What could possibly go wrong. 

Mr. Cool, Brian drove along Fifth Avenue with Rheinholdt, the new Boss still skeptical about the professional and organized home office that Brian had convinced him was ground zero for a profit launch.

Knowing this visit was inevitable, Brian had prepared for it from Day One, starting…

…last week at Ikea.

Brian in dress casual watched Justin in jeans try out a white cloth Euro-style couch.

“Everyone in Sweden must be five-six or under,” Brian muttered, flat scowl, eyes roaming.  Nothing interesting.   Furniture OR human.

“Would you just try it out?” Justin stood up, frustration growing.

Brian dropped into the low couch, shifted.  “This thing is as hard as-”

“Family store?” Justin chipped and nodded at passing Happy Heteros.

“You get the idea.”

“That’s because it’s a sleeper.”

“For a change of scenery?”

“For YOU, if you don’t agree on something real soon,” Justin steel-eyed.  “Just think of it as within our current budget and temporary.”

Brian sat back, crossed his arms behind his head and leaned against nothing.  Fuck. “Why don’t we just go retro with giant pillows and a hash pipe?”

“Why don’t you go sit in the car, and I’LL pick everything out?”

“SOMEBODY’S hungry.”

“Somebody’s getting pi-”

“Ah, family store,” Brian leaned forward with a raised finger and big grin.

“This was supposed to be fun,” Justin looked down, “…deciding on our furniture,” glanced around then side-eyed Brian brushing a hand over the fabric.  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you’re going out of your way to make this unconventional.”

Brian noted two other couches where men were sitting disgusted while their wives stood talking.  “We’ll take it,” he slapped the cushion and stood up.  “And the bookcases, AND the desk…and the coffee table.”

“The glass one?”

“The wood one that didn’t wobble when we both sat on it,” Brian turned to the service counter.

Justin followed after a lip synch thank-you grin at the unsuspecting couples still deciding.

Smartass, Brian looked over his shoulder.  It wasn’t easy transitioning taste from leather and Mies to photo-veneer and some short guy in Sweden.

Then came…

...product placement at the Loft.

Michael and Emmett dropped in unison onto opposite ends of the couch. Emmett sank back huffing, eyes closed; Michael leaned forward on bent arms propped on his thighs.

“This IS the final move, right?” Michael exhaled a worn breath at Brian positioning a chair on the other side of the coffee table, cringed when Brian fingered his chin and didn’t answer.  “And we’re the guests.  Why do WE get to move the sleeper couch?”

“Did you say no?” Brian raised a brow at Michael’s fuck-you glare.

Tuned elsewhere, Emmett smiled, opened his eyes. “What smells so yummy?” he looked toward the kitchen at Justin checking the oven.

“I’m making muffins,” Justin called over a shoulder.

Brian rounded the counter and surveyed the mess.  “Where’s the box?”

“From scratch?” Justin held up a thin recipe booklet.  “I’m not totally helpless,” with that rolled-up-eyes, brassy grin headshake that made Brian want to lunch on him.  “Daph and I did more than just sit around and talk about YOU.” 

Which took Justin to a brief flashback...sitting down to a beef stew dinner with Daph’s homemade rolls...

“Looks and smells great,” Justin eyed her beaming smile.

“You really think so?  My Mom always said fresh bread made a house smell like a home,” she watched Justin break a roll from the loaf.

“My Mom, too,” Justin added with a twinge of longing that faded when he turned the roll over.  “What’s THIS?” he studied something pink in the bottom, displayed it to Daphne.

“I WONDERED where that went!” she wide-eyed pleased as she took the roll.  “It’s one of my fake nails,” she picked it out. “god, I wonder if it’s still any good.”

Justin froze between gagging and smiling, opted for the less insulting.

Mind back to the Loft with Brian, “She sort of inspired me to cook more often.”

“And a worthwhile inspiration it is,” Emmett swiveled past Brian and pulled the booklet from Justin’s hand, paged, “Which one, Sweetie?”

“Basic.  Even Brian could do it,” Justin grinned then gasped from a thigh-pinch from Brian routing to the fridge.

“Now THAT I’d like to see,” Michael chuckled, took a seat at the counter, watched Brian pull three beer bottles, shake one up and set it in front of him.

While Michael alternated stares between the bomb bottle and its creator, Brian gave a safe one to Emmett, opened and handed the other to Justin then, “Drink up, Mikey.”

“Okay.  I never want to see you cook.  And no, I’m not moving that couch again.”

Brian smiled, opened the fridge and switched bottles.

Justin downed a gulp, panned their efforts and passed the brew for Brian’s turn.  “Fully functional, low-key, clean lines...”

“...and untouched by the horny hopeful of Pittsburgh.”  It was one day and a few of Justin’s own additions later.

“You know me so well.”

“The OTHER horny hopefuls,” Justin caressed Brian’s arms draping his shoulders from behind.

Brian swept eyes across two Taylor paintings on the living room walls, the large pillows that had started as a joke, the plants, the geo-patterned area rug that pulled the sparse furnishings together.

On the office side, Justin’s new desk setup and drafting table looked professional.  Brian’s niche didn’t change much except for the addition of a console phone and another chair for any insistent client.  Chrome-framed enlarged photos of Brian’s most successful campaigns were lined like travel posters on the walls.  The track lights went on hold, but halogen desk lamps filled in. 

Separating the office from the living space was a mini jungle dominated by the tree, a couple large plants, a small table with a stone bowl of wood bananas and blue and orange glass balls.

Brian would have gone more stark, Justin more vivid, but there was texture, balance, flow and life in the collection of moderate things that together looked so rich.

A blend of personalities worthy of a quick…

…call to Daphne.

“Hey, Daph,” Justin smiled into his cell phone while kneeling backward on the couch, left arm along the top, chin on his hand.  Gave him a good view of Brian working at his desk.  “Yeah.  The place really looks amazing.” He saw Brian’s glance, answered, “Daph says hi,” got Brian’s nod.  “Brian says hi back.”  Then his smile waned.  “When?  What did you tell her?”

On his computer, Brian displayed a For Sale ad with a picture of his Vette and had been casually sight-checking Justin when he noticed Justin’s eyes focus on the floor, face serious.  Brian stared a few moments longer, danced fingers on a folder, tapped the desktop and stood up to investigate.  But he halted when Justin sank from view.  Waited until Justin’s quiet murmurs stopped.  A couple more long minutes, then he moved to the couch back and looked down at Justin reclining close-eyed and holding the phone like a calla lily on his chest.

“Let me guess.  She misses the sound of your beating heart.”

“She told my Mother I’m living HERE,” Justin groaned, opened his eyes.  “I wish she would’ve let ME tell her first.”

“Oh?” Brian leaned on the seatback.  Never occurred to him that it should make one bit of difference to anybody else.  Then…that was HIS family perspective.  He looked at Justin’s eyes.  Face.

“What?” Justin broke a meek smile.

“I was just thinking,” Brian’s eyes warmed - about the morning after Gus was born… rolling over half-crocked onto this teen who looked ten.  Though fewer and farther between, there were times when Justin’s expression…or the way the light fell...  “You should call her now.”

Justin paused in thought.  And the look was gone.  He swung his feet to the floor, sat up, speed-dialed a number.  “Hey.  Mollisk.  Mom around?” he rolled his eyes, “No, I WON’T tie up the phone.  Nice to hear you, too.”

Brian wandered back to his computer, shut it down, lifted a newspaper folded to a Car Sales ad then glanced at the KeyState Auto insurance bill under it.  He eyed the back of Justin’s head then the +$948.00 figure he’d scrawled and circled from an earlier call. That much more to insure an under-twenty-one on a Corvette.  Fucking robbers.

Hand over the phone receiver, Justin called across the room, “Brian…do we have anything important going on tomorrow?”

“Rheinholdt’s coming out to check our office.  Why?”

“My Mom wants to see me about something and doesn’t want to talk about it on the phone.  She’s working so we’ll probably just go for lunch.  Shouldn’t take too long.”

Brian thought a moment, nodded.  “Just remember that WE’RE supposed to be working, too.”  He watched Justin nod and return to his call, lie back with one knee up, bare foot on the couch arm, the other leg dangling, foot slowly arching and flexing.  Innocent but enough to spark a flame.  One drawback of a home office – staying focused against distractions of one kind or another.  Good deterrent - Mom on the phone.

Only a minor delay, though.  Still plenty of time for…

…the endurance test.

Coffee table aside, sleeper couch unfolded, two testers naked under a sheet but not exactly in test mode.  Brian sat propped with a pillow against the seatback; Justin played with the remote for a standard TV mounted on a low entertainment center.

“Isn’t this what happens to straight couples after the fire dies?” Brian snark-smiled.

“I’ve seen you get involved in movies. And I don’t mean TED’S collection,” Justin reminded, channel surfed through a few sitcoms.  “Shit.”

“World without cable, amen.”

“Well there’s always something good on PBS,” Justin leaned back shoulder-on-shoulder with Brian as they both watched the world’s ugliest lizard and listened to…

            “…the rarely seen mating ritual of the horned toad…”

Justin’s and Brian’s eyes slid simultaneously onto each other and Justin broke into a laugh.  “I KNEW there had to be something interesting.”

“Yeah,” Brian leaned down and stole a light kiss, nuzzled the hair above Justin’s ear and whispered, “Roll over.”

Justin’s eyes gleamed above a mischief smile.  “MAKE me.”

“I intend to,” Brian grabbed a shoulder but met tough resistance as a narrator droned

            “…the male lion bites the shoulder of the lioness…”

“That’s your BEST try?” Justin forced Brian onto his back, pinned him, got rolled under, knee-pressed Brian’s thigh to throw him off-balance, pushed off with hands on Brian’s shoulders and almost pulled free until Brian’s long leg clamped on his thigh.

            “…as the snakes twine together.  The mature male snake has two penises…”

“Fuck,” Brian stopped, viewed the screen.  “Turn that up a little.”

Justin exhaled a sharp breath at the interruption.  “Where’s the remote?” he groped through folds of sheet wreckage, slid to his knees to widen the search and was suddenly flattened by a freight train slamming his back.

“Gotcha!” Brian threw his weight on Justin, hands pinning Justin’s outstretched wrists, legs splayed outside his partner’s closed pair, hard cock cradled in Justin’s crack.

“Not YET,” Justin gasped from the crushing weight, felt Brian lift on his forearms to let him breathe, then Justin grit his teeth and locked his ankles when Brian’s knee pried between his legs.  “How are you gonna get a condom on?” Justin smirked, clenched his fists preparing for freedom.

“It’s already on,” Brian licked Justin’s neck.  “During the mating ritual of the horny toad,” and he pressed his knee harder.

“That’s cheating.”

“Not if everybody wins.”

Gorged stiff and too anxious for release to drag this out, Justin spread his legs, let Brian’s knees settle between them, felt Brian’s hands withdraw, skim down his back and park like two hot pads on his ass.  “I think this couch needs one more test.”

“You make excellent choices,” Brian bent low and kissed Justin’s back, lubed him well, centered his dick, “We’ll have to watch PBS more often,” braced on his arms and pushed into a satin vise made hotter by Justin’s vocal thrill.

Eyes closed, pants heavy, Brian’s thrusts jerking his cock against the sheets, Justin moved his arms down, fingers spread…searching…until Brian’s hand closed on his and their fingers clenched together.  Harder.  Tighter.  Pulsing with the rhythm of their bodies in flickering pale light from a scene of a black wolf and white wolf play-tussling in a hostile world of falling snow…

“…one of a few species who mate for life…”  

Wednesday afternoon. 

Brian toured Rheinholdt through his area, lifted three proposals off his desk and handed them over.

“Brown signed yesterday, Midnight Auto and National Nutrition are ready, and Justin’s  doing final graphics on a presentation for RegionAir,” Brian motioned to a color 8x10 of a business jet angled to look like a luxury liner on Justin’s drafting table.

Rheinholdt walked the open proposal to the table, nodded with approval.  “He certainly is a talented young man.”

“Very talented,” Brian’s carnal smile went unnoticed as Rheinholdt studied the board.

“I’m concerned about security,” Rheinholdt eyed direct, “About keeping confidential records on a home system.”

“It’s the same system I used with Ryder and Vangard.  All the programming is protected and I don’t go wireless so if anything, the risk is higher with the copies I give you for your office system…which is shared by the other employees.”  Brian paused unblinking.  “You’re concerned about my holding back any leads for personal use.  Am I right?”

“I know that big money is big temptation, and I believe you’re a clever man, Mr. Kinney.”

“Brian.  And if I were that tempted by money, I’d still be working for Vangard.”

“There’s always a W I F M…Brian.  A What’s-In-It-For-Me.  And any man who tells you that isn’t true is either lying to himself or outright lying.  So convince me that our goals are an ideal match, and I’ll allow this,” Reinholdt waved his free hand across both office areas.

“I’m not in a position to start my own agency or even go YOUR route.  But I did my time as a low-level agent, and Lightwave puts me ahead of that.  The big-money high-end account proof is right there,” Brian pointed to the proposals in Rheinholdt’s hand.  “And nobody at WaveLight has to change.  All the change will be within the subsidiary.  Everybody benefits.  We’ll gradually phase the smaller accounts into Lightwave, dump the old image, and become a high-end agency of choice.  Then we can attract the best talent, hand over the baton, and find more pleasant ways to expend our energy.”

“It’s still MY agency.”

“And screwing YOU won’t get me what I want,” Brian dropped his chin, eyes wide.  “I’m willing to make this work.  But I want an agreement in writing…that I have first option to buy the agency if you ever decide to sell.  Consider it your insurance that I’ll always be doing my best work.”

Eyes firm on Brian, Rheinholdt tapped the proposals against his free hand.  “I’ll think it over.  There is one other thing,” Rheinholdt panned the Loft,  “I want all client meetings conducted in WaveLight’s conference room.  A professional business atmosphere.”

“I didn’t plan to leave you out of anything,” Brian suspected.

“I’ll take your word on that,” Rheinholdt almost smiled, then checked his watch.  “I need to get back to the office.”

Brian nodded, led Rheinholdt to the door.

Three rapid knocks.  Then three harder.

“That must be Justin,” Brian smiled back uneasy.  Justin had a key.

Brian unlocked and drew the door open, stood gaping.  “Mom.”

Joan, dressed for church, brushed past Brian with the stumble-footed dignity of one-too-many and too proud to realize it.  She abruptly stopped, eyes harsh on Rheinholdt before they cut to Brian.  “So you’re still living in sin.”

Brian smiled icy sweet, blinked twice – a mix of I-don’t-believe-you-said-that and I-could-give-a-shit, calmly turned to Rheinholdt standing in awkward silence.  “May I present…my Mother…Joan,” then to her, “This is Mr. Rheinholdt, president and CEO of WaveLight, the new company that recently hired me,” hardening the last words through a biting smile.

Rheinholdt quickly moved to the door with a “Pleasure to meet you,” to Joan and, “I’ll wait at the car,” to Brian as he hurried out.

Joan faltered, “I…” before turning guilt to righteous error, “I’m locked out of the house-”

“You mean Claire DOES have a brain?  Surprise, surprise.”

“- and I need your key.”  Your insults have absolutely no effect on me.

Brian stepped into her face, “And what makes you think I’d even HAVE a key to Hades?”  He eyed her purse, snatched it from her hand.  “If you wanted someone who could SEE straight, Reverend Tom would have sufficed,” he opened the purse and dug deep.

“He had other commitments.”

Brian pulled a jingling ring, “I’m sure at this very moment he’s on his knees singing praise to he who has risen,” while flipping through keys from the Nixon Years until he found and detached one marked H.  “Here.  As we say in my depraved world…keep aiming until it hits the hole,” he dropped the key into her coat pocket, the rest back into the purse and shoved it at her.

She grabbed her purse. “God will punish you for your heathen disrespect.”

“I know.  You’re here,” Brian raised brows that quickly furrowed.  “The bar’s THAT way.  Help yourself on your way out,” he cut, stormed through the doorway, left heavy footsteps echoing in the stairwell.

Joan wavered to the open door, steadied with a hand on the frame and listened to the fading sound.  She leaned her head against the frame, eyes fighting a tear…did she just humiliate her son in front of his new boss?  She took a deep breath, glanced back at the bar.  It was HIS fault.  Because his wanton life brought it on himself.

At the bar, Joan pours herself a short one.  Outside, Brian glares at the Loft then joins Rheinholdt at the car.

Song: “Wild Hearted Son” by The Cult 

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