Beyond Reason

Chapter 3

"Brian? There were a couple of messages for you from lunch. Did you see them?"

"You mean those pink pieces of paper that said `You have a message' that were sitting on my desk? No, didn't see any of them."

Cynthia just gave him one of her looks. They were used to one another. They knew it didn't mean anything.

There were the usual call this client and call that client. Carl Horvath had called. He'd return that one in a minute. There was another one though, the third one…"Cynthia? Who was this from?"

"Which?"

"The one from someone named Brad."

"Pitt?" She looked momentarily hopeful. "He said he was a friend of yours, that you know him."

"The fuck I do."

"Well, his number is there. He wants you to call him back." She started back to her own office. "Anything else?"

"Only that I don't pay you to stand around. Move your ass."

"I love my job."

Glancing at the message from Brad, who ever the fuck that was, he picked up the paper, crumpled it and tossed it into the trash.

The next couple of weeks were busy. Too busy. Brian had more meetings than even he was comfortable with and Justin, along with most of the rest of the PIFA students were helping to set up temporary quarters in a rented warehouse which they were using plywood and two by fours to divide into classrooms and office areas.

The days started early and went late. They were too tired when they got home to do much more than eat a take-out dinner, hit the shower and fall into bed. Oh sure, they made time for sex, but the fact was that they were both so busy and over scheduled that it was almost an effort to find a time when they were in the loft at the same time.

Their social lives suffered, too. Justin joked that Woody's bar take had fallen off by at least ten percent with Brian wining and dining clients almost every night and the back room at Babylon was bereft with out his inspiration.

They joked about it, but they were both close to exhaustion. It didn't matter, they kept going.

The police had questioned Justin again since Ken had reported the vandalism to their shared studio. Horvath told the boys that the fire seemed to be obviously connected to Justin. At first they had all hoped against hope that it had been a fluke that some nut had written a crank letter, but that now seemed pretty unlikely.

They still didn't really know who wrote the letter though Eric, the frat boy Justin had deflowered at Daphne's party a while back had been brought in for questioning. Professing his innocence, he had insisted that he hadn't even been in Pittsburgh at the time, that he had gone to his family's cabin up near Punxsutawney and had spent a few days alone.

No, there were no witnesses, but it was the truth.

His father hired a good lawyer for his son and threatened to sue the PPD for defamation of character and harassment.

During the third week after the fire Eric showed up at the diner, wanting to talk to Justin. They went out to the sidewalk for relative privacy.

"What the fuck do we have to talk about?"

Eric looked at incredulously. "The fact that the cops think I've been stalking you, that they think I'm the one who burned down PIFA, the fact that you fucked me then didn't even want to know my name—I mean for starters. Why the hell did you think I was the one who torched your school?"

"You know, I don't think we should be talking about this."

"Screw you, Justin. You fucked me once and now you're trying to do it again? Is this how you get your laughs, you and your boyfriend?"

Justin started back into the diner.

Eric grabbed his arm. "I know about who your boyfriend is and how he's supposed to be this really arrogant prick. Is he the reason? I mean, is this some kind of game you two play with each other or something? Who does shit like that?"

"Look, I didn't do anything to you." He saw the hurt look again. Damn, he did look just like a puppy. "OK, other than fuck you at a party. I never said it was true love or any of that. It was just a fuck."

"Yeah, I've caught that. In fact I caught that when you told me right about here on this fucking sidewalk—so why am I your fucking target in this arson thing? Am I really the only one you've managed to completely stomp all over? You know something? I doubt that…you and your boyfriend, both"

Justin had about all he was going to take of this loser. "OK, so maybe you didn't do it, but from where the cops are standing it looks pretty damn suspicious."

"Right and from where I'm standing you need to watch who you screw from now on."

Christ. "Are you threatening me? Because if you are…"

"Me threaten you? Like I'm that stupid. You just stay the hell away from me from now on—." He started to turn away, to leave. "And I thought you were going to be my true love." He said it sarcastically. "But you're just another asshole." And he was gone.

Either he was the best fucking liar on the planet or he really was innocent.

Another day in paradise.

Maybe Brian was doing better.

Well, no, not really.

"Brian? That person—Brad? He called again while you were with Revson. Do you want me to get rid of him when he calls again?"

"What did he want this time?"

"He just said he wanted to talk to you, no details. Should I put him through next time?"

"How many times had he called?"

"At least two or three times a week for the last two or three weeks. I can check the phone log if you want."

"No, just…the next time put him through and I'll try to figure out who he is. He doesn't give any hints?"

"He just keeps telling me that you know him."

"Pain in the ass."

"I thought you liked that."

Around four that afternoon the call came in. After the heads up from Cynthia, he picked up the receiver.

"Brad, I thought you might call. What can I do for you?"

"Brian—I was hoping you might still want to get together, maybe after work tonight. You have any plans?"

"As a matter of fact I'm taking a client to dinner. Maybe we could make it another time. I'll call you, alright?"

"…You won't call, you son of a bitch. You wouldn't call someone like me because you think you can do better—you're the kind of bastard who always thinks they can do better and you know what? You can't. You hear me? You fucking can't." There was a pause while the person on the other end of the phone seemed to take a swallow of something. "You know that blondie you always have hanging on your arm? He's nothing—you hear me? Compared to me he's fucking nothing, he's invisible beside me but you're too dumb to even know it. Asshole."

"Excuse me? Who the fuck are you?"

"You're the kind of arrogant asshole who can't even be bothered to learn someone's name—someone who's better than you are and you couldn't even bother to remember my name—not like that little twat Justin."

"Look…"

"You hear me, you prick? You may not remember who I am but I sure as shit know who you are so you better watch your ass, you hear me? You hear what I'm saying? Son of a bitch. Corner of Tremont and Fourth, right? See, asshole, I remember."

Brian heard the sound as whoever this Brad person, asshole was seemingly slammed down a fairly substantial phone.

Motherfucker—who was this jerk? Some old trick who didn't get it? Some one he blew off at Woody's or Babylon? Maybe Justin would have a clue because he sure as hell had no memory of who this jerk was. Hell's bells.

He tried to settle back into his work but the thing with the perv, as he was starting to think of him was getting to him more than he would like.

OK, he knew Brian's name and where he worked. He knew about Justin and he—no, it was too farfetched. Who the fuck would do that?

But who on Liberty Avenue didn't know who he was, when you came down to it? There probably wasn't anyone who was a regular who didn't know that he and Justin were together or where they lived. It was common knowledge, had been for years.

He could have been the asshole who torched PIFA.

Brian dialed Carl's work number. Talking quickly he outlined what had just happened, agreeing to meet the cop at the loft later that evening, after the client dinner. Shit.

Carl had said that they had been concerned that whoever had set the fire might have another agenda than just trying to upset Justin, maybe seriously harm him or even to kill him. They'd talk more later, about nine. Yes, Justin should be there as well—but make sure that he wasn't home alone or anything. It sounded like this guy was pretty nuts. Maybe they should have a car parked in front of the entrance to discourage any unwanted visitors?

No, thanks. There was a security code and the loft was coded, too. They'd be fine.

But still...

The client dinner was real and something that he couldn't postpone, not on this short notice. Leo Brown might love his work, but he had a low tolerance for what he referred to as being `jerked around' by anyone. Dinner was scheduled for six, steak and potatoes, thanks, with one beer and a small slice of cheesecake for dessert. Period. That was what Leo would eat. In the half dozen or so dinner or lunch meetings they'd had, that was what he inevitably ordered. No surprises. Ever. Don't be late and don't suggest anything other than meat and potatoes.

Fine, hell—it was just one more dinner. He'd get through it and get home.

"Justin? Pick up, will you? Damnit. Leave your fucking cel on, will you? That's why I'm paying for the fucking thing." He was given the electronic offer of voicemail. "Fine, Goddamnit. Justin, don't go back to the loft before nine, you hear me? I mean it. I don't want you there alone and I'm stuck with a client tonight. Go to Daphne's or someplace, maybe Deb's but I don't want to see your ass before nine. Call me asshole."

Fine, with any luck he'd get the message and just, for once in his life do as he was asked. Maybe.

Forcing himself, he spent the rest of the day actually giving the company some of his time, annoyed that he never heard back from Justin and trying his cel a few more times. At six-fifteen he left for the restaurant and his meeting with Leo Brown, briefcase filled with the latest mockups in his hand.

Across town Justin took out his cel, swearing when he saw that he had forgotten to recharge the batteries. Damnit. Brian would have his ass, and not in a positive way. Not knowing about the meeting Brian was just walking into, he decided that he might as well get back to the loft and start dinner for the two of them.

In Brian's building, sitting patiently on the third floor landing, he sat waiting. He would be able to hear if anyone came in the front door or if they used the elevator. He would know which floor they go on or off at and he would be able to hear the door sliding opened and closed.

It wasn't the first time he'd been there. No one had noticed him. There weren't many tenants and not all that many people came and went.

He'd made a key from a wax impression.

He waited.

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