Sunny Saturday morning at the Plaza.

Designer shades, casual dress, Brett, Con and a surly Agent talked over cappuccinos at a small indoor table.

Brett sipped his drink, glanced at Con.  “Justin’s turning out to be a real find.  Quick learner.  Even got his own place and moved in a couple days ago.”

Agent grated, “Glad to hear you’re expanding the Art Studio.  So why haven’t we seen this hot script yet?  You know, as Con’s agent, I need to know what we’re getting into before we sign.  Especially with this gay angle.”

“Guys.  Guys.  I thought we had that all settled,” Brett sat straight, voice ardent with Type-A flavor.  “Con?  You thought it was a great part.  A real challenge.  Remember?”

“The Super-Hero, yeah.  But I checked out the actual comic.”

“And?” Brett tilted down his glasses for direct contact.

Con removed his shades, laid them on the table.  “I talked to a few people…and I think Rage needs real internal conflict to give him more emotion and audience appeal.  Something to balance out the cops ‘n robbers aspect.”

“So what did you have in mind?  KEEPING in mind the character clause.”

Con and Agent exchanged a glance then Agent leaned forward.

West Hollywood one-bedroom.  Communal-used furnishings, shirt and briefs on the couch back, couple beer bottles on the coffee table.  Justin sat in the lounger, brows knit over the book in his lap. 

An average-looking Neatnik dressed for tennis strolled past him.  “Haven’t you got that memorized yet?  The whole time you’ve been here, you’ve been reading.”

“It’s good stuff.  But I’ll probably never look at a movie the same way again.”

“You’ll see it like WE do.  A job.  Don’t forget…Petey’s off tonight and unless one of us gets lucky, three of us’ll be home later.  That makes you the sleeping bag on the floor.”  Neatnik stopped at the door, looked back.  “Tell you what.  Clean up Harley’s shit and I’ll give you the couch.”

“Deal.” Justin watched Neatnik nod and leave.  Then he shut the book, rocked his head to ease the stiffness, stood up and stretched. 

His phone rang.  He dug it from his cargo pants pocket, “Hello?” and smiled, “Hey, Con.  Nothing much.  Trying to learn what everybody here already knows.”  He snatched the shirt off the couch – Hmm.  Harley’s - used it like an oven mitt to grab the briefs.  Not touching THOSE with my bare hands.  “Your pool?  I could go for that.”  He pitched the clothing into a full basket, wandered to the window, parted the curtains, saw young folks out and about.  “Yeah, I can meet you there.  See you in about an hour.”

After pocketing his phone, Justin snatched and raced the beer bottles to the trash, kicked a pair of grungy work boots into a corner then opened a computer desk drawer doubling as his dresser.  Thanks, Brian, Daphne and Ethan…for my amazing adaptability. 

Liberty Diner, post lunch crush.  Two booths with loitering couples, Michael and Brian dressed casual at a rear booth near the pickup station.

Michael watched Brian intently read a fat instruction booklet in one hand, punch keys on a new cell phone in his other.  “You had that thing a week already and it’s STILL not working right?”

“Truly state-of-the-art.  What I need is buried in the shit I DON’T need,” Brian grumbled, finally snapped the phone shut, shoved it in his pants pocket and tossed the booklet beside his coffee.  “Time to visit the Mall and trade it in.”

“Thought you had a convention this weekend.”

“I found a better alternative.”

The World of Concrete.  A vast array of mini-structures, flashy mixing trucks, clean-cut salesmen and skeptical buyers. 

Trooping through the throng, Cellular Innovations name tag and big grin, Ted.  Notepad in one hand, bag of freebies and brochures dangling from the other, he wowed a Crown-Engineering-tagged Exec with, “…lightweight, better sound and thermal insulation, it can be cut, drilled, screwed and nailed like wood…” And Brian thought this would be boring.

Back at the Diner, Michael moved along, “Did the cops find your car yet?”

“If they did, they’re probably joyriding around the Blue Ridge Mountains and planning to tell me later.”

“I’ll bet some kids took it.  It’s how kids think.  Adults think with their frontal lobes but teenagers think with a more primitive part of the brain called the amygdule.”

Brian slouched back.  “Why, Mikey.  Are you studying to be a brain surgeon?”

“Living with Ben.  He doesn’t just study what to teach but how kids learn.”

“Teaching effectiveness through outwitting your students.  Very commendable.”

“Not always,” Michael hunched on crossed arms.  “He actually joked that thinking with my amygdule could explain my fascination with comics.  It’s a letdown having your partner suggest you’re a primitive thinker.”

“So what’s YOUR theory?”

“Because it’s fun and I like it.”

“How amygdulatic.”

“Don’t knock it.  It may be the secret of your sex drive.”

Emmett flitted over in time to catch a few words and see Brian’s cocky grin, “Sex drive talk?  Well don’t stop now.”  And he swung into the seat beside Michael.

Michael clarified, “Actually we were talking about brain function.  Ben’s doing some reading on it.”

“Do tell,” Emmett drolled with lapsing interest.

“Did you know there are left-brained and right-brained thinkers?”

Brian leaned back with, “Does it determine which side your dick hangs?” and got Emmett’s brighter grin.

“No,” Michael went on as if the quip was serious, hands active as he explained.  “You and Justin are good examples.  There’s the analytical left-brained thinker which is kind of like you, and the emotional artistic right-brained thinker like Justin.”

Emmett asked,  “What about people like me?  Who…uh…aren’t all that analytical, but they’re creative…but not DEEP creative like Justin.”

“That’s a no-brainer,” Brian offered, left his seat and left Emmett in thought.

Michael watched Brian toss a couple bucks on the table.  “You wanna have dinner at our place tonight?”

Brian’s jaw twitched and he frontal-lobed a “Thanks, but I have a lot of work to do,” instead of the save-your-sympathy that first popped into mind.  He headed for the cashier to settle his bill and move on before talk turned to Justin again.

Emmett was still perplexed.  “Are there really no-brainers?”

“Depends on if he meant figurative or literal.”

Considering Brian’s usual modus, Emmett shifted to the vacant side of the booth and narrowed-eyed Brian going out the door.  “I don’t like him sometimes.”

“Well just cut him a break,” Michael defended.  “He just had his car stolen along with his cell phone, all the work in his briefcase…and Justin’s in the Sin City of the West.”

Still miffed, Emmett prissed, “At least ONE of them is having a good time,” grabbed a menu, ignored Michael’s evil eye and grumbled, “I, for one, detest having my little flame reduced to a hippocampus releasing oxytocin,” before an excited, “Oh goody!  The special’s CHICKEN!”

Michael merely blinked at the wonder of Emmett.

At Connor James’ metrosex mansion, mid-afternoon sunlight sparkled off a large, aqua pool.  Shaded by a second-floor veranda, Con and Justin in skimpy running shorts lazed on loungers separated by a small table with two cell phones and half-drained rum-and-cokes.

Con turned his head to see Justin’s face tense over a hefty Storyboard Techniques book tight in his grip.  “Keep that up and those worry lines’ll become permanent before their time.”

“That’s the problem.  Time,” Justin mumbled, laid the book on his thighs.  He shook out his strained right hand, leaned back, pressed both palms to his eyes and flashed back to his first day in a real working studio.  “I never realized how much I don’t know.” 

Con sat up and swung his legs so that his knees almost touched Justin’s lounger.  “You know what they say about all work.”

“I don’t have time to play.”

“Everybody in this business is a player and they MAKE time to play,” Con snatched the book, plopped it on the cement and warmly added, “Now do your host a favor and leave it there?”

Justin bent his arms behind his head, cleared his throat, “Sorry,” then panned the designer grounds. “This is really a nice place.  Beats dodging three roommates and a shower full of permanent mildew that makes my allergies kick.”

Con laughed and lightly punched Justin’s thigh, “Every player pays his dues,” his eyes running Justin’s length from bare feet to raised arms.  “You know, you should try going without the polar underwear.”

“What?” Justin scrunched a face and followed Con’s gaze to his armpit.  Made him chuckle uncomfortably.  “You mean…shave under my arms?”  And please say no.

“Nothing that barbaric.  I mean, get waxed.”  Seeing Justin grin and turn away, Con stood tall, flexed his arms up to reveal smooth contour.  “You’re insulting me,” he crooned with a flashy smile.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Justin winced and took a long look.  Con DID have a cleanly manicured attraction.   

And Con flaunted it with a hands-behind-head stretch.  “Ever work out?”

“Not really.”

Con reclaimed his lounge with easy grace.  “Body builders wax all the time.  Defines their muscles more.”

“I doubt I’ll be going for any body-building trophies.  It’s not my thing,” Justin firmed and, suddenly a little self-conscious, lowered his arms to his sides.

“Sleek and clean is hot.  The Babes out here love it.  Not to mention the guys. You’re an artist.  Name one Michelangelo that pays homage to a lot of body hair.”

Justin shut his eyes to recall any works of art.  Including his own.

Con side-eyed with an actor’s ability to salivate without showing it.  “It’s an exciting new feel.  Something your boyfriend might appreciate.”

“My partner,” Justin darkened,  “And let’s leave Brian out of this.”  Something almost sacrilegious about sharing intimacies with even a friend/business trick like Con.  Surely something Brian would never do to HIM.

Con blew off the misstep with,  “Just a local inside tip,” then lifted his drink and toasted air.  “Ready for a fresh one?”

“No, I’m still good.”  Justin sat up to grab his glass.  His cell phone rang and his lazy reach turned frantic as he snapped up the phone and answered, “Hello?”

Standing outside a Sprint store in the Mall, Brian unconsciously smiled at the sound.  “Justin.”

Justin’s face transformed to Oscar-winning glow, “Hey,” until he noticed Con watching.  “Hold on a minute,” and addressed Con without cupping the receiver.  “I’ll be right back.”

Brian’s smile flattened.  He drifted toward a potted tree away from other shoppers, phone to his ear during the hour-long seconds.  Justin’s not alone.  So fucking what.

Justin walked along the pool to the deep end and kept his back to Con more to feel alone with Brian than leave Con out.  “Brian.  I was hoping you’d call.”

“If there’s somebody with you -”

“No.  I mean…yeah, I’m at Connor James’ place, but we’re just talking shop.”

“Oh,” Brian dryly answered.  HIM again.  “So what did you need?”

Justin’s smile faded at the ice in Brian’s tone.  “I just wanted to let you know I moved out of Brett’s guest house and into my own place.”

Brian leaned against the concrete planter, eyes down and a dim smile.  “Good.  You’re finally getting settled in.”  Settled in.  Over there.

“Well…it’s not exactly my own,” Justin warmed.  “Rents here are so high, I’m sharing it with three other guys.”

“Sounds hot.”

“Me and three straight guys?” Justin chuckled.  “Two of them are pigs, there’s only one bedroom and one bathroom, you can never find a dry towel and you have to take a number to masturbate.”

“That could explain the wet towels,” Brian glibbed bittersweet.  Despite the complaints, he detected a general satisfaction.  “So how’s work?”

“There’s a lot, but I love it,” Justin sparked without hesitation then cleared his throat.  “Is everything okay with you?  I tried calling yesterday but got disconnected.”

“I bought another phone and got a new number.”

“What happened to the old one?”

Brian pursed his lips, drummed fingers on the planter.  “Somebody stole it…along with the Vette.”

Justin’s eyes popped. “What?  When?”

“A week ago.”

“A week…” Justin fumed, “Brian, you agreed that if anything happened to you, I’d be the first to know.”

Brian touched his forehead and weakly defended, “And what should I have told the cop when he asked me what happened?  I can’t tell you until I talk to my partner?”

“You know what I mean,” Justin grated then cooled down.  “Did you get it back?”

“Not yet, but it’s insured.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.  Now find a piece of paper and write down this number.”  I’ll save the taser gun and mad dog for later.

“Hold on.”  Justin turned and jogged back to Con who was working on a newspaper crossword puzzle.  “Con.  I need a pen and some paper.  Got any?”

“Yeah.  Here.” Con handed over his pencil and the business section.

Justin bent over the table, raised the phone to his ear and used that elbow to pin the paper.  “Ready.  Go ahead.”  He scribbled Brian’s number along the margin, handed the pencil back to Con then turned and paced away again.  “Call me when they find the car, okay?”

“Yeah.  I have to get back to the office.”

“And I’ve got a lot of reading to do.”

“Later.”

“Later,” Justin whispered, heard the disconnect like a severed lifeline.

Con set aside his puzzle and watched Justin still as a statue and staring at the closed phone in his hand.  “Problem?”

Justin spun around, sauntered back.  “Just Brian.”

“You don’t sound too happy about it.”

Justin stopped and picked up the paper with Brian’s number.  “It’s just…between the time change and work, we don’t get much chance to talk.”

“You mean you don’t call each other every night?’ Con grinned.

Justin twisted a face, “We’re not like a couple schoolgirls,” eyed the paper.  Shit. “Liberty Air Files Chapter Eleven.  Shit.”  One of Brian’s main accounts.

“If you’re booked on them, don’t worry.  They can still fly under bankruptcy for months.”

“I’m not on…,” Justin stalled in a thought flash.  “I’m…thinking I might take a short trip to Pittsburgh.  Check on the comic.”

“You and Brett.  Don’t you ever relax?  I’M thinking -” Con stood up, “- we should check out the pool.”

Justin folded the paper, stooped and slid it into his book, glanced aside and did a double take as Con slid off his shorts and tossed them onto his lounger. 

Con caught the look, smiled and stood hand-on-hip.  “You’re in LA now, Justin.  Go with it.”  And he strode red-carpet-style to the deeper end, took classic form and dove in.

It’s not like we haven’t been alone naked before, Justin thought, shelved his ill ease and peeled down his shorts.  Then he did his own strut to the deeper end, paused to watch Con and recalled how, even pumped on E and margueritas, he had liked the sensual feel as much as the star-fucking high.  “So who does your wax?”

Con swam to the pool edge, studied Justin’s eyes to check if he was kidding.  Nope.

Striding along Liberty, Brian stopped and turned when he heard Michael’s winded, “Hey.  Wait up,” and saw him slicing through the crowd.

“The Comic store’s THAT way,” Brian pointed behind him.

“I know.  Where’re YOU going?”

Fuck.  Just walking, Brian continued at a more Mikey-friendly pace.  “Seeking solitude.”

“Who seeks solitude on Liberty Avenue.” 

Then Linz moved toward them, pushing Gus in a stroller almost too small for him.

“Daddy!” he chirped to Linz’s frantic, “Gus.  Wait” as he nearly tipped over while bolting from his ride.

“Sonny Boy!” Brian lit and ruffled the hair on the boy hugging his leg.

“Hey, Gus,” Michael smiled and tapered it to, “Linz…” when she finally joined the group.

Glad to see them but feeling awkward around Michael, Linz brushed back her hair.  “Brian.  Michael.  We were just on -”

Gus cut,  “We’re goin’ to da POUNTAIN!” grabbed Brian’s hand, “You can come, too,” and tugged.  “And Unca Mike, too.”

“I guess we’re going to da Pountain,” Brian grinned, marveled at how a three-year-old’s churning legs could out-pace his long stride without tiring.

At the large Point Fountain concrete rim, hand tight in Brian’s, Gus pointed at the enticing ripples, stared up.  “Can we go in dere?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because of sharks.”

“Bri-an,” Linz glared while Michael snickered.

So Brian crouched eye-level with his son.  “There aren’t REALLY sharks in there.  But if we go in, we’ll be breaking the law, the police will come and arrest us, and you’ll have to walk home alone.”  Then he lifted eyes from Gus’s wide ones and blinked an Okay-NOW? at Linz.

Gus decided, “Walk aroun’ den.”

Brian rose into Gus’s pull and followed.

Linz called, “Don’t get near the edge,” and pointed to the river beyond.

“I won’t.  He doesn’t want to walk home alone.”

With Brian and Gus more distant, Michael turned serious eyes on Linz.  “I saw Mel yesterday.”

“Oh?  How is she?” Linz raked her hair, wanting to know, not wanting to care.

“Getting ready to go back to work.”

“And…Jenny?”  Our daughter.  Should have been our daughter.

“Getting bigger and cuter every day,” Michael looked off with father pride.  “If she keeps THAT up, I’ll have to buy myself a shotgun.” 

Linz lightly changed, “Have you heard from Justin?”

On the other side of the crashing water, Gus stopped to point at a huge crane lifting a beam above a tall steel frame.  “Lookit DAT!”

Brian sat on the rim, lifted Gus onto his lap.  “That’s the new medical building.”

Gus squinted at the hard-hatted workers placing the beam.  “Are dose firemen?”

“No.  Construction workers.”

“Strushin workers,” Gus repeated to firm this new knowledge.  To Gus they looked rugged, powerful and immune to heights.  “I wanna be a strushin worker.”

Brian leaned his cheek against Gus’s head.  “Why not.  I once wanted to be an Ad Exec.”  And watched through troubled eyes, voice to himself.  “Are they doing that because they like it?  Or because it’s the only thing they do best?” Besides fucking.

Gus was more distracted by Michael’s “What’s the holdup?” He and Linz appeared just as a breeze sent mist over them.

“Spraaaay!” Gus shouted, hopped off Brian’s lap and faced the drops with outstretched arms and mouth open like he was catching snowflakes.

“Gus!” Linz dashed between him and the water.  “Don’t get it in your mouth.  That water’s dirty.” And she ushered him further away, looked at the men, “The wind’s picking up.  We’d better go.”

“No,” Gus sternly chirped, peeked at Brian and got the Ragian Mind Meld.  Tried to override it but ended up looking sullenly away.  “We hafta go now.  You come too, Daddy?”

“Maybe later.”  Someday you’ll perfect that ray.  Hope to fuck we’re still getting along by then.

After rounds of Bye’s, Brian watched Linz and Gus enter the shadows of the tunnel leading to the City, felt Michael’s stare and met it dead on.  “What?”

“What’s wrong?”

Brian gave a deceptive grin, shoulder shrug.  “Nothing.”  Started up the walkway to the tunnel, leaving Michael stalled a moment and sensing something major wrong.

In Con’s gym, Justin sits on a trainer’s table, watches a wax tech smear a test patch on his thigh.  Walking toward Liberty Avenue, Brian looks up as he and Michael pass the construction site.

Song: “Devil’s Haircut” by Beck

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