"Hey, kiddo. How are you? You look like shit."
"Gee, thanks, Deb, you always know the perfect thing to say," Brian answered, motioning for her to pour him some coffee. "You'd look like shit, too, if you'd had about two hours of sleep."
"What's wrong? Sunshine keep you up too late exercising last night?" She smirked.
"Something like that. But not for the reason you think." For once, Brian was actually being sincere instead of sarcastic. In other words, totally UNLIKE him. Now she was REALLY concerned. "Something wrong with Sunshine?" She asked.
"No, he's okay," Brian answered, irritated.
"Then why do you sound like someone's shoved a poker up your ass?" Debbie eyed him carefully.
"Just forget it, Deb! Everything's fine," he growled.
"Okay – don't bite my head off. Shit! Drink some more coffee. I'll go see if I can find some strychnine to put it in to spice it up." Shaking her head, she stomped back towards the kitchen to pick up the latest order. Walking back toward the counter, her face lit up as she saw a familiar face. "Carl! Hi, Honey! What you doing here, sweetie?" she asked the man as she gave him a peck on the cheek.
"Hi, Sweetheart. I'm actually here to meet someone," he informed her, taking a seat directly next to Brian. "Can you get me some coffee and one of those early bird specials the way I like it?"
She eyed both of them curiously. "Sure, Honey," she answered, pouring him some coffee from the pot in her hand before walking off to place his order.
Carl turned his attention back to his dining companion. "Now, Brian, what is it you wanted me for? You said it was police business," he reminded the other man.
Brian looked around to determine where Debbie was. He knew how protective she was of Justin, so he decided he would rather not wind up having to explain to her what was going on. "Yeah, it is. And actually, I'd rather not have Debbie know what's going on. I know how she is, and I don't want her to worry, okay?"
"Does it have something to do with her?" He asked Brian, now somewhat concerned.
"No," the hazel-eyed man reassured him. "Not her. Justin."
"What about Justin?" Carl had known the young man for some time now by virtue of his close relationship with Debbie, and he had grown to admire and like the artist.
Brian scowled, disgust plainly evident on his handsome features. "It seems Justin has earned a secret admirer, he said with great distaste. "This guy has been leaving him little trinkets the last few days, and I want it to stop."
"Trinkets? What do you mean by trinkets?"
"Well, the first one was a box of Delafee chocolates. You know what those are?" At Carl's negative shake of his head, Brian explained. "They're VERY expensive chocolates." Reciting the facts as if it were a commercial, he elaborated, "They're made from the finest cocoa beans, and oh, yeah, flakes of 24-carat gold in them. Justin told me Emmett had learned about them from George, you know, the pickle guy? Emmett said George told him they cost $508.00 a POUND." Brian watched the same incredulous expression appear on Carl's face that he had worn himself the first time Justin had told HIM, too.
Carl whistled. "Wow! That definitely puts Whitman's Chocolates to shame, doesn't it?" He noticed Brian not sharing in his little attempt at levity, however. Clearing his throat, he said, "What else has he gotten?"
"The second gift was a platinum bracelet shaped in the form of two intertwining braids. It came from Tiffany's. The day before yesterday, he was left a large basket outside the loft containing several tubes of edible paint." He noticed Carl trying hard to stifle a small smile at the mention of THAT gift. "And then yesterday, this asshole sent him a custom-made CD of little "ditties" that left no doubt as to what exactly he had in mind for Justin and him to do in their spare time."
"How are these gifts being delivered?"
"Well, the first gift was delivered by a guy in a nondescript uniform, sort of like a UPS delivery man. The second guy who delivered the bracelet actually gave it directly to Justin here at the diner. The paint, like I said, was delivered at the loft by someone Justin didn't even see. And the CD was mailed to him in care of the studio by Priority Mail. There's never any return address, of course."
"Has this guy made any threats toward Justin?"
Brian hesitated. "Well, no, not exactly, but the messages are VERY personal ones." Carl heard paper crinkling as Brian pulled out three notes from his briefcase, one badly wrinkled, handing them to the police detective. He also placed the bracelet in his outstretched hand. "There's an inscription on the back." Carl studied the notes and flipped the piece of jewelry over to read the inscription.
Brian peered intently at the older man, waiting somewhat anxiously for his response. Finally, the man replied, somewhat sympathetically, "I have to be straight with you, Brian. I know this isn't what you want to hear but unless this guy has done something that either indicates he means to inflict physical harm on Justin, or acts in a way to create substantial emotional distress to him, my hands are tied. The laws in Pennsylvania are very specific about it."
"What the fuck do you think he's doing by sending these explicit messages to him? You don't think that constitutes emotional distress?"
"Brian, the exact term is SEVERE emotional distress, specifically meaning a state of temporary or permanent mental ANGUISH. That's a pretty strong term, so it can be very difficult to prove. If you don't have an open and shut case, the guy could just walk shortly after he's brought in," he finished truthfully.
Brian's frustration was apparent now as he practically yelled, "Well, what the fuck does the guy have to do before the situation IS taken seriously? HURT Justin? That's a bunch of BULLSHIT! I'm not going to stand around and wait for this asshole to take his sick game to the next level! If you won't help me, then I'll just have to do something myself!" He stood up, as he snatched the notes and bracelet from Carl's hands.
"Brian? Carl? What's going on?" Debbie couldn't help overhearing Brian's outburst. "What about Justin?" She tried to get Brian's attention as he rushed in a huff toward the door. "Carl?" She turned to her boyfriend for an explanation.
"Brian – wait! Don't do anything rash! Let's try and work out a solution to the problem within the scope of the law," Carl called to him, trying his best to placate the other man, but Brian stomped toward the door.
"I don't have to be politically correct," he responded acidly. "I'll take care of it myself!" He slammed the door shut as he stomped out of the diner.
The city lights of Pittsburgh twinkled far below his rented penthouse as Lane Prescott waited impatiently for the detective to arrive with his latest report. He was getting tired of having to draw this seduction out. His captivation with Justin had not lessened since he had last seen him over a year ago; in fact, if anything, it had gotten even stronger. The photos he had arranged to have taken of him at a recent art show and other local events had proved the blond had only become more attractive since the last time he had had the pleasure of his company. The blond hair was somewhat longer and the body a little more toned. But the blue eyes, which had always mesmerized the sportswear tycoon, were as fascinating as ever: sparkling with excitement, flecked with almost silver at times, and endless in their scope. And the smile. The first time Lane had seen that smile, he was stunned. He had no idea how amazing it was. He understood then why he had heard Justin's brassy friend at the auction call him "Sunshine." It certainly fit, he thought. As the recipient of that smile, Lane's heart had swelled and he had fallen more deeply in love with the young man than ever. It was the height of irony that as powerful as Lane was in the business world, in the company of this artist he found himself vulnerable and almost helpless.
His thoughts were interrupted by a buzzing sound. Pressing the nearby intercom, he asked, "Is that you, Kingsley?" David Kingsley, the detective he had been anxiously waiting for, answered affirmatively.
"Come on up," he instructed the man. Moments later, he opened the front door as he heard the man knocking; he had dismissed his staff earlier for the sake of complete privacy.
"Have a seat," he instructed the man. "Drink?" He handed the wiry, bespectacled man a scotch, as the detective placed a fairly thick folder on the couch beside him as he sat down.
"Thanks." Knowing the man was impatient to learn his latest news, he began without any further preamble. "I arranged for the four gifts to be delivered as you instructed. I also determined through my surveillance partners that Kinney just had a new, state of the art security system installed at their loft today. He also had several cameras placed around the entire perimeter of the studio, obviously to film a record of any future deliveries."
Bastard, Lane thought. He's still as arrogant as ever. Aloud, he advised the detective, "That doesn't bother me. I'm about to put the next part of my plan into action, anyway. A more direct approach. I want you to stay on standby in case I need you for anything further. I will handle the next part of the plan. In the meantime, I want you to leave what you have with me." Nodding his head in understanding, Kingsley gulped down the reminder of his scotch and rose to leave.
As the man shut the door behind him, Lane picked up the now fairly voluminous folder and leafed through it thoughtfully. Among such documents as the Sunshine Studio's blueprint, the loft floor plan, and a copy of Brian & Justin's lease, were several of the photos taken of Justin and his work sprinkled throughout the folder. Lane glared in hatred at the photos showing the blond vision with that arrogant prick of a man, Kinney. He had to construct an effective way to separate Justin from that possessive man's clutches. Easy enough – it had to simply involve appealing to Kinney's love for competition and Justin's love for art. For a man with his power, money, and influence, that should not be a problem, Lane thought. He smiled, licking his lips slightly in anticipation of soon being reunited with the beautiful artist. Soon, Angel, he thought eagerly. Soon.