purse, dug out a cosmetic case, unzipped it and held it over his lap. “My finals kit. Help yourself.”

Justin glanced down at a stash of No-Doz and Vivarin. “Uh…thanks, but I think I’ll just cut the next class…take a break.”

“Up to you,” she repacked her kit.

Justin glimpsed her watch again.

Brian pulled the Jeep into the Mall lot beside a gray rental sedan, parked, got out and opened the sedan’s driver door.

“Mr. Kinney,” Chad nodded from the passenger seat, an open computer, GPS and Pringles Potato Chips can on his lap.

Brian slid inside, shut the door and started up. “Good. You brought lunch.”

“This?” Chad lifted the empty can, wire trailing. “It’s a directional antenna. This copper wire runs-”

“That’s your best equipment?” Brian wry-glanced while pulling into traffic.

“It works,” Chad connected wires. “If I brought EVERYTHING I use, I’d never get through airport security.” He aimed the can out the window, checked the display on his computer. “Just do a couple wide circles to start and work in from there, hunh?”

“Keep me posted.”

“Roger.”

Brian rolled his eyes, drove the city blocks near Vanguard’s offices. “Anything yet?”

Chad kept his eyes moving over his equipment. “Some. But not from Vanguard.”

“If…say…there would be an open access…could you find out what’s being sent?”

“Sure. I have a program that does that…puts the transmission on my screen. But it takes awhile to crack a password to get in,” Chad lowered the can, pointed ahead. “If you pull up close to that Coffee Shop and park, there’s always students WiFi’ng. I’ll show you.”

Brian whipped into a spot, eyed the expired meter, kept the car idling. “Will this take long?”

“Nope,” Chad punched keys, pushed his glasses up. “Lots of students bypass the password request, so…ah…we got a smorgasbord here. Let’s try…I’m into somebody’s email.” Chad turned the screen for Brian to briefly view it before turning it back and reading aloud, “ ‘Hey. I’m back online and okay. I decided to try for an internship at Disney Animation near LA. Two of my professors said they’d give me recommendations, so I might have a shot. I know somebody out there-”

“Isn’t that against the law? Reading private mail,” Brian interrupted.

“Laws are still pretty vague on this. You’d have to prove somebody used the information to injure you. I once picked up a burglary plan and phoned the police. Anonymously.”

“Speaking of which,” Brian eyed his side-view mirror. A city prowler creeping along the parked cars. He turn-signaled and rolled back into traffic.

Chad ended-program. “So that’s how it works. By the way, we’ll all be happy to know that Ted and Emmett are friends again.”

Brian hard-eyed him, stared ahead, breaths heavier, hand tight on the wheel.

Chad didn’t notice. He had the can aimed out his window. “Ready to close in for the kill?”

Brian side-glanced, stayed silent.

Chad restated thinking Brian didn’t understand. “Take it right across the street from Vanguard, but not the front door, hunh?”

“Yeah.”

Brian’s head was elsewhere. How many Pittsburgh art students knew Ted and Emmett…and someone from LA.

It was already dark and drizzly when Chad stopped and idled the sedan at PIFA’s main door. Justin, waiting in the doorway, walked to the opening passenger door. After brief words, Justin reached in and removed a duffel bag. He slammed the door and headed into the building as the car drove away.

At the loft, smooth jazz played low. Brian, still in the day’s shirt and tie, sat beside a stack of scientific journals and periodicals on his couch. He paged through one issue, checking ad size and appearance. Then he tossed the magazine on the coffee table, leaned back and stared off in thought.

Justin had the large copier powered up. He’d seen Harry operate it several times, ran it himself twice. But his inexperience slowed him down.

The door opened. Harry stepped in; Justin flinched.

“Justin? What’re you still doing here, dude? And why’s Bertha up?”

“I…uh…had some stuff to run, and I thought you left already.”

“I left t’eat,” Harry casually reached for one of two packets on the copier shelf, “But I got maintenance checks tonight.”

Justin briefly closed his eyes as Harry lifted a packet, read a sheet.

“Whose department is this from?” Harry was uncharacteristically harsh.

“Mine,” Justin exhaled. “I brought my own paper. Except for the large sheets.”

“You know the rules on personal stuff. PIFA-related only. Bertha keeps a log and I gotta answer for everything that goes through here.”

“I didn’t know,” Justin swallowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was so much more involved.” Justin drew his Shop key from his pants pocket. “I suppose you’ll want this back, too.”

“Got my own key,” Harry answered. They stared at each other before Harry looked at the top sheet again. “Looks like PIFA-related to me. How many copies you need?” When Justin didn’t answer, he added, “I owe you from Friday night. How many?”

Full backpack pulling his shoulders and heavy duffle in hand, Justin stepped outside PIFA and faced up to let the cold drizzle liven him. When he looked down, he saw Brian’s Jeep parked out front, watched Brian get out and come toward him. Made him glad. Then apprehensive.

“You’re late,” Brian grabbed the duffle. “And what the fuck is IN here?”

“Just a project. What’re YOU doing here?”

Brian kissed him, got a weak return. “I guess driving you to the bus stop.” Brian turned away and headed for the Jeep.

Justin bit his lip, followed and stopped at the passenger door behind Brian who was half inside and cramming the duffle behind the seat.

Brian glanced back. “Which stop?”

“The Loft,” Justin sighed. He wasn’t sure what to say, but knew Brian needed to hear it.

In the Loft shower, soapy hands gliding all over each other, Brian expected more than the light, tentative kisses Justin offered. He accepted Justin’s decline of a blowjob as a plan to save it for the sheets.

To Justin, every contact, every sharing became a major risk. Oh sure, he knew about what he could and couldn’t do to be safe. It looked good on paper. But it was different now. He wasn’t just a nameless ghost. And Brian wasn’t a nobody. And nothing was a hundred percent safe anymore.

“Did you fall asleep on me again?” Brian pressed to Justin’s back, kissed his ear.

Justin suddenly realized he’d been still and facing the wall. He turned, stretched up to plant another light kiss. “I’m…sort of really tired.”

Brian tensed from an old haunt. Justin’s actions right before the Ethan thing blew up. “Is there something I should know about?” He said it lightly, smiling. Hiding what he knew, though he’d half-convinced himself it meant nothing.

Justin’s eyes switched from one hazel to the other in a telltale pause before he caught himself. “Yeah. Our hot water doesn’t last as long as you do,” he joked, opened the door and let Brian kill the water, grabbed a towel and left before Brian turned back.

Brian dried himself, stepped from the bathroom and watched Justin’s back as he ruffed a towel over his blond hair. Lusty heat building at the sight of the slim pale body made Brian forget his concern. Made him move in fast, grab and twist Justin. Stare into his eyes. Press his cock against that inviting soft belly. Squeeze handfuls of splendid ass. Get pushed away? What the fuck?

“Brian,” Justin leaned back, arms bent against Brian’s chest, “I was thinking of something a little different tonight?” his flat palms rode circles on Brian’s chest and he smiled up like a kid asking to borrow the car. Hug, kiss, maybe. Talk. Had to talk.

Brian studied his eyes, nodded. “Okay,” Brian reached into the condom bowl, breathedout, “So go to it.” He took Justin’s hand, set the lube in it, ripped open a condom packet, checked Justin’s cock. “Nice response.” Brian rolled the condom onto Justin’s dick, gave it a few strokes for better measure.

The significant turn had caught Justin off guard, refueled and excited. He swung his arms around Brian’s neck, kissed him deeply, then watched him slip free to take a comfortable position on his stomach. Long, slender, beautiful, his. Wait. Wait. Remember. Justin swallowed hard, straddled the tops of Brian’s thighs.

“Slow down, Road Runner,” Brian raised his head off his crossed arms. “Full treatment. No skipping.” He rested his head again, closed his eyes.

Justin set the lube aside, bent forward and began a sensual massage, his hands draining the tension from Brian’s neck. Shoulders. Back. Firm long strokes making Brian sigh.

Brian relished the tender damp kisses along his shoulders, down his spine. He felt the bed shake, Justin’s hot bottom lift off, a soft hand coax his legs apart. Brian shifted to let Justin lie between his legs, kiss and nip his ass until his cock raged beneath him. He’d taught the young man too well. Now he had to suffer the wait for that silky tongue to land home.

Justin blew, kissed Brian’s hole and teased it to relax. Brian was no moaner, but his heavy, catching breaths set the pace. Justin could feel Brian’s muscles working, tightening, and knew his hand was on his cock and he was ready. But Justin wasn’t.

Brian exhaled a long breath. What’s the holdup? “Anytime you are,” he lightly hinted.

Justin rose, face tense and eyes hazing. He stretched a hand to the condom bowl.

Brian’s eyes opened, brows knit when he caught the movement, heard the rip and crackle. Another condom? Then he heard Justin sharply inhale a sniffle. Felt him lean over his back, kiss his hair. His shoulder. A tear hit his bicep, trickled like a skittering spider.

Brian couldn’t twist his head far enough to get a read on Justin’s face. “Allergies?”

“I…can’t,” came a tiny voice. “Can I just…you know…blow you?”

“Move over.”

Justin was off and standing before Brian could settle on his back. Disturbed by the sight of Justin faced away and palming his eyes, Brian rolled out and stood behind him.

“I think it’s time you told me,” Brian cupped his hands on Justin’s shoulders.

“Brian…I have…I’m pretty sure. God, I think I’m positive,” he blurted and dashed to the living room window where he gripped his arms and aimed his head high to fight the tears.

Brian stood numb, mouth open, eyes unblinking. No. Fucking, god…NO. He ran a hand through his hair, swallowed hard and advanced like he was creeping up on a bird.

“When?”

“Not long. It’s too soon for the test.”

“Then what makes you so sure?”

“I know.”

Brian stopped a few feet away, closed his eyes, hardly realized he was breathing like a wild man and suddenly sounding like one. “Who?”

“Does it matter?” Justin spun away and stopped at the kitchen counter.

“Yeah, it fucking does,” Brian followed, again stopped at a distance and winced at his hurtful raging. He could see Justin’s body pulling into itself and shivering in the blue light from the bedroom. Hear his sobs catch.

“At least you’re making this easier,” Justin rushed to the bedroom.

“What are you doing?” Brian watched Justin dress.

“Throwing myself out.”

“I need to know.”

“Why?” Justin thumped down the stairs on his way to the door.

“So I know who to hate!” Brian shouted, picked a CD off his stereo and flung it crashing against the wall.

“Me! I’m the one who fucked up!” Justin twirled back, face wet, chest heaving.

Brian fought to calm his voice. “Don’t go. Not like this.”

“I have to,” Justin pleaded. “Just…don’t follow me, Brian. Okay?”

Brian didn’t answer. He watched Justin leave the loft. Leave it cold and empty. His throat tightened until the unbearable pain hit his eyes, spilled out and trailed down his face. Then his mind focused, eyes cleared with determination.

No. Not like this.

Brian makes a decision; Justin stands at the bus stop in lightly falling rain.

Song: “Vasoline” by Stone Temple Pilots

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