After several hours of partying in the streets with their friends, Brian and Justin finally broke away from the celebration just before dawn. They caught a cab and barely managed to keep their hands off of each other until they pulled up in front of the loft.

"Move your ass," Brian growled as he shoved Justin out and threw some bills at the driver.

Justin hurried up the steps and entered the code for the door. He stepped through, but didn’t see his lover when he stood aside to let him in. The blond stuck his head back out. "Brian?"

The older man was standing on the sidewalk, facing the other side of the street. "Go upstairs," he ordered before crossing the intersection to the parked car on the opposite corner.

Justin saw a man get out of the car and realized it was Jim Stockwell.

***

"I…uh…"

"Bri--"

"…love…"

"…oh …god…"

"…fucking…"

"…yesss…"

"…you…"

"…Brian…ahhh…no, don’t...stop! Brian! Ignore it!"

Justin clung tighter to his lover as whoever was outside the loft pounded on the door again. What was it with everyone in the tri-state area coming to visit when they were fucking?

Although Brian had been momentarily surprised by the distraction, he had no intention of stopping. He’d learned his lesson last time. Nothing on the other side of that door could be better than this.

"Bri—ahh!" Justin groaned when Brian slammed into him, again and again. The blond gleefully met each thrust and their mingled cries soon drown out any other noise as they came together.

Once the blood rushing in their ears subsided, they realized their audience wasn’t giving up. In fact, the knocking had become more insistent—probably because they’d just proven they were home.

"Never a moments rest," Brian grumbled as he slipped on a pair of sweats and went to answer the door.

The older man’s words echoed in Justin’s head and he felt a cold finger of dread touch his shoulder. "Brian, wa--" he called although his lover had already opened the door to reveal Carl Horvath and two uniformed police men on the other side.

"Morning, gentlemen—oh, I mean evening," Brian tritely corrected when he realized the loft had darkened considerably as the sun went down again. He’d promised Justin an entire day in bed and it had been easily delivered.

"Mr. Kinney," Horvath returned stiffly, glancing around the loft. When he spotted Justin in the bedroom doorway, he nodded to him. "Put some clothes on, son, and come down here."

"What the fuck for?" Brian snapped. "You know he’s a consenting adult."

One of the uniformed officers snarled under his breath, but Horvath ignored him. "I need to know where you were between 3 and 6 this morning."

"What’s going on?" Justin asked as he joined them.

"The detective wants to know what I was up to this morning," Brian smirked.

"Just answer the question," Horvath prodded.

Brian gave a long-suffering sigh. "I was at the block party until four, which every fag in Pittsburgh can verify, then the diner for about an hour, I’ll show you my credit card receipt, and then I came home and fucked his brains out." He slipped an arm around Justin’s waist and kissed his temple, all the while keeping an eye on the two uniformed officers who sneered back.

"Can anyone else corroborate that you were home after five?" the detective asked.

Brian waited a moment, deliberating with himself, then responded, "Yeah, your boss."

Horvath shook his head, looking somewhat defeated. "Let’s go, we’ll continue this discussion downtown."

"What?" Justin asked, eyes wide. "Why?"

The detective locked gazes with Brian and told them, "Chief Stockwell is dead."