So I find myself back at Daphne’s each night, every bone in my body exhausted yet unable to sleep.  I toss and turn for hours and when I finally do drift asleep, I dream.  Constantly.  One of the dreams involved me, Brian, three honeydew melons, and a flying skidoo.  What the hell am I supposed to make of shit like that?

I ramble aimlessly around Daph’s tiny apartment when she’s not around.  I can name every item in her kitchen cupboards and every CD in her cabinet.  I’ve scrubbed her kitchen floor till it shines like glass, not that she noticed.  I’ve been chain smoking because, fuck, it’s better than chain eating.  I wondered before if I was going insane.  Now I’m pretty sure of it. 

This morning it’s brisk and bright and the perfect day for a long walk in the park, a lunch in some little bistro, maybe a matinee.  It’s a good plan.  But by the time Daphne gets her ass out of bed, it’s afternoon and all I’ve managed to do is lounge on the sofa, trying to get my brain to turn off for just one fucking moment. 

She wanders into the living room and tries to tempt me with some yoghurt.  Food is the last thing on my mind.  I don’t even think there’s room for thoughts of food in what’s left of my mind.  I know she’s a bit worried about me, and probably frustrated too.  She’s stuck with me through thick and thin with all of my shit, and there’s been a lot of shit.  It’s just so hard to explain.  But she’s sitting there patiently, my best friend in pink fuzzy slippers, urging me to cheer up, so I try to illustrate why that‘s patently impossible at the moment. 

“I can’t help it.  I can’t stop thinking about him.  Last night I dreamt about him again.  He somehow learned to levitate and we were fucking mid-air!” 

See what I mean?  How can I expect any rational person to understand this stuff?  I’m ready for the loony bin. 

Daph crinkles her nose.  “I wonder what that means?” 

Might as well just come out with it.  “Probably that I should see a shrink,” I mutter.

She leans back in her chair with a sigh.  Considering Daph’s mom is one of Pittsburgh’s top headshrinkers, she’s used to being told in no uncertain terms that analysis is the keystone of good mental health.  Preferably long-term, in-depth, lucrative analysis.  Needless to say, Daph intends to stay far away from shrinks, immediate family notwithstanding. 

“It’s only natural that these things take time, you know,” she says slowly.  “You’ve gotta somehow get over him.  Move on.  Tell yourself… Ethan’s history.” 

Ethan? What the fuck? 

I raise my head from the sofa, shooting her a very confused look before pulling myself up.  “Who’s talking about Ethan?  I’m talking about Brian!” 

I stalk past her as she squeals, “Brian?” 

Hmmm, funny how her whole demeanour changes when she realizes it’s Brian I’m fixated on.  Okay, I know she never liked Ethan. She never bought his bullshit lines or his tortured-artist persona, and his attempts to juice her up since she was my best friend were always met with a cold shoulder.  But she’s been great this month.  She let me rant and rave that first night -- the night I left him -- keeping her mouth shut except to agree with me that he was a lying, cheating sack of shit.  And she hasn’t said another word since, even though she would have been well within her rights to give me the old ‘told you so’.  Which explains why she hadn’t grasped that my own gloominess has been over losing Brian. 

Daphne leans forward in the chair, her expression brighter than I‘ve seen it in a long time. “But… I thought you were over him. That’s what you said!” 

“I thought I was too,” I lie.  Like I’ve ever been over Brian.  Like I didn’t spend half my time with Ethan dreaming about him, thinking about him, wondering about him, worrying about him.  Like seeing him at the diner every day didn’t give me a surreptitious thrill. Like I didn’t feel the magnetic pull of him.  Like touching him… standing close to him… didn’t make me want to throw my arms around him and rip his clothes off and… 

I’ll never be over Brian.  I never want to be over Brian. 

I spin towards her, lighting another in an endless sea of smokes.  “So what do you do when you realize you've made the biggest fucking mistake in your pathetic, stupid life?” 

Daphne shrugs.  “Bury it in your subconscious and forget about it?” 

Spoken like the true daughter of a psychiatrist, all right.  “Obviously that’s not working,” I snipe back. 

“Well, then deal with it.  Tell him you still love him.” 

She sounds so logical.  If only it was that simple.  But with Brian Kinney, nothing is ever simple.  It didn‘t take me long to learn that lesson.  “Yeah right.  He’d fucking laugh in my face.” 

“Write him a letter.” 

“He’d tear it up.”  Well, he probably wouldn’t.  But he sure as hell wouldn’t run to the phone and welcome me back with open arms.  He’d probably post it in the fucking diner. 

She flops backward, grinning inanely and chuckling.  “I don’t know!  Attempt suicide?” 

“He’d let me die,” I say, but I can’t stop the sheepish grin that sneaks onto my face.  This is a drama queen moment if ever there was one.  Shit, I don’t know what to do!  I only know I’ve got to do something.  I can’t keep going on like this, month after month after month. 

Daphne gets up from the chair, her eyes glinting and her face flushed with determination.  I remember that look.  I remember it from a poolside chat that seems like it took place an eternity ago.  Part of me thinks that I should be running away in terror from that look.  The other part thinks that if Daphne was right two years ago…well…

“Okay, do you remember what I did when I was madly, passionately in love with Billy Houser?” 

Billy Houser.  Wow, I haven’t thought of him in awhile.  Firm thighs, nice ass.  Swim team.  Daphne always went for the swimmers.  Must be something about the build.  Or watching the water drip off those sculpted torsos. 

I grin.  Can’t help it.  “Made an idiot of yourself?” 

“Nooo!” She giggles, aiming a punch at me which I sidestep easily.  “I signed up for every class he was in; I went to swim practice; I got invited to every single party I knew he’d be at.  Wherever he went, there I was.  He couldn’t avoid me.” 

She’s as crazy as I am.  Yet, in some fucked-up way, it’s a good idea.  Brian’s never going to take me seriously if I go to him and make a blatant declaration of love.  He hates that shit.    But if I’m constantly in his face… much like I was before… reminding him of what we had… 

Daphne stands before me, patiently awaiting the result of her brilliant idea.  My mind’s going a mile a minute, ideas speeding by too fast for me to bother with something as trivial as talking.  It wouldn’t take much for PIFA to change the destination of my application for internship… and getting to Brian’s other hangouts is no problem.  This could work.  I smile, seeing a light at the end of the tunnel for the first time in months.  This could fucking work. 

It’s devious.  It‘s sly.  It’s manipulative.  In other words, it’s perfect for Brian Kinney. 

Besides, I’ve been telling myself that I’ll know when to listen to my heart.  Well, my heart has been crying for months.  It’s time for me to start paying attention. 

I work my way through the art department, stopping once to lay some schmooze on Barb.  A little praise goes a long way with my team, especially when said praise comes from Mr. Kinney.  They all know I don’t dole it out like candy. They have to fucking earn it. 

Unfortunately, looking at the Stockwell campaign just serves to remind me of Ted and his oh-so-triumphant return to the gym.  Fucking schmuck.  ‘Oh, I got myself into this and I’ll get myself out of it.’   My so-called friends have memories like swiss cheese.  Theodore’s already “out of it”… thanks to me.   But that’s forgotten now.  I’m back to being the asshole again, in their minds.  Fuck them.  I guess I should just consider myself lucky that he hasn’t hit me up for a job.  Yet. 

My contemplations have put me in a pissy mood.  My team is used to that, too, so I don’t really give a shit. 

“Murph, where the fuck’s the layout for Mighty Mix?” 

He looks up without a care in the world.  “I know, I promised that to you this morning.” 

“Any way I can speed things up?  Salary cut?  Pink slip?” 

He grins.  He thinks I’m joking.  He doesn’t realize that I’ve had it up to here with the blunders in this department.  Just because he’s the lead graphic artist doesn’t mean his head isn’t prime for the chopping block.  And I’ll fucking do it no matter what Vance says if he doesn’t start taking care of business. 

“You’ll have it by noon,” Murphy promises.  “And starting today things should go a little faster.  We’re hiring a new student intern to help with the busy work.” 

We’re hiring a new student intern.  Murphy’s awfully free with my goddamned money.  Not that I don’t think we need it.  We do.  And Murphy has free reign to hire and fire with impunity.  I’m just pissed in general.  I try to shake off the mood as the new guy hustles up to Murph.  I don’t really give a shit who’s been hired as long as he‘s good, but…

“Brian, this is Justin Taylor, our new intern.” 

Fuck me. 

“Justin, this is Mr. Kinney, one of the partners in the agency.” 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Kinney,“ Justin says as he holds out his hand.  I manage to wake from my mind-boggled stupor to take it. 

Fuck.  Me. 

I shake Justin’s hand briskly, searching his eyes for some hint of intent.  The kid is cool as ice water.  I turn my attention back to Murphy with an effort.  “I want the Mighty Mix graphics on my desk by eleven,”  I instruct, taking great pleasure in his audible gulp of dismay.  Noon, my ass.  I wander around the room, allotting various other tasks to the team briskly before letting my gaze drift back to Justin. 

“Taylor, be in my office in fifteen minutes.” 

“Yes, Mr. Kinney.” 

His eyes betray nothing.  His body language betrays nothing.  His voice betrays nothing.  And Murph has the highest standards.  He’d only hire the best. 

So why do I get the feeling I’m fucked? 

I nod at Cynthia as I stop at her desk.  “Brian wanted to see me?” 

She looks a little flabbergasted at first.  At least, as flabbergasted as Cynthia can ever be.  Meaning most people wouldn’t think she looked any different.  I don’t know how much Brian has told her about our break-up.  Probably not a hell of a lot.  But she’s savvy -- she has to be, in order to have lasted as Brian’s assistant for so many fucking years. 

She smiles at me warmly after the initial two-second shock has worn off.  “He’s waiting for you inside, Justin,” she tells me.  She gestures towards the closed door, obviously wavering between simply ushering me inside and saying something more.  Finally she just grips my arm, squeezing lightly, and whispers, “Good luck.”

I manage a somewhat weak smile before taking a deep breath and squaring my shoulders.  I feel like I’m going into battle, and I guess I am.  It’s going to be tough, but the prize is sooo worth it. 

I’m expecting him to be prompt, and he is.  But my shoulders still tense involuntarily when the knock comes at the door.  I rotate my neck, easing the tightness away and plastering on my usual disinterested expression before I call him in.  I continue to glance through the magazine on my desk as he makes his way across the room to flop down casually on one of the chairs.  The silence plays out between us for a long moment before I finally raise my eyes to his, expecting to find him fidgeting and rather restless.  Instead, he’s watching me with a look that borders on arrogant.  Little fucker. 

Before I can toss out my opening salvo, he begins the conversation. 

“I was going to tell you,” he says. 

“When?” 

“When I got the job.” 

Presumptuous little bastard.  I lean forward on the desk, fixing him with a glare.  “You don’t have the job until I sign off, and I don’t sign off until I ask the potential candidate a few questions, such as… What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?”

Justin takes a deep breath.  “As part of our degree candidacy we’re required to get three credits of practical experience in our chosen field.  So I wrote a letter to the head of your art department saying I wanted to intern.  Submitted my transcript, samples of my work… and here I am.” 

“Here you aren’t,” I answer emphatically, leaning back.  He continues to regard me with that cocky expression and I find myself explaining further, when all I should be doing is telling him to get the fuck out.  “There are other agencies where I don’t work.” 

“That has nothing to do with it,” Justin points out in that oh-so-reasonable tone of voice.  Would it be wrong of me to strangle him?   “Vanguard’s the best. Working here will look great on my resume.  I’ll make important contacts and I’ll learn things I wouldn’t learn in the classroom.” 

He’s being very logical. 

Fuck logic. 

“Learn them someplace else.” 

“That’s not fair,” Justin frowns before schooling his face back into its lines of placid rationality.  “I was accepted based solely on my merit.  It had nothing to do with you.  I thought you’d be pleased.”

“To see your face everyday?” I scoff.

Fuck.  To see his face.  Every.  Single.  Day. 

To see his face and be unable to touch him.  Every.  Single.  Day. 

“I had no idea that our former relationship was still a problem for you,” Justin answers innocently.

I lean over the desk, scowling.  The habitual reply pops out before I can muzzle it, not that I fucking want to.   “Who said it was a problem?  And who said we were ever in a relationship?” 

“Well then, I can see no reason that you would object to my completing my education,” he smiles smugly, leaning back in the chair, “that you’re paying for.” 

Shit. 

The bars of the trap slide closed with a resounding chink and I’m forced to admit that he played me like… well, best not to think what he played me like.  Little fucker knows I won’t admit -- can’t admit -- that he has any hold on me.  That the ties that bind us encompass everything -- emotional, physical, financial.  That… fuck… 

I press my lips together, perfectly aware that I’ve been outmanoeuvred and impressed with his tactics despite myself.  I really shouldn’t be surprised.  Justin did, after all, learn from the best. 

“Well,” I say finally, “just don’t expect any special treatment.” 

Justin leans back in his chair, eyeing me carefully.  “I never have.” 

 That evening I decide to put Operation Brian: Mach II into action. 

“How do I look?” I ask for the tenth time in as many minutes. 

“Hot.” Daphne gives the same reply she’s given nine times before. 

I squinch up my nose, studying my reflection in the full-length mirror in Daphne’s bedroom.  The new muscle shirt cost money that I can ill afford to spend at the moment, but I have to admit that it hugs my body nicely.  I’ve spent more time on my hair this evening than I ever care to reveal.  Thankfully, Daph has been sworn to secrecy. 

This is it. 

I turn to Daph with an imploring expression.  “Come with me!” 

Daphne laughs.  “Shit, Justin!  We’re not seventeen anymore.  Just go.  You look great.  Brian won’t be able to resist you!” She pushes me towards the door, shoving my coat into my less-than-eager hands.  “Go!” 

By the time I get to Babylon, there’s a long line forming at the door and a crowd of restless men griping about the delay to get inside.  I huddle into my jacket, shivering from more than the autumn chill.  Okay, I admit it… I’m fucking terrified.  It’s been so long since I’ve been in the club… well, I was there once, but… this is different.  This isn’t a casual visit for a casual fuck.  This is… this is a declaration -- an announcement in big bold letters.  ‘I’m back.’ 

The more I wait in line, the stronger the uneasy feeling gets in the pit of my stomach.  A couple of guys try to engage me in conversation, but I’m not interested.  And I start thinking that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea… that maybe I should have just stayed home with Daphne tonight and played Scrabble or Monopoly or…

No.  I’ve got to take the bull by the horns, as they say. 

I step out of line and make my way to the doors, hoping against hope that the doorman won’t have changed and breathing a sigh of relief when I recognize Tony.  He waves a hello as I reach him. 

“Justin!  Haven’t seen you around lately, buddy.” 

“Well,” I smile, “I’m back.” I raise an eyebrow, glancing at the cops standing sentinel at the door before turning my attention back to Tony.  Another cop moves down the line, slowly making a personal search of the next few patrons. “Things have changed, I see.” 

Tony steps closer, lowering his voice.  “Fucking Stockwell.  These motherfuckers show up every night.  Sap’s just waiting for the inevitable raid.  He‘s warned us all to stay clean or we‘re fucked out of a job.” 

I shrug.  Stockwell and his mayoral campaign have nothing to do with me.  “I hope everything hasn’t changed.” When he raises an eyebrow, I continue, “Think maybe you could do a favour for a friend and let me skip the line… like I always used to?”  I put on my most winning smile and Tony grins, motioning me forward.  He always was a sucker for blue eyes.  I submit to the body search and then… I’m in. 

I make my way through the energetic crowd, nodding at the friendly faces welcoming me back and ignoring the curious glances and overt stares of the newbies who think they’ve spotted an inexperienced trick in their midst.  I finally find Brian at the bar… and at first things are going well.  He lets me buy him a drink.  Then he asks about Ethan.  As if Brian doesn’t know we’ve broken up.  I work at the fucking diner.  Deb knows.  Word gets around on Liberty Avenue faster than a chipmunk on crack.  But I play it cool.  As cool as I can when he keeps leaning on the bar, his toned torso rippling beneath a skin-tight black muscle shirt.  As cool as I can when he keeps staring at me with a slightly bemused expression on his face.  What the fuck does he know that I don’t? 

The familiar thump-thump of disco trash flows through the floorboards at my feet, and I turn to Brian with a smile. 

“Oh, I love this song.  Do you like this song?” 

What the fuck am I saying?  Could I sound any more idiotic?  And how many times has Brian told me that he doesn’t even hear the music at Babylon, that it’s all one long endless tune to him?

“It fills the void,” he answers mockingly. 

But he loves to dance.  To look at him, you’d think he’s not the best dancer.  He just sort of… sways… to the music.  But God, when you’re dancing with him!  Words can’t describe it.  He’s like a satellite.  He has his own orbit.  And he pulls you in, pulls you close, moves and touches and slides and then moves away… and it’s the most intoxicating sensation you could imagine. 

“I haven’t danced in forever,” I hint. 

Come on.  Ask me.  Take my hand.  Pull me closer.  Anything. 

“Knock yourself out,” he says.

Shit. 

I shrug, trying to remain nonchalant.  “No rush.  I’ve got all night.”  And I don’t want to dance with anyone but him.  Never want to dance with anyone but him. Fuck, can’t he feel it?  Can’t he see it?

“Don’t you have to be at work in the morning?” he asks. 

“So do you,” I point out.

“Yeah.  The only difference is, I don’t have to impress my boss so he doesn’t fire my ass.”   He grins smugly, thanking me for the drink before wandering off. 

Fuck.  I should have stayed home and played Scrabble. 

I can’t believe I let him into the fucking conference room.

After his pathetically obvious display at Babylon, things settled down at work.  I had to admit that he was doing a good job in the art department.  A pretty amazing job, actually.   One Justin Taylor seemed to equal four pairs of hands instead of two.  He was on top of his game, and he almost had me when he laid out his spiel about how it was all because of me that my staff was so dedicated and hard-working.  He just couldn’t keep a straight face though.  Shit, who could?  That line was so sycophantic I almost felt his tongue on my ass.  Still, I wanted to reward him.  Show him that I valued his hard work and dedication.  I’m not too clear on just what kind of dedication I was thinking about at the time. 

So I let the little fucker sit in on the Eyeconic Optics pitch.  It would give him some of that valuable learning experience that he went on about.  It would give him the chance to observe the intricacies of a business meeting.  It would give him the chance to… to watch me.  To see me shine. 

He messed it up. 

Heads are going to roll. 

I find Justin in the main room of the graphics division, cleaning up from the days labours as I’d instructed.   I walk straight to the Eyeconic display, grabbing up some of the sunglasses left scattered around the draft tables for “inspiration” .  I don’t bother with chitchat, but cut straight to the chase.

“Orange is the new blue?  What the fuck was that?” 

Justin glances up with a shrug.  “She asked me.” 

What sort of answer is that?  Orange is the new blue?  Is this the kind of trite bullshit my money is paying for at PIFA?  I don’t even want to know.  Instead, I fix him with a glare.  “Well, Who told you to answer?” 

“I was just trying to be helpful.” 

Helpful, my ass.  “Ahh.  By undercutting me in front of a client.  Your job was to put up the boards -- which you could barely do -- and keep your mouth shut!” 

He gives me an nonchalant look.  Is he even fucking listening to me?  “I’m sorry,” he says indifferently.  “It won’t happen again.” 

“You’re damned right it won’t.  You’re through.” 

He spins toward me, shock evident on his face.  “Are you firing me?” 

Paying attention now, sunshine? 

“You wanted on the job experience, right?  Lesson one: you fuck up, you’re gone.” 

He’s staring at me.  Completely and utterly perplexed.  It’s not like this is a foreign concept.  It’s not like I’m… wrong.  Shit. 

“But… you got the account!” 

“And she got my balls, thanks to you.” 

Justin takes another step, still staring up at me.  Why the fuck does he keep staring like that? 

“Brian,” he begins, then seems to think better of it.  “Mr. Kinney… I would appreciate it if you’d give me a second chance.” 

“I never should have given you the first one.”   Fuck.  My chest hurts.  “Now pack up your shit and go home.” 

I turn my back, taking a few of the glasses to try on.  I move toward the door, toward the wall, away from the drafting table, because there’s better light there.  Better to see my reflection in the mirrored shades.  It has nothing to do with being unable to look at him.  Nothing. 

“I guess I should have expected this,” Justin begins.  I can hear him shoving art supplies roughly into his bag as he rants.  “After all, you never wanted me here to begin with.” 

Fuck no.  Wouldn’t want that.  Wouldn’t want the Twink Who Wouldn’t Quit back into my life.  What sane person would want that? 

“Didn’t want to have to see my face everyday when you came into work.” 

Fuck no.  Didn’t want to look into those beautiful blue eyes every day.  Didn’t want to see those lips and know that I could never taste them again. 

“Although, I guess a part of me was kind of hoping that eventually you wouldn’t mind it.  Maybe you’d even get used to it.” 

I snort, shaking my head.  Get used to it?  Like I did before, I guess.  Slide into something that wasn’t planned and wasn’t labelled and couldn’t be neatly compartmentalized.  But this isn’t before.  Things have changed, sunshine.  Things have changed.

I have changed. 

“I guess I was wrong to think that…” Justin drifts off.  “Fuck it.  Never mind.” 

That’s just like him.  All his bullshit about expressing ourselves and he can’t -- won’t -- say what he wants to say. 

“What?” I prod, moving back to the drafting table.  “When your little romance with Paganini Jr. was over, you could just come running back?” 

Justin looks grim. “Yeah. Something like that.” 

I’m not second prize.  I’m not the one that you settle for when the great romance of the century turns out to be not so great.  Fuck that. 

“Sorry,” I shrug.

“I know,” he answers.  “It’s stupid.” 

Fuck.  “Almost as stupid as falling for his bullshit in the first place,” I say, flipping aimlessly through expensive lenses to avoid looking at him.  “But you’re young… you’re inexperienced…” 

“And what, you’re so smart?“ He loses it.  I turn toward him, keeping my face impassive.  “If you had any fucking brains at all you would never have let me leave.  You would have told me I was making the biggest mistake of my life.  That I would live to regret it. That what you gave me was worth a thousand…no, a million times more than anything he had to offer.” He looks me in the eye, as if daring me to look away.  “You would have told me that you loved me,” he says emphatically.

I can’t hold up under that earnest gaze.  I duck my head, wishing in that moment that I could agree.  But I can’t.  I couldn’t do it then and I can’t do it now. 

Because it was his call.  It would always be his call. 

I know that I can be a shit.  Pretty words don’t change a fucking thing.  And I can’t tell him what he wants to hear just so he’ll stay.  I won’t. 

Even though I want him to stay so bad it hurts. 

Justin‘s voice is soft as he finishes, “That you would go on loving me even after I was gone.”

I hate that I was that fucking obvious.  I step closer, snarling into his face.  “Is that what you were waiting to hear?” 

His calm voice belies the tremor in his body.  “Yes.  But as usual you never said it.  So it’s just as well that I go.” 

He moves to step around me and my arm snakes out, a firm hand grabbing him by the hip and pulling him back.  I’m not through with him yet.  Or he’s not through with me.  We’re not through. 

The anger courses through my body as I snap.  “That is sooo like you.  You don’t hear what you want, so you leave.  Try standing up for yourself for a change.  Have some balls!”

No illusions.  No bells and whistles.  No roses or picnics or flowery words. 

It’s his call. 

I don’t know what I was expecting.  Denial, maybe.  A renewed war of words.  Anything but his hand around my neck, pulling me down to him… and his lips against mine, grinding against me, harsh and demanding and soft and insistent and unrelenting… lips that I’ve dreamt about, lips that I’ve fantasized about…and my shock is so severe that I can barely move, barely respond as my mouth trembles under his touch, a mouth that hasn’t been touched by another in endless fucking months…

Then he’s gone.  And I’m left breathless and flustered and completely undone. 

I don’t even remember how I made it to the street.  One moment I was in the graphics room, my lips pressed hotly against Brian‘s… the next I was running down the avenue like the hounds of hell were on my ass.  I stopped at a telephone pole a few blocks away from the Vanguard building, clutching my portfolio with one hand and my chest with the other.  My brain is racing as fast as my heart, and it takes a long moment before either of them will settle down.  My heart finally decides that it’s not going to burst out of my chest… a good thing, since that would be awfully messy.  And despite the fact that my mind wants to replay every moment of my confrontation with Brian, I manage to turn it off during the long walk home.  I have lots of practice with short term memory loss.  It’s how I managed to get through months of cohabitation with Ethan without going insane. I concentrate on the pools of light cast by the overhead streetlights, the flickering shadows of skeletal tree branches on the pavement, the shine of frost fences and the reflections in plate glass along the boulevard.  I’m walking up the steps to Daphne’s building before my thoughts return to Brian. To me.  To us.

I find Daphne slouched on the sofa, eating Alpha-Bits and watching Nashville Star.  Well, mostly drooling over the guys on Nashville Star.  Swimmers and guys in big hats.  Sometimes I just don’t get her.

She grins as I flop down on the chair.  “How was work?” 

You know how sometimes just one little thing is all it takes for everything to come spilling out?  Well, that was it.  Of course, practically anything would have been “it”.  Before I know it, not only am I revisiting the days events but also everything that I’ve felt about Brian from the moment I met him.  The longing, the desire, the pain, the fear, the love.  It all comes gushing out.  Daph listens, offers advice, and slaps me upside the head when I need it.  Sometimes figuratively, and sometimes literally.  By the time we’re done it’s 3am, Daphne’s hotties from Nashville are long gone from the television set, and I know exactly what I’m going to do. 

Daphne crashes for a few hours before school, but I decide to stay up the rest of the night since I’ve apparently been fired.  There’s no stress, though.  I’ve never felt more at peace. 

When six o’clock rolls around, I figure the day has begun.  I put in the call to Cynthia.

Yes, I have Cynthia’s home number. I learned early on that when it came to living with Brian Kinney, I had to take whatever advantage I could.  Who knew when I’d have a need for this information?  So I’d waited until Brian was in the shower -- one of the few occasions that I didn’t jjoin him there -- and then I had clandestinely copied his private numbers into my own palm pilot. 

I had to camouflage them under asinine pseudonyms, of course, since Brian made no bones about snooping through my shit whenever he felt like it.  So Joanie was labelled “Ice Queen” and Claire was “She Bitch”… and when Brian raised a sculpted brow at the designations I… I lied.  I told him that they were nicknames for PIFA classmates.  He informed me that I should stop hanging out with such a bunch of fucking losers, and that was that. 

So at 6:05am, I enter my password, pull up the information for “Designing Woman”, and make the call.  Luckily Cynthia sounds awake, albeit very surprised to hear from me.  I tell her what I’ve got planned, and she enthusiastically agrees to schedule my late… very late… meeting with the elusive Mr. Kinney.  She promises me that she’ll ensure Brian agrees to the time and place.  I’ve seen Cynthia in action.  I’m not worried.

With the logistics worked out, I settle in for some sleep.  I have a feeling I’m going to need it. 

Brian’s office door is wide open.  I stand for a moment in the dim light of the hallway, watching him.  His leg is bent at the knee, hand clasped loosely around it, the light from the screen of the open laptop bathing his face in soft colours.  Despite the fact that the laptop seems to signify that he’s still working, he appears lost in thought.  He stares straight ahead, seeming to see nothing and everything. 

I approach the door hesitantly, leaning against the frame as I tap lightly.  I know how I want this to play out.  And there was a time when I could read Brian like a book.  A time when I was “on to him”, as I often smugly told him.  I have to believe that I’m on to him again. 

“Mr. Kinney?” 

He looks up then, his hand obscuring the lower part of his face so I can’t see his expression.  Is he laughing at me? Angry at me?  Ready to throw me to the ground and rip my clothes off? 

“Taylor,” he says, “Come in.” He indicates the chair I’d sat in the last time I was in his office.  “Sit down.” 

I leave the door open behind me and flop into the chair, resting my foot on the edge of his expensive desk. He doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. 

“You wanted to see me?” 

I nod, leaning casually into the comfortable leather.  “I gave it some thought.  I decided you should take me back.” 

“Oh?”

“Even though I’ve made a few mistakes,” I continue confidently,  “I think you’d be making an even bigger one not to give me a second chance.” 

“I see.“ Brian looks like he’s biting his cheek so hard he’ll be spitting blood in a minute. 

“’Cause now I understand what it is you want of me.” 

Brian’s eyebrows climb up his forehead, but that’s not what I mean, and he knows it.  I know what he wants.  For me to speak up when I have something to say.  To make demands.  To challenge him.  To never give up.  To never run away.  To believe.  To listen, even when he’s not speaking.  Most especially when he’s not speaking.  To have some balls. To be a man. 

To listen to my heart. 

“And I know what I can expect from you,” I finish. 

His loyalty.  His honesty.  His respect.  His encouragement.  His support.  His attention.  His affection.  His love. 

His heart.

Brian leans across the desk, beautiful green eyes catching mine effortlessly.  “You also understand that you’ll be required to work long,  hard hours, sometimes… deep into the night?” 

The thought is almost overpowering.  I don’t try to stop the teasing smile.  “It’ll be a pleasure working under you… sir.” 

“And,” Brian continues, his soft voice and bemused expression belying the intensity of his gaze and the import of his words, “you’re never to play violin music in my presence again.” 

Message heard.  Message understood.  I don’t know if anybody is listening, but I silently pledge right then and there that I will never hurt this man again. 

My voice comes out a throaty whisper as I make the promise. 

Brian nods.  “Good.” He rises, stepping to the front of the desk and perching on its edge.  “Well then, you can start… immediately.” 

Justin holds my gaze for a long moment before he pushes himself up from the chair and heads toward the office door.  I want to watch him… take in that gorgeous slim waist, the rippling contours of his back, the fantastic ass.  But I force myself to look straight ahead, because… because I never want to see him walking away from me again.  Because despite everything, the fear has constricted my chest and I think maybe, maybe, he’ll continue walking out the door and out of my life forever. 

He closes and locks the door, sealing us together. 

Only then can I raise my head.  Only then can I let the anxiety wash away in a flood of relief and happiness.  Only then can I look into his eyes and see my joy reflected there.  Only then can I show him how I feel.