Maybe, Maybe Not



Warning:  Not the ending you might expect.





Babylon. Late night.


The crowds were gone, the cleanup crew finished and leaving. Brian was in the office, going over the books, double-checking Ted's math and the club's expenses.

Shit. A year ago He wouldn't be here. He'd be back home, back in the loft, back in his own bed and back in Justin.


That was then. This was now.

Justin was in New York. His first gallery show was a success, the paintings selling well and two more shows were lined up. The kid was on his way.

They hadn't had much contact since the kid left last year; a few calls, some e-mails but they were all instigated by Brian. Justin was never the one who called. Justin was busy. Justin had other things to do.

Brian looked again at the liquor order for next week. Eighteen cases of booze. Christ, these fags drank like fish and every damn drink was money in his pocket.

Good. He was rich. He was getting richer.

Big fucking deal.

He'd had it. Screw this. He wanted to be with the twink. Now.

Locking the main door, setting the alarm, he got in his car, the green Corvette he'd become embarrassed about driving. Nothing says over the hill than an expensive, phallic machine roaring under your ass. Didn't matter.

Seven hours later he was crossing the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan. Down Riverside, over to Broadway, down to the Village, stopping at a rare vacant parking place on Bleeker. He walked around the corner to number seventeen, rang the bell.

Rang it again.

Again. Nothing.


There was a place to get food down the street. He had breakfast, pretending he had someplace important to be, self-conscious of his beard, unbrushed teeth and yesterday's clothes. Shit.

An hour later he's back at number seventeen.

This time there's an answer. "Nick? C'mon up."

Excuse me?

The chipped door opens. "Brian? What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Expecting someone?"

"As a matter of fact."


"And you should have called. It's been a while." Another man comes up the stairs, stops at the door, waiting. That big sunshine smile breaks out.

"You've been making friends."

"You could say that."

Brian blocked the door. Nick, or whomever he was, left standing in the hallway. "What the fuck is this?"

"Exactly what it looks like."

Brian turned to the new guy. "Fuck off."

The guy looked at Justin for confirmation. "Stay. This won't take long." He turned to Brian. "I'm busy today. I have plans."

Brian stared. "And they'll take how long?"

"Long enough that you shouldn't wait." Justin moved Brian aside so Nick could go inside. Now Justin was blocking the door, leaving Brian in the hall with the closed door behind them so he could say what needed to be said in privacy.


"This isn't going to happen anymore. I've realized a few things since I've been here and this—it's not happening."

Brian stared, not liking this.

"You're not good for me. I mean, you're not. You're controlling, obsessive and emotionally stunted. You haven't a clue about what loving someone—being in love really means and I've tried for six years now to get through to you and failed. You think that just by showing up I'm supposed to fall into bed with you or some shit like that, right? Fuck that. I'm not a horny little twink anymore and I want more than you're capable of giving anyone. I'm fucking tired of having to interrupt every frigging sentence and gesture. I'm not going to stoke your damn insecurities anymore and I'll be fucked before I agree to put up with your stupid, adolescent backroom bullshit. Grow the hell up, Brian—you're pushing forty; you're too old to be a club boy and you're an embarrassment."

Brian's eyes were very large, not believing what was happening.

"I have a friend waiting for me. Goodbye, Brian." Justin turned, closing the door behind him.

Brian heard the lock turn. Going downstairs, he got back in his car to head home; Babylon would be open tonight.



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