I told my story again and again and fucking again, until finally they got tired of trying to trip me up and sent me home.  And I probably would have gone home, had it not been for Mikey.  Christ, he’s more of a drama queen than Justin.  And the more he talked, the more fucking worked up I got.  Suddenly, paying a visit to Claire and the demon seed she spawned seemed like a great idea.

I don’t know what I thought I could accomplish.  I wasn’t going to beat the truth out of the brat.  And he sure as fuck wasn’t going to own up to the truth any other way.  I guess I thought… maybe… if Claire looked into my eyes… really looked… she’d see that I just wasn’t fucking capable of doing what John accused me of doing. 

But no.  It was easier for Claire and Joanie to think me a monster. 

I pushed my way inside the house, but everything after that is a blur.  The floorboards of Claire’s perfect little suburban home seemed to rock unsteadily under my feet.  I wanted to lash out, wanted to force her to see me, wanted to wipe the smug condescending sneer from Joanie’s face.  But fuck, I’ll never be Jack, I’ll fucking never be like that piece of shit.  I veered precariously on edge, striking verbal blows when physical ones were what I wanted to land.  But I honestly never thought I was stepping off the edge.  Never thought I was burning my bridges, as they say.  Until Joanie got into my face about God.  Until she pushed just a little too hard. 

Why the fuck should it bother me if my family thinks I’m a goddamned pedophile?  I’ve never given a shit about them or their opinions. 

But fuck… everything has changed.  Because the little boy I thought I had buried deep down inside… the little boy who only ever wanted acceptance and affection… he’s still fucking there.  Years of living life on my terms and he’s still fucking there. 

And I’m alone. 

I never expected that sense of loss.  I never expected to stumble from the house, eyes burning with tears that could not, would not, will never be shed.  I never expected to end up at Babylon.  And I sure as fuck never expected to come home alone and relatively sober and to drop sleeplessly into bed and to toss and turn and to finally be able to grab a few hours of sleep only by clutching the pillow to my body and pretending that it was… someone… someone else. 

Fuck.  I’m pathetic.  My only consolation is that nobody knows it but me. 

My lips quirk involuntarily as I cross to the liquor cabinet, wondering if a shot of whiskey will be enough to rid me of the melodramatic thoughts.  Shit.   My hand is blessedly steady as I pour the shot.  The smooth amber liquid eases its way silkily down my throat, blanketing me in delicious warmth.  Better. 

When the phone rings, my first thought is to let the machine get it.  First thoughts generally being best thoughts, I do just that.  I’ve got several more shots of Beam to get to.  But when Horvath’s voice booms from the answering machine, I race across the room and snatch the receiver from its cradle and listen, hands clutching the back of the sofa tightly, as he explains what’s happened.  He signs off, but I’m barely aware of it… only when the hiss of the open line fills the loft do I realize I’m still holding the phone.  Gently, I replace the receiver on the cradle.  Gently, so as not to shatter the moment. 

My eyes flick from the half-empty bottle of whiskey to the phone.  Losing myself in oblivion would still be nice.  I took a personal day from work to wallow, after all.  But shit, the phone call really happened. 

Deb believed me.  Deb believed in me.  And someone… Justin… shit… he believed in me. 

I’m not alone. 

I replace the whiskey bottle on the shelf and rinse the glass.  And when the knock comes on the door I know who it is, know who it has to be, but unlike his first visit I feel no sense of trepidation or unease.  I pad quickly to the door and slide it open, join him in the hall, and I let my eyes feast on him, his golden hair, his pale skin, his cool blue eyes, and I have no desire to look away. 

“Hey,” he says softly. 

“Horvath called,” I say, saving him the trouble of regurgitating the whole tale.  I know what he did for me.  He knows that I know.  It’s enough. 

Justin seems to think so too, because he just nods, slightly, a barely discernable inclination of his head.  Then he pulls something out of his pocket, his lips upturned in a half-smile.  “I believe this belongs to you,” he says as he holds out the bracelet. 

I take it from his hand, the brief touch igniting both a flash of desire and a vivid memory.  A rainy Sunday.  Justin should have been doing homework and I should have been working on a report, but somehow we ended up entangled in front of the television.   Fucking, of course.  My defences were down.  That’s the only explanation for how “An American In Paris” ended up in the DVD player.  If I hadn’t been caught up in that post-coital state of euphoria, I’d never have let the little fucker get away with it.  But I let him watch.  I figured anybody who can deliver that much pleasure deserves a reward. 

We talked.  I don’t remember the details.  I do know that the conversation eventually turned from Gene Kelly’s ass to Paris itself.  Justin wanted to see it someday.  I told him it was highly overrated.  It rained for shit the whole time I was there, the food was overpriced, the waiters arrogant and the vast majority of the men definitely un-fuckable.  He wasn’t deterred.  He went on to list his fantasy holiday spots… Rome, London, Geneva.  And Barcelona. 

Barcelona led to Mexico.  And the next thing I knew, I was telling him the whole fucking story.  My last minute invitation to the conference.  The freedom of the hot sands, the tides, the sun on my face.  The late night parties and the men that succumbed to my charm as effortlessly in Mazatlan as they did in the Pitts.   The way the dark eyes of the men slid over me, none of them bothering to mask their revulsion,  as I cruised the boardwalk, the gringo in their midst who dared to fuck men.   The attack.  And the fear that awoke in me the next day -- fear I’d never felt before.  Never felt since. 

I found the bracelet on a little stand at the back of the marketplace.  A little concoction of leather and shells that would look completely out of place on the wrist of a junior executive still clawing his way up the corporate ladder.     I knew I had to have it.  I didn’t make an effort to barter, just let the wizened old crone tie it on my wrist.  And reclaimed my pride.

“Thanks,” I say.  It doesn’t seem to be enough but…

“Anytime,” he replies. 

He knows. 

I watch Justin’s eyes as I dangle the bracelet in my hand.  The air between us crackles with energy -- an energy made up of lust and longing annd shared memories, of which there are dozens.  Hundreds.  Thousands.  It would take only one step to close the distance between us… take him in my arms… take the lips I’ve been wanting to taste since he left.  The only lips I ever want on mine. 

To my surprise, it’s Justin who advances.  He takes the bracelet, murmuring something about helping me… and touches my wrist as he ties the bracelet in place…and I can’t look away from his face as the images tumble through my head -- Justin laughing, Justin pouting, Justin slick with sweat and panting with desire, Justin hunched over his sketchpad,  Justin teasing, Justin in all his varied forms, Justin as I love to see him -- and he’s watching me, stealing looks as his steady hands work the knot, his heart likely thumping as powerfully as mine, his stomach likely clenched as tightly as mine, his head likely swimming as forcefully as mine.   I want him… fuck, I want to taste him… and it’s all I can do to keep my left arm trapped behind my back as his graceful fingers trace patterns on my skin. 

He finishes, but instead of stepping away he rests his hand lightly against my arm.  Maybe he can’t move away.  I know I don’t fucking want him to.  The invisible threads that tie us together seem to vibrate in the air.  Justin’s eyes shimmer in the light of the hallway.  He licks his lips, and the hairs on my arms stand on end. 

One step.  One step is all it would take.  One sweeping movement of my arms and I could have him again. 

“Shouldn’t you be getting back to your boyfriend?” I say casually.

For a long moment, he just looks at me blankly.  I can’t help the smirk that plays across my face, or the way my brow quirks.  I know -- and he knows I know -- that for that moment… one moment that seemed to stretch and twist like a dream… while we are together… Ethan had ceased to exist. 

“Yeah,” he says, pushing away from me with a sheepish grin. 

I watch as he makes his way down the stairs.  Always did like watching his ass, clothed or unclothed.  My hand involuntarily snakes to the bracelet as I walk back into the loft.  I feel… free.  More free than I have in weeks.  Fuck, maybe years. 

My steps are light.  My heart is light.    Yeah, everything has changed.  And I’m coming to believe that this isn’t necessarily a bad thing.