It was a glib, slightly amplified female voice that insinuated itself in the fog of Zeke's mental landscape, nudging him from his slouch: "Good afternoon. This is your pre-boarding announcement for Northwest Flight 1806 non-stop to Los Angeles. At this time we ask that all First Class passengers, passengers travelling with small children or needing assistance, please come forward for boarding..."

There was a magazine sitting unread on Zeke's lap, every page of it still crisp and glossy. He checked his watch and tried to fathom that two and a half hours had just vanished into the ether. Presumably he had been thinking really hard and should have come to some truly profound realizations — but all he had to show for it was a whole lot of nothing.

Rewinding the tape on the afternoon, he skimmed over what was more or less a sullen funk and came upon the dissonant memory of leaving Casey. The soundtrack was deceptively low-key at that point, albeit with all sorts of gnashing sounds churning beneath the surface — a scene two people saying good-bye while on both sides of them people streamed back and forth to wherever and whatever, seeming to ignore them but perhaps taking a quick, wondering glance if opportunity afforded it. Thinking to themselves It's a couple of kids having a dramatic moment...a couple of...boys...hey, wait a minute, that boy is touching that other boy...

It was right then in front of the Krispy Kreme that Zeke's larynx had betrayed him, dislodging the words I'll never hate you, noises of sympathy made entirely without the authorization of his brain. His whole body had turned treasonous. After all these months, he should have been resistant to the unique alchemy of Casey's expressive facial features but there had been such an elixir of hopelessness, devastation and shame in that visage that it had been all Zeke could do to turn and make his legs bear him away. And he was the injured party, for fuck's sake.

Of course, once he had gotten out of Casey's direct line of sight his body was content follow normal operating procedures again. He had bought that magazine — along with a fresh pack of smokes — thinking he would need something to pass the time with then walked to Gate Forty-Seven where he'd chosen one of the plush, comfortable seats. He had planted himself in it, glorying in that moment when finally he was entirely alone, or at least as alone as anyone could get in an airport filled with thousands of people. Still it was Zeke Tyler at large in the world, just like the good old days. No Frank Connor, no Allison Connor, none of their particular hang-ups and endless, superficial nattering...but really, the Connor parental factor was only a minor irritant compared to the constant splinter-under-the-nails discomfort of being trapped in Casey's company all day, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists as Casey ran the gamut of his avoidance games. Until today he hadn't known that it was possible to pity someone and be furious at them simultaneously.

"No-o-o! Don' wanna!"

This protest came from the throat of a small child, maybe four years old to Zeke's inexperienced eyes. She was blond and blue-eyed and cute enough that she had already learned just how to use it to her advantage. She was stamping her foot and fomenting against a woman who remained seated, attempting to engage her at eye level — her mother, presumably. The woman was enduring the display with strained aplomb while the glare of the girl was hot and absolute, as though her insistence must be sufficiently compelling in and of itself to force compliance.

"I realize that you don't want to," replied the mother in tones measured by weary patience. "But we can't visit Auntie Laura unless we go on the plane."

"Wanna stay with Daddy."

"Sorry, sweetie, but you can't." Now the mother rose to her feet, abandoning negotiation in favour of an exercise of authority. She held out her hand. "Come on — "

"No!"

"Samantha Ann!" The facade of patience having failed, the mother grabbed the girl's hand. The scene became a war of attrition; the mother had to drag her screeching offspring to the gate, containing the child inadequately with one hand and presenting her boarding pass and identification with the other, all the while casting abashed looks at her soon-to-be fellow passengers.

And Zeke mused to himself,Now there's true love.

Not that he knew anything about the "L" word. Ignoramus that he was, he'd deluded himself right up until yesterday afternoon that Casey felt something for him, that there was something real amidst the obsession and the lies and the endless drama. A tiny, obstinate part of him had insisted over and over that it was there and so, over and over, he would dedicate his best resources to dredging up those scraps of evidence. But he no longer had the will for that — nor the inclination, really. Love had never been one of his priorities, and certainly not this stupid, cue-the-music-and-ride- off-into-the sunset thing that had held sway over him for months. He'd envisioned himself as Casey's protector, his soul-mate and, of course, the only person Casey could ever need. What a fucking joke.

"No-o-o-o!" screamed Samantha Ann, her voice rising in pitch and volume to an astonishing level.

Yep, gotta be true love, Zeke concluded. And I'm going to be trapped on an airplane for two hours with it. He had nothing against children but after an almost sleepless night and hours of stress already today he was in need of more peaceful conditions. He had earned a time-out.

So much of the stress had been basic, ordinary anger but a lot of it was shock, too. And his head wouldn't shut the fuck up. It kept muttering about this and that, distracting and occasionally throwing him completely off, abhorring Casey's more annoying qualities one second and rattling away in admiration the next. Of course it went without saying that Casey always had the capacity to surprise him. Just in the past twenty-four hours he'd been totally astounded. Casey had never looked anything but entirely shattered but there had been no zone-outs, no panic attacks. Well, the drugs probably made a difference — but still, Zeke should have known, he should have remembered the strength that Casey could muster when he wanted to.

Yeah, Zeke was impressed by Casey and that was to be expected, he could never entirely despise someone who clawed his way up from absolute bottom the way that Casey had — but he was far more impressed by himself. Never had he come so close to deliberately striking Casey as he had yesterday. He had not only controlled it, though, he had demonstrated that he was really quite a tolerant, forbearing guy. He'd been pretty fucking forbearing today too, sitting quietly next to Casey in that car for three hours and even being civil to him. It did help that Casey had been asleep most of the way, clinging to unconsciousness as obstinately as the little girl was now attempting to cling to the airline kiosk. That had been a great advantage to Zeke, who had needed those hours to somehow retrain his eyes, to teach them that the Casey they beheld had never existed. That image translated by his optical nerves did not depict something sublime and fragile and perfect — or any of a hundred other adjectives Zeke had applied to it. It was a thing of deceit and dysfunction. It was, in and of itself, a lie.

You knew what you were doing when you did it, he had berated silently, staring at Casey's face as the miles flashed past beyond the window frame. You did it on purpose to hurt me, not any other reason. You knew what would get to me and you fucking got to me. Well, actions have consequences, I'm not going to excuse you this time. Zeke Tyler may forgive but he won't forget.

Zeke was not without compassion. He knew that Casey felt a compulsion to do certain things, act in certain ways — but it didn't mean that he wasn't accountable for himself. Zeke had seen him govern himself quite effectively when he wanted to. Such as all through Christmas holidays, putting on a show about improvement and reflection and change. It may have been bullshit but it did require a fair bit of self- possession. Anyway, it was obvious that this thing with Thomas wasn't about attraction; it was about Casey needing to prove that he deserved the things that Roy had done to him. It was Casey seeking proof of Zeke's love too, at least as far as he could comprehend the concept. Or proof that he was the slut that he named himself, that he was all those words that Zeke had heard him use from time to time...filthy, useless, unworthy. He was literally begging Zeke to pass judgment on him. Daring Zeke to prove him right so if Zeke was a nice guy he would not judge. He would just accept and they would move on.

Yeah, Zeke was all limbered up and ready to dance the acceptance dance. He could feel that craven, codependent part of himself urging forgiveness but he just couldn't settle the part of him that was selfish and hurt and demanding a real explanation. Fuck the theory of it all. As far as his heart was concerned, everything that he had done for Casey, all the time he'd put in, and the work, and the fucking sacrifice — all of that should have made a difference. He'd never given so much to another person and he'd never wanted to. He should have made a difference.

And he was not going to accept when he still didn't understand. He still didn't know what had happened in that room in the Herrington Best Western last August, not really. Casey had proven quite conclusively that he could shovel convincing bullshit even under the most stressful conditions, so his stammered agreement to the scenario that Zeke had constructed proved absolutely nothing. Indeed, Zeke had fucked up twice over because not only was the confession incomplete, it had been extracted under duress. Clearly there had been an event and that event had damaged Casey but that was all Zeke really knew. He had complete faith in Roy being a selfish shit but otherwise he had only the testimony of Sasha and the letter Roy had sent that had implied Janice's presence and mentioned things getting a little crazy.

Really, there was nothing whatsoever to suggest that Roy had ever done a thing to Casey that was any worse than what others had done. So Roy had hurt Casey physically? Ah, but Zeke had bruised Casey more than once himself, always with his complete assent, sometimes with his encouragement. Okay, then Roy had neglected Casey — but so had Casey's parents. They had not been condemned for it. They were still around, still active in Casey's life.

If nothing else, Roy had controlled Casey, kept him in a position where being submissive was the only power he had. Roy had disregarded his rights as a person — no question, right? Except that was true of everyone who knew Casey. They all ordered him around, monitored where he went, what he did, what he ate, how much he slept. Seeing as everyone in Casey's life was a Roy, how could Zeke hold Roy accountable for a damn thing? He would have to blame everyone equally, including himself. They were, all of them, Roy.

In the much less convoluted space that was external to Zeke's tirade, the screaming Samantha Ann had been detached from her anchor. Zeke traded a glance with an elderly lady sitting in a seat almost directly across from him. She raised her brows wistfully, as if to say Here we go.

Zeke dislodged himself from the seat that he'd inhabited for almost three hours now and walked as far away as he could, hitching his backpack over one shoulder. He had a strong premonition that if he got on that plane he would lose his mind; the flight, not to mention everything that was to follow it, was becoming less and less endurable. He absolutely didn't want to be in Seattle now but at the same time he didn't know if he could stand beside Jacob and shake hands, laugh at dumb jokes and reminiscences, eat cake and smile indulgently at whatever godawful music was being played. He would much rather...well, nothing. There was nothing he'd rather do.

Except hunt down Roy and hurt him until he confessed that he was a genuinely cruel, heartless bastard who had victimized Casey in ways that Zeke could only begin to empathize with, ways that would make it totally understandable that Casey did the fucked-up things that he did. That would be so much more relevant.

"This is your boarding call on Northwest Flight 1806 non-stop to Los Angeles. All passengers in Rows Thirty through Twenty-One, please come forward..."

Zeke glanced at his boarding pass and confirmed that he was in Row Eight. He had a few minutes to kill, so he could indulge a mad idea in the meantime.

To find and confront Roy. Oh, but it would be a truly audacious move on Zeke's part. He really liked that about it — although it was still less nervy than travelling twice a week to a hotel in Herrington to exploit a much younger, much more vulnerable person, to use them until they were broken. There had to be a sense of entitlement in this man that bordered on sociopathic. It could not be a case of simple misunderstanding or a series of mistakes that culminated in one big mistake. If it was all just a mistake, there would be very little difference between Roy and a person who physically trapped and remorselessly interrogated Casey until he vomited up the worst truth in his possession.

Zeke couldn't deny it: He had pushed Casey far past the point of necessity or kindness or real understanding, forcing Casey to an act of self-destruction. That might just have been Roy-like behaviour...but suppose that Zeke could prove once and for all that he was not Roy —

Fuck it. It was absurd. It was improbable.

It was the only way to be sure that he knew what he knew. To find that there was something he could understand, that he would never just make up a pleasing fiction so he could forgive. Forcing the issue with Casey had gained him nothing except an appreciation that, when it came to lying, Casey had few peers. Even if by some miracle Casey had attempted honesty yesterday, it didn't mean that Zeke had gotten the truth. Information derived from torture was known to be unreliable, plus Casey's memory of the event in question was very likely compromised. He had been starving and dehydrated, barely coherent. Of the three witnesses to that day, he was probably the least credible.

"This is your boarding call for Northwest Flight 1806 non-stop to Los Angeles. All passengers in Rows Twenty through Nine, please come forward for boarding. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready."

Standing next to a smooth, grey metal pillar, Zeke watched the line of passengers forming and re-forming. If he was going to Los Angeles, he should really get up and join them...except his body was doing that betrayal thing again. His feet were in a state of outright rebellion.

So what do you want? he demanded of himself. He was not a person who believed much in intuition, but it did seem like the non-sentient parts of himself were trying to tell him something. You don't like this airline? This particular plane? Oh, I know. It's the little girl, right? Well, that's life, you know. You have to put up with a certain amount of shit.

Fuck that, the rest of him shot back. You never used to put up with shit. You were a bad ass alpha dog who did whatever it took to keep things in order.

I've changed...and anyway, I think I've been sufficiently badass lately.

Oh, really? And which badass was it who said all that stuff about 'Oh, I'm sorry, Casey.' 'Sorry I have to do this.' 'I'll forgive you, Casey.' 'I'll never hate you, Casey.'

Zeke's cheeks warmed at his own debasement. What do you want from me?

How about a return to our former glory? There was a time when Zeke Tyler didn't apologize or compromise on what was best for him. He would get off his soft, sentimental ass and take no prisoners.

I could dump Casey, I guess. Would that make you happy?

It would be the simplest way. No one would blame you.

"This is your final boarding call for Northwest Flight 1806 non-stop to Los Angeles. All passengers in Rows Eight through One, please come forward for boarding, and please have your boarding pass and identification ready."

Zeke was finally able to convince his feet to move, taking him to the back of the line. It was ludicrous to be standing there like he didn't know what to do with himself. He had a ticket and a plane waiting for him; he had a destination. Moreover, he had familial obligation and, quite evidently, he had to figure out how to exist in such a way that not every moment of every day was about Casey.

But I don't want to hurt him. He's been hurt enough.

Well, cry me a river...and it's kinda too late to not hurt him by the way. Okay, if you're not going to dump him, you sap, then the least you can do is make sure that we don't look stupid. Maybe he's made a chump of us again but this time we don't have to let him get away with it.

And how would I do that?

Like you don't fucking know.

"Boarding pass, sir?"

Zeke blinked at the smiling female in a red sweater over a red, pin-striped blouse. She was holding out her hand expectantly.

"Um...yeah..." he started.

Unexpectedly, his own hand withdrew itself and the boarding pass.

"Sir?"

"You know what?" he said. "I've changed my mind."

The cynical parts of him said he had just gone psychotic — but he figured the rest of him had to know what it was doing. If he was going to go back to Seattle and forgive Casey — which let's face it, sap was more or less a given — he had to know that at least he wasn't ridiculous, that people weren't snickering behind their hands at him.

"Changed your mind?"

"I don't want to go to Los Angeles today."

"I'm not sure that we'll be able to refund your ticket, sir."

"That's okay." Zeke took a few steps sideways, so that it would be clearly indicated that he was no longer in the line. "Will I need to go back through security to get out?"

"Are you sure, sir? The plane will be leaving in fifteen minutes."

"Yes, I'm quite sure."

"Um...I will need to page security...and there may be a delay to get your luggage."

"Of course," Zeke answered, and resolved to give it no more than a half hour. If it took longer to get his bags because they were buried in the belly of the plane or something, he would leave and come back for them in a day, or two days...however long it took.

As it turned out, the airline's customer service was more than adequate. Thirty minutes later, Zeke and his luggage were waiting out in the Arrivals zone in front of the airport. There was a long row of taxi-cabs. He waved at one, whose back trunk obligingly popped open for him. Throwing in his bags and slamming it closed, he slipped into the back seat of the vehicle.

"Can you take me to a library?" He'd made the most of his time while waiting for security to clear him and for the airline people to retrieve his bags. It was near the end of the day and he had to act quickly. There wasn't enough time to find a hotel right now, not if he was going to get anything accomplished today, so it looked like he was going to be dragging these fricking suitcases with him everywhere for a while. "There's a public library downtown, right?"

"Sure is...huge one," the cabbie said. She was a largish woman who looked and sounded like she'd led a rough life.

As they descended into metropolitan Cincinnati, Zeke deduced from her choice of radio stations that she liked classic rock. From her complete silence, he deduced that she was not much of a talker and he was relieved; talking would have distracted him. Holding himself in a state of tremulous calm the entire way, he was primed to spring into action the moment he hit the sidewalk. I need to know, he chanted to himself. Need to know, need to know... Zeke Tyler was no gullible idiot, he wouldn't let himself be taken advantage of, and he wouldn't go to his father's wedding until he had proven that.

But there was more. His insides absolutely quivered with satisfaction as he anticipated himself outlining everything he had learned to Casey. I understand you, he would say. And there's nothing you can do about it. He would tell Casey how one of them was going to provide Dr. Yves with the true story of Casey's last encounter with Roy. If Casey refused, then it would fall to Zeke and he would finally be in a position to do it right. Naturally, no other person on the planet would understand Casey as completely as he did — but he could be magnanimous. He would share his acquired knowledge with Dr. Yves, as it would make all the difference in enabling her to do her job.

His cab left him at the main branch of the Cinncinati Public library on Vine Street. It was a modern red-brick and glass edifice that swallowed almost an entire city block; there was an aesthetic surprise when Zeke went inside and discovered that an atrium formed the centre of the structure, wrapping around a much older building. He could see all the way up to the top of five, wondrous floors of information but he could only pause briefly to appreciate the architectural ingenuity. He had his mission.

Moving as speedily as he could, he found a place out of the way to put his bags, near the bank of public access computers that was his objective. A sign informed him that he would have to pay for any printing that he did. He claimed one of the two or three open stations, opened the web browser and Googled "Donald Windle".

There was a lot more material about the man than Zeke had been expecting. The very first hit was an article from the Cincinnati Enquirer describing the opening of a new exhibition at the Contemporary Arts Centre, sponsored by the Windle Family Trust. The article was dated only two months back and went on at some length about Roy, who had appeared at the dedication in person. Zeke was surprised to discover that Roy had recently taken over his father's business; he remembered Roy writing to Casey about how he was planning to dedicate himself to his art — but then, learning that Roy had told another lie should not be anything startling. Casey had studied under a master.

'I'm personally very committed to the arts,' notes Mr. Windle. 'In fact, I was until last year, a graduate student in Fine Arts at the University of Ohio. Some of my work is on the university website. But then my father died and I had to take on other responsibilities.'

Windle is the President and Chair of WindleCorp. His family owns a majority of shares in the company and Windle currently is working full-time with the family business.

'It's a far cry from photography,' Windle says. 'But I'm certainly glad to be able to contribute in this way to something that I love.'

Returning to his search results, Zeke found University of Ohio website and located the student-maintained gallery that Roy had mentioned, as well as descriptions of several courses Roy that had taught last year; he glanced at the images of Roy's work only long enough to note that they were black and white photographic portraits, then moved on.

There was some business relating to a legal action against WindleCorp and some references to membership in the Cincinnati Chamber of Commerce, and finally, there were a number of items from "around town" or social departments of various papers and newsletters. A person who knew nothing of Roy except his name could easily learn that the youthful Mr. and Mrs. Windle had been seen often on the Cincinnati social scene, even before their marriage in May. After only four months together, however, they had divorced. Then, more recently, Donald Windle had been seen about town with various young men. There was one photo of Roy and another person but it was of such poor quality that Zeke could barely make out Roy's features. The caption hinted slyly at the nature of Roy's relationship. A few hits down the page, Zeke came across an article from only three weeks ago discussing Roy's profile as a "prominent gay businessman."

Conscious that the remainder of the afternoon was dwindling, Zeke looked up the website of WindleCorp. As he had suspected, their head office was in downtown Cincinnati. He clicked on the page for WindleCorp's Board of Directors and was not disappointed. Each board member was listed along with his or her picture. Roy was at the top of the page, smiling in his very proper but stylish business attire.

"There you are, shithead," Zeke whispered to himself.

He had been told more than once that Roy was handsome, and the photograph did nothing to contradict it. Longish, wavy brown hair surrounded an almost-pretty face with a straight nose and full lips. The eyes were also brown, and their warmth was notable even in a digital photograph on a less than top-quality monitor. The smile couldn't be said to be anything less than exceptionally attractive.

Zeke printed that page, as well as the page with WindleCorp's address. There was no direct phone number listed for Roy's personal office, but there was a general number for "inquiries". He paid for his printing in a hurry, cramming the sheets in his backpack, and then retrieved the two pieces of luggage that he was truly beginning to hate. It felt like he had been hauling them with him everywhere for weeks now.

The next step was to find a hotel. Emerging onto the slushy, dirty street, he signalled another cab and climbed in. "Where are you going?" asked the cabbie, this time a man who must have hailed from some east Indian country.

"A hotel..." Zeke shrugged. His sense of how little time he had left had him almost frantic now. "Someplace good."

"Someplace good..." muttered the man. "Can you be more specific? How much do you want to spend?"

"Doesn't matter," Zeke grunted, fighting the urge to scream with impatience. "Just take me somewhere."

"How about the Hyatt?"

"That's fine."

While the cabbie drove, Zeke pulled out the phone number to Windle Enterprises. He checked the time and found that it was a few minutes before four. "Fuck me!" he muttered.

"Excuse me, sir, but I don't really care for your language," complained the cabbie.

"Sorry."

Shit. Shitshitshit. Fuck. Maybe he should have tried to somehow reach Roy at home — but there were just too many variables that way. It was a given that asking Sasha to help him was out of the question; Sasha would immediately invest all his persuasive powers in talking Zeke out of this plan. Which left the Cincinnati phonebook, and Zeke had decided while waiting for his luggage earlier not to bother trying it. Even if Roy were listed, which seemed quite unlikely, Zeke could only assume that there were a number of D. Windles and possibly more than one Donald. He only had two days to find and conclude this business; there was no time to go down the list and hope that he got lucky.

Well, he still might be able to catch Roy at his office. The guy was supposedly a high-powered executive now, so chances were he didn't march out the door at four-thirty...that was, if he was in town, and if he was at work.

Chance. Zeke didn't like that word one bit. Chance had far too much sway over this process but if he really thought about that he would become too discouraged to continue. He couldn't allow for despair, not when he had mere minutes to accomplish something here... unless he decided to miss the wedding. If he did that he would burn the very slight bridge that had been slung recently between himself and his father. He would do it if necessary but, to his own surprise, he wasn't quite prepared to light that particular match. Not just yet.

Shaking off the seduction of negative thought, he tried the WindleCorp number and got the receptionist. "WindleCorp, how may I direct your call?"

"Donald Windle's office, please."

Zeke wasn't at all expecting it when the woman replied, "Just a moment and I'll transfer you." He found himself sitting forward on the edge of his seat, oblivious to the where he was being taken, ignorant of anything beyond the walls and ceiling and upholstery of the cab. It couldn't possibly be this easy, it couldn't...There was no Roy at the other end of this phone. It was just too unlikely.

"This is Angela Gomez, executive assistant to Mr. Donald Windle. I am unable to take your call right now but if you — "

Fury surged and ran rampant in every cell, every part of Zeke. Shuddering, he hung up, and resisted the urge to do a Casey on his cell phone. He needed his phone to stay undestroyed or he was screwed.

But he didn't know what the the fuck he was doing here. Stalking his boyfriend's ex-boyfriend, for fuck's sake, like a person who had lost all perspective and possibly their mind. And it was even more stupid than that — the realization spreading inside him like a sickness — because he didn't even have a number he could leave for Roy. If he left his cell number with the Seattle area code, Roy would be suspicious. He doubted that he had the time to change his number to a local one and call Roy back.

Zeke closed his eyes and tried to just breathe through the screams of rage pressing on his windpipe. He should have gotten on the fucking plane.

His sole task for the next few minutes was holding himself together until he had been delivered to the hotel. It materialized soon enough, a multi-storied affair, more new than old and quite upscale for Zeke's needs. He gave his cab driver a large tip all the same and, striding into the lobby, let himself crumble into one of the couches that had been positioned there, one among a succession of living room sets that caused the place to resemble a furniture store.

After a few minutes of being morose, however, pure obstinacy came to his rescue, prodded him to keep going with the plan even if there was little hope for results. With not even a half an hour of useful time left, he had two options — quickly find a shop where he could buy a new phone and set up a new account, or call his cellular provider. Otherwise, he should start approaching people at random and offering them a thousand dollars for the use of their phone for the weekend.

With a deep sigh, he punched the number for his cellular company, not expecting this process to take anything less than an hour. Another thought skittered briefly through his mind — had his provider not been a national enterprise, he would have been really screwed. As it was, a certain amount of discussion was required, interspersed with maddening periods of waiting. A few times he prayed for the ability to transport himself across the cellular network so he could wring someone's neck. Ultimately, it did happen, his old number was cancelled and he was assigned a new number in the Cincinnati area. He then recorded a new outgoing message, using his father's name.

But by now it was well past four-thirty. It was probably impossible to expect anything — he was just stubborn enough to call back WindleCorp. His mood lifted the tiniest bit when the switchboard receptionist actually answered. It seemed that WindleCorp was open until five rather than four-thirty. He again asked for Donald Windle, and this time when he got the assistant's voicemail, he left a message.

"Hello, my name is...Jacob Tyler. I'm a student in journalism at the University of Cincinnati and I was hoping to get in touch with Mr. Windle. I saw some of his work on the University of Ohio student gallery and I've read his bio on-line. I'd really like to interview him for a piece I'm writing. It's for an assignment but it could also get published in the university magazine. I'm very interested in artists who make careers in something more practical and Mr. Windle would be an ideal person to interview. I realize this is an awkward time of year but I already had to get an extension on this and it's due my first day back at school...so I thought I would try to call. If Mr. Windle could call me back as soon as possible, that would be wonderful. My number is 555-7801, please call anytime. Thank you."

Hanging up, he reminded himself that he was fucked. There was no way that Roy would get this message and respond to it before tomorrow, and in fact it would be a miracle if Zeke got any kind of response at all. This whole business really required more considered planning, not to mention some serious stalking; he had been a dope to convince himself that it could be this easy.

Well, the only thing he knew was that it was time to crash. Towards five o'clock he and his bags arrived on the ninth floor. As he slid the key-card into the lock, he was thinking about nothing more ambitious than sprawling on his back. The serene, non-descript space that presented itself to him was one of the most inviting things he had ever seen. He left his luggage by the door and within minutes had moulded himself into a comfortable groove on the bed, with the TV on low.

Inevitably, it was necessary to call his father; at a bare minimum he owed the man a warning that he wasn't going to arrive tonight. Bracing himself for a hard time, Zeke called his father's cell number, not sure where he might be at the moment — home, or work or somewhere else. Not on the highway to LAX to pick up his son, Zeke hoped.

There was an answer before the second ring. "Jacob Tyler."

"Hey...it's Zeke."

"Oh, hi...we're just about to go out to get you, are you using the phone on the plane?"

"Uh...no...I'm not."

A pause, then Jacob said, "Your flight was delayed."

"No."

"So what's going on?"

"Well..."

There didn't seem to be any way to say it, other than to say it.

"I'm not going to be arriving tonight."

Again, a tight silence. "Why not?"

Zeke gave serious consideration to the proposition that he was acting like a confused, brokenhearted twit. "I'm sorry, Jacob. I do intend to be there, it's just that something come up."

"Something came up," Jacob echoed.

"It's...complicated."

"Is it to do with Casey?"

And just like that remorse gave way to resentment. "Why would you say that?"

"Just a guess."

Zeke huffed and blustered but unfortunately he couldn't deny the truth of it. "It kinda does have to do with him... but he has a lot of things going on that you don't understand..."

"I think I do understand a bit. It's okay, Zeke...but I suppose he's not going to be coming to the wedding?"

"That's right," Zeke replied curtly.

It was a statement, not a question: "Something's wrong, isn't it."

"Yes, but I don't really feel like telling you." That came out a lot more harsh than Zeke had intended because, for some reason that was utterly beyond his ability to comprehend, his throat had suddenly started aching.

"Are you all right?"

"Sure."

"You don't sound..."

"I said I'm fine."

"All right — but why haven't you — ? Where are you right now?"

"Cincinnati."

"Why, Zeke?"

"I just fucking told you — "

"Okay, okay," Jacob relented. "Just...make sure you call me tomorrow."

"All right."

"Do you have any idea when you'll be arriving?"

"Some time between now and Sunday night."

Jacob sighed. "Should I be worried about whatever this is?"

Zeke debated ending the call right there. "It's nothing illegal," he forced out. "I should go now, Jacob."

"All right, but...call me tomorrow."

"Okay." Disconnecting, Zeke laid back against the pillow and resumed surfing channels. He found some football and had watched only two plays and one commercial for the Rose Bowl Parade when he realized that this wasn't working for him.

Bare minutes ago he had been looking forward to a night in this very position. Now he was ready to crawl the walls. He was on the bed and then he was up on his feet...then down, then up, then pacing, then standing at the window looking down at the city. There was an energy was coursing through him, insisting that he should get up and run a marathon or build a car from the chassis up — not that he had any clue of how to do that but he could fucking well learn, anything but remain in this room tonight. It was pretty interesting out there in the world. He should take advantage of it, especially since for some time now he'd been privately grousing about his lack of freedom, wishing for time to himself...just for himself.

It might be a good idea to call home before he went out. If Casey or someone tried to call his cell right now, they would get a nasty shock.

Fuck it. He didn't want to talk to Casey — who, he remembered, would not even be home yet. It could wait. And he wanted out. Out of this room, this building. He had not become so co-dependent that he didn't know how to enjoy himself apart from his co-dependee.

Coat...boots...backpack. Grabbing his phone, he stole a look at the battery meter. It was low, and once again he was entirely taken off guard by a desire to go rampaging. The chances of receiving a call tonight were slim, he reminded himself. He should set the battery to charge now so it would be ready for tomorrow. Or he could just take it with him and let it die when its time came, then charge it tonight while he slept. Yeah, that would work and he was being a total fuckwit for some reason, freaking out over ridiculous things, missing the obvious.

The stinging, icy rain outside did not deter him from enjoying his sense of liberation once he was out and wandering around. He did a broad tour of an area of six or seven blocks, thrilling to the physical challenge of dodging people and other obstacles. In the course of his explorations he spotted several restaurants that looked interesting — the only problem with them was that he didn't feel hungry, a peculiarity since he hadn't eaten a thing since corn flakes in the Connors' kitchen this morning, a lifetime ago.

When he began to feel soaked through, he let himself be drawn into a Tower Records store. He spent a solid hour browsing while drying off, and realizing that he was completely out of it as far as music was concerned. Trying not to be obvious, he watched others in the store, young people, to all appearance his contemporaries and yet he felt impossibly removed from them. They wandered in small groups that broke apart in Metal and reformed in Hip-Hop; he listened to them exclaiming and carrying on inane conversations, then sampled CD's all along a wall of listening stations. He heard almost nothing that he liked. He left without buying a thing and once back on the sidewalk, suddenly recalling that he still hadn't listened to the CD that Casey had made for him. It was probably an endless chorus of forgive me's. Never understand me, no, Casey didn't ask for understanding. It was though he intended his inner world to remain shrouded in a mystical, inscrutable cloud.

The next stop was a Barnes & Noble and whereas Zeke had had difficulty with the new music, he had no difficulty finding new things to read. He started off in Fiction and browsed his way from there to Psychology, History and Philosophy. He had five books tucked under his arm by the time he got to the magazines — and there he became enraptured. In Seattle, he'd always had his standbys that he picked up in corner stores or wherever it was convenient in the course of his day but he'd spent little time really exploring the bookstores there. The few excursions he'd taken with Winona had been brief, and few. There was probably every bit as much of a variety in Seattle as here, if not more, and he'd been missing all of it; four months in Seattle and he might as well have been living in Herrington. Whatever happens, he vowed to himself, it's going to be different now. He was not meant to be a small-town boy. He was meant to be cosmopolitan, sophisticated, combing the city for food, books and music to consume.

Setting down his pile of new books on a convenient ledge and his backpack at his feet, he grew roots in the Current Affairs section of the magazines.

When his phone rang, he was so startled that he actually shouted out loud in the store; a bunch of people nearby tried to subtly put more distance between themselves and him. Meanwhile his heart seemed to be trying to do an alien-explosion thing and tear right out of his rib cage. Taking a calming breath — he was Zeke Ice Tyler, action man — he flipped open the phone.

"Hello?"

The voice was unmistakably male and to Zeke's ears it reeked of self- assurance. "Hello, is this Jacob Tyler?"

"Yes?"

"This is Donald Windle calling."

"Oh...hi," Zeke fumbled, and called himself every synonym for idiot that he knew.

"I hope it's not too late for you."

"No..." Zeke said, his voice hoarse from the anxiety straining behind it. He cleared his throat. "I said to call any time." It was quiet at the other end. Clearly, Roy was waiting for a pitch so, Zeke extemporized, "I wasn't expecting you to call back so quickly. I guess you got my message?"

"Yes, my assistant checks messages regularly and thought I'd want to hear this one. It sounds intriguing. You're lucky you phoned today, as it happens I'm going to be away from the office for the next few days."

"I'm really glad you called." Yeah, equilibrium was not impossible. He wouldn't say he was calm, but he could see calm in the distance. "So would you be willing to do an interview with me?"

"Well, I must admit I'm kind of drawn by the idea of someone talking to me as a photographer again."

Zeke had to take a moment to crow to himself: Gotcha. "Is there a time tomorrow that might be good for you?" he asked.

"Actually, tomorrow is awkward. What are you doing right now?"

The balance shifted again and Zeke felt right on the brink of falling into chaos. "Right now...I'm...just at a bookstore."

"Would you like to meet somewhere for a drink?"

Closing his eyes, Zeke answered, "Where were you thinking?"

"Do you know Flanigan's Pub?"

"Think so," he lied.

"I can meet you there in about half an hour. How does that sound?"

"All right. Thank you."

"No problem. I'll see you shortly — wait, what do you look like?"

"Um...I'm kind of tall, with brown hair."

Roy snorted. "We must be twins."

Zeke hung up and for a few moments came close to hyperventilating right there in the bookstore. Calm! he screamed at himself. You will be fucking calm, right fucking now! For some reason that wasn't working so he just started to move, assuming that he would shake it off.

He had a purpose. He would not fuck up.

Now with a somewhat clearer head and some semblance of together- ness, he found that he was already pointed in the direction of the stationery section of the store. He picked out a nice, thick notebook and several pens. At the cash register, he asked for directions to Flanigan's Pub. It turned out that he was not too far away; he was able to walk there and still be a few minutes early.

It was a classic sort of English pub, with a lot of polished wood, brocaded seats, and old-fashioned fixtures. The lower half of the walls was wainscotted, while the upper half was cluttered with memorabilia, all of it intended to invoke a certain time and place. Zeke found a curved bench seat set into one corner which gave him a wide open view of the door, then flagged down a waitress. She was dressed in a uniform that had her resembling a nymph from an Irish Catholic public school. "I'd like a double vodka, please."

"I'll need to see I.D."

"You're kidding." Zeke had been passing for twenty-one since he was sixteen. He dragged out his driver's licence and showed her.

"Okay," the nymph said, with a brief smile.

While she was gone, he pulled from his backpack the black and white reproduction of Roy and gave it a long, careful stare before stashing it away. This was the most unreal moment of his life, more unreal than seeing the alien tentacles squiggling around at the end of Furlong's fingers, more unreal than touching Casey in that very private, intimate place that boys were not supposed to touch boys. This was a moment out of time, a jagged tear in the weave of ordinary and rational. He took long breaths, reminded himself that he was not an anxious type but a composed, analytical person who was super-mature for his years. Sure he was volatile these days, but he could handle this.

The waitress must have sensed the urgency of his request; she brought him his vodka almost immediately. He slugged it back before she could get more than a few feet away, the harsh liquor burning painfully in his empty stomach. "Wait," he gasped.

She turned, raising her brows at the empty glass. "Another?"

"No, I'd like a beer...what do you have on tap?"

"Keith's, Samuel Adams, Guiness, Carlsberg, Heineken, London's Pride, Amstel, Becks..."

He stopped her. "I'll have a pint of Heineken...and a menu please."

"You got it, hon."

The vodka was rapidly working its magic; he could feel the first embrace of it all down his spine, and he sighed with pleasure as the tension was alleviated. Ah, he was getting brave now...more brave every second. Brave like Casey Connor. Meanwhile, all the emotion had been stowed somewhere temporarily inaccessible, where it would have to stay for now.

The door opened, possibly not for the first time since Zeke had come in and he kicked himself for having fallen down in his efforts to watch it. There was a tall man standing there who, at a distance, seemed to match the photo Zeke had printed. He was wearing a creamy wool overcoat that probably cost as much as Zeke's entire tuition for the winter semester. His hair was shorter than in the picture but it was a dark brown and his features fit, yes, he was...an older Hugh Grant above the neck...

With Sasha's description reverberating in his brain, Zeke tried to stare without appearing to stare. The man had shrugged off his coat to reveal a designer suit, probably Armani or some such. He was coming towards Zeke with a tentative, perfectly straight, perfectly white smile, and Zeke was forced to accept that while Roy had been handsome in the photo, he was actually stunning in real life. It might have had something to do with the way that charm simply oozed from the man, making Zeke's body into an instant traitor whose every sense sought to like him.

"Jacob?" Roy asked, taking up a stance at the table but leaving a slight safety margin.

"Donald?" Zeke returned.

A less guarded smile followed. It appeared entirely open and friendly, and it was a shock. It shouldn't have been. Zeke had known a number of monsters, and they were mostly non-sinister in appearance. Indeed, they could be the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

"Call me Roy," said the man, removing his coat and hanging it on the nearest brass hook; it was affixed to the flat, outward-facing end of the booth. He offered to Zeke a hand that was strong yet refined in shape, the fingernails immaculate. "Everyone does."

Zeke shook that hand, half-rising from his seat. He had been worried that he would have trouble touching Roy or otherwise carrying off the charade of a slightly fawning, aspiring journalist, but somehow it was easy. "Thank you for meeting me."

"Oh, no, it's my pleasure." Roy's attentive eyes executed a quick pass over Zeke, all the way down and all the way up but so quickly and subtly a person might have thought they missed it. A tiny smile appeared on the full lips.

As Roy sat down, the waitress reappeared with Zeke's beer in a pint-sized, frosty mug, and the menu that was nothing more than a page with text printed on both sides and laminated. "Good evening, Roy," she said.

"How are you tonight, Meg?"

"Can't complain, can't complain." The young woman toyed with her hair self- consciously, her cheeks pinking obviously even in the subdued light. "What can I get you?"

"My usual, please." Roy gestured at the menu with his eyebrows. "Are you getting something to eat?"

"Yeah." In fact, Zeke was now so hungry that he was almost sick to his stomach. Tossing down that vodka certainly hadn't helped the situation. Quickly, he scanned the plastic card. "I'll have the assorted appetizer platter and then a Flanagan's burger with everything."

Roy chuckled; it sent a frisson of something down Zeke's spine that he was appalled to recognize as pleasurable. He couldn't figure out what the fuck was going on here. He hadn't expected to ever be attracted to another man apart from Casey, and certainly not this man...even if this man was so handsome it should have been illegal, and bore the tantalizing smell of some musky, spicy aftershave. Casey never wore aftershave. In fact, Casey didn't shave. "You're hungry, huh? Can I share your appetizers?"

"Sure, I guess."

"I'll have the chicken and honey-mustard grill as well, Meg."

The woman nodded and took up the menu.

"And this'll be on me," Roy added lightly.

"Oh, no," Zeke protested. "That's not necessary."

"Maybe not, but humour me anyway."

"But you're the one doing me a favour here."

"Yes, but I know how it is for students. Let me get it, Jake...do you mind if I call you Jake?"

And Roy touched him, just briefly grasping his wrist where it lay on the table.

"It's okay," Zeke mumbled, surrendering simultaneously to both the touch and Roy's intention to pay the bill. Zeke — or Jake — was supposed to be a student, after all. "But I would have ordered a steak if I had known you were buying."

Roy laughed. Zeke grinned back and slurped his Heineken.

"I'm curious," Roy said. "How did you happen to know of me?"

"I read a piece in the Enquirer...about the new exhibition."

"Oh, yes, of course. So you're a student at U of C?"

"Yes," Zeke answered. Now that he was warmed up everything was coming easily. He had Mr. Perfectly-Turned-Out Roy Windle gazing intently at him, lapping up his lies — fuck but it felt good to make a dupe of him even if he didn't know it was happening. Especially because he didn't know it was happening. "Third year."

"Are you from Cincinnati?"

"No...I grew up in a smaller place a few hours away."

"I see." Roy made a wistful face and sighed, "I miss being in school."

"How long has it been?"

"This is the first year I haven't been a student since age five. I was going for my Ph.D., you know."

"Right...I think I read that."

"Huh. Thank god for the Internet or we'd all be anonymous," Roy commented, his mouth twitching.

Meg had returned. She placed some sort of fruity looking drink in a wide- brimmed, delicate-stemmed glass on the table in front of Roy. "Here you go, Roy."

Roy treated Meg to a bit of a leer, which she seemed to receive with considerable satisfaction. "Thanks, baby," he said, and she walked away almost panting. While this was going on, Zeke dug out a pen and the new notebook, flipping it open to the first, blank page. "Oh, are we starting the interview now?" Roy wondered.

"Only if you feel comfortable..."

"Oh, but I love talking about me!" Roy exclaimed. It was wistful and utterly engaging, with just the right twinge of something regretful. As each minute passed, it was becoming less of a stretch for Zeke to consider that all this time Roy had been getting a worse rap than he really deserved. Perhaps, as Sasha had once suggested, Roy had been seduced to the dark side by Casey himself. Perhaps there had been a day when Roy felt himself drowning in Casey and no one was around to help him out of the water.

Zeke only realized he hadn't spoken some time when Roy's voice intruded. "What are you thinking about, Jake?"

Taking a risk, Zeke said, "Actually...I'm thinking that I don't really feel like taking notes just yet. I'd rather chat."

"If that's how you want to do it," Roy replied, sounding disinterested. "But you know that I will need to see the piece before it goes anywhere?"

"Of course."

"You must have a good memory."

"Very good. I might want to write down a few specifics, though...like your age."

Roy shrugged. "I turned thirty this year."

Zeke dutifully wrote that down, keeping up the pretense. "Did you have a big party?"

"Just five hundred of my closest friends," Roy replied. Again, there was that hint of bitterness.

"It wasn't your choice to do it that way."

"No, it was — my wife."

"Janice?"

"Yes."

Zeke took a breath, plunged. "I thought you were divorced."

"Not in June I wasn't. Is this relevant to your article?"

"Probably not." Zeke nursed his beer for a few seconds, then met Roy's eyes squarely. His brows had the ability to take on rather fascinating shapes. "I'm just interested."

"You want to know about my scandalous marital history? All right...my wife sued me for divorce a few months back. I didn't contest it, seeing as I'm gay and I only married her because our families wanted it. Is that enough dirt for you?"

"You're out, then?" Zeke asked the question casually but the part of him that wasn't entirely committed to his role as Jake was shaking his head in disbelief. Everything he knew of Roy exclaimed that he would do anything — do all the anythings that he had supposedly done to Casey — out of his ferocious need to keep his sexuality a secret. Zeke wondered what Casey would smash when he learned that Roy had let his penchant for boys get out in the open.

"Quite. In the past few months I've begun to bring male friends with me to events."

Zeke nodded. "I saw some pictures."

The platter of appetizers had arrived, bearing little piles and rows of deep- fried goodness. Zeke bided his time about continuing with the interview, thoroughly enticed by the smell of grease. He started with a fried mushroom and then, at the input from his mouth and stomach, his brain blanked out. For the next minute he was mainly caught up by eating.

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" Roy asked him suddenly.

"What?"

"My being gay."

"No," Zeke replied, licking his fingers. He shrugged. "Sorry if I got quiet there...I'm just starving."

Roy chuckled. "Like any proper student." He helped himself to a wing, somehow managing to be fastidious about eating it. "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you're much more interested in me being gay than me being a photographer. I think that's what you really want to talk about...because you have a personal investment."

Zeke washed down a mouthful of food. His adrenaline level was almost off the charts by now, and with the disinhibiting assistance of the alcohol he was feeling absolutely fearless. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning...you're into he's, not she's. Am I right?"

"I like he's and she's."

"Of course," Roy smirked. "Yeah, I'm bisexual too."

"I'll say I'm gay if you want, I don't care one way or another...but I really do like women."

Roy lifted his glass and his brows simultaneously. Gazing directly into Zeke's eyes, he licked his lips as though the drink had only made him more thirsty.

Zeke scrambled for a question that was substantive; he was supposed to be doing an interview here, after all. "I'm curious about what it's like for you in the business world. I mean, since you came out has it been... do people give you a hard time?"

"You'd be surprised by how polite people are, actually."

"What about working with all those crusty old men in business?"

"I can definitely feel a chill at times. Once or twice someone refused to do business with me, but mostly it's just a feeling of discomfort." Roy's mouth quirked. "It hasn't affected our stock any."

"Was that a surprise?"

"Which part?"

"That people are so...well, tolerant."

"Some are just barely tolerant...but yeah, it was a bit." Roy mused, "Maybe my expectations of people were too low. Maybe they've always been too low, actually. I've known I was gay for a long time and, obviously, I tried to hide it. Well, I tried to hide it from my father."

"And he died recently."

Roy looked sharply at Zeke. "Yes."

"And it was after that that you came out."

"You trying to be Barbara Walters, Jake?"

"Maybe."

"I don't want this stuff in the article."

"So it won't be," Zeke said dismissively. He saw that this had not placated Roy any and leaned in, saying, "Look, I have my father issues, too. And I'll be honest — when I figured out I was gay, I didn't take it as well as I would have hoped."

Roy's expression softened. "You always thought you didn't care about sexual preference and suddenly you were one of them... Were you disappointed in yourself?"

"Yeah."

"Me too." Roy sighed. "All right, since we're just two queers having a heart- to-heart...I don't think that I could have come out while my father was still alive. I'm not proud of it, but there it is. He was a rabid homophobe and I didn't want him to hate me."

"I understand," Zeke said softly.

"You know...I think you do."

It was a moment. He was having a frigging moment with Roy. This couldn't be happening...no, this was not genuine accord, it didn't mean anything. He was just an actor right now playing a part, and he was a lot better actor than he'd known. He wouldn't be able to get Roy where he wanted him if he couldn't give the impression of being at least friendly. Rather than be alarmed that the camaraderi was coming more easily than it should have, he should just be glad that in public, Roy was sociable, likeable, even insightful.

Roy shook himself and said, "Hey, we're too serious now. Go on, eat. Take a break from homework."

Eating was the part of the performance that was a total breeze. Zeke took a wing and said, "So do you come here often?" Roy smirked at the line, and feeling himself blush, Zeke added, "I just noticed that they seem to know you."

"Yeah, I'm here at least a couple of times a week. I met Allan here."

"Allan?"

"My — the person I'm seeing right now, and he's going to be calling any second to find out where I am."

"I'm sorry if I'm ruining your plans..."

"Oh, no, not at all. We didn't have anything planned for tonight, but we're going to Vegas tomorrow."

"That's cool."

"Yeah, it is."

"How long are you going for?"

"Just for the weekend. So how about you, are you seeing anyone?"

This time the anger was a sudden but very welcome ambush, incinerating the cozy feelings of a moment ago. He wanted to stand up and blast Roy with his wrath but he slammed down on that and replied briefly, "Yeah, I'm seeing someone."

Roy started to say something but fell silent as Meg showed up with the burger and the chicken sandwich. "Can I get you boys another round?" she said, nodding at the almost empty glass and mug. Zeke noticed that the pub had been filling steadily as he and Roy talked, and the noise level was rising. He wondered what people saw when they looked at this booth in the corner. Two men picking each other up? His feelings about that were ambivalent to be sure, but far better that than the actuality: One man conning and luring another man to some more private situation where he could crucify him at his leisure. These unwanted waves of attraction had to be the product of some inverse, perverse identification between him and his target.

"Another?" Roy inquired of Zeke, who nodded agreement. "Yeah, we'll have two more of the same," he told Meg, wagging his eyebrows first at her, then at Zeke. He had a habit of appearing to be amused. It didn't come across as mean-spirited, not that Zeke had seen. It was just a gift for giving the impression of mild delight and interest in everything that a person did. Zeke could imagine how a person who was especially vulnerable could be taken over by that facade of character.

"So..." Zeke murmured. He had two hands wrapped around his burger. Taking a large bite, he closed his eyes to savour the juices filling his mouth. "Mmm...this is good."

"I have to tell you, Jake, this is different from any interview I've ever done."

"How's that?" Zeke mumbled.

"It feels more like a date...a date with a guy who just asks very pointed questions."

The shiver that went through Zeke was pure, sexual reaction. It seized his body and horrified him, beginning in his face, travelling down his spine and settling heavily in his crotch. It had to be a mistake. It wasn't like Roy was all that attractive; he was quite appealing and charismatic but certainly not irresistible. Zeke had encountered plenty of attractive men before and none of them had inspired the least bit of a tingle. "Well," he said, heart thrumming, skin prickling. "It's not a date."

"How do you know?"

"Because we're both with someone else...and it is an interview. We journalists have these things called ethics."

Roy smiled at this. "Ah, yes...ethics." He picked up his sandwich and took a bite. A dribble of greasy juice rolled out and fell on his expensive tie. "Oh, fuck it!" Roy exclaimed, brushing at it without much exertion. "I'm afraid that's done for." He unknotted and removed the tie right there, opening his shirt at the collar and letting the tie slide crumpled onto the seat beside him. Zeke caught a glimpse of a golden, smooth upper chest, and a thick heat began pooling in his groin.

"Hey, Jake...do they offer a refresher course in ethics at your school?"

Fuck. Roy was seeing him... seeing him seeing. Zeke quickly hooked a stare on one of the quasi-historic framed photos plastered to the wall amongst the vintage signs and various, old-world junk. A bunch of guys who looked like they had just gotten off work at the coal-mines grinned and lifted their mugs.

Around a mouthful of his sandwich, Roy said idly, "Why don't you ask me some more questions?"

"Okay...um..." It was tough to think with blood flowing in the wrong direction. "Who are your favourite photographers?"

"That's the best you can do?"

"Give me a break," Zeke retorted. "I'm trying to eat here."

"All right," Roy laughed. "I guess my favourite would have to be Annie Lebowitz. I also like Ansel Adams...pretty much all the famous ones."

"So you prefer black and white?"

Roy raised his brows, acknowledging Zeke as reasonably well-informed. "That's right. My own work is almost all black and white portraits, actually. But if you saw my stuff on the university site you probably know that, huh?"

"Yeah."

"You know..." Roy toyed with the stem of his glass. "I have some portraits at my apartment that you should see."

Zeke had to breathe carefully lest this entire enterprise slip away from him. He couldn't believe that Roy was being this blatant. Not that it was unwelcome; he'd walked into this situation hoping that some sort of opportunity would arise to get Roy alone and he'd been anticipating making some sort of overture himself. Yet here was Roy once again taking control of the encounter. "Um..." Zeke said, not wanting to come across as too eager while at the same time fighting down his instinctive desire to refuse this man his company. He scrambled for a distraction. "Um...so...so how did you end up running the family business if you want to be an artist?"

Roy sipped his drink and frowned. "Is that really what you want to say?"

"Yeah. It is."

"All right." Roy made a face of exaggerated reflection, pursing his lips. "How did I end up doing this? Well, it's simple. My father died."

"But you didn't have to follow in his footsteps, did you?"

For the first time it seemed he'd thrown Roy off his game. With a marked lack of poise, Roy answered, "I guess I didn't, but he always had this expectation of me...I felt it was something I owed to him. Or maybe that strikes you as lame."

It did, although Zeke wasn't going to say it. He would never be a lawyer because of his father — or be anything because of his father, for that matter. He was the master of his own destiny. "Not at all."

"Really."

"Yeah...I think it's cool."

"Thank you."

"You know...there's another question I wanted to ask. Officially, I mean."

"Which is?"

"Is it possible to be a banker and an artist at the same time?"

Roy laughed deep in his chest, attracting attention from all corners of the room. "I'm not a banker...but I'd have to say yes."

"Do you still take photographs, then?"

"Not...not in the last several months, but you know, it's been a real learning curve for me, doing this job. I'm just starting to feel more comfortable with it so I think I'll have more free time soon."

"Do you enjoy it?"

Roy paused. A faint smile crept across his face and he admitted, "Not really, no. And if you want to know the truth, I'm not really qualified to do it either. I never studied business and I'm not particularly interested in what the market's doing and how to leverage the leveraging and all that shit. I've learned quite a bit but I really intend to rely more and more on my vice presidents as time goes on, so I can do more of what I enjoy while still keeping my hand in." The smile turned sardonic. "I'll bet you're not impressed with that, are you?"

"Not really."

"That's okay. I know there are people a lot more talented than I am who have to do real jobs and never have the time or the freedom to do what they love. So yeah, it's possible to be a business person and putter around as an artist but maybe it's only because I'm stinking rich. I'm a privileged bastard and I know it. "

"Well," Zeke remarked, trying to think of something to say that didn't give away any of his intense dislike at that moment.

"You don't have to comment, Jake, I know how I sound. But at least the money's good for something. I've very keen about the Windle Family Trust, I won't be letting that slide. The fact is, our society doesn't place enough value on certain things...mostly the things that really matter. That's why I'm going to give all I can to the arts. I know it's no solution but it's a start." With an expression of satisfaction, Roy capped this speech by draining his glass. Setting it down, "Do you think that's sufficient for the interview, Jake?"

"I suppose."

"Good — because I'd like to just talk now. Is there someplace that you need to be?"

"No."

"Excellent. Then will you stay and have another drink with me?"

"I guess I could do that." Zeke looked down at the remains of his hamburger. Nervous anticipation had just filled what was left of the gap in his stomach. He pushed the plate a bit to the side.

Signalled by Roy's crooked finger, Meg showed up to remove the remains of their food. She brought back another round and Zeke had to caution himself. Each one of these pints was like two bottles of beer, and it wasn't the watery, domestic stuff either. He was already feeling far more laid back than he probably should have been under the circumstances.

While Zeke was resolving that this would have to be his last drink for the night, Roy put an elbow on the table and appeared to be about to speak — just as his phone rang. Frowning an apology at Zeke, he answered.

"Oh, hi, baby...sorry, I had an after hours meeting...a reporter...just for a student magazine...Allan, I'm pretty tired. I'm going to wrap this up then go home and get rested for tomorrow...so I'll see you tomorrow...yeah, it's going to be great, baby."

Roy snapped his phone closed with a sigh.

"Why Vegas?" Zeke asked, genuinely wanting to know. It wasn't a place he'd ever thought about visiting.

"Oh, just because. We've never been there and he really wanted to go. He likes all that gaudy shit."

"But not you?"

"I suppose I like the extravagance of the whole place."

"You don't seem like a very extravagant guy to me."

"Thanks..." Roy grinned acknowledgment of the remark. "No, I'm not really extravagant, not in any obvious way at least. I have my areas of excess...but I suppose I've always been something of a geek."

"You're not a geek. I know geeks and you're not a geek."

"Thanks," Roy said. By some trick of the light, his eyes appeared to sparkle. "So...Jake. Do you mind if I ask you some questions about you now?"

"Turnabout?" Zeke suggested, steadying himself for it.

"Exactly."

"Okay, shoot... Do you mind if I smoke?

"Go ahead."

Zeke could feel Roy's eyes on him as he fumbled out a smoke and stuck it under his lip. Patting himself down in search of his lighter, he was startled when Roy's hand appeared in front of him along with an engraved, silver lighter. "Let me," Roy said softly. Zeke darted a look at him and saw that the older man was conveying more than the one kind of heat.

Avoiding the eyes across from him, Zeke didn't protest.

As he sat back Roy asked smugly, "How long have you been out?"

"Less than a year," Zeke replied, and smoked with great commitment.

"Really? You don't strike me as the type of guy who'd be in denial."

"I wasn't, exactly. I like women...but I met this person and fell in love with him...so that was that."

Roy raised his brows. "Wow. Just that easy, huh?"

"Hell, no. I fought it for a while." With his free hand, Zeke took a judicious taste of his beer. "Like I said, I'm not very proud of that. But I'm okay with who I am now."

"That's cool." Roy traced the rim of his glass and licked his finger. The motion was far more erotic than it had a right to be. "You seem pretty together."

"Believe me, I'm not."

"I'm sure you're more together than you think you are. I'll bet you're darned near perfect, in fact." Roy tilted his head back; he stared up at the ceiling before lowering his head with a sigh. Zeke was fascinated by how everything the man did contrived to be watchable. "Not like me. I've done some awful things, totally out of control things."

"Things that you're sorry for?"

"Of course," Roy snapped, staring at Zeke. For a moment something angry, perhaps even menacing, glittered in his eyes. Then it faded and he said, "Like for instance, I'm going to ask you to come back to my apartment with me in a little while, even though I'm with someone and you're practically a stranger."

"Do you always cheat on your boyfriend?"

"'Cheat'...sounds so middle class." Roy touched Zeke's hand for the second time that night. "Cards on the table, baby. The truth is, you're not my usual type at all, but there's something about you. Maybe it just boils down to incredible hotness. I'd like you to come home with me so we can have a good time and go our respective ways tomorrow — you to write your little assignment, me to Vegas. Yeah, I'm going to lie to my boyfriend but it wouldn't be the first time, and it won't be the last. What do you say?"

Zeke just smoked for a count of five.

"I could go for that," he replied, careful not to sound too pleased with himself.

Roy's apartment comprised the entire top floor of a more-than-one-hundred years old building, in a neighbourhood that was one mansion after another, interspersed with palatial townhouses. While the exterior of the building was heavily traditional — worked from stone and crusted with heavy flourishes, even guarded by a security man in a gilt-piped uniform — the interior of Roy's home had been transformed into ultra-contemporary. From the doorway Zeke could see most of it and the theme was monochrome; the furniture and walls were white, with very few colour accents. A lot of the decorative touches were in glass. The only exceptions to the rule were the large, framed photographs that were hung on the walls. The frames were black and the mattes white, making for a stark but striking effect.

"My not-so-humble abode," Roy said as he showed Zeke in and took his coat. "Only for when I'm staying in the city, of course. My house is out in the country. What do you think?"

"It's, um...nice."

Roy laughed. "Don't flatter me or anything."

"It's fine." Zeke caught a glimpse of a large terrace off the living room. It had to be spectacular in summer. Right now it looked forlorn and a bit icy, dotted with potted shrubs that had been wrapped for the winter.

"Interior design's not one of your interests, huh?"

Zeke's eyes had moved to one of the nearby framed photos, hanging in the hallway. It was a headshot of an old man, and if it had been in a gallery, Zeke wouldn't have thought to distinguish it from the work of a professional. Of course, art wasn't his forte. "This is your work?" he said, gesturing to the picture.

"All of it, with a few exceptions."

"I like it."

It was then that Zeke noticed Roy's stare. It was a gaze of growing demand, an acquisitive, hot expression that stopped just short of vulgar. "I'm looking at another work of art, right now," Roy said quietly.

Zeke couldn't help it; he laughed. It was nerves, it was surprise, and it was the ridiculousness of the comment — of the whole situation.

Roy must have had no experience of insecurity, for he just raised his brows and wondered, "A bit too precious?"

"Just a bit."

"Let's try a different approach..."

Roy Windle was making his move. He was gliding in, intent upon Zeke's lips. Standing absolutely in place, Zeke seemed to have no shortage of time in which to decide what he was going to do. There was the bewildering attraction he had felt and there was curiosity...but what about that attraction? It made no fucking sense to be attracted to a smooth-talking asshole who was so entirely loathsome to him. And what about Casey — yeah, what about him? What would it feel like to commit the same crime? What did it feel like to be Casey knowing he had been with a person that he didn't want to be with, just to make some kind of point —

There was a pressure on his lips and an invitation and Zeke was frozen, not quite resisting and not quite participating, experiencing something the same as what he had known, but utterly different. Something that tasted new...that tasted like revenge. Okay, perhaps it wasn't right but it could be right enough...no, it wasn't right, and...Um, hello, Zekie boy, what are we doing? This is Roy trying to kiss you, this is Roy... nuzzling his neck wrong and the...fuck...the tongue flicking against his ear...all of it wrong.

Zeke evaded Roy's next attempt, shifting back and away. He closed his eyes and willed his cock down.

Soon he was cognizant of the fact that Roy was gazing at him in open surprise at finding himself thwarted. Well, not thwarted so much as having just been unacknowledged. Zeke was pretty sure that was something that had never happened to Roy before.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm having...an...an attack of guilt."

"It's all right, it'll pass," Roy said, still seeming puzzled. "How about we have a drink and relax for a bit?"

"Sure."

"You wanted to see my work, right?"

Zeke didn't recall saying that but he nodded anyway.

"Check out the study. Some of my best stuff is in there...I'll get you a drink. What would you like?"

"Oh...whatever you're having."

Zeke went down the hall to the door that Roy had indicated. With an antique wood desk and shelves filled with books, this room was somewhat warmer than the rest of the apartment. One wall was hung with a series of three images. As he approached them Zeke was barely paying attention, drawn instead to the bookshelves — until, for a second time in the same night, he exclaimed out loud in shock.

Casey was here, in Roy's study.

In the photo he was sitting or kneeling with his head slightly averted, gazing up towards the right of the frame with a beseeching expression. Roy had caught his face at a most serendipitous angle, while the absence of colour had forced his hair and his eyes to become various shades of darkness. To view it was to contemplate a person seized in a state of complete exposure, the photographer mercilessly offering a glimpse of the subject's world, a place that had to be chaotic and frightening but compelling. It was as though one could, as they took in the photo, feel the obsession of the photographer — to the extent that they shared in the watcher's sadism, drawn to an aesthetic of suffering. Implicated in the moment, they would not come to the subject's rescue.

Zeke vaguely heard Roy come up behind him. He stayed in place, staring at the photo, at Casey captured in a rectangular frame. Wordlessly, Roy handed Zeke a tumbler full of some kind of golden liquor, and they stood side by side gazing at Casey's image.

"Did you take this?" Zeke asked.

"Yes."

"Who is he?"

Roy answered, "He's someone I was seeing for a while. A student at the university. Beautiful, don't you think?"

"I was thinking that you must be a very good photographer."

"I'm not bad but what you're seeing is just him." Roy, it seemed, was far from having grown tired of looking at Casey; he was staring, unbashed. "He's even better in real life, that's what I always tell people when they comment on this picture. Almost everyone who comes in here notices it. I've had buyers in here asking to purchase him but I can't give him up."

Zeke's crisis of ten minutes ago had vanished. He knew exactly why he was here and he was so infuriated that he could have done murder — or at least serious physical harm. For two years Roy had kept Casey hidden and refused to let the world know about their relationship. For two years he made Casey think that he was nothing, that he didn't really exist. Zeke had expected to find Roy pining and seething in secret. Instead, Roy was going out in public with this Allan, among others, and he proudly displayed Casey's captive image to anyone who happened by the apartment.

"He looks really young," Zeke forced out. His jaw ached, he was clenched so tight.

"Ah..." Roy coughed. "I was a bad boy, I'm afraid. He was one of my students."

"Huh." Zeke didn't dare try to say more.

"But I swear, I never forced him to do anything."

Now it had come, the moment when his feelings became uncontainable. His hands were knotted, his throat working as he struggled not to ruin everything by performing an unscheduled evisceration.

Roy had to have seen his emotional upheaval, even in profile. He asked Zeke, "Are you okay?"

"I was wondering..." Zeke heard himself sounding tinny and loud. "Does he know that you have him hanging here?"

Rather than respond immediately, Roy took a long swallow of his whiskey. When he did answer, his voice suggested some anger but more curiosity — like it never had occurred to him that anyone would find offence in having their picture on display without their knowledge. "He knew I took the photo, obviously — but to answer your question, no, he does not know and he's unlikely to. I'm never going to see him again and I'm never going to sell him. He'll just stay here for my private enjoyment and it won't hurt him any. Frankly, I don't know why you're getting your shorts in a knot over this."

Hearing Roy admit that he would never see Casey again held some soothing power. Zeke was able to force his eyes off Casey, to look at Roy and speak more or less normally. "You don't think that there's anything wrong with it?"

Roy massaged the area around his mouth once, delicately, like he wanted to be sure that he wasn't foaming inadvertently. "I don't think there's any harm in it, no."

"No, you wouldn't, would you. I'm sure it never occurred to you. In fact — " Zeke took a step in Roy's direction, closing the distance. It was just a little closer than friendly. "I doubt you that you ever ask yourself if anything's right or wrong before you do it."

"What is this?" Roy had forced his head back a few inches but otherwise didn't give up any ground. "I thought the interview was over."

"I just want to know."

A sly smile crept over Roy's face. "You're a strange man. Are you about to show your true colours? Accuse me of being a rich bastard, beat me up or something?"

Zeke snorted. "Like beating you up would make any difference."

"But I see the way you're looking at me. Why did you come up here if you have all this contempt?"

"Contempt isn't the word."

"What is it, then?"

"A kind of amazement. I'm trying to imagine how you justify you to yourself and I can't figure it out."

Roy's eyes widened. "You don't know me," he said. "All I've done, that you know of, is ‘cheat' on my boyfriend. Lots of people do it...including you, baby."

"But you've done a lot more than that," Zeke pressed.

Roy just stood there for a moment, rooted to the floor while Zeke speculated as to the emotions and thoughts chasing each other in his head. If nothing else it must have dawned on him that this encounter was not what he had imagined and that it was in his best interest to end it quickly. He held out his hand, reaching for the empty glass that Zeke was still holding while saying, "With all due respect, Jake, you're a lovely male creature and I was really hoping to fuck you but now I think you're probably a bit too insane. I'd like for you to go."

Zeke pushed it into Roy's hand with considerable force, enough that the slap of glass against flesh was audible. "You've done a lot more than lie," he reiterated, beginning to choke a bit on his words as everything he'd been keeping in check throttled speech. "Tell me — what you did."

"You know, I'm pretty sure I've asked you to leave — "

"Tell me what else you did to him." Zeke jerked a thumb at Casey on the wall. "Besides put him on your wall without his permission. What else did you do without his permission?"

Abruptly Roy fell silent. "Who are you?" he asked, almost whispering.

"Consider me your priest."

"I don't do confessions." Roy was staring at Zeke. "Did we meet before and I don't remember?"

"No."

"Then who are you?" Roy had been holding his body like it was all he could do to not bolt, but before Zeke's eyes he steadied, the trembling dissipating as his habitual smirk reasserted itself. A few steps took Roy to his desk, where he placed the two glasses he was holding. As he did this he must have been ruling out possibilities, for he abruptly spun to face Zeke and said, "You're here because of Casey, you must be his friend...his boyfriend maybe?"

"Maybe."

"And your real name?"

"If you know I'm his boyfriend then you know who I am."

"Oh, hardly!" Roy said, waving an arrogant hand. "I do remember him mentioning some dumb jock in Herrington who was leading him on — but you wouldn't do that, would you?"

Zeke had come too far to be goaded into losing control. "Say my name," he returned evenly. "Say it now."

"Okay, Zeke, " Roy admitted. "Well, good for you. You sucked me right in. So are you going to kill me now, or just beat the crap out of me?"

Zeke unclenched hands that had been balled at his sides. "Neither."

"You've set all this up but you don't want to hurt me?"

"Oh, I didn't say that."

Roy smirked knowingly.

"I would love to hurt you," Zeke continued. "I've fantasized about making you bleed more times than I can count — but that wouldn't really satisfy me." He shrugged and folded his arms to disguise how hard he was shaking. "Also, I won't be of much use to Casey if I'm in jail."

"Well, aren't you a cool customer," Roy drawled.

"I'm not cool. I'm pretty fucking far from cool. I'm under control right now and I don't intend to touch you, but if I were you I would watch what I say."

A sneer materialized, shaped out of the fear on Roy's face. "Threatening me now, are you?"

"No. Just warning you."

"So what do you want?"

Zeke took a bit of time to breathe before committing himself to a very deep dive. "Just what we've been doing," he answered, at length.

"Meaning what?"

"I mean I want to ask questions and get answers. Just consider this an extension of the interview, but this time you have to tell the one hundred per cent truth."

"I do, do I?"

"Yes."

"And why is that?"

"Because if you don't, I'll go to the police and the media tomorrow and tell them that you sexually assaulted a boy who was ten years younger than you, someone who also happened to be your student."

Roy didn't do anything but blink, and Zeke was unwillingly impressed by his ability to take a hit and come back swinging. "Sexual assault," Roy scorned. "What are you going on about?"

"The Best Western in Herrington, Park Avenue. August twenty-third."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about you and Casey — and Janice — in a bed, doing things that Casey didn't want."

Yeah, Roy was good — but not that good. "You wouldn't," he said. He was mostly calm, but Zeke did not miss the rising tide of colour in his face.

"I promise you, I would."

"You wouldn't do that to Casey."

"Let me tell you something about me, Roy. I can be a bit of a prick myself. I often make big decisions about Casey's future without consulting him. So ask yourself if I would I sic the press on him or drag him through some court proceeding just to get you. I think you know the answer to that question."

"There would be no proceeding, as you put it," Roy shot back, almost quivering now. "There's no case and even if it did go to trial, you'd lose." Startling Zeke, the man began to move, drifting across the room to lean on his desk. "You'd have put Casey through that for nothing."

"But we both know it's public opinion that concerns you — whether you were convicted or not. And I wonder what would happen to those stocks of yours."

"I know you think I'm pretty hot shit, baby," Roy sneered. "But I'm not a celebrity. People don't care that much what I do."

"You're a celebrity in your little world. Just think if your friends, relatives, your crusty old business associates knew what you'd been up to...or even if they suspected. What do you think would happen to the Windle name then? Your father would just be turning in his grave, wouldn't he — "

"Shut the fuck up," Roy murmured. His eyes had closed at some point during Zeke's last speech. Opening and narrowing them, he asked, "What do you really want? Money? I'll give you a shitload of it if you just go away."

"I don't need money. I told you, I just want to talk. I want you to tell me about you and Casey and I don't want to hear you trying to excuse or justify yourself. I don't want to hear any of that manipulative crap you put in your letter to Casey...yeah, I read it and I know what your bullshit sounds like."

Roy stared at him. "You...you just want to talk."

"I want an honest conversation."

"You do mean a confession, don't you? And when it's over?"

"We go on with our lives...provided that you can satisfy me."

"I was quite prepared to satisfy you when we came up here." Improbably, there was a smile on Roy's lips. "Our Casey has some taste, doesn't he?"

"Some of the time."

"Oh, but look at us both. We're just — "

"Totally different," Zeke broke in. "For one thing, I actually care how Casey feels. And I have this curious habit of treating him like a human being."

He cringed inwardly at his defensive tone even as he finished speaking. Fuck. He had shown weakness and it was unacceptable.

"Wonderful," Roy crooned, not wasting the opportunity. "And I'm sure it's only a matter of time before he throws you over for someone who's not nearly as good to him as you are."

Okay, this was a lesson. Whatever happened, whatever verbal missiles Roy lobbed, Zeke couldn't, mustn't flinch. He must not react. He held himself still, struggling to think of a neutral response.

"Or has it already happened?" Roy intuited, voice soft. "Yes, I think it has."

"Are you going to talk to me or not?" Zeke snapped.

"I don't know. Somehow I don't think you can really do me much damage."

"Then you don't know me very well."

Roy took a while to mull that. At length, he said, "I suppose I'm not surprised that someone showed up to give me hell. I must say I did expect it to be...someone else."

"Like Sasha, maybe?"

Roy blinked. "You know Sasha."

"He lives with us."

"Lives with...?"

"Me and Casey."

"Oh...I see." Instead of being contemptuous or sardonic as Zeke had been expecting, Roy just looked regretful, much as he had been when Zeke was pretending to interview him earlier. "Well, no, I don't see but I'm not really interested in finding out how your little threesome came about. Sounds hot, though."

"Do we have an understanding or not, Roy? This is the last time I'm asking."

Roy uttered a long sigh. "Just remember...you started this."

"I can live with that."

"You may not believe me, Zeke, but it truly was my intention to leave Casey alone. Did you know that he phoned me a while back?"

"Yes."

"I never thought he'd shout at me like that... I was shocked by how bad he sounded — "

"Stop. Right there."

"Why? I only — "

"I don't want to hear that."

"Well, what do you want to hear? And could we maybe go into the living room and sit while we do this?"

Zeke found himself wanting to resist the idea solely on principle, and realizing how ridiculous that was, he agreed. They might as well be sitting — plus, he'd feel easier in his skin without Casey's picture presiding over him. "Okay." As they moved down the spacious hallway, Zeke asked, "Is this the apartment where you and Casey were together?" He tried to imagine Casey rattling miserably about in this frigid space.

"Fuck, no. That apartment was much smaller, a bit more like a student's digs... although I realize I never actually lived like a student."

They had arrived in the living room, which was about the same size as the entire apartment that Zeke lived in. Roy waved at an assemblage of white couches and chairs grouped around a glass and crystal coffee table. "Have a seat." He went to the bar set against one white wall. "Would you like another drink?"

"No, thanks."

"I promise I'm not going to poison you."

"I know. But I don't want one."

With his back to Zeke, Roy shrugged. Moments later he sat down, holding his second tumbler of whiskey and keeping his distance. Zeke saw his hand shake as he lifted it to his mouth.

"I'm curious," Roy said after the first gulp had gone down. "Why didn't you just phone my office and say who you were?"

"Would you have responded?"

"I don't know — yes, I think so. I don't think I could have resisted."

"Would you have responded as quickly?"

"Hmm...no, probably not. And you wouldn't have had the pleasure of dangling bait and watching me grab at it. You liked sitting there in that bar doing chit- chat, knowing who I was while I didn't have a clue about you, didn't you?"

"I wanted to see how you'd behave if you didn't know who I was."

"Oh, but it's more than that, isn't it? You just had to have me under your power, didn't you, Zeke?" Roy downed the rest of his drink all at once, coughing slightly. "So — so what did you think?"

"About what?"

"About me...you said you wanted to see how I'd behave, how did you find me, then?" Roy sloshed the droplets of liquid in the bottom of his glass, studying them.

Zeke considered not answering — but it would probably come across as defensive yet again. "I can see why Casey got drawn in," he answered.

Roy grinned at this, then said in a low voice, "I'm the only man you've ever been attracted to other than Casey, aren't I?"

Profoundly grateful for the instinct that had kept him from responding to Roy's attentions in the hallway, Zeke answered, "Checking out your package doesn't mean I was attracted to you."

"Hmm...are you going to tell Casey about our kiss, I wonder?"

Zeke suddenly didn't care how defensive he might seem. "We didn't have a kiss, and it's time for you to start answering my questions."

Roy smiled a bit more, like he knew something that Zeke didn't. "All right. Can I just ask one more thing, though?"

"What?"

"How is Casey?"

Upon hearing those syllables formed by Roy's lying mouth, Zeke could barely speak for anger. He clenched his hands into fists at his sides. "I — told you to watch yourself."

"I'm not trying to provoke. I really want to know."

"He's been better."

"My poor baby," Roy said softly.

"I suggest you shut up before I hit you."

"Do I not have a right to care?"

"No," Zeke refused, "since your caring seems to have no effect on how you treat people."

"Oh, but we've established that I'm a self-absorbed shit," Roy returned gaily.

"You say that like it's something to be proud of. Do you think it makes you deep and tragic, being so unhappy with your life that you can't control what you do to people?"

This brought about a new kind of smile; Zeke wasn't sure what it signified. "You're quite surprising, Zeke. I hope you realize it."

"I have a proper appreciation of my talents, thank you. Now how about we get down to it?"

Smoothing an imaginary crease in his shirt, Roy said, "By all means, let us ‘get down to it'. Where would you like me to begin?"

"At the beginning, when you and Casey met. And I want to know what you really thought, not what sounds nice and romantic. No bullshit."

"It sounds like you already have your own ideas about it, why should I take the trouble to tell you otherwise?"

"Oh, so you were just going to help him with his homework?"

"I'm going to tell you the truth and you can believe it or not. The first time I saw Casey, it was his face on a poster."

"Poster...?"

"Someone at the campus newspaper must have thought it would be fun to turn Casey into the prank of the week. I don't know how they found out about his alien story, maybe they were flipping through old newspapers and recognized him somehow...anyway, they put his picture on a flyer and plastered it to every flat surface on campus. He was already having a hard time, being away from home for the first time, in a new school and now all of a sudden people were looking at him like he was a nutcase."

"What did they do to him?" Zeke growled.

"I don't know about them doing anything. I just saw that he was in my class and he was so sad...actually, he was heartbreaking and I couldn't help myself. I approached him after class and invited him out for coffee. I only wanted to help — " Roy lifted a hand to forestall Zeke's expression of disbelief " — for about the first five minutes." Smiling a private smile, Roy went on, "Of course I noticed right away how he looked but you're just going to have to accept that for a whole five minutes I had nothing but teacherly intentions towards him."

"And then what?"

"Then...nothing. I wanted to spend time with him, he wanted to spend time with me. We spent time together. Sorry to disappoint you but I didn't have some master plan to seduce and lure him against his will."

"But he was your student."

"Yes, and he was extra super young and innocent, and vulnerable — and that sure the hell made him tempting but I would never have forced him to do anything. He was interested in me too. God, he never wanted to let me out of his sight. He had this way of looking at me..." Roy drew an almost rapturous breath and let it out like he had just achieved release. "...and he thought everything I did was wonderful, everything I said was brilliant or funny...do you have any idea what that feels like, how addictive it is?"

Zeke ignored the last. "But you never felt the least guilt over what you were doing, did you?"

"Oh, I knew how our relationship would be judged — but the person whose opinion really mattered to me was my father. He knew I was gay, but he had that old- fashioned idea that homosexuality is like some sickness...like you can overcome it if you work at it. I had promised him I would never be with another guy. And then Casey blew that promise right out of the water."

"Which you blamed him for."

"No," Roy said, far too quickly. He glanced up at Zeke; he shrugged, admitted, "Okay, I did resent him."

"What difference is there?"

"Huge. I know perfectly well in my head that Casey never made me do anything, that it wasn't his fault..."

"But...?"

Roy shrugged. "But every time I looked at him it was like he stole my will, and of course he never gave a fucking damn what people thought of him. He was so used to being different, he didn't know anything else. He didn't know about my promise to my father...I don't see how he could have, but I just know he wouldn't have cared. He asked me to come out one time, just like that. ‘Try being hated,' he said. I swear, he wanted people to know about us. My father — everyone."

"Did you really think you could keep a promise like that?"

"As stupid as it sounds, yes, I did. I know now that it was impossible but at the time I really thought I could have kept it if Casey hadn't been so...well, if he hadn't been Casey. I do know that I was wrong, you must have read that in the letter. I explained how I was terrified of being found out and that was why I hardly ever went anywhere with him. But he didn't seem to mind as long as I spent time with him."

"Didn't mind?" Zeke echoed in outrage.

Roy shook his head. "Hey, I'm trying to explain what I thought at the time, not justify it. I know he minded, I know it hurt him — but he was no frigging picnic either. He was always so clinging and desperate, it was a real downer. I have enough trouble staying out of the dumps as it is...that's the other reason I avoided him."

Zeke couldn't think of a response to that, other than breaking a few of the freak's nice, white teeth.

"And he did hurt me too, you should know that!" Roy went on, his voice heating. "He showed up at my parents' house one Christmas and pretty much outed me without my permission or even a warning."

Zeke clenched and unclenched his fists, and imagined he was squeezing something that just happened to be a part of Roy's anatomy. "How did he do that?"

"He'd had a bad time with his folks that Christmas so he came looking for me at my home. I had no idea he was coming, he didn't tell me or try to phone me before he showed up. I realized after the fact that he had no idea what he was doing but it didn't matter, the damage was already done — and before you ask what damage, my father took one look at him and knew what was going on. He told me to end it but I couldn't."

Roy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He ran his hands through the pretty, brown hair, massaging his scalp.

"It got pretty bad after that," he continued, lifting his head. "I kept thinking, just one more time and then I'll tell him but I couldn't do it. I would stay away for days and days, sleep over at Janice's or even stay in a hotel, but then I would be sneaking back to my apartment to see Casey. What I didn't know was that Janice had actually hired someone to watch my building...so she knew to the minute how much time I spent there and when Casey was there...and you have no idea how she could be. At one point I convinced Casey to meet me at my office at school and she showed up there too. She started screaming at Casey and me through the door. We were both naked and of course he did one of his blanking out things so I had to dress him and myself before I could open the door. The whole time she's out there pounding and yelling. When she came in she called him ‘slut' and ‘whore' and told him to leave me alone...and he didn't seem to hear her, so she slapped him. He just stood there and took it, which made her even more angry."

Zeke was on his feet and stalking the room, unable to dignify this crap by sitting still for it. "You fuck," he muttered.

"You'll have to be more specific, Zeke. Which part are you hating me for now?"

"Did it never occur to you to get him some help?"

"Of course."

"But you didn't do anything."

Sincere, shit-brown eyes peered up at Zeke. "I didn't want to believe that he was that bad — "

"You didn't want to think that you made him that bad."

Roy made a fist that trembled in the air for a few instants, then dropped just as suddenly, punching his own upper thigh. "I'm not responsible! I may have done things I regret but I'm not the cause!" He seized on his empty tumbler and checked it like he was hoping to find that it had magically replenished itself. "He was crazy from day one and it just got w — "

"He was not crazy, he never has been — "

"And I suppose you're going to tell me now that there really was an alien invasion."

Zeke countered without hesitation, "Yes, there really was an alien invasion. Casey told the truth about that, but you know what? That's beside the point. The point was that he did need help, a fact that you conveniently ignored so that you could keep fucking him whenever and however you liked."

"I cared about him."

"Oh, right. You cared so much that you had to knock him around and leave lots of bruises...so he couldn't forget how much you cared."

"What — I didn't — "

Positioning himself in front of the couch where Roy was sitting, Zeke let himself loom and hope that Roy got every bit as scared as he fucking deserved. "When I found out about your little hotel visits last summer...it was only because he looked like somebody's chew toy and he couldn't hide it anymore."

"I didn't abuse him...You can't have sex without getting a mark or two."

"You can fucking well try. But you didn't want to try, did you? I saw the outline of your fucking teeth on him, you can't tell me you didn't want that to hurt."

"He likes it rough, Zeke, you know that perfectly well, I'm sure so why don't you get off your high horse!"

Zeke moved into an ominous hover and Roy pressed back against the pristine, white cushions.

"Did he ever ask you to hurt him?" Zeke demanded, nearly shouting. "Or did he just take it so he could be close to you?"

"God, how fucking vanilla are you?"

"Enough that I don't try to use my teeth to carve a collar on someone I ‘care' about — call me boring that way!"

"I do. I call you young and unimaginative. And you're exaggerating."

"What if I told you that the morning after you were done with him I had to take him to the hospital?"

There was a visible impact at last. "You — you mean — but he wasn't in good shape, I know that — that wasn't my doing."

"The doctor thought he'd been sexually assaulted."

Roy blanched. "And...?"

"And he couldn't find anything that would prove it but he knew what he was seeing. He thought I did it, that doctor. He looked at me like I was the kind of creep who would beat on a person half my size and just pass it off as a good time — "

Shaking his head, Roy tried to look away from Zeke.

"Don't you fucking try to evade me," Zeke hissed.

"I'm not...I didn't," Roy muttered. "We just had sex, that's all we did — and you'll get the fuck away from me now, if you please."

Zeke eased back no more than an inch. "He was fucking traumatized, you fuck. He still is."

Roy suddenly slammed his empty glass down on the hard wood floor; Zeke heard it break. He leaned over and said, almost in Roy's face, "Now you're going to tell me what happened in that hotel room. Everything. I want you to tell me just how much you wanted to hurt him and just how you did it."

Raising a shuddering hand, Roy scrubbed at his eye. "You want me to lie."

"No, I want to hear the truth that you haven't dared to admit to yourself, you cowardly piece of shit. Come on, I'll help you get started...Casey belonged to you, right? Even if you had dumped him to make Janice happy and he'd gone home, he still belonged to you — "

"Sasha."

"Huh?"

"Sasha forced me to dump him."

"Okay, whatever... Then Sasha made you say it was over but you knew that it was definitely not over, didn't you? Casey was yours and whatever you did to him he'd still come back for more."

"That's right — he — needed me — "

"And you needed him so bad, didn't you? Without him there was nothing in your life that was truly yours."

"Yes," Roy mumbled.

"And no one else should have him."

"That's fucking right!" Roy shouted, startling Zeke into taking a step back. The backs of his calves encountered the coffee table and he almost overbalanced. "In fact, when I saw him in Herrington I suggested to him that no one else seemed interested in him and I'll tell you, I didn't have very much trouble convincing him."

Once again Zeke took to pacing the living room. It was either that or get bloodstains all over the nice, white furniture. "How did Janice end up in that room?" he asked as he measured the distance from one wall to another.

"She was kind of obsessed with me — Casey, too, in a bizarre way. She found out that I'd been going to Herrington and confronted me about it. She ordered me to stop going there." Roy made a face to suggest the type of scorn that must have greeted Janice's demand. "Naturally, I refused."

"Naturally," Zeke echoed.

"I left and went to meet Casey...the last thing I expected was that she'd just follow me."

"How do you mean, follow you?"

"I mean she showed up at the hotel later. She just showed up, she told them she was my wife and of course they were happy to give her the room number. I'm sure she thought to find Casey and me together but he'd already gone. Janice and I fought, she wanted me to come home and never see Casey again. I said I was going to stay there and wait for him like I promised. Then she used the ‘D' word and it just escalated — "

"'D' word?"

"Divorce."

"Oh." Zeke couldn't comprehend why Roy would be so scared of losing someone he didn't want to be with, but he wasn't about to engage in discussion about it.

"It got to the point that she told me if I wanted to have Casey why didn't he just come and live with us, that way she'd know where I was at all times. I told her maybe we should all sleep in the same bed too. I didn't expect her to take me up on it. She said, then you convince him or never see him again. I'm sure she thought he wasn't even going to show that night. But then he did show up — "

Which would have been right after the disaster that had been Delilah's birthday party and Zeke's "coming out", but he wasn't about to share that.

"— and he'd been completely fucked over by someone before he got to me. I guess you'll have to tell me about that. He was hysterical. Worse than hysterical. I tried to calm him down — "

"I don't want to hear about anything kind that you did."

Roy folded his arms and rolled his eyes. "All right, then... I wasn't kind, I'm never kind, I never do anything in the least bit decent and I only tried to calm him down so that I could persuade him to get naked with Janice and me. I got her to leave and then, by god, I fucked him so good, so sweet — "

"What did he say?" Zeke choked, coming to a dead halt in the centre of the living room. His hands itched. His skin was crawling with rage and disgust.

"Say?"

"When he realized what you wanted...with Janice."

"He said no at first. He was very clear about what he didn't want — hell, I'm not sure he even knows what to do with a woman."

"If you don't...I'll...so help me, I'll hurt you if you don't stop."

"Okay, total truth then," Roy said, with a complete absence of remorse, or even interest. "He knew what he didn't want and he didn't want Janice. He told me in no uncertain terms. I sent Janice away so I could change his mind...do you want to hear this blow by blow?"

"I want to know what you did to change his mind."

"You mean how I peeled his clothes off and had him with his face in the pillows and his ass in the air and how he wanted it so much he practically vacuumed the cum out of me?"

Zeke took a step towards the prick before he could stop himself. Just one step, and just one lovely fantasy of Roy crying and begging for mercy while his blood ran freely onto the polished hardwood. He ground out the words: "Are you trying to die?"

Roy opened his mouth. Closed it. "No," he said, unexpectedly subdued.

Zeke tilted his head, scrounging for a hurtful comment in lieu of bloodshed. "You really despise yourself, don't you?"

The older man looked quickly at Zeke. "Don't you dare — "

"You must hate yourself so bad. Poor daddy's boy, so scared of being yourself...Gotta find someone to take it out on, huh? You pitiful fuck."

"Are you my priest or my shrink now?"

"You raped him."

"I did not."

"Say it!"

"I did not and I will not," Roy snarled. "He never said no to me, never. He did say no to Janice at first but he let her join in later. It wasn't rape, none of it."

"But you know you did something wrong."

"Of course I did," Roy said tiredly. "I'm not an idiot. I didn't set out to hurt him but I did take advantage of him. He was obviously very sick and I shouldn't have touched him that day but I can never seem to help myself when it comes to him. There, I've confessed. Are you happy now?"

Zeke held his position. "That can't be all," he said.

"But it is."

"You're lying."

"I'm not. I fucking swear it."

"You have to be lying! There has to be more, there has to be a reason for — "

He stopped.

"Reason for what?" Roy asked. His voice was deadly, soft and terrible in its compassion.

Helpless with sudden grief, Zeke couldn't form a retort. Nor a question. He couldn't quite remember who he was angry at.

Roy's sardonic voice intruded. "You thought you could make sense of everything by coming here, didn't you?"

Zeke could only fall back on a sullen glare, backed by accusation. "It has to be your fault."

"What has to be?" Roy had gotten a whiff of Zeke's blood now, and he went for the jugular without hesitation. "Did Casey do something bad? Did he misbehave, or is he just making you miserable in general?"

Both, Zeke thought, but had the presence of mind not to say. He was still standing in the middle of the living room, so drained he wanted to sit down right there on the floor.

"I think I see what you're up to," Roy went on. "You want to believe he's an innocent victim but he's not having any of it, is he?" He shook his head, smiling. "That sounds like my Casey."

"He's not your — "

"And he's not yours either, from the sound of it." Roy's voice was gaining in strength. "What's going on, Zeke? He wouldn't say I raped him so you come here thinking you could get me to say it?"

Rather than crumble onto the floor, Zeke moved to sit on the nearest piece of furniture, which turned out to be at the other end of the couch that Roy was sitting on. His entire body was weighted down by the knowledge that he shouldn't have come here.

"Well, " Roy said brightly when Zeke had been silent for a while. "It's very late. You need to be getting back to your hotel — unless you were planning on staying for something else?"

Zeke looked at him just in time to glimpse the come-hither. "You're out of your mind," he said, wondering if he might vomit, so intense was his disgust.

"You're attracted to me, Zeke."

"How sick are you that you would have sex with me now?"

"I find the idea kind of appealing, actually."

Roy sidled down the couch until he was close enough for Zeke to smell his aftershave. He stroked Zeke's chest, toying with a button. "It is sick, isn't it? I want to touch you and think of you touching Casey...and you want me to touch you because it's so naughty and perverse and you're so angry..."

Zeke shoved him back. "Get your fucking hand off me."

Smiling, Roy slithered back to where he had been. "Okay, baby. Like I said before, you really aren't my type."

"And I prefer my sex with human beings."

"Ooh," Roy pouted. "Sticks and stones, baby. It's just as well...I really do love my boys small and pretty...and the needier the better, you know."

The words instantly incinerated all the oxygen in Zeke's lungs. He had known this already and he had even said it to Roy but until now he hadn't truly appreciated how pitiful Roy was, how very profoundly he despised himself. The man was repulsed by his own desires, and he was repulsed by Casey for fulfilling them.

"I do believe that it's time for you to be going," Roy said, rising gracefully to his feet. "Thank you, Zeke. This has definitely been one of the more interesting evenings I've had — "

"I'm not done with you yet," Zeke said.

"Oh, please. You are so done."

"I want to meet Janice."

Roy looked bored, which Zeke was beginning to recognize as his stand-by for covering up panic. "Now why would you want to do that? I've told you everything...and I've told you she didn't do much of anything. Allow me this one noble impulse."

"No. I want to hear the story from her too."

"What makes you think she'd ever tell you?"

"Because I'll do the same thing to her that I threatened to do to you if she doesn't."

Slowly, Roy folded once again into the couch. He said, "She's trying to put everything about her marriage to me behind her..."

"And she can...after she talks to me. You still speak to her, don't you?"

"Barely."

"I'm sure you can get in touch with her."

"She's probably out of town...you know, enjoying the holidays like some people do?"

"How about you humour me and let's find out?"

"Right now?"

"No time like the present. Call her up...I'll wait."

Roy's jaw set. He stared at some indefinable point on the wall.

Zeke shrugged. "I can always find her myself. It may take some time but I will, and then you'll have no knowledge of what I say to her or what she says to me. I tell you what...you think about it while I get my coat on. You have until then to decide."

He was allowed to take several steps, almost out of the living room before Roy called him to a halt. "Wait, goddammit."

Zeke stopped. He waited.

"All right!" Roy yielded. "All right, I'll call her but I can't promise anything."

"I get that," Zeke replied, twisting around.

"And what do you want me to say?"

Zeke took a second to pretend to think about it. "I want to sit down with the two of you for a nice, private discussion, and when that discussion is over, this whole business will be over."

Roy nodded, seeming slightly dazed. Without a word, he grabbed for his phone. It was white like everything else, styled like something from the sixties. He dialled from memory, Zeke noted, which was interesting considering he and Janice "barely spoke". Whenever Zeke stopped speaking to a person, he usually dumped their phone number from his memory banks.

"Hello, Rhonda...I hope you've been having a good holiday. Oh, not bad...yes, she's down in the Dominican right now...Yeah, don't we all...so, is Janice around? Really? Lucky break for me, I thought she's be off somewhere herself...Thanks." Roy put the phone against his shoulder. "She's there," he whispered. "Why don't you talk to her?"

"You talk to her first," Zeke replied. He was enjoying watching Roy squirm far too much.

A woman's voice issued from the handset. "Roy?"

Roy quickly put the phone back to his ear. "Janice, it's Roy...yes, sorry..." The voice at the other end was angry. Roy coughed and overrode it. "Just give me a second and I'll tell you...You know that subject that we said we'd never, ever talk about...well, we have to talk about it."

Janice's reaction was easily heard and understood, even if Zeke couldn't make out a word of it.

"Will you give me a fucking second? This isn't my doing, I swear it. I have a man in my apartment right now — " Roy was cut short as the feminine voice rose even higher in volume. "Does it matter how? Is it any of your business...? Thank you. As I was saying, I have this young man in my apartment. His name is Zeke Tyler and he's...he's Casey's boyfriend. Yes, he's standing here right now."

Roy's face was very red. At last he was sweating and Zeke was just petty enough to enjoy the sight of it.

"We've had a very candid conversation about what happened between you, me and Casey...well, he informed me that I have no choice...anyhow, I'm afraid he isn't satisfied and he wants to hear your version of things."

There was no reaction to this that Zeke could hear. He reached for the handset, taking it from Roy's shaking hand. "Give me that..." He pressed it to his ear. "Janice?"

A cool, surprisingly detached voice replied, "Yes."

"This is Zeke."

"What do you want?"

"I want you to agree to meet me and Roy in my hotel room tomorrow at..." Zeke bumped up the time he had been thinking, then bumped it up again. "...at three."

"I have plans for tomorrow."

"I suggest that you change them."

"And if I don't?"

"I've told Roy that if he didn't cooperate I'd go to the police and the press with what I know. He believed me — and I'm making the same promise to you. If you go along with this it will all be over tomorrow and you won't need to be afraid of getting dragged through the mud. All I really want is the truth and I'd rather have the trial in private, but I'll go public if I have to."

It was incredible how even in asking a question the woman contrived to sound imperious. "But you got Roy to tell you what happened, didn't you?"

Zeke replied, "Can I trust Roy to tell me the truth?"

Janice was silent for quite a while. Then she acceded, "All right...three o'clock tomorrow. Which is your hotel?"

"The Hyatt."

"Do you want me to come right to your room?"

"Wait for me in the lobby. I'll meet you and Roy there."

"Acceptable," she said, and hung up.

Zeke hung up. "You heard," he told Roy. "Three o'clock."

"I'm supposed to be leaving for Vegas with Allan tomorrow morning," Roy protested.

"You'll have to make other arrangements."

Roy observed, "You're really here for revenge, aren't you? Not the truth."

It was an interesting experience to watch a person hating you and unable to do anything other than that; Zeke soaked it up and answered at his leisure. "Truth is the priority. Revenge is a bonus. Good night."

Standing, he collected his coat and backpack and departed. The doorman downstairs was happy to call him a cab.

Something happened in the cab, though. One moment he was sitting, looking out the window and thinking about how tired he was, very diligently not replaying the conversation with Roy — and the next, he was trying not to weep. He held on through the drive back and paying the cab driver and all the way through the lobby to the bank of elevators. He did not have the elevator to himself so he had to hold on all the way to the ninth floor.

Once his door opened, he dropped his backpack and walked the straight line in front of the TV set, pressing his fingers against his eyes, gasping and snuffling until he had gotten control over himself. No, he was not falling apart, that was not what was going on here. He was just too fucking tired. His day had been abominably long...incredible to think that it had begun in the Connors' kitchen.

He had only enough energy to strip before he fell into bed, and a soft, black void.

It was undoubtedly a good thing that he had made his appointment with Roy and Janice as late as he had, because he slept until one o'clock the following day, waking up ravenous and absolutely wired.

The first order of business was to call up room service and order the biggest steak dinner on the menu. While he was waiting for his food, he shaved and showered and got dressed. When the meal arrived, he was on the phone with a travel agent. There was a flight that night at nine, to Houston; he would have to spend the night there but then he could get on a ten-thirty a.m. flight to Los Angeles and be at LAX by noon the following day — which, he thought with satisfaction, was still a day before the wedding. After gobbling up his twelve ounce steak, loaded baked potato and a salad that Sasha would have described as tragically uninspired, he called housekeeping and asked them to come make up his room. Then he headed down to the lobby.

Whereupon he realized that he had a problem. There was nothing to do but wait and sitting was out of the question. It seemed as though his skin might actually split open, such was the purity of intent that hummed under it. He gave only brief thought to calling home to see how Casey was doing — very brief thought. There was no need for it. Nor did he call his father. He didn't have anything more to report, and once this was done he would hop on a plane and be in Los Angeles with time to spare. To stay unconfused, be the old Zeke — that was all that he truly needed. The old Zeke had a plan to carry out today. The plan was beautiful, brutal in its simplicity, and there was no place in it for sentiment.

In the half hour he had to wait, he walked around the hotel block five times, using the kind of rapid stride that would never have worked if Casey had been around. Casey could cover a lot of ground for a person with such short legs but at this speed Zeke would have quickly left him behind. He would have been forced to ease off, to modify the length and frequency of his stride...just as he would have to change his entire approach to this day. Or even to give up — oh, yes, it was good to be alone, because he was not done. He was so very fucking far from done.

It was just a few minutes before the designated meeting time when he planted himself in one of the couches in the lobby. In a hotel of this size there was a constant flow of activity through the three entrances, each of which faced a congested major street or avenue. He chose a position where he could watch what he considered to be the "front" entrance, but he decided not to mind if he missed them coming in. He simply couldn't watch all three doors at once.

"Here we go," he muttered.

They might decide to call his bluff, though, and just not show up. But he rather thought they would — and it was imperative that he not bluff or give way on any point. He had to be prepared to do what it took, regardless of the cost. Scandal in the papers, a notorious trial... oh, he did love the idea of a trial. Roy and Janice suffering blow after blow to reputation, pride, finances...and even better, Casey being compelled to talk. That was a perverse delight to contemplate — except, Zeke realized with a tinge of bitterness, not even the force of judicial authority could make Casey talk when he chose not to. He would shut down or work himself into such a state that no competent doctor would let him out of the hospital to testify. Casey, like Zeke, would do whatever it took.

But he was a fuckwit, to be thinking of Casey now. That was absolutely what he must not do, not if he was to be successful this afternoon. He must keep that crystalline, glittering purpose. There could be no doubt, no weakness.

Zeke committed himself to not think — to look around instead, maybe observe the people around him for a bit. There were several other men sitting nearby, reading newspapers or magazines. There was a youngish woman sitting on the edge of a couch, uneasily perched between two of the men, her suitcase by her feet, half- blocking the row between the couches. Her eyes met Zeke's; she smiled slightly and glanced away. Over at the long, polished counter there were all manner of well- dressed, well-turned out people, but Zeke saw one man in jeans and plaid flannels, wearing hiking boots. On his other side, the hostess for the hotel pub-restaurant was trying to politely handle what looked like a homeless man. Zeke imagined that this was a frequent occurrence; they were in the core of the downtown and it was winter.

He checked his watch. Five after three.

Maybe it was for the best if they didn't show. It was time to go on to the wedding maybe, admit defeat...but then after, he didn't know what. He just knew that he couldn't let things go back to how they'd been before.

"Zeke."

He careened back to reality and saw Roy standing there maybe five feet away, alongside a slim, blond woman. She wore the kind of high-end conservative style that could be afforded only by the very wealthy. Her jewelry was subtle; her hair a smooth, shoulder-length mane of blond, an effortlessness that pr