If I go over to the office, I could run through a few of the art department mock ups for Twister. Fix the problems before they reach my fucking desk. I glance at the clock, and consider shutting down the laptop and packing up my briefcase and driving over to Liberty. And as the laptop remains open and the briefcase remains on the floor at my feet, I look at the open bottle of beer on the counter and tell myself that I’m not leaving the loft because I’ve been drinking and the newly minted CEO of Kinnetik Inc. really doesn’t need to be pulled over for DUI by the cops that already hate his fucking guts. I glance at the clock, and tell myself that I do my best thinking in my own space, and the office is new enough that it doesn’t quite fit the bill yet.

I glance at the clock, and tell myself a dozen creative lies, and see the image of the card in Justin’s wallet... the little card with ‘Brian Kinney’ printed in Justin’s neat block letters under “emergency contact”.

The phone number for Kinnetik is not written on that little card.

I reach for the cell phone and start to dial Daphne’s number. Suddenly I can picture him, sprawled on Daphne’s sofa, giggling over the pathetic losers on American Idol. Laughing and talking and fuck, alive, and vibrant, and I’ll ream his ass before I tell him to get over here so I can fuck the shit out of him.

I stop dialing. Close my eyes. Press the receiver against my forehead and see cold eyes and hard cement and warm blood. Feel the weight of the gun in my hand.

I think I hate him then. Hate him for calling Hobbes out on the sidewalk outside of Woody’s, eighteen and brash and believing himself invincible; hate him for forming a gay/straight fucking alliance and thinking he could change the world; hate him for last dances and agit-prop posters; hate him for listening to that fucker Cody; hate him for leaving me sitting in the near-dark and staring at the clock and waiting for a call from the paramedics or the hospital and knowing that I don’t know what to do or say and that I can’t spin this and I can’t make it right.

I toss the cell phone to the counter and turn my attention back to the laptop.

And then the door slides open almost soundlessly. Justin has taken three or four steps into the room before he notices me. He freezes, hand half raised to pull off his jacket. And I freeze as well, fingers poised over the keyboard, meeting his gaze mutely. I don’t know how long I sit there, holding my breath, my eyes never leaving his face.

And then Justin’s mouth turns up in a half-smile, and his hand tugs at his coat, and the spell is broken.

The squeak of his sneakers sounds overly loud in the stillness as he crosses to me. He leans in and skims his lips against mine, and I smell the scent of his shampoo, the bitter aroma of cheap beer, the scent of him. No other scent lingers on his skin. No other scent lingers on his lips.

“Hey,” he says against my mouth before padding across the room and pulling open the fridge door. He rummages inside and I might return his greeting but I’m not sure, because I am too busy watching the curve of his spine, the curl of his fingers around the open door, the smooth skin of his neck as he searches for juice or beer or whatever the fuck he’s looking for. The brush of cold air raises goosebumps on my arms.

“Didn’t think you’d be home so early,” Justin says, his head still buried in the fridge, his voice muffled.

And I open my mouth to tell him something, anything, without flat-out lying, but what ad-man worth his salt doesn’t know how to be economical with the truth? I can tell him that there was no one worth fucking at Babylon, which is true on almost any occasion -- especially if Justin isn’t there. I can tell him that Mikey decided to spend the night in playing happy homemaker with the professor and a bucket of the Colonel’s finest, and the fact that it was me that cancelled out on our pool game at Woody’s is completely inconsequential.

But as he turns to me, orange juice grasped in his steady hand, I close my mouth and merely shrug.

He gestures toward the laptop, forgotten on the counter. “Busy working on something to dazzle your new clients?”

I watch his fingers as they wrap around the bottle. No bruising, no swelling, no redness. Follow the progress of his hand as he raises the bottle to his lips and takes a drink. His eyes close as he savours the cool liquid and my gaze skims over fair lashes, unblemished skin, sturdy shoulders, poised frame.

I blink and realize he’s watching me now, waiting for an answer on how I spent my evening. An answer that doesn’t involve waiting for phone calls from emergency services or from the cops or smelling the dank aroma of copper on the air or seeing my partner’s life bleed out on the cold grey concrete.

I glance unseeingly at the laptop. “Cranberry Twister,” I finally say.

He scrunches up his nose, and if anybody ever says that I find that action endearing I’ll deny it with my last breath.

“New board game?”

I sigh. “I see that I have my work cut out for me.”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something brilliant,” he says, leaning across the counter to kiss me again, and this time the sweet smell of citrus wafts between us.

“I always do.”

“I’ll leave you to it then,” he says.

And then he’s gone, and my body misses the heat of him. He’s gone, and my hand reaches out to snatch at his arm but he’s already slapped the OJ onto the counter and headed toward the bedroom. He’s gone, and my hand hangs helplessly in the air.

I turn back to the computer screen, vivid splashes of colour that I don’t really see. Hear the dull thud as he toes off his shoes; the brush of fabric as he sheds his shirt.

“And how was your night?” I ask. And I meant it to come out sounding snarky and sarcastic, shaded in images of hard-day-at-the-office and meat-and-potatoes-dinners, in trips-to-Disneyland in Justin-speak, but the sneer in my head doesn’t translate to my throat, and the words sound needy and fucking pathetic.

My fingertips tap on the counter. Flashes of a star-field on the screen, as the computer switches to screensaver.

Silence.

I finally turn to see Justin hovering at the top of the stairs, head cocked, his pale body silhouetted in the thin stream of light from the bathroom, and I feel a surge then, a surge that connects heart and head and, yes, dick. He blinks once, twice, takes slow measured breaths before he meets my eyes.

“It was... intense,” he says. “Enlightening.”

He flings his shirt onto the bed and heads to the bathroom and I turn to the computer screen and hang my head and remember the boy who told me everything and never seemed to shut up.

Silence. And silence.

I switch off the computer, unsure what I’m saving, and pad light-footed to the bathroom.

Justin’s hands grip the counter as he gazes at his reflection. Sombre and serious. And my stomach flips as I cross to him, stand behind him, wrap my arms around his waist and lean against him. Press my body against every inch of him. Breathe his scent and will my heart to stop trip-hammering in my chest.

One of his hands flutters to his head, sweeping across his shorn hair.

“How long do you think it will take to grow back?” he says quietly.

And I duck my head, the caress of his hair against my cheek, and breathe, breathe deep, try to cover my relief, but I know that he can feel the exhalation of hot air against his neck, the increased pressure of my fingertips on his hips, the smile on my lips pressed against his flesh.

When I can trust my voice, I raise my head and meet his eyes in the mirror.