The spell is broken. He is gone. And I still want an answer to my question. Only now I’m pretty sure that I just got one. I turn on the water in the shower and stand there while it runs over me. It is a good ten minutes before I realize that I have washed my hair at least twice already. I lean against the tile, close my eyes and tell myself that he went out for take-out. There is no soap in the soap dish. Just condoms. That is fucking perfect. I leave the warmth of the shower to drip over to the medicine cabinet to get another bar. His pain meds are gone. They were here after dinner. Before we fucked. He hasn’t even taken that shit in months. He doesn’t need them. There are only seven pills left in there, which I know because I took one once after a particularly evil night of indulging and he went off on me. He has no more refills. Stay out of his shit. Queened out all over the place. Like it was oxy or something. But that was ages ago. And they’ve expired anyway. I slam it shut and refuse to look at my face in the mirror. Now or ever. This is my last bar of soap.

The water cannot get hot enough tonight. I stand there and let it transport me somewhere else, anywhere else—a one way ticket to any-the-fuck-where else. But every time I get there, I end up buying a round trip ticket right back to where-the-fuck-I-am. Finally, I shut off the water, wanting to get out, dry off, and think about what to do. Only I can’t. I sink to the bottom of the shower and just stare at the hinge on the shower door. I feel like I felt when he was out with Cody, only much, much worse. Because at least then I knew he wanted to come back. Why did I take a shower? Now, I can’t even smell him anymore. He has been gone for an hour, tops.

I don’t want to walk back into the bedroom, but eventually I’ve done everything in the bathroom that I can do. My hair is dry. Every part of me looks good and smells good and feels smooth and is prepared to go Babylon, except that I am naked. I have to go in there to get clothes. I open the sliding door and try not to even look at the bed or the wadded up pile of dark blue sheets in the corner. Or the shattered clock on the floor. I glance at my cell phone to see what time it is. He hasn’t called. He’s probably at Daphne’s or worse. I’ll go to Babylon, have a few drinks, enjoy the scenery. I don’t know what the fuck else to do. I shut the door to my loft and take the stairs. I can’t look at anything but my boots on the way down. Flight after flight. I’ll go back up. Leave him a note. Fuck it, that’s what cell phones are for. I push open the door of my building and the first thing I see is him. What the fuck?

He is leaning against my car. Smoking a cigarette. I don’t understand the expression on his face. Has he been standing there this whole time?

“Get in.” Get in? I can’t hide the relief on my face. I want to, but I can’t.

“Where have you been?” I sound like a nagging wife. I sound like Michael.

“Just get in.” I don’t like his tone.

“Shouldn’t you be over at Michael’s, reaming him out?” Why am I picking a fight with him?

“Been there, done that.” Oh, great. I am going to hear about this. I acquiesce.

We get in my car and I watch him behind the wheel. His jaw is firm. He looks determined, like he looked those nights when he went out with the posse. I really don’t want him driving my car, especially since it is getting ready to start raining.

He throws the first punch.

“You took a shower.” Artists are observant.

“You took a hike.” I am honest.

“You fucked me like a high school girl on prom night and then provoked me on purpose.” Sometimes observation is overrated.

“Not on purpose.” If he wants to play rough, I can play rough.

“You never do anything that isn’t on purpose, Brian. From the night you met me under that streetlight, everything you’ve done has been on purpose.”

“That isn’t true.” I swallow hard. That really isn’t true. I don’t think I can convince him of that right now, or myself, but that really isn’t true. He’s also stolen part of it …..

We ride in silence for a few minutes. I look out my window as the storefronts go by; my thoughts retreating into places they haven’t been in a long time. Some of them standing in front of St. James Academy the morning after our first night together, some of them with me as I regretfully walked alone into the gymnasium that night in my tux, some of them leaning against me as I leaned against him as he leaned against my jeep. I make them stop there. I always make them stop there. My mind is a thousand miles away. I don’t think I even realize that he is talking to me.

“Brian.”

“Brian.” I turn my face from the window, but I don’t face him completely. I don’t want him to see my face right now.

“You were right you know. About what you said earlier when we were in bed.”

“I was right about what? That you’re leaving?” I wish I knew where we were going. I wish I didn’t sound like an asshole.

“That too. But that’s not what I mean. You were right when you said you thought you hurt me. You did.”

“I’m sorry. You should have stopped me.” Yeah, that’s good, it’s his fault.

“Don’t be obtuse, Brian.” I stop pretending that I don’t know what he means.

“Where are we going? Inspiration point?” I ask him this as he merges onto the freeway. He ignores my sarcasm.

“We’re just driving. Okay? I need to process.” He’s at the speed limit.

“And I’m here because…?” I am having a hard time not driving, literally and figuratively.

“Because sometime in the next few hours some important shit is going to come out of my mouth, and I need you to be around when I say it. Hand me my bag. It’s in the back.”

I hand him his bag. He pulls out a small sketch pad, a pencil, and throws cds on the dashboard. I stuff the bag by my feet. I don’t even think I’ve been a passenger in my own car before. I watch him closely as he puts the sketch pad on his left leg and the pencil in his left hand. He’s not left handed. I really don’t want to interrupt him at first because I think I recognize the state he’s in. It kind of looks like the same state I’m in when I’m in the back room and some nameless trick is sucking my dick. I can hover outside myself for a few minutes--if I’m lucky--if Michael doesn’t come interrupt me and break my flow. But unlike that, this seems dangerous.

“You’re going to draw, while you’re driving, with your left hand?” The fuck he is. Of all the deaths I’ve planned for myself, not one scenario plays out like this.

“I have to do this right now. It’s not drawing; it’s pre-drawing. And I’m ambi-dexterous. You know that.”

“Please don’t kill us tonight. And what the fuck is pre-drawing?”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t?”

“I’ll give you two. First, if we die tonight, my will stands as it is, and you’ll get nothing. Two, I haven’t gotten around to asking Jesus for my eternal salvation. So, if we die tonight, you are I are in separate beds for all of eternity.” All of that is true.

“Yeah, well, the first one’s compelling. The second’s a given. You know what pre-writing is. Same thing. When there are a lot of ideas in my head, I have to do this. So I don’t lose them.” I’m afraid to look at that sketch pad right now. “Put on some music. Put that blue cd in. That one that Daphne made me.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“It’s just a mix.” I put it in, letting the music fill the void between us for a minute. I don’t even really pay attention to what it is. At this point, I think I’m just relieved that it’s not Highway to Hell. I light a cigarette and offer it to him. He declines. It’s not like he has a free hand to smoke it with anyway.

We ride in silence for a few more minutes. I continue to watch him. He watches the road. I think I’ve seen him like this before, maybe. He’s frustrated like when he got back from taking care of that Bewitched guy. Darren? But more focused. He looks at the road and then back at his sketch pad. A glance up. A glance down. Back and forth. Back and forth. He flips the page. I feel like I’m watching a movie. A movie I shouldn’t be watching. Like one of those indie films that they hype the shit out of but then they only release in NY and LA. Fuck LA right now. I try paying attention to the music. Try to get comfortable in my seat.

You see 'em comin' at you every night
Strung on pretension they fall for you at first sight

That’s what I need right now. Fucking Billy Squier. Squire? Can’t remember. What is this shit we’re listening to? Now I want to know.

You know their business--you think it's a bore
They make you restless--it's nothin' you ain't seen before

“What the fuck are we listening to?”

You crave attention--you can never say "no"
Throw your affections anyway the wind blows

I grab the cd case off the dashboard and start to read the playlist—out loud. “Your’e So Vain, Heartache Tonight, Don’t Bring Me Down, Hungry Like the Wolf, Bad Reputation by Halfcocked? Is that a joke? Everybody Wants You. What is this crap? Songs in the key of Brian?”

You always make it--you're on top of the scene
You sell the copy like the cover of a magazine

“Maybe the song’s not about you Brian. Maybe it’s about me.”

Everybody knows you
Everybody snows you
Everybody needs you...leads you...bleeds you

That’s what I’m afraid of.

You got your glory--you paid for it all
You take your pension in loneliness and alcohol

Daphne made this my ass.

The more you understand, seems the more like you do
You never get away...everybody wants you

“Surely you’ve got something better than this in your bag of tricks Sunshine.”

He ignores me and speeds up. I start rummaging through the glove compartment, looking for my dictaphone. Okay. Ted’s dictaphone. I have this idea that I could offer it to him. That he could record his ideas on this instead of drawing and driving at the same time. It’s what I do in the car when I have campaign ideas in my head. I finally find it and a blank tape and offer it to him. A peace offering of sorts.

“Here. Why don’t you use this? You can record your ideas on this instead of writing them down. It’s voice activated. It’s safer.” I want you safe. “Here.”

“I don’t want that.”

“Will you at least give it a try?”

“I don’t want to. I don’t want to say my ideas out loud. My ideas aren’t oral. I don’t know if you can understand that, but they’re just not.”

“Well, what you’re doing isn’t safe. I think you should just try it and see. Just put it on the dash here--.”

“WOULD YOU PUT THAT FUCKING THING AWAY?!.” He finally looks at me. The dictaphone hits the front windshield, and all but shatters. Piece of shit.

I turn the music off and find the nerve to re-start the conversation after two exits.

“I guess we should talk.”

“You think?” Sarcasm.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said or how I said it.” A cloud passes over his face as I admit this to him. Apparently, I do apologies and regrets on special occasions. He looks straight ahead, but his words are anything but.

“Do you know what I felt like when you said that to me? When you asked me that like that? I felt like a dog Brian. Like a fucking dog.”

I don’t understand, but I listen. I listen to him and the pounding rain. They are both getting more intense, as if competing for my attention.

“Have you ever given medicine to a dog Brian? That’s the way you do things sometimes. You just come up to people that you know love you, give them what you think they need and then hold their mouths shut until they swallow it.”

Jesus Christ. I don’t say anything. He’s speeding up again. His hands aren’t drawing anymore. They are hardly driving. Mostly, they are gesturing wildly. I could have left the music on. You could hear him in LA right now.


“And you were wrong about what I needed. You know what I needed? I needed to tell you in my own way—in my own time that I was leaving. And you snatched it away from me. You won’t let me show you that I love you. You won’t let me even know that you have fucking cancer—that you are having a fucking testicle removed—and then you some how find out about my job offer and don’t even give me a fucking chance to tell you in my own way. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I love you? Please stop this car.

“You think that I am just some yo-yo fuck toy that you can yank around. Pull him close when you need him. Toss him back when you don’t. There are only so many times you can break someone’s heart Brian. Only so many times. And then all the while, I’m thinking that you must not love me because you act like such a shit, but then I remember everything Brian. And, you know what? That’s the worst fucking thing of all. Because I want you to know that there is nothing worse than being in love with a man who fucks you like you’re the only man on the planet, when you know you’re not; rescues you in a hotel room after you’ve run away on his dime; shows up at your prom and lets everyone know that you are the most beautiful person in your entire school, in the entire world; then lets you set your own rules and then break them; pays for your fucking tuition even after you break up with him; waits for you while you date other people, dance on a bar, and get revenge on your worst enemies; and then lets you use him as the subject for your fucking motion picture that you’re going to have to leave him to make…. There is nothing worse than that Brian. Nothing. Oh God.”

He is right. There is nothing worse than that. His head collapses on top of his arms which are hugging the steering wheel. His sleeves soak up his tears. And this is because of me. Because of what I did or didn’t do or didn’t mean to do.

And I am helpless again. I don’t know what to do or what to say. I watch the lines in the road go past and try to focus on them. I don’t wait very long because I can’t. We drive under a bridge, and the rain stops for a few seconds. The space we occupy gets eerily quiet for a split second. Finally, I just tell him the truth. It’s the only thing I have left.

“Justin, I think we should turn around.” We should turn around.

I put my hand over his hand on the steering wheel, and it is the first time that I feel like I even have the right to touch him since we have embarked on this journey tonight. He doesn’t push me away. I just want to hold him, to make all of this stop, to tell him that I didn’t mean for it to play out like this. I swear to God I didn’t mean for it to play out this way. But I just keep one hand over his on the wheel and another on his shoulder and comfort him the only way I can when he’s furious and sobbing and driving a corvette down a wet highway in the pouring rain at 85 mph in the middle of the night.

He wipes his face on his sleeve and calms down, and I feel like it’s safe to speak again.

“Can we stop somewhere Justin? I really need to piss.” He laughs and actually smiles.

“There’s a rest stop a couple of miles up. I’ll stop there.”

************************************************************************************************

Finally, the rain is letting up. He gathers his composure, for the most part, and I watch as he pulls off the interstate and into the parking lot. There aren’t many people here tonight, just a few truckers and a random family or two. He kills the engine which makes everything suddenly very still between us, almost spooky. I glance at his face. He is in between places right now, unsure of his destination. His expression looks a lot like the one he wore the first night when I picked him up, only it’s sadder, not as optimistic. I look away. My expression is changing too.

“Brian?” He isn’t loud anymore. I answer him, but I don’t look at him.

“What?” There is not much to look at out my window, but I’ll manage.

“We have to talk. I mean, I need to talk to you. I have a lot that I need to say. Before I leave and all.” I think he had more he wanted to say right then but couldn’t. And that was okay because I couldn’t either.

“We have time. For all that. We’ll do all that.” I open my car door to signal that I have reached my saturation point. He follows my lead. We start the walk up the sidewalk to the men’s room. He slides his hand in mine. I don’t pull away.

There’s nothing like fluorescent lighting, cleaning solution, and sub-zero temperatures to jar you back into reality. I let the stark environment sober me up a little, let my body feel the relief of an empty bladder. I wash my hands, shake them dry, and wait outside for Justin. There is an old tree that makes a great prop for me to lean against while I smoke and try not to think. I watch the men file in and out of the rest room. Slim pickings tonight. And ugly. He’s taking way too long. I kill my cigarette and go back in.

“Justin?”

“What?”

“Are you almost done?”

“I’ll be out in a minute.” His voice isn’t right.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” I locate the stall next to the one he’s in and climb on the toilet so I can see into his. He’s not all right. “What are you doing?” He’s standing in there, leaning against the wall, his hands pulled into his sleeves, his face buried in his hands.

“Please get out of there Brian.” I hop down. “Is there anyone else in here?” He asks me in a vulnerable voice he has that always melts me. I look around. Kick the stalls open. There is no one in here but us right now. I prop a maintenance sign outside the main door and kick it closed.

“No, just us. What’s wrong?” He hasn’t sounded like this since right after the bashing. He is kind of scaring me.

“I’m just kind of freaking out.”

“About what?” I lean against the outside of the stall door. This is absolutely the last place I thought I’d be tonight.

“About everything. I walked in here, in this bright light, and everything looks and feels different. I shouldn’t have said all those things to you. I just feel like a stupid faggot right now, okay? Can you just not make this any worse for me?”

Can I ever not make anything worse?

“You’re not a stupid faggot Justin.” I listen to see if I could tell if my words mean anything. It is very hard to tell. “I mean it. You’re not.” I need to get in there. I need to be with him, right now--not do this through the door of a bathroom stall.

“Yes, I am. And I think I said those things just to hurt you.”

“No, you didn’t. And besides, it’s okay. I can take it. You can say anything to me, okay?” I sigh. There are so many intimate things that Justin and I can do face to face, and there are some that we just can’t. The silver door is cold against my face. I resign myself to leaning against it with my eyes closed and just listening to him. It’s as close as I can get to him right now, so it will just have to do. “You can say anything you want to say to me, anytime, anywhere, no matter what, okay? Let’s just get that straight.”

“Brian?”

“What?”

“I’m terrified to take this job. I’m afraid to go to LA. I’m really, really scared to be out there by myself.”

Now we are getting to the bottom of this.

“I know. You shouldn’t be afraid to go. You should be afraid to stay. Will you please come out of there now?”

“I can’t. I don’t want to. I’m really pissed at myself right now, and I don’t want you to see me like this.” He isn’t crying anymore. His voice is calmer. He is starting to sound like the Justin I recognize again. The one who is always trying to right every wrong, no matter whose wrong it is.

“I’ve seen you like everything. It’s a matter of national security that you come out of that stall in the next thirty seconds.” First I am trapped in my own car, then I am trapped in a men’s room because he has trapped himself in a stall. Fuck entrapment.

“Why?”

“Because I have something important to tell you Justin, and I don’t want to say it to a cold, crooked door on a bathroom stall in a smelly men’s room at a rest stop in the middle of nowhere in the freezing cold at 1:27 in the morning.”

A row of fluorescent lights dim over my head. I look up just as I hear the stall door click and feel it move.

He lets me in.

The door opens and he is leaning forward writing something on the bathroom wall. I lean in to look.

“What the fuck are you doing? Leaving your number?”

“No, yours.”

I look again at the wall, at the concentration in his hand. There are no numbers on the wall. Instead, there is a sketch of me—from the chest up. More of a caricature really.

“What the fuck?” This isn’t like anything he’s drawn of me lately. My shirt is open, my chest is open, and a heart is revealed—my heart, like a valentine.

“I’m almost done.”

My eyes roam over to the diamond shape construction sign that is connected to my heart. It reads: “Pardon our mess. We’re remodeling.”

He is right. That is my number.

I lean back against the side of the stall, and all of a sudden this doesn’t seem like such a bad place to be anymore. He puts his pencil behind his ear, and I think I’m going to cream my jeans just from watching him do that. He positions himself between my long legs and leans against me. I feel like a high school senior waiting for a bell to ring.

How can you feel nostalgic for something you never had?

I think he can tell what I’m thinking because he remarks about the look on my face.

“You look like the cat that just ate the canary.” I’m trying not to, but he knows when I roll my lips in that he is doing something I can’t resist.

“You drive me crazy when you tuck your pencil behind your ear.” My eyebrow gets in on the act. I have no self-control.

“You mean like this?” He removes it and does it again, only this time his other hand is inside my jeans. He doesn’t play fair. Somebody somewhere must be playing Jack & Diane. I am such a sucker for John Mellencamp.

“Every time I would see you do that at the diner,” I pause for a second to remember it, to smile at him, “it would, um, delay my exit a little. If you know what I mean.” He does. My lips meet his cheek and the pencil meets the floor. It has served its purpose. I kiss his face, his ear, his lips and keep my hand on the back of his head. When I end the kiss, it is slow and soft and warm and a beginning and an ending all at the same time.

“You said there was something important you wanted to tell me. That’s the only reason I let you in here.”

“You made me forget. You put your hand in my pants.”

“Don’t change the subject.” His hand comes out of my pants, but slides under my shirt, which is almost as wonderful, depending on what mood I’m in. I guess I better do this before the bell rings. I lean my head forward so our foreheads are touching and close my eyes for a second. When I finally speak, my eyes are fixed on his.

“I want you to listen to me for a minute, okay?”

“Okay.” He settles against me.


“You said earlier that you feel like a stupid faggot.”

“Uh, huh.”

“You are not a stupid faggot.” I take a long breath and tighten my hold on him. “You are your own man. You have been your own man since the day I met you. And I don’t care if you sleep in my bed, or if you sleep with my dick up your ass, or yours up someone else’s, you are your own man. You are strong, you are smart, and you are beautiful, whether you are here with me or halfway around the world. And you deserve whatever good things come to you in life. Because no matter what happens, you make my life better. And I don’t want you to forget that.”

I am silent for a moment because I want my words to sink in. I have never been more serious. I think it takes a minute for him to realize how serious I really am. I watch the very quiet words come out of his mouth.

“I won’t forget it. But you don’t have to do this, not now and not here.” The look of concern on his face almost wounds me. It is the same look he had when we met for the first time after the bashing. He cared so little for himself and worried more about me.

“I’m not done Justin.”

“Okay.” It’s just a whisper.

“The other day you said that I couldn’t sell the loft because it was the first place we made love or something.”

“Yeah.”

“And I said that that wasn’t love. That I just gave you a rim job and fucked your brains out.”

“Right.”

“Yeah, well, that was then.” And I close my eyes and bury my nose in his hair and just inhale. He doesn’t say anything. He lets me just be, next to him like this, where I want to be, for as long as I want. Until finally my voice finds my lips, and my lips find his ear.

“And this is now.” And that is enough. And is eyes are bluer than I remember, and his lips want me more than they ever have, and this is probably the last time I will ever kiss anyone in a bathroom stall. I am making sure that I never forget it.

***********************************************************************************************

We start to walk back to the car, but I pull him over to the tree by his jeans so I can kiss him again. I close my eyes as tight as I can, wrap him inside my jacket, and devour him. People are watching us. They think they know what they are seeing, but they don’t. Sometimes when I kiss him, it’s just never enough. Never, never enough.

“Hmmmm. Mmmmm. Brian. Brian....” He frees himself from my feast.

“What?”

“I want some gum.”

He wants gum. The kissing stops. We walk back to the car as I pat myself down, trying to figure out which pocket I put the gum in. I find it and offer him some, and he pops it in his mouth and picks up his pace. I focus on the scenery he offers me as we walk the long sidewalk back to the car.

“You weren’t planning on coming back to the loft tonight Sunshine.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Those are your ‘fuck me’ jeans.” Actually, those are his topping jeans. The ones he wears when he is in the mood to be in charge. They are old, too tight, too faded. I love them.

“They are just the first ones I found Brian. I was in a hurry.” He glances back over his shoulder to smile at me—to let me know that he wasn’t planning on fucking half of the back room tonight. “I’m not the one who goes out and fucks half of Pittsburgh when something is bothering me. That’s you, remember?”

He doesn’t have to rub it in.

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t mock my dysfunctions, considering that you profit from them.” Score one for me.

“Ha. You cause mine.” He isn’t looking at me when he says this, but I see the regret in his body before it even plays on his face. He stops walking and turns around. I can’t even stomach the look on his face. It makes me nauseous.

“Brian, I didn’t mean that. I really didn’t.” Of course he didn’t. I’m not an idiot. I didn’t take it that way. I shake my head and gesture for him to keep going toward the car with my hand. He obliges me. When he gets to the car, he unlocks my door for me. No.

“Let me drive.” I reach for his hand, reach for the keys. He doesn’t let go.

“I want to drive Brian.” He moves in between my body and the car, the door open. He raises his face to mine, his arms around my neck. He blocks me from doing anything but focusing on him. “Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yes, you want to drive.” I try to look at him without looking at him. It doesn’t really work.

“I said I didn’t mean that.” He watches my face for some sort of agreement from me, and I know he won’t move until he gets what he wants. I have taught him well.

“Okay.” I lean into his mouth and kiss him to let him know that I mean it. He closes my car door for me. I watch his lithe body walk around the stingray.

He starts the car, and we pull out of the parking lot and start our journey home. I am lost in my thoughts for awhile, the exhaustion of the night winning out over everything else. I watch him drive. He is so different now than a couple of hours ago. No sketch pad, no anger, no yelling. He is almost serene. He is so fucking beautiful. I put my seat back a little and try to stretch out as much as a I can in this car.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He asks me with a quiet voice and a warm smile. He runs his hand down the side of my face and tucks my hair behind my ear. I need a haircut.

“I only take Visa, Mastercard, or American Express.”

“Figures. Just my luck. These jeans are so tight, they won’t even hold my wallet.”

“I was thinking about some shit I have to do at work tomorrow.” I don’t know why I lie to him.

“Try again.”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes, I really want to know.” He is definitive but uneager. I turn a little so I can see him better and tell him the truth.

“I was thinking about this thing that you do to me.”

“What thing?” He sort of laughs at me. “Make you hard as a rock when I wear these old levis?”

“No. It’s way worse than that.” I look off for a minute before I continue. He’s looking at me with a curious smile. “You make me miss something I never even had.”

I cannot go into any more detail than this. And I’ve thought about it eight ways from Sunday. How being with him makes me nostalgic for football games, marching bands, bleachers, autumn—all that shit I never enjoyed when I had it because I couldn’t—because it was never mine to enjoy. How my presence at his prom that night guaranteed that all of his memories of those things are ruined forever too. I will never forgive myself for that. Never. The sadness sits on top of me like a rock. My thoughts are really expensive, but not nearly as expensive as my actions.

He is so nonchalant when he tucks his hand in mine and rubs his thumb absentmindedly over my fingers. He isn’t trying to break my train of thought or get me to emote or anything. He brings my hand to his face and presses his lips to the back of my hand. I move my gaze from the world flying by to him sitting still.

“You’re exhausted Brian. Just go to sleep. We’ll be home soon.” He smiles at me and releases my hand onto his thigh where I leave it for a few seconds. I don’t want to be separate from him right now. He turns up the heat a little and turns the vent in my direction. I am going to sell this car and buy a Hummer or something with a lot more fuck room. What’s the point of having a “fuck-me” car if you can’t fuck in it? Beats me.

“I should have fucked you back there, when I had the chance.”

“You can fuck me when we get home.” That’s the most romantic thing anybody has ever said to me.

I slept all the way back.

Everything at Once—Deleted Chapter—5.1

BRIAN’S POV

He's gone.

I turn on the water in the shower and stand there while it runs over me. It's probably ten minutes before I realize that I'm on my third round of shampoo. I lean against the wall of the shower, close my eyes and pretend that he went out for take-out. Finally, I shut off the water, wanting to get out, dry off, and think about what to do. Only I can't. I sink to the bottom of the shower and stare at the hinge on the shower door until I'm stone cold. He's been gone for an hour tops.

I towel off and throw on some clothes. He’s probably at Daphne’s. I’ll go to Woody’s, have a drink, relax. I shut the door to the loft behind me.

My car is gone. That little twat took my car.

I’m fucking going to kill him.

I call his cell. No answer. Big surprise. Goddamnit.

Michael. I need to talk to Michael. I call his numbers. He answers at the apartment.

“Hello.”

“Mikey, I need to talk to you.”

“Go ahead.”

“In person. I need to come get you.” In what, I think?

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. No, not really. Just be ready. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll meet you out front.”

That was almost too easy. I call a cab. It takes awhile for the cab to arrive, but not long at all to arrive in front of Michael’s. He's standing out front, bundled up.

“Where’s your car?”

“Justin has it.”

“You let Justin drive your car?”

“Not exactly. Come on, get in. We’ll go to Woody’s or something. I need a drink.” Michael’s quiet on the cab ride, quieter than usual. We get to Woody’s and it isn’t that busy for a Thursday night. When we walk in, half of me is disappointed that Justin’s not here. Somehow, I feel like Michael is too. We take our drinks to a table. I’m starting to feel a little better.

“How’s Jenny?”

“Brian, what the fuck is going on?”

“Lindsay and Gus moved into a new place. I’m gonna see it tomorrow. Do you want to go with me?”

“Fucking tell me what is wrong. Is it the cancer, or work, or something?”

Or something. “Don’t be a queen. I want to be with you. I just need to be with you right now.”

“When does Justin leave for L.A.?” He goes for the jugular.

“I wouldn’t know.” He knows I’m pissed. “You’ll know before me. It’s your movie.”

“Yeah, it’s my movie,” he nods his head. “It’s my movie and you’re my friend, my best friend. And I want you to listen to me. This is the last time I'm doing this.”

“Doing what?” I interrupt him.

“This, Brian. Sitting here, across from you, having this conversation with you. This is not our conversation to have. You don’t need me for this. This is a conversation you need to have with--and I can’t believe I'm fucking saying this to you—with the man you love.” He pauses, drinks his drink, ignores my rolling eyes, and continues….

“Christ, I sound like my mother. In case you’ve conveniently forgotten, I've been there, Brian, for almost everything,: Gus, the road trip to NY, the bashing, this comic book, the Stockwell saga, the herb trip to rekindle your lost ‘fire’….”

“What?”

“Sorry, I don’t think you knew about that. Anyway, all of these moments in your relationship with him--I've been there.”

“So the fuck what?” I came here to escape a little, not to immerse. He’s a lot of fucking help tonight.

“So, like you told me once Brian. I know some things….I know you and I know Justin. And I know that you more than love him. And I know that the last thing you need right now tonight is to be sitting at this uncomfortable table at Woody’s, drinking this watered-down drink, making useless conversation with me. So—this is it. This is the last time I’m doing this. Being the silent partner in your threesome. I’m going home to my husband. And if you have any sense in that fucking stubborn head of yours, you’ll tell Justin whatever it is that you thought you needed to tell me tonight. Because whatever it is Brian—good, bad, fucked up, he deserves to know. Anyone who's put up with you for as long as he has fucking deserves to know.”

“Are you done?”

“Yeah, I’m done. Let’s go home.”

I follow him outside. During the cab ride back, I lay my head in his lap. I tell him that he’s no fun anymore now that he’s married. He tells me that some people grow up quicker than others. In some ways I feel like this is a big turning point in our relationship, but in another way, I feels like I always feel when I’m him--a little nostalgic, a little drunk, and a little vulnerable. After he’s gone, I feel like shit again. I try Justin’s phone again. Still off. I try the loft. Nothing. The cab driver wants a new destination. I hand him fifty bucks and tell him to drive. I don’t want to go home.
************************

JUSTIN’S POV

The inside of the ‘vette is kind of warm, but the most comforting thing about Brian’s car is that it smells like him, like us. I smell like us. I really don’t want to go anywhere. I feel frozen, but I don’t want to see him like this, so I start the car and pull away. There’s nowhere I want to go. Part of me knows that Brian has probably blown a gasket by now because I took his car, but so the fuck what.

I ride by Daphne’s, but her boyfriend’s car is there, so I don’t go up. I ride by Mel and Linds and then remember that it's just Mel’s now—new baby, bad idea. My mother’s? Too much inquisition. I don’t want to be with anyone right now. I want to be alone. Finally, I pull into the alley where I hung Stockwell’s posters. A few are still there, either stuck on the buildings or torn on the ground. Guess it doesn’t matter anymore. I extinguish the engine and the headlights. I turn off the radio. If I hear one more fucking love song that feels like it is being dedicated to me I will rip the radio out of the this car and personally smash it into a million pieces. It’s fucking cold tonight.


I close my eyes and try to think, but I can’t with this escalating headache. I didn’t have to try very long anyway because the blue and red lights behind me kind of put a stop to that.

Shit. Cops. I flip the seat back up and roll down the window.

“May I see your license and registration?”

“Here.” This whole night is going downhill very fast.

“Mr. Taylor, this isn’t your car. What are you doing here? You can’t loiter here.”

“It’s my boyfriend’s car, officer. I was just, um, clearing my head.” He’s looking at my blotchy face like he’s not buying my story. Jesus Christ.

“Your boyfriend’s car?” He hands Brian’s registration to his partner. Tells him to run it.

“Yeah, my boyfriend’s car.” I’m in no mood for this. He’s back in a couple of minutes.

“Mr. Taylor, I’ll need you to step out of the car.”

Goddamn mother fucker. “Why?”

**********************

BRIAN’S POV

‘Where do you want to go?” The cab driver is pestering me.

“I don’t know. Just keep driving.”

“Um, we’ve been ‘just driving’ for 30 minutes and my shift ends in 10, so pick a destination. How about Babylon?”

“Why the fuck would you automatically think I'd want to go to Babylon?” Who is this asshole?

“Because I know who you are.”

Oh Christ. I probably fucked this guy. “Sorry, not tonight, not interested.”

“It wasn’t an invitation, asshole. You might be Brian Kinney, but you’re not the only top in this town.”

I look at him again. I do sort of recognize him from the bars. “Sorry, bad night.”

“Where’s your boyfriend? What’s his name? Sunshine?”

I don’t think I’d ever heard anyone who didn’t know Justin personally call him by his nickname. It really hits me the wrong way.

“His name is Justin. And I don’t know where he is.” And then I wonder, what bothers me more, that this jerk is calling my boyfriend by his nickname or that I have no idea where my boyfriend is? My boyfriend. Oh fuck.

“Sorr-y. I only called him that because Debbie calls him that at the diner. No harm intended. I didn’t know his real name. He’s a cute kid—a good-looking guy. You’re lucky, you know? That guy loves you inside and out.”

I wish this guy would shut the fuck up. “If I wanted a bartender, I’d be sitting at a fucking bar.”

“Bartender, cab driver, same thing. Either way, you’ve only got five more minutes. Pick a destination.”

“You know where Debbie lives?” My last hope.

“Yep. Bright red door.”

“Take me there.”
***********************************************
I pay the man and walk up the sidewalk to Deb’s bright red door. I debate about knocking and decide that’s a bad idea, so I call. Horvath answers. Just the man I needed to see.

“Horvath, this is Brian Kinney. I’m standing on your front porch. I need to talk to you.”

“Now? It’s late.”

“I know. Sorry.”

A light flicks on and I hear him coming down the stairs. Alone. The door opens.

“What’s wrong Brian?”

“I need a favor.”

I pace in Horvath’s, or rather Debbie’s, kitchen as he makes some calls for me. He puts out an APB for my car. I listen to him. I'm beyond relieved that Deb is working tonight. I hope that Em is out. I’ve had my share of drama.

“Don, just put out the APB. Find the car and call me when you know where it is. That’s all. Call me here. Thanks.” He hangs up and we wait. He’s about to sit down at the kitchen table with me and give me the third degree when the phone rings again. That was fast.

“Hello. Yes? You’ve found it. Where? Okay. Okay. No. Wait. No. Just wait. Tell them to wait for me.”

This doesn’t sound good. I watch him hang up the phone.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” I’m standing now and impatient.

“Did you have pot in your car?”

Oh fuck. “Probably. A little. Why? Why?”

“He’s already been stopped. They’re tossing your car for drugs right now. He’s in the back of a squad car.”

“How the fuck did that happen? What'd he do?” Justin could be a piss ant to people sometimes, especially authority figures. He probably opened his mouth when he shouldn’t have. “Was he speeding? Did he get pulled over or something?”

“No, he was loitering in an alley. Over where you guys put up all of those posters.”

“They busted him for loitering?”

“Your registration’s expired. They ran it. It wasn’t his car. They thought he looked, well, “fucked up” to use your terminology. They tossed your car and found marijuana. And he’s not busted yet, he’s sitting in the back of the squad car wrapped in a blanket. They think he’s ‘coming down.’”

“He’s not ‘coming down’ for Christ sakes. He’s cold.” He’s freezing. He’s always freezing. “Fuck. What can I do? This is my fault. That pot was hidden. I remember now. They really had to be looking to find it. Horvath, give me some options here. I mean, for god sakes, arrest me. It’s my fucking weed.” I don’t know who I’m more angry at: myself for having weed in the car; Justin for pulling this stunt in the first place; or city cops for busting someone for sitting in a fucking car. It's pretty much a toss up. “What can we do?”

“You can’t do anything but wait here. I’ve got to do this.”

“You can fix this?”

“I’m going to try. Wait here.” And with that, he goes upstairs to change into something more detective like, and I step onto the porch so I can smoke. A few minutes pass and I hear him open the door.

“Thanks, Horvath.” I say to his back as I watch him get into his squad car.

“Don’t thank me yet, Kinney.”

I sit on the porch, light another cigarette and watch him drive away. So much for no more drama.

**************************
JUSTIN’S POV

The back of the patrolman’s car stinks and the lights are really, really bothering me. I have no idea what’s taking so long. Both officers keep walking back and forth between me and Brian’s car and taking notes and telling me that they are going to take my statement in a few minutes. What statement? I have no fucking statement. This is bullshit. I really want to get out of this fucking police car and tell them that I have no fucking statement to make because I didn’t steal his fucking car, but no one seems interested in talking to me right now. At all. I’ve never been in the back of a police car before. I came damn close when I screwed around with Cody, but this is as close to the long arm of the law as I want to ever get. I’m afraid to use my cell phone because they keep looking back at me and writing stuff down. My head fucking hurts. Now they’re looking in the trunk. I hope Brian doesn’t have any drugs stashed in that fucking car. That’s got to be it. They’ve found drugs in the car.

My catastrophizing stops momentarily when I see another police car arrive. The car says “K-9 unit” on it. This is just fucking great. Here come the drug dogs. I’m going to fucking kill Brian. Leave it to Brian Kinney to decide that the only shit you should keep in your car is a roadside assistance kit, a greeting card from your boyfriend thanking you for sex, and pot.

I turn on my cell phone and it immediately starts going nuts because I have tons of messages. I decide that I'm going to try to send Brian a text message, maybe something short like “SOS,” but then I remember that Brian doesn’t even know how to retrieve a text message. I'm so fucked. I hear one officer tell another officer:

“I’ll take his statement.” I know that voice.

“This is our collar.” Oh Christ, I’m somebody’s collar.

“He might be your collar, Hendricks, but he’s my C.I. I will take his statement.”

What the fuck? I'm someone's confidential informant?

The next thing I know there's a flashlight in my face and a man’s face way too close too mine. I shove my phone in my pocket, next to the greeting card. The man speaks to me again. His breath smells like coffee. Bad coffee.

“Mr. Taylor, I need you to come with me.” Oh my god, it’s Horvath. I know this is a good thing, but it doesn’t feel like a good thing because his hand is squeezing my arm way too tight and he is practically dragging me out of the backseat of the cruiser.

“What’s going on?”

He’s whispering to me in a very firm way, like I’m seven years old or something. “Get that stupid blanket and yourself in the back of my squad car now. Don’t say anything and don’t look up. Just walk like you’re guilty.”

How do you walk like you're guilty?

I feel guilty. Very guilty. I have fucked up royally tonight. I will never hear the end of this. Horvath talks to the other cops and we, or rather he, watches them drive away. I’m afraid to look up. After they’ve rounded the corner, I finally look at him.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. The only thing I want to know about this whole situation is: Are you all right? Because you look like shit.”

“I’m okay. I just have a really bad headache now.”

“If I let you have the key back to that car, can you follow me back to Debbie’s, or are you going to bolt? Because I’m not looking for you twice tonight.”

“You can follow me. I’m not running anymore tonight.” He hands me the keys, and I get back in the ‘vette and start driving to Debbie’s. It’s a good thing it’s a short ride because I’m exhausted, and I’ve had enough adrenaline for one night. We stop in front of Debbie’s red door and that’s the first time that I see him—looking hopeful and defeated at the same time--smoking a cigarette in his brown leather jacket, his long legs covering almost the whole stoop. I stop the car and get out. Horvath walks right past both of us, lets himself in the house and shuts the door. Debbie would have stayed for the fall out; Horvath knows better.

I walk up to Brian. There is not one part of me that knows what to say. So I don’t say anything. He looks at me for a few seconds and rolls his lips in. He discards his cigarette before he says anything to me. I know that he is getting ready to touch me, and part of me feels like I should flinch, that he's probably going to hit me or something, blow up at me like he did when his loft was robbed or my mother brought him all of my underwear that day, but he doesn’t do anything of the sort. He puts his arms around my waist and puts his forehead on mine and asks me a simple question:

“Did you really think I was going to let you steal my mobile phallic symbol?”

I laugh. It feels good to laugh. There's so much that I want to tell him, and I just don’t know how. I don’t even know where to start. I look at his face—that snarky little smile, and I just start to cry. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. He pulls me in closer and let’s me cry for a minute.

“Let’s go home,” he says. My feet feel like cement and I don’t think I can move them, partly because the emotions are starting to come. I’m afraid that if I don’t say what’s on my mind right now that I’ll never have the words or the guts to say it again.

“Brian?” He pulls his head back and looks at me.

“Hmm?”

“We need to talk.”

“I know.”

It’s almost a whisper, he says it so softly. I let him lead me back to the car, and we ride in silence back to the loft. A very peaceful silence.

CHAPTER 5.2—DELETED SCENE—RESCUED—BRIAN’S POV
Author’s notes: This was the original debut appearance of Twink, the kitten and Elvis, the obsession. The action picks up at the end of Chapter 5-Rage when Brian and Justin are walking back to the ‘vette from the men’s room where they have been lovey-dovey and from the tree where they have been kissy-kissy. Yes, parts of this are completely and utterly ridiculous, and other parts I was v.v. sad to let go. I will not weave song lyrics through text anymore. I got that out of my system.

I do a v. fast beta on these, so if you find a mistake, please feel free to point it out in a comment. I am not offended by that AT ALL.

**********************
He is squatting down, looking at something under the car.

“Look Brian, look.” He points to something. “Look, it’s a kitten.” I prepare to lift up my left boot, so I can stomp on the ground, next to the tire, to scare it away and he blocks me. “Don’t you dare. Go over there and block that side.”

“Justin.”

“Go. I’m going to grab it.”

I don’t want to do this. This is a bad idea, but part of me wants to see if he can actually do it. He zips up his jacket, lies down on the damp sidewalk and reaches for the kitten. It’s a dark color, so all we can really see are its eyes. It bolts right toward me. I grab it. I got lucky.

“I’ve got it.” He’s so happy. He comes over to my side of the car to look at it. Look at her. He takes her from me. She’s cute.

“Look Brian. She’s so little and her eyes are so green. Hello, little kitty cat. Where is your mommy?” I haven’t heard him use that voice since Gus was a tiny baby.

“Okay, you got to pet her. Put her down. Let’s go.”

“No way. I’m not leaving her out her in the freezing cold.”

He’s bound and determined to be sure I pick up something tonight.

We have the whole argument about why we are not having a pet in the loft, and he finally convinces me to take her with us and give her to Gus. Unless Lindsay throws a fit, in which case, we’ll try Ted. (I can picture it now: “Here Theodore. Justin busted the fuck out of your dictaphone. Want a kitten?”) Or worst case scenario: a shelter. He’s thought of everything. Even a name. All in the course of fifteen minutes.

I make a deal with him. He can rescue this kitten as long as our rest stop catharsis doesn’t become front page news at the diner. It came out really stupid, something like: “What happens at the rest stop, stays at the rest stop.” I don’t need to make deals with Justin; I just do it to entertain myself. Tonight I’m doing it to lighten the mood.

“Twink. I’m going to name her Twink.”

“Don’t you think you should let Gus name her?”

“Too late. Her name is Twink.” He’s right. It suits her. He’s always been good at naming things.

“I’ll drive us back,” I offer.

“No, I want to. I really like to drive. You can entertain Twink.” Oh joy. He disappears in the trunk of the car for awhile. I sit in my seat playing with her. She is a really pretty gray tabby with some striking markings on her face. I put her in my lap and watch her roam all over the place. Justin finally returns with a blanket.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Out of that emergency roadside kit in your trunk. Here, she can cuddle up in this. It’s all fleecy.”

He makes a little bed for her in the back so that when she gets tired of exploring the ‘vette she’d have a place to snooze. Hopefully she’ll be doing that sooner rather than later.

“Are you ready to go yet, Sunshine?” I’m ready to go. I have to be at work in the morning.

“Almost. I want to get something to drink and empty the ashtray. I’ll be right back.” And he’s off again.

I let Twink walk on the dashboard. I watch Justin as he walks back towards the car. There’s a spring in his step just like the day he found out about his Hollywood prospects. It feels good to see him happy again. When he gets to the window, he actually knocks on the glass, waves to Twink and talks to her from outside the car:

“Hey, little girl. Are you ready for your first ride in a Corvette?” His voice may be muffled, but it’s still idiotic.

I raise her right front paw and pretend to wave at him. I muster my best “Twink” voice and respond:
“Please get your ass in this car, so we can get the fuck home sometime in this century!”

He opens the car door, gets in, and chastises me immediately. “Don’t teach her bad words Brian. That’s uncalled for.”

I explain to Twink that Justin is the most fidgety person I know, all this while he puts the bottles of water where he wants them, replaces the ashtray, yadda, yadda, yadda….

“Twink wants to know if we are ready to go yet.”

“Almost. Can you hand me my bag?”

“God. You are worse than a woman.” This is why I do the driving.

“Shut up. Here it is.” He pulls out a white cd. Oh no. I’m afraid to ask.

“What is it?”

“Elvis. His thirty all–time number one hits.”

“Who burned that for you? Judy at Time-Life?” He’s too young to know who that is.

“I burned it at my Mom’s. I think my mom is seeing somebody.”

“No shit. Why do you think that?” Go Mother Taylor.

“Because my mom only listens to Elvis when she’s horny.” Too much information. I conduct business with this woman.

“How do you know that?” I have no idea what my mom listens to when she’s horny. Perish the thought. Right now.

“There are some things a gay man knows about his mother, Brian.”

“If you say so, Sunshine. I always knew I liked your mother. I just wasn’t always sure why. Now I know her secret.”

“Oh yeah, what?”

“Little less conversation, little more action.”

He punches me in the arm, but he knows his mom can “bring it.” I think I heard Hunter say that about Daphne the other day. If this is true about Jennifer, I’ll have to bust her about it someday. Please tell me that we are ready to shove off now. Even Twink has settled down in my lap.

I pop the cd in and let that track play. It’s the club version. The one I like.

A little less conversation, a little more action please
All this aggravation ain't satisfaction in me

He likes it too because he’s doing that car dancing thing he does. I shield Twink’s eyes. She shouldn’t have to see this.

“Apparently your mother isn’t the only one who has a thing for the King.” My hand wanders over to his jeans to see if I’m right.

“Grow up, Brian.” Ha. I'm right. Like mother, like son.

Come on baby I'm tired of talking
Grab your coat and let's start walking

Too bad for him that I’m not going to jerk him off while he’s driving my stingray.

Come on, come on
Come on, come on

Even I’m not that horny.

No procrastinating, don't articulate
Girl it's getting late,you just sit and wait around

Fuck, I’m tired. I’m glad I’m not driving. I read somewhere that when you yawn when there isn’t enough oxygen getting to your brain.

A little less conversation, a little more action please
All this aggravation ain't satisfaction in me

I really do like this song.

Come to think of it, I really do like Elvis. I must be way low on oxygen.

A little more bite and a little less bark
A little less fight and a little more spark

Come to think of it, Justin is my Elvis. And my oxygen.

Shut your mouth and open up your heart and baby satisfy me

Whoa. Where the fuck did that come from?

Satisfy me baby

Is he still dancing? How can he have so much energy, when I’m so fucking---yawning?

He still hasn’t answered my question. I still don’t know when he’s leaving. Fuck it.

I slept all the way home.

Go on to Chapter 6 & 7