I find the phone buried at the bottom of my backpack and manage to snatch it up on the sixth ring. “All right, I’m coming!” I bark into the receiver, wedging the phone against my shoulder while searching through the pile of crap on my bed for my wallet.

“Without me? Naughty boy.”

Oh shit.

“Brian?” I freeze, wincing at the squeaky sound of my own voice.

“You were expecting to come with someone else?”

“No!” I protest immediately. God no. “I just... my friend Daphne--”

“Aaah,” he says, “you have a secret yen for pussy. I must admit that I’m disappointed in you, Justin.”

“Brian--”

“And here I thought all you wanted was my hot hard cock up your tight little ass.”

“Jesus, Brian...” I know he’s just teasing, I mean, come on, who talks like that? And I can hear the smile in his voice; I can close my eyes and see the smirk on his face... but fuck, I’m still getting hard. My throat feels dry. I swipe a hand over my face, flinching when I inadvertently brush against my lip, take a few deep breaths and try to concentrate. I switch the phone from my right hand to my left, wiping my sweaty palm on my jeans. And then it occurs to me... “How do you know my phone number?”

Of course, he ignores the question. “What are you doing?”

Daphne and I are supposed to meet up for lunch, and then go to the matinee of that new Quentin Tarantino movie. My treat, for her birthday. We’ve had it planned for weeks. I know this.

“Uh... nothing,” I say.

“Then get your ass over here,” he says, and now he’s all business.

“Okay,” I say immediately. ‘Cause yeah, Daphne or Brian? Like there was any doubt which way that was gonna go.

“Good boy,” he drawls, and his voice is husky and raw, and fuck, I could come just from the sound of his voice alone. I open my mouth to say something else, but there’s only the hiss of an open line.

I hit end, take another deep breath, and dial Daphne’s number. “Daph,” I say quickly as soon as she answers, “there’s been a slight change of plans.”

By the time Daphne’s finished berating me, I’ve promised her two dinners, two movies, and possibly my firstborn child, if I’m ever insane enough to actually want a kid. All totally worth it.

So, the front of the car is completely smashed.

As long as I can’t be blamed I really don’t give a shit, but I pause on the way through the garage to check out the damage anyway. My first assumption is that Mom did it. It’s not like I’m jumping to conclusions here. There has been a precedent for this kind of thing. When I told her that I’m a better driver than she is, I wasn’t being snotty. Her record of three fender-benders in four months has yet to be bested by anyone at their club.

But from the way Mom and Dad are bickering, this one was Dad’s fault. Something about being rear-ended in the dark. I could tell them that I know a bit about that, but I don’t want to give Mom an aneurysm. Even though she totally deserves it for ratting me out to Dad.

I pass them by and duck outside, happy to have avoided yet another discussion about my supposed ‘molestation’ and already imagining what Brian might have planned for the afternoon. Having a rich fantasy life is a sign of creativity and intelligence, after all, so it certainly doesn’t hurt to indulge, even though I’m sure that whatever mental images my brain is providing won’t do justice to the reality. But I’ve barely cleared the garage door before Dad’s yelling at me, rudely interrupting my pleasant little daydream.

“Where are you going?”

Like it wasn’t bad enough having Mom tail me. No, now they both have to follow me around. Why the fuck can’t they just leave me alone? I contemplate telling Dad that I’m going to Brian’s to suck his cock, just to see the look on his face. Instead, I just call, “Out,” over my shoulder. Let him think whatever he wants.

“No,” he says from behind me, “you’re not leaving this house.”

I turn back, incredulous. This is un-fucking-believable. “What, so now I’m a prisoner?”

“I heard what happened at school yesterday, Justin. Your principal called.”

“So?”

“So?” Dad mocks. “So now you’re flaunting yourself in front of everyone?”

“I was not flaunting myself, Dad.” I can’t believe this. Does he think because I’m gay I suddenly turned into a nelly queen overnight, prancing around and squealing “Faaaabulous” at every opportunity? Seriously, I can’t believe we are even having this conversation. “Besides,” I continue, “Chris Hobbes was the one who started it.”

“You know, I don’t care who started it. You’re not going back there.”

What the fuck? I flick a glance at Mom, but she’s just as surprised as I am.

“We’re sending him away to school,” he tells her. Just tells her. No discussion, no debate. And god forbid what I have to say about it. Because Craig Taylor has fucking spoken.

And standing here beside our standard two-car garage in our conservative little neighbourhood, baking in the hot sun, the sounds of suburbia all around me, electric mowers trimming immaculate lawns, the swish of sprinklers and the sigh of the breeze... I feel a rush of shame. Not for getting into a fight, not for mouthing off, not even for hawking a mouthful of spit and blood at Hobbes, the shit. I am ashamed by what came before the fight. For being confronted with accusations of “queer” and then... denying it. Denying who I am.

“It’s time you learned some discipline,” he says. “How to be a man.”

I will not deny who I am.

“I know all about discipline. And you should see me take it like a man.”

I don’t even see the slap coming. Dad’s hand connects with my cheek, lightning fast, the crack of the blow echoing in my ears, and my head rocks back. The sting spreads across my face as Mom suddenly springs to life, calling out my father’s name in shock, reaching out to cradle my face in her hands. I hastily push her hands aside, telling her it doesn’t hurt, lying through my fucking teeth, still feeling the throb of the slap tingling along my cheekbone.

I turn back to Dad, controlling my anger, my instinct to strike back, biting off the words. Because I’m better than he is. I have to be better than that.

“And if you want to hit me, go right ahead,” I tell him. “Only I’m not gonna cry like some little faggot. And if you want to send me away, that’s okay too, because I bet more butt-fucking goes on at boarding school than the backroom at Babylon. But whatever you do, it’s not gonna matter. Because I’ll still be your queer son.”

It’s a good speech. I’m proud of it. And I hold my head high and keep my back straight as I stalk down the driveway, down the street, to the bus stop, away from that fucking house and these people that suddenly don’t know me anymore, and I make it almost to the corner before the adrenaline rush fades and I feel the moisture welling up in my eyes. And I tip my head back and blink rapidly, staring up into the sun, because I’m not some silly faggot, I’m not.

The bus ride gives me a chance to clear my head and put things in perspective. And the thing I have to remember most of all is, I am going to be with Brian. No matter what anybody thinks. I know who I am and I know what I feel.

I run up the street to the corner, get buzzed in, take the stairs two at a time, and then stop suddenly at the landing. My heart’s beating like crazy and I’m practically bouncing with anticipation, but fuck, I can’t let Brian see that. So I wait until my pulse isn’t pounding and I catch my breath, and then I take the rest of the stairs at a walk.

When the door is pulled open -- by Emmett -- I see that I could have saved myself the trouble.

“Uh...” Yeah, I have a real way with words. “Hey guys.”

A chorus of “hi Justin’s” greet me as I go in, hesitating a few steps inside the threshold. Practically everybody is here. I scan the room, meeting Lindsay’s eyes briefly and tentatively returning her smile. Brian’s lesbians are pretty cool. Kind of like the older sisters I never had. I really don’t know how to act around Ted and Emmett, though. They always seem to be looking down at me, like I’m some little kid they’re just putting up with until I find new toys. Meanwhile, they’re probably getting off on imagining what Brian and I do in bed. Now that thought makes me smile for real.

The smile drops off my face when I step further into the room and see Brian, sprawled out on the sofa with a bandage on his forehead.

“Holy shit, what happened to you?” I say, rushing across the room.

“Just a little incident involving a pissed off trick with a particularly nasty attitude,” Brian sighs and shrugs, seemingly indifferent.

My eyes widen. “Oh my god, did he beat you up?”

Brian gives me one of those “you are so fucked up” looks, and Ted laughs. “He rammed him. And not in any of the ways demonstrated in the Zach O’Toole premium collection.”

I don’t know what they’re talking about. I just shake my head and reach out to touch the bandage but Brian swats my hand away, wincing as though even the thought of my touch is painful to him. I frown, I can’t help it, but then his hand snags my wrist and he pulls me over the back of the couch, tumbling me against him.

“Thanks for coming,” he breathes against my lips, quietly enough so that only I can hear. Then his free hand brushes against my crotch, and he grins when my cock jumps at his light stroke. “Or is that later?”

Before I can say anything, he’s pushing me to the end of the sofa. So I tuck myself into the corner, suddenly content with my place here. He drops his foot in my lap and I soothe up and down his calf as the rest of the gang fills me in on what happened, and Brian milks his injury for all its worth. Mostly I just concentrate on watching Brian’s face, and rubbing his foot, and wondering if he really did get proper medical attention, because I read somewhere that 8 out of 10 infections are caused by improper cleansing of the wound immediately after injury. Basically, I let the hustle and bustle and conversation ebb around me without really paying attention.

“That wasn’t an accident,” Brian says, pulling me back to the discussion. “That asshole kept ramming me.”

“Did you get his license?” Mel asks.

Brian sneers. “It was dark.”

Holy shit.

“What kind of car was it?” I ask.

Brian shrugs. “Some silver thing.”

Holy fucking shit.

“Oh my god, it was my dad. I know it.” Brian laughs, and the others are scoffing, but fuck, I know it. “I saw his car,” I say, trying to convince them. “It was totally smashed.”

“Now why would your father do something like that?” Mel asks, and she’s totally patronizing, and I think I am revising my opinion of at least one-half of Brian’s lesbians.

“Because my mom told him everything!” I leap to my feet, desperate to get them to understand. I look beseechingly at Brian, because sure as fuck he’ll know that I’m not making this shit up. “He wants to have you arrested, and send me away!”

Brian blinks up at me, unconcerned. “Don’t be such a drama princess.”

“You better be careful, just in case,” Lindsay tells Brian. I glance over and she smiles gently and winks at me. She doesn’t believe me, but at least she’s not treating me like I’m an idiot.

Then Brian is leaping over the back of the sofa, claiming to be invincible, turning on the music, and pulling me into his arms. And he just doesn’t get it, none of them get how serious this could be, but I let him drag me across the floor, let him wrap his arms around me, let myself pretend that he really is invincible.

When Michael walks in, I don’t quite know what the deal is. Except it doesn’t take long to figure out that Brian’s been playing him. That’s what he does. That’s what they do. And while they do their thing, I get a glimpse of Michael’s boyfriend. And I don’t like what I see.

I know I have no right to judge the guy. Except... he reminds me of my Dad. Same age, similar build, same hairstyle, but it’s more than that. It’s something around the eyes, or the way he presses his lips together when he watches Brian and Michael talking. Or the set of his spine as he stalks out the door. He’s a ‘my way or the highway’ type, and he’s never gonna survive around these guys like that.

I make my way over to Lindsay, neither of us saying anything, and when Brian claps his hands together and announces “Party’s Over” a few minutes later, I just shrug and get to my feet. Somewhere along the way the music’s been turned off, and Lindsay keeps shooting Brian disapproving glances that he ignores. I mostly keep my eyes down and try not to think about what a completely shit day this has turned out to be.

Ted and Emmett leave first, Ted muttering about Brian under his breath. Then Mel and Linds, and I think there might be a big argument there except Lindsay takes Mel’s arm and hustles her out the door before she can say more than a couple of words. Then Michael, who Brian kisses and reminds to be at Babylon. And I shuffle out last, at least until I feel the tug of a finger hooked into my hoodie.

“Uh uh uh,” Brian says. “Not you.”

I smile.

The last thing I see before I turn back and the door slides shut behind me is Michael’s disbelieving stare.

Brian wraps himself around me and walks me to the back of the sofa, leaning us both against it. “So...” he says.

“So...” I grin up at him. “How about those Pirates?”

His tongue darts into his cheek for a moment, then his look turns serious. “So,” he repeats, “are you going to tell me about this?” And his thumb comes up to brush softly against the fullness of my lower lip.

“Huh?” I blink slowly, temporarily confused, before I remember the cut there. “Oh, it’s nothing. It doesn’t hurt.” And I lean forward to kiss him, just to prove it.

But Brian pulls back, his hands gripping my waist and his eyes searching mine. “Did your father hit you?”

Oh fuck. I close my eyes and feel again the slap of my father’s open palm against my cheek, and hear the sound of my mother’s gasp, and feel the heat of the sun beating down against my face.

I open my eyes and try to move away, but Brian holds me fast. I try to look anywhere but at Brian’s face, but he forces me to meet his gaze. “Did he, Justin?”

“Brian...” I squirm again, and this time he lets me go. I cross to the counter, hugging my arms around my chest. Feel cold, and kind of queasy. And then Brian’s arms are wrapping around me, his warm hands covering mine. And I lean back into his embrace, just breathing, just breathing him in.

He shifts behind me, and his lips move against my neck. “Justin.”

I sigh and turn in his arms. “My dad had nothing to do with my cut lip,” I assure him. It’s the truth, after all. And I could tell him about Hobbes, but I don’t want to. I just... don’t. When he looks dubious, I continue. “I swear it. But he is really angry, Brian. I think he really did ram your jeep. And he did say he was going to have you arrested, except I think they’re afraid of causing a big scandal.”

Brian scoffs. “Arrested on what charge?”

“Child molestation.” I roll my eyes, but the thought of what my dad might do really freaks me out. I mean, I thought I knew my father, but it turns out I don’t know him at all. If he’s crazy enough to try to run Brian off the road, he might be crazy enough to call the police and tell them Brian’s raping me or something.

“Then I guess it’s a good thing you’re above the age of consent.”

“Really?” This is news to me. “Because I thought--”

“Unless you lied to me about your age,” Brian grins, and I flash to our first time together and my aborted attempt to pass myself off as twenty-one. That wasn’t exactly my finest hour.

“I didn’t!” I protest, returning his grin sheepishly.

He presses his lips together and nods, once, then uses the counter to push away from me. “All right,” he says, crossing to the fridge and pulling out a beer. “Then you’d better get home to mommy and daddy. They’re probably worried about you.”

What the fuck?

I follow in his wake and fold my body against his. “But I thought--”

“I have a concussion, Justin.”

“It wasn’t bothering you fifteen minutes ago!”

He twists away, and leans his hip against the counter. “I’ve been grievously injured--”

“You are grievously full of shit.”

“-- and I need to rest up before my night at Babylon with Mikey and the boys.”

Okay, that was a low blow. And frankly, I’ve had a pisser of a day. And if one more thing goes wrong, I will fucking lose it, and it won’t be pretty. Therefore, one more thing is NOT going to go wrong.

I lean forward and pluck the beer bottle out of his hand, taking a long swig before clunking it down on the counter. Then I grip the hem of my shirt and pull it off in one smooth motion.

He snatches the bottle back and takes a breath. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting naked,” I tell him as I toe off my shoes, “so you can fuck me.”

His eyes move slowly over my body, his lips curled somewhere between amusement and aggravation. I tug at the fly on my jeans, sliding it down slowly, then ease the jeans over my hips. When they’re pooled at my feet, I bend over to pull off my socks, making sure to give Brian a nice long look at my ass. Then I stand up, and run my open palm over my dick. I’m sort of wanting him to remove the underwear. With his teeth.

I quirk an eyebrow at him.

The bottle clunks on the counter. “I guess I have a few hours to spare,” he says before moving in for the kill.

He pushes me out of the loft at 11:15, cursing me for making him late to Babylon and sneeringly informing me that because of that, I have to take the bus home. I don’t care. I walk on air all the way to the bus stop.