Aphrodite's Garden

by Emily Brunson

(c)2001

PART I

We, my darling, for our sins
Suffer in each other's woe,
Read in injured eyes and hands
How we broke divine commands
And served the Devil.

Who is passionate enough
When the punishment begins?
O my love, O my love,
In the night of fire and snow
Save me from evil.
(From "Songs and other musical pieces," XXXIV, W.H. Auden)

1.

He awoke to a pounding headache, and the dull recognition that he was probably going insane.

Why else was the alarm so loud? Same one he'd had for six years, but even one year ago it hadn't been this teeth-gritting cacophony. Louder every day now, until this morning, when it might as well have been a jackhammer drilling into the precise center of his forehead.

He fumbled with one hand until the alarm clock-turned torture device shut up. Then he simply lay there for a while, wondering if he'd rather have a pill or simply die right now. A surge of disgust stirred him finally, and the pill won out. Three of them, dry-swallowed on his way to the bathroom.

Midway through brushing his teeth he took a good look at himself in the mirror. Thirty had come and gone, two months ago, and he'd hardly registered its passing. He rinsed his mouth and resumed his squint-eyed study of the face he saw. Not so bad, all things considered. After all, he cleaned up pretty, didn't he? Eye drops took care of his red irises. Nature had always been kind to him; his hangovers never looked as bad as some others' he'd seen. In another hour he'd look absolutely normal.

He closed his red-and-blue eyes and the smells of the bathroom overwhelmed him. The sharp peppermint of toothpaste, the punishingly clean odor of soap. Shampoo, aftershave, cologne, disinfectant, the perfume on the toilet paper. He grabbed the edge of the sink when his knees buckled, flailing for balance. After a long, terrible moment of deep breathing, the assault of odors faded a little, enough that he could open his tearing eyes and resume his glare into the mirror.

"You've finally lost it, Jimmy," he whispered, and wanted to laugh, or maybe cry. All this time, all this shit, and now he was finally going to take that ultimate step, lose it, fall over and not be able to crawl up again. All those years of falling and pulling himself back up, time after time after time, only that had been knowable, those had been falls he understood.

This was incomprehensible, and it terrified him as nothing else in his fairly long and dangerous life had ever done before.

He showered, and shaved very carefully with trembling hands. Remembering his schedule gave him a peculiar sense of relief. In the midst of the hell of sight and sound and smell, there was such a thing as sanity. A very weird, twisted version of sanity, all things considered, and he felt like laughing again, thinking of how anyone else would react to it being called that. But when compared to what he had been experiencing the past three months, his regular life was a piece of cake.

A glance at the clock reassured him. Plenty of time, in spite of his slow awakening and miserable moment in the bathroom. He chose carefully from the neatly arranged clothes in his closet. A double-breasted gray suit, deep charcoal with almost invisible pinstripes. Pristine white banker's shirt, and silver-gray silk tie. He dressed and surveyed the result in the mirror. Impeccably professional, of course. He drew on thin black silk socks and eased his feet into the one pair of black shoes he owned. Getting just a little old, although a quick buff with a chamois made them look better than they should. He made a mental note to remember to look for a decent replacement pair.

Late morning traffic was heavy, and for a few minutes he worried about being late. Late was not acceptable, not this time. Sometimes he had a little leeway, although he made an attempt never to take advantage of that. Time was money, and not only for him. For everyone.

He pulled into the guest parking lot at ten minutes of twelve, and breathed a tiny sigh of relief before getting out of the car. The tidy five-year-old Saab didn't look terribly out of place here; at least it was clean, which was more than one could say for a lot of its companions. He locked up the car and tucked his beeper in his pocket, set to vibrate.

He nodded at the receptionist in the main entry area. She smiled and waved a perfectly manicured hand. Kelly, he thought her name was. The friendliest of an otherwise coolly professional organization. He walked over to the elevator and let two women in painfully tailored suits enter before him. One of them pressed fifteen. He pressed thirty-two, and heard one of them whisper something to the other about lunch and covering for her while she went to the bank. He didn't want to overhear. Couldn't help it. He wanted to cover his ears and hum when the other girl mentioned her period and taking the afternoon off.

No one got on at the fifteenth floor, and he finished his ride in solitude.

What day was this? Tuesday. Only Tuesday, regular day, noon appointment, nothing then until three. He wouldn't have enough time to go home between appointments. He should buy those shoes, couple of hours to kill and nothing else to do. Loafers? No, wingtips. Just like the ones he wore now. He had become a creature of habit. These wingtips had served him well for years. Why change? If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

He leaned his throbbing head on the cool aluminum elevator panel and closed his eyes. Shoes didn't matter. The only reason they mattered was because they gave him something to think about. Something besides maybe he had a brain tumor, or maybe he was just finally cracking up, following in mom's tired footsteps, another Ellison spending a bit of quality time in the psych unit before being set loose and scouting out a nice roomy refrigerator box as a winter home.

I'm so tired, he wanted to tell those sweet-smelling women who had gotten off on the fifteenth floor. He wanted to look into their perfectly shadowed and mascaraed eyes and say, I'm too tired to do this any more. Please make it so I don't have to. Please.

The elevator dinged the thirty-second floor, and he lurched back to a standing position as if the metal panel had given him an electrical shock. He had time to brush the stubborn lock of hair back from his forehead before the doors opened.

Madeleine was on the phone, but gave him a nice enough smile, a finger lifted telling him to hold on a second. She wasn't fooled, but most of the people at this brokerage weren't nearly so observant. Jim himself didn't much care, but then that wasn't surprising, was it?

The secretary hung up the phone and rolled her eyes before smiling at him, a bigger smile this time. "Mr. Ellison, it's nice to see you." Her purse was already on her desk, keys to the side. Time for lunch.

"How are you, Maddie?" He produced a smile for her, and watched her cheeks color slightly. She was wearing a heavy floral perfume; he kept smiling while backpedaling, trying to quell the assault of that smell.

"Mr. Cranfill is running a little late today; he's still got someone in there with him. Would you like to wait, or should I reschedule you?" She held a pen alertly.

He shook his head. "I'll wait."

"Would you like some coffee? Or a soda?"

"No, thank you," he demurred, although coffee sounded terribly good. "I know you're headed out for lunch. I'll be fine."

She paused, and then shrugged a little. "He shouldn't be much longer." She picked up her purse and keys and stood up, brushing at her immaculate dress. "An old client. I'm sure he'll only be a minute."

"Good to see you, Maddie. Have a nice lunch."

"Okay. See you next week, Mr. Ellison."

He watched her go, clumping with all the others headed out for the noon hour. Inside a minute there was no one to be seen. Status quo.

He sat in one of the stiff reception area chairs and thumbed listlessly through a golf magazine. He'd never played, but occasionally the pictures were diverting. Such beautiful, green, sunny places. Exotic names. One of these days he was going to travel. Get out of Washington state, away from rain and fog and find out what dry air and white, brilliant sunshine felt like.

If he concentrated, he knew he could hear the voices inside the office. He dropped the glossy magazine and wished briefly that he didn't know he could do that. What was it Kevin had always said? "Wish in one hand and piss in the other, and see which one fills up first?" Wish it all away, Jimmy. And while you're at it, wish a whole flock of other things as well. Better choices, a zig when you zagged instead. See where it gets you.

The office door opened, and his horribly acute sense of smell awoke from its reluctant slumber. Herbs. Sweet savory and basil, and sage. The fresh scents were so different from the rest of the odors in this closed-up glass box of a building, he found himself inhaling with pure relief. Like smelling the outdoors, the woods behind the Exeter Street bridge, dawn on a warm summer morning.

He looked over and forgot all about the woods.

The man couldn't have been much past twenty-three or so. Maybe a couple of years less than that, still within hailing distance of boyhood, really. Soft features that had not known much frowning, eyes whose startlingly pure indigo made the memory of his own pale blue eyes seem a faded lackluster imitation of the real color. A mouth made for smiling. For laughing, for kissing.

A mouth opening now to speak over his shoulder. "Give me five minutes. If Tokyo isn't set by then, I'm out of this deal, Malcolm."

There was a mutter of Cranfill's slightly hoarse voice from inside the office, and then the stranger finished turning around and looked at Jim. Immediate, somewhat abashed smile. "Sorry," he said, and Jim felt like crying at the feel of that voice on his ears. Deep, smooth as expensive red wine. "I swear to God we're almost done in here."

Jim nodded jerkily. "It's all right," he managed. "Take your time."

The man took out a cellphone and punched buttons with his thumb, crossing over to lean one slim hip against Madeleine's desk. Jim sat and listened, not caring what the man said. Only the sound of the seductive, unbelievably comforting voice mattered. For the first time in months he felt the constant red band of pain around his forehead loosening the tiniest bit, and he shut his eyes instinctively, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair.

"Hey, Jimmy."

Jim's eyes flew open, to stare up at Malcolm's familiar face. "Sorry to keep you waiting," the broker said easily. "But we're almost finished. Come on in."

With an almost audible clang, reality slapped Jim in the face. No sweet sage dreamtime now, boy, you got work to do. Sit around here mooning over some rich kid who just tried some new twenty-dollar-the-bottle shampoo, and lose out on your percentage. Smooth moves. Real smooth.

But he allowed himself one last guilty sniff of the guy's oddly natural fragrance before following Cranfill inside the office.

The phone was ringing, of course, and since his client was still there, Malcolm hadn't rolled over to the service yet. He spoke in harsh, fast Japanese, ignoring Jim. That was fine, too; nothing new there. He stood near Cranfill's huge steel desk and simply waited.

Cranfill hung up at the same time that the kid client came back into the office. "Well?" The mahogany voice seemed ill-suited to his tired tone.

"Five hundred was the most I could get. You don't want it, I'll unload it by two. But it's yours."

"I don't care which ones you buy." The guy sounded exasperated now, running a long-fingered hand over his curly hair. "I just care about the dividends, Mal. You know that. I got tuition coming up, and I spent way too much on vacation. Just set something up that will see me through to June."

Malcolm smiled, a strangely familiar, paternal smile Jim had never seen before. "How long have I been your family's West coast broker, Blair? Ten years? Twelve? You think I'm gonna lose this one? You'll have your tuition. Christ, kid, you drop a hundred shares of Microsoft, you'll have tuition for the whole fucking senior class."

Blair of the hypnotic voice grinned. "Not quite. Besides, I promised Dad I'd hold onto that."

Malcolm gave a dismissive snort. "Relax, kid. Want a drink?"

"It's twelve-fifteen, Mal. No, I don't want a drink. I have to go."

"You sure? Why don't you stick around a little?" Cranfill rummaged in his desk and came up with his stash, tapping the slim glass tube on the metal. "Little something to get you going?"

Blair shot Jim a fast, exasperated smile. See what I have to put up with, that smile said. This guy's a real cretin, but he wasn't bullshitting about making my money turn into lots more money, so I just say no when he pulls out the coke, and we get along all right. You know the drill, doncha?

"I'm sorry, I didn't introduce you." Cranfill's smile turned greasy, and much, much more familiar to Jim. Well, the blow he'd just set out on that shiny desk wasn't the first of the day, then. "James Ellison, Blair Sandburg. Blair's family and I go way back. His dad and I were roommates in college."

Jim looked at Blair's outstretched hand and took it gingerly. "Good to meet you, Jim," Blair said warmly. His grip was firm, perfect. Irresistible. "Don't let him spend too much of your money."

Cranfill snorted. "I don't spend his. He spends mine."

Jim dropped Blair's hand as if it had burned him, and shot a fast disbelieving look at Cranfill. A perfectly ordinary noon hour had just become very much not ordinary at all. Cranfill considered Jim his best-kept secret. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, and closed it when Malcolm's cocaine-hyper voice kept going.

"In fact Jim is a purveyor of certain services. A salesman, I suppose one could say." Cranfill smirked, giving Jim a careless look before grinning again at Blair. "Although I don't recommend sending his invoices to the payables department," he added nastily. "Might raise a few eyebrows."

The look Blair gave Jim wasn't nearly as warm any longer. "So this is your source?" he said evenly. The perfect voice was laden with disapproval now, so strong Jim wanted to recoil, to immediately apologize, even if Sandburg had it all wrong.

"Nah. Jimmy doesn't deal. Hell, Jim doesn't even touch the stuff any more, do you?" Cranfill put his hand on Jim's wrist. The heat of his flesh baked through the close-knit wool of Jim's suit. "Jim here sells something else. Wanna know what that is?" He laughed, a high cocaine whinny. "Jim sells Jim."

Now Blair sighed. "Mal, I really have to go --"

"Jim here is a hooker. Isn't that a laugh? I mean, look at him. What'd that suit cost you, Jimmy? Five nights? Ten?" Cranfill snuck a look at Blair's pale face and sobered. "I'm sorry. I should say, a 'prostitute,' right? Is that more p.c. of me? Can't call him an escort since I don't ever take him anywhere. Gigolo? That sounds so eighties."

Blair looked suddenly mortally embarrassed. "Jesus, Malcolm --"

"But you know something, kiddo?" Cranfill's hoarse voice took on a conspiratorial note: passing along a hot tip. "You haven't had your dick sucked until you've had Jimmy here do it. Worth every goddamn dollar. Make you believe you've died and gone to heaven."

Jim wanted to cry at the shocked, disgusted look on Sandburg's young face. And from somewhere deep inside him a tired voice spoke up again. Walk away. Just grab what's left of your dignity -- which by this point would fit in a teacup with room to spare -- and walk out of here. Tell this shithead to go back to prowling Exeter Street on his lunch break, and get the hell out of here.

"As tempting as that sounds, I think I'll pass." There was no emotion on Blair's face now, but underneath the steady words Jim could hear his heart pounding agitatedly. He didn't smell interested. That bitter tang under the sweet sagey odor was nervousness, not fear precisely, but some related emotion. Disgust. "Give me a call and let me know about Tokyo, okay? You don't hear anything by two o'clock, go ahead and unload the shares." Blair's smile was slick, and eminently false. Jim could almost see the thought in the kid's head: I'm getting the hell out of here. Now.

Cranfill's arm slid companionably about Jim's waist, and Jim forced himself not to shudder. "All right, Blair," Cranfill said airily. "Tell your dad I got us an eight o'clock tee time next week."

Blair nodded and cast a fast, unreadable look at Jim's flushed, expressionless face before ducking out.

"Sweet kid," Cranfill remarked idly, moving closer to Jim and letting his hand slide down to cup Jim's left buttock, kneading through his trousers. "Rich as Croesus, too. Little snot. Nothing like inheriting your money. Isn't the same for working stiffs like me and you, right, Jimmy?"

Yesterday he would have smiled, said something meaningless and vaguely flattering. He couldn't force that at the moment. He simply nodded numbly, and gritted his teeth while Cranfill's hand kneaded his ass.

For the next forty-five minutes the image of Blair Sandburg's beautiful, terrifyingly innocent face occupied his thoughts. The coke hadn't affected Cranfill's wearingly happy libido; he went his usual two rounds. But it really wasn't all that hard to go through the motions, and still maintain a weird kind of distance. Different from Jim's usual coping methods. Those were tried and true, and rarely failed him. Sometimes he enjoyed it, with a vaguely animal-like sense of pure physical pleasure. Some things just felt good, no matter if there was a price tag attached or not. And sometimes he simply took a few emotional steps away, reducing it to business. After all, he'd been selling this for a long time. If it wasn't business, what was it?

Today, he found himself falling back on an old, tired fantasy: pretending it was someone else he held in his mouth, someone else moving urgently between his legs. He didn't have to worry with Cranfill, as he did with some clients. Malcolm didn't need any extra help. A blow-up doll would have worked just as well, probably. Jim was just a body, a mouth and an ass to pay for and use.

But in the seconds before Cranfill finished, it was wonderful to think about doing this kind of thing not for money. Just desire. To hear Blair Sandburg's rich voice saying Jim's own name before he came, to feel those eloquent hands moving on Jim's body, banishing the pain of the ever-present headache and replacing discomfort with joy.

He cleaned up and dressed in Cranfill's antiseptic executive bathroom, avoiding his reflection stolidly. Dressed, the fantasy vanished. He felt the mantle of reality settling over his shoulders like a heavy, unwelcome lead cloak. Just a rent boy, Jimmy. Don't get illusions. Blair would pay like all the others. It's what you do. Just because you cost more now doesn't mean you do anything different from when you were sixteen and giving ten-dollar blowjobs in the alley behind the Fourth Street shelter. You wear nicer clothes now, and you carry a beeper and call them appointments, but you can gold-plate a dog turd and call it jewelry, too, and that doesn't change the fact that it's still a gold-plated piece of shit.

He took Cranfill's money and silently nodded his assent for next week.

If any trace of his lunch hour with Malcolm Cranfill showed, no one noticed. He made his way to the elevator unremarked. Madeleine wasn't back from lunch yet. The two arguing men sharing the elevator with him ignored him, which was just fine. He just wanted suddenly, savagely, to disappear.

He picked up speed once he reached the lobby downstairs. The air felt strange: thick with too many smells, and far too bright. He bumped into someone on his way out the front door and muttered a lame apology, too relieved to be outside to care very much.

A honking horn split the air and he froze. His quiescent headache leaped forward, and suddenly all he could smell was gasoline. As if he were suddenly drenched in it, so strong he couldn't fight it down. With a feeling of distant amazement he watched the bright parking lot darken, until there was nothing at all but smell.

"You okay? Oh man, would somebody tell that guy to stop honking his fucking horn?"

The blackness had been everywhere, everything, but the voice was like a thin blade of light, slicing into the dark. Some dim part of him shuddered with faint recognition.

"I don't know, I think he's having some kind of -- seizure. You're okay. J -- Jim, right? Jim, take a few deep breaths, okay? Open your eyes. You're okay."

With a start he felt a warm hand on his wrist, and suddenly everything came back at him. Sight, sounds, the scents of hot asphalt and soap.

He blinked, and saw Blair Sandburg's face, twisted now with concern.

"Jesus," Jim whispered. He was sitting on his ass in the middle of the parking lot, with about fifteen people all standing around wearing various permutations of worried looks. What the hell?

"Oh, man." Blair's glistening voice jerked Jim's head around again, to stare wildly at him. Sandburg smiled hesitantly, still looking a little stunned. "Are you okay?"

Mortification slammed into him. Perfect. Not only had he just apparently had some kind of major meltdown right here in broad daylight, but this man had had a ringside seat. What about an encore, Jimmy? Maybe you can actually finish going completely nuts, and give the guy another kind of show from the one he saw in Cranfill's office, hmm?

"I'm okay," he said, furious at the wavery sound of his own voice. "Must have been the heat." He put a hand out on the hot pavement and tried to push himself to his feet.

"Here. Take it slow, man; no hurry, okay?" Blair's arm slid around Jim's waist, and Jim winced at how terribly welcome that touch felt. The scent of herbs filled his nostrils again, cooling the hot August air.

And that touch wasn't taking him to his car, where he could drive away and do his best to forget how fucking embarrassing this entire day had been so far. No, Blair was apparently taking him to a shady bench, where he could catch his breath, supposedly. At least the crowd was dispersing. Jim shot an irritated look at the departing backs.

"I'm all right," he hissed, pulling restlessly at Sandburg's grip around his waist.

"Sit." He didn't have much choice, and glared impotently up at Blair's youthful face. "You want some water or something? I can go get --"

"I'm fine."

With something like despair he watched Blair sit down beside him. "Call me crazy," the younger man said softly, "but you didn't seem fine back there. Are you -- are you okay?"

It didn't take Jim's weirdly sensitive hearing to pick up on what Sandburg wasn't saying. He felt himself flushing again. "I'm fine," he repeated stolidly, looking away. "Like I said. It was just the heat. Coming out of the air-conditioned building."

"I didn't think you were gonna come out of it. You just -- sat there. Maybe you should see a doctor. Has this happened before? You know, this is so weird. I was just reading about this tribe -- I'm a student, sorry, I should have said -- anyway, this tribe that --"

Jim turned to look at Blair, and the tide of words simply stopped, as if someone had turned a spigot somewhere. The pristinely beautiful face was twisted with worry, so clear Jim felt his heart take a stuttering leap in his chest.

"I should go," he heard himself say. "I'm sure you have places to be." He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue.

"No place," came the steady reply. Blair's eyes were impossibly, mythically blue. "Don't worry."

I do, Jim thought miserably. I have so many places to go. I just have to think where they might be. Because if I sit here for another minute with you I'm going to forget more than where my next appointment is, or when. I'm going to forget that I don't care about anyone, and that is not allowed. Not for you, not for anyone. Not allowed.

Blair smiled. "You want something to eat? I missed lunch, and I'm starving. There's a great little place a couple of blocks away."

"I can't," Jim whispered.

"Please. I would -- like it if you'd join me. Have something cool to drink. You'll feel better."

Say no, Jimmy. Say fuck no, and get the hell out of here. This is what you know to avoid. Didn't you fucking learn your lesson? How many times have you got to fuck up before you get it through your lame excuse for a brain? There's always a price tag. Always.

"I can't stay long." With the words he felt everything start to spiral inward again. Insanity.

As he listened to Blair's bewitching voice, luring him back from the beckoning darkness, he wondered why he had been resisting madness all this time. No one had ever told him how comforting it really was.

He turned to look at Blair, and smiled gratefully.

2.

The restaurant was good. He hadn't lied about that. It was also rapidly growing deserted in the post-lunch slump, which was a good thing. Fewer distractions.

Blair stuck his fork into his salad -- house Caesar, quite excellent -- and looked at his companion.

Blair himself might have been hungry, but it appeared Jim wasn't. Even in ordering food he'd been as passive as he had been since Blair steered him to the restaurant: staring at the menu as if it were printed in Russian, wearing a look of helpless indecision when asked what he would like for lunch. When Blair gently recommended the veal, Jim had simply nodded without saying anything.

Now he poked at his food, moving it around on his plate without actually eating anything that Blair could tell. The model-perfect face was a study in blankness. Beautiful, but as distant as the moon.

"Penny for your thoughts," Blair said quietly, and watched Jim flinch, fork scraping against his plate as he shot him a wide-eyed look.

"Nothing." The other man set his fork down on his plate and reached for his water glass. He drank with peculiar concentration, throat working in a smooth, hypnotic glide of muscles.

Blair forced a smile. "Doesn't look like nothing to me," he objected mildly.

"Why am I here?" The cool look Jim gave him was at desperate odds with the trembling fingers, setting the water glass back on the table.

Blair shrugged. "Because I wanted company for lunch?" He ate a bite of salad, untasting. "Because you didn't look as if you should be driving just yet?"

So many emotions flickered over Jim's face, Blair was unsure if he'd really seen them all. Hope, and embarrassment, and confusion. And over them all, like a dull coat of paint, this forced, chilly doubt. "If it's company you're looking for," he said evenly, "you'll have to make an appointment. I'm spoken for this afternoon."

Blair stared at him. "What?" he repeated stupidly.

Ellison's smile was a strange combination of fear and loathing. Blair couldn't tell if it was loathing of him or perhaps Jim himself. "This is very cozy," Jim said. His oddly fearful smile faded, leaving him looking pale and vaguely sick. "But time is money. If you want to see me next time, call ahead."

Some tiny voice inside him piped up. Why the hell are you wasting your time with this jerk? Blair drew a deep breath, fighting down the surge of indignant anger. "If I want it," he whispered coolly, "I assure you I don't have to pay for it."

"Whatever you say." But Ellison looked as if he might cry, his dismissive, sullen tone completely at odds with his shining pale blue eyes.

Blair thought about saying something, apologizing maybe, or asking if he was still available for the evening. Anything to wipe the weird little-boy-lost look from Jim's hauntingly perfect face, anything to assure that this wasn't all over with just a few harsh words and nasty innuendoes.

Someone in the kitchen dropped what sounded like a trayful of glasses, and Blair nearly jumped out of his skin with pure shock. But it was nothing compared to Ellison's reaction. He uttered a hoarse, agonized sound and clapped his hands over his ears. Blair was stunned to see tears of pain squeeze out from the corners of his clenched-shut eyes.

God damn it, what was it with this guy? Such a combination of strangenesses, prostitute and gentleman and so obviously sensitive, like --

He caught his breath, and froze in the midst of reaching out to touch Ellison's tense arm. The man still held his hands over his ears, breath coming in shallow painful gasps. Sensitive hearing. That noise had been loud, but Blair's own hearing was perfectly normal, and he was okay. Ellison was obviously still recovering. Why so bad?

Images from an hour ago surged forward in his memory. What had he been doing? Besides guiltily lingering far longer than he should, half-unconsciously hoping he might see this fearfully handsome man one more time? And there he was, but no longer the cool, emotionless professional Blair had so recently met. Now looking overwhelmed, his face waxy with strain and fear. Even from a distance Blair had felt an instinctive lurch of concern. Ellison just looked so -- sick.

Then he paused, and sat down hard right on the asphalt, and there had been a moment of pure terror when Blair was absolutely sure the oncoming car was not going to stop in time, but simply bump right over the stricken man in the way. He couldn't remember what he screamed at the driver, but for sure it hadn't been his words that mattered; only his flailing arms and sudden sprint to Jim's side.

What had happened right before he saw Ellison drop like a well-dressed marionette? A seizure? Maybe. Nothing, Blair had seen nothing else that might account for it. Just --

But the man in the silver Lexus had been leaning on the horn, hadn't he? Enough that Blair himself had screamed at him to stop honking.

Hearing. This guy -- this immaculately dressed, troubled man, who had apparently just turned a trick for Blair's father's oldest friend -- had the same kind of enhanced hearing Blair had just seen two weeks ago, in a test subject. Eleanor Carroway, age 32, a housewife whose hearing was so acute she had tested with supernormal response up to a mile and a half away from the source.

Had it been the honking horn? Think, Blair. Think about Ellison's expression. No flinching at the noise, as he sat motionless on the scorching hot asphalt. Nose wrinkled, barely breathing. As if he smelled something so strong it was overwhelming, but there were no particular odors. Just the usual car exhaust, oil, nothing special.

"Jim." He pitched his voice very low, purposefully deepening it until it felt like a sub-bass rumble in his chest. "It's okay. Relax. Relax your muscles, let it go."

Ellison's response astonished him. The painful tension leached almost visibly from his tight body. He let his shaking hands drop to the table, opening watery eyes to give Blair a hauntingly grateful look. "How -- do you do that?" Ellison whispered almost noiselessly. His voice sounded hoarse.

"I don't know what I did," Blair said, shaking his head slightly. "But Jim, I think -- I think I can help you."

The aquamarine eyes filled with immediate distrust. "Help me with what?"

"The noise hurt you. You hear too well, don't you? You hear so well that it hurts you."

Jim blinked, visibly trying to cover his shock at Blair's insightfulness. "I -- have good ears," he whispered. "It was just noise. No big deal." There was no casual tone in his words. As if he were trying to convince not Blair, but himself.

Blair shrugged. "Would it help you to know that I've met people with heightened hearing before? Hearing as acute as yours?"

"You have?" The absolute surprise made Blair want to laugh. "What --"

"I'm studying an aspect of this for my Master's thesis. I observe individuals with one or another super-acute sense, as part of my data-gathering activities. People who can hear exceptionally well, or whose vision or sense of smell are developed far beyond normal capacity. Wine-tasters, people working in the perfume industry."

He watched Ellison swallow hard. The light of terrible hope in his eyes was masked but unmistakable. "How -- how do they cope with it?" he asked.

"Some of them have a very hard time," Blair admitted. He took a drink from his own water glass, setting it carefully back on the table. "More of them have learned to use a particular sensory ability to their own advantage, to one degree or another." He cocked his head to one side. "How long has your hearing been this acute?"

Ellison shrugged. "I don't know. Months. The same time that --" He broke off, flushing a little.

"Same time as what?"

"You'll think I'm nuts," Jim said softly. He pleated an edge of the tablecloth unconsciously, his eyes fixed somewhere between Blair's plate and his own. "I'm pretty sure I'm going nuts."

In the back of Blair's busily processing mind, an random thought leapt forward. It's more than his hearing. That acuteness might not just be hearing, but more senses. Ignoring the thrill of disbelieving excitement that shot through him, he tried for a steady nod. "It's an overwhelming sensation, I've been told. It can be daunting. But there's more you're not telling me, isn't there? What else is going on, Jim?" At the man's hooded, doubtful look Blair smiled. "I'm not here to judge you, man. I'm not a shrink, and I'm not here to psychoanalyze. I'm a scientist. Is it only your hearing that's affected?"

Ellison was still for a very long moment. Then he shook his head reluctantly.

Blair's mouth felt dry as the Gobi Desert. "What else, Jim? What about your sense of smell? Is that out of whack? More sensitive than it used to be?"

A slow nod. But Jim said nothing.

"All right," Blair said, half to himself. "If smell's enhanced, taste is, too." He looked at the untouched food on Jim's plate and felt a flicker of shock. "Did the food taste bad, Jim? Is that why you wouldn't eat it?"

Jim's foggy blue eyes blinked slowly. "Too salty," he replied after a pause. "And it tastes bitter. Like chemicals."

Bitter. Preservatives? Blair had had to salt his own food, and he had the same thing Jim did. "What about vision, Jim?" he pursued intently. "Any visual disturbances?"

Ellison sighed a little, shrugging. "I see better than I used to," he said simply. "Further." He uttered a short, humorless laugh. "Too well, if you want to know the truth."

He's a Sentinel. God damn it, a living, breathing Sentinel, right here in the flesh. "Jim," Blair choked out with difficulty. "Do you know what this means?"

"If I did, I wouldn't be sitting here having this conversation with you, now would I?" came the acerbic reply.

"I'm studying a phenomenon that sounds very much like what you're experiencing, Jim. A couple of years ago I ran across an obscure monograph, by Sir Richard Burton. The explorer, not the actor," he added with a fast grin. "He called these people 'sentinels.'"

Ellison gave him a look so skeptical words were almost unnecessary, and Blair shook his head. "I know, but hear me out. Individuals with tremendously heightened senses, whose role was to protect the tribe of which they were a member. The port of first call, I guess you could say; the first line of defense."

Jim sighed, running his still-shaking hand over his hair. "This is the part where you tell me about giving all my worldly possessions to the cult, right? About giving my life to the Great Whosits of the week?"

Blair blinked. "Cult? No way, Jim. It's a verifiable physical phenomenon. I've been studying people with heightened senses for a full year now. Smell, hearing, vision. I've found a number with one or even sometimes two senses off the map. But you're the first one with what may be all five. You're the first one I've found who may be a true, legitimate Sentinel."

Ellison opened his mouth to say something, and then paused, digging in his pocket to drag out a pager. He scowled at the number and looked up. "I have to go," he pronounced tightly. "I'm already running late. I -- have someplace I have to be." New color flooded his cheeks, and Blair knew the nature of the appointment, if not the actual location.

"Why don't you come by my office tomorrow sometime?" Blair dug out a crumpled card from his pocket and handed it over to Jim, who uncreased it meticulously.

Another long, tense pause. Then Ellison produced a wry, shrugging smile. "When?" he asked simply.

"I teach until one in the afternoon. Any time after that would be fine."

Ellison just nodded, scanning Blair's card rapidly before tucking it inside his wallet. "Thanks for -- lunch," he mumbled, with yet another of his halting, uncertain pauses between words.

"It was my pleasure," Blair replied honestly, and the smile Jim gave him was tentative but astonishingly lovely.

He could almost see Ellison trying to adopt his former glacial solemnity as he walked out of the restaurant. How had such a reserved man ever found a career doing what he did?

Blair snorted at his own choice of words. Career was probably not quite the right term for it. In spite of Jim's elegant suit and excruciatingly careful mannerisms, it was hardly likely that many people really "chose" prostitution. And Jim's manner with Blair might be the exception, after all. He probably had many strategies, and might even have decided that the cool, dismissive route was the one to take with Blair. He might be very different with someone else.

Say, Malcolm Cranfill, his mind asked immediately. The images that flickered into life at that thought made Blair feel slightly ill. No matter what Jim did for a living, there was a terrible sense of wrongness at the idea of him being used in that way by a man Blair knew was an avaricious, unrepentant son of a bitch. Stubborn Jim Ellison might be, proud and intractable and very likely possessed of a very spotty background. But he was curiously gentle. A good guy, Blair would have called him.

Of course he's a good guy. He's a Sentinel. It's genetically programmed. He's a protector.

Or he was supposed to be. Question is, how did he get on this track? So far from what you would expect?

3.

He made it to Michael's house by twenty past three. He let himself in after a tap at the door, greeted immediately by the smell of linseed oil and turpentine. So Michael was working. Good. He hadn't gotten any work done in nearly a month, and Jim had seen the bills piling up. How Michael afforded Jim's services, he wasn't sure. But he always paid. Money from successes past, he supposed.

He found Michael in his studio. The artist flicked a distracted look at Jim before returning to his study of the canvas in front of him.

"Hi," Jim said hesitantly.

"Hey." Michael made a face. "Take a look at this." He lifted his chin at the canvas.

Jim crossed over to stand behind Michael's chair. The painting was in the same style he'd seen the artist adopt most recently. Less of the almost photographic realism that had made him so famous, but not yet anything Jim could call abstract. The edges were looser, severe attention to line and form relaxed in search of something else.

This painting was clearly another of Jim, although the only reason he knew that was that he was well aware he was one of the only people Michael ever saw since his accident four years ago, and almost certainly the only one Michael saw naked. As always, Jim's face was unclear, perhaps an intentional blurring of his features.

He had never actually posed for Michael. All of what Michael called his Jim series were taken from memory, or extrapolated entirely. In this present painting Jim lay on his belly, on a rumpled bed. His eyes were closed. He might have been sleeping, or simply resting. His body glowed, a strange halo effect. The window next to the bed showed a bizarrely alien landscape. Purplish, leafless trees seemed to stretch toward the man on the bed, and a ghostly creature perched on one bony limb stared inside, its single blood-red eye stark and startling.

The effect was mesmerizing, and very disturbing. Jim cleared his throat. "I'm not sure," he said honestly. "It's very different from the last one."

Michael nodded enthusiastically. "It's from a dream I had last night."

"You dreamed about me?"

"You're often in my dreams," the artist said evenly, glancing up at Jim. "I'm not sure why. Five years ago I think it would have been Jerry I saw. Now it's you."

"Do you like it? The painting, I mean?"

"I don't like anything, Jim. I love some things, and hate others, lots of others. But I don't think I 'like' anything." The clear-eyed study returned to the canvas in question. "But I do think it has some power."

"What's the thing in the tree?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

Jim blinked. "Why would I know?"

"I dreamed every night for six weeks about Jerry, before the accident." Michael's voice didn't sound grief-stricken. Simply relating a story. "I don't believe in precognition, and I sure as hell didn't dream about him dying in a car crash. You know what I dreamed? I dreamed," he continued without waiting for an answer, "that I was watching him sleep. Every night, I watched him go to sleep, and dream whatever it was he dreamed."

Jim's skin felt cold in the harshly air-conditioned air of the house. "Was there a thing with a red eye in those dreams?" he asked softly.

Michael shook his head. "Nothing but Jerry. When I woke up in the hospital, I knew I wouldn't have any more of those dreams. And I didn't. Never again." He leaned his head back against Jim's flat belly. "Be careful," he whispered. "My dream doesn't mean anything. But I worry about you. What you do."

Jim's throat felt tight, and he put his hands on Michael's tense shoulders, kneading familiarly. "If I didn't do what I do," he returned evenly, "we would never have met."

"Still. I know I'm just a client, Jimmy, but I'd like to think we've gotten to be friends. Be careful. Don't do anything you don't feel good about."

Jim said nothing. The lump in his throat had grown to about the size of a cantaloupe. He gave Michael's shoulders a final squeeze and went to undress.

When he emerged from the bedroom, clad in the thin silk robe Michael gave him months ago, the painter was just putting away his materials. The work area was set up for maximum ergonomic potential; Michael's wheelchair hardly even had to be turned to allow the painter access to just about anything he needed. Jim didn't offer to help. Michael didn't need it, and it was a kind of quiet pleasure to watch him do his thing. Jim sat quietly in the comfortable papa-san chair in the corner, waiting for Michael to be done.

He'd approached his first appointment with Michael Palisca with intense reluctance. He had no idea what to expect. An embittered, immensely famous artist, a print of whose work Jim had seen many times every day growing up, hanging in his father's pipe-redolent study. The accident that had claimed the life of Palisca's long-time companion and rendered Palisca himself a paraplegic had made front-page news five years ago. Since that time Palisca had become a recluse, holing himself up in his sparsely furnished house on the outskirts of Cascade, refusing all attempts at contact with any of the media.

Whatever it would be like, meeting Michael Palisca, Jim had been absolutely certain it wouldn't be ordinary. And in that respect he had been completely correct.

Trey had asked him several times what exactly he did for Palisca. Jim had never been able to come up with a really honest reply. It wasn't sex, exactly; Michael was and would always be impotent. But it was, in some ways. Sex as much of the mind as of the body.

Now Michael wheeled his chair around, cleanup complete, and gave Jim a slanted smile. "I'm glad to see you," he said. "But you look tired. You have another of those headaches again?"

Michael had been the only person to notice Jim's increasingly debilitating headaches. It had been accidental, that afternoon when Jim hadn't been able to fight down the pain sufficiently, and horrified himself by dashing to Michael's gleaming bathroom to be wretchedly sick. But Michael had proved to be a tiny island of helpfulness. Sliding Jim some of the prescription painkillers Michael himself rarely used nowadays, setting Jim up with the masseur Jim now saw once a week. None of those things had proved to be very helpful in the long run, but the intent was there, and Jim was tremendously touched by the effort.

Now he produced a rueful smile. "Not so bad," he said honestly. "Busy day, that's all." An image of Blair Sandburg's face flashed through his mind, and he almost shivered. He started to get up, and Michael shook his head.

"Stay there. You look good against blue."

He slipped easily out of the silk robe. The nubby fabric of the cushions felt strange after the slide of silk, and he fidgeted a moment until his prickly skin adjusted to it. He relaxed back in the chair and smiled.

Michael had told him, during that long-ago first meeting, that he could no longer have real sex, and had no real desire to have it. But he enjoyed watching a man touch himself, and bring himself pleasure. That first afternoon Jim had lain on Michael's orthopedic bed, feeling both ridiculous and oddly treasured as he masturbated. Afterward Michael leaned forward in his chair and kissed the inside of Jim's sweaty thigh, and thanked him.

Almost a year to the day later, after many such almost formal sessions, Michael stunned him by moving Jim's hand away and finishing him with his mouth. Since then Michael had been a participant, although more active at some times than at others.

"God. You're so beautiful." Michael rolled over to come to a halt by the chair. His graying hair flopped into his eyes, and he swept a distracted hand through it. Jim was amused to see a smear of alizarin crimson on Michael's left temple.

Jim smiled again, and stretched out his legs to put one foot on each wheel of Michael's chair. "It feels so good here," he whispered after a long moment. "Safe."

He hadn't planned to say that, and flushed at Michael's stricken look. "Then stay," the painter said gruffly. "Don't go back out there. Stay here, and I'll paint you every day, Jim. Stay where you'll be safe, and l --"

"Don't." Jim was horrified at the prickle of tears behind his eyes. "Don't, Michael. We've been over this before. You know the rules."

Michael's paint-specked hands went out to touch Jim's ankles, stroking up the undersides of his calves. "Rules were made to be broken, Jim. The only real prison any of us lives in is the one we make for ourselves."

"You know that isn't always true."

The slow stain of color on Michael's olive-tinted cheekbones said he got the point. Of course.

Finally Michael handed him a bottle of apricot oil, and then there was no more talking. It felt marvelously good to touch himself. In the haven of Michael Palisca's dark, quiet house, Jim could relax, become as sensual as he rarely was with other clients. He slid his oiled hand over himself, groaning softly in the hushed air, and felt Michael's fingers trailing through his exposed cleft, nudging at his opening. The lunch-hour appointment with Malcolm Cranfill had left him vaguely sore, but Michael's touch was nothing but ease, pleasure, urging Jim to lift his hips, coaxing a harsh cry from his lips.

He closed his eyes and saw Blair Sandburg's face, and came with a wavering scream of joy.

Later, in Michael's bed, he writhed and nearly wept at the feel of the thickness inside him. Michael's fingers stroked his interior flesh, his craggy, battered face peculiarly soft as he watched Jim's reactions intently. Late afternoon sun leached through the myriad trees surrounding the house, and Jim blinked in the errant flashes of brilliance and groaned for Michael to go deeper.

At dusk he kissed Michael sweetly, and went to take a shower. When he came back, still toweling his hair dry, Michael had coffee waiting. Jim sat at the broad plank table and sipped the hot sweet drink gratefully. He felt boneless, more sated than he could remember in many, many months.

Michael took a drink of his own brandy-scented coffee, and then gave Jim a quizzical look. "So," he said mildly. "Who is Blair?"

Jim started, and hastily wiped at the coffee that slopped on his thigh. "Who?" he asked, reeling.

"You called his name. Or hers. I've never heard you do that before. Someone you've met?"

Jim licked suddenly dry lips. "Yes," he said after a moment. No use in hiding it. Michael he could trust. As much as Jim Ellison trusted anyone.

"Thank God."

When he gave Michael a startled look, he saw nothing but a smile. "Whoever Blair is," Michael continued quietly, "they sound like someone you've connected with. Someone important. And you deserve that, Jim. You deserve that so much. Someone who'll care about you."

Something hurt inside Jim's chest. Had he pulled a muscle, strained something? He put a hand to his bare sternum and tried to take a breath. His throat felt like he had tonsillitis, strep, something. So sore.

"If you won't let me take care of you, then promise me you'll let Blair. Please?" Michael put a hand out to grasp Jim's trembling shoulder, fingers pressing firmly. "Let someone show you who you really are, Jim. You can't see it, I know you can't, but there is so much to you, so much you never let show. Find it with Blair, all right? Let someone inside."

He tried to look at Michael's saddened, concerned face, but it was blurred, starry behind a veil of stinging tears. Maybe he was having a heart attack. Maybe that was why his chest hurt so bad.

"Ah, Jimmy. Come here."

He knelt on the bare tile floor of Michael Palisca's kitchen, and buried his face in the painter's numb lap. His tears felt like acid, and for a long time they wouldn't stop.

4.

It was nearly three o'clock the next afternoon before Jim Ellison finally showed up. Blair looked up at the hesitant knock, and opened the door to see a pale, drawn face, too tired to even try for apologetic.

"You okay?" Blair asked immediately, frowning.

Ellison said nothing. Only looked at him with bloodshot eyes, finally shaking his head mutely. Then those same eyes widened a little and Ellison spun on his heels to disappear back down the hall. Blair heard the familiar squeak of the restroom door, and in a moment, very faintly, the sounds of sickness.

He followed at a more circumspect pace, entering cautiously. "Jim?" There was no reply, but long legs stuck out of one of the stalls, and Blair swallowed hard. "Aw, Jim. Oh, man."

He ignored the sharp smell, grabbing Jim's taut shoulders and holding him while he kept throwing up. It might have been illness, but the tight lines around Jim's eyes spoke of pain, instead. Headache, probably; it was understandable. Without planning it Blair stroked Jim's back, crooning in a soft, slow voice, anything comforting that came to mind. And wondered at the pure, instinctive confidence he felt. He could almost feel Ellison's pain draining into Blair's fingertips, a palpable electrical current of discomfort.

When the spasms seemed to abate Blair leaned forward to flush the toilet and then wiped Jim's mouth with a wad of toilet paper. Jim moved weakly, and Blair's grip tightened. "Just a minute. Make sure it's over. Close your eyes. Try to relax."

He fumbled through old memories of massage technique. Vagus nerve, through the shoulder up to the occipital ridge, the cause of Jim's nausea, most likely. One arm still looped around Jim's chest, Blair stroked the back of his neck gently, keeping up the flow of random soft words. "Let go, Jim. Relax, don't focus on any one thing. Just breathe, relax, let it go. Everything's okay now. Just relax."

After what felt like ages, although it probably wasn't more than five, maybe ten minutes, the taut muscle under his hands began to loosen up a bit. Blair smiled tremulously, his own back aching from the stress of holding Jim up this long. "Let me get you to my office. You can sit down and shut your eyes for a while. Maybe take a nap. How's that sound?"

There was no reply, but Jim obediently began struggling to his feet, swaying dangerously before Blair reasserted his firm grip, now around his waist. "That's it," he said without thinking, steering them out of the stall over to the sink. "Clean you up a little, then you can just relax for a while."

He leaned Jim against one of the sinks and ran cool water over a paper towel. Ellison's eyes were half-closed, squinted shut against the bright fluorescent light, but he took the towel gratefully.

Finally Jim was in Blair's office, dwarfing the elderly sprung sofa. "Lie down," Blair urged quietly. He put the two old pillows at one end and perched on the edge of the couch until Jim eased down on his back. Sweat stood out starkly on his pale skin, but the lines of pain around his eyes seemed a little easier. "Just breathe, Jim. Relax, let it go."

After a moment to make sure Ellison wasn't going to say anything, do anything, Blair tiptoed over to the open window and shut it. No sounds if he could help it. The blinds closed, and in a moment he had doused the overhead light as well. The little office looked more like a cave now, but it was cool and quiet and as close to a sanctuary as Blair could make it.

He carried a ladder-back chair over to sit next to the sofa. From all appearances, Jim was already asleep, boneless and unmoving. Blair sat back in the stiffly uncomfortable chair and allowed himself a rattled sigh. Ellison flinched at the sound, and instinctively Blair reached out to touch one cool wrist. Without opening his eyes Jim drew Blair's hand up to cradle against his chest.

"What happened?" Blair whispered noiselessly. He shook his head slowly. "Ah, Jim, you weren't nearly this bad yesterday. What happened between now and then?"

There was no answer. Only the slow, even sound of Jim's breathing. Exhausted. The guy was used up.

In the time between that awkward, illuminating lunch yesterday and now, Blair had done a frenzied amount of research. The idea of a living, real Sentinel was like a cattle prod to his formerly somewhat indolent, unpressured study. Truth to tell, he'd had more than a bit of doubt that Burton's monograph was necessarily anything but hyperbole. Now he knew better, and the knowing had him simultaneously elated and scared shitless.

Oh, he'd been excited to find Ralph Young, last spring. Two senses heightened, not just one. And there were plenty of instances of folks having one extraordinarily acute sense. But none of those ventured outside the realm of statistical probability.

But all five senses? Blair himself would have been doubtful, just hearing about it. But face-to-face as he was now, there was absolutely no denying it. Jim Ellison displayed every hallmark of Burton's rather fanciful Sentinel monograph, but in living breathing Technicolor. No dried-up, silverfish-infested manuscripts here. A real man, confused, terrified, in what appeared to be tremendous pain from the bludgeon of his senses.

A man who needed help desperately.

He leaned back in his chair to reach for a tattered notebook on his desk, praying the chair wouldn't creak too badly. For the next hour he squinted painfully at his own sprawling handwriting, copious notes scribbled that very morning as fast as his hand would allow. Burton had mentioned partners for tribal Sentinels. Someone to help with the peculiar, specific problems most sentinels encountered. One of those was control over the very senses that made them so valuable. Like giving gunpowder and bullets to an aborigine, it wasn't surprising that this amazing ability could backfire and leave a sentinel vulnerable, victim of whatever strong stimulus came around the pike. Burton spoke in the most general of terms, of lengthy training periods, weeks of solitude with only a partner for company, while each sentinel refined his or her abilities.

The strange seizure-like moment on the parking lot yesterday was apparently a reaction to overstimulation of one of Jim's senses. Burton used somewhat grandiose terms to describe that input overwhelming the sentinel, demanding a kind of focus that left him or her looking as if they were almost catatonic. Blair shut his eyes and thought about Jim's expression on that parking lot. Blank, utterly mindless, as if his consciousness had decided to go out for a stroll and leave his body stranded on searing hot asphalt, a puppet with the strings all cut.

And the reaction to Blair's voice? As atavistic and instinctual as Jim's senses themselves, apparently. Most sentinels seemed to have been trained to respond to their parters' voices, but Burton cited one curious case. A kind of natural bond, utterly untrained, between one Sentinel pairing. Of the subjects Burton observed, this was the most successful, if his rather fulsome prose was to be trusted. Purely natural and nearly effortless cohesion.

Was that what Jim had done, yesterday? Responded instinctively to the sound of Blair's voice, as his natural partner? Blair felt the skin of his neck prickle uneasily. What were the odds? Beyond astronomical. And yet the evidence was there. That quick response in the parking lot. Today, in the restroom, Jim's easing at the sound of Blair's voice, the touch of his hand. Blair glanced down at the man in question, and noted the utter calm of his formerly drawn face now. He had no reason to do it, but he would lay significant odds that Jim's headache was gone. Why? Because of Blair?

He shut the notebook carefully and sighed again. Apparently so. Like to see those odds in Vegas. He wouldn't need tuition money for the rest of his life.

Ellison turned a little, so that his face was fully visible. A dark smudge showed, just above the collar of his blue shirt. With narrowed eyes Blair leaned forward, gently nudging the collar aside. The smudge was a bruise, disappearing under Jim's shirt. In the murky light of the office Blair couldn't make out more.

A surge of fury made his breath catch in his throat. What else was Jim hiding? Was this what had put him into that state of excruciating hypersensitivity? Sent his tenuous controls reeling out of sight, and left him with a crucifying headache?

Jim's a prostitute, some dry voice informed him coldly. Where do you think he was, before he came here? Doing needlepoint? Working in the garden, washing the car? He was probably fucking somebody, and things got a little rough. Maybe a lot rough, you don't know. This isn't one of your idle rich friends, or a troubled student. This is a guy who makes his living having sex with people, and if you think he's going to be just like tutoring one of your struggling sophomores you've got another think coming. He's a whore, Blair old soybean. When he wakes up and sees you sitting this close he's probably going to expect cash money.

The thought was unkind, but it did serve to smack Blair in the face with reality. Far from being in some kind of peacekeeping position -- what he would have assumed would be natural for any sentinel -- this man probably had an arrest record longer than Blair's cumulative university grade report. What had seemed like gentleness could be passivity. Maybe the old sentinel abilities had chosen the wrong avatar this time. Ellison wasn't in much of a position to help anyone, from what Blair could see. Much more in a position of needing someone else's help, and pretty damn bad.

Moving stealthily, Blair tiptoed back over to his desk. For the next hour he busied himself with hunting through old files, notes, tattered photocopied pages from various journals, while Ellison slept on the couch. A few times he stirred, and Blair murmured something low and comforting, watching without surprise as Jim quieted immediately, sighing and relaxing again.

A few minutes past five o'clock Ellison woke up, jerking upright with a gasp. Shocked blue eyes took what seemed like ages to focus on Blair.

"It's okay," Blair whispered. He came around the desk and sat down again next to the couch, keeping his voice calm and reasonable. "You're okay, Jim. Relax. You needed some shut-eye."

Ellison's mouth worked. "Is there any water?" he croaked.

"Oh. Oh, yeah, hang on."

He got a bottle of water out of the tiny dorm-sized refrigerator in Paul's office across the hall and watched Jim drink thirstily. The bruise on his throat was much more easily seen now. Blair fought down another flare of righteous rage, but something had gotten through; Ellison lowered the half-empty bottle and stared at him.

"What?" Blair whispered jerkily.

"Your heart is pounding. I can hear it. What happened?"

Damn. "Nothing," Blair said, shaking his head. "Nothing happened."

"Don't lie to me. I can smell it." Ellison drew a deep breath, his broad brow furrowing. "Astringent. Like -- chlorine, or something. You smell - angry."

You smell angry. Oh great. Better come up with a new ball game, Sandburg; this one is not going to believe the usual lines. Blair paused, and then shrugged. "I was angry," he admitted in a low voice.

Jim swallowed. "At me?"

"No. Not really. That." Blair reached out to touch Jim's collar, tugging it aside.

Jim put his fingers up to touch his neck, brushing against Blair's with a feeling like a tiny electrical charge. "That. That made you mad?" He sounded honestly puzzled.

"That someone would do that to you? Yeah. Yeah, it made me mad. That's not a love bite. That hurt."

Now Ellison's cheeks grew pink, and his eyes skittered away from Blair's, focusing on the water bottle in his hands. "My headache," he said suddenly, blinking. "It's gone."

"Good. I thought it might be. You needed quiet, someplace to -- I don't know, dial it all down."

"Dial it down?" A reluctant half-smile curved Ellison's lips.

Blair shrugged impatiently. "Get it under control," he amended. "Your senses were overwhelming you. You needed to -- turn the volume down. Like on a stereo."

"Makes sense." Jim's smile wavered. "Pot it down."

"Pot?"

"Radio. Volume's called a potentiometer, or at least it used to be. Instead of turning down the volume, you say 'pot it down.'" He shook his head. "Whatever. So I can do that? When it gets too much, just -- hit the dials?"

"Maybe. It's worth a try, at least."

"Yeah."

Blair shifted a little. "Jim, I know it's none of my business," he began slowly, "but what the hell happened? When I saw you yesterday I thought you were kinda strung out but essentially okay. But today -- man, you looked like death warmed over." He sighed. "Is there anything I can do?"

The nimble blue gaze danced over him again. "You already have," Jim said softly.

"Jim, how --"

"Don't ask. Let me." A bright, false smile lit Ellison's features. "How'd a nice guy like you get into a fucked-up situation like this? That about cover it?"

Shocked, Blair could only nod.

"First off, I'm not a nice guy, Blair. Don't kid yourself." Jim uncapped the water bottle and took another short swig. "If you want answers you're asking for a long story, and I'm not in the mood."

"How long, Jim? How long a story is it?"

It wasn't what Ellison had expected to hear; he glared at Blair as if something had just taken the wind out of his sails. "Pretty damn long," he said curtly.

"So how --"

"Look. I didn't come here for another episode of Jim Ellison And His Royally Fucked-up Life, okay? I came here because you said you knew things. Because you said you could help."

"And I can," Blair said immediately, hard on Ellison's final words. "I can, and I already have. But Jim, I hardly know you. How can I help you if you don't even let me learn more than your name?"

Jim's lips tightened, and for a brief moment he looked almost yearning, before the barriers clanged almost audibly shut. "What difference does it make, ancient history? How does that speak to what's going on now? This started a year ago, not way back when I was a kid."

'When I was a kid.' Blair fought to control the look of jolting sadness at Jim's careless phrase. That how long you've been in the biz, Jim? What's 'kid' to you? Eighteen? Fifteen? Twelve? Christ, please tell me you haven't been doing this -- shit -- practically all your life. Please don't let that be true.

"I'm not asking for everything, Jim. Please don't misunderstand me. But we're going to be working together, working on understanding this, making it so that you can not only cope with these sensory advantages but maybe even learn to use them in ways to benefit others. We're going to be partners. Maybe we don't have to know every gory detail of each other's lives, but it's going to even harder if we try to stay complete strangers."

He watched Ellison rub the bridge of his nose tiredly, and belatedly remembered the guy had had a killer headache and had been puking his toenails up not very long ago. "I understand what you're saying," Jim said softly. "But you're using the word 'partner,' and that's not what I'm here for. You said you could help, and I came for help. If that's got a price tag on it, then I'll find another way. That's just the way it is."

Blair stared at the cool aquamarine eyes for a moment, searching for another hint of wistfulness, of that clarion yearning he'd seen a moment before. There was nothing. Ellison's gaze was a basilisk stare, revealing nothing, reflecting only absolute composure.

"Don't do this." He had never heard this kind of thick, awful pain in his own voice. "Jim, don't walk away from this. Not when you've just found out the first answers. It isn't enough to know that you're a Sentinel. You've got to learn to control it, before it gets even stronger." He drew a fast breath. "You were hurting bad when you came here, Jim. You think that's gonna get better? What happens the next time you get one of those headaches? You think your clients are gonna be considerate when Jim's head hurts? You think any of them cares?"

The blood drained from Ellison's cheeks, leaving him white and sick-looking. "Actually," he replied in a distant voice, "I'm well aware how much people care. Which is to say not a lot. Which in turn is to say that you gotta look out for number one in life. Nobody else gonna do it for you. Why should you be any different?"

Because I am, Blair wanted to cry suddenly. I am so different, and I can't let you just walk away like this. I can't. Not and look at myself in the mirror ever again in my life. "Jim..." he whispered brokenly.

"Look, I obviously had the wrong idea here." Ellison brushed at his trousers busily, the chilly look solidifying over his features. "I'm sorry for wasting your time, but if there's an agenda here, I'm not interested. You'll have to find someone else to be your 'partner.'" He spoke the word as if it tasted bad in his mouth.

"You need me, Jim."

"I don't need anyone!" Ellison shot him a look so frantic with fury, Blair physically recoiled. "I don't need you," he continued icily, "and I don't need anyone else. I've been okay until now, and that's the way it's gonna stay." He shot to his feet and staggered the tiniest bit, looking even angrier for the small adjustment he had to make to keep his balance. "Thanks for the tips," he said, grinning without any hint of humor. "But I think I'll just take it from here, Professor. If it's all the same to you."

"It's not."

"Fuck you." Jim caught a breath that sounded like a sob. "Fuck you." With three long strides he was at the door, and a moment later the windows shivered as the door slammed behind him.

"It's not over, Jim," Blair whispered, and hoped desperately that the Sentinel could hear him. "See, you really blew it. Because you made me care about you. And I don't abandon people I care about. I never have, and I'm not starting now.

"Be seeing you, Jim. Very soon."

5.

The phone jarred him out of a restless, useless sleep. He wasn't sure whether to be pissed or grateful. "Yeah," he grunted in the general direction of the receiver, rubbing his eyes.

"Getting a little beauty sleep? Good. You need it. You looked like shit last night."

Jim leaned back into the pillows and sighed. "I'm off tonight, Trey," he said wearily. "Remember?"

The older man snorted eloquently. "No rest for the wicked, eh, Jimmy. It's a quickie. And the guy asked for you by name. He's loaded, and your take was down this week. Get up, take a shower, use some eyedrops, and get your pretty ass down to the Haliburton. Eight o'clock. Look sharp, sweetheart; after this one I'll even let you have two days off."

"Two whole days. You going soft, Trey?"

"Not in this lifetime, Jimmy. Now be a good girl and make nice to the man with the money. Don't let me down."

Jim allowed a thin smile. "When have I let you down?"

"You really want an answer to that?"

"No," Jim whispered. "What time again?"

"Eight. It's seven now."

"What's the name?"

"Richards. Checked out all right. Meet him in the bar. Come on, Jimmy, you know the drill. Stop acting like such a fucking fragile flower. He's paying about ten times what you usually cost. Make it worth it; he could be a regular."

"I understand."

"Good girl. Have fun."

The click of the receiver made his eyes water painfully.

The Haliburton wasn't that far. He could afford a minute to pull his brain out of the fog of much-needed sleep.

The past two weeks felt like a long, badly edited scene out of a Fellini film. Slightly surreal, with the faint prickling of precognition dogging his every step: danger, fear, pain. For the first time since he'd entered Trey's employ he'd missed an appointment last week. Simply forgot about it. So caught up in the monstrous, incapacitating headache he'd fought off since the morning after the ridiculous scene with Blair Sandburg, he'd simply forgotten it.

Trey hadn't. And he'd worked Jim mercilessly since then, as if to make up for lost time. A lousy five-hundred-dollar nooner missed, but Jim had earned it back in spades, including a couple of assignments of a type he had specifically stated long ago that he didn't do. Now, on the first evening he'd actually had free, here was Trey again, another questionable trick, another unknown client.

It was all Sandburg's fault.

Even thinking about it made Jim's throat clench with mingled fury and haunting regret. God DAMN that fucking kid. Leading Jim down the fucking primrose path -- and fuck it if Jim hadn't taken a few steps on that particular route before, and lived to regret it. Almost as much as he regretted it now.

It wasn't a question of Blair's sincerity. The guy obviously believed what he was saying. But he had no idea what it *meant*. How could he? Living with a silver spoon in his mouth, rich, too fucking innocent to breathe. How could he know what he was offering? And to whom?

The ever-present headache reached fumbling fingers into the base of Jim's skull, and he swallowed thickly. Oh, this was gonna be fun. He prayed distantly that maybe he could make it through tonight without puking all over the client first.

Although God knew, the guy might be into that kind of shit. Not any weirder than lots of other shit.

With a deep breath Jim levered himself out of his hard bed, groaning helplessly at the surge of new pain in his head. He fumbled at the bedside table and snagged four of Michael's illicit codeine tablets. Hitting the stash pretty hard; would need a refill tomorrow. But the codeine wasn't so bad. Blurred the edges nicely. Only problem was, it wasn't working as well as it had. A flickering thought of morphine was terribly tempting. He could get it easy. Trey was generous with such things. Heroin, morphine, coke. Of course it all got tallied, and docked from the week's pay. But it was there to be had, oh yes. Easy as pie, and lots less fattening.

He slugged the pills with a warm glass of water, and trudged off to the shower.

Between the hot shower and the codeine, he felt almost human by the time he arrived at the hotel. The doorman gave him a wry look; the Haliburton was a frequent stopover for Jim and a lot of other fairly expensive "escorts," and the night staff recognized most of them. The bar was dark and smoky, with a surprising number of people. Jim didn't bother trying to find his client in the crunch. He ordered a tonic water and was digging for money in his pocket when he felt someone coming up to stand next to him.

"On me."

The familiar, bronze-toned voice sent a frantic shiver down Jim's spine. He turned his head slowly.

If possible, Blair Sandburg was even more devastatingly attractive than he had been that fateful day in Malcolm Cranfill's office. Not so casually dressed this time. Artfully shapeless silk jacket, with a blue silk shirt open at the throat, revealing crisp curly hair. The bottomless blue eyes drew Jim in, smiling casually.

Blair slid a ten dollar bill over the bar, and Jim shook his head roughly. "That's all right. You don't need to --"

"I always pay for my dates," Sandburg interrupted.

It hit him like a bludgeon to the solar plexus; Jim drew a painful, shocked breath. "No," he whispered.

"Yes." Sandburg's smile faded, leaving only a calm, absolutely composed expression behind.

"H -- How did you find me?"

"Easy. I called Malcolm. He was more than eager to refer me. Nothing simpler." Jim could hear no mockery in Blair's hopelessly alluring voice. Nothing but calm.

Jim took a few steps away from the bar, and turned to give Sandburg an imploring look. All his previous anger seemed to have evaporated; now he felt only terrible urgency. "Don't do this," he rasped with difficulty. "Find someone else. Please."

Blair reached out a hand to grasp Jim's wrist, and the sweetly warm touch nearly made Jim scream. "I'm paying a fairly fantastic amount of money for this, Jim," he objected mildly. He smiled. "Everyone's a winner, don't you see? You. Me. That pig of a 'manager' you've got."

The thought of Trey brought a scalding new flood of heat to Jim's face. "But you don't -- You don't want --"

"Let's go up to the room, shall we? It's too damn crowded down here."

Blair's soft touch on his back navigated him to the elevators. He wasn't sure he could have found them on his own. Too shocked by what Sandburg had done, too terrified of what was ahead. They didn't speak in the elevator. Sandburg pressed the button for the top floor, and smiled another reassuring, deadly smile.

Jim had only been to the penthouse floor once, several years ago. He vaguely remembered it, but details were lost in a fog of drugs and poppers. Now he looked around with all-too-sober eyes. There were four suites on this floor. No one was around. For all he knew, Sandburg could be the only guest this particular evening. Silently Blair led the way to the farthermost suite, standing aside to let Jim enter first.

Jim was no stranger to posh surroundings. His own place might be spartan, but the houses and apartments and businesses he visited were anything but. Most of his clients were at the very least well off, and a significant percentage qualified as securely wealthy.

But this suite had pulled out all the stops. For a hotel room, it was damned impressive. Vaulted ceiling over the living area; butter-leather couches and chairs. A grand piano gleamed in one raised corner of the room, near the wall of windows overlooking the city. Beyond, Cascade lay spread below them, shining bronze and apricot in the fading sunlight. The setting sun made the bay appear to be on fire, glowing gold and scarlet.

"Nice view, isn't it?" Sandburg took a step to stand next to Jim. "All of these suites are nice, but this one has the best view."

"What do you want?" Jim whispered without looking away from the windows.

"To talk, Jim."

Jim cast him a sharp look. "To talk?" he echoed disbelievingly. "You're paying five thousand dollars to *talk*?"

Blair shrugged, and produced a rueful smile. "Sometimes you have to bring the mountain to Mohammed, man," he replied. "How else could I see how you were doing? I didn't have much choice."

"You're crazy. Fucking nuts." Jim strode over to stand next to the piano, glaring over his shoulder at Sandburg. "I don't need a babysitter, Sandburg. I'm fine."

"Yeah. You don't need anything or anybody. Have I got that much right, Jim?"

There was a chill iron in Blair's voice that Jim had never yet heard. "Yeah," Jim said slowly. "Yeah, that about sums it up."

Blair gave him a wintry smile. "So how's the head, Jim? Any headaches lately?" He walked leisurely over to Jim's side, pushing into Jim's personal space until he was backed up against the piano. "Any zoneouts? Missing a little time here and there? Hmm?"

"I can handle it," Jim whispered, and Blair's forest-herbal aroma swirled around him, making him feel slightly dizzy with unwelcome desire.

Blair reached out to place his fingers on Jim's left temple, ignoring the other man's flinch. "You have a headache right now," he observed neutrally. The fingers stroked easily. "Your eyes are dilated. You took something for it, didn't you?"

Jim couldn't think of a way to lie about that. The searing blue of Blair's eyes took his breath away. "The pain is from overstimulation, Jim," Blair continued in the same even, nonthreatening voice. He placed the palm of his hand flat on Jim's cheek, and Jim resisted the urge to lean into the touch. "Your mind is having trouble processing all of this additional input. Drugs may help a little, but all they're doing is lessening your brain's ability to process. They aren't stopping the input, hardly even slowing it down."

Already the ceaseless throbbing was lessening at Sandburg's hypnotic touch, the lulling sound of his teak-tinted voice. "I'm okay," Jim said unsteadily. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Blair paused before nodding sadly. "Yeah, Jim. You're here. But at what cost?"

"I'm here because it's my job," Jim stated hoarsely. "You bought me for the evening, remember?" He ducked his head away from Blair's hand and stepped out into the room. "So what's your preference, Blair? What do you like?"

With a flare of angry glee he watched Sandburg flush. "That's not why we're here, Jim. I didn't come here for that."

"You sure?" Jim forced himself to smile, sucking briefly on his lower lip. "I can smell you, you know. I know you're hot for me."

The blush got redder. "Jim, for God's sake --"

His headache was worse again, but the sense of regained control made him feel almost giddy. He unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt and slid his fingers beneath the collar, stroking his own throat lightly and watching Blair's eyes darken almost imperceptibly. "You can't lie to me," he whispered. "I can hear your heart. It's pounding, getting faster."

Blair flinched when Jim reached out to touch his finger to the younger man's neck. "Don't," Blair said softly. "Don't turn this into -- that."

"Why not? It's pleasure. I can make you feel good. You have no idea how good I can make you feel." The words sounded tinny to his tired ears.

"I'm here to help you, Jim. Not fuck you."

The lorn sadness in those words brought absolutely unexpected tears to Jim's eyes, and he recoiled sharply.

"Why won't you let me help you?" Blair sighed, brows drawn together in a genuinely puzzled frown. "Yes, I'm attracted to you. I know I can't lie about that, and I never intended to. But I'm not here to use you. That's not who I am."

Jim's lips worked for a moment. "Who are you?" he whispered.

"A friend. If you let me be."

A thousand images flickered through his mind, a film set on rewind, pieces of his life, last year, the year before, ten years ago. So many clients, so many johns, parties with people he didn't know, strangers' beds, strangers' voices. Had he numbered a friend among those many faces?

Michael's words came back to him. Let him in. Let someone show you who you are, who you can be. Jim's breath caught in a near-sob. "Why would you want to be my friend?"

Blair smiled, a luminous, beautiful twist of his full lips. "Why wouldn't I?" he countered softly. "Maybe I feel a connection. The first time I saw you, every time since then. I felt like I knew you. I haven't changed my mind."

"You don't know me. You can't."

"I know enough. And I think you do, too."

He shook his head mutely, and stood frozen as Blair took a few steps to stand in front of him. The proximity was simultaneously terrifying and horribly welcome. "I don't know your past," Blair continued softly. "Any more than you know mine. But that doesn't really matter. What matters is that we connected."

Jim stepped backward and came up against the sofa. Off-balance, he sat down hard on the smooth leather cushion. The motion made his headache snarl with rage, and he coughed a helpless groan of pain. Behind his closed eyelids he saw red pulses of color.

Then slim, strong arms slid around him, and he leaned without hesitation into Blair's comforting embrace.

"I'm not going to violate you, Jim," Blair whispered. Long fingers stroked Jim's back, and he listened with awe to the steady thump of the heart in Blair's chest. "I'm not going to be the other people in your life. The ones who taught you not to trust, the ones who've hurt you. I don't have an agenda like that. I just know that I can't leave you. Do you understand? I won't leave you alone to face this."

The tight bands of hot pain around his skull loosened like magic under Blair's soothing fingertips. Instead of a chaotic mishmash of sights and sounds and smells, individual aspects were suddenly noticeable. The smell of laundry detergent and cologne in the shirt Blair wore. The feel of the jacket Jim held clenched in his anxious hands. He could count the individual fibers.

"I don't know how," he whispered against Blair's throat.

"You can learn. You can do anything, Jim."

He closed his eyes and buried his face in the crook of Blair's neck.

Continued in Part Two.