Chris excused himself from the regulars gathered across the bar from him. "Hang on boys, I gotta do my job here."

"I got a job for you, Christopher, any time you're interested."

Chris shook his head as he left Billie and his friends to walk to the other end of the bar and help the lone customer sitting there. Jesus, that little queen Billie just never gave up. He sighed…flirting was part of the job, after all. His ability to make a mean apple martini wasn't enough, it was the attitude with which he served it that counted as well. And this bunch wanted charming and flirtatious… he could do that with his eyes shut. And Billie was a good customer, after all. And since he wasn't behind the bar much anymore, he enjoyed it when he was. Besides, there were a hell of a lot of worse ways to make a living, as he well knew.

As he made his way down the bar, he took a quick glance around the club, making sure everyone was having a good time. It was a nice place, a cut or three above the usual joints he'd bounced or bartended for. It had been a "regular" club when it opened, several years before Chris' time, but when the area had started changing, the owner, Antonio Nappa, had made the smart decision and changed with it. And now Tony's Place was a popular after-hours club in a thriving gay neighborhood.

There were no flashing lights and the music wasn't too loud for conversation. Quiet for the most part, there was a small dance floor in the back that was never crowded during the week, but held its fill on Friday and Saturday nights.

The clientele was mostly from the area, employees of the various shops and restaurants, relaxing after work and then letting their hair down – sometimes in more ways than one – on the weekends. Though Chris had never been part of this kind of crowd, he felt comfortable here, and was well-liked by the patrons.

The guy he was waiting to serve now was new; he'd come in several minutes ago and staggered straight to the bathroom, with Ronnie close on his heels. Ronnie Barlog was a good friend of Chris'; he came in several times a week to earn a few bucks under the table by helping out around the place… and selling the occasional blowjob.

Chris didn't approve – he was trying to steer Ronnie clear of that kind of life. But it was a gay bar, after all, and as long as Ronnie kept it low profile and limited to regulars, Chris let it slide for the most part, keeping his lectures to a minimum.

It seemed Ronnie had had no luck with this new guy, anyhow; he'd come back out of the bathroom only a couple minutes after going in, apparently striking out – unless, of course, the guy was fast on the draw.

A few minutes later, the stranger had made his way to the bar, and now Chris was waiting for him to look up, acknowledge him, and give his order. But he seemed too intent on tearing the edge of a bar napkin into fringe to notice. Chris cleared his throat, and the man's head shot up, the napkin quickly smashed into a ball and thrown almost guiltily to the floor. By the bright, glassy look in his eyes and his startled, flighty movements, Chris realized he might have gotten something from Ronnie after all, and that wasn't good.

If Ronnie was dealing… Chris swallowed his disappointment. He knew he couldn't control all the drugs that came into the place; they were too big a part of the club scene. But he wasn't tolerant of them when they were discovered, and Ronnie sure as hell knew this. If Ronnie was dealing, it was a slap in the face to Chris.

He quickly scanned the room – he'd have to keep an eye on the kid to make sure he didn't skip out before he had a chance to talk with him. He turned his attention back to the man in front of him.

"What'll it be, pal?" He never tired of that clichéd line – it made him feel Bogie-esque.

"I, uh, I'm not sure – whaddya got?" The man's fingers were drumming on the bar, maybe anxious for the lost napkin… they certainly seemed to need something to do.

'What do we have?' Chris wondered, amused. 'It's a fuckin' bar, what does he think we have?' He decided to have a little fun. "Well, we have beer, bottled or on tap, domestic and imported, light, dark, some that tastes great and is less filling, and some that frankly taste like shit to me, but others seem to enjoy it. I frown on frou-frou drinks, but I've learned to grin and make 'em – although I do draw the line at umbrellas." He leaned onto the bar, his lips curling into a sly smile. "And I expect an extra large tip for anything with a cherry."

Chris was a little taken aback at himself. It wasn't like him to go off like that on someone new. He'd wait a while, see the mood of the customer before coming on so strong. Some were in the mood to talk, others to flirt, and some just wanted to drink in silence.

For some reason, though, he had felt the urge to poke a little fun at Buzz What'sHere's expense, even though the guy seemed to be too out of it to appreciate anything Chris was saying. Maybe it was the fact that he looked so out of place…so *rich*. He was wearing a dinner jacket – nice, maybe Armani, and a silk tie hanging down, framing the open vee of his shirt where the first couple of buttons were undone; definitely a stand out among this casual crowd.

"Uh, I guess I'll have a beer… I'm not sure what kind."

"Tell you what, pal – hey, what's your name anyhow?"

"It's Beecher – Toby…Tobias…Tobias Beecher." He wiped the thin sheen of sweat off his upper lip, then his fingers resumed their drumming, picking up the tempo even more. He suddenly shot out, "Why?" almost as a suspicious afterthought.

Chris was becoming more amused by the second. He wondered where this Beecher fellow had wandered in from. He was about to ask when Billie leaned across the opposite end of the bar, waggling his glass to get Chris' attention. "Cuhriiiistopher, I've finished my Screaming Orgasm!"

Chris waved and nodded. "You must be very proud," he called, "have a cigarette while your toes uncurl and I'll be right there."

He resumed his study of Tobias Beecher. He had large hands with long fingers – they looked strong and capable, but not like they were ever put to the test. Well taken care of – probably got a hundred dollar manicure every week – there were no broken nails, no scratches or scars to indicate he used them for more than pushing papers, the smooth skin interrupted only by the dull gleam of a wedding band.

The man himself was soothing on the eye – dark blond hair, short, with a good haircut. He had an agreeable face, set off by a very nice pair of light blue eyes, a little unfocused at the moment. Not really his type, but Chris was getting sick of his type. Actually, he didn't even know what his type was, if he really thought about it. He'd given up the fast and furious crowd – with one exception – after his third stint behind bars, and the string of subsequent one-night stands hadn't needed to fill any criteria other than warm and willing.

"Well, I'll tell you, Toby Tobias Beecher…"

"Tell me what?" Beecher had taken his jacket off and draped it over the stool next to him, where it had promptly slid to the floor, unnoticed by the owner. "Look, can I please get a drink?"

Chris could see he was becoming agitated, running his hands through his hair and shifting on his seat.

Chris decided to can the sarcasm. "Yeah, that's what I was going to say, about your drink. How about a club soda or ginger ale? I could even make you a virgin margarita or something, if you'd like."

"No, I'd like a fucking beer. What the hell is a bartender doing preaching temperance, anyhow?" Beecher had pulled his keys out of his pants pocket, and was bouncing them in his hand, the jangling now replacing the drumming of his fingers.

"Look, buddy, I'm responsible for what goes on in here. I'm all for feeling good, but I don't know you and I don't know how well you can handle your liquor, especially when it's chasing whatever went up your nose in the bathroom. And I saw the way you staggered in here – you were already swimming on something. So have the club soda and when you've mellowed out a little, I'll draw you up a beer, on the house."

God, listen to me, Chris thought. A few years ago he would've ingested anything anybody put in front of him. This new-found sense of responsibility still took him by surprise every now and then.

Not that he was longing for his old life, by any means. He'd had fun, when he wasn't in jail, or wondering where he was going to sleep that night, or even if he was going to eat that day. To have his life under control like this, to know what his future held on more than a day-to-day basis – it was a feeling of peace he hadn't realized he was missing until he found it.

He hadn't turned saint, not by any means. But right now his concentration was centered on running a good business. If he had the money when it came time for Nappa to sell the place, there couldn't be any black marks against him. He knew Antonio wouldn't sell to just anyone with the cash, he wanted someone who would care about the club like he did. Chris was working hard to make sure Nappa knew he was that person.

He was pulled from his brief introspection by the prospective customer's reaction to his offer of club soda, and he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. Toby Tobias Beecher was sitting there with a stunned look on his face, his mouth opening and closing, obviously so outraged he simply couldn't form the words. Chris had a fleeting vision of throwing a peanut in the guy's mouth, kind of like a bar version of miniature golf.

His enjoyment of the situation ended abruptly as Beecher came halfway off the stool, his arms coming up, and Chris realized the moron was going to try and hit him. Fortunately, before Chris had to clock him, Beecher's hand hit the edge of the bar, knocking his keys loose, and his anger seemed to be forgotten in the concern of picking them up. He leaned over to retrieve them, balancing precariously on the edge of the stool, but then suddenly sat up, holding his hand to his head.

"Fucking head rush," he muttered, before swaying and falling backward off the stool.

"Shit!" Chris hopped the bar and was kneeling at the unconscious man's side in a second. He gently felt through the short hair to see if there was any bleeding. He had a moment's indecision; he should probably call the paramedics, but he had a very good feeling Mr. Tobias Beecher, married man, wouldn't be too happy about being found in a gay bar with a blood content high in alcohol and whatever Ronnie had slipped him in the bathroom, plus whatever other pharmaceuticals he may have indulged in this evening.

"Oh my God, is he okay?" Billie and his buddies were gathered around, concern and excitement flowing in equal parts through the small group.

"Yeah, yeah, I think so." And in fact Beecher was moaning softly and trying to move. "I think I should just keep him awake in case he has a concussion. Someone grab his coat and keys and put them behind the bar, and help me get him up." Chris untangled the man's legs from the bar stool and he and Billie pulled him to his feet.

He called to Brad, bartender and cook, who was working in the little kitchen off the bar. Chris instructed him to take over while he and Billie half walked, half carried Beecher to the hallway in the corner. As they got there, they met Ronnie coming out of the bathroom just inside the hall.

"Holy shit, what happened to this dude?"

"That's what the hell I want to know, Ronnie. You take over for Billie; help me keep him moving."

So Ronnie took up position and wrapped Beecher's arm around his neck. They walked the hallway past the bathrooms, the storage closets and the office at the end. Beecher's head hung limply, but he was groaning every few seconds and shuffling his feet enough that they weren't completely dragging him.

As they turned at the end of the hall, Chris hissed at Ronnie over the back of Beecher's head. "What the hell did you give him?"

Ronnie looked back in surprise; a carefully orchestrated response, Chris thought. "I didn't give him anything, Chris. I know how you feel about that."

"Jesus, Ronnie, don't insult me with any bullshit. The guy comes in the front door dragging and weaving, and when he comes out of the bathroom three minutes later he's wired enough to start tap-dancing on the ceiling."

Ronnie shifted his eyes away, but before he could say anything, Beecher pulled his arm free from the young man. He clutched the back of his head, groaning and slumping against Chris.

"Go get an ice pack from Brad." Chris led Beecher into the office and deposited him on the small couch. The injured man leaned over to rest his head on the padded arm but immediately sat up again, lurching forward, holding his stomach with one hand and covering his mouth with the other.

Chris moved quickly, grabbing the wastebasket from behind the desk. He set it in front of Beecher, and then took a couple steps back. "Just don't puke on the floor, okay? I'll heave myself if I have to clean that shit up."

Ronnie came back in with the ice pack, and Chris took it with an angry glare. "I want you out of here, now."

Ronnie's mouth dropped in dismay. He stepped up to Chris, his stunning blue eyes sad and pleading. "C'mon, Chris, you don't mean that, do you?"

His expression could be described as "whipped puppy", at least by the kind of people who used phrases like that. Chris would call it trying to weasel out of the ass-kicking he knew he deserved.

Chris grabbed Ronnie's hand, which was softly stroking his shoulder, and moved it from his body. He and Ronnie were tight, and though he was mad enough to choke him at the moment, he knew his anger wouldn't last long. But for now he thought it best his friend was not on the premises.

He softened his tone. "You just go on home, Ronnie. Come by tomorrow and we'll talk about it."

Ronnie smiled with relief and hugged Chris quickly before leaving. He paused at the door to cast a glance at the man on the couch. "I hope he's going to be okay – I would've turned him away if I'd known this was going to happen."

Chris waved him off, and then turned his attention to Beecher, who was still leaning forward, but had managed, thank God, to refrain from throwing up.

He sat on the couch, running his fingers through Beecher's hair, finding the lump on his head. As he did, he noticed how his hair wasn't really just the dark blond he'd thought, but had strawberry highlights that the dim bar lights hadn't picked up.

He didn't even realize he'd been distracted from what he was supposed to be doing until Beecher let out a small "ow".

The injured man sat up and eyed Chris warily before grabbing the ice pack from him and scooching back into the corner of the couch. "What the fuck happened?" he asked, his voice a harsh whisper.

Chris stood, giving Beecher some room. "You fell off the bar stool. Got knocked out for a second there, but I think the worst you'll get away with is one king-sized hangover."

"No shit," Beecher moaned, setting the ice down to hold his head in his hands.

"You want a glass of water or something?"

Beecher rolled his eyes up to look at Chris, then grimaced and pressed the heels of his hands against them. "How about a shot of whiskey?"

"You gonna try and hit me again if I say no?"

Beecher squinted up at him. "What?"

"You were getting ready to take a swing at me when I refused you a beer." Chris was leaning against his desk, trying not to get so much amusement out of the situation.

"Right... you were laughing at me, just like you are now." He shook his head, only once before he groaned and grabbed it, massaging his temples. "And you offered me a Shirley Temple or some shit... what are you, Mormon? Fuck, just call me a cab and I'll go to a bar that will actually serve liquor."

Resisting the almost over-powering urge to say, 'okay, you're a cab', he answered instead, "Why don't you just hang out here for a while until you're sure you're okay? Better yet, I can call the paramedics or give you a ride to the emergency room." He was kind of hoping Beecher would go with that idea. He wanted to make sure he covered all his bases, in case this Beecher dude got some kind of idea to sue, or he woke up dead or something.

Beecher tried to stand, his rear end barely making it off the couch before he gave up and sank back down.

Chris rummaged around in one of the desk drawers, finding some Exedrin, something Mr. Nappa was never without. Handing four to Beecher, he said, "I'll go get you some water. If you won't let me take you to the hospital, maybe I can call someone for you – your wife?"

Beecher looked at Chris through the slits of his eyes. He popped the pills into his mouth and began chewing. "Yeah, why don't you call my wife? That would be great – 'Hey, Genevieve, your husband's here at a bar, recovering from knocking himself out after drinking too much and scoring drugs from a fag in the bathroom'. That would be the perfect capper on this night. At least I'd be keeping in theme."

"Well," Chris asked carefully, after he'd stopped grimacing over Beecher dry-chewing the Exedrin, "if not your wife, then anyone else? You got a friend or some family could come get you?"

Beecher laughed, a bitter sound. "My family's probably in the process of legally disowning me, though I'm sure any member of the Dalton Country Club would be more than delighted to come get me. Imagine their pathetic little thrill at picking me up here... the scandal continues!"

Interesting. "Dalton, huh? That's a pretty fucking high class joint. Probably wouldn't take much to get that crowd's panties in a twist."

Brad worked the kitchen at Dalton occasionally, when they had their big parties, and Chris had dropped him off a few times. Once he'd sat and watched the Rolls and Mercedes and Bentleys pull up and drop off the cream of society, decked out in all the latest names and fashions, accented by enough jewelry to support Chris and everyone he knew for the rest of their lives. Shit, the amount of glass that one old, blue-haired dame – Chris had named her Anastasia Beverhausen – had been wearing would have been enough to keep him happy for years.

But for some reason, although he didn't even know the man, he couldn't quite picture Beecher with that crowd, or vice-versa. No, he just couldn't picture ol' Anastasia falling off a bar stool in a gay bar.

"That's the fucking truth," Beecher was saying. "A tighter bunch you'll never meet." He was leaning back on the couch now; he'd retrieved the ice and was holding it to the back of his head, eyes closed.

"That include you?"

One eye opened partially. "I guess it used to."

"But now?" Chris was trying to keep him talking, make sure he wasn't going to fall asleep or pass out. But as he asked the questions, he realized it wasn't just the need to keep Beecher awake that had Chris looking forward to the answer. He was truly curious as to the answer, though he wasn't quite sure why.

Beecher didn't seem to be a stranger to being drunk – he was pretty ungrateful; he was a smart ass; he did drugs – all perfectly good reasons right there to send him on his way without another thought. Chris didn't even realize he'd left out 'being married' as a negative trait – it'd never stood in his way before.

Being rich on the other hand was one – Chris had nothing but bad memories of his former dealings with the wealthy. But Beecher admittedly wasn't the typical well-to-do type. Certainly, from what he'd seen, nothing like the other fucks he'd... spent time with.

He studied Beecher while waiting for an answer. He was good-looking, but a little soft and neat for Chris' taste. He didn't seem to be impressed by Chris in the least. But maybe these things were exactly what had him interested. He'd had enough pretty boys trying to seduce him – maybe he was up for a challenge. Or maybe he was just bored.

"Now?" Beecher finally answered. "Now, I feel as though I have nothing at all in common with those people."

"Really?" That was encouraging. Chris went to the small fridge behind his desk and pulled out two bottles of beer. Popping the tops, he handed one to Beecher, who took it gratefully.

"Was that so hard?"

Chris smiled, tilting the bottle in the other man's direction. "No, but that's all you're getting."

They drank their beers in silence before Chris asked, "So, what is it that brought you from the most exclusive country club in town to this joint?"

Beecher took a deep breath, which he let out in a long sigh. "I was found hiding in the locker room while my wife and a few hundred of our closest friends were in the dining room, celebrating our seventh wedding anniversary."

"Not in the party mood?"

Beecher shook his head, grimacing at the movement. "Not that kind of party, anyhow. It seemed avoidance of the issue was the best way to handle it, so I grabbed a cab and started making the rounds."

They sat in silence for several minutes, Chris contemplating this information. The guy was married – not too excited about it, it appeared – and when he needed to drown his sorrows he headed to this neighborhood. Didn't take much to figure as to why Beecher wasn't thrilled about celebrating his blessed union. He wondered what Beecher's other half was like and pictured a younger version of Ms. Beverhausen, screaming for her husband's head on a plate.

"So, your wife gonna freak out?"

Beecher looked at the carpet between his feet. "Probably not. She probably just went home and cried herself to sleep."

Chris wasn't expecting that answer. "What's going to happen now?"

Beecher grabbed the ice pack, ignoring the last question as he slowly got to his feet. "I need to go. If you tell me where I am, I'll call a cab."

"Where do you think you are?"

Beecher looked around, like the answer might be written on the walls. "I really don't know, though I have a great suspicion that the cabbie dropped me off in the gay district. I've been to two other bars, I think, and been propositioned three times." He held the ice out to Chris. "And not by women."

As he reached for the ice with one hand, he put his other on the back of Beecher's hand, holding it between the two of his. "You don't seem to mind, hanging in a gay bar."

Beecher looked at their hands and the tip of his tongue made a brief appearance, sliding quickly across his lips.

Chris couldn't help himself – he rubbed his fingers over the back of Beecher's wrist. At this Beecher flushed, but kept his cool as he pulled his hand deliberately from between Chris'.

Looking Chris straight in the eye, he replied, "Any place that will serve me a drink – that almost left you out, didn't it?"

Chris grinned as he nodded at the empty beer bottles on his desk. "Almost, but not quite. Hey, you going to have someone around tonight? You might have a concussion – you need someone to make sure you wake up."

"I'll be fine."

Chris wasn't so sure. "If you're not going home, why don't you give me the number where you'll be so I can call and check on you, wake you up every couple hours or so, just in case."

Beecher snorted. "You probably don't get to use a line like that too often, do you?"

Chris started to argue that he was only looking out for the guy, making sure he'd be okay. But as he recalled the weight of the man as he leaned against him, the way his hair had looked sliding through his fingers, the feel of Beecher's hand in his – he felt his cock stir a little, and remembered how long it had been since he'd gotten laid. Maybe it was partly a line, after all. So he just smiled and directed Beecher to the bar, where Brad handed him his things, and Chris called a cab.

After Beecher slipped into his coat the two men faced each other.

"Sorry I laughed at you," Chris said.

"Sorry I tried to hit you... really sorry, as it turned out," Beecher replied, gingerly running his hand over the back of his head. He extended his hand – somewhat tentatively, Chris thought. "Thanks for helping me. Some of the dives I've been in, they would have just thrown me to the gutter."

Chris took the offered hand in a firm grip, moving it slowly up and down. "Sounds like you've been in the wrong places. I do make an effort in keeping the customers off the floor." He was encouraged by Beecher's unexpected apology, and when the man attempted to pull his hand back, Chris held on. "Why don't you drop by the next time you're out this way, and I'll make sure you get whatever you want." Chris' slow smile made it clear exactly what his offer included.

Beecher looked once more at their clasped hands. His lips parted, as though he were about to speak. Chris watched his mouth, waiting for an answer.

Then Beecher gave a sudden tug and pulled free. "Sure, 'cause this place is going to hold so many good memories for me," he snarked. Chris' hand was still out in front of him, frozen in surprise as he watched Beecher leave the club. As he walked through the doorway, he turned back for just a second. And Chris couldn't be sure, but he thought Beecher winked at him.

"So, what's his story?" Brad asked.

Chris studied the ice pack he was holding for a moment before replying. "You know the saying 'money can't buy happiness'?" I always thought it was made up by some fat, fucking rich prick who didn't know a thing about being poor." He looked toward the door. "Maybe I was wrong."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Six weeks later...

Chris was double-checking figures in one of the ledgers while waiting for Antonio Nappa to arrive. He owed a huge debt to Mr. Nappa for giving him a job here almost two years ago, hiring him on a whim in spite of his record. He'd started out in the kitchen and doing clean-up, moving up to bartender soon after. He'd recently been promoted to manager, basically running the place, while helping out behind the bar when needed.

Antonio wanted out, had plans to sell the place within the next couple of years and retire to Florida where his daughter was living. Chris had been saving every cent he possibly could ever since Nappa had announced his plans. Chris wanted to buy the bar; the desire to own his own place, be his own man, growing every day. He'd even taken a few business management classes last year when he knew the manager position was going to become available. That still brought a smile when he thought about it – Chris Keller, student and prospective business owner. Who woulda thunk it? Certainly no one Chris used to run with, least of all Chris himself.

Antonio had taken a shine to Chris and was always encouraging him; he was sure the old man would sell to him, as long as he was able to keep the operation running smoothly. Nappa had even mentioned that he would be willing to carry the loan, though he would still need a large down payment to get moved and settled in St. Petersburg. Chris knew he would never be able to swing a loan, even for that, so no penny was spent without careful thought.

The phone rang, interrupting his concentration as he tried to figure out where the discrepancy in the whiskey order was coming form. "Yeah?" Shit. "Uh, Tony's place, can I help you?"

"Thank Christ you're there... Chris, you gotta help me, man, I'm in trouble."

"Ronnie, is that you? What the hell's going on?" He hadn't seen much of the young man over the past several weeks. They'd had their talk the night after the incident with Beecher, Chris promising to personally kick Barlog's ass out onto the street if he ever brought drugs into his place again. Ronnie had been full of remorse and promises to straighten up, but his absence could only mean that he'd found somewhere else to peddle his dope. Chris had seen him just a few times since that night.

"Jesus, Chris, you gotta help me." He sounded distraught, on the verge of tears.

"You already said that... where are you?" And Chris held his breath, listening to the familiar background noises, knowing with a sinking heart what the answer would be.

"In jail."

Fuck. "What happened?"

"They got me for assault and robbery. But I swear to God, I didn't know what was going on. I was just the driver, and my fucking asshole public defender is a stupid bitch who won't do shit, she wants me to cop a plea, do time. I can't do it, Chris; you know I can't go back there! I don't know nobody else to ask. And I need someone to post my bail... can you get me out?"

Shit. He'd sworn to himself that there was nothing on Earth that could make him touch his savings, but there was also no way he could live with himself if he had to think of Ronnie in jail. He closed his eyes, indecision striking him mute.

"Chris!" Ronnie's voice was pleading, desperate. "Can you?"

"Goddamn it, Barlog, what have you gotten into?"

"Nothing, I swear! I just gave a friend a ride. Man, please, I didn't do anything, I promise!"

"All right, Ronnie, don't worry." Chris lowered his tone, trying to reassure. "You've been arraigned?"

"Uh huh."

"Okay, I'll get you out. It's going to be a while so just hang in there."

He heard the shaky sigh of relief. "Fuck, thank you. Thank you!"

"You better not let me down. You know how much I need this money."

"No, you know I won't. I'll make it up to you, somehow." Chris could hear a voice saying something about time. "I gotta go. I'll see you soon, right?"

"Yeah, soon, hang in there."

The line disconnected and Chris hung up. Checking the clock, he saw he had just a few minutes until Antonio was supposed to be there. He didn't bother going back to the books; he wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything other than Ronnie.

He went into the bar and poured himself a drink. Trisha, their full-time waitress, and Brad would be in soon, but for now he was alone. He looked around. The familiarity of his surroundings was comforting; it was the closest thing he'd had to a home his whole adult life. His desire for this place suddenly flared up, pushing at his chest. Jesus, Ronnie...

He'd met Ronnie Barlog in prison four years ago, Chris for possession of stolen merchandise, Ronnie for drugs. Ronnie belonged to one of the older prisoners, but the two had connected while working in the kitchen together. Chris had seen much of himself in the scared young man – just a boy, really, struggling to maintain a brave front – and looked out for him when his 'daddy' wasn't around. Ronnie had latched onto Chris in a big way; craving the no-strings-attached affection he was offered. They served together over a year, Ronnie being released two months after Chris.

Ronnie had come looking for Chris, who had no problem letting the boy stay with him... at first. After only a few weeks it was apparent things weren't going to work out. Ronnie had gone right back to hustling and dealing, while Chris was determined to walk the straight and narrow. They were both on parole, and Chris couldn't afford to be anywhere near if Ronnie went down. He wasn't going back to prison, no fucking way – third time had been the charm.

He'd tried talking to Ronnie, told him he'd help him find a job, but the kid wasn't interested. Chris had finally had to tell him to leave. He finished off his drink, remembering the disappointment and uncertainly in Ronnie's voice as he assured Chris he'd be all right.

But Ronnie had returned only 48 hours later, begging Chris to take him back, drunk and high and crying, offering sexual favors, trying to undo Chris' pants as he pleaded. That wasn't the first time Ronnie had offered himself to Chris as payment for rent or food, or to pay back money he'd borrowed. It depressed Chris badly, seeing the boy like that, thinking his body was the only thing he had going for him... a feeling Chris knew all too well. It had killed him to turn the kid out again.

He shook off the memory; he needed to get back to the office and attempt to at least be looking busy when Nappa showed up.

But the memories persisted, and as he sat down at the desk he thought of the night – almost two years ago now – that he'd gotten this job. And he actually owed it to Ronnie.

Ronnie had called one night, asking Chris if he wanted to check out a newly revamped bar he'd heard about. Ronnie had pulled himself somewhat together by this point, working 'real' jobs while keeping his illegal activities on the sidelines. The two had been able to regain the close friendship they'd forged in prison, as long as it was understood that Ronnie do nothing to jeopardize Chris' short time left on parole. They got together at least once a week.

Chris had liked the bar, Tony's Place. It was comfortable and nicer than the leather bars he'd been used to frequenting. It was a little too tame for Ronnie though, and when one of the other customers had offered to buy Chris a drink, Ronnie took the opportunity to take off. "To give you room to work," he'd smiled, nodding toward the hard-bodied man sitting on Chris' other side.

Chris and his new friend, Jason Cramer, had enjoyed several minutes of innuendo-laced conversation before they were interrupted by a beefy, red-faced man storming out of the kitchen, throwing a grease-stained apron back over his shoulder. He was followed all the way out the front door by a smaller, older gentleman, brandishing a butcher knife and yelling out in Italian. When the old man came back in, he had calmed down, shaking his head and muttering under his breath in a rough, weathered voice.

When Jason remarked that the old man was the owner, Chris had decided to go for it; he'd jumped up and stopped him, asking for a job. It was the middle of winter, and he was working construction, when the weather wasn't too bad. Not too bad didn't mean not freezing, and he was sick of being cold all the time.

After a brief discussion in the back office, Antonio Nappa agreed to give him a chance. When Chris divulged his record, and the fact that he still had a few months left on his parole, the bar owner had winked and said, "If I refused to associate with anyone who's had a run-in with the law, I'd be a very lonely man. But it stays away from this place – I'm entirely legit here."

Chris had reassured him, and went home that night with a new job – he also took home Jason, who brought a case of beer and box of condoms to help celebrate. The boyfriend was long gone, but that night had started a new kind of life for Chris.

Now, he let his eyes roam the office, a room where he'd spent countless hours over the past year. He glanced past the bulletin board covered with business cards on the wall next to him, then back again. The majority of cards offered to him were from men who had nothing in the way of business in mind – they had their home numbers circled or written on the back. Most of those went into the trash. He had hardly any time for himself lately, and when he did feel the need to connect he preferred doing it away from the bar.

There were plenty of legitimate cards he did keep – from plumbers, electricians, linen supply companies… and one from a lawyer. He unpinned that one, running his fingers over the raised lettering.

Tobias Beecher, it said across the top, then Archer, Beecher, Jensen – Corporate Law and three phone numbers – office, home, cell - beneath.

Chris had come into possession of the card two days after Beecher had passed out on his floor. Brad handed it to him as he came into work one evening. "That dude from the other night stopped by, left this for you." Chris had been pleasantly surprised.

So, Beecher was a corporate lawyer – no real surprise there – or at least he used to be. There was a large X drawn across the face of the card. He'd turned it over and found a handwritten message: Thanks for the help, I woke up just fine. T. Beecher.

Chris had thought quite a bit about Tobias Beecher over the next few days, catching himself looking up whenever the door opened, halfway expecting (or was it hoping?) to see him walk in. Finally, Chris realized that Beecher's visit had been a fluke, an interesting anecdote to be passed along from regular to newcomer.

Antonio arrived shortly and together they figured out the problem with the whiskey order, finishing up quickly. Nappa was putting on his coat when he asked, "What's wrong, Christopher?"

Chris looked up from the ledger (Antonio insisted on a hand-written copy of everything, though it was all kept on computer as well). "Your mind is on something else. You need to talk?"

Chris smiled appreciatively at the older man. Antonio liked to play tough – he was tough – but he had a compassionate nature and was always asking Chris about his personal life. Lately, there had been almost nothing to tell, and this certainly wasn't a subject he wanted to share. Nappa knew Ronnie, and Chris didn't want to shed an unpleasant light on his friend. He absolutely didn't want Nappa to know he was going to use his savings to bail Ronnie out.

"Thanks, but I'm okay. There's something I need to work out on my own…I won't let it interfere with the job."

"I know you won't, Christopher. You're a good boy." He lightly slapped Chris' cheek, smiling affectionately at him. "And you do a good job. You keep going like you are, and I'll be pleased to consider selling you the bar when the time comes."

Chris managed to smile back – he should have been elated at those words, but he was feeling sick inside. As soon as Antonio left, he headed out to get his friend.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Back at the club that night, he worried about the lawyer. Ronnie had repeated his concern over his P.D., but Chris was afraid they were stuck with her. He knew how Ronnie felt though. A lot of public defenders looked at their clients only as case numbers, needing to be added to the "out" box as fast as possible. But he didn't have much money left, and on the drive to Ronnie's apartment he'd threatened him about skipping bail.

Ronnie had seemed genuinely hurt by that. "You know I would never do that to you." He turned away to look out the window. His voice was small, and Chris could hear the tremor in it. "I just can't go back inside."

Chris took Ronnie's hand and squeezed. "I know, Ronnie. I won't let you."

Ronnie squeezed back and looked at Chris. "I didn't know, I was just giving my friend a ride."

"It's okay, you won't go back."

Now, he wondered how he was going to keep his word. He made a few calls, asking people he knew if they could recommend someone good and cheap. He got a couple of names, and hopefully one of them would take a real interest in Ronnie's case, not just show up for the paycheck.

At noon a couple of days later, Chris was in the courthouse, looking through the spaces in the blinds covering the window of one of the small conference rooms. Ronnie had called that morning, waking Chris from a sleep he'd managed to achieve only a couple of hours earlier. Ronnie's lawyer wanted to meet with him and she had told him to seriously consider entering a guilty plea for reduced time.

Ronnie was panicked, not wanting to accept the deal, but not feeling strong enough to stand up to the lawyer. Chris had done his best to try and calm the young man down, finally agreeing to meet with them and talk to her himself.

Now, Chris studied his friend, sitting with his head in his hands while his lawyer, who had her back to Chris, was talking on her phone. Ronnie lifted his head and his expression was so sad and hopeless that Chris instantly resented the dark-haired attorney, blaming her for Ronnie's demeanor.

He knocked on the door and stepped inside. Ronnie was instantly on his feet, his relief almost palpable. He came around the table and Chris pulled him into a quick hug. "Thanks for coming," the shaken boy whispered.

"Sure." Chris cupped the back of Ronnie's neck, smiling reassuringly. He could see in the usually vibrant eyes just how troubled Ronnie was, felt the desperation in him, and renewed his vow to keep him from going back to prison. The first step was making sure the P.D. understood that that wasn't an option.

He turned toward the woman, giving her a slow once-over. She was very polished, dark hair, dark lipstick, dark nails. She was wearing a stylish outfit, her skirt short and tight. He couldn't help but instantly dislike her. She seemed far too high-class to be handling Ronnie's case, and he understood Ronnie being intimidated by her. He'd have to make sure she understood that wasn't the case with him.

Finishing her phone call, the lawyer extended her hand. "Hello, I'm Katherine McClain."

He waited a beat, just long enough to be obvious, not quite long enough to be outright rude, before returning the handshake. "Chris Keller." Grabbing a chair, he pulled it next to Ronnie's. "Ronnie can't go to prison."

McClain smiled indulgently as she took her seat. "Well, that's getting right down to business."

"That's why we're here."

"All right, here's the deal." She was all business, pulling a sheet of paper from the top of the small pile in front of her, passing it to Chris – who ignored it. "If Mr. Barlog goes to trial and loses, he's looking at two to five, at least. I can plea him down to 12 to 18 months."

"I didn't do anything!" Ronnie started up from the table, but Chris grabbed his wrist, holding him still. Keeping his hand on Ronnie's arm, he said, "Ronnie is not going back."

"Listen – Mr. Keller? He was identified leaving the scene of a crime. A man's home was broken into, and he was beaten and robbed. The man accused of committing the assault was delivered to the scene by Mr. Barlog. After which, Mr. Barlog took the same man, along with merchandise taken from the victim's residence, to the home of a known fence. That makes him as guilty as the perpetrator. And with his record, along with his admission, he is going to jail. I'm just trying to make sure he gets as little time as possible."

Chris leaned across the table. "As little time as possible would be none. He's not going back."

Ms. McClain stood up, clearly exasperated. "That's the third time you've said that, Mr. Keller, and unfortunately –"

Chris also stood, keeping his contact with Ronnie. "Call me Chris," he smiled coldly.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Keller, saying something doesn't make it so."

"Well, we're just going to have to figure out something that will make it so."

"You don't seem to understand. Your friend here was in the company of known felons shortly after coming off parole. He's a known drug-dealer and prostitute—"

"He's not fucking on trial for that!"

"But he is guilty by association for the current charges, and frankly, from what I've heard, the fact that he hasn't already returned to prison for parole violation makes him a very lucky man. I have nothing to take to court to show he's tried to rehabilitate himself in any way. He's admitted to me that he's been involved in illegal activity since being released from prison. And if he doesn't go back for this particular offense, it will only be a matter of time until he's caught for something else. He is obviously not interested in finding a legal line of work, and the odds aren't in his favor that he won't get caught again. Maybe going to jail for a year now will save him being arrested in the future for a crime that would warrant a longer term."

Chris could feel Ronnie tense beneath his hand and when he glanced down, the boy's eyes were wide in disbelief. "You're supposed to try and help me, not fucking judge me!" He pulled free from Chris' grasp and jumped to his feet.

McClain looked steadily back at him, nonplussed by the outburst. "You need to sit down now, Mr. Barlog, so we can get this situation resolved."

Chris' temper flared at her neat and tidy attitude. She was dealing with the numbers on the record sheet, not the young man standing in front of her. He slammed his palms down on the table, gaining a flicker of satisfaction at seeing her flinch. "Oh, I think it's pretty much been resolved! You think it's okay to let him serve time for this because it'll make up for something he did last month or last year? You think the resolution to this is to send him back to a place where his ass will be sold every night for a pack of cigarettes?" Ronnie made a small noise in the back of his throat and sank into his seat. "It's not happening!"

Chris tried to get a grip on himself – he didn't want to lose control in front of this condescending bitch. But his concern for Ronnie, and the memory of being in his place, being treated as a second-class citizen, was too much to contain. "Why don't you just go on to your three-martini lunch, or go get something waxed, or whatever the hell it is you do when you're not playing savior to the unwashed masses, and we'll find ourselves someone who gives a shit!"

McClain didn't argue, but she was clearly livid, her body trembling as she shoved the papers in front of her into a folder and slid it across the table. "There's your file, Mr. Barlog," she said, pointedly avoiding looking at Chris. "You can try to get another P.D. who will have different advice than mine – good luck with that."

She slammed the door on her way out, rattling the blinds on the windows.

"Cunt," Chris breathed. God, he hoped he hadn't just screwed his friend. He wondered what a woman like that was doing working as a public defender anyhow. "Come on, Ronnie, we've got some calls to make."

He started toward the door, stopping when Ronnie didn't follow. He was slumped in his chair, looking as miserable as Chris had ever seen him.

"She's right, you know," Ronnie said, his head bowed. "I've been fucking up my whole life. People warned me, tried to help me." He looked up, tears filling his eyes. "If I'da listened to you when I first got out, none of this would be happening. Maybe I should just take my year in prison and start over when I get out again." He made a choked, hiccupping sound and lay his head down, cradled in his arms.

Chris went to him, crouching down beside him, rubbing his back. "Ronnie, this is your wake-up call. You don't need to go back inside to turn your life around. It took me three times, but that doesn't have to be the case with you. We'll find someone who can help us."

Ronnie lifted his head, and Chris wiped the tears from his cheek. "Why are you so good to me, Chris? I never done anything but cause trouble for you."

"When have you ever caused trouble for me?" Chris rubbed his hand over Ronnie's short hair before resting it on his shoulder.

"When I got out, for one. And those times you came and picked me up when I was too wasted to get home on my own. And when I was dealing in your place." He hung his head again, but not before Chris could see the flush of shame. "And now this."

Chris stood and pulled the young man to his feet and into a hug. "You're right," he said, "You are such a pain in my ass." Ronnie stiffened and pulled away, his expression unsure until it was smoothed over by Chris' next words. "You know you're my boy, Ronnie. Let's go make some phone calls."

Once outside, Chris steered Ronnie across the street to a coffee shop. "Let's sit down and have a shot of caffeine, okay?"

Ronnie shrugged. At the restaurant, he sat quietly, going through cup after cup of coffee while Chris nursed his own, looking at Ronnie's file; nothing much there, other than a statement of the facts. There was a note informing them that the friend Ronnie had driven for, Kenny Wangler, would testify on Ronnie's behalf, corroborating the fact that Ronnie was unaware of the circumstances concerning the ride he gave to Wangler. Chris didn't understand why this wouldn't be enough to get Ronnie off with probation.

He set the papers down, rubbing at his eyes before turning his head side to side, working out a kink in his neck. As he turned toward the counter not far from their table, his eyes landed on the back of a customer, just getting up from his seat. Chris absently thought how nice the worn jeans were hugging the man's ass when he turned… and Chris' eyes widened in surprise.

"What are the fuckin' odds?" he wondered out loud.

Ronnie looked up. "Huh?"

Chris nodded toward the man, who had spotted him and reacted with such a classic double take Chris had to laugh.

Ronnie's eyes widened in horror. "Is that the guy from the club that night?"

Chris nodded, still smiling, still watching Tobias Beecher.

"Is he coming over here?" Ronnie bent his head over his cup of coffee.

Chris nodded again, spreading his arms across the back of the booth and smiling invitingly as Beecher approached.

"I'm outta here," Ronnie mumbled, up and brushing past Beecher, barely giving Chris the chance to call, "Wait for me outside!"

"Well, you'd think I'd be getting used to having people leave the room when I showed up," Beecher deadpanned, "but the sting really never goes away." He watched Ronnie push out the doors. "He looks familiar."

"You met him the same night you met me."

Beecher turned to look through the large picture window at Barlog lighting up a smoke. His face registered the realization before he turned away, looking embarrassed. "Yeah, I guess I did, didn't I?" He looked thoughtfully at Chris. "But I didn't really ever actually meet you, did I?" He extended his hand. "I'm –"

"Tobias Beecher," Chris finished. "You told me." He took the man's hand and was taken back to that night – he liked the feel of Beecher's hand in his.

"That's right. But I never got your name…"

Before Chris could answer, someone did it for him. "Chris Keller. Did I get it right?"

Chris shifted in his seat to see who had spoken. Son of a bitch, if it wasn't that lawyer, McClain, coming up behind him to stand next to Beecher. What was she doing here?

Beecher was looking from Chris to McClain, an amused smile lighting his eyes. "*This* is Keller?"

"You two know each other," Chris stated. It wasn't a question, since the two had obviously been discussing him in the last few minutes. His sudden good mood at bumping into Beecher evaporated – he was friends with this woman? But then, what was so surprising about that? Both lawyers, both rich, he assumed, although Beecher, in his faded jeans and plain, green t-shirt didn't really look the part today.

He hid his unease by gesturing to the opposite bench. "What a small world, huh? Why don't you join me and we'll talk about how we three manage to keep meeting like this."

"I really don't think there's going to be much opportunity for us to run into each other again, Mr. Keller," McClain practically snapped.

"Oh, come on, Katherine. Chris pissed me off the first time we met, but it turned out okay." The way Beecher used his first name so familiarly, combined with the wink he aimed in Keller's direction, served to lighten Chris' mood once again.

"Bully for you." Her tone was short and cold. Chris really couldn't blame her, especially with Beecher standing there, chewing on his lip, trying ineffectually to hide his amusement at the situation. She pulled her keys from her purse. "Goodbye, Tobias. I'll talk to you soon."

"Oh, Katherine, don't go. Don't you want to hear how we met?"

She looked from one to the other. "No." And she left the restaurant.

"I should probably go after her," Beecher said as he sat down.

Chris didn't answer. He had enjoyed that last exchange immensely, and it gave him a little jolt of pleasure that Beecher had "chosen" him. He realized that was a very sophomoric reaction, but that McClain chick was a stone bitch. Beecher seemed like he could be fun when he wasn't wasted. Although Chris had had a lot of fun with him that night.

Beecher motioned to the waitress for a cup of coffee, and then turned his attention to Chris. "You always get people you just met so worked up?"

"It's a gift," Chris grinned. "So, she was bitching about me, huh?"

Beecher nodded with a shrug.

"I admit, I was kind of a dick, but she seemed ready to throw a bitch fit."

"That sounds likely," Beecher replied. "She's been on a tear ever since she got assigned to the P.D.'s office."

"I thought she seemed out of her element – who assigned her?"

"A judge." The coffee came, and Toby concentrated on stirring in some sugar while talking. "She had about a hundred unpaid parking tickets – she says she just forgot about them. So the judge sentenced her to community service – told her maybe being around people who had more legitimate reasons than laziness for not paying their fines would help her to remember." He looked up then, and seemed embarrassed. "She's already pissed off at me – she'd really hate me if she knew I told you that."

Chris leaned across the table, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't worry; your secret is safe with me, Beecher."

Beecher smiled. "You can call me Tobias, or Toby."

"What do you prefer?"

The lawyer considered a moment. "Tobias is what my family and co-workers call me – why don't you make it Toby?"

"Fine... Toby." Chris liked it.

"So, I'm guessing McClain works corporate law or something like that."

Toby nodded, sipping at his coffee.

"She work with you?"

Toby put down his cup. "Well, used to, before I quit."

"Yeah, I noticed on the card you left for me – that your father's firm?"

"So, you got that okay? The 'Beecher' in the title was originally my grandfather, now my father. Supposed to be me someday, but I guess it's all up to my little brother now." Toby looked off thoughtfully. "I feel bad for him. Not only does he have to live up to the expectations already put on him, he's going to feel pressure to make up for my appalling breach of civilized behavior."

He looked back, a small smile quirking his lips as he studied Chris' face. "What is it about you that compels me to tell you shit like this?"

"Must be the bartender in me," Chris smiled back.

"Must be." But Beecher didn't sound convinced, his curious gaze lingering on Chris' face a moment longer before getting to his feet. "Coffee went right through me... I'll be back."

Chris watched him go, thinking. Maybe his years as a bartender did cause him to give off some kind of trusting vibe, but he thought there was more than that going on here. Maybe it was just his interest being renewed from a few weeks ago, when Beecher had made such a distinct first impression on him.

He'd had fun messing with him that night, pushing his buttons, but he had to admit, there had been something else to that evening. And he was feeling the same thing now – even more so, with Beecher being sober – the easy way they had with each other, Toby's willingness to be so open. He wondered if he'd be open enough to explain the "appalling breach of civilized behavior" comment.

His thoughts were interrupted by Ronnie, who had come back in and was fidgeting nervously at the edge of the table.

"C'mon, what're you waiting for? Can we go now?"

"Calm down, I'm waiting for Beecher to come back from the can."

"Fuck. What, are you friends with him now?"

Chris grabbed Ronnie's arm as he tried to take off again. "What's your problem with him?"

"He should have a problem with me! I fucking gave him drugs and five minutes later he was unconscious!"

"First of all, watch your language, this is a family place. Second, that night wasn't all your fault, you know. Here, sit down next to me." Chris slid over, pulling Ronnie down beside him. "I could have kicked your ass for dealing, but it was his choice to buy, and his choice to mix drugs and booze."

"Hmmm, drugs and booze, my ears are burning." Toby smirked as he returned, reclaiming his seat.

Ronnie looked appalled at being overheard, but Chris chuckled. "Caught us."

Toby just smiled, and then picked up Ronnie's file, which had been lying at the end of the table. "I was thinking, maybe I can help you with this, unless you have another lawyer in mind."

Ronnie and Chris shot each other a startled look.

"No, we don't," Chris replied. "I've got a few names, but we're really lacking in the financial department, probably going to have to try our luck with another public defender."

"Well, then, let me have a look. Katherine told me a little about it. It sounds to me like a suspended sentence is a possibility."

"Why didn't McClain think that was a possibility?"

"I hate to say it," Toby answered, looking uncomfortable, "but she's trying to get through these cases as fast as possible. She wanted to avoid a trial at all cost, which is why she was pushing the plea bargain."

"Bitch," Ronnie muttered. Chris was thinking the same thing, but if Beecher was willing to help, it would be in their best interest to not insult his friend.

"Ronnie."

"Sorry," Ronnie said.

"It's okay," Toby answered. "I know she can have her moments."

Chris hesitated over what he was going to say – he didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Not that I don't appreciate the offer, but you're a corporate lawyer, right? You ever done much trial law?"

Toby looked up from the files he'd been skimming over. "Oh, yeah. In fact, I met Katherine at a small firm we both worked for a few years ago. That's part of the reason the judge gave her the P.D. gig, he knew she'd done this kind of work before."

"Really? With your own family law firm to work at, why go someplace else?"

"Classic rebellion. I'd just passed the bar and was determined to make it on my own. I suppose if my parents knew then what they know now they wouldn't have been so disappointment I didn't jump on the family bandwagon."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning working for another law firm was small potatoes compared to what I've... to other stuff that's happened."

"Other stuff?" Beecher was getting more interesting by the minute.

"Other stuff that I'm not going to talk about."

Chris assumed that the incident at the country club on the night they met fit into the category of "other stuff" but Toby was looking a little uncomfortable, so Chris went back to what he hoped was a safer topic.

"Okay. Can I ask you why ended up working with your dad?"

Toby nodded, though he didn't look too happy. "I caved to the pressure. My parents and grandmother were on my case all the time, and then when I got engaged, my wife's family started in on both of us."

Chris only nodded understandingly, but he wanted to ask more. Like whether or not Toby's wife had been on his side. And more importantly, was he still with her? He was wearing his wedding ring, but that didn't mean anything. And what did it matter, anyhow? Chris might have had fun flirting a little with a drunk Beecher that night, but he wasn't looking for anything else, right?

"And when I went to my dad's firm," Toby was saying, "Katherine went with me."

"So, have you hated it the whole time?"

Beecher visibly brightened. "No, not at all. I love what I'm doing. Was doing. I'm a fucking good lawyer." He grinned. "If I do say so myself."

"You miss it, now that you've quit?"

Toby nodded. "A little. I miss the excitement, the challenge of finding the loopholes, winning a case that everyone thinks can't be won. But I don't miss the politics of corporate law that much, the way that money is thrown at every problem."

Chris smiled, Beecher's enthusiasm contagious. And then Ronnie coughed, rather obviously, and Chris realized he and Toby had been ignoring him, their concentration focused solely on each other.

Chris looked at his watch, startled by how late it had become. "Crap, I gotta get to work."

"Kind of early, isn't it?" Toby asked. "I mean, if you work as late as you did that other night."

"We open at four, but I need to be there early."

"Okay, well, how about this? You go on to work and I'll stay here with Ronnie and we can go over his case. Is that okay with you, Ronnie?"

Chris could feel his friend tense up, and he took Ronnie's hand in his under the table. "I really got to go." He shifted so he could look Ronnie in the face. "You'll be okay," he reassured. "You got your car or did you take the bus?"

"Car."

"Good." Chris nudged at Ronnie, who reluctantly stood to let him out of the booth; he gave him a quick hug. "You'll be okay," he repeated.

Turning to Beecher, he said, "I was serious when I said our funds are limited. If you recover from your burst of generosity, want to back out, we'll understand."

Toby stood, shaking his head. "Believe me, I'm not just being altruistic. I don't have another job and I've slowly been going stir-crazy. Besides –" Toby shifted his eyes away and Chris realized he was embarrassed again. "Besides, I owe you for that night." He looked back at Chris. "I was an asshole."

"Well, drugs, liquor and a night with the family can do that to a person."

Both men grinned and simultaneously put out their hands. They shook, their eyes meeting and holding. Chris had noted what nice blue eyes Beecher had, when they weren't clouded and blood-shot. They looked even better now, up close.

"Thank you for looking after me."

"It was my pleasure," Chris answered, and hoped Toby understood how much he meant that. "Thank you for helping Ronnie."

"It'll be my pleasure."

Chris turned and clapped Ronnie on the back. "Just relax – I'll see you soon."

Ronnie, looking anything but relaxed, sat back down and Chris left after paying for their coffee. Outside, he paused to look through the large front window, watching Toby and Ronnie with their heads bent over the table, reading through the file. Chris noticed small curls on the nape of Beecher's neck, evidence that he was letting his expensive haircut grow out.

As he walked across the street to his car, parked at the courthouse, Chris thought about how different Beecher was from the night they'd met – other than not being so wasted obviously – he was also less bitter, yet there was still an underlying soberness to him.

Life obviously hadn't been easy on him lately – he though of his comment about people leaving the room when he showed up. And he assumed Toby was on the outs with his family. Chris wondered if it all stemmed from his abrupt exit from his anniversary party. Or was there more to his story? Whatever it was, he dealt with it much better when he wasn't stoned, and Chris looked forward to talking to him some more.

He wondered again about Toby's marital status before stopping himself short. He didn't even know for sure if Toby was into guys – getting drunk in the gay district didn't make you gay... or interested.

Besides, Beecher was here for Ronnie and he wouldn't do anything to jeopardize that.

But that didn't mean they couldn't be friends.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"So, what do you serve here?"

'What the…?' Tony's Place wasn't scheduled to open for almost an hour. Chris turned from polishing glasses to find Tobias Beecher sitting at the bar, grinning at him; Beecher had been given the okay to use the employee entrance in the back.

"Got me." Chris returned the smile. "I've gone against my true nature and not given you any more shit over that night for two reasons – one, it would be extremely rude, especially considering all the help you're giving us. And two, I wasn't sure you'd remember too much."

"A lot of it is a blur," Beecher admitted, "but that little spiel you gave is kind of hard to forget."

"I didn't even rehearse that," Chris replied smugly, "it was all off the cuff. You want a beer?"

"Bottle's fine." Chris tried not to stare as the beer foamed and Toby licked the overflow from the neck of the bottle. "Is Ronnie here?"

Chris nodded toward the kitchen. "He's helping Brad with inventory. You got something new?"

Toby shook his head and Chris watched a small curl displace itself and fall over the lawyer's ear. "Just touching base."

It had been a little over a month since their chance meeting at the restaurant. Toby had come to the bar two days after that, going over Ronnie's case with them. Even with Ronnie being a repeat offender, Beecher was fairly confident that he could get him off with no jail time, especially in light of the fact that the friend he was with had already admitted the assault and robbery were completely his idea; Ronnie had only been the driver, with no awareness of what was happening inside the apartment while he waited in the car. The overcrowding of the prisons currently reaching epidemic proportions would work in their favor as well. If all went as Beecher was hoping, he thought he could get Ronnie off with probation and maybe some community service hours, but no jail time.

And even though there was nothing new to discuss, Beecher continued to show up at the bar, one or two nights a week. He came early most days, before it got busy, sometimes getting something to eat, sometimes just a beer or two.

Ronnie was usually there, Chris having formally hired him as bus boy; his motives for that were two-fold. First, he knew it would look good at trial if Ronnie could say he'd been legally employed for a length of time. And second, Chris wanted to keep an eye on him. No matter Ronnie's good intentions, the boy was flighty and easily distracted. He lived for the moment, something Chris could easily understand. When he'd been Ronnie's age it was a rare thing for him to have twenty-four hours of his life planned out.

Toby was always friendly and relaxed on these visits, but he didn't talk much, at least not about himself. Probably on guard after sharing what he considered to be too much on previous meetings with Chris. He did admit that he was separated from his wife and still unemployed, but no details about either situation were forthcoming.

And so Chris and Ronnie provided much of the conversation, sharing with Beecher the goings-on of some of the bar patrons – especially the always enthusiastic Billie and his crew – or Ronnie would regale them with stories of his roommate, a young man named Poet, who turned every event and idea into a poem.

("That's pretty amazing that his parents happened to name him Poet then," Beecher had said dryly when Ronnie first brought him up.

"Look, Ronnie," Chris had commented, "a lawyer with a sense of humor!")

While he was quiet on some subjects, Toby's reticence to discuss his personal life only served to emphasize his passion for the law. A few times he brought up cases that he had worked on, and his demeanor would change completely. He would lean forward and his eyes would lose their guarded look, lighting up in his enthusiasm. This was something Chris could understand – maybe it wasn't as noble a profession, but he felt the same way about his work as Toby did about his.

And Beecher knew it. Chris wasn't shy about bending his ear, sharing his plans for the bar when (he always said "when" instead of "if") it was his. And Toby was attentive, even throwing out a few suggestions of his own. Chris would assure Toby during these talks that even though he didn't have much cash flow now, he would make sure the lawyer was paid for what he was doing for Ronnie.

Keller's initial attraction to Toby had not faded, only grown. But he was doing his best to keep to his promise to himself and make sure everything stayed on a professional and friendly basis. Beecher was Ronnie's best hope and Chris would do nothing to scare the man off. And it was a bit of a relief, actually, to have someone else worrying over the boy. It made him feel a little guilty, but it was nice to be able to share the burden.

After finishing a long phone call with Antonio Nappa, Chris slid into the seat across from Beecher, who was now at a table, setting down the two bottles of beer he'd grabbed from the bar. Toby had talked to Ronnie while Chris was on the phone, and now Ronnie was back in the kitchen cooking himself a hamburger, much to the dismay of Brad, who was attempting to get things in order before they opened. Chris grinned with a shake of his head as Brad – quite loudly – asked Ronnie to please get out of his way for the third time.

He started to say something about it to Toby, but held his tongue when he realized Toby hadn't heard Brad's remark, or hadn't found any humor in it if he had. Beecher was slowly rolling the beer between his hands, looking down at the table.

"You want a glass for that?" No reply. "Beecher, hey, you want a glass?"

Toby looked up with a jerk. "I'm sorry; I've got my mind other places." He took a swallow of his beer. "This is fine." He looked at Chris, pausing a moment before going on. "Tell me, why are you so protective of Ronnie? What is he to you?"

Chris' own beer froze halfway to his mouth, and he put the bottle down slowly without taking a drink. The subject of where he and Ronnie met had surprisingly never come up. He wasn't ashamed of his past, though certainly not proud either. Beecher was one of the first people – that mattered, anyhow – to know him in his new life, without the baggage of his past. And Chris realized that he liked that, liked the feeling of being looked on as a struggling businessman instead of a recovering criminal. But he was what he was and he would never deny any part of himself.

"He reminds me of myself. I never had anyone looking out for me so I know how hard it is to get through life on your own."

Toby nodded. "He just told me you met in prison."

He studied Beecher carefully, trying to get a read on him. There was no disapproval in his voice, and his expression was vaguely curious, if anything.

"Yep, that's where we met."

"Ronnie says you really helped him. He admires you quite a bit, you know."

Chris nodded. "More than he should." He waited, wondering where this was leading as he realized his defenses were rising.

"He says you'd been in a couple times before."

Chris nodded. He could feel his chest tightening, and his hands slid from the table to ball into fists, pushing into his thighs. He was waiting for it, waiting for 'the look' – when he would see in Toby's eyes just how much better he thought he was than Chris, how much Chris should appreciate the fact that he was willing to lower himself to be sitting here, drinking with an ex-con. He wondered if Beecher would even be here at all if Ronnie had told him why Chris was in jail... assuming he hadn't.

Had he been wrong about Beecher? He'd always had a disdain for the rich, hating the way they thought they could buy anything. He was objective enough to realize that part of his attitude – okay, most of it – had developed during the time he had been quite popular with those that moved in the same type of gilded circles as Beecher. When it had come to Chris, money had certainly been able to buy those rich fucks maybe not everything, but a whole hell of a lot. And then they'd had the balls to look down on him as if paying for what they wanted from him wasn't just as bad, or worse, as charging for it.

And it wasn't just them, the ones he'd come in contact with. It was the whole class distinction; the rich got richer while the poor got fucked.

But Toby was different. Wasn't he? He didn't have to come into the bar to talk to Ronnie, especially when there wasn't much to talk about. He didn't have to hang around and have a beer and listen to their stories, did he? He wasn't looking at them like some kind of charity case, was he, helping them with one hand while holding his nose with the other? The fact of how well they got along had only proven to Chris that not everyone who lived on the other side of the tracks was a fucking asshole. In fact, it had surprised Chris how well they had gotten along, right from the start. Well, after the part where Beecher fell off the bar stool and knocked himself unconscious.

"What's this about, Beecher?" His voice was hard, and Toby's eyes widened, obviously startled by the change in Chris' attitude.

"I'm... I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything. It's just..." Toby trailed off, looking confused and uneasy.

Chris knew a sympathetic reply, even a smile, would help ease the tension, but he offered neither, staring stonily across the table.

Toby stood up and looked down at Chris. "I'm sorry; I didn't realize it was such a touchy subject for you. That isn't even what I wanted to… never mind." He reached for his jacket on the seat. "Tell Ronnie I'll be back next week. I'm going to talk to the DA that will be prosecuting the trial – turns out we went to school together. He still owes me money," Toby joked, uncomfortably. "Every little bit helps."

He slipped his coat on, and as he turned to leave, Chris instinctively reached out and grabbed Toby's wrist. They watched each other, studied each other, until Chris let go and motioned to the seat Toby had just vacated.

"Please," he said, "sit back down. I guess I over-reacted a little."

Toby sat but he didn't take his coat off. "Don't worry about it. It doesn't matter to me – you don't want to talk about your personal life, I'm the guy that understands that."

'Well, fuck,' Chris thought. 'Here's a great opportunity to get a little closer – on a purely friendly basis – and I have to go getting all defensive'.

The thing of it was, Chris didn't really have a problem with talking about himself. In fact, he had realized it when he was saying it – that he had overreacted by much more than a little. Toby had been nothing but friendly with them, never condescending, never a sign that there was any kind of class distinction between them. Toby shouldn't have apologized, he should have told Chris to fuck off.

"Why don't you start by telling me what Ronnie said?" he said to Toby, while posting a mental reminder to kick himself in the ass later for being such a jerk.

Toby looked toward the kitchen, and when he began talking his voice was low and concerned. "He was talking about the money, the fact you put up your down payment, and how you feel responsible for seeing me paid – he's very worried. I tried to reassure him that I didn't want any money for this, that I owed you a favor."

Chris interrupted. "Maybe, but what you're doing for us kind of outweighs me picking you up off the floor and getting you in a cab. I intend to make sure you're paid for this – it just might take me awhile."

"I'm not worried about it," Toby assured him, "but Ronnie is. He, uh..." Toby shifted in his seat and he leaned over the table, his voice dropping even lower. "He offered me his services to defray some of the cost."

Chris swore softly. "When's he gonna learn?"

"Learn?" Toby asked.

"Learn that he has more to offer than his body. Learn that people don't always expect payment for being nice." Chris leaned back, crossing his arms over his head. "Ronnie had a hard time in prison. His only commodity was his body. I'll tell you what I told Katherine McClain – if Ronnie goes back to jail his ass will literally be worth a pack of cigarettes."

Toby didn't answer, simply shook his head and then looked off into the distance, seeming to disconnect. Chris took this reaction badly. He brought his arms down and leaned across the table, mindful of Ronnie in the other room. "You know that shit you see on TV and movies is true, don't you, Beecher? Only worse – you want details?"

Chris could hear the accusation in his voice, and his fear for Ronnie was making him mean. Toby didn't deserve the attitude, but Chris had no patience for people who seemed shocked by tales of prison life. Prison sucked, it was hard; it was life-altering and life-threatening. Beecher's only connection to incarceration had probably been one of his country club buddies coming back from Club Fed, bitching over the fact that he could only play golf one day a week or that the laundry put too much starch in his shirts.

Chris realized that in just a matter of seconds he was once again being completely unfair. Was he really getting mad at Toby for not knowing what he and Ronnie had gone through? Was it Toby's fault he'd lived a life of privilege? And hadn't Chris seen that Toby's upbringing, a world apart from his own, hadn't come with any guarantees for a happily-ever-after kind of life? Or was he pissed at himself for falling for the man sitting across from him, knowing that really there was no hope of the two of them ever being more than what they were – a struggling ex-con from the wrong side of the tracks and a rich bastard doing a good deed to help him get through a hard time in his life.

Chris was about to apologize when Toby spoke first, his own voice as hard as Chris' had been. "I understand that. You remember me telling you about the first place I worked out of school?" Chris nodded, though Toby wasn't waiting for it. "They did pro bono work for prisoners a few hours a week, and I handled several cases. I heard plenty of horrific shit – assault; rape; theft. I probably didn't deal with it well at the time – too full of ideals and naiveté." All apology was gone as he finished. "But I'm pretty sure I get that it will be hell for Ronnie to go back."

Chris sat back in his seat, taking a long pull from his bottle, squinting at Beecher over the top of it. "You looked like maybe you thought I was exaggerating when I said Ronnie would be—"

"I knew you weren't. It was just kind of hitting me how important this was. It wasn't skepticism, Keller; it was the realization that I've got this boy's future – and possibly his life – in my hands." Toby stood. "It's sobering."

He walked off without another word and Chris watched him go.

Ronnie came from the kitchen just then, a plate loaded with the largest hamburger and biggest mound of fries Chris had ever seen.

"Where's Toby?"

"He left." Chris grabbed a few fries and shoved them in his mouth, burning the shit out of himself. "Jesus Christ!" He quickly finished his beer, soothing his scorched mouth.

"They're hot," Ronnie said.

"Ha, ha. You know, that plate of food is equal to one night's wages."

Ronnie ignored him. "How come Toby left?"

Chris picked up the half-full beer that Beecher had left behind. "'Cause I'm an ass."

"He just figure that out?"

Chris glowered, but Ronnie was already too immersed in his burger to notice.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A couple of days later, Chris was in his office, ostensibly doing payroll, a job he hated with a passion. So when Ronnie knocked and stuck his head in the door, looking for a place to hang, Chris more than welcomed the interruption.

"I gotta start work in a few minutes," Ronnie said, flopping down on the well-worn couch, car magazine in hand. "I'll be quiet."

Chris tried going back to the columns of figures on the screen in front of him, but realized he might as well give it up for the moment. He looked over at Ronnie, legs up on the back of the couch, head practically hanging off the edge with his magazine held up over his face. Chris' affectionate smile faded – he still hadn't talked to Ronnie about the conversation he'd had with Beecher.

"Sit up, give me some room." Chris pushed Ronnie's legs down, sitting next to him. He turned the corner of the car mag back, getting a look at the cover.

"That a Hemi 'couda?"

"Yeah, nice, huh? Check out this engine." The two sat shoulder-to-shoulder, pointing at the pictures and arguing playfully over personal preferences.

As they were nearing the last page, Chris – as casually as possible – said: "So, you talked to Beecher about us doing time together?"

He could feel Ronnie tense. "Yeah. You pissed?" Ronnie was looking at Chris from the corner of his eye.

"No. It's the truth, right?" He squeezed Ronnie's knee before going on. "You tell him what I was in for?" Chris hated himself for asking.

"No!" Ronnie turned toward him; his vibrant, blue eyes were shiny and bright. "I don't talk about you, Chris. He asked how we met, I told him. That's it." His voice trembled. "You believe me, don't you?"

"Of course." Chris wrapped his arm around Ronnie's neck. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know. I'm just so much trouble for you."

"You're no trouble, baby." Chris kissed the top of Ronnie's head. "And I want you to remember that." Chris pulled back, turning himself and Ronnie so they could talk face to face. "Toby also told me you're worried about the money." Ronnie knew what was coming and he hung his head, flushing red.

Chris placed a hand on each of Ronnie's cheeks, tilting his face up. "Listen to me. I don't want you to worry about that shit." Ronnie closed his eyes and Chris shook him. "Look at me. There's so much more to you than what you think. You don't have to use your body to get through life, Ronnie. You have more to offer."

"Like what?" A tear slipped down the young man's cheek and Chris softly wiped his thumb across it.

"Like your brains and your imagination and –"

"I'm not like you, Chris!" Ronnie shook his head free from Chris' touch. "You're smart and know what you want and can do stuff like that and I'm… I'm just not… I'm nothing! All I know how to do is deal drugs and suck cock!"

Chris grabbed Ronnie and pulled him close, holding him tightly. "Shut up, shut up. Don't talk about yourself like that." It was too much like looking at himself ten years ago.

"You saved me before." Ronnie's words were muffled and hot and wet against Chris' chest. "What will I do without you if I have to go back?"

"You won't."

They sat there for several minutes, Ronnie letting go of his fears with Chris' arms around him, keeping him safe while he could.

Ronnie finally sat up, using the hem of his shirt to dry his face. He looked at Chris' own soggy tee. "Sorry about that."

"It'll dry. You okay?"

Ronnie nodded, managing a smile. "Yeah. I kind of pussed out there, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but do you feel better?"

"I guess."

"Then forget it." Chris stood up and offered his hand, pulling Ronnie to his feet. "You better get to work now; I hear the boss can be a hard ass."

"Yeah?" Ronnie hugged Chris, quick and tight. "I heard he can be a nice guy."

"Get out of here, ya pussy." Chris laughed and pushed Ronnie toward the door. "Tell Brad I'll be out soon."

As Ronnie left the room, Chris looked over at his desk, the payroll waiting for him – it could wait. He slouched back down on the couch, and then flipped his legs around to rest his feet on the arm. Absently, his hand went to the inside of his left thigh, fingers stroking, a habit he was often unconscious of doing. He couldn't feel them through his pants, but they were there – the small, round scars, remnants of his past.

He'd hit the streets at 14, his mother dead, his father never in the picture. He'd been found sleeping in a park by a man named Davis, who took him home – home being a run-down rent by the week/day/hour hotel. Davis already had three boys he was 'taking care of' he explained to Chris. He painted himself to be a real humanitarian, providing a place to sleep and three meals a day for young men who'd lost their way.

It wasn't a charity, though; the boys had to do their part. Davis expected a certain amount of money every day – or items suitable to pawn.

It was an okay life, for a while. Chris quickly got over any guilt he had at stealing. He was no stranger to shoplifting, and going another step – boosting car stereos or rims, or finding an unlocked door or window and taking what he could carry – was just the next step in keeping himself alive. He and the other boys knew they were providing far more money than necessary to keep them in fast food and flea-ridden sheets. But at least they had a place to go and someone who would notice if they weren't there.

It wasn't long before Davis took him to the next level. He had known two of the other boys were involved in making money in other ways than petty theft and picking pockets. A few nights a week one or both of them would take off with Davis, and then be allowed to sleep in the next morning.

It wasn't talked about, but everyone knew what was going on. And soon enough it was Chris' turn. It didn't take him long to discover he could turn himself off emotionally and get the job done. He became good enough at it that Davis soon took to using him in other ways than just straight forward sex-for-cash; he started using him to procure drugs or pay off loans. After a few too many rough clients, Chris realized that this aspect of the arrangement was than he'd bargained for. He packed his few belongings and left.

He'd underestimated his value to Davis, who soon found him, dragged him back and beat him. "No one leaves me," Davis had snarled into Chris' ear as he raped him. "No one leaves me."

That, Chris realized many years later, had been a pivotal point in his life. After his injuries, including two broken ribs, had healed, he'd taken off again, this time leaving not just the neighborhood, but the city and eventually the state. As he traveled alone, mile after mile, surviving on money made doing odd jobs in the suburbs and blowjobs in the city, he was forging his future. He would do what he had to do for now to survive, but one day he would be his own man. He would live his life on his terms.

There were many days, early on, when he wasn't sure he'd live to see the next day – and many more of not knowing where his next meal was coming from, or where he would sleep at night. And years later, during the time he was making the big money and experiencing the luxuries that it could buy, he was still dependant on others, still letting them call the shots. It had taken years and sacrifices and three stints behind bars where he did nothing but answer to others, but he'd finally made it. He'd reached his goal, or soon would. And when the club was his, he'd really be his own man, everything resting on his shoulders. Sometimes he couldn't believe it, where he was now compared to five years ago.

He was starting to get drowsy, and thinking about letting himself doze for just a minute when the phone rang. 'Who needs sleep?' he thought ruefully, rolling himself off the couch.

He grabbed the phone and leaned against the desk. "Tony's Place, Keller here."

"Keller, get your hand out of your pants."

"That mean I should stop thinking about your mama?"

"My mama? Thought my pops would be more your fantasy material."

"Hey, there's room for both of them."

"Sick, buddy, sick. Good thing I like you."

"Yeah, that's something I thank God for every day," Chris smirked.

They'd come a long way to get to this point of good-natured bantering. When Chris had first started here at Nappa's club, Chucky Pancamo, the owner of the voice on the phone, hadn't liked him. Or perhaps more accurately, didn't trust him. And Chris couldn't blame him. Chucky was Antonio's right-hand man, respected and feared by everyone Nappa did business with. The old man had more interests than just this club, and Chucky was a pro at keeping everything straight and profitable for his boss. Chris didn't know if Chucky had ever resorted to the clichéd busted kneecaps, but just looking at him made you believe he was capable of it. And that was probably enough for most people.

Pancamo had kept a close eye on Chris, especially after he started taking on more responsibility here. Even after Nappa had decided to put his trust in Chris and make him general manager, Pancamo had had his doubts, and had no compunction in letting Chris know how he felt. But eventually, he'd come around and realized his boss hadn't made a mistake. He'd let Chris know this late one night over a spaghetti dinner and a bottle of wine – Pancamo's farewell shot that evening had been to tell Chris if he fucked with Mr. Nappa in any way, Chucky would have his balls. Chris was pretty sure he meant that literally.

Pancamo occasionally accompanied Nappa when he came to check the books, but it had been a few weeks since they'd seen each other.

"So, what's up?"

"Nappa went into the hospital yesterday with pneumonia." Chucky wasn't the type to soften bad news.

"What? Fuck! I just talked to him two days ago. He told me he had a cold or something." Chris was on his feet, pacing the floor.

"You know that stubborn old man," the affection was obvious in Chucky's voice, "nothing's serious until you're at death's door. Anyhow, his daughter is here from Florida and she got him to the hospital. He'll be okay, be home in a couple days, but then he's got to stay down and rest." Pancamo sighed. "That'll be fun, trying to make him rest."

"I'll wait until he's home to call, but let him know I'm thinking about him," Chris said.

"Yeah, I'll do that – I'll let you know when he leaves the hospital. He wants to see you, talk about the club. Fucking laying there with tubes and wires all over him and he's talkin' business."

Chris tensed, and felt an unease move through him. The idea for Nappa to sell the club to Chris had only been talk so far – nothing was in writing, no details had been hammered out. Antonio could change his mind at any time. Chris held his breath, waiting for Chucky to continue.

"His daughter wants him moving to Florida this year instead of next. She doesn't think another winter here will be good for him. I hate to see the old man go, but I think she's right. He's been slowing down a little, has those coughing fits more often."

"I've noticed." Chris answered. And then, trying to sound casual, "Does he know when he'll go?" It was January now – Chris had been figuring on at least a year before having to come up with the money.

"She's talking October, get him settled in time for Thanksgiving. I have a feeling he'll go for it."

Chris rubbed his hand over his face in relief; Ronnie's court date was set for September 15th. He'd have his bond money back plus the next six months to save up.

"But he wants to talk to you about all that," Pancamo was saying, "so I'll give you a call at the end of the week, let you know a good time."

"Okay, talk to you then."

"Hey, Keller, you like the Sixers, right?"

"Sure."

"I got two tickets to the game next week, fifth row court side. I won't be able to use them – you interested?"

"How much?" he asked.

"How much what? I'm giving them to you, you gabone! I'll have them at the ticket office under your name."

"Fuck, that's a pretty nice thing to do, Chucky. Next time people start bad-mouthing you, I'll make them stop after a minute or two."

"You are one grateful bastard, Keller. You touch me."

"You wish."

"Fuck off."

"Pancamo?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Chris moved around the desk and sat down, taking a deep breath and digesting the news he'd just heard. His first concern, of course, was Mr. Nappa's health. He didn't know where he'd be right now if that old man hadn't taken a chance on him. Probably nailing two-by-fours or doing some other menial shit job. Chris touched the Crucifix hanging on the computer screen. Antonio had given it to him after watching Chris struggle with some invoice or other.

("You remember someone is watching you, helping you, whether you feel it or not. You're turning your life around, and God sees that. He knows good when he sees it.")

And though Chris had never been religious, he thought he did believe in God, and the gift had meant a great deal to him. He held the crucifix tightly in his hand, and prayed for the recovery of his boss.

And when Nappa was better, he wanted to talk to Chris about the club...about selling it. Chris knew it was entirely possible that Antonio was just going to tell him the name of his new boss. But he didn't really think that was the case. Shit, why hadn't he just asked Chucky what he knew?

He went out to the bar and let the other employees know about Mr. Nappa's condition. There was sincere concern all around – Nappa was a firm but fair employer, and everyone who knew him liked and respected him.

As he worked, Chris tried to keep his mind off what his boss wanted to talk to him about. He turned his thoughts to the basketball game. He'd only been to a couple games and that was because Cramer, his lover at the time, was also blowing one of the assistant coaches.

He thought briefly of scalping the tickets – he could probably get a decent chunk of change, and every little bit helps. But he quickly abandoned that idea – he couldn't remember the last time he'd gone out and had fun. Every spare moment was spent here at the bar, learning everything he could and trying to prove to Mr. Nappa he could handle the place.

He needed this, needed to get away – he was going to the game. Now, who to take?

He might ask Ronnie – if the kid gave two shits about basketball.

There were a couple regular customers who would go with him, Chris knew. He also knew that they would probably expect the evening to continue after the game was over. A game and a fuck didn't really sound like a bad way to spend the evening – it had been a while since he'd had anything of a sexual nature to write about in his diary. But like the old saying went: you don't shit where you eat. And you don't fuck where you work. Chris had to smile to himself over this – how times had changed.

Chris had stopped sleeping with the clientele when he was promoted to bartender. There'd been a couple of occasions where things had gotten a little sticky with misunderstandings and hurt feelings, and after two twinks had gotten into a hair-pulling fight over him Chris had stopped "dating" anyone who came into the bar. Leaving it virtually impossible to find anyone to spend his non-existent time with.

There was only one person he really wanted to ask. He just wondered if this person was even still talking to him.

Asking Brad to watch the bar, Chris went into his office and pulled open the bottom drawer of the desk where he kept a few personal items. He took out a business card, smiling at the words written on the back: Thanks for the help, I woke up just fine. T. Beecher

He dialed the number written on the card.

"Hello?"

"Toby, hey, it's Chris."

"How are you?"

"Just fine. You?"

"Good, good. Ronnie?"

"Same."

"Good to hear."

Chris tapped his fingers on his growing smile. He'd been nervous about calling Toby, considering their last conversation and the way they'd left things. But Beecher didn't sound at all upset, leaving him feeling relieved and encouraged.

"I got a proposition for you."

"I'm intrigued."

Chris wondered what Toby's reaction would be if Chris were to say, "I propose you come over here and let me kiss you." He went the safe route. "I've got two tickets…"

"To paradise?"

Chris laughed.

"I guess that would depend on your definition of paradise," he answered, an image of Toby sprawled across his desk, clothes disheveled, hair mussed, and lips kiss-swollen, appearing in his mind. "I've got two tickets to the Sixers game for Sunday. It's a bit of a drive, but we could take the train. You interested in going?"

"With you?"

Bastard. "Yeah, with me."

There was a pause, long enough to get Chris thinking he was going to get shot down. Until, finally, "Sounds like fun."

"Good. We'll be able to drive Ronnie especially nuts the next day."

"Looking forward to it." And he sounded like he meant it.

Chris hung up and leaned back in his chair, a little surprised and very happy over Toby's acceptance of his invitation. Beecher was a hard one for him to figure out. Even though their last time together hadn't gone very well, Chris hadn't expected the man to hold a grudge or be upset over it for long –Toby didn't seem the immature type. On the other hand, Chris hadn't expected the upbeat, joking-around Beecher he'd just talked to, either. Chris didn't see too much of that side of Toby. He wondered if he'd caught Beecher on the other end of a few drinks.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chris woke the next Sunday looking forward to the day with more enthusiasm than he'd had for a while.

As he waited for his coffee to brew, he looked around his apartment. He liked the place, a lot. It had been part of a single family home once, one of many similar dwelling built in this neighborhood. Now it was split into four apartments, Chris' on the second floor.

He had a nice-sized living room, one large and one small bedroom, the bathroom and a tiny kitchen. Which was perfect for him. He didn't cook, other than eggs and waffles sometimes, so all he needed was room for a small table, and enough counter space for a microwave and coffee pot. He did like the balcony, accessed by a narrow sliding door in the corner of the kitchen. He had one of the kitchen chairs set out there, and on nights when he wasn't too exhausted he would take a beer and maybe a smoke out there after work, savoring the quiet of the city in the early morning hours.

He'd paid a little more attention to his living room. The brown leather couch and chair had come to him as a result of the break-up of his last semi-serious relationship. He and Jason had bought it together, a decision Chris knew he would live to regret – and he'd been right. They'd literally had a fistfight over who got to keep it when Chris decided to move out of Jason's apartment. Chris landed a lucky punch (very lucky, Jason had been a semi-pro boxer at one time) and broke Jason's nose. So while Jason was at the emergency room, Chris had called a friend who had a truck and muscle, and loaded the furniture up.

Jason wasn't a gracious loser, and afterwards had showed up at the bar with annoying frequency to demand the return of his furniture. Chucky Pancamo happened to be in the bar on one of those occasions and, after getting the story from Chris, whispered something in Jason's ear. Chris never did find out what it was, but he hadn't seen Jason since.

He smiled at the memory as he looked around. Across from the couch sat his entertainment center. He had his music collection there – CDs, a few tapes and his albums, along with the equipment to play them all. He had an old, 19" TV, and a handful of DVDs. He rarely watched TV, but his music was almost always on. He'd splurged on a decent sound system, with speakers set up around the room.

There was well-worn, brown carpeting in the bedrooms, and the bath and kitchen both sported hideously ugly linoleum, but the living room and hall had some halfway decent hardwood floors. Chris had brought in a room-sized rug to help protect it. And the last piece of furniture was a coffee table Chris had picked up at a flea market he'd gone to with Ronnie and Poet a few months ago. It had been scarred and gouged, and for a while it had stayed like that.

But one night, on his way to work shortly before Ronnie's arrest, Chris pulled into a hardware store and, after consulting with the very nice and helpful owner of the store, had come out with all the supplies needed to refinish the table. And he had! There was barely enough room on the balcony to manage it, but he had stripped the remnants of the old stain, filled in the dents with wood putty, sanded and then re-stained the table a shiny black gloss. That was the first time he'd ever done anything like that, and he was pretty damn proud of that table.

A couple floor lamps and a framed poster of James Dean finished the room.

He wondered if he should pull out the vacuum and give the place a quick once-over. Because? Because he realized he was thinking about asking Toby back here after the game tonight. And that thought was immediately followed by a moment of sanity.

It would be late when they got back, far too late for a casual beer or watching TV – there was only one reason to invite someone to your place at that time of night. Letting Beecher know he saw him as more than a friendly acquaintance might just scare him off.

Chris went back to his bedroom, pulling out the clothes he would wear that day – a pair of newer, dark blue jeans and a soft, white long-sleeve Henley. Chris looked at the other, new clothes that had joined his wardrobe in the last year; Khakis and button-up dress shirts. It had been Nappa's suggestion that Chris dress a little more professionally than tees and jeans when he became manager. Chris had taken to the new style clothes – another step in growing up, he'd thought – but he still looked forward to the weekends, where Casual Fridays spilled over into Saturdays.

As the morning passed, Chris found himself looking at the clock every ten minutes it seemed. He'd been looking forward to the night, but now he was really getting antsy; he hadn't seen Beecher since the night of their... misunderstanding, as he called it to make himself feel better, and he wondered if Toby was as excited as he was.

When he was making money, good money, doing the things that eventually sent him to prison three times, it was mostly spent on having a good time. He'd paid his dues and had earned the drugs and parties and women and men – that was what he told himself while he was in the midst of it. Until his third stint, when he'd finally pulled his head out of his ass and decided it was time to grow up.

Now, a night out was something to be savored.

He'd talked to Beecher just once, when he had called to tell Chris he'd be providing the transportation, since Chris had supplied the tickets. "But they were free," Chris protested.

"Just let me get a car," Toby insisted. "That way we can have a few beers and not worry about it."

Twenty minutes before Toby was scheduled to arrive, Chris started getting ready. He brushed his teeth and smoothed a brush over his short hair. After getting dressed, including black cowboy boots, he took his leather jacket from the closet. He could use something heavier, it was pretty cold, but his vanity won out over common sense; he knew he looked good in the worn leather.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chris was ready and watching through the window when Toby arrived – the Lincoln Town car pulling up to the curb had to be him.

He hurried down the stairs, meeting Toby at the door to the building.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Ready?"

"Ready."

"Well, then..." Toby turned, motioning to the car.

Chris couldn't help but notice how the blue of Toby's shirt matched the blue of his eyes. And how the sun – he'd never seen Beecher in the sunlight before – how the sun did such a good job of picking up the reds in his golden hair.

Chris swallowed hard and reminded himself what this afternoon was – just two guys getting together, taking in a game.

"Your chariot awaits," Beecher said, opening the back door and holding it for Chris.

Chris took a second to look the car over, whistling through his teeth. "Nice ride," he said appreciatively.

"I'm really looking forward to this," Toby said, lifting a cushion in the seat next to him and pulling out two bottles of beer from the built-in cooler. "I haven't done anything that could actually use "fun" as an adjective in a very long time."

"Same for me."

Toby passed a beer to Chris. "It's nice to get the chance to serve you for a change." They clinked their beers together. "Cheers."

On the way to the arena, the two men talked about the Sixxers' chances in the night's game; Chris' troubles with a couple of patrons the night before; and a lot of other mundane stuff Chris had trouble concentrating on.

He looked at Beecher, who probably owned a few cars at least this nice. The last time Chris had been in a car like this was right before his second arrest. He tried not to think about it, frustrated that anything was interfering with his enjoyment of this time with Toby. But the clean, unique rich-car smell combined with the feel of the leather beneath him and the smooth, even ride was bringing it all back.

He'd been 'servicing' a very wealthy widow who was terrified of anyone in her building seeing Chris. So he would be picked up on a street corner by a window-tinted limousine and he would do his business on the deep luxurious seats. It all went well until he tried blackmailing the woman – she paid plenty for what he had to offer, but he figured she'd be willing to ante up even more to keep her secret.

What he hadn't figured on was her sudden willingness to go public – at least to the police. On the day his money was to be delivered, the limo pulled up as expected. What wasn't expected – the two police detectives armed with guns and a tape of his extortion attempt.

"You in there?"

Chris was mercifully shaken from his memory by Toby's hand waving in his face. "Yeah, sorry, just… uh, nothing." Chris returned his focus to Beecher and enjoying the ride.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chris and Toby weren't the only ones who had decided the game was a wash, and they walked out early with several other disappointed fans. The sun was just setting and the air had turned chilly; Chris pulled on his jacket, while Toby pulled on the denim one he'd brought.

"Dennis is going to pick us up across the street." As they crossed the road to the small park across the street from the arena, Toby called the driver to come get them. There were a couple of benches among the trees and they sat, waiting quietly, until Chris broke the silence.

"How's the separation going?" Christ, he hadn't meant to say that. Actually, he had, but he was hoping to be a little more subtle than just blurting it out. How many beers had he had?

Toby turned, staring at Chris with raised eyebrows.

"Hey, if you don't want to talk about it…" Chris put on his work voice, hoping he wasn't saying the completely wrong thing – again. "It's just that you haven't mentioned your wife much and sometimes talking about things helps."

Toby nodded, his pursed lips pressing a grin. "And you being a bartender and all…"

"Well, you did say you felt comfortable talking to me. But forget it, I don't want to be pushy."

"No, no, it's okay. It's just that it's been a while since someone asked me about it, instead of talking at me about it."

"Having a hard time with the wife?" And God, Chris felt like an asshole, because he wanted Toby to tell him what a bitch she was.

"Nah, Gen's okay. She's pretty pissed at me, with good reason, but if it was just us I think we could handle it. The parents on the other hand..."

"Your folks giving you a hard time?"

Toby leaned back, stretching his legs in front of him. Chris eyed the line of his body as for as long as he thought he could get away with it.

"My parents are okay, they just don't understand why I can't give them a good enough reason as to why I moved out." He huffed a laugh. "My dad asked me if I was fooling around. Very confidential, you understand, man to man stuff. I asked him if that's what everyone thought. He said he didn't know what everyone thought but at least it would be a reason."

Chris bit his tongue to keep from asking what was the actual reason. "How about Gen – your wife's family – they in the equation?"

This time Toby's laugh was short, humorless bark. "Not only is her father in the equation, he's determined to solve it – his way. Ever seen 'Arthur'?"

A romantic comedy about a rich, spoiled, drunken man who'd never grown up – with Liza Minelli, no less – was not the type of movie Chris would normally gravitate toward. But after one particularly hard night at work, exhausted but still buzzing on adrenaline, he found himself stretched out on the couch, remote in hand, but unable to tear himself away from Dudley Moore's infectious laugh.

So he was able to answer, "Yes."

"Remember Arthur's fiancée's dad?"

"Sure, blow-hard hard-ass."

"My father-in-law could make him cry."

"Shit."

"Yeah, he's a class-A dick. And poor Gen is caught in the middle."

"So, he wants you two back together."

"In a big way."

"Why? Why would he want his daughter to be with someone who doesn't want her?"

"Oh my god, that makes me sound like such an asshole!" Toby rubbed his hand over his face. "But you know what?" He was looking at Chris over the side of his hand. "I asked Granger the same thing."

"Granger?"

"Yep. Granger Morehouse Winston... the third."

"Almost as bad as Anastasia Beverhausen," Chris muttered.

"Who?"

"Never mind, go on with what you were saying."

"I asked him – 'Granger, why the fuck are you so gung-ho over us getting back together? Don't you even care I hurt your daughter? Don't you want her to find someone who really loves her?' And you know what that fuck said?"

"What?"

"Cross my heart," and Toby did just that, "and swear to Tina Turner he said –"

"Don't say it."

"Yep – he actually said to me, the husband of his daughter... 'What's love got to do with it?'"

Chris joined in, and the two sang, "What's love, but a second hand emotion?"

They laughed together and then Beecher slowly shook his head. "It's really not fucking funny at all. The guy's a real son-of-a-bitch. It's all about the business. He's been wanting to merge his firm with my dad's. And if the kids are married – especially if there are grandkids – it's like a natural progression."

"Are you fucking kidding me? He's going to sacrifice his daughter and possible grandkids for a law firm?"

"Just like a movie, huh? Those kind of things really do happen, you know."

Toby was looking straight ahead, but Chris could see the corner of his mouth twitch as he tried to keep a straight face.

"Touché." Chris tipped an imaginary hat in Beecher's direction.

"Couldn't help myself."

"I deserved it." Chris turned and rested his arm on the back of the bench. "Listen, I really am sorry about that. I know you –"

Shifting toward Chris, Toby waved him off. "Don't even worry about it; it's none of my business."

"Look, it's not even about if it's your business or not. I overreacted because..." because why? Maybe because Toby's opinion mattered far more than Chris wanted to admit. "Forget it. I have nothing to hide." But was that entirely true? Would he ever admit the whole truth of his past to Toby? Would it even come up? After the trial, he might never even see Beecher again, so why did it even matter.

They sat quietly for a few minutes, but Chris got the feeling Beecher wanted to say something; Toby finally spoke.

"Listen; remember that night at the bar, the night we met?"

"Yeah, I vaguely seem to recall that night."

"Funny. I bet you got a lot of miles out of that evening."

"Oh, yeah. Some of the regulars have even made up sound effects for the part when you fell off the stool."

"Wow, knowing that, I can't wait to go back."

"You know everyone loves you for what you're doing for Ronnie." Without thinking about it, Chris put his hand on Toby's knee. It was a friendly gesture, more innocent than if he had thought about it.

But Beecher apparently didn't take it so innocently. His muscles tensed so quickly and tightly Chris' hand practically bounced off.

"Uh, so, you were going to say something about that night." Chris crossed his arms across his chest, wondering what had freaked Beecher out so much. He couldn't have taken the gesture as a come-on, and even if he had, the reaction seemed extreme.

"Nothing, never mind." Seemingly relieved, Toby stood up. "Here's Dennis."

By the time they were settled into the back seat, everything seemed normal again.

Chris leaned back and closed his eyes. "If I had the money, I think I'd pay someone to just drive me around for hours at a time."

"You work a lot, don't you?"

"Mm hmm." Chris slit his eyes open – Toby was sitting up, looking out the window. "Do you miss it?"

"It?" Toby looked at Chris.

"Work."

Toby's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "You know, that's the second time you've asked me that – and you're the only person who ever has."

"Yeah?"

"I've got people telling me I have to go back to work; I need to go back to work; don't I feel lazy not working... that kind of shit. But no one's ever asked how I feel about it."

"So... how do you feel?"

Toby went back to looking out the window. "I do miss it."

"The game, not the politics."

"What?"

"You told me that day at the coffee shop that you like the excitement of the trial, not the politics."

"I remember."

Toby watched Chris thoughtfully for several moments before relaxing back into the seat. Chris did likewise, a huge yawn splitting his face.

"I thought you'd be one to go all night," Toby teased. "You're used to keeping late hours."

"I'm not used to eating or drinking so much this late, or being lulled in such comfortable surroundings. That's what I was thinking about earlier."

Here was his chance to come completely clean about his past with Beecher. But did he really want to? Beecher certainly didn't believe in full disclosure about his own life, although tonight had been a step in that general direction.

And what might Beecher think? It was one thing to say you were sympathetic to the plight of the downtrodden, but when it came right down to it, knowing the man you'd just spent the evening with had served time for theft and running ponzis was one thing, learning he'd also been in the slammer for extortion and prostitution was another.

Without knowing what he was going to say next, Chris continued. "I was just remembering the last time I'd been in a car like this."

"Were you stealing it?"

Chris' eyes popped open. A streetlight illuminated Beecher, looking so stunned and horrified that Chris burst out laughing; after a confused moment, Toby joined him.

When they'd finished their rather long, beer-fueled bout of laughter, Chris leaned back on the seat, feeling worn-out, relaxed and happy.

"I'm not quite sure how to handle such a huge faux pas in a moving vehicle," Toby said. "Normally I'd excuse myself and go curl up somewhere to drink away my humiliation."

Any deep, dark confessions could wait – Chris didn't want to spoil this moment. "I think we're even now, okay?"

"Even?"

"In the foot-in-mouth department."

"Right. Even."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After entering the front doors of Tony's Place, there was a small section to the immediate right, with high-backed booths along one wall and also along the large plate glass window. Even with the large window, this section of the bar was considered more intimate – it had a secluded feeling and softer lighting than the rest of the establishment.

Straight ahead from the front door was the main bar area. The bar itself was huge, made of polished oak with brass trimmings. On the wall behind it, shelves holding miles of bottles and glasses lined the requisite mirrored wall. At the end, a doorway led to the kitchen.

Across from the bar a low, glass partition, running halfway through the room, partially separated the front from the back; booths lined this wall. Generally, customers stopping in for a quick beer or maybe a little something to eat would take seats at the bar or one of these tables.

The back half of Tony's Place was where most of the action happened. It was the largest room, with booths lining the front and far wall, and the small dance floor took up the back corner. Tables for four and two occupied the rest of the floor.

The décor had once been a bit dark, a bit old-world. When Antonio Nappa first took over, many years before, it served mainly as a gathering place for his friends and their friends. Black leather and dark wood were suitable then, with an over-abundance of trailing plants being the main accent pieces.

But when Antonio had decided to keep up with the Joneses ("Mr. and Mr." he liked to joke) he had had the place revamped, tearing out the paneling in the back room and painting the walls a soft sage green. He installed the dance floor and a monstrosity of a jukebox, changed all the black leather to muted hues of greens and blues (except in the little front alcove area, which he decided to leave as it was. "I think it's more romantic that way," he explained to Chucky, who had simply shaken his head and rolled his eyes.) He replaced the plants with mirrors and various prints of gay icons. ("Just be sure to get an extra copy of the Marilyn Monroe for my office," he'd told the decorator.)

Chris had commandeered the table in the front section, across from the bar, in the corner. Located next to the doorway that led to the bathrooms and storage room and the other kitchen entrance, it was the least desirable table in the joint, and where Chris often sat when it wasn't busy – doing paperwork or just relaxing a moment, shmoozing with the customers.

Chris, Toby and Ronnie were there now, waiting for Brad to bring out his new appetizer, the always-popular Onion Blossom. "I made up my own recipe for the batter," Brad had informed Chris, who was only slightly worried. Brad wasn't a bad cook, and had actually added – with Mr. Nappa's blessing – quite a few items to the menu, expanding beyond the standard bar fare. Tonight, Chris, Ronnie and Beecher were the guinea pigs.

Chris studied Toby as he talked to Ronnie. After the game a few weeks ago, Toby's demeanor had changed; he was more relaxed, Chris thought, and he definitely was smiling more... and drinking less. Toby had never gotten drunk while he was there, but he'd always had a beer in his hand, and he often looked like he was recovering from an all-nighter. Tonight, he was drinking ginger ale.

He was also opening up a little... just a little... about his private life. He'd mentioned a couple times that he'd talked to his wife. And a few days ago he'd related a conversation he'd had with his brother when the two had gone to their parents' place for dinner. He still had nothing to say about his plans for the future, though, and Chris wondered how long Toby could go on in this limbo.

Brad came to the table, holding a tray bearing three onion blossoms and several small containers of sauce.

"Three! One apiece?"

"Do you want a whole one for yourself?"

"No, I'd have gas for a week."

"That's very pleasant, boss. I made three because I thought some of the customers might like to try one and give us feedback."

"Oooh, did I hear 'free food'?" Billie, surprisingly alone, sashayed over to the table.

"Um, no one exactly said 'free food' but yes, there's free food."

"You don't have to say it," Billie said, "I can just sense it. The girls are going to be mad they missed this!"

Chris moved over and Billie sat next to him, sliding in a little more than necessary.

"There's bleu cheese and ranch and buffalo sauces." Brad set one onion on the table, along with some of the sauces, and moved over to the bar to try and tempt the few customers there.

The four men tried the onion, and all agreed Brad had done a good job, until Chris and Ronnie tried the buffalo sauce.

"Holy shit!" Chris drained his water bottle. "That didn't help!"

"You're not supposed to drink water – I'll get some milk." Ronnie, his eyes watering, ran to the kitchen.

"Hot?"

"Good guess there, Beecher."

Ronnie was back with a half gallon of milk and two cups. While the two chugged the milk, Billie nibbled on the onion spears, avoiding the buffalo sauce, while Beecher sat back watching the scene, a bemused smile on his face.

Brad came back from the rear of the club. "Did you like it?"

"Other than the third-degree burns on my tongue from the buffalo sauce, I'd say they'll be a hit."

"Right," Brad said, seeming unconcerned that he'd scorched the mouth of his boss. Pulling a small notebook and pencil from his apron pocket, he made a small notation. "Less cayenne." Gathering up the dishes, he disappeared to the kitchen.

A small crowd entered just then, and Billie jumped up, waving to his friends. "Let's go to the back, sugars, I feel like dancing."

"Ronnie, go see if they want anything and get Brad out of the kitchen."

"Sure," the boy grumbled.

"So," Chris began with a smile, pleased to have a moment alone with Beecher, "what's up with you?"

"Not so much, really. But I have been thinking about doing something lately, was wondering if you'd be interested."

"Shoot."

"Have you ever…"

In a split second, Chris' imagination came up with several endings to that sentence: '…gone skinny-dipping?' '…had a deep-tissue massage?' '…taught someone how to give a blow-job?'

When Toby actually finished the sentence, Chris wasn't sure what he'd heard. "What?"

"Golf, have you ever played golf?"

"Golf?"

Toby nodded and spoke slowly. "Yes, Chris, golf. Originated in Scotland, played with clubs and balls."

"Very funny, yes, I get it, golf. You just surprised me, I guess. And no, I've never played."

Toby sat back with a satisfied grin. "Then we should go and I'll teach you. We don't have to play a round, we can just hit some balls, practice putting."

Chris squinted uncertainly. "I don't know, Beecher. Golf?" And then he thought of something. "At your club?"

Toby almost choked on his ginger ale. "God, no! I haven't been back there since… since that night. We'll just go to a public course. I've found a couple that are pretty nice – I go out and hit a bucket of balls every now and then."

"Really?" That made Chris feel good, for some reason. He didn't like to think of Toby sitting alone in his hotel room, just watching television and drinking. And why Chris hadn't thought Toby was off doing a hundred other things, he didn't know. Apparently, he was doing at least one. "Okay, I guess. Isn't it pretty cold to be playing golf?"

"The weather supposed to be fairly mild this weekend. But you don't have to, you know," Toby chuckled. "It's just an idea."

"No, let's do it." Chris was eager to spend more time away from the bar with Beecher, and golf didn't sound too horrible.

"Okay, good." And Toby really did look pleased. "Let's go Sunday morning, around nine o'clock?"

"Can we make it ten? Saturday's a pretty late night for me."

"Of course. And I'll drive." Toby got up and clapped Chris on the shoulder. "See you Sunday morning, if not sooner."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Even though Chris had plans for sleeping in and being bright-eyed for the day, at seven o'clock he gave up any hope of getting back to sleep. After three cups of coffee and a cigarette on the balcony, he started cleaning to pass the time. He swept and mopped the kitchen and bathroom, swept and buffed the hallway and living room, and vacuumed the bedrooms. Then he scrubbed the bathroom; sink, toilet and tub, before moving on to the kitchen.

After throwing all the dirty clothes that had been decorating his bedroom floor into the closet, he changed the sheets on his bed. 'Why the fuck did I do that?' he asked himself. Because it needed to be done, was his inner reply. Good answer, because no way was he even going to attempt to get Beecher into bed… no way. If there was ever to be anything between them, Chris had a feeling Toby wouldn't put out on the second date.

Not that he considered either the ball game or today a date. At least not that he would admit out loud.

When the living room was straightened, he took a shower and got dressed and waited.

At 9:55, Beecher knocked.

"Hey, come on in. You got time for the grand tour?"

"Of course, wouldn't miss it."

It took just a minute to walk the small apartment. When they made their way back to the living room, Toby was nodding his approval.

"It's a really nice little place – love that balcony."

Chris smiled. "So do I. You want a drink?"

"I'll take a water, if you you've got it."

When Chris came back with two bottles of water, he found Toby looking through his CDs.

"You know," Toby said, waving a Roy Orbison CD in Chris' direction, "they did make music after 1990."

Chris shrugged and handed Beecher his water. "If you say so."

"This is a great neighborhood."

"Oh yeah, I can walk practically anywhere I need to go."

"Nice. You like your neighbors?"

Chris nodded. "The little apartment at the end of the hall is Mrs. Truman – great old lady, deaf as a post. Which is good, with me coming home at two in the morning. Downstairs are the owners, nice couple, and their daughter just moved into the other apartment."

"Sounds really nice, Chris." Toby looked around wistfully. "A lot nicer than the place I'm staying."

"I thought you told me you were staying at the Mayfair."

Toby nodded. "Yep."

"That's a pretty fucking nice hotel, Beecher. I don't think they have a room smaller than this whole place."

"You've been there?"

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"Uh, yeah. You done?" Chris took Toby's empty water bottle to the kitchen, tossing it with his into the recycling can. "I managed to splurge a few times and take Angie," he said over his shoulder.

He felt uncomfortable lying to Beecher's face. It wasn't a complete lie – he did take Angie there once, but he didn't splurge on the room. The poor Joe whose credit cards he was using picked up the tab that night. As for the other times he'd been there...

"The Mayfair has its perks," Toby said when Chris came back into the room, "but it's not a home."

Chris looked around, nodding, feeling warm and proud of his little place. "I like it." Grabbing his keys from the coffee table, he opened the door. "After you."

"Who's Angie?" Toby asked, as they started down the hall.

"I'll tell you later."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Downstairs, a mint-condition 1970 Mercury Cougar sat at the curb, its perfect green paint job shining in the sun.

"Sweet," Chris said admiringly, giving the vehicle the once – and twice – over.

"I didn't want to seem pretentious, but knowing how you're into cars, I thought you might like to see it."

Chris had to smile to himself. Beecher thought showing off this toy was pretentious, whiling hiring a car and driver to take them to a basketball game wasn't?

"It's beautiful. Did you do the work?"

"Actually, that's the way I got it."

Chris stopped his examination of the tail-lights. "No shit? This all looks original."

"My grandfather gave it to me when I graduated Harvard. He was the cliché little old lady who only drove it to church on Sundays. He bought it new and hardly ever drove it. I think it was an impulse buy, one that my grandmother wasn't thrilled with."

On the way to the golf course, the men stayed busy talking cars. Chris was far more knowledgeable than Toby, but the lawyer knew enough to keep the conversation from being completely one-sided.

It was a short drive to their destination. ("How come I didn't know this was here?" Chris wondered aloud.)

In the clubhouse, Toby paid for two buckets of balls each, and set a time to use one of the putting greens.

It was a nice place, but relaxed and comfortable. Chris had worried a little that even though it was a public course, he might feel out of place. The only golf course he'd ever seen was the one in 'Caddyshack', with its membership made up of rich snobs and assholes – Chris would definitely be more comfortable with the caddies, making fun of Ted Knight.

Outside, they took a place in line with the other golfers, along the edge of a vibrant green lawn extending hundreds of yards out, the small white balls polka-dotting its expanse.

Toby hit a couple balls, sending them sailing out of sight.

"Nice. You want me to do that?"

"Not your first time, obviously – just remember a few things."

And Toby went through a couple more swings in slow motion, talking about eyes on the ball, and follow-through, and straight left arms and Chris tried to listen, but he was too busy paying attention to the teacher instead of the lesson. He watched the way Toby's trim waist bent and turned (and this reminded Chris that he wanted to ask Toby about the weight he'd lost, because he was definitely slimmer than he had been the night they met), and he noticed how Toby's hair, long enough for the curls to cover the back of his neck, was an amazing golden shade right now. He watched the blue eyes as they searched for his ball after hitting it far off into the distance.

"Okay, your turn – go for it."

They only had the one driver between them, and when Chris took it from Toby he savored the warmth left from the other man's hands.

Chris lined up, following Toby's instructions, swung… and completely missed the ball. Chris shaded his eyes with his hand, looking out over the lawn. "I can't even see it."

Toby smiled. "Ha ha. Try again, and keep your eye on the ball, even after you hit it."

"You mean if I hit it." Chris tried again and made contact, shooting his ball far to the left. He looked up, pleased. "I hit it."

"Can I show you what you did wrong?"

"Jesus, take away my moment, why don't you?" Chris teasingly groused.

"Here, set up again."

While Chris lined up over the next ball, Toby moved around behind him. "You've got to keep that arm straight." He put his arms around Chris, wrapping his fingers around Chris' hands on the club. "Let's pull back, slowly." Chris turned his head toward Toby. "Look at the ball, Chris."

"Right, okay."

They went through the swing once, but when Toby tried it again, Chris gave up. Toby's breath was on his neck and Toby's body was pressed against his and his hands were hot on Chris'. When Toby told him "head down", Chris leaned back instead.

Toby's hands tightened and the rest of him froze. They stayed like that for only a second, until Toby pulled away and Chris had to give the guy at the next tee his 'what the hell are you looking at?' glare. But that second had been enough – there was something there; Chris had felt it and he knew Toby felt it. The next step would be to see if Toby would admit to it.

But Chris didn't want to push anything, so he went on, swinging and joking away as though nothing had happened.

Toby did the same.

After the driving range, they went to the practice hole to try out their putting skills. Toby tossed several balls on the green and told Chris to pick one.

After a few tries from several feet away, Chris moved closer, then closer again, until he finally made a putt from two feet away.

"You know, I can see why people throw their clubs into the duck pond."

"It's trickier than it looks, isn't it?"

"It's bullshit, is what it is." But Chris was smiling and the sun was shining and he was here with Beecher. Who the fuck cared if the little ball went into the little hole?

Ten minutes later, Chris threw his club and stalked to the side of the green. "I'll watch you."

"Come on, don't give up." Toby grabbed Chris' club and held it out to him, trying to hide his amusement. "You can do this."

As Chris reluctantly reached for the putter, a memory came to him, so strong he paused, feeling it settle inside and push at his gut.

He was nine and playing miniature golf with his mother. He couldn't get the ball to go into the top of the volcano; either he wasn't hitting hard enough, or too hard, sending it sailing over the top. After several tries, he threw down his club and started crying.

His mother knelt down and took hold of his upper arms. Embarrassed by his tears, Chris looked at the ground. "Look at me," she said, her voice firm but gentle. Looking up, he saw his mother's smiling face. She wasn't wild, like when she stayed up for two days and painted the kitchen three times because she couldn't decide on a color. She wasn't sad, like when she would go to bed and stay there until they ran out of food and then someone would usually come and take both of them – separately. She was just 'Mom' and she was telling him that he could do it; all he needed to do was take a deep breath and concentrate.

Chris sniffed back the tears and took the club and after four more attempts, the ball went in! His mother picked him up and swung him around and said, "See, you can do anything you set your mind to! You remember that, Christopher Robin, you can do anything!"

"Christopher Robin." Chris whispered the words. How could he have ever forgotten that she used to call him that?

Chris focused back on the present and saw Toby waiting quietly and looking concerned.

"You okay?"

"Sure, sorry about that. I just..." Chris shook his head and took a deep breath. "I just had the most intense flashback."

"Drug related?"

"No," Chris laughed. "How about you, you ever get them?"

"That's a talk for another day. Here," Toby handed the putter to Chris. "Let's keep going before our time runs out."

On the way home, Toby let Chris drive and he took the long way. Back at Chris' place they found golf on ESPN, ordered pizza and split the three beers that Chris had in the fridge.

"So," Toby asked as he was at the door, getting ready to leave, "how was your day?"

Chris took a moment, considering, before answering. "The beer and pizza – very good. Driving that Cougar – amazing. Learning to play golf – fun, if on the frustrating side. Watching golf on TV – about as exciting as watching paint dry."

"Smart ass."

"Really, it was good day, Toby. Thanks for asking me."

"We'll do it again?"

"Will I get to drive the Cougar?"

"If that's your sticking point."

"I'm afraid it is."

Toby chuckled and opened the door. "I'll see you in a few days."

"Right, see you."

He watched Toby go down the hall, past Mrs. Truman's door and down the stairs. Feeling like the kind of teenager he never was, he went to the living room window and watched from the behind the curtain as Toby came out of the building and climbed into his car.

That night, Chris lay awake for hours, going over the events of the day and thinking about his mother.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chris thought of that stolen moment on the driving range many, many times, but there was never any indication from Beecher that the incident had ever happened. Chris knew that was best – he'd vowed to keep things on a friends-only level with Toby for the sake of Ronnie. But he couldn't help reliving it – just thinking of Toby's body pressed against his would cause his belly to flip and his blood to race.

On the morning of the Saturday two weeks after the golf game, Chris received a phone call that put thoughts of Toby on the back-burner. It was Antonio, back from his recovery period in the country. He wanted to come by and talk to Chris.

Finally. Chris had been on edge, thinking about this talk for over a month. Chucky had stopped by several days ago, letting Chris know that Antonio wouldn't be coming home for at least a week.

"He was pretty bad for a while there, Keller."

"I know. I could hear it in his voice when I talked to him." It had made him sad, hearing the frailty in his boss' voice when he had called Chris after leaving the hospital. Their conversation had been brief, with Antonio telling Chris he was in complete control of Tony's Place until he got back home.

"Chucky will be spending time between here and the city, and he'll check in, but I trust you with everything, Christopher."

"Thank you so much, sir. We'll do our best for you."

"I know, boy. You better hire a new bartender if Bradley is going to be spending more time in the kitchen."

"Yes, sir, I'll do that right away."

Antonio arrived an hour after they opened – noon on Saturdays – and took a seat in the little room in the front. Brad and Trisha were both there and took a few minutes to talk with him. Chris introduced the new bartender he'd hired and then he finally had his moment with Mr. Nappa.

"It's good to be here, Christopher, in more ways than one."

"Yes, sir. You're looking good." And Chris was relieved that that was the truth. Mr. Nappa was much thinner, certainly, but he had a ruddiness to his cheeks that he never had even before he got sick, and his soft, graveled voice had regained some of it's commanding tone.

Chucky had taken off, gone to pick up a prescription for his boss, so the two of them were alone.

"Christopher, I know Pancamo has told you about my daughter's intentions to whisk me away to Florida in the fall."

"Yes, sir. I hate to see you go so soon, but it sounds like it would be good for you."

"Maybe so, maybe so – I'm not looking forward to another winter, I do know that. Which brings us to the future of Tony's Place."

Chris' mouth suddenly went dry and his hands fisted under the table.

"While I was upstate, I had my banker and my lawyer get together and draw up a sale agreement – they're supposed to e-mail it to you sometime today." Nappa leaned forward and pointed at Chris. "I told you I would consider carrying the loan for you, at a comparable rate of interest. The bank told me that if you turn a good profit on the bar and make your payments on time every month to me for two years, they'll review your financials and consider giving you the loan to pay me off."

Chris nodded. That would be good – he'd rather owe a bank than Mr. Nappa.

"Well, I want you to look the proposal over and make sure you feel like it's something you can handle. And if you feel comfortable with it, and will have the cash down payment I need, I think you're on the way to buying yourself a very classy piece of property."

Chris could only nod again.

Antonio squinted at him. "You don't have anything to say?"

Chris licked his lips and managed to swallow. "Mr. Nappa, ever since you first mentioned selling this place, all I've thought of is owning it. I thank you so much for taking the chance on me, and helping me out with the money, and for giving me a job here in the first place."

Chris felt tears push at the back of his eyes and he clenched his jaw in an attempt to hold them back. "This is the best thing that has ever happened to me."

"That's all I need to hear, my boy." Antonio stood up and Chris followed. Mr. Nappa pulled Chris into a hug and patted his cheek. "You just keep on the way you've been doing and you're going to be even more successful than I was."

"Thank you, sir."

"Now, walk me out front. I saw Chucky pull up – he's waiting for me."

Chris walked Mr. Nappa to the door and – after the boss called out his goodbyes to the staff – out front to the waiting car.

Back inside, Chris walked in a daze to the bar, taking a seat. The lunch crowd had the front of the club almost full. Chris looked at the people there, eating or waiting for their food, or just having a quick drink before getting back to work. He knew a lot of faces and a few names. These were his customers, his patrons – he'd thought of them as "his" ever since becoming manager. But soon, very soon, they really would be his."

Trisha came from the back room and Brad made his way down the bar, meeting up with Chris at the same time.

"So, what happened?" Brad was almost vibrating with anticipation.

Chris looked from one to the other, a smile slowly growing across his face.

"Oh, boss, you got it! He's going to sell to you!" Trisha jumped up and down and then grabbed Chris in a huge hug. "I'm so happy for you!" She pulled a towel from her apron and put it over her face, hiding her tears.

Chris pulled the towel down. "No time for that, Trisha." He stood and called out, "Free drinks, on the house! One free drink to everyone here!"

Trisha ran to take orders, with Chris helping out.

After the lunch crowd had thinned out, Chris called Toby and asked if he would come to look at the sales proposal for him.

"I already owe you so much, I figured you wouldn't mind one more favor."

Toby came right over, bearing a bottle of champagne. "Congratulations, Chris!" They went into the kitchen and poured glasses for Brad, Trisha and the other employees.

"To the new owner of Tony's Place!" Brad called out.

"Don't jinx me," Chris grinned. "How about – to the future owner of Tony's Place!"

After the toast, Chris and Toby went to the office to look over the paperwork. As Chris began printing it off, he grew concerned. "How many pages does it take to say 'I'm selling you my bar'?" he asked.

"The lawyers and accountants have to justify their cut," Toby smirked in reply.

Chris pulled up the extra chair he had in the corner and together he and Toby sat at the desk and read each page. On most of them, Toby gave a brief synopsis on what they'd just read, explaining it to Chris. When they finally finished, Chris stood up and stretched, groaning.

"That was miserable!" he yawned. "Thank god you were here – I probably would have dozed off about page two."

"No problem. It isn't very exciting," Toby agreed, "but it was kind of nice doing something law-related again."

Chris sat back down, about to ask Beecher about his plans for the future when the intercom on the phone buzzed.

"Chris, can you come out here?" It was Trisha. "There's a delivery man out front, says he just wants to bring the order in the front door."

"I'll be right there, Trish."

"He won't go around to the back?" Toby looked amused.

"Can't wait to hear his excuse."

As they got to the office door, Chris stopped, taking hold of Toby's arm. "I really do want to thank you, Beecher. With this, and with Ronnie – we wouldn't be making it without you."

Toby got an odd expression on his face. "I could be saying the same thing about you."

Chris nodded; he was pretty sure he knew what Toby meant.

"Hey, one of my customers gave me a gift card for a new restaurant. You wanna check it out? It's supposed to have some pretty good surf-n-turf."

"Sure, sounds good."

"Tonight? I don't want to stop celebrating."

"Tonight would be fine."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The restaurant, The Red Lion, was between Chris' place and Toby's hotel, so the two met there.

Going into the restaurant, they had to pause a moment to take it in.

"Wow," Toby said.

"Holy shit," Chris replied.

"This place is a fucking throwback."

"Yeah, but to what?"

The walls were paneled dark wood, with sections of what looked like red, velvet-flocked wallpaper placed intermittently to break it up.

The lightening was almost non-existent; low chandeliers holding dozens of fake candles hung from the exposed beams of the ceiling.

Every table was a booth, with black leather seats and red tablecloths. Candles were on every table, but fortunately, for those that wanted to see their food, there were also small lamps.

The hostess, dressed in a crisp white shirt and long, black pants, escorted them to their table and took their drink order.

It was extreme and gaudy, but Chris liked it. It had a very intimate atmosphere and Chris was pleased to be here with Toby.

After their drinks arrived – both were drinking ginger ale – they talked a little about the events of the day.

"So, in just a few months, you'll be the owner of your own place. Maybe you can pick up some decorating tips here."

Chris nearly choked on his drink. "Some of the guys would go for the not-being-able-to-see part, I'm sure."

"Seriously, though – congratulations. You belong there, at Tony's Place. It's obvious how much you love it."

"Thanks, Toby. I do love it. I'm not sure what it is about that place, or maybe it's just that I found it at the right time in my life. I was getting tired of not having anything steady, you know?"

When the waitress came, dressed in a crisp, white blouse and short black skirt, they both ordered the steak and shrimp.

"Can I ask you something?" Toby picked up a roll from the basket the waitress had left.

"Sure."

"The other day, golfing... what happened there, when you said you had a flashback?"

"You curious if it really was from drugs?" Chris smiled.

"No, but if you don't want –"

"No, it's okay, I'll tell you. It was too raw that day to talk about, but I'll tell you. I was remembering a day with my mom."

And Chris told him about the memory, and then kept on talking. Toby already knew that Chris' dad was never in the picture, and that his mother died when Chris was fourteen, but not much more. Chris didn't realize how cathartic it would be, talking about his mother, her illness, his fear for her – and sometimes of her.

He went on talking, ignoring his food when it arrived, telling Beecher how he had run away from his aunt's house before social services could come for him; how he'd survived on his own from that day on.

Toby knew he'd been arrested for theft and fencing and running ponzis, and there wouldn't be a more perfect time to tell him the rest – how he'd been a ten-dollar boy, hustling in alleys, sometimes not even for money, sometimes just for a bag of weed or hit of smack to make him forget what he was doing. And then how fate had stepped in and he'd met a very rich man in a very bad part of town, and after that his skills with his dick and tongue had taken him across the tracks, where he ended his days of prostitution as a gigolo for the very wealthy, taking in hundreds of dollars a night.

He loved the money but hated the clientele; no matter what it was they wanted him to do to them, or what they wanted to do to him, he was always looked upon as being nothing, a dirty toy for their amusement, to be discarded when they were done. So after serving his time for the arrest in the back of that limousine, his days of prostitution were over.

He could have told Toby that, but didn't. Because looking across the table at the other man, seeing his sympathetic, understanding – but not pitying – expression as he listened; not touching his own dinner so he could give Chris his full attention; seeing how beautiful he looked in the dim light of the candle, Chris realized he was falling even harder for Toby. He couldn't say anything to change that look in Toby's eyes.

"Shit," Chris said, after describing how he got the job with Nappa, "I don't think I've talked that long... ever!"

"It's an amazing story – you've really turned your life around."

"It took a while – that's why I'm so bent on helping Ronnie. I don't want him to have to go through everything I did before he gets his life together."

When they finished their meal – Chris insisted on sending their plates back to get warmed up ("Sorry, I talked until it got cold.") – they each ordered a brandy and slowly sipped it, sitting quietly until Toby spoke up.

"Do you remember, after the basketball game, I started to say something about the night we met?"

Chris thought a moment. What he remembered most about that night was Toby's extreme reaction to Chris' hand on his leg. But he did recall Toby mentioning that night. "Yeah, I think so."

"Well, what I was going to say..." Toby swirled the amber liquid in his glass, concentrating on the motion of the brandy. "What I was going to say was the reason I left my anniversary party was because my father-in-law found me in the locker room, making out with a waitress from the catering staff."

Toby looked up from his glass, waiting for Chris' reaction.

"No shit."

"No shit."

"And he told everyone?"

"Not out right. He had to let it slip, though, because by the time I got my pants pulled up and back to the table, it was obvious everyone knew."

"If he's so gung-ho on merging with your father's firm, why would he do anything to jeopardize your marriage?"

"I think he thought he was going to hold it over my head, guilt me into staying, give Gen kids. He's such a fucked-up prick."

They finished their drinks and headed out to their cars. They'd parked next to each other, Chris' Mustang and Toby's Jeep, which Chris had never seen before.

"How many more cars you got, Beecher?" Chris teased good-naturedly. Toby usually drove a five-year-old Audi.

"Just the Audi, and Gen's got a Mercedes."

"Nice. Listen, Toby, I appreciate the sympathetic ear tonight. You're doing enough, being my lawyer for free – I didn't mean to turn you into a therapist, too."

"Hey, don't worry – that's what friends are for, right?"

"Right." Chris didn't want to leave, and searched for something to say. Just then, a large cloud moved, revealing an enormous, full moon. "Wow, look at that!"

"Beautiful, isn't it? Now it's brighter out here than it was inside."

They chuckled. "The food was good, though, wasn't it?"

Toby nodded his agreement, but was looking thoughtful. "Chris, what you were saying about me listening to you – I appreciate it."

"You appreciate me thanking you?"

Toby shook his head, smiling, but he quickly grew serious again. "I mean, that was a lot of personal stuff, and the fact that you trusted me enough to tell me all that... it means a lot. A have a lot of people talking at me, not too many talking *to* me."

Chris took a moment, trying to hear what Beecher was really saying. "And it means a lot to me that you feel that way."

They were facing each other now, Toby leaning against his car. "What I said about messing around with that waitress?"

"Yeah?" Chris stepped closer, and chanced taking Toby by the hand. Toby paused, looking at their hands, before taking a deep breath and looking Chris in the eyes.

"It wasn't a waitress."

Chris didn't say anything, just squeezed Toby's hand.

"It was a waiter. I was getting a blow job from a waiter at my anniversary party."

"And everyone knows?" Chris let out a low whistle when Beecher nodded.

Toby cut his eyes away, embarrassed, and Chris could see how hard it had been for Toby to tell him that. He could have left the story the way it was, letting Chris believe it had been a woman he was screwing around with. Or not even told him the story at all. There was a reason Toby told him that, a reason he wanted Chris to know he'd been with a man.

"Toby..." Chris leaned forward, and Toby looked up. Christ, he was going to kiss Toby, right now.

"Get a room, you faggots!"

Chris jerked away, looking around. A truck was peeling out of the parking lot, the passenger flipping them off out the window.

"Son of a bitch! Fucking assholes!" Chris watched, trembling, until the truck was down the road. "Fuckers!"

When he turned back, Toby had his keys out, unlocking his car door.

"Toby, wait." Toby's hand was shaking as he tried to get the key in the lock. "Toby."

When Chris grabbed Toby's arm, his hand was flung off. "I've gotta go, Chris. I had a good time, but I have to go."

He got the door open and slipped quickly inside. "I'll see you later," he said, starting the car without looking up. "Thanks for dinner."

Chris stood and watched him go, cursing the cocksuckers that had ruined the moment; he wondered if he could catch up to them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Back at home, lying in bed, Chris realized the evening had been a huge success, no matter how it ended.

Toby had admitted his attraction to men; he'd admitted, in not so many words, that he had feelings for Chris, stronger than friends. He'd let Chris hold his hand and Chris knew he would have permitted the kiss if they had not been interrupted.

He relived the whole evening, taking the homophobic fucks out of the picture, letting the kiss happen.

He took his cock in hand and thought of Toby kissing him back, coming home with him, and laying here in bed with him, naked and willing. He came with a grunt, hard and fast.

As he fell asleep, he ignored the voice trying to remind him of his vow to not get involved with Ronnie's lawyer.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Their dinner had been on a Thursday night – Chris didn't see Toby for the next few days. That was normal – he'd been coming around twice a week or so – but after that night Chris was anxious to see him.

Sunday morning, the only day Chris didn't work, the phone rang while he was drinking his first cup of coffee.

It was Beecher. "Hey, hope I didn't wake you."

Chris was glad there was no one around to see what felt like his goofy smile. "No, just starting on my first pot of coffee."

"First! How many do you drink?"

"Usually two on Sundays – bad habit, I know."

"You mind if I come by? I'm just down the street."

"Sure, come on over. Something up?"

"I just need to talk to you."

Chris ran to wash his face and pull on some pants. Brushing his teeth, he went to the window, just in time to see Toby pull up and exit the car. He was dressed in a suit, and Chris saw that he'd had a haircut – it looked the same as the night they'd met. And the car was a Mercedes – Gen's car. Chris' good mood instantly evaporated and his stomach rolled.

He rinsed his mouth in the kitchen sink, getting to the door just as Toby knocked.

"Come in."

Toby was smiling, but Chris knew a forced grin when he saw it.

"You're looking sharp – nice suit." Chris could hear the edge in his voice, but he couldn't stop it. Toby didn't notice, or pretended not to.

"Thanks."

"And hair cut."

"Yeah," Toby ran his hand over his head. "I thought it was getting long enough."

"I saw you're driving a Mercedes – new car?"

Toby looked surprised – caught, Chris thought.

"No, it's Gen's."

"You just borrowing it or what?" Chris wanted to get this over with.

"I'm... I took her to church this morning."

"Yeah? I didn't know you were a church-going guy, Beecher."

"Well, I always went once a month or so to keep on everyone's good side –my mom has got the God guilt thing down to a tee." Toby was looking around, straightening his tie, jingling the keys in his pocket.

"You used to go… when you were with Gen." Chris had stepped forward, crowding Toby, smiling encouragingly. 'Just fucking say it,' he thought. "And today?"

Toby took a deep breath and said it. "I've gone back to Genevieve."

"Christ." Chris turned away, going to the kitchen.

"Chris, listen, it's a good thing, really." Toby followed behind, and when Chris whirled to face him he was trying to smile like he meant it.

"Yeah? What's good about it?"

"What?"

"What is good about it, Toby?"

Toby looked around, like the answer was hidden in the tiny kitchen. "It's where I belong."

Chris shook his head, not believing this shit. "It's where you belong? With a wife you don't love anymore and a job you don't care about anymore and friends who aren't really your friends."

"It's not that easy."

"The fuck it's not. You're doing this because you're afraid of what people will think."

"What are you even talking about? Think about what?"

"You and the life you've chosen – the life you've left behind. You told me just the other day how your mom and grandmother teamed up to give you shit about how you're living. And your dad calling you every other day to see if you're ready to go back to work."

Chris shook his head, fearful of where this was leading, but too disgusted to not keep going.

"They can't deal with you now – how are they going to deal with you if you make a permanent change? They won't be able to handle it and neither will you."

"Really?" Toby stepped forward, in Chris' face, his face turning red. "Is that why I got my dick sucked at my anniversary party with two hundred guests down the hall? Is that why I left everything I know to hang out in a gay bar, defending a two-bit, drug-pushing hustler? Because I give a shit about what anyone thinks?"

"Then why go back?" Chris tried to calm down – he had to convince Toby he was making a huge mistake. "You've done the hard part, the leaving. Why waste the last few months?"

"Why is it a waste? It's what happened, and it's over." Toby's anger had receded as well, and he looked at Chris beseechingly as he tried to explain. "I don't regret anything that happened, other than hurting my family, but I've come to realize that I needed that break to get my priorities in order. And my first priority is my responsibility to Genevieve. I'm sorry if this hurts you, Chris. I'm not giving up on Ronnie, and I hope we can stay friends."

Chris barked laughter. "I can't believe you said that – 'I hope we can stay friends.' What a load of crap. You're not leaving because you're afraid of what anyone else will think – you're scared of yourself."

"What are you doing, just throwing out whatever bullshit comes to mind?

"Your denial is the bullshit, Toby. Isn't it interesting that you've come to this realization right after we almost kissed?"

"What?" Toby looked incredulous. "We almost kissed?"

"Jesus, Beecher, don't act stupid. We almost kissed the other night in the parking lot and that scared the shit out of you, knowing you wanted it. You want to be here with me, but you're too big a coward to face up to it."

"You fucker, you don't know shit. We had a nice night and now you're trying to turn it into something else." Toby was mad, his fists clenched, the vein in his forehead throbbing.

Under the anger and fear, Chris was getting a perverse pleasure in seeing Toby like this, hot and angry. He remembered how many times the fights he and Jason had would end with them naked and someone getting fucked. He wondered how hard Beecher would fight if Chris threw him down and fucked him right now. He stepped forward and Toby stepped back. "Come on, Toby, you know you want me. Let's do this – kiss me."

Chris grabbed him and Toby slapped his face.

"You fucker," Toby repeated, and went for the door. "Gen's waiting at home for me. I'll be in to see Ronnie in a few days."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Who's a guy got to blow to get a drink in this dump?"

Chris came up from where he'd been stocking below the bar to find Jason Cramer sitting there. "Cramer, you motherfucker!" The men shook hands across the bar. "What the hell are you doing back here?"

"Well, I figured if I didn't try to get my couch you'd serve me a beer. That big, ugly motherfucker isn't around, is he?"

"Pancamo? No, he's not. Besides, that couch looks a hell of a lot better in my place than it did yours."

Chris set a mug of beer in front of Cramer. "How's Anthony?" Chris had meant the question as a dig of sorts, the Anthony in question being the flouncy shit that had broken Keller and Cramer up and, in Chris' mind, been responsible for it ending badly.

"He's fine, just fine." Cramer took a long drink and smacked his lips. "He's in Fresno right now, visiting family."

"You're still together?" Chris was stunned. That had been over two years ago – he'd thought Jason was as big a player as he was... had been... was.

"Honey, you knew it was serious between us when I kicked you out."

"Kicked me out? You doing a little history re-write there, Cramer? Don't you remember, I broke your nose then left on my own?"

Jason rubbed his nose. "Gives it a little character, don't you think? How about you, how's things going?"

Chris looked around with a grin. "I'm on my way to becoming owner of this fine establishment."

"Seriously?"

Chris nodded. "Yep. A few more weeks and I'm signing the papers."

"That's great news. Come here; let me give you a hug."

Chris came around the bar and hugged his old lover. It felt good, seeing Jason again. Though they had ended on a bad note, Chris had had a lot of fun with him. He realized, now, that they had come together at the same points in their lives – they were both reaching the end of their party days, looking for something more stable and solid. The problem was, they weren't the ones each other were meant to be with – which probably accounted for a lot of the volatility in their relationship.

"Can you talk a minute?"

"Sure, let's take this table."

Seated in the corner booth, Jason and Chris went over the last two years. Jason had found a good job, co-managing a gym, not too far from there. He was still in the same apartment he'd once shared with Chris, but now he owned it. And he was still happy with Anthony.

Chris filled Jason in on the situation with Ronnie, and briefly talked about Toby. "We're so fucking different from each other, but we're good together. We're good friends, you know, or at least we were. I really think we could be more, but he's too scared to take that final step."

"So, is it awkward now, after everything?"

"Not really. We got past it. He still comes in to talk to Ronnie, just not as often... better that way."

Chris had waited almost a week before he called Toby after their fight. He'd started worrying that he'd completely alienated Toby – and ruined Ronnie's chance to stay free. So he called and apologized, even though he knew – and he knew Toby knew – that he'd been right. Toby had apologized back, saying he was sorry if he'd sent mixed signals and he didn't want to do anything to make things bad between them. Chris had accepted the apology and the lies that went with it.

Toby had come into the bar a few days later and Chris was shocked to see how obvious it was – after only a few days – that Toby was drinking again. His eyes were bloodshot, and when he took Chris up on his offer of a drink, he ordered a scotch. Chris kept his mouth shut, though it was hurting him to see Toby like that. Actually, it hurt him to see Toby at all, so though he missed him, he was relieved that he'd been coming in less often. In the month since their fight, he'd seen him only three times.

He wondered what would happen after the trial. He supposed it would be best for Toby to forget about them completely – Chris couldn't see them all continuing to hang out together. Chris was sure Toby felt the same way.

"You still have feelings for him, though?" Jason was asking.

"Huh? Yeah, I do. I do, Jason. But it's got to be his decision, whatever happens. And I don't think he's strong enough to do what needs to be done."

"Sorry, Chrissy."

"Me, too."

Before Jason left, the two exchanged home and work numbers. Chris told Jason to bring Anthony in sometime and have a drink on the house.

"You do remember the last time you saw him you threatened to break him in half, don't you?"

"Ooh, yeah, I guess I did, but he wouldn't shut up." Chris winced at the memory of himself, shouting at the cowering, smaller man. "That screaming was getting annoying."

"All the blood from my nose kind of freaked him out."

They laughed over the moment, and Jason left. Chris was happier than he thought he might be, reconnecting with Cramer. Toby had left a void in his life and Chris realized he wasn't just missing Toby as someone he was attracted to… but as a friend.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Beecher came in a few days later, before the bar opened. "Is Ronnie here? I couldn't get him on his phone."

Chris got Ronnie from the kitchen and the three sat down together. Toby looked bad – his face was getting puffy and he looked like he hadn't slept in days. But Chris could read more in his face – he was worried, and so was Chris.

"I got a call from the courthouse clerk. The judge for Ronnie's trial had to step down – his son was diagnosed with cancer and he's cutting back on his caseload to be with him. The new judge – Judge Taylor – is a hard ass. He's especially hard on younger defendants – and repeat offenders. He thinks the system needs to nip them in the bud – so to speak – show them no mercy so that when they get out they'll think twice before offending again."

Toby shook his head and sipped the bottle of water Chris had put in front of him – he didn't offer a drink. "He doesn't get that many of the young kids learn how to be criminals in prison. He just thinks you need to teach them the fear of God and stick them in a cell with a guy named Bubba and they'll be scared straight."

Toby was instantly apologetic when he saw how ashen Ronnie went at his last comment. "Christ, Ronnie, I'm sorry. I didn't think…"

"It's okay, Toby, I know what I'm facing."

Toby took another breath and continued. "And, unfortunately, that's not all of it. After hearing who the judge is, Kenny's lawyer is urging him to recant his statement and say that Ronnie had full knowledge beforehand of the events of the robbery. He thinks if the blame is spread around, it won't go so hard on Kenny."

"What? He's telling Wangler to lie? How the fuck is he getting away with that?" Chris was livid and already thinking of how to find this asshole lawyer and persuade him to drop this latest plan of his. "Isn't he a friend of yours? Can't you talk him out of this?"

"We exchanged words, but he's got a good spin on it. He's not admitting he's encouraging Wrangler to lie – he's saying that Kenny was lying when he told the police that Ronnie didn't know anything about it. He did it to protect him, because he knew things would go worse for Ronnie than it would for him. Now, he's feeling remorse over lying and wants to tell the truth – his version of the truth."

"Can he do that?" Ronnie wondered. "Can he just lie like that and get away with it? What does this all mean?" The boy looked at Toby, then to Chris, his eyes wide and shining, tears gathering. "Chris, I'm going to have to go back, aren't I?"

Chris pulled Ronnie into a hug and stroked his hair. "We're doing whatever we can, Ronnie. You've got a great lawyer, right?" Ronnie nodded against Chris' chest.

"I've got two private investigators rechecking all the names on that list you gave me, Ronnie. All the mutual friends and acquaintances you and Wangler have. We'll find someone who knows what really went on."

Ronnie pulled away from Chris, wiping his nose. "I cried all over you again, Chris."

"I'll live. Why don't you go hang out in my office for a while? I'll come get you soon."

"See you later, Ronnie," Toby said. "I'm sorry I had to give you such shitty news."

Ronnie shrugged as he stood up. "I'm sorry I'm such a shitty person." He pushed through the swing door, headed toward the office before Toby or Chris could say anything.

"Jesus," Toby whispered, "poor kid."

"I'll go talk to him. Tell me, is it as bad as it sounds?"

Toby nodded. "If we can't find anyone to repudiate Kenny's testimony, I'm afraid I won't be able to keep Ronnie from going back in. A jury is going to see his history and the people he was hanging out with at the time of his arrest, and if they think he was a willing accomplice, they'll have to find him guilty. And I can't see Taylor not giving him any time. It may not be much time, but I was going over Taylor's case history and he is one tough asshole."

"I've got to go see Ronnie. You gonna hang around?"

"No, I better get... I should go."

Toby followed Chris down to his office and stuck his head in. Ronnie was slumped on the couch, staring at nothing.

"Hey, kid." Ronnie looked up. "I'm taking off – you take care, okay?"

"Sure. Thanks, Toby."

Before Toby could exit out the back door, Chris stopped him.

"You okay, Toby?"

"Sure, what do you mean?" Beecher's tone of voice had taken on a defensive edge; Chris tread carefully.

"You're looking kind of tired, and…" He shut up – he didn't want to start another fight.

"And what?"

"Nothing, nothing, just… thanks again for everything."

Toby nodded curtly and pushed open the door. "I'm fine," he said, stepping outside, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight. "I'm fine."

Chris wondered if he believed himself any more than Chris did.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Over the next several weeks, the tension between Chris and Toby eased a little. Toby still didn't come by more than once a week or so, but the small talk was easier to come by, and the elephant in the room grew smaller every visit.

A few times it was on the tip of Chris' tongue to mention the drinking to Toby, but he didn't; no one can make a drinker stop drinking but themselves.

Toby mentioned one time that he had been working 70 hours a week. Chris wondered how Genevieve felt about that. She never saw her husband, and when she did, Chris bet he was loaded. Is that the life they dreamed of when they got married? And was everyone else in Toby's life okay with it? He was sure the father-in-law was, but how about Toby's parents? Did he have anyone in his life that cared about him being happy – really happy – not the kind of happy money could buy, but the kind your heart could feel?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The night before the trial, Brad and Chris made dinner at Tony's Place for Toby, Ronnie and Ronnie's roommate, Poet.

Ronnie was quiet throughout the meal, but that was understandable. Chris was perhaps a little too anxious in his efforts to keep things upbeat, but if his nerves were about frayed, he could only imagine how Ronnie felt. Actually, he didn't have to imagine – he'd been in Ronnie's position and the wait for the outcome, for the verdict, for the click of the steel on his wrists, signaling the end of his freedom – it played hell on a person.

Chris was tempted more than once to sneak a shot of rum into his Coke, but he was encouraged to see that Toby was sticking to ginger ale and well, fuck, if Beecher could go without a drink, he certainly could.

At the end of the meal Poet got up to recite an encouraging poem he'd written.

"He's very good," Toby whispered in Chris' ear.

Chris nodded in agreement, hoping Beecher didn't notice the shiver that went through him at the feel of Toby's breath on his skin.

"That was great," Ronnie said, looking around the table. His eyes filled and he swallowed hard. "All of you. You can't know how much I appreciate everything –" his voice broke and he turned to lean his head on Chris' shoulder.

Brad stood and picked up his and Chris' plates. "Toby, Poet, can you help me out here?" He nodded pointedly toward Chris, who smiled appreciatively over Ronnie's head. The three men filed out to the kitchen, hands full of dishes.

"I'm sorry," Ronnie sniffled against Chris when they were alone. "Seems like that's all I been saying to you lately."

"Forget it. This'll be a great story for me to look back on and give you shit over, right?"

Ronnie nodded and pulled away, giving Chris a tight, forced smile. "Sure."

"Listen to me." Chris held Ronnie's face in his hands, talking close and with a confidence he wished he really felt. "It will be okay. Look at the lawyer you've got – he's gonna kick ass, right? And you didn't do anything wrong." He slid his hands down to Ronnie's shoulders and shook him lightly. "Except for hanging out with the wrong people, right?"

"Yeah, sure." Ronnie hung his head and Chris pulled him into an awkward hug.

Toby and Poet came back into the room. "Brad insisted he'll finish cleaning tomorrow." Toby picked up his jacket from the empty table he'd laid it on.

"We tried to make him let us help," Poet added.

"I'm sure," Chris said.

"No, no, you ask the lawyer here. You all be thinking I don't know how to wash a dish? How do you think Barlog and I get by?"

"Take out and paper plates?" Toby guessed.

Poet shook his head, looking hurt. "No faith in the brother. No faith."

"Poet," Chris joined the conversation. "I know for a fact you bring home food from work at least three or four nights a week."

"It's okay, Poet," Toby admitted, "your offer to help did sound sincere. You got a jacket? Let's get going."

Chris and Ronnie stood together, an arm around each other's waist. "You sure you don't want to spend the night with me, Ronnie?"

"Yeah, dude, you know I got to get up and gone early tomorrow," said Poet. "I'll wake you up, but I can't make sure you stay awake." Ronnie was notorious for turning off his alarm and going back to sleep.

Ronnie let out a sigh. "I don't think that'll be a problem. I'll probably be awake all night anyhow."

"I'll get there early enough to make sure he's ready. Let's go then," said Toby. He called to the kitchen, "We're going, Brad!"

Brad came from the kitchen, wiping a towel across his eyes. He didn't say anything, just grabbed Ronnie, hugged him hard, and ran back to the kitchen.

"Yo, that boy is the sentimental type." Poet looked around. "Am I right?"

"Apparently," answered Toby. "Can we go now?"

"See you in the morning, and try to get some rest." As Chris hugged Ronnie, he met Beecher's eyes over the boy's shoulder; they held worry in them.

But when he gently grabbed Ronnie's arm, Toby gave a reassuring smile. "Let's get you to bed."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chris woke early. Rather, he got up early – he hadn't slept much.

Beecher was going to pick Ronnie up and they were going to meet Chris for breakfast at the coffee shop across the street from the courthouse – the same restaurant where Toby had first offered to help them. Chris doubted he could eat anything, but he felt like could go through twenty cups of coffee at this point.

He went to the kitchen and got the first pot going, then decided to call Ronnie. Poet would have woken him by now and Chris wanted to make sure he hadn't gone back to sleep, if that was possible.

A call to Ronnie's cell phone got him only a message. Well, Toby would be there early enough to get him ready if he was flaking off. He thought about calling Toby, but to say what? That he was nervous and needed reassurance?

Instead, he washed up the few dirty dishes he had in the sink, and then wiped off the counters and the kitchen table while he drank his coffee. He took his third cup out onto the small balcony. He leaned on the rusting, metal railing, watching the sunrise over the city. He wondered how he would be feeling as the sun set behind him tonight? Where would Ronnie be sleeping?

Back in the kitchen, he checked the time – shit, still two hours until he had to be there. He decided to go ahead and shower, and forced himself to stay in until the water began to cool just to kill some time.

He dressed carefully for court, something he hoped to never have to do again. He put on soft, gray slacks and a thin, long-sleeved sweater, the cuffs and collar of a white dress shirt beneath accenting the dark blue color. Black loafers finished it off; he drew the line at a tie.

Last week, Toby and Chris had taken clothes to Ronnie. Toby had provided the navy-colored suit, one of his own – simple, not at all pretentious, but still, Chris was sure it was the most expensive thing Ronnie had ever worn. Chris had bought a light blue shirt and matching tie to go with it.

"Dude," Ronnie had exclaimed, checking out his new look in the mirror, "this makes my eyes look fierce!"

"Ronnie," Toby had smiled, putting his arm around the boy, "anything you wear makes your eyes look fierce."

Chris had stood back, not being able to stop himself from thinking how beautiful Toby's eyes would look in that same outfit.

Checking the clock again, Chris was relieved to see an hour had passed. Might as well get going; he could drink coffee and wait restlessly at the restaurant just as well as here.

He'd just collected his coat and keys when the phone rang. He laughed nervously at himself for jumping at the sound, but he couldn't quite ignore the sudden roil in his stomach. He tried, unsuccessfully, to blame it on all the coffee and no food as he stared at the ringing phone.

He picked it up. "Yeah."

"Chris." It was Toby and Chris knew it was bad. He took a deep breath. "Ronnie?"

"He's gone."

On the drive over, Chris tried not to think. He concentrated on the road, one traffic light to the next. There would be an explanation. There had to be.

Chris double-parked next to Toby's car and hurried inside. He forced himself to slow down and walk up the two flights of stairs to Ronnie's floor. He felt that if he let himself run, if he let his composure slip, everything would come loose and he would go flying to pieces. Halfway down the hallway of scuffed linoleum and walls in need of paint, one door stood open. When Chris got there, Toby was standing in the middle of the living room, looking smart and professional and so handsome.

But Chris barely acknowledged Beecher, brushing past him, moving through the maze of clothes and beer bottles and take-out bags that were littering the floor.

"Chris, wait."

Chris ignored him, going into Ronnie's room. It was a mess – how would he know if anything was out of place? He pulled opened the closet and felt a punch to his gut. The closet was empty, save a few empty hangers and two items of clothing: the suit and shirt Ronnie should be wearing right now.

When Chris went back to the living room, Toby hadn't moved, waiting for him. "Chris…"

"I'm gonna call Poet's phone. Maybe they decided to have breakfast or something." Chris started to reach in his pocket when Toby stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Keller, stop."

"What?" Chris looked at Toby, irritated. What was he doing? There wasn't much time to find Ronnie. He pinched the bridge of his nose, needing to quell the panic he felt pushing at him. It would be all right. "What?" he repeated.

"Here." Toby was holding a piece of paper in his other hand.

"What is it?" he asked, pointlessly. He knew.

"Read it."

For the first time, Chris let himself see how drawn Toby's face was, how red his eyes. He shook his head. "No," he whispered hoarsely, to keep is voice from breaking, "we have to find Ronnie."

Toby pushed the paper against Chris' chest. "Read it."

Chris searched Toby's face, seeing all he needed to know. He took the paper and walked away, leaning heavily against the wall to read it.

Chris I know sorry means shit. Everything you've done – you saved me more than once. And now I'm letting you down. I'm sorry.

Toby too. Your the best lawyer man – I hope you get what you want from life. Please take care of Chris.

Chris I love you. I just can't go back.

Ronnie

Chris crumpled the paper to a ball and dropped it to the ground. He pulled his phone out.

"Who are you calling?"

Chris was aware that Toby had been watching him closely while he read the note. When he looked up and saw the worry and compassion on Beecher's face, he turned away.

"Poet. He's got to know something."

He dialed – no answer.

"Fuck. I need his work number."

And Toby, who reasonably could have said something like – 'It doesn't matter, even if he knows anything he won't tell you' instead said, "Where does he work again?"

"Delway Diner." Chris went to the kitchen, looking through the clutter on the counter, opening and rummaging through drawers. "There's got to be something here with –"

"Here." Toby was smoothing out a crumpled, white sack. "It's got the number on it."

"Tell me."

Toby read the number off the take-out bag; Chris had to ask him to repeat it when his shaking hand misdialed.

"Where is he?" Chris demanded, when he got Poet on the line.

"What? Who is this?"

"Keller. I'm at your place with Beecher to get Ronnie, only there's no Ronnie!" He ground the words out. "Where is he?"

"Damn, stupid little white boy," Poet muttered, then louder, "I don't know, man, I don't know shit! I woke his ass up, gave him a hug good-bye and he was headed to the john when I took off. That's it. Dude, I gotta get back to work."

Chris's anger was building; he pretended it was towards Poet. "I'll come down there and beat it out of you if I have to, goddammit!" The phone was suddenly pulled from his hand. "What the fuck?" Toby had taken the phone. "Beecher!" Toby stepped away, waving Chris off.

"Poet, you sure you don't know anything?" Toby asked calmly. "It won't help Ronnie by keeping quiet."

"Give me the phone, Beecher." Chris made a move toward grabbing it, but Toby put his hand on Chris' chest, strong-arming him.

"Okay, we'll talk more later." Toby closed the phone and handed it to Chris. "I believe him."

Chris reached for the phone, but Toby didn't let go. "Chris, I believe him," he repeated. "He doesn't know where Ronnie is."

"I know," Chris admitted. He'd known before he called. Toby nodded and let go of the phone, rubbing his thumb over the back of Chris' fingers as he did. Chris could barely acknowledge the comforting gesture; he pulled away and walked slowly around the apartment, not minding the pizza boxes and clothes he was stepping on. Ronnie had left him. Ronnie had fucked him over. Ronnie was gone; his money was gone; his club was gone.

Chris was shaking harder now, and there was a buzzing in his ears that soon turned to a roar. He felt like he did when his mother left him for the final time.

His mother had believed in him, loved him, and supported him – when she was around and well. Sheila Keller and had been in and out of hospitals and institutions his whole life. She was beautiful and happy and exciting – until she wasn't. And then she would go away, leaving him with an indifferent aunt or sometimes a neighbor until she was deemed better. His whole young life was spent waiting – anticipating her return or dreading her departure.

Her inconsistency was the only constant in his life. On the day he was told she was never coming back he felt cut loose, adrift – nothing to hold him, nothing to ground him. The thing that had meant the most to him, the thing to give him reason – then, the return of his mother; now, the chance to own something and be his own man – was gone.

Toby touched him and Chris turned with a jerk. His phone flew from his hand, hitting the wall across the room. "He left me!" Chris shouted. "He fucking left me!" He was seeing red and hearing nothing but the blood pounding in his head.

When Toby tried to put his arms around him, Chris pushed him away. Nothing could help now, nothing was right.

Toby tried again, holding onto one of Chris' arms, speaking soothingly, saying things that didn't make sense, that weren't true. When Toby reached for Chris' other arm, telling him that everything would be okay, Chris pulled back and swung, catching Toby on the left cheek, knocking him to the floor.

"That's a fucking lie!" Chris yelled. He looked at Toby, crouched on the floor, one hand on his face. The regret was instant – Chris could feel it, but it was sunk too deep beneath the waves of hurt and betrayal for him to act on it. Instead, he stumbled to Ronnie's room and pulled the suit from the closet, throwing it to the floor. He pulled the shirt from its hanger with a hard tug and tried ripping it, becoming enraged when he couldn't. He lurched to Ronnie's dresser, and with a cry knocked everything the kid had left there to the floor.

He twisted the shirt over and over in his hands, staring in the mirror at the stranger that his pain and rage had made him. Lifting his arms over his head, he brought his hands on the mirror, shattering it completely. He raised his hands again, but then Toby was there, his strong fingers wrapped around Chris' wrists, stopping him.

"You don't need to hurt yourself, Chris. Come away."

He had tried to hurt himself when his aunt had told him about his mother. He'd run outside, slamming himself against the large oak tree in the back yard, over and over; the physical pain he could deal with. His aunt had freaked, screaming at him to stop, and then going for his uncle. His uncle had come, snatched him up and carried him to the den, his makeshift bedroom. They'd left him there until dinner, alone with his thoughts and questions and sorrow.

He remembered that now, how alone he'd been.

"Good thing you had this," Toby was saying as he pulled the shirt free, "or you might have really done some damage."

Chris watched as Toby checked his hands for any injuries - his touch was so gentle and caring. Everything went blurry as Chris' eyes filled. He kept his head down and let Toby lead him from the room.

"Do you want to go now?" he asked and Chris nodded.

"I just need to get my phone."

He looked around and saw it lying on the floor across the room, in front of a set of bookshelves crammed full of Poet and Ronnie's music collection. As he picked it up, his eyes fell on a small, plain picture frame, empty now, sitting on a stack of CDs.

He knew the photo that had been in that frame – it was the only picture he'd ever known Ronnie to own. It was a copy of the one Chris had sitting on his dresser. He put his phone in his pocket and picked up the frame.

Toby came over. "That was you and Ronnie in Central Park, right?"

Chris nodded tightly. "I have one just like it."

"I remember seeing it in your room." Toby put his hand on the back of Chris' neck, massaging lightly. "He told me what a great time he had that day. I don't think anyone else had ever done anything like that with him."

"Yeah, it was a great day." Chris's fingers tensed and the frame snapped, both the wood and glass now in two neat pieces.

"Jesus, Keller, you and fucking glass today." Toby took broken frame and set it on the bookshelf.

Chris looked at his hands, shaking and blurry through his tears.

"Chris?"

"He left me, Toby. He completely fucked me over." Chris started toward the door, but his legs wobbled and he dropped to his knees.

"I'll find him for you, Chris. I'll get a whole team of private investigators to look for him."

Chris only shook his head, knowing that wasn't going to happen. Even if they found him, Chris would never drag him back here. They would lock him up, and isn't that what all this had been about – to keep Ronnie free? Chris knew he could never do that to Ronnie, no matter what it meant he would lose.

Toby knelt in front of Chris, wrapping his arms around him. Chris let Toby pull him close, and leaned into the comfort of him, his smell and the gentle soothing of hands rubbing his back. "Chris, I'm sorry I couldn't have done any better. Ronnie was so scared – if I could have guaranteed him no time or gotten a better deal…"

Chris moved his head against Toby's neck. "Don't. It's not your fault, Toby. It's mine. I kept telling him all along I wouldn't let him go back to prison. I promised him something I couldn't give him." Chris clutched the back of Toby's shirt. "I tried. I did everything I could for him and he…" His voice broke to a desperate whisper. "He left me."

"Chris, Chris." Toby pulled back and cupped Chris' face in his hands. "I'm so sorry." And Chris could see in his eyes the truth of it, the depth of it. No matter what had happened between them, Toby was hurting for him, because of him. Had that ever happened before? Had he ever seen his own pain reflected in someone else? Chris flashed back on his mother, how she would hold him and comfort him when he was hurting. He'd had so little of that with her, and it had been so long ago.

Toby helped him to his feet and wrapped his arms around him once more. "I'm so sorry, Chris," he said again.

Chris pulled his head back and nodded but instead of turning to leave as he meant to, he was kissing Toby – hard – pushing him back against the wall, pressing himself tightly to the man. Toby didn't respond, other than to drop his arms to his side, standing stiffly in Chris' embrace. But he didn't pull away and that was enough.

Too much was rushing through Chris' mind to process – he shouldn't be doing this; he had to do this; Ronnie was gone, now, he could do this; he wanted, he needed… and Toby was letting him.

When he broke the kiss for a moment to whisper, "Toby, Toby," Toby tentatively wrapped his arms around Chris and returned the kiss.

Oh god, Toby was kissing him back – he was holding him and kissing him and oh fuck, Chris' blood was racing, his nerves screaming. He cupped Toby's face in his hands, holding him tight, kissing him hard.

Toby's hands moved from his back and came between them, pushing gently – he turned his head, catching his breath. "Chris, wait, please."

"Toby." Chris nestled his face in Toby's neck while his hands roamed – through his silken hair, over his back, down the swell of his ass, pulling him closer. The pain of Ronnie's betrayal and the months of his pent up frustrations were spilling out.

"Keller!" Toby pushed and stunned Chris, catching on the chin with a quick, right jab. They were too close together for the hit to do much harm, but he staggered back until he hit the couch.

He looked at Toby, red-faced and tousled-haired, breathing heavily. And though he was the one who had just been hit, he asked, "Toby, you okay?" Chris swore silently at himself – this is how he repaid Beecher for everything he'd done for them.

(But Toby had let him…)

Toby swallowed and nodded. "I… yeah." He straightened his coat and tie and seemed to collect himself. "I should get to the courthouse and let them know what's happened." He smoothed his hair while he looked around the apartment. He patted his pockets, checking for keys and phone, before finally letting his gaze return to Chris. "Are you going to be okay? You should go with me."

"No, I'm fine, I'll just… fuck. I have you parked in."

The silent walk to the car was endless. Chris absently rubbed his chin, not feeling anything other than the pounding in his head and the ache in his chest. Toby had his door unlocked and opened before Chris finally broke the silence. "Toby…"

"Later, okay, Chris?"

"Sure." Chris felt like he was going to throw up.

Beecher paused as he was getting into his car - he stared at Chris over the hood of his Mustang. "Are you going to be okay?" he asked again.

'Are you?' Chris wanted to ask. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He got in his car and drove back home.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He called Brad, told him what happened, and told him he might be late. In his room he undressed. Going to the dresser for a pair of sweats, he stopped, looking at the picture of himself and Ronnie. He picked it up, rubbing his fingers over Ronnie's face. They'd gotten a wild hair one day and worked their way to the park on bus and subway. They went to the zoo and ate hot dogs and watched a guy perform as a one-man-band. On the bus on the way home, Ronnie had fallen asleep, his head resting on Chris' shoulder.

Chris dropped the picture and ran to the bathroom, heaving and retching up waves of coffee until there was no more; until there was only bitter bile, his stomach twisting and shoulders shaking; he lay down on the floor and cried until he fell asleep.

He dozed only a few moments, crawling into the bathtub when he woke, letting the spray from the cool shower wash over him.

He sat there forever – he had no energy or desire to move. Finally, he managed to dry off, and with the damp towel wrapped around his waist he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall. He felt hollowed out, physically and emotionally. He had nothing left... nothing.

He would have to call Antonio soon, give him as much notice as possible that he wouldn't be able to buy Tony's Place. He couldn't even imagine making that phone call, though. What would that mean? Best-case scenario would be that the new owner kept him on as manager. And he could go in to work every day, living with the knowledge that if not for the betrayal of his best friend, he would be going in to his own place… his.

He barely had the energy to pull the towel off and climb into bed. Pulling the blanket up over his head, he willed himself to sleep.

He woke hours later, feeling kicked to the head and the gut. He went to the bathroom and palmed a drink of water from the sink. This set off a monstrous growl in his stomach, so he put on a pair of boxers and went to the kitchen, not being able to remember if there was anything decent worth eating or not.

He scrambled some eggs and found half a bagel that he hoped wasn't too old. He sat at the little kitchen table, forcing himself to eat, concentrating on the food: bite… chew… swallow… repeat.

After eating, he went back to bed.

He woke several times, during the early evening, but around midnight his brain finally let him rest and he didn't wake again until sunlight coming through the small window had moved halfway across the room. He was groggy and weak and wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, but he was pretty sure that would be impossible. He hadn't slept this much since he'd been in prison, where that was all there was to do most days.

Prison. Ronnie. Fuck.

He forced himself up, forced himself to dress, forced himself to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee and forced himself to go to the phone hanging on the wall. Might as well call Nappa and get it over with.

As he picked up the receiver, a knock on the door startled him so badly he dropped it.

He considered pretending he wasn't home – he couldn't imagine it being anyone he would want to talk to. Until he looked through the peephole and saw Beecher standing there, a take-out coffee cup in one hand and a small, white box in the other.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chris briefly wished he had time to knock back a shot, or at least get one cup of coffee in him before dealing with... anything. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

Chris shook his head. "No, I was up... finally. Come on in."

Toby went to the kitchen, setting the box on the table and opening it. "You hungry? I saw a bakery about a mile down the road, and I'm a sucker for cinnamon rolls." He raised his cup of coffee as he sat down. "I didn't get you one, figured you'd have your own."

"Yeah, just getting myself a cup." Chris poured himself a huge mug and took the chair across from Toby.

Toby motioned to the box. "You want one?"

"I don't feel like eating right now."

"I think I'll wait, too."

'Why are you here?' Chris wanted to yell. "Thanks for bringing them, though." he said out loud. "I think I'll go finish dressing, if you don't mind hanging on for a minute."

"Go ahead."

Chris had to have a minute to himself, to try to figure out what Toby was doing here. Was he here to say goodbye? To present Chris with a bill? He didn't figure the man would bring cinnamon rolls if he were here to tell him to fuck off.

Chris dressed slowly in jeans and a sweatshirt, sitting on the edge of his bed to put on his socks and a pair of sneakers, his tired brain trying to process everything. Toby was in a surprisingly good mood for the shitty day they'd had yesterday. Of course, it was shittier for Chris than Beecher, but still… what about that kiss? And what the hell would say when he went back out there?

Back in the kitchen, Chris refreshed his coffee and leaned against the counter. "So, Ronnie's got an arrest warrant now." Chris decided to play the safe, obvious card.

Toby nodded silently.

"Now what?"

"What?" Toby looked at Chris, confused. "There's nothing to do, really. If he's caught, he'll go to jail until a new trial date can –"

"I don't mean that, Toby, I mean... " He couldn't finish, couldn't ask – 'Will I ever see you again after today?' He'd been prepared to say goodbye to Beecher after the trial. But now, that fucking kiss had changed everything. Or had it?

And then Chris noticed the light bruise on Toby's cheek. "Shit, did I do that?" He went to the table, reaching out to touch black/blue spot; at the last minute he let his hand drop, rubbing awkwardly on the front of his jeans.

"Yeah." Toby rubbed his cheek. "But I guess we're even, huh?" He pointed at Chris' face.

Chris felt around on his chin until he touched a tender spot. "I didn't even notice."

"Are you going to be okay?"

Chris stopped rubbing his chin and realized that Beecher was looking at him with a concern that caught him off-guard.

"I'm... okay."

"Are you sure you don't want me to try and find Ronnie?"

Chris shook head. "No, I won't force him back. Maybe someday he'll come home on his own."

"I feel like I let both of you down."

"No, don't even think that!" Chris exclaimed, truly distraught that Toby might think he was anything but grateful. He pulled a kitchen chair close and leaned in, hoping Toby could see his sincerity. "We wouldn't have had any hope without you, Toby. And having you there, just to be there with us, with me, to help me with the whole fucking ordeal, that meant as much as anything you would have done in the courtroom."

Spurred on by his emotional outburst, Chris stood up, took a deep breath and continued. "And about that kiss... I apologize. I'm sorry."

"Can we talk about that later?"

"I... I guess. What else --"

"I want to help."

"Help?"

"Chris, sit down."

Chris sat and watched in wonder when Toby took his hands.

"Chris, I want to give you the money for the club. No, loan you... I meant loan you the money. I want to loan you the money – you pay me back whenever you can. That bar is yours, Chris, it belongs to you. You belong to it."

What? Chris had just been apologizing for kissing Beecher, and now the man was offering him thousands of dollars. Had he blacked out, missed something?

"Chris, what do you say?"

"I can't… I don't think I understand." Of all the things Chris imagined Beecher saying to him the next time they met, this wasn't it. Toby was nodding; a touch of a smile tugged the corners of his mouth, but Chris could see he was dead serious.

"Toby, I couldn't." But his chest was pounding and his head spinning even more than it had been. Ronnie had hurt him terribly by leaving the way he did, but he had also pissed Chris off more that he wanted to admit.

After everything he'd done, from the moment they met in prison until throwing him that 'good luck' dinner, and even though he knew – first hand – how scared Ronnie was of going back, he was still having trouble believing how badly Ronnie had fucked him over. Part of the reason Chris tried so hard not to think of Ronnie – or anything – last night wasn't just to protect himself from the pain, but to shield himself from his own anger. He couldn't believe Ronnie would hurt him so badly.

"Chris?"

Chris looked up from his coffee. Now here was Beecher, like some kind of fucking guardian angel, offering to replace part of what he had lost. He was getting emotional whiplash.

"Well, what do you say?"

"Beecher, that's thousands of dollars you're talking about. You can't just hand it over. I already owe you so much, it's just –"

"You don't owe me anything, and I have complete faith in you and your future success." He squeezed Chris' hands and let go, picking up his coffee. "It's a loan, Chris. I fully expect to be paid back – when you can afford it."

"And what you did for Ronnie – when do I pay you for that?"

"I've told you, *I* was paying *you* back." Toby got up and went to the sliding glass door, looking out onto the small balcony. "And I enjoyed it – it gave me purpose. I just wish I could have done something more."

He turned, looking at Chris expectantly. "So, are you going to take the money?"

Chris got up and paced the small space in front of the sink. Too much was going on, too many emotions, too much to think about – he felt like he was having a stroke.

"Chris, are you okay?"

"I don't know. I don't know what to do. Toby, what does this all mean? Say I take the money, then what?"

"Then you buy Tony's Place and become the talk of the neighborhood."

"What I'm asking, Toby, what I'm asking is… what about us? What about that kiss? You kissed me back, before you punched me." Chris turned away, pressing his hands against kitchen counter, unable to watch Toby's reaction as he asked – "What does this mean for you and me?"

When he turned back Toby was there in front of him, reaching out to touch the bruise on his chin. "What it means, Chris," and his eyes were soft and caring and Chris felt a tremor go though him, "what it means is that you were right all along. I've been scared of what I feel for you."

Toby's hand slid over Chris' cheek, coming to rest on the back of his neck. "But yesterday, when I watched you drive away and thought how that might be the last time I ever see you, I felt sick… and ashamed of myself. I was being a coward, taking the easy way with my life, the wrong way.

"I think of everything you've gone through in your life to get where you are – you had nothing and I had everything. And I was willing to throw away what was most important because I didn't have the strength or courage to fight for it."

"What are you saying, Toby?" Chris could barely get the words out; his throat was dry and his nerves were wound tight – the feel of Toby's fingers on his skin was like an electric shock.

Toby pulled Chris' head forward and kissed him, his other hand resting gently on Chris' chest. Chris' head swam, and he wondered for a minute if he was still asleep. He leaned into Toby, his hands settling on Toby's hips. The kiss went on, slowly and sweetly, so much better than yesterday because it came from Toby.

Their arms found their way around each other, and the kiss deepened, Chris daring to softly push his tongue against Toby's lips, then between them, growing dizzy when Toby made a low sound in his throat and moved his own tongue against Chris'.

When Chris finally stopped the kiss, he kept his arms around Toby, hugging him tightly. "Are you sure?" he whispered.

Toby leaned back, looking into Chris' eyes. "I am. I've been miserable these last few weeks, and I'm making Gen miserable. I'll never be happy with her and she'll never be happy with me. My drinking is getting out of control and my work is suffering – everyone around me is suffering. And I can't stop thinking about you."

Chris smiled. "I know how that goes."

Toby's face creased in a sudden frown; he stepped back. "I'm so sorry I hurt you."

"Toby..."

"And I don't know how well I'm going to handle... everything."

"Toby, it's okay. We'll handle everything together. We can go as slow or as fast as you want. I'm just... I just can't believe this is happening." He laughed shakily and pulled Toby back against him. "God, you feel fucking great in my arms."

Toby ran his hands up and down the sleeves of Chris' sweatshirt. "And your arms feel fucking great." They grinned and kissed once more, until the other matter at hand sobered Chris up.

"Toby, the money."

"What about it?"

"I don't know… I don't think I can take it. It wouldn't feel right, with us being together."

Toby got his cup from the table and refilled it, switching effortlessly to business mode. "Chris, you can. I had decided weeks ago that I was going to give you that money if something… happened. I transferred it to a special account last week – you can check the date, if you want. The money will be a totally separate thing. We can even write up a contract if you want, though that's not necessary."

"Give me a minute." Chris went into the living room and sat down, his head in his hands. Twenty minutes ago he'd lost Ronnie and his money – now, he had Toby, and he could have his money. How could he not? He didn't like it – he didn't want to start this relationship owing Toby. But he didn't want to start it with nothing, either.

"Chris?"

"Yeah?" Chris turned to see Toby in the kitchen doorway, watching him.

"I'm sorry, but I've got to go."

"Where?"

"I've got to talk to Gen. I never went home yesterday – I went to my office and sat awake all night, thinking. I'm sure she knows I'm going to leave again, things have been so bad…" Toby cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes. "I just have to get it over with."

Chris went to Toby and took him in his arms. "I'm sorry you have to go through this."

"It's going to suck, that's for sure." They walked hand in hand to the door. "What about the money?"

Chris took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'll take it."

"I'm so glad." Chris could see on his face that he really was. "We'll get it taken care of tomorrow."

"Okay. And Toby, after you see Gen, if you need to talk or anything…"

"I'll call you."

They kissed good-bye and Chris went back inside and collapsed on the couch.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Toby moved back into the Mayfair Hotel and Genevieve started divorce proceedings. She listed the cause as 'alienation of affection and irreconcilable differences'. Chris had been afraid that she knew about the two of them and would put him in the petition. Toby was sure she knew about Chris, even though his name had never come up.

Both of them pushed for the divorce to go through as quickly as possible – the six months waiting period was waved.

"Dad's got friends in high places," Toby explained. "In only a few weeks, my marriage will be over."

"Are you sure, Toby? It's kind of fast." In truth, Chris didn't understand why it had to take even that long. Why stayed married a day longer to someone you didn't love – but he wouldn't say that to Toby.

They were having breakfast, waffles and omelets made by Chris.

"It's not really. We've been miserable forever. It's like jumping into cold water – you think about for a long time until you just finally do it. And then you want to hurry and get the swim over with – we're both ready."

Toby started in on his second mushroom omelete. "You should serve these at the bar, Chris, they're amazing. And these omelets are like "

"I've been thinking about opening for a few hours on Sunday – having brunch or something." Had the word 'brunch' really just come out of his mouth?

"I love watching you be Mr. Business Owner. Are you getting excited?"

Chris simply nodded – words couldn't express how excited he was. He was meeting Nappa tomorrow to sign the papers.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Toby went along with Chris to the bank to close the sale. He stood off to the side, smiling affectionately whenever Chris would look his way. And at 10:37am, October 3rd, Christopher Keller became the new owner of Tony's Place.

Antonio clapped Chris on the back when all the papers were signed. "You'll do a great job, my boy, you already have. I couldn't be selling the place to a better person."

"Thanks, boss."

"Oh no, Christopher, you're the boss now. But if you need anything, you call Chucky, understand? He's still overseeing my other interests."

"Sure."

"Yeah," Chucky said, "I'd hate to see anything happen to the place, even if it is a fag bar now."

"Chucky, Chucky," Antonio sighed, "I fear you have not grasped the concept of the words, 'politically correct.' " The old man held out his hand to Pancamo. "The keys."

Chucky pulled a keyring full of keys from his jacket pocket. "These are mine and Chucky's both," Antonio explained as Chris took them, "but you might want to get the locks changed."

Chris nodded, unable to speak over the lump forming in his throat.

It grew worse when he had to say goodbye – Nappa was leaving in two days for Florida; this would be the last time Chris saw him. "Thank you, sir, so much," he managed to say as his former employer hugged him. "I owe everything to you."

"You just run a good, clean business – show me what you can do."

"I will," Chris promised.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chris spent the drive to the bar soaking in what had just happened. His copies of all the papers he'd just signed were tucked into a folder, setting on the dashboard, and, every so often Chris would reach up and briefly touch it; Toby sat quietly, his hand on Chris' leg.

They parked out back, but Chris walked the half block around to the front. He stood in the street, looking at the red-bricked building. The double doors were frosted glass, with large brass handles and the words "Tony's Place" arcing across both of them in black script. Chris thought maybe the words "Christopher Keller, Proprietor" would look good, down in the corner.

Toby stood at the corner of the building, giving Chris his space, until Chris held out his hand to him.

They stood on the sidewalk, holding each other.

"Congratulations."

Chris kissed the side of Toby's head. "I couldn't have done it without you."

Inside, Chris paused a moment in the vestibule while Toby went on in. He took a moment before stepping in, letting himself understand that this was all his.

As he went on in, a sound from the darkened dance area caught his ear. Turning in that direction, the lights suddenly came on and all the employees were there, along with some of the regulars and a few people Chris didn't know, all cheering for him.

"Surprise!"

Trisha ran over first, congratulating him through her tears. Then Brad and the other bartenders and waitresses all wanted to shake his hand. Billie and his friends offered their best wishes. "I'm thinking you should run some contests, Chris."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, like… customer of the month and the prize is free drinks all month."

"And how would one win the contest?"

Billie raised his eyebrows and ran his long, lacquered nails down Chris' arm. "I bet we can think of something."

"Chris, I want you to meet someone." Brad shooed Billie away, bringing over the two people Chris hadn't recognized… although, on closer look, they did seem a little familiar. "This is Fiona and this is Tony. They just bought that little bakery down the street."

Chris shook hands with Fiona, small, dark and exotic-looking, while Tony was much bigger, dressed simply, but with a splash of color from the scarf around his neck.

"So, is the bakery your first business?" Chris asked.

"It is," Fiona exclaimed, while Tony nodded agreement. "How fun that we're all going to be business virgins together!"

"I hope," Chris said.

"Chris… boss," Brad grinned, "Fiona and Tony are going to turn the bakery into a little luncheon shop."

"Actually, we're going to do both. Donuts in the morning, sandwiches for lunch." Again, Tony nodded while Fiona talked. "But more than sandwiches – we want to things like little appetizers and amuse bouche. Simple things that people can eat on the go."

Chris would have to ask Toby what the hell an amuse bouche was.

"And I was thinking," continued Brad, "that we could talk to them about maybe catering some of the parties – Halloween will be here before we know it and we haven't even started planning!"

"I know we're just getting started, but we could get a few things whipped up for you to try. It would be great cross-advertising for both of us, don't you think?"

Brad and Fiona and Tony's (silent) enthusiasm were a little overwhelming. "Sounds like it might be a plan – we'll talk soon. Excuse me."

While Brad and the new neighbors chatted away, Chris found Toby and steered him to the table set up near the dance floor, holding food and a punch bowl.

"I have to do my first 'boss' thing, and I already don't like it."

"What's up?"

Chris explained what had just transpired. "Brad can't do stuff like that; jump right in without talking to me first. How do we know if these people are any good? I don't know how much they cost or what kind of quantity they can handle. I don't even know what the hell we're doing for Halloween. Nappa didn't have any kind of game plan this year, being sick and you know, leaving."

"And…?" Toby asked around a mouthful of cheese puff.

"And so now I have to tell Brad his behavior was inappropriate."

"And…?" Toby was holding another cheese puff to his mouth.

"Are you smirking behind that puff?"

Toby's eyebrows raised and he shook his head, "Nope," though he obviously was.

"You think this is funny?" Chris was bewildered and a little hurt by Toby's reaction.

"Not at all." Toby took his hand and squeezed. "I think you're cute, getting so agitated over doing something you must have had to do dozens, if not hundreds, of time already. Chris, you've basically been running this place for… well, for at least as long as I've been coming here. Take a deep breath."

Chris did and Toby continued.

"Have you ever told Brad he was doing something wrong, or had to correct his behavior before?"

"Yeah, I guess, a few times."

"And he still loves and respects you and thinks you're the bee's knees?"

"Okay, okay, I get your point." Chris laughed and squeezed Toby tight. 'Bee's knees'? How old are you?" He stroked the back of Toby's head, the feel and smell of his silky hair soothing to Chris' nerves. "I'm glad you're here," he whispered.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chris and Toby left as the party was breaking up.

"Your first hour as 'boss' and you're already taking off, huh?" Brad teased as the two got their jackets.

"Just showing my confidence in my faithful staff," Chris winked, though in reality, it had taken Toby some work to convince Chris to celebrate in private his first night as owner.

They went to Toby's room at the Mayfair. "I feel like room service, tonight." Toby had said earlier, when Chris suggested they just go to his place. "They do a great chicken pizza."

This wasn't the first time he'd been to Toby's room, but he still felt a twinge of unease as he rode the elevator and walked the halls. He didn't like revisiting places that held the bad memories of his past – he decided he'd just have to make good ones with Toby.

In the room, they changed from suits to sweats and found a movie on the pay channel.

"So, you own a bar, Chris."

"Yeah." He could still hardly believe it. He thought of the set of keys in his jacket pocket, a new keychain holding them together. It was a gift from the employees… a silver depiction of a mug of beer with the day's date inscribed on the back and the words World's Best Boss beneath that.

"Wanna make out with a business owner?" Chris grinned lasciviously and turned, pushing Toby into the corner of the couch.

Toby's attitude toward sex was cautious, but willing. Chris understood the caution – switching teams was a major adjustment. Chris liked to think he was going to make a good coach.

In the few weeks they'd been together, they'd managed to squeeze several marathon sessions of making-out into Chris' schedule, a few of which ended in mutual hand jobs. But when Chris had attempted to go further, Toby had put him off.

Like tonight.

"I'm sorry, Chris, I'm just not ready." Toby apologized when Chris tried to pull his sweats down.

"Toby, I'm not going to try and fuck you – but I can give you an amazing blowjob."

Toby smiled, and rubbed Chris' arm. "I'm sure you can – can we wait just a little longer?"

Chris grew frustrated. "You won't let *me* blow you, but you'll let a cater-waiter in a locker-room?"

Toby turned defensive. "That was different."

"Yeah, I think it was." Chris got up and shifted his clothes around his softening cock. "He was a stranger and I'm someone who cares about you."

"That's what I'm talking about – it didn't mean anything, it was just sex. With you…"

Chris turned and stared at Beecher. "With me it will mean something so you don't want to do it."

"I don't want it to just be sex."

Chris sighed and decided not to press the point of how it would not just be sex. He wasn't sure he understood, but he was willing to let Toby set the pace. And keep jerking him off.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The next couple of weeks were a madhouse. Halloween was one of the biggest nights in the gay community, and Chris had planned to have his grand re-opening that night.

He also decided to go with Fiona and Tony's catering, after tasting their food and being assured they could handle the large orders. Toby helped out, working as a messenger between the two establishments, and tasting everything, helping Chris decide what would be on the menu. He also handled the advertising, getting flyers passed out and placed in the windows of local shops.

"Do I need to put you on the payroll?" Chris asked during a stolen moment in his office.

"No, I'll just take advantage of the fringe benefits of dating the boss."

The night was a huge success. Chris panicked a little, thinking they might run out of food, but his fears were unfounded – it was such a success they had people lining up outside.

Chris and the staff dressed in theme; Chris was Robin Hood, Trisha and the other waitresses were Maid Marion and her ladies, Brad was Little John, (he had to take the pillow out of his outfit after he kept knocking drinks over) and the waiters and busboys rounded out the band of Merry Men.

Toby's costume was a surprise to Chris – he showed up dressed in a tight suit, bowler hat, fake mustache and carrying a cane.

"Charlie Chaplin?" Toby took off his hat and bowed, and Chris had to laugh at the black wig stuck on his head. "Come here, you tramp, and kiss me."

Even though Chris kept busy, overseeing the staff and helping out when things got especially crazy, he and Toby had a wonderful night together. Toby loosened up – he was still a little iffy about public displays of affection – and he even invited Chris to slow dance with him.

As Chris and Toby moved on the crowded dance floor, wrapped around each other, Chris couldn't remember the last time he'd been this happy – if he ever had been. What could be better, than to be in his own club, with his boyfriend in his arms?

Just at that moment, Toby tilted his head back and kissed Chris. "You happy?"

"You psychic?"

"What?"

"I was just thinking how happy I am."

"Me too."

Toby pressed his cheek to Chris' and they finished the dance.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chris twisted the knob on the radio, satisfied with the Led Zeppelin he found. He leaned across the seat of the Mustang, rolling down the passenger window. He wasn't sure how long he'd have to wait for Toby, and though the early November air was chilly, the sun was shining bright, quickly warming the car.

He was humming along with the radio, trying to make a mental list of the things that he would have to get before Thanksgiving. Those thoughts were soon replaced by others, and Chris quickly gave up trying to concentrate, thinking on the events of last night instead.

Toby had come over, bearing pizza and beer and movies. A few weeks ago, Chris had installed a small television in his bedroom, and so they'd climbed into bed and ate and drank and watched 'Apocalypse Now'. And in between eating and scenes of Martin Sheen's descent into hell, they made out like two horny boys.

Their sex life was still progressing slowly, at least compared to what Chris was used to. It was a revelation to him, how with Toby the journey was far more interesting and important than the destination.

Like last night, the build-up had gone on forever – he shifted in his seat, remembering. Toby's kisses on his lips and throat, his long fingers slipping past the waistband of Chris' boxers, wrapping smoothly around his cock. He remembered the feel of the smooth skin on Toby's neck rubbing against his cheek as he sucked on the top of his shoulder. He'd rubbed over the front of Toby's boxers, gently, teasing, and then pressing firmly with the palm of his hand.

Toby's grasp on him had tightened, and he'd begun moving, his intention to bring Chris off with his hand, which was still as far as they'd come in their love-making.

But as much as Chris loved what he and Toby did, and as much as he didn't want to push Toby, his patience was growing thin, and his desire was pushing him for more. He had gently rolled Toby onto his back and began pulling his boxers down. Toby's hands had gone to Chris' wrists, stopping him, his eyes wide and questioning.

Chris had leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, before whispering against his cheek. "Let me do this, Toby. It will be okay. You don't have to do anything, just let me do this for you." Chris licked around the shell of Toby's ear and Toby squirmed beneath him. "I want to taste you, so bad."

Toby had moaned and his grip on Chris relaxed. He'd lifted his hips and the boxers were gone.

Chris then kissed him again, kneeling over him, holding Toby's face in his hands. The kiss had deepened until Chris pulled away to kiss a path down Toby's throat and across his chest. He'd taken his time, though the thought of what he was about to do had his body screaming to hurry. He'd licked and sucked on Toby's nipples before moving on to nibble softly on his belly; his hands all the while stroking Toby's body – over his hip, his thighs, between his legs. He could feel Toby quivering and shaking, his breath coming fast and hard.

Finally, he'd flicked his tongue over the top of Toby's cock, catching the wetness there, licking his lips before rubbing them over the tip.

He had looked up at Toby, as he slowly moved his head back and forth, his lips and then his tongue teasing the swollen head. Toby had stared down at him, until Chris took Toby's cock into his mouth, sliding slowly, slowly down, holding him, sucking gently. When Toby's eyes rolled back in his head, Chris closed his own.

After all the months of wanting him, here they were, finally. Christ. As Chris made love to Toby, his own cock had grown harder, twitching and leaking.

Then Toby was getting closer, his legs bending and stretching while his hands found Chris' head, rubbing and scratching through his short hair, his hips shallowly thrusting and Chris knew he was holding back. Maybe next time, he'd thought, maybe next time he would let Toby fuck his mouth. And then his thoughts traveled further to when their positions would be reversed and Chris was pushing into Toby's mouth, his hands on Toby's head, Toby's lips wrapped around his cock.

The thought had elicited a moan from him, and this sent Toby over the edge. His fingers curled and his body arched and he came. "Oh god, oh god, oh god."

Chris' own body had surged as he'd felt Toby shudder and tasted him spurting over his tongue; he'd barely had to touch himself before he was coming too, Toby still in his mouth.

"Holy, Jesus Christ," Toby had gasped, wrapping his arms around Chris when he stretched out next to him.

"You like that?"

"I'm assuming that's a rhetorical question."

"So it's okay – I didn't want to force you into anything." He'd squeezed Toby and kissed his cheek. "I just really wanted your dick in my mouth."

"Why didn't you just say that in the first place?"

Later on, Chris had been propped up against the headboard, only one eye on the movie until finally his wandering attention was focused entirely upon Toby. He'd fallen asleep not long after they'd both come, sprawled out on his stomach, one arm flung familiarly across Chris' thigh. It was all so quiet and… domestic, or something. He'd wanted this for so long, waiting months for Toby to acknowledge his feelings for Chris. Now that it had happened, Chris realized he'd been thinking mostly about himself. Oh, he'd known that Toby didn't belong with Genevieve, and that he was happier when he wasn't working for his father. But was it the right thing, for Toby to start another relationship so soon after the end of his marriage – which technically wasn't even over?

Beecher was just discovering his sexuality, just now getting to live his life as he wanted – this might be right for him at the moment, but what about down the road? What if he decided he had more of life to discover? Chris wouldn't blame him if he did. Toby was still trying to figure himself out, while Chris had had years to experience life and understand what he wanted, what made him happy. His hand had moved on the blond head, fingers sliding through the soft strands of hair... and this made him happy.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

This morning Toby had left early to go home and get ready for his appointment with his wife and their respective team of lawyers. He took a cab downtown, and Chris was now picking him up to run some errands with him. Toby hadn't thought it would take too long, just some papers to be signed. Genevieve had turned out to be a divorce lawyer's fiscal nightmare, wanting the proceedings done with as soon as possible, not fighting for anything. She'd been willing to split everything fifty/fifty, in addition to which, Toby gave her both their townhouse and their home at the beach.

Her father had objected, stating that she deserved something more for her mental anguish, since it was well known by now that Tobias Beecher had left her for a man. And even if that wasn't the truth, it was the truth of their social circle, and that was the truth that mattered. But Gen had been satisfied and now they were down to the formalities.

Chris got out of the car to stretch and have a smoke. He didn't even have time to light his cigarette before he saw Toby coming out of the office building, about half a block down. Chris waved, unnoticed, and was about to shout, when another man rushed out and up to Toby, where the two began an earnest conversation. The other man laid a hand on Toby's arm, where it was brusquely shrugged off.

Chris put his cigarette back in the pack and waited. He could hear the angry timbre of their voices, but not the words. He started toward them, wanting Toby to know he was there.

When Toby saw him, he froze, breaking off the argument. The other man turned – he and Chris giving each other the once over – before turning back to look questioningly at Toby.

"Well, speak of the devil," said Toby. "Dave, this is Christopher Keller. Chris, my lawyer, David Brent."

Brent's eyebrows shot up, and he paused just a moment before extending a hand to Chris. "Pleased to meet you." He was polite enough, but Chris had been on the receiving end of enough condescending looks to know he instantly disliked this man.

"You ready to go?" he asked Toby.

"Not yet. You go on, I'll take a cab."

Toby's tone was short; he was definitely pissed about something, but no way in hell would Chris ask what, not with Mr. Three-Piece Suit watching.

"Okay," Chris answered slowly, "guess I'll see you later then."

"Uh huh." To Brent he said, "I'll be waiting in your office. Go get my briefcase from the conference room, would you? I'm not going back in there." And when he walked away, Chris realized that Toby hadn't looked him in the eye once.

He was halfway back to his car when Brent caught up to him. "Toby would kill me for saying anything, but if you really care about him," (and Chris could tell from his tone of voice that he thought it highly unlikely that were true) "you'll stay away from him."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Just what I said. He doesn't need any kind of... complication... in his life right now."

Chris held his temper, hating that this little prick knew what was going on in Toby's life when he didn't, especially if he was somehow involved. "What makes you think I'm a complication?"

Brent smiled earnestly, though it couldn't hide the distaste he apparently felt for Keller. "I know you're a complication, Mr. Keller. Toby knows it also, but he's a good man, and a little confused right now. I'm not sure he'd be able to tell you this himself. Sometimes he needs a little guidance in deciding what's best for him."

Chris advanced on the man, backing him up until Chris grabbed him by the arm to hold him still. "How much is he paying you?" Brent eyes widened in objection but Chris went on before he could reply. "It's got to be a lot, I mean a huge, obscene amount, right?" Brent didn't answer, just stood there trying to keep his composure. "And I don't know, because I've never been in the position to pay anyone an obscene amount of money to work for me, but if I ever had, I don't think I'd appreciate them going behind my back, informing people that I was incapable of running my own life." Chris let go of the lawyer with a push. "You stay out of me and Toby's business."

Brent smoothed the sleeve that Chris had been holding before looking up, smug and defiant. "Anything that affects Toby's divorce *is* my business, *Mr.* Keller. And might I add, you acting the part of a thug in public is only hurting him more."

Chris watched him walk back, resisting the urge to run after him and punch him senseless, before going to Toby and finding out what all this shit was about. It was obviously about the divorce, and Toby's involvement with Chris. But when Toby talked to Gen last, all she'd wanted was for it to be over with.

Chris lit his cigarette and got into the car. He pulled out with a screech of tires, his errands forgotten. He needed a drink.

Several hours later, he showed up late for work. He'd managed to keep his drinking under control, and was only a little buzzed as he made his way to the office.

Brad came out from the kitchen as he passed. "Hey, Beecher's in your office."

Chris stopped, hating his relief. He'd spent the afternoon building his case for how angry he was at Toby. For the way Toby had treated him this morning, for the way he'd left Chris hanging, not calling to explain what was going on. It didn't take long for the anger to return.

"Thanks, Brad."

He took a deep breath and went into the office. Toby was sitting behind the desk, a bottle and glass in front of him. Chris shut the door and waited, not saying anything.

"Hello, Chris." Toby lifted his glass in greeting, took a drink, and came around to the front of the desk, leaning against it. He didn't seem to notice Chris' silence as he continued talking, his voice taking on a slight lyrical lilt as it did when he was drunk.

"Want to hear about my meeting this morning? I would have talked to you about it then, but I was expecting Genevieve and her father to come out of the building at any minute, and I wasn't much in the mood to face them again."

He turned to refill his glass. "Old Granger would have loved it, though, to find us together on the street like that. Oh, boy, wouldn't that have made his day?" To Chris' mild alarm, he drained the glass in one drink.

Chris took a couple steps to the middle of the room. "What happened, Toby? I thought Genevieve was happy with the divorce." He restrained himself from taking the bottle of gin from Beecher as he poured another drink.

"Oh, yeah, she was just peachy with it. She's a good girl, you know that, Chris? I mean, I embarrassed the hell out of her! What kind of asshole fools around at his own anniversary party? And quits his father's respected law firm to take up the gauntlet on behalf of street punks? And then takes up with the proprietor of a gay bar? One with a record, no less?"

Toby was pacing the room now, not looking at Chris, caught up in what he was saying. "But through it all, Gen put on a brave face and didn't judge. She tried to quiet her father when he would start in on me, standing up to him more than I've ever seen her do, just wanting to move on." He stopped, looking into his drink. "It took me fucking her over to see what kind of great girl she could be." He finished the drink with a quick tilt of his head, and then suddenly threw the tumbler across the room. It hit the filing cabinet with a crash, dropping to the floor unbroken. "Fuck!"

Chris moved to Toby, grabbing him by the shoulders. "Tell me what happened, Toby." Although he wasn't sure he wanted to know anymore. Toby looked at him, an ugly smile curling his lips, and something unfamiliar in his eye; Chris resisted the urge to look away.

Toby pulled free and went back to the desk. He picked up the bottle of gin, holding it up to the light, sloshing the liquid inside. "You know when I really started drinking? It was toward the end of law school, and every time I talked to my parents, or my grandmother, or Gen, they'd all say the same thing – how wonderful everything would be when I passed the bar, and I could start working for my dad, and Gen and I wouldn't have to live in that little two-bedroom apartment we had anymore, and we'd join the country club and wouldn't we be the cutest little Stepford couple?" Toby didn't seem to be talking directly to him anymore, so he sat quietly where he'd ended up, perched on the arm of the couch.

Toby took a drink from the bottle, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "How uncouth of me," he laughed, and took another drink. Chris didn't know what to do. He needed to get that bottle from Toby, but he didn't want to start a fight over it, and Toby was definitely in a combative mood. He decided to just stay where he was, out of the way, and hopefully Toby would work through whatever was wrong soon.

"That's when I decided," Toby continued, "that I wasn't going to follow their plan. Only I wasn't strong enough to just come out and say it, not yet. In fact, I wasn't even strong enough to admit it to myself. So every time I thought about it, I'd have a drink. And pretty soon I was drinking myself to sleep every night. And I was drunk after I passed the bar, when I told them I wasn't going to work for my dad, but go to work for the poor and downtrodden!" He accentuated this last statement by slamming the bottle of gin on the desk.

"But you know how that turned out. I stopped drinking when I got my first job, but then I had no defense against Gen and her family and my family and all our friends – who thought it was so good, so altruistic of me to be working where I was, but when was I going to get a real job?" Toby was swaying a little now, holding himself steady by hanging on to the desk. "So I caved. I went to work for my dad. And he was happy, and Gen was happy, and her dad was happy, and everyone in the whole fucking world was happy." Toby spread his arms wide, which put him off balance, and he grabbed the desk to keep from toppling over. "Whew, that was a close one."

And then Toby noticed Chris, poised to come to Toby's help if he needed it, and his face darkened. "And I suppose I was happy enough; you know I love being a lawyer. But then one day I was in a meeting, and I looked over at Jim Dellen, and I wondered what he looked like naked." Toby took the bottle in hand again, pointing the neck at Chris. "And I started drinking again that very night, my friend. And I kept drinking, until I met you, and I thought maybe I could figure out what the hell was going on in my head." Toby took a deep, shuddering breath, and Chris could see he was on the verge of tears. "I thought it was okay to be who I was and that that fucker, Granger, couldn't hurt me 'cause I was with someone who cared about me and accepted me – *wanted* me – the way I was, and wasn't afraid to tell me the kind of person he was. Do you know how much that meant to me, to be told it was okay to not care about what other people thought? To be given permission to make myself happy?"

Chris started cautiously across the room. "That's right, Toby, you know me and I know you and we accept each other, no matter what." When he was just a couple steps from Toby, he reached out his hand. "Now, let me have that bottle, and we'll finish talking, okay?"

To his surprise, Toby put the bottle in his hand. "I'll be leaving now, Chris."

Chris watched Toby move toward the door. "Wait a minute, you can't leave yet." He quickly set the bottle on the desk and hurried to grab Toby by the arm. "What the hell is going on?" He turned Toby, stepping back, alarmed at the look on his lover's face. "What is it?" Toby's face was dark with fury, but he was also looking at Chris like he didn't know him. Chris stepped back.

Toby leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. "Well, let me tell you. Today at the meeting, we were all set to sign the papers. Genevieve, as I said, was being her usual sweet, sad, bewildered self, just wanting to get things done, wrapped up nice and tidy, sign on the dotted line, Mrs. Beecher and end your dream of happily-ever-after so your soon-to-be ex-husband can run home and get his dick sucked by his hunky boyfriend."

Toby stepped forward, swaying with each step, until he was close enough to put his hand on Chris' chest. "And that boyfriend sure knows a thing or two about sucking cock, doesn't he?"

Chris felt dizzy and leaned against the desk, a wave of regret washing over him. 'Fuck it, not like this,' he thought. He'd waited too long, goddammit.

Toby grabbed the bottle and took another drink, finishing it off. "Granger dropped a file on the table. It was thin one, but it had all the information that smug bastard needed. It was the police record of one Christopher Keller. I told him I knew all about your record, and who the fuck was he to come off like some kind of holier-than-thou hypocrite. I told him that just because his methods of fucking people over were white-collar didn't mean he was any better than you. And do you know what he had to say to that?"

Chris knew, but he didn't say anything, just waited, waited for Toby to say it, waited to see the pity or hate or disgust on his face.

"He said –" and Toby dropped the empty whiskey bottle to the floor, putting his hands on his hips and dropping his voice, apparently in imitation of Granger Winston, "– he said, 'That may be true, Beecher, but when I screw people, it's only figuratively.' And then he opened the folder and took out one of the papers inside and read it. And you know the gist of it, don't you? The words 'solicitation' and 'prostitution' are what stand out for me. Also something about extortion, I think."

Toby, still standing stiffly with hands on hips, suddenly slumped. Chris hadn't moved, still leaning against the desk, wishing so hard for it to be yesterday, or last week, or last month, so that he could be the one to tell Toby about this. He knew it would be different, he knew that Toby would still be shocked, maybe disgusted, but not caught off guard and humiliated.

"You know the worst part?" Toby was asking, his voice almost a whisper, looking and sounding as though the day had finally drained him. "The worst part was that Genevieve didn't know. He didn't even bother telling his own daughter what he was about to do. He was mad at her for not fighting me, so he was using this to punish both of us. He told her that if she didn't fight for everything now, she would be an even bigger fool than this was going to make her out to be. Her husband leaving was one thing, but to leave her for a faggot ex-con prostitute and she doesn't care – how would that look?"

Toby turned and moved slowly to the door. He stopped, and reached inside his jacket. Turning back, he had his wallet in his hand.

Chris' stomach rolled and his chest tightened. He could barely choke out the word. "Don't."

"Never let it be said I don't pay my debts."

"Toby, please don't." Chris voice was a desperate plea; he closed his eyes. When he opened them, twenty-dollar bills lay scattered on the floor and Toby was gone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chris managed to get through the rest of the night without throwing anything or breaking down. The employees knew something was wrong and, other than a concerned, "You okay, boss?" they steered as clear of him as possible.

Assuring everyone he would take care of the closing duties, he cleared the place by midnight. He woodenly went through the chores of the night, wiping down the counters and tables; counting the till; sweeping; washing dishes. When it was all done he went behind the bar and got out a bottle of Jack and a shot glass. After three shots he took out his phone and called Jason.

"Keller, it's after one o'clock in the morning," Jason whispered.

"Where's Anthony?"

"He's right here next to me – why the hell do you think I'm whispering? Are you drunk?"

"Not yet," Chris answered as he poured another.

"Hang on." There was a pause and Chris took the opportunity to knock back his fourth whiskey shot.

"Okay, I can talk now. What's up, besides me?"

"I was hoping you were free for a couple hours."

"You are drunk."

"No, but I'm going to be plastered in about half an hour, and you know how I like to suck cock when I'm hammered – it could be your lucky night."

"Jesus, Keller, baby, what's wrong?"

Chris carried the whiskey bottle over to his corner table – why bother with a glass – and took a swig. "I had him, Jason, I got Toby."

"I would say congratulations but I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that things haven't been all sunshine and roses."

Chris laughed silently at that – had their relationship ever justified such a poetic description? "I had him for six whole weeks before he found out about my past and walked out."

"Your past – that covers a lot of ground. What exactly did he not know? How you made your living? How you got busted making your living? Or was it me? Did he find out about me and realize he could never live up to the awesome?"

"Cocksucker – I'm wringing my soul out here and you find the uh... the chance... to pump yourself up."

"Honey, I think the phrase you're looking for is the opportunity to make myself look better."

"What?" Chris took another drink and closed his eyes and saw Toby pull the wallet from his pocket.

"Christopher, tell me what happened." Jason's voice was concerned and soothing and Chris told him the whole story, starting with Ronnie's departure ("The little cocksucker, after everything you did for him.") to the moment a few hours ago when it was Toby's turn to walk out on him. ("He actually threw money at you? Jesus, Chrissy, do you think he's really worth this depression you've got going?")

"So," Jason cut in, when he paused to light a cigarette, "he knew you had been in jail, just not what for."

"I think if I'd been the one to tell him, it might have been okay. But that fucker, Ranger or Granger or what the fuck ever... shit!" Chris could picture him, some gray-haired, chiseled-featured man, who wore a suit every fucking place he went except on his yacht, defining everyone he knew by the money they had or what they could do for him.

"Are you going to be okay? You're not going to try and drive home, are you?"

"No, I'm okay. I'm not driving. I'm going to stay here tonight."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea either, now that I think about it. You really like to suck down the whiskey when you're upset. And you there with an endless supply…"

Chris looked at the bottle on the table, and the rows of them behind the bar. He had an almost irresistible urge to take the bottle in front of him and throw it at the others. He could hear the crash, see the destruction, feel the parallel with his own life at the moment.

"Chris, you there? Listen, I'm coming over. You just sit tight."

"No, Jason, don't. I'm okay."

"Chris, honey –"

"I'll be fine. I'm going to go crash in the office."

"If you're sure – if not, I'll be there."

"You go back to bed before Anthony comes looking for you."

" All right, but you call if you need anything."

"Right. Thanks for listening, Jason."

"Good night, sugar."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Waking the next morning with just a slight headache, Chris was very grateful to Jason for talking him down. And as he cleaned up – himself, and the mess he'd left at his table – and thought about the scene with Toby yesterday, his depression and remorse began to turn to resentment and anger.

Who the fuck did Beecher think he was? He was supposed to care about Chris, be there for him, support him. Isn't that what people in relationships do? How dare he judge? Chris had shared every other aspect of his life with Toby, and Toby had accepted it. He'd never once been judgmental or condescending when they'd just been friends, but now, when they were together, he decided to pull the 'How could you?' card and just treat Chris like that? Bullshit.

Later that afternoon, Chris called Toby's cell phone – it went to voice mail. He hung up without leaving a message. He tried again later that night with the same results. That was okay he decided; he'd rather do this face-to-face.

On the way to work the next day, Chris made a detour downtown and stopped at the Mayfair.

Toby answered the door quickly, his face expressionless when he saw Chris.

"Can I come in?"

Without a word, Toby stepped back into the apartment and Chris followed. On the drive over, he'd had a brief fantasy that Toby would fall into his arms, crying and apologetic, begging Chris' forgiveness, blaming the booze and promising to never drink again.

Nothing like the aloofness he was getting now.

Chris noted the scotch bottles, the ice bucket, and the food service cart with the food barely touched.

"What do you want?"

Chris was stunned by the coldness in Toby's voice. Less than three days ago they'd been in bed together, Chris watching this man sleep, his thoughts full of concern for him. Now, Toby was acting like he didn't even know Chris. Maybe he thought he didn't.

"I want to talk to you, to get over this."

"Get over it?" Toby looked sincerely puzzled. "Oh, okay. You fucked people for money and failed to think it important enough to tell me but it's okay, because my son-of-a-bitch father-in-law did it for me. Just give me a sec to get over that."

Toby left Chris standing by the front door and poured himself a drink from the bottle on the coffee table. Chris winced, watching Toby slug back at least a triple shot.

"Toby..."

"Oh, I'm sorry, you want one?"

"No." And suddenly, Chris' anger was back, replacing the concern he'd been feeling. "So, what, now you're going to pick up the drinking again because you found out your new boyfriend isn't perfect? Fuck, you knew about my past, you knew the kind of person I was – I am. What did you think, Toby? You think a 15-year-old boy alone on the streets isn't going to do what he has to do to get by?"

Toby poured himself another drink. "The arrest record was dated eight years ago – if you're only twenty-three, life really has been hard on you."

"I can't believe you're acting like this." Chris stepped closer, and Toby stepped back. Chris stopped, trying to not let Toby see the hurt beneath the anger.

"Toby, come on. We've been friends for months now, and things have been so good since we got together. Are you really going to throw us away because of this?"

"Because of this? You make it sound like you forgot to pick up the milk!" Toby was angrily pacing the room now. "Can you imagine how humiliated I was at that meeting? Fucking Granger, standing there gloating. Christ!"

"Is that what this is all about, you being embarrassed? Why do you give shit what that asshole says? Didn't we talk about this – who gives a shit what anyone thinks?"

Chris moved to Toby, grabbing him by the shoulders.

"Let go of me, Chris."

"Not until you listen." His grip tightened when Toby tried to pull away. "I apologize for not telling you. I don't know why I didn't. I guess I was afraid you'd react just like this."

Toby looked him in the eye. "Then why are you so surprised?"

Chris felt like he was in a dream. Was this really the man he'd dreamed of and yearned for all those months? He let go and Toby immediately went for the bottle.

"I think we're through here," Toby said without looking at Chris, pouring his third Scotch in ten minutes.

"Are we done, then? Is this it?"

Toby took a drink, set the glass and looked at Chris. "I think so, yeah."

Chris was stunned. How had this happened, how had he been so wrong about Beecher? His jaw tightened as he reached for the door. He watched his hand turn the doorknob, opening the door to the end of his relationship with Toby. "Fuck you, then." And he left.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chris went on to work, hoping to keep his mind occupied. He inventoried the stockroom and cleaned out the small walk-in freezer, keeping away from everyone as much as possible. His emotions played hell with him that afternoon as he tried to work out what had happened.

He'd been so sure that Toby would be repentant over what happened yesterday. Maybe not ready to beg forgiveness, but to at least talk with Chris and give them another chance. Toby had changed so much for the better in the months since they'd met. And after they were together, he'd been even happier. Why was he throwing it all away?

Maybe all he needed was more time.

He thought of all the opportunities he'd had to tell Toby the truth, and hated himself for not using any of them.

But it shouldn't matter – it shouldn't matter what he'd done or been before. That part of his life was over – all that should matter to Toby was what they had now.

Chris hated how Toby had grown up – everything served up to him on a silver platter, hand fed to him with a silver spoon. A fucking spoiled college boy, not having to worry for a second about how to pay for any of it. He always knew where he was going to sleep and where his next meal was coming from. Chris had been able to look past his prejudices and see the real person under the money and alcohol. He thought Toby capable of the same thing – apparently he was wrong. Another fucking misstep in his life.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Over the next few days, Chris picked up the phone and put it down a dozen times. He went about his work, but he couldn't get Toby off his mind. The last few weeks, especially, wouldn't leave him alone and the images came constantly.

Like the time Toby brought a picnic basket – an actual fucking picnic basket! – to the bar and they spread a blanket on the office floor and ate caviar on toast points and strawberries dipped in champagne.

And the time they went to a movie and were asked to leave. It had been a German art film and they were doing their version of Mystery Science Theater, filling in their own dialogue and laughing, much too loudly.

And then there was the time they'd been laying on the couch and Toby asked about Ronnie and Chris ended up telling him all about how they had met and what prison life was like. Toby had held his hand and listened, asking a question or two, but mostly just listening. They had ended up in bed, naked, holding each other tight, rubbing against each other until they came. Toby had buried his face in Chris' neck, gasping and shaking and when Chris felt Toby's tears on his shoulder he had to work to hold back his own.

Afterward, when Toby asked about the scars on the inside of his thigh, Chris could have told him – should have told him – right then. He did tell Toby what they were – cigarette burns. But when he told him he'd done it to himself on a drug-fueled dare… that was the lie. The truth, that a john got his kicks burning Chris while Chris jacked himself off, had been too ugly to bring into that perfect night.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Though every night Chris had the urge to drink himself to sleep, he stayed away from the bottle, pouring all his energy into his work. He covered the bar for hours at a time, and got together with Fiona and Tony, planning out Thanksgiving dinner. Chris and the senior staff – and Toby – had decided to have a dinner for those who had no plans. Brad and a couple of the waitresses, and Fiona and Tony; and a few of the regulars were on the list. It was something Chris and Toby had been excited about doing for them.

Everyone knew that he and Toby had broken up, but not why.

"Are you sure you still want to go through with this dinner, honey?" Fiona touched Chris' arm during one of their conversations about the menu, when Chris had become distracted, remembering the suggestions Toby had made for the meal.

"Yeah, sure." Chris gave Fiona's hand a quick squeeze. "I still have things to be grateful for, don't I?"

But it was hard to bring those things to mind when he was alone, laying in bed at night, or staring, unseeing, at his computer. It was hard to appreciate what he had when the pain from his losses was at times more than he thought he could bear.

In his whole life he'd only cared about three people and they'd all left him – abandoned and betrayed him. Left him alone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Monday before Thanksgiving, the staff had cleaned up and were leaving out the back. Chris was locking the front door when Billie slipped inside.

"Sorry, Billie, we're done for the night."

Billie chewed on his bottom lip, leaning from one foot to the other. "I just need to talk to you, Chris. I guess, I don't know if I should tell you..."

"Tell me what?"

"It's about Beecher."

Chris shut the door and pulled Billie into a corner. "What about him?" Just hearing Toby's name made Chris' heart beat faster.

"Shit, Chris, I just thought you'd want to know... he wasn't looking too good."

Chris belied his emotions and calmly asked, "Where did you see him?"

"I was just at 'The Load' and saw him dancin' with some hard-bodied leather dude. He looked wasted and he was all over the guy – I wasn't even sure it was him at first, he was all kinds of fucked up." Billie looked at Chris, his forehead lined with worry. "Should I have told you? I mean, I know you guys are over, but he was all kinds of fucked up, Chris."

Chris nodded and patted Billie's shoulder. "It's fine, Billie, thanks for letting me know."

Billie, looking relieved, gave Chris a quick hug and left into the dark, late night.

Chris locked the door and leaned against it, taking a deep breath. The Load was a popular leather bar, full of hard men and the twinks who got off on them. A lot of fetish guys hung out there, and in the back rooms there was always more than fucking and sucking going on. Christ, what was Toby doing there?

At home, Chris lay in bed for hours, sleep eluding him as he thought of Toby in a place like that bar. He'd been a few times, back in his heavy partying days. And he'd gone once with Jason, when they were together. But that was after Chris had given up the hard stuff, and without the haze of drugs dulling the harshness, Chris realized that wasn't his kind of place anymore.

All day at work he thought about what Billie had said – "...he was all kinds of fucked up."- until he could barely function. He finally called Jason and asked if he wanted to go with him to The Load later that night.

"Oh my god, are you kidding me? Anthony's parents are here for the week. They've only been here since last night and I'm already on the verge of sticking a swizzle stick through my brain."

Chris knew this could be all for nothing – he had no way of knowing if Toby would be there again. And why did he even care? The mother fucker had been so eager to end things, he deserved nothing from Chris.

When Chris picked Jason up, his friend's enthusiasm was dampened only a little when he learned why they were going. "That sucks, baby, I'm sorry. But what the hell? Why do you care what the bitch is doing?"

"I don't know. I just know that I can't... I can't not care, Jason. He's not like us, he doesn't know what he's doing. He's on the rebound from his whole life – I'm afraid he's going to really get hurt."

The parking lot of the bar was just a little over half full, to Chris' relief. The Load was a large place – it was going to be hard enough finding Toby as it was, without having the place to full capacity. And Jason had never seen Toby, other than the picture Chris pulled from his pocket, one of the two of them on Halloween.

The music was pounding a bass beat that reverberated through their bodies, adding to Chris' anxiety. Grabbing Jason's hand, the two began making their way through the club, room by room; he prayed he wouldn't have to go to the back rooms.

His prayer was answered, but it wasn't much consolation.

After searching the customers at the main bar, they moved on to the first dance floor – this was where the throbbing bass was coming from, the flashing lights matching the techno-beat.

The next room was barely lit, and the music was heavy and dark. The men in here were moving together more slowly and sensually than in the previous room – the dancing obviously a prelude to something more. It was here he found Toby.

He wasn't sure at first; it was so hard to see. But as he edged through the mass of gyrating bodies and got closer he was dismayed to see he had been right. The thin, writhing man, dressed in skin-tight black jeans and a white wife-beater, with lank, sweat-soaked hair hanging in his face, was Toby. He was with a large, heavy man who was behind him, his hairy arms wrapped around Toby, holding his close as their bodies moved together in an exaggerated simulation of sex.

Chris stood stunned, shocked at seeing Toby like that.

Chris pulled Jason up close. "That's him, in the white shirt with the bear in the leather vest."

"You just described half the men in here."

"Come on, you distract the big guy while I talk to Toby."

"How am I going to do that?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

Chris approached Toby, grabbing his arm to get his attention.

When Toby saw Chris, a slow smile cut through the initial surprise. "Chris, what are you doing here?"

Chris leaned close to be heard above the music. "Same question, Beecher."

"Hey," the guy behind Toby grabbed Chris by the arm. "You trying to cut in on my action?"

Chris instantly tensed and his hands fisted. But Jason diffused the situation, taking the man's hand from Chris and turning him away. "Come on big guy; let's switch things up a little."

The man looked Jason over, his appreciation of what he saw evident on his face.

Toby watched the two begin to move together, then turned back to Chris. "Should I be insulted?" he sniffed. "Or grateful?" He took Chris' hands and put them on his hips. "You wanna dance?"

Chris grabbed Toby's arms. "I want you to leave with me." Chris could smell the alcohol enveloping Toby, and when the lights momentarily brightened between songs, he could see how dilated his pupils were.

"We don't have to leave."

"I want to talk to you, Beecher, we can't do that here."

Toby pulled away, moving to the beat, saying something Chris couldn't understand.

"What?" Chris yelled.

Toby moved closer, wrapping his arms around Chris' neck, rubbing up against him. "I've missed you."

Chris didn't respond, knowing it was the drugs talking.

"Hey," Toby was talking into Chris' ear, "did you know there're rooms here where you can have sex?"

Chris pushed Toby away form him, but held onto his arms. "Are you doing that, Toby? Are you fucking guys here?" Jesus, it was barely three weeks since they split up.

"Don't be jealous, Chris, I'll let you fuck me." Toby ran his tongue over his lips and tried to press himself close again.

"I don't want to fuck you, Toby." Chris couldn't believe he was saying those words.

"Then what do you want?" Beecher's face darkened.

"I want you to come with me, I want us to talk. This isn't you, Toby, let me help you."

"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do. I didn't know you, did I?"

"Toby..."

"Fuck off, Keller!" Toby jerked free from Chris' grip on him and disappeared into the crowd, rubbing and sliding against everyone in his path.

Chris' initial reaction was to go after him, but he realized he could do nothing for Beecher that he didn't want; he couldn't be forced to be helped. And what did Chris think he could do, anyhow? Drag Toby out of here and make him see the error of his ways? And then they could reconcile and dance off into the sunset?

Back outside, Chris leaned against his car, smoking while he waited for Jason, who showed up twenty minutes later.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Chris lashed out. He just wanted to get the hell out there.

"Me? You left me with a very scary, possessive, large, horny man who had just lost his boy-toy." Jason took Chris' cigarette from him and sucked in a lungful of smoke. "I had to fucking blow him to get rid of him."

"You did that guy?"

"Listen, baby, you do what you gotta to survive."

"Christ, Jason, you were in a gay bar, not the frozen tundra, bartering for firewood."

"Fuck you, Keller, take me home. And give me another cigarette. And I'm driving – you're too upset."

On the drive home, Jason asked what had happened.

"He's fucked up, just like Billie said. Three weeks ago he's kicking me to the curb; tonight he wanted me to fuck him. He wouldn't even let me do that when we were together!"

"Back the truck up – you never fucked him?" Jason stared at him until Chris yelled at him to watch the road.

"How long were you guys together?"

"About two months – and I don't want to hear any shit from you. We were going slow – this is all new to him."

"There's your problem, Chrissy. He obviously just needed to be thrown in the deep end – he needed you to take him somewhere public and fuck him in front of hundreds of people."

"You're not fucking helping."

"Sorry."

"I don't get it, Jase, I don't. I understand him being mad at me for lying and embarrassing him, and if he wants to break up over that, fine, let the little bitch ruin a good thing. But what's this shit all about? He was just getting comfortable holding hands or giving me a kiss in public, but now this..."

"It's classic acting out, Chris. He knows he fucked up. He's burned his bridges with his job and his wife and now you. He's punishing himself." Jason squeezed Chris' leg. "And as long as you let him, he's going to punish you."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After dropping Jason off at home, Chris went back to the bar. Christ, he needed a drink. It was almost closing time, and Chris chased the last few customers and the employees out.

"Are you sure, Chris?" Trisha was obviously worried about him, taking his hand in hers. "I can help close up and then leave you alone."

"You go on, I'm fine."

"Okay. Oh, the mail is on your desk."

Chris went through the closing routine, quickly and sloppily, unable to get the picture of Toby out of his head. The way he'd been dressed, the way he'd been moving – Chris wondered if he did make use of the back rooms, getting his cock sucked or his ass pounded by some Neanderthal like the one he'd been dancing with.

He grabbed a bottle and went to his office.

He sat at his desk, drinking from the bottle, staring into the darkness, until the stack of mail caught his attention. He turned on the desk lamp and started going though it – bills, credit card applications, offers from restaurant and bar supply companies, and... a letter, addressed to him.

There was no return address, of course, but the post mark was stamped 'Kansas.' Chris' hands were shaking as carefully tore open the envelope. A single sheet of paper was inside, wrapped around three one hundred dollar bills.

Chris stared at the money a long time before putting it down and reading the brief message.

Chris, I know this doesnt even start to repay you, but it's all I can do right now. I hope your okay and I really hope you got the bar. I'm so sorry Chris, I love you. Ronnie

Chris read the brief note three more times, a slug from the whiskey bottle following each reading.

He had to get out of there. He got his jacket from the closet, and turned off the light on his desk. At the last second, he grabbed the money and shoved it into his pocket.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Out on the street it was quiet. It had started snowing after he'd dropped Jason off, and now the streets and cars were dusted under a thin blanket of white. There were a few flakes still in the air, and the streetlights gave everything a quiet glow.

It was a beautiful night, but Chris could see none of it through the constant loop playing in his head of the events of the last few hours.

Blocks later he looked up and realized he'd ended up at the rougher end of the district, the specialty shops and nicer clubs giving way to pawn shops and dark holes in the wall, where a drink and a fuck could almost be a combo meal. A few of the bars were still open, and several men and boys were still on the streets, most looking to buy or sell.

"You looking for something, baby?"

Chris ignored the offers thrown out to him, continuing on with his head down until the whiskey he'd drunk had run through him. Ducking into an alley, he stepped behind a dumpster and pissed onto a pile of bricks there. Just as he was starting pulling on his zipper, he heard a noise. Suddenly conscious of the money in his pocket, he took note of the bricks at his feet and turned slowly.

"You need some help there?"

Just one of the hustlers, hands shoved in his pockets, hood pulled low over his face against the cold morning.

"I'm good, thanks." Chris zipped up his pants and stepped toward the street.

The hustler moved into his path. "Twenty bucks."

Chris stopped, his head reeling. Why the fuck not? Just because he and Beecher were through didn't mean he had to get back on that road to celibacy he'd been walking for so long while waiting for Beecher to lower himself and suck Chris' cock.

"You got a place?"

The guy shook his head. "I'll do you right here, or there's a place around the corner – twenty bucks for half hour."

Forty dollars to get his cock sucked – he laughed and put his arm around the guy, letting his drunken state of mind help him ignore how small and thin the shoulders felt. "Maybe I'll give you some pointers when we're done. I used to charge 200 bucks to let someone suck me."

Once they'd paid for the room and were inside, Chris' mood darkened. He shouldn't be here in this filthy hole, he should be in bed with Toby, warm and content goddammit! When he pulled the twenties out of his pocket – money first, always – and set it on the circa 1973 dresser, he couldn't help but see Beecher once more, pulling his wallet from his pocket. And though Chris had closed his eyes and not actually seen him do it, his imagination filled in the blank just fine, thanks, as he saw Toby toss the money to the floor, a look of disgust twisting his beautiful features.

"C'mon, damn it, suck me!" The hustler was on his knees, pulling and sucking on Chris' limp cock. Chris grabbed the hooded head and pulled it tight against his groin. "You want your money?"

The guy pulled back. "I'm sorry." He pushed his hood back and looked up, earnest and scared. "I'll do better, please, I need that money."

Chris looked down and his breath stopped. He was seeing the boy's face for the first time – and he was a boy. A boy with short dark hair and brilliant blue eyes that shone in the yellow hotel light like marbles... like Ronnie's. Chris felt sick. He pushed the boy away and zipped up his pants.

The kid got frantic. "No, please, I'm sorry, I'll do better, I can get you off, I will." He was clutching at Chris' legs, begging.

Chris squatted down and took him by the shoulders. "When do you have to be back?" The boy looked bewildered. "When do you have to turn your money in for the night? When is someone going to be looking for you?"

"At five o'clock."

Chris peered at his watch – three hours from now. He pulled the hundred dollar bills from Ronnie out of his other pocket and set it with the twenty. "You give your pimp what you need to and keep the rest, you hear?"

The boy was staring up at him, still on the floor, eyes wide and confused and Chris couldn't stand to look at him. His head was pounding and he could taste vomit in the back of his throat. He couldn't stand himself – God, he was a fucking mess.

"Listen, I'm going to pay for the room for the rest of the night. You stay here until then, get some rest." Chris looked around like he thought he might actually find an alarm clock on the non-existent nightstand. Pulling off his watch he set the alarm for 4:30. "Here, keep this, sell it, give it to your pimp, whatever. Just stay here and stay warm, okay."

The boy was staring at the watch in his hands and he nodded like he knew was expected but still didn't understand what was going on.

Chris went to the door, but couldn't go out without looking back. The kid had gotten up and was looking at the money, but not touching it. The room was a pit, with the wobbly dresser and a scarred, straight-backed chair. The bed was narrow and low and Chris shuddered to think the last time the sheets had been washed. The walls were nicotine brown and stained with God-knew-what.

He may have ended his hustling days making hundreds of dollars a pop, but he'd certainly spent enough hours in rooms just like this to know he'd never forget the smell of old sweat, spunk, blood, piss and shit that permeated them. Was this what Toby pictured when he thought of Chris – on his knees in the middle of a filthy room, letting a filthy man, or woman, do whatever they wanted to him? If it was, he wouldn't be wrong.

Chris took a card from his wallet and dropped it on the pile of money. "You need anything, you come by or call me. Anything... a place to crash, something to eat, money, okay?"

Chris left, paid for the room and got out of there as fast as he could.

The cold hit him hard as he headed down the street. He wondered if he could get a taxi but didn't try for two reasons; one, he didn't have any money left. Two; he deserved to suffer, to be cold and miserable and tired. He couldn't believe what he'd just done. If this is what love did to you then he fucking well was glad he'd lost it.

He stopped short as what he'd just been thinking hit him. 'Love' he'd said to himself. It was the first time he'd let that word into his consciousness. He did love Toby. He loved Toby, but Toby didn't love him.

On the way back to the bar, he scored a bag of pot and an assortment of pills.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He didn't go to work for two days, the hours flowing together in one big haze of wandering from room to room, staying stoned on weed and downers and booze, passing out in bed, on the couch, the kitchen floor, wherever he happened to be, only to wake and start again. He read Ronnie's note a hundred times and looked at the picture of the two of them just as many.

High on whiskey and pot, he thought of Toby, sweat-slicked, clothes molded him to him, swaying and gyrating. He remembered the feel of Toby's body pressed against him.

Come on, I'll let you fuck me.

Chris took an extra large hit of the joint in the ashtray and stretched out on the couch, closing his eyes and letting his hands run over his body, under his shirt, down his pants. It was Toby's hands on him, Toby's fingers wrapping around his cock, Toby pulling and squeezing him until his dick was raw. He finally had to stop, swearing in frustration – he was too wasted to get off.

He saw the boy in the hotel room, desperate to blow Chris – and he cried into his whiskey over the thought.

He ignored the phone when he saw it was Brad, and also the door when he came knocking at two o clock in the morning of the second day. "I'm fine," Chris had yelled after looking through the peephole.

Later that same day, more pounding on the door woke him from his place on the couch. "Go away," he yelled again, but the noise at the door had nothing on what that yell started in his head. He dragged himself from the couch and crawled the door. "Brad, I'll be in later," he said as softly as he thought he could get away with, holding his head to keep it from falling off.

"It's me."

Chris groaned, and pulled himself up – he opened the door and let Jason into the apartment. Jason looked at him, standing there in a stained wife-beater, pair of boxers and one sock. "I take it you're not going in to work again today?"

"What do you want?" He tried, unsuccessfully, to swallow.

"I got worried when I called the bar and they told me you missed work yesterday and wouldn't talk to anyone." Jason looked around the trashed room. "At least you used the time off constructively."

Squinting through his blood-shot eyes, Chris grimaced at the state of the place; a pizza box (he didn't remember calling, but that explained his stained shirt) with crusts spilling out onto the table and floor; empty beer cans and whiskey bottles; an overflowing ashtray (he did remember walking to the corner market before he was too wasted to buy a carton of smokes); and the remains of a bag of weed, three blue pills mixed in with it.

"Sometimes nothing beats a good two-day blackout."

"I won't argue that." Jason rubbed Chris' arm. "What can I do for you?"

"First thing, stop yelling."

"How about some coffee?" Jason whispered.

"I guess it's either that or shoot me in the head."

Jason looked Chris over, his disapproval obvious. "Tell you what, you go shower and I'll get some coffee going."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why should I shower... why are you still here? You can tell everyone I'm alive." Chris stumbled to the couch and flopped down, grabbing his head as he landed.

"Christopher, it's time to pull your shit together – tomorrow is Thanksgiving."

"What? How the fuck did that happen?"

"Go shower."

Chris lurched to the bathroom and stood unsteadily at the toilet, peeing forever. After peeling off his clothes, he poured the contents of a Tylenol bottle onto the sink, fumbling four into his mouth. In the shower, he drank from the cool spray before making the water as hot as he could stand it. After soaping every inch of himself twice, he turned the hot water off in a semi-successful attempt to shock his system awake in the stinging cold.

Standing at the closet, he debated what to wear. All he wanted was to crawl under a blanket and hibernate for a month. With a sigh that turned into a coughing fit, which in turn set off a jack hammer in his head, he pulled out his work clothes.

Back in the kitchen, Jason was sitting at the table, two mugs of coffee in front of him, a piece of paper next to them.

"When did you get this?" It was the note from Ronnie. "I found it under the coffee table."

Chris sat down and wrapped his hands around his mug. He held it until it burned, starting to feel warm for the first time in days. He blew over the top of the hot liquid and took a sip, then picked up the letter. It was stained with water – more likely beer – marks and smudged with pizza sauce.

"It was waiting for me when I got back from The Load. It had three one-hundred dollar bills with it."

"Jesus, Keller, that just wasn't your day, was it?"

Chris looked at Jason and surprised himself by laughing. "No, it fucking wasn't."

Jason stayed with him for another hour. Chris contemplated telling him what had happened that night, after he left the club, but that was his to own. He thought of that boy, though, and of Ronnie and hoped he was in a better place, out there in Kansas.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chris made it to the bar in time for Happy Hour. He apologized to everyone for his absence and was forgiven. After closing the bakery, Fiona and Tony came over and they and Brad and Chris finalized everything for the dinner tomorrow. Chris was mainlining Tylenol and water and coffee and mostly just nodded his approval to everything.

After they closed, he went back home and cleaned the apartment. He noticed that the pot and pills were gone, wondering if Jason had tossed them or taken them – as long as they were gone, it didn't matter.

Thanksgiving dinner turned out to be a success. The tables along the dance floor were pushed together to make one large table, big enough for the twenty people who attended and the mountains of food. The bar was free, though Chris did set a three-drink limit, and one end of it was set up for desserts.

After dinner, there was karaoke and dancing and even a much-cheating-going-on game of charades. Chris sat quietly, not participating, trying as hard as he could to concentrate on the moment and share the joy of his friends.

At the end of the night, Tony and Brad disappeared for a few minutes, returning with trays filled with glasses of champagne. After passing them around, Brad raised his glass.

"I want to make a toast to the founder of our feast, the new owner of Tony's Place, Chris Keller – a great man and a great boss."

Blinking back the sudden sting of tears in his eyes, Chris stood and raised his glass in return, clearing his throat before he could speak. "I want to thank everyone who helped out here tonight – Brad and Trisha especially, and all the other staff who pitched in." He turned to the couple sitting across from him. "And to Fiona and Tony, who made all this wonderful food." Chris paused, looking down, thinking how Beecher should be in the seat next to him.

"I want to thank all of you for coming and for being the great employees, friends and patrons that you are. Owning this place is literally a dream come true, and you all have a part in keeping it a dream, not a nightmare."

Everyone laughed and drank and Chris sat down, looking around. Who was he to be making speeches? Who was he to own his very own business? Who was he to be part of a community and have friends that had no idea where to fence stolen property or hot-wire a car? He supposed his life at that moment was the definition of the word 'bittersweet'.

He remembered his mother's words on the miniature golf course that day – "You can do anything, Christopher Robin, anything you want."

"I have, Mom," he whispered beneath his breath, "I have everything I want... almost."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The next day – Black Friday – was crazy. Midwestern housewives had nothing on queers with credit cards; fortunately for the business, they all needed a break from shopping. Saturday was just as busy, and Chris barely had time to think. On Monday, though, he collected all the things Toby had left at his apartment and put them in a bag – his extra toothbrush and razor; the classical music CDs he'd brought over to try and expand Chris' musical horizons (and Chris had had to grudgingly admit, some of it wasn't so bad); the Harvard sweatshirt he'd given to Chris – he didn't want to look at it. He took the bag to work and stuck in on the top shelf of the storage room.

He called Chucky and asked to meet with him. Swallowing his pride, Chris explained the situation, leaving out the details of the fight, and why Toby had had to give him the money for the down payment in the first place. He took a deep breath and asked Pancamo if he could help him out. Chucky agreed, and the next day loaned Chris the money he needed to pay Toby back.

"You sure you gonna be able to handle this, Keller? Paying me and Nappa both?"

"I'll do what I can, Pancamo, I just got to get out from under with Beecher. Please don't let the old man know. He doesn't know I had to borrow the money to pay him."

"He's gone now, out of the picture. He don't have to know anything. I like you, Keller, but I'm not going to be able to give you much leeway on this – when the payment's due, it's due."

Chris went to the bank, got a cashiers check and left it at the concierge desk at Toby's hotel.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As the weeks passed, Chris' began to go hours at a time without thinking of Toby. He was staying busy, still learning the ropes about owning the bar – taking Chucky up on his offer to help out whenever Chris had a question – and coming up with ideas for change.

He wanted to put in a deejay booth for New Year's, and started talks with Fiona and Tony about working together on a Sunday brunch.

Jason brought Anthony in one night, and after graciously accepting Chris' apology for threatening him, the three had a good visit.

Tony's Place was turning a good profit, and he was able to make his first payment to Nappa with no problem.

Everything was good. Except at night, when he'd fall into bed, too exhausted to sleep, and his mind would go through its list of 'what might have beens.' He would fall asleep, wondering where Toby was – in the dank, dark back room of a leather bar, or in his room, drinking himself unconscious. He hated these thoughts, hated that he couldn't stop caring.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A few days before Christmas, one of the new waitresses knocked on the open office door, sticking her head inside.

"Yeah?"

"You have a call, sir, on line two."

"Thanks… Ginger, is it?"

The girl nodded and quickly left – but not before Chris saw the blush coloring her cheeks. Chris decided he better keep on eye on her; if she was going to get twitterpated over him remembering her name, he wondered how on Earth she was going to handle all the comments she was sure to hear in this joint.

Chris pushed the button for line two and picked up the phone. "This is Christopher Keller."

"Hello, Mr. Keller, I hope I'm not bothering you."

The female voice was cool and polished and worried and Chris instantly knew who it was. His first instinct was to hang up – he was trying to get over Beecher, so why the Christ would he want to speak to his wife?

But more importantly, why would she be calling him? To tell him Toby was in jail, or in the hospital… or the morgue?

"Mr. Keller?"

"It's Chris, Mrs. Beecher, call me Chris."

"I'd be more comfortable not getting so personal."

"Absolutely." Just tell me why the fuck you're calling, he wanted to scream.

"Mr. Keller, I haven't been able to get a hold of Tobias for a few weeks. He's not staying at the Mayfair anymore and his cell phone has been shut off. We were able to track that he was still in town by his credit card purchases, but he canceled them last week. His parents have private investigators looking for him, but no luck."

"And you think I might know where he is."

"I… yes… I was hoping, since you're his… friend."

"I was his friend, Mrs. Beecher, until your father dropped the bomb about me at the meeting that day. I've seen him twice since then – he doesn't want to have anything to do with me."

"Oh." Chris could hear the catch in her voice, and her disappointment. She must really be worried to call him, especially when she had to already know Toby wasn't coming around here anymore.

"Mrs. Beecher, if people are looking for Toby, I'm sure they've been watching my house and my business. And so you would know he hasn't been here. Why did you call?"

"I thought – I was hoping you might know something, or have heard something."

"I don't. Can I ask you, where was he using his credit cards?"

There was a pause, and Chris almost regretted asking the question. "A lot of restaurants and bars and hotels."

"Which ones?" He just couldn't resist helping her dig the knife in deeper.

"Places downtown – gay bars and seedy hotels that rent by the hour and fast food…" Chris could hear her trying to catch her breath through her tears.

"I'm sorry… Genevieve. It must be horrible to see your husband behaving this way."

She sniffed and cleared her throat. "He's not my husband. He came back and signed the papers. But I still care what happens to him."

"Of course. I'm sorry I couldn't help."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Keller." Her composure was back. "You'll let me know if you hear anything?"

"If you'll do the same."

"Yes, I will. Goodbye."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He had many invitations for Christmas – Fiona and Tony; Brad and his new boyfriend; even Trisha asked him to spend the day with her and her family.

But Chris opted to stay home. He took his gifts to everyone on Christmas Eve and spent Christmas Day with a bottle of Jack and a 'Christmas Story' marathon.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The week following Christmas was slow, with everyone recovering from one holiday and gearing up for the next. That was fine with Chris – he and the staff had been working so hard, it was a relief to take it easy for a few days.

One evening, Tony was at the bar with a couple of his friends, making much of the new cashmere scarf he'd received from Fiona. Trisha was going over a few things with two of the temp waitresses they were going to be using on New Year's Eve. Brad and one of the busboys were behind the bar, doing a general cleaning out of cupboards and drawers. Chris was at his table on his computer.

A middle-aged woman came in, making everyone take notice. Women were not uncommon customers, but they were almost never alone and never dressed in denim and flannel – that fashion sense could be found down the street at 'Puss in Boots,' the lesbian bar.

"I'm looking for Chris Keller," the woman was saying to Brad.

"I'm Keller." Chris got up and went over.

"I've got a situation outside. I drive a cab, and a couple guys flagged me down a few blocks from here. Actually, they staggered out into the street in front of me, and when I stopped they asked to come here. If you ask me, the last place either of them needs is to see the inside of a bar, but I just drive 'em, I don't judge. The problem is, both of them are passed out cold. When I tried to shake them awake, one of them kept saying 'Chris' so I thought I'd see if there was actually a Chris in here. If you want, I can just call the cops."

All eyes were on Chris – everyone knew who was in that cab.

"Let's go."

The cab was parked right out front. Chris pulled the back door open and winced at the sight… and smell. Christ, what a mess. The stink came out in waves – alcohol, sweat, and chemicals. There was another body, huddled in the corner of the seat, Toby leaning on it. It was freezing out, yet Toby didn't have a coat. Chris turned to the cabbie. "He got a jacket?"

She shook her head. "He didn't seem to notice the cold, what with all that antifreeze he must have runnin' through his veins."

Chris stood indecisively, not sure what to do. Was he supposed to take him in, clean him up and send him off, never minding that Toby wanted nothing to do with him?

He began to get pissed. Who the hell did Beecher think he was? He had a lot of fucking nerve, coming here.

"Fuck." He reached in, pulled Toby halfway out by his ankles then grabbed him and flung him over his shoulder.

"Come with me," he said to the cabbie, "I'll get you some money."

"What about the other one?" she asked, holding the door open for him.

"I don't give a shit. Take him over to the shelter on Broome St."

Chris was grateful the place wasn't crowded as he carried Toby through to the office – "Don't anybody ask anything!" he snapped – and dumped him on the couch.

Back with the cab driver waiting at the bar, he pulled out his wallet. "Here, here's a twenty for you and twenty to give to the shelter." (He wondered how long it was going to be before handing over a twenty dollar bill didn't remind him of that boy in the rat-trap hotel.)

"Thanks. I hope I didn't just bring you a load of trouble."

"Well, you did, but it's not your fault."

Trish stopped him before he could get back to the office. "You need anything, boss?" Trisha offered.

"No." Chris had practically shouted the word – he took a breath and calmed down. "No, thank you, Trisha. After he wakes up he's getting a cup of coffee and he's out of here."

Back in the office, Chris stood a long moment looking at Beecher, pissed and heartsick at the same time. The man was mess, his long-sleeve shirt wrinkled and obviously well-worn. His jeans – ones that Chris recognized as having been quite flattering to Toby's ass at one time – were at least two sized too big now and hung on his skinny frame. And his beautiful golden-red hair was dirty and lank, hanging loose around his face in a greasy tangle. With a resigned sigh he pulled Toby's boots – fucking red cowboy boots – off his feet and covered him with the blanket he kept in his closet.

Chris sat at his desk, his computer opened to a spreadsheet, giving the impression that he was working, if anyone cared to look.

After a couple hours or so, Toby finally started moving, groaning and stretching until he was sitting up, holding his head in his hands. "How the fuck did I get here?"

"You high-jacked a cabbie." Chris poured a cup of coffee from the pot he had warming on the table behind his desk. Getting the bottle of Exedrin from his bottom drawer, he brought both to Toby. "Would you rather have water?"

"No, this is good." Beecher shook a handful of the pills into the palm of his hand and popped them into his mouth, chewing them before washing them down with a sip of coffee.

'Christ,' Chris thought, 'just like the night we fucking met.'

"So," Toby squinted up at Chris, "you gonna tell me how I got here?"

"I told you – in a cab. You had the cabbie bring you, then passed out on her. I paid her off and carried your pathetic ass in here."

Toby didn't react, other than to look around like he was missing something. "Wasn't I with someone?"

"Yeah, some waste case that got dropped off at the shelter on Broome Street. You can have the cab take you over there, see if he's still around."

"What cab?"

"The cab I'm calling for you right now." Chris called, telling the dispatcher to have the taxi come to the alley – he could slip Toby right out the back without anyone seeing him again.

While Toby had been passed out, Chris had retrieved his Harvard sweatshirt from the storage room; he now tossed it to Beecher. "Here, you're going to fucking freeze to death."

Toby held the shirt. "I gave this to you."

"I'm giving it back."

Beecher simply nodded and pulled it on.

There was no belligerence to this Beecher, none of the manic behavior or anger of the last times they'd been together. Toby just seemed worn out and confused, and Chris felt more saddened than anything. "Your wife called."

"What?" Beecher jerked his head up, grimacing at the motion.

"She's worried about you." She's not the only one.

"She shouldn't worry."

"Yeah, well, people can't just stop caring. At least some people can't."

Toby ignored the dig, or just didn't notice. "What did you tell her?"

"What could I tell her – I don't know anything about what you're doing with your life." Chris opened the office door, motioning to Toby. "Let's go, the cab should be here."

It was all Chris could do to not ask Toby to stay and let him help him. Even if things were done between them, it was tearing at his gut to see Beecher this way, so wasted and broken.

Beecher paused on his way to the door and patted at the pockets of his jeans. Reaching into a baggy front pocket, he pulled out a wad of money. Chris thought at first thought he was going to peel a few ones or fives off, payment for the cab. But when Toby held out the whole, messy roll, telling Chris to take it, he could see that it was composed of twenties and hundreds.

"What the fuck, Beecher?"

"This is from the cashier's check you left. I had to cash it in when I lost my wallet, but I've got more money now – I want you to take it."

"I gave it back to you for a reason – I don't want it. I don't need it anymore."

"I don't care what you think about me, this is your money and I want you to take it!"

Toby was getting agitated, and Chris could see that whatever he'd been taking before was still affecting him. He could diffuse the escalating situation easily enough by just taking the money but – fuck that. Chris was pretty agitated himself.

"Put the goddamn money back in your pocket and get your ass out of my club."

"Take the fucking money!"

"No."

Chris watched in disbelief as Toby brought his hands up – stoned or not, the man could not be that brainless. "I know you cannot be stupid enough to throw money at me again, Beecher. And if you are, I warn you, I don't think I'll be able to stop kicking your ass until you are fucking dead."

The two men stared each other down until Toby slowly pushed the money back into his pocket and went out the door. Chris followed him into the hallway, making sure he got into the waiting taxi.

Just as he getting into the cab, Toby called out to Chris, watching at the back door. "You wanna come with me – this money can buy us a real good time. If we can find that kid I was with I bet he'd do us both together."

Chris went back inside and locked himself in his office.
The next day, he called Genevieve Beecher and told her only that he'd seen Toby and he was okay. A stretch of the truth, but at least she knew he was alive.

About a month later, Genevieve called Chris. She told him that Toby had gotten a hold of her and they'd had a good talk. He sounded sober, and had started a new job. He was also back at the Mayfair, if Chris wanted to reach him.

He thanked her before he hung up. Had Toby got his shit together? It was none of Chris' business.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

One afternoon, toward the end of February, one of Chris' errands took him close to the courthouse where Ronnie should have been tried. Chris drove over there and stopped in front of the building, looking at the coffee shop across the street. What if he and Ronnie hadn't gone over there that day? Or they had taken a table in the back, missing Beecher? Did he wish he'd never met Toby? Despite all the anger and pain, Toby had been an integral part of the most important year of Chris' life. Chris smiled to himself – he supposed this was part of getting over and moving on; he'd just thought about Toby without wanting to cry or punch something.

Chris started the car, looking in the rearview mirror as he began to pull out. He hit the brake and did a double-take. There was Toby, coming down the long walk from building to street. And he was with Katherine McClaine. They were in an animated conversation, pausing a moment when the discussion seem to become too intense to allow walking and talking at the same time.

From here, Toby looked good, very good. He was dressed casually, in tan slacks and a navy peacoat. Chris couldn't see his face clearly, but his hair was trimmed – not as short as when they met – and combed neatly back, and he was clean-shaven. Chris watched as the two lawyers got into a car parked several spaces behind him and pulled out, making a u-turn and driving off.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Later that evening, sitting at his desk, Chris pulled open the bottom drawer and rummaged through the few personal items he had stashed in there.

Behind a small box of old coins culled from the till, and under a copy of 'To Kill a Mockingbird' – which was taking him longer to read than he was willing to admit – were two small pieces of paper.

One was the business card Toby had left for him shortly after they'd met, a makeshift thank you card. The other was the ticket stub from the basketball game they'd gone to together.

A smile graced his lips as he thought of the fun time they'd had together. Then he noticed the date – February 27th – what a fucking coincidence. That was one week from today. Time sure does fly when you're having fun.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He had just dozed off when there was a knock at the door. He sat up with a start, hitting the coffee table and knocking his beer over. "Shit!" He grabbed a handful of napkins that had come with his Chinese take-out and dropped them on the puddle.

There was another series of loud knocks, much too loud for – Chris looked at the clock on the wall – fucking 12:30! "All right!" he yelled. "Shut up!" He looked through the peephole and froze; it was Beecher.

He thought about just not answering before he remembered he'd already yelled and given his presence away – he didn't want Beecher to start knocking again, disturbing anyone. He slid the bolt, turned the lock and opened the door, just enough to fill the space between door and jamb.

"What do you want?"

"I just want to talk to you, just for a minute."

Chris should have said no, and in fact would have, but for the fact that Toby was looking so good, even better than he had last week at the courthouse, now that Chris could see him close up. In addition to the clean clothes and neat appearance, Toby's eyes, illuminated by the hall light, were clear and bright.

So Chris pulled open the door and let Toby in. After closing the door he retreated to the other side of the room. He leaned against the wall, rubbing his hand across his stomach in an attempt to maintain a casual attitude.

Casual was kind of hard to pull off, thought, as he watched Toby watching him. Toby's eyes lifted and connected with Chris'. Chris tore his away, afraid of what he had seen in those blue eyes, eyes he'd dreamed of looking into night after night. He wasn't sure what he had seen – fear, hope, sorrow. Whatever it was, Toby's eyes were sharp and focused, not clouded by alcohol or drugs, and Chris suddenly felt off balance – Beecher was here, clean and sober, and Chris didn't know what that meant.

He took a few steps forward. "So, whaddya want?" he asked roughly.

Toby had been jangling his keys while watching Chris – now he clasped his hand shut and reached into his coat pocket with his other hand, pulling out an envelope. "You have to take this, Chris."

"I don't want it. Anything else?"

"Don't be stupid." Chris could see a flicker of apprehension cross Beecher's face at calling Chris stupid, but he held his ground, his jaw jutting out defiantly.

"You're calling me stupid?" Chris couldn't believe Toby's gall, but at the same time he also admired it. "That's rich, coming from the man who's been playing Russian roulette with his body."

Toby stiffened and Chris could see his remark had done its job, hurting Toby the way he'd hurt Chris throughout these last months. But he felt no satisfaction in the accomplishment, and Beecher got over it quickly enough, anyhow.

"Those days are behind me now, Chris."

"Yeah, you do seem to be looking – and smelling – better. But I still don't want the money."

"Don't hurt yourself because you want to hurt me. There's no reason for you to be worried about money right now. Take this, pay me back when you can, pay me back with interest, if you want. Just do the right thing."

Chris stifled a laugh over Beecher telling him to do the right thing. "It's not just that I don't want your money, Beecher, I don't need it, I'm doing fine. I'm doing great, in fact – Tony's Place is more profitable than ever. I've got a job I love, friends who care about me, everything I want."

Toby placed the envelope back in his pocket. "I'm glad to hear that, Chris. I really am. But I know that you don't have everything you want. You don't have me."

Chris' mouth dropped open. "You presumptuous little fuck! You think I'm still sitting around, wishing I had you back after the way you treated me?"

"I know you are." Toby was quiet and sincere.

Chris was seething, almost to the point of tears. His body was trembling with his anger; he'd managed to push his desire for Toby down deep enough that he only brought it out in the darkest part of night. And now here Beecher was, poking at it again, waking it up, bringing it out into the light where it had the power to cripple and maim.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Beecher?" Chris ground out between clenched teeth. "I wasn't kidding last time when I said I'd kick your ass – is that what you want?"

"No. I want you to kiss me."

Toby dropped his keys to the hardwood floor, the sound seeming to echo in the apartment.

Chris would forever identify the smell of lilac with his mother – during the summer she would bring home huge bunches of them – Chris never knew if she bought or stole them – and in the months she couldn't get real flowers she used candles and air freshener to keep the smell alive. And now the sound of keys would always make him think of Toby. He'd heard them that night they'd met, Toby drunkenly dropping them as he sat at the bar; now this night, the night Toby came back to him.

Because as soon as the keys fell, Toby was across the room, his arms wrapping around Chris, the force of his body making Chris stumble backward, hitting the wall. Their mouths came together as hard as their bodies. Toby pulled at Chris' shirt, yanking it up so his hands could roam across his bare, broad back. Chris grabbed Toby's head, threading his fingers through the soft hair, holding tight as he turned them, pushing Toby up against the wall and covering him with his own body.

Chris' mind was screaming at him to stop, he was thinking with his dick, forgetting all the pain he'd suffered. But he couldn't stop, this was the stuff of his dreams, the image he'd jerked off to countless times in these last months.

He ground himself against Toby, and he sucked the groan from the other man's mouth. His hands dropped to Toby's shoulders and met with the butter-soft leather of his coat. Never breaking the kiss, he tugged at the jacket, missing Toby's touch when the hands left his back to let it slide off his arms.

Chris' hands were at the front of Toby's shirt, fumbling with it, frustration making him swear when he couldn't maneuver the buttons.

"Rip it," Toby gasped.

"Fuck yeah." He grabbed the open collar and pulled apart and down, pushing the shirt off as the buttons bounced across the floor. The sound made Chris stop and realize what he was doing.

He walked away, getting his breathing under control before facing Toby. Chris almost had to laugh as he looked at him – with his shirt and coat puddle around his feet and his hair a mess of gold around his face and his lips red and swollen – he was a perfect image for the word 'debauched'.

But it wasn't really funny.

"Chris?"

"What's going on here, Beecher? Last time I saw you, you invited me to have a three-way with you and a man whose name you didn't even know."

Chris watched, half expecting Toby to get pissed off and start a fight or leave in a huff. Instead, he picked up his shirt and put it on, looking down at the buttons scattered on the floor.

"I'm sorry; this isn't what I came here for. I wanted to apologize, get you to take the money and then leave."

He picked up his coat and his keys and went to the door. Turning back, he had the envelope in his hand once more. "Chris, if you don't take this, I'm going to hate myself forever."

Chris was tempted to tell him to have fun with that, but instead he asked, "Why did you come by the bar that night?"

"I… I wanted to give you that money. And I missed you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Toby," Chris asked without thinking, not knowing he was going to until he heard the words. "Why did you leave me? Why wouldn't you even talk about what happened at that meeting with Granger?"

"I got scared, Chris. I'd realized that we were getting serious and I got scared." Toby sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Are we going to do this? Can I sit down?"

Chris' initial response was to say no. But he knew he would regret it if he did; after his reaction to Toby just moments ago, Chris knew he was far from being over the man. He nodded and Toby sagged with relief.

He sat on one end of the couch, while Chris took the chair.

"So, you said you were scared – of what? Didn't we already do the scared thing?"

"Yeah, we did. But this was something different." Toby shifted in his seat and ran his hand over his hair again. "I was so embarrassed and angry when Granger dropped that bomb on me. I'd decided I was going to stay pissed at you for a long time, but I didn't think it was going to end us.

"I went to my hotel and started drinking, furious and embarrassed but also aware that I had run from the situation. Instead of just telling Granger to shove that file up his ass, I did exactly what he was hoping and reacted like a coward. And I wondered if I was always going to react that way when things got tough."

"No, you weren't, Beecher, at least you didn't have to. We could have dealt with anything together."

"I know that now, Chris. My biggest mistake was not trusting you. But at the moment, I had reason not to. But I also didn't trust myself. I'd just failed my marriage – what if I failed you?"

"So you left me because you were scared our relationship wouldn't work out?"

"Something like that. I know, I know, I'm an idiot."

Chris got, pacing behind the couch. "You were afraid of hurting me, so you kicked me to the curb." Chris anger and disbelief were warring with each other. "You made me feel like shit, like it was all my fault and then went on to flaunt your whoring in my face."

Toby's eyes misted over. "I'm so sorry, Chris. After you came to me at the hotel, and I ended it, I just freaked out. I didn't know where to turn. I had two relationships ending on virtually the same day, my parents were furious with me, and the only person who could understand what I was going through was the one person I couldn't go to.

"I didn't do any of this to hurt you." Toby hung his head. "Well, maybe at first, but later on, I was only punishing myself." Toby looked at Chris, his need to be believed hard on his face.

"I know, Toby, I do."

"But you got hurt in the fallout, and I'm so sorry for that."

"It couldn't be helped, Toby. Anything that hurts you is going to hurt me." Chris got up and walked behind the couch, carefully weighing what he was going to say next.

"I'm going to assume that you want to give us another chance."

Toby nodded.

But did Chris want to be with him? Apparently, he did – at least his body did. What if they gave it another chance – and Chris couldn't even believe he was thinking it – and Toby left him again? Chris would have to kill him –he really didn't think there would be another choice.

Was that any way to go into a relationship, thinking about killing your partner if he left you?

"Chris?"

"Yeah." Toby was waiting, his face reflecting his anxiety as he watched Chris. "Toby, do you know what I figured out that night I went to The Load and saw you there with that man, knowing what you were doing?"

Toby shook his head.

"I figured out that I love you."

"Oh." Toby was on his feet, coming around to Chris, who held up a hand, stopping him.

"I love you, Toby, and maybe that's a good reason to not be with you. Because the more you care, the more you can get hurt, right? I mean, you just told me that was part of the reason you left me, right?"

"But I was wrong, wasn't I, Chris?"

Chris nodded. "Tell me, something, Toby, why tonight? Why did you come here tonight?"

Toby took a deep breath. "After you put me in that cab, I did go and find that guy – I think his name was Dennis. I found him and a couple of his friends and we got a suite at the Blake Hotel."

"Pretty nice place, I'm surprised they'd let you in, the way you looked."

"Shit, Chris; drop a name and flash a platinum card and almost any door will open. It was a wild night – the drugs and drinking and loud music and sex –"

"Christ, Beecher!"

"Not me, Chris, not me. I wasn't participating in any of it. I was in one of the bedrooms, by myself, listening to it all going on without me, wishing I were with you.

"About four o'clock in the morning, I was woken up by the manager of the hotel, saying they'd had complaints about the noise. The TV was blasting, the place was trashed and my wallet, with my newly replaced credit cards, along with the roll of bills I had, was gone."

"Fuck, Toby."

"That very day, I stopped. I stopped drinking and taking drugs and going to clubs. I called Gen and we talked for a long time. I got my rooms back at the Mayfair and last month I got a job working for a lawyer who handles cases for low-income housing tenants, dealing with landlords building violations. My boss is a firecracker – she's an ex-nun, tough as the proverbial ruler on the knuckles."

Chris was stunned. "Is that all true? You've really done all that, Toby?"

Toby nodded, and Chris could see how proud he was of his accomplishment. "I've thought about coming to see you every day for the last two months. I wanted to send you the money, but I knew you'd just send it back. I just kept putting it off because I was afraid you wouldn't even talk to me. I thought maybe the more into my sobriety I was, the better chance I'd have in impressing you."

"So you've quit drinking completely?"

"Oh, fuck no!"

Chris couldn't help laughing – they both did, and when they were done, the air seemed clearer, the tension diffused.

"Chris." They'd been standing several feet from each other while Toby told his story. Now he moved closer and Chris could feel his heart beat faster. "I know that just because of what happened earlier…us kissing…I know that doesn't automatically mean you'll take me back. I just want you to know that I'll do whatever it takes to make things work between us."

Toby reached over and tentatively reached for Chris' hand. Chris remained silent, his hand tingling from Beecher's touch.

"We may not be the most obvious choice of people to be together – I'm a spoiled, rich guy who drinks too much and lets his family bully him and you're a criminal from the streets. People would say there's something wrong with that equation."

Chris took a deep breath – he could feel his heart racing and his hand growing sweaty in Toby's. "Yeah, well, I'd just remind those people that two wrongs make a right."

Toby's breath caught. "Is that how it goes?"

The hope and expectation on Toby's face was more than Chris could bear and he squeezed Toby's fingers. "That's how it goes."

Toby's face crumpled in relief. "Chris, I love you, too."

Chris pulled him into a hug and they hung on to each other like they were clinging to life. Maybe they were, Chris thought.

Chris slid his hands into Toby's hair and turned his face, catching his lips with his own. They kissed forever, remembering and celebrating the touch and taste of each other.

When they finally parted, Chris asked Toby if he wanted to stay. "Cool Hand Luke is coming on in about ten minutes."

Toby smiled, a smile that lit his eyes from within and Chris' stomach did a little flip, looking at them. "I love that movie."

Chris took Toby by the hand and led him to the couch. They sat side by side, not talking, and Chris felt ridiculous, smiling through the scene of Paul Newman chopping the heads off a row parking meters.

Ten minutes into the movie, Chris felt Toby slump. He slid over and let Toby down gently, resting the golden head on his lap. Toby stirred and tried to sit back up.

"Just rest, baby, it's late."

Chris watched the rest of the movie, wondering just what the hell he'd done tonight. No matter Toby's actions, Chris had never been able to get over him. And Toby had practically committed suicide – virtually killing himself with his self-destructive behavior – so distraught over their separation. They had a lot of work ahead, but they would now know that they could get through anything as long as they stayed together – they knew how horrible it was when they were apart.

Besides, Chris had always been suspicious of things that came easily –anything worth having was worth the trouble it took to get it. And goddamn if Tobias Beecher wasn't trouble.

THE END

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