Lunchtime saw morning clouds gathering to storm.

Driving from WaveLight into Pittsburgh and still steamed over Rheinholdt’s unexpected attitude, Brian glanced at Justin’s low simmer.

“We got the fucking account.  With YOUR design.”

“Um-hm.”  Yours, too.  I was watching her eyes.  But that’s not the problem.

“Want to go celebrate?”

“Thought you had a lunch meeting.”

“Nothing that can’t wait.”  No reaction.  Brian exhaled, “Fuck Ruder, if THAT’S what’s eating you.”

Like you’re in a mood to listen.  Justin blinked resignation out his window, saw PIFA’s building ahead.  “Can you just drop me off here?  Think I’ll join the old gang for awhile.”

Brian swerved to the curb, parked and stretched his arm across Justin’s shoulders, hardly moved his head before Justin sprang a fast kiss. Brian held his pose in a what-the-fuck-was-THAT moment.  Not so much the kiss.  The tiny hesitation prior.  “Every business has its share of assholes.  The best thing is…learn to deal with it.”  Though the fucking rah-rah didn’t seem to do shit for either of them.

“Yeah,” Justin tightened his lips. “Later,” he toned and was out the door and off before Brian could read deeper and press for more. This wasn’t the time, place or frame of mind.

Brian watched him trod with shoulders hunched under some strange weight.  Just a first-time run-in outside the food service industry.  It’ll get easier.  Every time it happens.  And it happens more than I fucking care to mention.         

In the Coffee Shop, Justin’s murk faded at the sight of Liz, Hick and a trio of familiar art students crammed around a small table.  Notebooks, ribbing, laughing.

“Hey.”

“Justin!” Liz sparked, poked Hick, “Well move over and let him in,” then to Justin, “Where have YOU been?”

Justin felt royal at the scurry to make him a space, quickly snatched a chair from a nearby table and squeezed into the circle.  “I’m an…a graphic artist for an ad agency.”

Liz extended a hand, panned their table, “Didn’t I tell you if ANY of us was gonna make it, Justin would?”

“It’s no big deal,” Justin shrugged, tilted his head to view a curious sketch in an open notebook.  “So what’re you working on?”

The Grungy Guy owner turned the book toward Justin.  “A sex machine.”

“Are you shitting me?” Justin chuckled, lifted and studied the book while Liz spoke.

“It’s for Creativity 201.  A project to stimulate creativity through tactile sensation -”

“And Hick suggested sex machines,” Grungy cut in.

“It was a JOKE -” Hick defended, then grinned, “- that turned out to be one rad idea, man.”  He handed Justin his own sketch.  “It’s a box with a hole in it. When you put your hand through the hole, it goes into this fur-lined glove and warm cream squirts into it.”

Justin laughed with the others.  “And Armstrong okay’d this?”

“What does HE know,” Liz settled, “Anyway, it’s a blast.  Wish you were still here.  As good as YOU are, I’m dying to know what you’d do.”

Justin smiled to himself.  First off, he’d tell Brian.  Then let the creativity fly.  How different it could’ve been…from now.

Seated alone at a table in posh Aliana’s, Brian sipped a merlot and casually cased the business crowd.  Despite the looming expense, it felt like home.  Familiar.  He saw Gardner Vance trailing a Hostess on collision course with his table.  Eyes met in guarded pleasantry.

“Brian,” Vance sat across the table, gave a brief “Thank you” to the Hostess.

“Gardner,” Brian nodded.  “Are we here to discuss new or old times?”

“Given the situation, I thought a vis-à-vis would be more appropriate.  I heard you’re with WaveLight.”

“Lightwave,” Brian corrected, saw Vance shake his head.  “A new subsidiary.  Not well-known yet, but we WILL be.”

“I’m sure,” Vance darkened.  “I should congratulate you on Brown.”

“I had to take the opportunities allowed…after Vangard contested my unemployment.”

“Standard procedure.  Certainly not personal.  But you may want to keep in mind that you’re still legally limited, and I have every right to protect my business.”

“If my contract with Ryder had an assignment clause, I’m sure your attorneys would’ve flooded my mailbox by now.”

“An oversight,” Vance conceded, “In future asset transfers, I’ll make sure ALL crucial personnel sign new contracts instead of merely adding to existing ones.”

“So Stockwell’s strokers have made possible a new addition to the family?”

“You know I can’t discuss that with you,” Vance smiled.  “You should also know that I still respect you, admire your work, and if I had any other choice, this situation would never have occurred.  Now,” Vance opened his menu, “Shall we order?  On Vangard.”

Brian nodded adversarial respect in the silence of their truce.  From shaky start, to comrade team, to reluctant enemies – they were serious businessmen first.  Expecting friendship to outweigh that was no more feasible than throwing it all away for a shit reason.  But keeping bridges intact was never a bad move regardless of reason.  Vance was posturing for something.

In Jennifer’s living room, Craig in a dark business suit and Jennifer in her white pantsuit stood across from each other like opposing pawns ready for chess.  Her arms were crossed, his stiff on his hips in tension thick as paste.

“Have you SEEN this contract?” Craig started.

“All I know is that it has something to do with Brian’s business.”

Craig’s face crunched like he’d been brain-stabbed.  “I can’t believe Justin would do something that stupid.  That boy-”

“Our SON,” Jennifer glared.

“WHATEVER he signed,” Craig paced then pointed, “You can be damned sure that Brian Kinney took advantage of it.”

Jennifer shook her head as if trying to convince herself, “I hardly think Brian would do anything to-”

“Jen,” Craig closed in, “That man has made a CAREER out of being manipulative and persuasive.  I did some checking.  Do you realize how much DEBT he’s in?”

“What?” Jennifer shook her head, arms sagging lower.

“He’s USING Justin to get to his savings, or trust fund, or I don’t know what,” Craig ran a hand over his neck, paced, stopped.  “But I know ONE thing – you and I didn’t build all we have to go to some…some fast-talking hypocrite with a fly-by-night company.”

“What are you saying?” Jennifer sank onto the couch in disbelief.  “That we should disown our own SON?”

“HE made that choice,” Craig fired.

“No, YOU did,” Jennifer bolted up, freezing him.  “When he came to you for help, you turned him down and he had to drop out of school.  As for all we have,” she took a breath to calm herself, “If you marry Lori, where does that leave any of us?”

“That is so…” he bit back and pointed fiercely, “Don’t EVER suggest that I’d leave you and Molly unprotected.  EVER.  That’s not the kind of man…or FATHER…I am.”

Jennifer shrank under his heat, recovered.  “Then be that kind of man for Justin.  He’s a lot like you.  He’d never come running home.  But he’s young…and desperate…and he needs your guidance,” then added softly, “IF you’re that kind of man, and Father.”

Jolted by her accusation, trapped by his own words, Craig thawed under her pleading stare.  “All right,” he nodded grimly.  “I’ll talk to him.  See if we can get this mess straightened out.”  Then he looked at his watch, “I have to get back,” said more to the floor than her, “I’ll talk to him.”  And he turned for the door.  Didn’t know what he’d say.  What he’d do.  But he’d figure it out.

“Thank you,” Jennifer raised a smile, briefly met his eyes when he glanced back before leaving.  After the door shut, she gripped her arms as if a cold breeze caught her.  She knew Brian too well to think he’d intentionally hurt Justin.  It was the unintentional that she feared most.

At Aliana’s, the Waiter clearing their table smiled low to Vance, “I’ll bring the check in a minute,” and hustled away. 

Brian leaned to stand.  “Thanks for the steak, the news on Cynthia and the update on foreign affairs.  Did I mention that it looks like rain?”

“Still a bayonet with words,” Vance stopped him.  “All right.  Just for my own satisfaction.  Did you set up Stockwell at the GLC?”

“I set up a candid situation for Stockwell to shine.  I’m not responsible for how he handled it.”  Some fuckers only show their true colors under pressure. “With all we gave him, he could’ve won that election.  He just wasn’t the better man.”

Recalling the harsh fag comment, Vance agreed with a somber nod.  “Before you go… hypothetically…if I were to acquire another office, say for example,” he looked off as if in random thought, “Hartford, Connecticut,” more direct, “Or Charlotte, North Carolina-”

“Hypothetically,” Brian leaned back, arms crossed, vague smile and opaque gaze.

“An agency that’s not national…I’d assume wouldn’t have such a limiting contract.”

“Would I jump ship for a bigger boat.”

Vance leaned back with a light chuckle.  “Rats are common.  Good Captains aren’t.”

“First, I’d verify that the boat actually exists, then I’d make certain any contract terms meet MY needs.  Hypothetically.”

So you’re game for the right price.  Vance nodded, stretched out his hand, “Thank you for joining me.  I’ll be sure to keep in touch.”

Brian finished the handshake, rose, “Now I have a ship to catch.”  He left Vance waiting for the check and walked away pleasantly vindicated.  But he was intrigued by hints of another option.  Especially with Rheinholdt’s showing new colors.  If nothing short of ruthless, Vance at least stood by his word.

At the Gallery, Linz and Sidney stood in an alcove and watched the white walls become lonely bare as two Artisans removed wire sculptures.

“If we spread the other exhibits,” Sidney suggested, “We can create an open, spacious feel.”

“And make the pieces look small.  I already called the other artists, and none have other finished works.”  A thought lit as Linz dodged a departing Artisan.  “Sidney, what if we combined the glass exhibit with paintings?”  She smiled at his favorable stare.  “That would solve the blank wall problem and allow us to move the glass displays closer.”

“The paintings would have to be contemporary to complement.”  He checked his watch and frowned.  “I have an engagement this evening.  Would you take my contemporary file and start calling the artists I’ve listed in the red folder?”

“I’ll get right on it,” Linz turned away with a brief grin.  She hurried into the hall, glanced around to ensure privacy then opened her purse and pulled out her cell phone.

Back in the Loft and seated at his computer, Justin wrinkled his face at the screen and wondered how he could make a car that sucked look wonderful.  Raindrops pelted the window hard enough to draw his stare.  Their meandering, blending shadows through the shears ALMOST took on colorful form, but didn’t.  The phone on Brian’s desk rang.  Thank you, Justin thought, I need the break. 

He strolled over to the desk, snatched the receiver and answered, “Lightwave.  Taylor speaking.”  He brightened, “Linz!  Why’d you call the business number?  When?  You’re kidding, right?”  His wide-eyed excitement dimmed as he looked at one, then the other of his paintings on the living room wall.  “I…don’t think so, Linz.  I don’t have enough pieces ready,” his voice fell and he sat on the desk edge, blinked at his computer.  “I’ve been pretty busy.”  He smiled feebly into the phone, “Yeah.  Thanks.  I really appreciate the thought.  I will.  If I change my mind.  Bye.”

After hanging up, he stared a long moment at the dark painting niche, crossed the room with decisive steps and pulled his easel into the open.  Found a stretched primed canvas in a corner and moved it onto the easel, stood before its whiteness and waited for an image to form.  So many times his mind took just an instant, but for some reason, only one image came.  This ugly-ass SUV.  He volleyed looks from the blank canvas to his computer.  If he backdropped a rugged country setting…

Shit.  The ad is more important.   Justin settled into his chair, hit the space bar to awaken his sleeping screen, leaned back shaking his head in dark agitation.  Like all I do would really MAKE that fucking much of a difference.

After 5 PM, Brian walked into the Loft, the day’s mail and briefcase in one hand.  He plopped both on his desk, removed his suit jacket and brushed off rain droplets, saw Justin quietly focused on his computer screen throughout the disruption. “Meditating?”  Brian hung his jacket on his chair back, casually lifted the mail and scowled.  Credit card bills.  The fuck if I can make it this month.  No word from Justin?  He looked up, snapped his fingers high and loud.

Justin swiveled to face him, elbow knocking the keyboard aside, “Am I an Art Director, or your assistant?” with a hard-edged glare.

Brian blinked, “Your WaveLight title is clerk.  At Lightwave, you’re the Art Director.”

“Thought so,” Justin rose to a stand, advanced, “Well I don’t NEED your playroom title,” Justin stopped, one hand to his hip, the other aimed at Brian who turned and slouched back against his desk, arms crossed.  “What the fuck were you thinking?  That I’m some little kid playing fireman?”

Steady and hard, “Would you have me conclude a presentation with ‘By the way…all these fine graphics were done by Lightwave’s CLERK’?.”

“Oh.  So THAT’S it,” Justin stepped closer, sarcastic nod, hip hand white-knuckled.  “It’s all about image.”

Brian straightened, hands gripping the desk edge.  “It’s about the fact that you’re the ARTIST,” he shook his head, launched off the desk and headed for the bedroom. “Still pissed about Ruder.”

“FUCK Ruder.”  Justin followed to the bottom step.

“No way.”

“Don’t FUCKING joke about it.”

“Then what the fuck ARE you pissed about?” Brian blazed, stripped in fury.

“That I walked into that office, misrepresented myself and gave Ruder every RIGHT to treat me like shit,” Justin shot, “That’s not the kind of man I am.”

“NOW who’s concerned about image,” Brian whipped on jeans and a dark tee.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Justin lowered his voice, eyes narrowed.  “If Ruder has final say, how can I expect him to accept my work?”  He turned and trudged to his office.

Brian sauntered to the open door and leaned cross-armed on the doorframe.  “Because you’re that good.  And it scares the shit out of him.”

“I’m that GOOD?” Justin stood at his computer, looked back at Brian.  “Or because YOU got me in?”

Fuck.  What the FUCK new animal was THIS.  Brian’s jaw twitched.  “I don’t need an assistant,” he tramped barefoot down the stairs, headed for the bar.  “I need an Art Director.  Tomorrow I’ll tell Klaus to post the opening,” he opened the cabinet slammed a glass and bottle down and stared at Justin’s flat expression.  “You WANT it, apply for it.”  And he loudly clinked the bottle on the glass edge, filled it to the brim.

Justin watched Brian knock back the drink in one swallow, softened,  “It’s about credibility, Brian.  What I do…who I am.”

Brian set the empty glass down, braced against stiff arms on the counter and stared unfocused past the glass.  Feeling the liquid burn a trail to his gut.  Thoughts a quagmire of…what.  Pinch of rejection?  Some fucked-up version of empty nest syndrome?  Brian turned his head, eyes asking without words – Did I take too much for granted?

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate what you’re doing for me,” Justin solemnly answered, “I just need to know where you end, and I start.”

Brian recalled personal fractions of what he was seeing, hearing.  That search for self.  What sets a man apart from anyone else.  And puts him in charge of his own destiny.  Brian released a long breath, paced slowly and stopped before Justin, squeezed his shoulders and just above a whisper, “It would be Klaus’s decision.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

“And if he takes someone else?”

Justin smiled at the face moving within inches.  “You might have to give up fucking the Art Director at the office.”  If I don’t make it.  If I even decide to try.

Brian didn’t kiss him.  Lowered his head over Justin’s shoulder, circled him with overlapping arms and held tight.  I’ve never stopped you before, and don’t plan to now.  You know what you need.  You’re not afraid to go for it.  I wouldn’t want you any other way.

Justin clamped his arms around Brian’s waist, ran hands up to his shoulder blades and pulled him close until their blood pulse crossed into each other.  Driving his dick up the confines of his jeans.  Brian’s heart thumping hard and faster…and body going rigid.  Too rigid.  Not the right heat.  Not the right feel.  “Brian?”

Brian glowered over Justin’s shoulder at the rose sketch half-exposed by the shifted keyboard.  He roughly pushed Justin aside, swiped the card and stared, chest heaving.

Seeing the strong reaction, Justin suddenly felt like a caught criminal.  “I meant to tell you.  It came from-”

“I KNOW where it came from,” Brian snapped, turned and stormed into the living room where he stopped to look at the paper again.

Justin ventured quietly after, watched Brian’s hand run his long locks to the back of his neck.  Never saw him like this.  How to calm him down.  “Brian,” Justin moved closer, almost reached his goal when Brian abruptly turned and thudded up the steps into the bedroom.  Justin could see shadowy quick movements of Brian donning his leather at the closet.  “Where are you going?”

Brian strolled to the doorway. Adept at veiling inner turmoil, he blew off his lost-it moment with a who-gives-a-fuck patented smile. “Out for a ride.” 

Didn’t fool Justin.  “Want me to come WITH you?”

“Shouldn’t you be writing your resume?” Brian skipped down, passed Justin and bee-lined to the door.  “Don’t wait on dinner,” he shot a smiley glance as he left.

The loud bang of the door made Justin flinch, resettle and run both hands over his face, pulling his skin tight to the back of his neck.   Any explanation would be Brian’s call.  Maybe after his version of a ride…a few hours at the Baths, or in the back room.

Justin was heading back to his desk when Brian’s ringing phone forced him to answer.  “Lightwave, Tay-” he froze.  “Dad.”

At his home office, Craig hunched over his desk, forehead propped on a hand like he was holding back the world’s worst headache, other hand gripping the phone to his ear.  The stress of expecting Brian to answer was bad enough.  Hearing Justin put an even greater strain on his fight to sound casual.

“I…uh…haven’t seen you in awhile, and wondered if you might…want to come by for dinner tonight,” he raked a hand through his hair, quickly added, “Talk about what you’ve been up to lately…see how you’re doing.”

At Brian’s desk, Justin leaned forward, forehead propped on a hand, receiver to his ear.  Not sure if he was elated as much as suspicious.  It’s not like Dad never talked to Mom or Molly.  He slouched back in Brian’s chair, one hand clenching and releasing the end of the armrest while he gazed off to nowhere. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you and Lori, does it?”  

“No…it’d be just the two of us,” Craig leaned back in his office chair, one hand tapping the end of the armrest, eyes distant.  He didn’t want to get into it now.  Snapped up straight.  “Look, Justin… I…uh…have another call.  Why don’t you come by about seven.  I could…uh…pick you up if -”

“I can get there,” Justin firmly decided, sat up.  “I’ll see you later.  Bye.”  Justin hung up, leaned back again and tented his fingertips against his chin.  Pending truce?  Or another stab at turning me straight.  Only one way to find out.  Justin frowned and rose from the chair like he weighed a ton.

Brian sits in the idling Vette in front of Joan’s house; Justin stops on the walk outside Craig’s.

Song: “I Refuse” by Sense Field

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