My heart still pounds madly, though.  It’s all well and good for me to be strong where Ethan’s concerned… to tell him that I don’t care if Brian is home.  The rapid stutter of my pulse tells a different story. 

I care.  I so fucking care. 

And his plans might have changed.  Maybe… when I left… when I left him… maybe he… he just couldn’t handle going into the office.  Maybe he’s here… alone… missing me. 

So my steps are tentative at first.  But the loft is empty and quiet.  Desolate.  He’s not here. 

Of course he’s not here.  He doesn’t give a shit.  Has never given a shit about me.  I’m not fooling myself anymore.  I can’t fool myself anymore.  Can’t.  Fucking can’t. 

And the anger flares again, anger that I don’t even try to suppress. Anger that fuels me. 

I stalk toward the sofa, gathering a few of my things that are scattered about and stuffing them into Ethan’s gym bag.  Probably should have brought something bigger, but anyway you look at it, it’s pathetic.  A year of my life crammed into a duffel bag.  A year of my life reduced to this.  A year of my life wasted. 

A noise distracts me from my thoughts, and I glance toward the source.  And see… us. 

We’d gone to a play.  Some grassroots college production by an up-and-coming playwright that I’d read about in Out.  Brian didn’t want to go.  He said, “I’m not wasting my Friday night watching two overeducated assholes spout half-baked psychobabble for two fucking hours.”  Which in typical Brian-speak means, “Let me think about it and get back to you.”  He thought, we went, and the play was absolute shit.  Brian reminded me that he hadn’t wanted to attend at every conceivable opportunity.  I began to get seriously pissed off.  By the drive home, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to haul off and smack him… or cry.  Then Brian peeled into the parking lot of the 7-Eleven and left me in the jeep while he ran inside to “pick up a few things.” 

The ice cream was one of those things.  Ice cream, which Brian never kept in the loft.  Too fatty, too creamy, too unhealthy.  Ice cream, which he bought to make me feel better. 

Now I see us… as we were that night, just a few months ago… 

We kiss, and… 

Brian’s lips are soft and full and ripe, the ice cream sliding along our tongues as we feast on each other’s mouths.  A trickle of vanilla drips to his chest, causing him to writhe beneath me.  I quickly duck my head, licking the offending droplet away, teasing my tongue along his chest to his nipple, tasting, nipping, drinking him in.  My head bobs lower… I start slowly, licking my way down his shaft, and his body arches beneath me… his low moans fill my ears, thrilling me…because I do this, I make him feel this, only I cause these waves of pleasure to ripple through his body… and I feel his hand move along my leg to my thigh… a gentle touch, a soft caress, and…

I wrench my head away and stride purposely toward the bedroom. 

That night meant nothing.  Nothing.  He bought the ice cream because he wanted to fuck and knew I’d never give it up after the way he treated me.  He touched me that way because… because… 

I wrench my dresser drawer open, stuff socks and clothing into the duffel bag. 

He touched me that way because… 

Squaring my shoulders, I move to the closet.  Grab some shirts, some Tee’s, throw them in with the pitiable assortment of clothing I’ve collected so far.  Try not to look at the rows of designer suits.    Try to ignore the muscle shirts that characterize Brian so much more in my eyes. 

The sound of the shower paralyzes me for a moment.  I was wrong.  I was fucking wrong, and he’s here, he’s been here the whole time, and shit, I don’t want to see him, but I can’t seem to stop my feet from moving closer, closer, closer to the bathroom door. 

He’s not here.  I’m not sure whether I want to sigh in relief or disappointment. 

But I look into the shower stall, and I see… us. 

Brian had spent the afternoon working on a campaign.  But this was nothing that Ryder would ever see.  For some reason, Michael had decided that he wanted to slut himself out on the internet.  Brian put together an ad that made even Michael look hot.  Pretty amazing until you realize that Brian could probably make dog food look hot. 

We were supposed to go to Babylon that night.  I was anxious to go.  I wanted to get out of the loft.  Away from where Brian had just drenched his ‘Mikey’ in bottled water and transformed him into some lithe, lean pin-up boy. 

I had stalked around the loft, tense and angry for reasons I couldn’t explain even if I wanted to.  Brian didn’t say a word.   He just stopped me on one of my endless circuits around the room.  He took off my clothes, taking his time with each piece, kissing and touching and tasting each new part of my body that was revealed by his slow and precise movements.    Then he undressed, took my hand and led me to the shower. 

Now I see us… as we were that night, just a few months ago… 

The shower pummels against us and around us, and… 

Brian ducks his head into my neck, kissing and licking the water that pools against my skin.  He whispers into my ear… words of reassurance, words of comfort.   I can barely hear him over the pounding water, but his mouth tickles my skin, his cheek grazes my delicate flesh, and I smile, and the smile means everything, the smile thanks him for everything, the smile tells him that I know, I know, I know I belong to him.  Just as he belongs to me.   And I want him… I want him inside me… and he knows, he knows too, and he takes me… And it’s so good, the warm water dripping from his body to mine, his movements careful and deliberate, his hand strong and firm on my hip, and still he keeps tasting me, touching me, kissing me, his mouth on my ear, his lips against my cheek.  I draw my hand up, needing to feel that bond too.  I run my hand against his cheek, feel him nuzzle against me, feel his heart pound harder as the connection is made, and… 

Fuck! 

I force myself to turn away from the shower.  Grab some of my things from the counter, barely paying attention anymore.  Have to get away from here.  Have to get away from this bullshit. 

That’s all it is.  Bullshit.  He figured I was going to pout about Michael all fucking night so he did what he had to do to shut me up.   He never felt a connection.  There was no connection.   I glance at my reflection... see cold determination in my eyes. 

Have to get out of here. 

I rush to the computer, start shoving sketchbooks and homework assignments and art supplies haphazardly on top of the clothes.  It doesn’t matter if I have to re-do some of the work.  It doesn’t matter if things get soiled or ripped or battered.  I just want to get out.  I have a new life now.  I want to start my new life.  That’s all. 

I freeze when I come to the bottom of the stack of papers. 

The sketch seems to mock me. 

It was one of the best I did for the comic.  I liked it so much, I didn’t even let Michael see it.  I knew he’d want to use it, and this one… it was special.  Rage, with JT nestled in his arms, flying to his lair.  JT looking so protected.  So cared for.  So loved. 

I was going to frame it.  Fuck, I was actually going to frame it. 

Pushing the sketch aside, I go back to stuffing my life into a canvas bag.  The moans threaten to interrupt my now rapid pace.  I don’t want to look.  I don’t want to look. 

I look toward the bed, and I see… us. 

Brian had re-printed all of the pages he’d destroyed.  He’d apologized to both of us.  Michael and I went back to work, and he hadn’t complained when we spent the next four hours working diligently at the comic.  He’d even bought dinner.   He stayed out of our way, but sometimes I’d catch him gazing in my direction.  Subtle glances that he never expected me to see.   His eyes, warm and soft.  His lips, sweet and inviting.  I tried creatively hinting that my hand was sore, but that went right over Michael’s head.  I ended up faking a headache to get Michael the hell out of the loft. 

We were on each other like crazed monkeys almost before the loft door was shut.  We stumbled to the bed, ripping clothes from each other’s bodies as we went, stopping only to drive our mouths together desperately.  I was moaning Brian’s name before he even had the condom on, asking him to fuck me, begging him to fuck me, ordering him to fuck me. 

His cock slid into me in one fast movement, driving the air from my lungs and drawing a gasp of pain from my lips.  He paused, letting me adjust to the size and depth of him before beginning a pounding rhythm that sent electric charges of pleasure along every nerve ending. 

Now I see us… as we were that night, just a few months ago… 

He leans over me, and… 

The comfortable weight of his body settles against my back as he drives into me, each thrust strong and forceful and deep, so deep that I almost believe I can’t handle another stroke, the pleasure too intense, almost painful.  Brian’s hair caresses the back of my neck as he bends forward, his teeth nipping at the tender skin on my back and shoulders, his lips licking and sucking and kissing the flesh.  It’s too much, almost too much to bear, I’m floundering in a sea of emotion, overloading on pure sensory satisfaction.  I reach behind me, grasp his leg, try to pull him closer, hold tight.  He’s my anchor, my lifeline, and I hold on tighter and tighter as he again kisses my neck, and…

No. No No No No NO!! 

I spin toward the door, force of will alone keeping me from running.  I pull open the door, the familiar creak of metal along the tracks failing to drown out our cries of passion.  I swing the door shut on the image of our writhing bodies. 

By the time I reach the bottom floor, I am running.  I stumble out the door, almost fall to my knees on the pavement.  The gym bag drops from my hand as I bend nearly double, relearning how to breathe.  Finally I can stand.  I gather up the straps of the duffel bag, place them over my shoulder.  I take a few faltering steps down the street.  Only then do I glance back at the building, squinting up at the fourth floor windows. 

My eyes are dry. 

There is nothing there for me.  Because I was never more than a fuck to Brian.  Never more than a twink that somehow wandered into his life and wouldn’t leave.  And he was never more than the arrogant, self-absorbed prick that everyone told me he was. 

It doesn’t matter what I saw.  What I thought I just saw… remembered...  relived.   I shake my head.  Don’t want to confront that now.   Can’t.  Fucking can’t. 

He never loved me.  I have to believe that. 

Because… because… if he did… if he does…  last night was the biggest fuck-up of my life. 

And I’ll never get him back. 

And I’m floundering now, floundering still, and there’s no anchor in sight.