It's a nice afternoon, the kind that makes me not really mind not having a car. I have a gig in a little bar a few miles from here, and while the guitar and the messenger bag containing my music will probably be feeling like it weighs a hundred pounds by the time I get there, I'm actually kind of enjoying the fresh air. It helps me clear my mind a little, and that's definitely something I need to practice doing.

Somehow, though, as I make my way down sidewalks and across streets, paying little attention to the traffic that's blowing by me, I can't get the thoughts of Matt and Jeff completely under control. I chalk it up to everyone having their weakness. I've got two weaknesses, and actually, they're pretty fucking strong, especially when it comes to breaking my self control.

Now, even though I've been trying not to think about either of them, I can't pretend that these are bad memories I'm trying to keep at bay. I mean, Jeff finding me coked out of my mind and luring me back to his apartment for a threesome with him and his brother is not something I find to be particularly unpleasant to think about. I ended up fucked six ways from Sunday, and more satisfied than I ever thought I could be.

Until I left Jeff's apartment the next day, there was actually a thought in my mind that maybe this would all turn out okay. Sleeping there, in bed with both of them, gave me some glimmer of hope that maybe things wouldn't change too much. Maybe I wouldn't be left out in the cold, after all.

Sobering up and walking back to my place, though, kind of put everything in perspective. If I was going to continue to see them, even one at a time, this was always going to be the end result: me walking back home, by myself. Leaving the two of them to their own devices; the ones I'd been pushing so hard for them to give into.

I decided then that I was just going to back off. I installed a deadbolt on my front door and remembered to always keep it locked, especially when I was home, so that Jeff couldn't take advantage of the key he has yet to give back. I ignored the ringing phone and did my best to stay occupied with music, and whatever else had nothing to do with either of them.

I couldn't change my ways completely, though, at least not all at once. I still went down to the Pocket on occasion. I'd have a few beers (and sometimes a few lines when my heart was really bleeding), trying to ignore the two of them all happy and cuddled up in that corner booth. Of course they tried their hardest to talk to me, and I always did my best to be cordial while trying to give them the hint that I had other things on my agenda.

Problem was, I didn't. My agenda consisted of nothing but guitar, cocaine, and jerking off to the thought of having them both at the same time. I usually left the bar with some random woman on my arm, ending up fucking her in her car or up against the wall in some alley (never taking her back to my bed, where the pillow on the left side still smelled like Jeff's shampoo), trying to remember her name and then deciding it wasn't worth the effort.

It wasn't the ideal situation, but it was working. It went on that way for about a month, until my phone rang at two a.m. and I had to pick it up, not being able to shake the thought that maybe someone was dead. Matt's voice on the other end, and I almost, almost hung up. But something in his voice made me keep listening.

"'Lo?"

"Chris. I'm at Jeff's. Um, listen, can you come over? We've been tryin' not to bother you, I guess you've made your decisions and all, but, uh, this is pretty important." His voice lowered, and he added, "It's late. I'm sorry, but Jeff's askin' for you."

Jeff was asking for me. I had no idea what that meant, but the edge of panic in Matt's voice made it impossible for me to refuse. I found myself on my way to Jeff's without hardly remembering getting dressed and leaving my own apartment. I was hoping that it was some sort of stupid, junior high school fight that they'd gotten into, and they just wanted me to help them sort it out. But remembering the way Matt had sounded made me walk faster and faster until I was sprinting down the sidewalk.

I didn't bother to knock when I got there, just ran right in, and into Matt. Literally. I guess he'd been standing just inside the door, presumably waiting for me. He caught me and kept us both upright, and then reached back and closed the door behind me. Seeing his face made me wish I hadn't been staying away.

He was haggard and tired looking, dark circles and lines of stress on his face making him look ten years older. Not only that, but his lip was split and there were various other cuts and bruises on his face and arms, some old, and some looking fairly new.

"Jesus, Matt, what the fuck is going on?! Are you all right? Where's Jeff?!"

Matt just looked at me, more stoic and solemn than I had ever seen him before. He disregarded my questions about what was going on and if he was all right, but he answered my question about Jeff's location by reaching up and pointing toward the bedroom.

I looked a question at him, but he didn't seem like he was going to elaborate any further, so I turned and ran down the hall toward the bedroom I'd spent so many nights in. Even if Matt had given me a heads-up, I don't think anything could have prepared me for what I found there.

Jeff was sitting up in bed, wearing nothing but a pair of grey boxer shorts that probably used to be white. His body was shining with sweat, beads of it dripping off his forehead and down his sides, enough so that the bedsheets were wet beneath him. He was breathing hard through tightly clinched teeth, making sounds in his throat like he was trying to hold back screams. His hands were clinched into fists, and he was pounding his knuckles into the thick muscle of his left thigh, which was currently an angry red and probably tomorrow would be black and blue. His face, like Matt's, was bruised and swollen, but Jeff also had more marks across his stomach, legs, and the insides of his forearms. They looked like deep fingernail scratches. There was a bucket beside the bed, and the sickening smell of vomit that assaulted me when I entered the room told me what it contained.

My brain wasn't connecting the scene quickly enough. I should've known exactly what was happening, but I was shocked stupid. I had no idea.

"Jeff!"

His head jerked toward me, and he instantly tried to climb out of bed. His leg gave way beneath him, though, and he tumbled to the floor, screaming in pain and frustration.

"Jeff, what the hell is the matter?! What are you doing?!"

"Chris.. Chris, ohmygod, I'm so glad you're here. I'm so sick, Chris. I'm so, so fucking sick and you're the only one that can help me." He started crawling toward me, but seemed to have no control over his lower extremities. After a second of watching him try to move toward me, pathetically dragging his legs behind him like a paraplegic devoid of a wheelchair, I ran to him. Dropping to my knees on the floor, he curled into the fetal position in my arms, shaking so hard now that I could hear his teeth chattering.

"Jeff, please tell me what's happening! Why are you hurt? Why is Matt hurt? I need to know what's going on!"

"I'm sick. I'm sick. Oh god, please help me, Chris. I need something, anything! Please tell me you have something! I won't even slam it, Chris, I swear. No needles! I'll just smoke a little, just to take the edge off. Oh, god, it's fucking agony!" He turned to grab at his leg again, and I could see the muscle moving beneath his skin in what looked to be one motherfucker of a cramp.

Oh. The pieces all fell together then, and reality crept up on me and hit me upside the head with its sledgehammer.

Heroin withdrawal. The worst experience on the face of the planet, as told by anyone who has ever been through it.

"Oh, baby..." I pulled him up against me, holding him tighter as he began to cry, still begging me to find him something to make him feel better. His skin was icy to the touch and soaked in cold sweat, and I repeatedly brushed wet strands of hair out of his face, rocking him back and forth slowly.

"Chris. I missed you. I wish you would've come to see me. But you're here now and that's all that matters. Chris, I'm not feelin' so hot. I just need something, something. Something to make it just a little better. Then I'll be able to manage this, I swear it. Just this once, one time. I'll give you anything you want in return. I know you've missed me. You can have anything you want."

His words were accompanied by his hands as he turned toward me and slid them beneath my shirt, touching bare skin. I let him touch me, hoping maybe it would comfort him at least a little. But when his hands slid lower, groping for the fly of my jeans, I grabbed his wrists. He put up a struggle, but he was so weak, it wasn't much of one.

"Jeff, please don't do that," I whispered to him, pinning his wrists easily and holding him tighter against me. At my words, my refusal to accept sexual favors in exchange for drugs, he screamed and cried and struggled against me like a two year old that has been denied a new toy.

I held him tight and closed my eyes, trying to mentally brace myself for this. When I opened them, I saw Matt standing in the doorway. I didn't know how long he'd been there; I'd been too caught up in Jeff. But I guess it was probable to think he'd been there since the beginning. Been there to see the love of his life try to whore himself out for drugs.

Matt didn't move, he didn't speak. He just stood there in the doorway, watching us. His arms were crossed over his chest and although he didn't make a single sound, his lower lip was quivering and tears were freely flowing down his cheeks. We held eye contact for about a minute before he dropped his head dejectedly, and turned to walk back into the living room.

I disentangled myself from Jeff, standing up and then doing my best to half carry, half drag his dead weight into the bathroom. I ran a tub of almost scalding hot water, divested him of his underwear and helped him into the bath, making sure he could recline without the water being up over his head. He sunk appreciatively into the water, sniffling and slowing the flow of tears. He looked up at me like he wasn't sure whether or not I was real, and said, "'s nice. Warmer. Thanks." And then closed his eyes and rested his head against the edge of the tub.

I took off my shirt that was soaked in sweat and tears, and then headed for the living room where Matt was on the couch, chainsmoking with a bottle of Jack Daniels in front of him. After a long swig of whiskey, I sat down beside him and gave him his turn to cry into my chest.

"When he was still able to walk, he'd try to get to the front door and we'd beat the hell out of each other when I'd get in his way," he said after he was done crying, sitting up and wiping his face. "He said he hated me, that I was a horrible brother, and that if I really loved him I would make him feel better."

"Jesus, Matt, how long has he been like this?"

"Two days. The muscle cramps finally got so bad that he can barely get to the bathroom, so I guess I don't have to worry about him makin' a break for the door anymore." He paused, sighed, and took another drink. "I'm sorry I had to call you in on this, Chris. I know it's the last thing you need. I just didn't know what else to do, especially when he started askin' for you. I thought maybe seein' you would make him feel better. I didn't know he'd... do what he did."

"Matt, you should've called me the second this started! I should've been here for him.. and for you. I'm so fuckin' sorry I've been avoiding you guys. I just wanted to give you both a chance to be together."

So much for that. For the next several days, I lived in Jeff's apartment with him and Matt. I slept on the couch the first night, if you could call it sleeping. Jeff didn't sleep; couldn't sleep, because he was in so much pain with the leg and stomach cramps. I laid there until Jeff would call for me, and then go running into his room like a nervous dad who has his newborn baby home for the first time.

Matt and I tried to feed him, but he couldn't keep anything down. The physical toll that the lack of drugs was taking on his body was horrible, for sure. I was up every hour, holding Jeff's hair back while he threw up, getting him glasses of water, massaging his tortured muscles. But the mental and emotional effect seemed to be even worse. Matt was there in bed with him the whole time, holding him while he cried, screamed, threatened and begged for a fix. He would try to crawl out of bed to get to the door (and on one terrifying occasion, the window) and we would have to physically restrain him, which caused him to curse us both to hell and worse.

We slept when he slept, and after the first time, I didn't even bother trying to sneak out to the couch. Matt slept on one side of him and me on the other, though it was never restful sleep. Jeff would toss and turn and cry, his legs uncontrollably kicking and twisting in the sheets. I guess they don't call it "kicking the habit" for no reason.

After a couple of days, the worst of the symptoms thankfully subsided. Jeff became much more coherent, and in less pain. At first he refused any sort of medication at all, but eventually started accepting aspirin for the for the residual cramps. He was so weak from the lack of sleep and food, he still couldn't get out of bed without help. But after what seemed like an eternity in hell, he no longer seemed like he was going to claw out his own jugular if he couldn't get a fix.

It happened on my fifth day of "junkie-sitting," I think, although the days had all blurred together. I was walking down the hallway, out of Jeff's room, with the empty plastic tray I had served him lunch on earlier. Matt was walking down the hallway toward Jeff's room with his arms full of clean sheets. We paused, giving each other a tentative smile of reassurance, daring to hope that we'd gotten through the worst.

"Is he asleep?" Matt asked, voice low.

"Yeah. Passed out cold. I think he may actually get a few hours this time. God, he needs it. I guess we all do."

"I'm so tired, I don't think I could sleep if I tried." He glanced down at the laundry he was holding. "Guess I'll wait to change these. Fucked if I'm gonna wake him up. I'll just set 'em on the chair in there." He moved to do just that at the same time that I started to continue my trek to the kitchen. We bumped into each other and laughed, but neither one of us moved backward. We laughed, and then stopped laughing, and then stared.

Matt moved first, but I was only about a nanosecond behind him. The pile of sheets he'd been holding hit the floor, muffling the sound of the tray falling from my hands as it landed on top of them.

I was shoved into the wall first, and then we spun and I was pressing Matt against it. Our mouths were crushed together so hard that I tasted blood, and didn't care whose it was. He was clinging to me like a drowning man to a piece of floating debris, and I know I was hanging on to him hard enough to probably make breathing difficult.

Matt turned us again, putting me back against the wall, and even though he and I are about the same size, he hoisted me up like I weighed nothing at all. I instinctively wrapped my legs around his waist and buried my hands in his hair, getting light headed because I couldn't breathe, and not giving a fuck about it.

We stayed like that for several minutes, making out like teenagers and dry-grinding against each other. After the initial desperation wore off, logic began worming its way into my head. I knew this was not going to happen. It could not. We were here because of Jeff; Jeff who was currently going through the worst experience of his life and lay sleeping not ten feet away.

Matt seemed to be reading my mind, because I felt him tense, and he pulled his lips from mine as if the contact had suddenly burned him. I sighed and leaned my chin on his shoulder, speaking with my lips against his ear.

"Don't drop me."

He didn't. He set me back to my feet, and then took a couple of steps back, evacuating himself from my personal space. I stayed leaning against the wall, and he nearly collapsed against the opposite one, panting.

"Fuck, Chris, I'm sorry. That.. I.. don't even know."

"Yeah, I.. I'm sorry, too. I've just been so fuckin' stressed out. I just needed to feel something other than... that." A vague glance toward Jeff's bedroom door made my point, and Matt nodded in understanding and agreement. "Hey, listen. I think I'm gonna take off for a while. Get some real sleep. He's out, and I think he'll stay out for a while. And he's doing so much better now... you'll probably be able to handle it. Call me, though.. if you need anything."

He nodded, averting his eyes, uncomfortable. I knew then that things would always be uncomfortable between us, all of us. Too much had happened.

I turned and started for the door, and he reached out and grabbed my wrist, spinning me back toward him like some sort of choreographed dance move. We ended up pressed chest to chest, and he put his hands on the sides of my face and kissed me. Not like he'd been kissing me a minute ago, but kissing me like people kiss in romance novels and sappy movies. His lips melded perfectly against mine, and I very literally swooned in his arms. He kissed me like he loved me, like he would drown without my breath in his lungs, and I thought for a moment that if this is how he kisses Jeff every time, I don't blame Jeff for choosing him over me.

When he pulled back from the kiss, he rested his forehead against mine and held me, whispering, "thank you. Thank you for everything." And then he let go, turned, and disappeared into Jeff's bedroom.

I haven't seen either of them since.

________________

The place is small and the crowd is smaller, but I don't mind that. I have no idea what it's like playing to an auditorium of hundreds or even thousands of people, but I imagine that this way, it's a lot more personal. When I'm playing to a crowd of twenty, and I can see their faces, watch their reactions, it gives me a satisfaction that I don't think I would have if I was just staring into a spotlight and looking out over a wave of unrecognizable bodies.

Now, I do have a band, theoretically; when I can get them all together in the same room. It's a hard thing to do; they all have their own lives and jobs, and most of the time they don't even like each other. The band, for them, is a part-time hobby. I'm the only one that makes music part of my life. So the majority of the time, like now, I play solo acoustic: sitting alone on a stage in a dimly lit room, microphone in front of me and guitar on my lap, hoping that something I say will have some sort of impact on someone that listens.

Overall, the show goes pretty well. I'm even able to sell a couple of CDs afterward, which puts a little extra cash in my pocket. They're not the best quality; I cashed in a favor that bought me a few recording hours in some guy's basement/studio, but I guess they're okay for underground acoustic shit. Maybe next time I'll actually get the boys together and come up with a collaboration.

I'm packing up my guitar and sheets of music when there's a voice behind me. Low and husky, it's the sound of too many cigarettes and shots of southern whiskey.

"That was a pretty good set."

I turn around quickly, laying eyes on a man I've never seen before. He'd scared me a little; being paranoid in places you don't frequent is something that you learn pretty quick after you get pounded into the pavement a few times for wearing eyeliner and having long hair. It's always good to be on your guard, and I mentally berate myself for allowing someone to sneak up behind me in the first place.

The guy is tall and broad; built like a brick shithouse, as they say. Corded biceps are straining against his too-small black t-shirt that says "STAFF" across the chest in stark white lettering. His head is shaved to a sleek shine, and he's sporting a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee.

In short, he looks just like the backwoods deer huntin' country boys that get their rocks off by committing hate crimes against people like me.

"Thanks," I reply, waiting to see if this is going to turn into a brawl. I'm hopin' he don't have none of his kinfolk hidin' in the woodwork, and wishing that someone I knew would've come to see me play.

"Name's Steve," he says, amicably enough, extending his hand.

Still feeling plenty wary, I reach out and take his hand for a shake. "Chris."

"Nice meetin' ya, Chris."

"Yeah, you too. You work here, I imagine?"

"Yeah, I'm the bouncer. Get to take care of all the drunks that come here and start actin' foolish." He grins at that, and I get the idea that he really likes his job. I guess it takes a special breed to enjoy beating people up every day. The thought crosses my mind that next time I see Matt, I should encourage him toward such a career.

"Sounds like fun," I smile, not really knowing how to reply. I pick up my guitar case and the messenger bag with my lyrics, hoisting the bag over my shoulder. "Well, it was nice to meet you, Steve. I guess I'll be on my way."

"I saw you when you first got here, since I was on the door. You walked up. Ain't you gotta car?"

"Nah. Can't afford it. I don't mind walking places. Helps clear my head, most the time. I only live a couple miles from here."

"You gonna walk a couple miles with that guitar on your back? Looks heavy."

"It's fine. I walked down here, didn't I?"

"I'll take you home."

He doesn't present it as a question, or a friendly offer. It's a simple statement, which is followed by him turning and heading toward the door, apparently assuming I'm going to follow him. Uneasiness sinks into my stomach. He seems friendly enough, but why demand to a total stranger that you're giving him a ride home? Seems kind of weird to me, and I have no intention of actually getting into his car. I do, however, have to follow him out, because the exit he's heading for is the only one I can see. I guess he knew I wouldn't have a choice except to accompany him at least as far as the parking lot.

As soon as I hit pavement, I turn and start walking the other direction, but he calls out to me.

"Hey, Chris! My truck is right here."

I sigh and turn to look, and he's standing against a black pick-up in fairly good condition. It doesn't seem like the type of vehicle a kidnapper or a mass murderer would drive. There's no cover over the truckbed; no place to hide a body. I've got my leather jacket on, but the chill of the impending evening is still crisp enough to be felt. And a couple of miles is starting to sound like an awfully long way.

I turn and make my way back toward his truck, hoisting my guitar and canvas bag into the bed. He smiles as if this pleases him, and tells me to hop in. I do so.

No blood stains on the seats, no razorblades on the doorlocks. This is looking pretty good. I give him the directions, and we drive for a while in silence before the uncomfortable stillness prompts me to speak.

"So do you always offer rides to strangers who don't need them?"

"Just the pretty blonde ones who don't have a way home."

His statement makes me pause, and look over at him, taking in his appearance a little closer. Pretty blonde ones? Maybe this guy has something on his agenda that I didn't suspect. He's not wearing a wedding ring. Is it possible that he's actually hitting on me?

I surprise myself by deciding that the thought is not an entirely unpleasant one.

We make idle small talk on the ride, which thankfully doesn't last more than a few minutes, because idle small talk really isn't my forte. He sees the sign for the Corner Pocket as we drive by, and asks if I've ever been there. I'm very tempted to say, "oh, Steve-o, if only you knew!" but am able to keep my response to a minimal "once in a while."

When he pulls up outside my apartment building, he suggests that we meet for a beer sometime, and I give him a noncommittal agreement. He produces a business card from his pocket that features the name of the bar we just came from. Below that it says "Steve Austin, Head of Security" and lists two telephone numbers: business and personal. I take the card and thank him, sliding out of the truck and telling myself I'll probably never end up dialing that 'personal' number. As I'm closing the door, he grins lopsidedly at me and tells me to give him a call next time I need a ride.

He drives off and I head toward my door, but my attention is grabbed by a figure sitting on the pavement. He's leaning against the wall of my building, wearing a hoodie that partially masks his face, and holding a paper cup in which he's collecting spare change from kind passersby. I hate to even think it to myself, but he reminds me of Jeff.

I hand the kid all the change that I've got in my pocket, and then turn and start walking the couple of blocks toward Jeff's place before I really even realize what I'm doing.

_______________

As I let myself in through the front door without knocking, I can hear Jeff's taunting voice in my head, telling me that I'm such a goddamned hypocrite. I buy a deadbolt, and then barge right in on him without notice. I know the imaginary voice is right.

I ease my conscience by telling myself that I just want to check up on him since I haven't seen him at all after the junkie-sitting, as I've started calling it in my head. And if he's asleep, I don't want to wake him up. I'll just be in and out, he won't even know I was there.

Jeff is nowhere to be seen, and the apartment is quiet. The door to his bedroom is mostly closed, standing ajar only about six inches. Of course he's asleep, I decide. Maybe I'll leave a little note tacked to the door. "Just checking in. Love, Chris."

Except maybe I'll take out the "love" part.

I walk as quietly as I can down the hall and crane my head a little to look into his bedroom. I don't know why. Okay, that's a lie. I want to see him sleeping, peaceful and serene, after the state he was in last time I was here. It'll put another healing stitch in my heart. And if Matt's sleeping next to him, well, maybe that'll even make things better. Then again, maybe not.

As a matter of fact, Jeff is in bed, as I find out when I peer through the crack in the door. And as it turns out, Matt is with him.

Jeff is lying on his side and Matt is pressed flush against his back. The bend of Jeff's knee is being supported in the crook of Matt's elbow, keeping his leg elevated as Matt moves inside him from behind. Matt's other hand is wrapped around the bar of the headboard, using it for leverage as he pushes repeatedly into his brother, his movements remarkably slow and controlled. Their bodies move against each other easily, slicked with sweat and lube, but neither of them seems to be in any hurry. Matt's face is buried in the hair that lies against Jeff's neck, and he's murmuring quiet words that I'm too far away to be able to understand.

Jeff's face is the personification of pure bliss. He's hardly making any noise at all, though occasionally he'll moan and his lips will curl in a small smile, presumably a response to whatever Matt is whispering to him.

I know I should leave, I know that. This is none of my business, and I can feel myself falling downward, back into that black hole I've been trying so hard to crawl out of. But the look on Jeff's face and the slow, tender movement of Matt's body puts me into a sort of a trance, and I can't make myself look away. I'm not even painfully aware of the hard-on I've developed in the few seconds I've been watching them, although I'm sure the walk back home is going to be an embarrassing one.

I don't know exactly how long I've been standing here, but eventually Matt starts moving a little faster, his hand tightening its grip on the headboard until his knuckles go white with the strain. Jeff responds to the impending culmination, dropping a hand down to his cock and fisting himself almost lazily, still in no rush to be finished with this.

Matt's moans are muffled by Jeff's skin as he kisses and sucks heatedly at the side of his throat, and Jeff's hand moves a little faster, his eyelids rolling behind the lids and his jaw hanging slack. After a few more minutes, Jeff starts making a noise somewhere between whimpering and keening, and reaches behind him with his free hand, grabbing at the back of Matt's head. Matt lets go of the headboard and entwines his fingers with Jeff's, bracing his feet against the mattress as best he can so that he can snap his hips a little harder, a little faster.

Matt comes first, his hips faltering in their rhythm as he buries himself as deep as he can, sobbing dryly into Jeff's hair. Jeff follows just seconds behind, coming all over his hand while moaning Matt's name. The contractions of Jeff's muscles while he climaxes makes Matt gasp and thrust one last time, panting for lost breath. He slowly lowers Jeff's leg and settles against him more fully, wrapping his arms around his little brother and holding him close.

"I love you," Matt says.

"I love you, too," Jeff answers, and I turn to head for the door.

Walking home, I can't really say that I'm feeling much of anything. I guess I've become pretty numb. I keep repeating to myself over and over that this is all my doing. I wanted them to be happy, and now I've seen first hand that they really are.

When I get back to my place, I sit on the couch and flip on my rarely used television, surfing channels and desperately trying to find something to grab my attention. When that doesn't work, I turn on the radio to try and lose myself in something meaningful, but every single song that comes on somehow reminds me of them.

Fuck it all, I decide then and there.

I turn the tuning dial until I find the heaviest thing I can, turn it up, and then head for the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I open the nightstand drawer and dig out the kit from underneath all the random papers and receipts, and use the razorblade to cut a few lines on the surface of the nightstand. Reaching into my jeans pocket, I extract a dollar bill and roll it into a tight, neat little straw.

After a couple of passes with the buck, after the sting is gone and my eyes stop watering, I notice something lying on the bedspread. I guess it fell out of my pocket while I was digging for the dollar.

I look at it for a minute, contemplating. But the cocaine (and the pieces of my heart) tells me to stop thinking for just one fucking minute, and do something. I comply.

I pick up Steve's business card, grab the phone, and dial the number.