Inflexible - akablonded

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WARNINGS: This story, atypical for me, has violence to Blair and Jim angst.

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Shavu'ot* - A Jewish holiday

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"But, Captain -"

"No, buts, Detective. Except as in getting yours in gear. You're heading the security team for Pierce. End of discussion. Now go back to work."

"Yes, sir."

And, just like that, this bright, beautiful day in late May had taken a definite nosedive as far as Jim Ellison was concerned. He was going to be charged with the care and high maintenance of singer Pierce as long as the phenom was in Cascade.

Life kept on getting better and better. If it got any better, the big detective figured he'd be consigned to another security facility as a guest - something padded, and attendants to see to your every need 24/7.

All because of Pierce.

Pierce. Another one-named wonder rock star shooting across the current culture firmament. Some said he was just another nominee for the 15-Minute Hall of Fame. Others said he was here to stay - and stay big-time. Pierce who had a tenuous connection to the mayor's first cousin's brother-in-law (or some damn thing like it) who just happened to be a promoter in town.

So, come hell or high water, Cascade, WA was going to get 'Pierced' big time, a combined logistical nightmare and three-ring media circus with Detective Jim Ellison apparently tagged to be the ringmaster.

Pierce's concerts were always trouble. There was always last least one major fracas that involved either drugs or wanton destruction of private property. And that didn't even take into consideration any of the other incidents that always seemed to happen when rich, raucous rockers hit town.

But the concerts were also undeniably a windfall for local businesses and merchants. The mayor and his first cousin's brother-in-law might not have had love light in their eyes for the man Time Magazine called Heir Apparent to the Stones, but they did house dollar signs there.

So, to minimize the former, and maximize the later, the Cascade PD would provide special officers assigned to personal guard duty during the celebrity's stay, aside from all the required police services.

Essentially, it was tantamount to babysitting a $200 million dollar headache. And someone had to pick the babysitter.

At times, Simon Banks, the long-suffering captain of the Metro Division, was glad be behind the big desk in the big corner office. In his early days as a police officer, Banks had taken his share of flak from the celebrity du jour. He'd been there, done that, and had the bloody commemorative t-shirt to prove it. The Britnies, the Madonnas, the Enriques were all pains in the municipal ass. But, when all was said and done, they were just part of the job. A captain's job was making it someone else's job. Simon Banks had a short roster of gold shield detective names for this kind of duty. Three or four would be more tactful at interfacing with Pierce's entourage. There was only one Banks would choose if his own family needed protection.

So, Jim Ellison's name had shot to the top of the list. Like it or not, the former Army Captain, ex-covert operations trained Ranger had been unanimously elected by that self-same voting block of one to wrangle music's reigning bad boy for however long Pierce deigned to visit their fair city.

And "bad" was such an inadequate word to describe the carnage and devastation that usually accompanied, and was all but ignored, Pierce's appearances. For instance, there was the decimation of Vancouver's Four Seasons penthouse suite; the trashing of a Park Lane casino in London when the baccarat shoe went against him; and the little matter of kangaroos and Foster's Beer at Quantas Airline's Terminal in Melbourne, Australia. All of those and countless more events splashed their way onto every major TV network and newspaper around the world. The publicity value alone was staggering. And everyone wanted to see just what all the hype was about. So Pierce's concerts were always a sell-out within minutes of tickets going on sale. So, a blind eye always seemed to be turned to any of the less positive aspects of one of his visits.

Jim Ellison was not a happy man. Besides the normal type of crap that went along with a "gig" like this, there were the other things. Once his fellow officers on the force latched onto the little factoid that the Cop of the Year had pulled down such a cushy assignment, Jim Ellison would be besieged with pleas for backstage privileges and autographs and souvenirs of whatever else Pierce touched, drank, ate, slept under, wiped himself off with, and, in a pinch, even pissed on.

Fame. One more four-letter word the unhappy, but ultimately resigned detective could do without.

The only thing detective Jim Ellison couldn't do without these days was Blair Sandburg. The yoga instructor had been in the hard-nose detective's black and white "Dirty Harry" world for almost six months. During that time, with infectious charm and unparalleled joie de vivre, Blair Sandburg had brought a rainbow of color and a sea of tranquility into the stark, Spartan and all-too-sterile life of Jim Ellison. He'd also brought love.

The two had become many things to one another. Fueled by mutual physical attraction, their student-teacher relationship had first evolved into a tentative friendship. It then slingshot into the rarefied atmosphere of physical intimacy. And perhaps even more significantly, an almost mystical bond had formed between them because Blair Sandburg's innate sensitivities and awareness made him the one person who could truly help Jim Ellison realize who and what he was: a sentinel, an individual with five heightened senses, destined by genetics and prepared by training to protect and serve his or her tribe.

Ellison's suppressed abilities had come "online" in full force to use Sandburg's accurate, if somewhat colorful word, during a stakeout for the mad bomber dubbed the Switchman that was almost the Major Crime detective's undoing. The forced isolation in a forested area outside Cascade had somehow caused all five of Ellison's senses to go haywire and fomented a weird array of aberrations: lights too bright, sounds too loud, smells that made his stomach turn, tastes that made him gag, and touch that made even the most common fabric rub his skin raw. It was just like what happened five years previously, when then Army Captain Ellison endured months in the jungles of Peru as the sole survivor of his lost unit. But there, he had been helped by the Chopec natives, and most particularly, Incacha, the tribe's shaman. Here in Cascade, without anyone to back him up, all of Ellison's five senses conspired to torture him. Sometimes, it happened one by one; other times, all together. To escape the torment of those episodes, Jim would retreat into a spiraling world of gray nothingness, blessed oblivion. At first, it happened rarely; then, more and more frequently. It finally occurred to the detective that somebody in the PD would begin to notice something, and he'd be put out to pasture because of it. Or if the blackness overcame him while on duty the results could be deadly, and Ellison would find himself six feet under.

The uncertainty of never knowing if his senses would betray him made Jim Ellison withdrawn, preoccupied, and less in control of himself than he'd ever been.

And then there was the screaming match at a dinner for the mayor between Jim Ellison and the Commissioner's aide -- the mayor's brother-in-law, no less. The battle royal, caught on videotape by Channel 4, is what brought Ellison to Dr. Jane Tracey's office and under her professional scrutiny. Dr. Tracey was the PD shrink who didn't like being called a shrink. Her evaluation of Jim Ellison read like a cop's worst nightmare: in her opinion, Detective James Ellison, was "an individual whose ability to balance job-related stress on a day-to-day basis is beginning to become more difficult, and, consequently, is revealing itself in more frequent, inappropriate emotional displays."

Something had to be done. But Simon Banks, magnanimous boss that he was, had actually given his top detective three choices, none of which were desk-duty: 1) work in the Cascade PD outreach program: 2) go to weekly group meetings for stress management; or 3) take yoga. Ellison passed on the grade school, outreach program. Six-year-olds with sticky fingers and high-pitched, squeaky little voices that would have the detective bleeding from the ears in about 20 minutes sent Ellison scurrying to looking at the other two options.

Door Number 2 was no better. For someone as tight-lipped and repressed about his emotional self as Jim Ellison, the idea of weeks and weeks of talking about his "feelings" and "issues" was right up there with root canal sans Novocain.

So, by default, "Cop Yoga" it had been. In police sweats, and with enough attitude to choke a convenient horse, Jim Ellison had reported to the Police Department gym on that fateful day to start atoning for his work-related sins.

When Jim looked through the window in the padded gym door that first class, he quietly gasped to himself because he knew nothing would be the same again. There, sitting casually on the floor was a smallish male figure, obviously the yoga instructor. Sandburg. Blair Sandburg is what Simon Banks had told him. Barefooted, well-muscled and sporting the attire of the day -- tee shirt and sweatpants - the twenty-something young man's long, curly brunette hair hung loosely around his neck and shoulders. This Sandburg character seemed at ease with himself and the world in general.

By anybody's criteria, Blair Sandburg was handsome. Some might have used the phrase "pretty as a woman," but one look at an amply-stubbled jaw line confirmed that substantial quantities of testosterone flowed through the well-toned body. More than that, the instructor was quite an exotic, beautiful creature, at least to Jim's way of thinking. Ellison had immediately regretted the thought, shaking himself away from everything it implied. After the detective's somewhat shadowy time in vice, he'd tried to put that sort of trouble behind him. But from the looks of the kid, trouble was his middle name. Trouble one thing Jim Ellison hadn't needed.

Yet, when Sandburg's blue eyes suddenly opened and peered through dark lashes, settling squarely on Jim Ellison, the big detective was a goner. Jim felt burnt, as though he'd looked into the sun without protection, and strangely vulnerable. It was unfamiliar, scary, intriguing, and not just a little arousing.

It had been the same for yoga instructor Blair Sandburg. Sandburg had been watching each of his new pupils during the first class with varying degrees of interest. He kept coming back to the tall officer at the periphery of the room, the one somebody had addressed as 'Jim.' Scanning the attendee roster in his mind, by the process of elimination, Blair identified him as Ellison, James J., a detective in the Major Crimes unit. Sandburg considered that the short-cropped, military-looking hair was a perfect fit for the chiseled face. Through Ellison's PD sweatshirt, he could see a musculature that was an unarguable tribute both to good genetics and countless hours of exercise.

Blair was impressed. But then, Blair Sandburg was impressed by just about everything, where Jim Ellison was concerned. He'd always liked beautiful people. Beautiful women -- and beautiful men. It made little difference to Sandburg. Unfortunately, one of the sad truths he'd learned was that beauty on the outside often did not reflect beauty on the inside. In the end, Sandburg always came away hurt and disappointed the people he chose to love had "sizzle" - but precious little substance.

A classic example was Mark Lambert, the first man Blair had loved and been left by. The 30-year-old archeologist had appeared in Blair Sandburg's life like balled lightning. The geeky nerd who always looked and sounded younger than his classmates and who always destroyed the grading curve was bowled over by the attention of so intelligent, so exciting, and so handsome a professor. Nothing or no one could have held a candle to Mark Lambert, scientist and world traveler. Burnished skin, mane of wavy, blonde hair, jade green eyes dominating a stunning face, and a top-notch mind had been the bait that snagged Blair Sandburg like a guppy on a Mustad shark hook.

But all the things that made the older man so undeniably attractive and fatally charming to the unsophisticated Blair Sandburg also intensified the college sophomore's insecurities about keeping someone like Professor Lambert in his life.

And, of course, the inevitable happened. With a minimum of fanfare and notice, Mark Lambert "detached with love," as Sandburg's flower-child mother, Naomi, would say. The archeologist traipsed off to see what was around the next corner and over the next mountain, leaving a devastated Blair Sandburg. In one fell swoop, Sandburg found himself bereft of a friend, a lover, and a place to live.

But goodbye was just a word to Mark Lambert. So, every now and then, just as Blair thought he was finally over him, the professor would throw his former love interest little lifelines to keep false hope afloat. There would be a collect phone call, a pro forma, one-page letter and a few hastily scribbled postcards.

Eventually, even they ceased to come.

The only small ray of sunshine in an otherwise bleak situation was a surprising inheritance from Naomi's family that gave Blair enough money to continue his education uninterrupted, buy and settle in a place of his own, and never, ever have to depend on another person for anything again. It also allowed Blair Sandburg to try his hand at some charitable projects that interested him and to teach something he loved: yoga. From the time he was a precocious, bespeckled youngster, Blair Sandburg had thought of yoga as his salvation. His body relished the discipline; his mind welcomed the peace it afforded him.

So, settled in a bay front warehouse he owned, Blair lived alone, quietly and unobtrusively, while continuing his studies at Rainier University. His doctoral dissertation on closed societies was coming along nicely. Sandburg had originally considered as his thesis topic something tantamount to an urban legend in the field of anthropology: sentinels. The first problem he'd run into was that only real research he could find was the intriguing work by Sir Richard Burton, the 19th century Victorian explorer. The long and the short of it went something like this: sentinels were individuals blessed, or cursed, depending on how you looked at the gift, with a genetic advantage and predisposition to help protect their tribe, no matter how large or small the tribe actually was. And, an exciting coda to the story was that every sentinel had someone as his companion, teacher, counselor, consort, and guide.

It was a wonderful story, Blair often dreamed wistfully. But that was just what it was: a story. In his own research, Sandburg had come across people with one or two heightened senses, but never anyone with all five. Never the "real deal," the "Holy Grail." Closed societies were a much safer, if duller, subject. And what closed society was more perfect than the police department. Being a yoga instructor at the Police Department had given Blair Sandburg a chance to see and experience new people and situations he'd never done before. Not that it was an easy assignment. Some of the officers in his class were less than enthusiastic. Others were downright hostile. And then there had been Jim Ellison, standing in the same spot week after week, near the door at the back, rather like an avenging angel Blair had thought fancifully. And during the relaxation at the end of each session, Ellison looked the most altered, almost serene with the hard edges and lines around his startling eyes and firm mouth all but disappeared. It happened that way in yoga, sometimes. A person understood and connected on a subconscious level to the universe -- and the teacher who helped bring the two together.

In many respects, it was like love -- something both Blair Sandburg and Jim Ellison desperately wanted and needed.

***

On Jim Ellison's side, it might not have been love, but it was certainly "something". From the minute when he'd spied the lithe, impossibly flexible Blair Sandburg stretching cat-like in that drafty PD gym, James Joseph Ellison was smitten. Smitten. The old-fashioned, almost arcane word fit the big cop and how he felt like a proverbial glove. And when Ellison discovered the object of his growing affection reciprocated the feelings, it was better than good. It was like winning the Big Ball lottery, getting World Series tickers forever, and a "good" parking space in the police underground garage more than two days in a row.

From the get-go, Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg's lovemaking was energizing, consuming, spiritual, creative as hell; in short, just a damned rollicking good time. The sex was easy. Trying to build a life together was a tougher nut. And there were bumps along the way: the detective's understandably cold feet at being in a relationship with a man, the fact that Blair Sandburg was well, stinking rich, the improbable heir to a plastics fortune, and finally, a pretty significant bump by the name of Mark Lambert, a bump who had made an unexpected, unwanted reappearance a few months after Jim Ellison and his Yoga instructor had become a couple.

Who knows what would have happened in Blair Sandburg's life if he hadn't known the Mayor's wife, and she hadn't suggested that yoga classes be taught at the Cascade Police department. And if he hadn't chosen that particular schedule, and those particular students, and if he hadn't met Jim Ellison ... So many if's. But Blair knew the answer. Alone, he'd never have been strong enough to resist Mark Lambert. For once in his life, Blair Sandburg listened to the right "little voice" inside him, the one shouting like a lunatic that Mark Lambert was his past, and Jim Ellison, was his future.

So Blair had sent the illustrious doctor packing, and jumped into the Ellison-Sandburg "couple" dynamic with both feet, totally, unabashedly, and unreservedly, because the other man truly respected Blair Sandburg and made him feel safe, secure, and, most of all, loved.

Security had sometimes been a problem for Jim Ellison. He certainly felt secure in a great many aspects of his well-ordered life: his ability as a detective; the respect of his colleagues; and now, the control over his senses and his decision to be the "Sentinel of the Great City" of Cascade, Washington.

But to love and be worthy of love, particularly someone so fine and decent as Blair Sandburg, well, that was a considerably harder.

But like the true miracle of two people who were made to be together actually finding one another, the cosmos shoved Jim Ellison into Blair Sandburg's class and deeper in the yoga instructor's heart. And Blair Sandburg was the man with the guts -- and right equipment -- to make Jim Ellison want and need him; that, first and foremost, love was what they were all about. Blair Sandburg even moved from his artifact-filled waterfront abode and into Jim Ellison's more modest loft, just one more indication that Blair was taking this "forever" business seriously.

Blair Sandburg's flair for decorating found a perfect outlet when he went about transforming the decidedly austere Chez Ellison like a finely plumed bird feathering a too-drab nest. Sandburg did it with a vengeance, with taste, and with a minimum of debate. When it was finished, the couple's two unlikely styles blended seamlessly together. In a matter of a few weeks, Blair succeeded in creating something neither man had ever really had before: a home.

There were many pluses to being Blair Sandburg's lover. The longhaired beauty (the description Jim Ellison secretly conjured up every time he thought the younger man) had made the detective infinitely more flexible on many different levels. Sandburg had done it with superb physical instruction, gentle emotional coaxing, and enough indescribable sex to embarrass someone usually so stoic as Jim Ellison.

Yet, even after six months, it was tough for Jim to feel as secure in Blair Sandburg's unfailing love and commitment to him as he should have. Ellison's limited experience in relationships had made him gun-shy, always assuming the worst. And Blair Sandburg's personality was such that everybody loved him. The magnetic personality and shining soul drew people to him wherever he went and whatever he did.

Jim tried not to be jealous at the attention people paid his young lover. More often than not, the detective succeeded. Blair couldn't help how he affected people, anymore than the sun could help radiating warmth. As long as Blair Sandburg, Jim Ellison's personal sun and source of warmth, was waiting for him at their home on Prospect Avenue, life was good.

Jim Ellison relished the idea of going to that home at the end of any particular day and finding Blair Sandburg - or traces of him - there. Soft music in the background, dinner simmering away, the air filled with his essence, and his lover stretched out on the floor, practicing one of the more difficult yoga asanas, or positions, well, there was nothing like it. Jim particularly liked the bending ones, like "The Plow." Hands down, Jim Ellison thought, there was nothing was sexier than Sandburg flat on his back, legs effortlessly over his head touching the hardwood floor with his toes - all while in the nude. At the very thought of that little mind picture, "Little Jim" would sit up and wag furiously under Ellison's desk. Then there was the one Sandburg called "The Mountain," where he bent over at the waist and placed his hands flat on the floor in front of him in a triangular stance. Ellison's "other head" called it R&R - and just a little piece of heaven on earth.

As Ellison and Sandburg settled in, Blair even used his wildly eclectic background and knowledge (the kid knew a little something about anything and everything) to help Jim Ellison with certain aspects of his investigations. At his young lover's urging, the detective had even told Simon Banks about his sentinel abilities. Banks' initial reaction to Blair Sandburg's spiel, and Sandburg himself, was less than enthusiastic. He considered Sandburg fine - in a yoga class. But as Jim Ellison's partner, no matter how unofficially? Slowly, that changed. The captain seemed to have developed an abiding tolerance for the kid, and, in the end, got the paperwork put through to let him help his best detective, but strictly as an observer. Over the next few months, Banks saw the growing body of evidence that everything Sandburg had said about Ellison was true. And when the detective's arrest record shot through the roof, Banks started looking at the longhaired young man with newfound respect.

So, all in all, life was jake, if not idyllic.

Except, now, for the next week, for however many rehearsals, shows or fund-raisers those seven days happened to include, Jim would be at the beck and call of Pierce, Pierce's manager, Pierce's "people" and the bodyguard hired to protect the singer from his fans, and vice versa.

Which is exactly what he told Blair Sandburg while they were in bed early that evening. Their impromptu lovemaking session had been sparked by the fact that Jim was scheduled to start "Pierce" duty in the wee hours of the coming morning. That, and Blair's practicing the "The Peacock," where the young man balanced the total weight of his lithe body on his sinewy forearms, and, as always, as naked as the day his wonderful, wacky mother had given birth to him. Jim Ellison had never seen anything so athletic, so effortless, and so practically-jerk-the-cock-off-your-body hot. Their coupling, which had started downstairs, was a match of equals, a thoroughly fine rut. It was followed, as always, by bowls of cereal. Between bites of the health food version of Frosted Flakes, Jim bitched about the detail that would keep them apart for the first time since they moved in together.

"Jim, it'll be over before you know it. And I'll be here." Blair soothed, as he fondly patted his lover's shoulder. The feel of those strong, capable fingers on his body simultaneously calmed and aroused Ellison. Jesus. He wanted Blair again, but still needed a little down time to regroup.

"Sandburg, these suck," the big man grumbled, as he slurped honey-covered quinoa floating in non-fat, gray milk.

"I'm force-feeding you this stuff to keep you alive and well and my sex slave. Think of it this way, big guy, you'll be around for a million years to bitch and moan that it does suck." Blair's eye's darkened, as passion replaced playfulness. "Like me."

Jim suddenly lost interest in his cereal snack.

"You suck, do you, Chief?"

To make the point to his personal Greek God of a plaything, Sandburg dove under the covers. Jim Ellison had less than two seconds to fumble the ceramic bowl down on their nightstand before he was properly turned inside out a second time. In less than two hours, the big man was having any higher brain function hoovered from his body by two of the most talented lips in Cascade.

As Jim Ellison screamed for all he was worth, and orgasmed into Blair Sandburg's sweet, waiting mouth, he decided to upgrade that lip rating to world-class.

***

At 3:20 AM, with a minimum of fanfare, Pierce and his traveling entourage arrived on the "3M." Not only the name of the singer's private jet, 3M was also the name of his production company, his ranch in Montana, and an international charity for underprivileged children Pierce had created when he'd begun hitting it big. The acronym was derived from the rock star's real name: Michael Morgan Meehan. "Mick" to friends, lovers, and one or two ex-wives.

Of course, no one called him anything except Pierce these days.

Except for Jim Ellison.

The night was mild, as Jim found himself walking up the tarp to the Lear Jet. Its door opened, and suddenly there was the bleary-eyed celebrity who was the first to deplane standing in front of him. He looked shorter in person, and unsteady on his feet. It was one of two things: too little sleep or too much alcohol. As Ellison got even closer, he decided it was a combination of both.

Suddenly a retinue of underlings hustled quickly down the stairs to catch up with Pierce, forming protective ring around him. The tall detective gritted his teeth (Sandburg was right, they'd be nubs by the end of this assignment) flashed his badge, and cut threw the assemblage like a Bowie knife through butter.

"Mr. Meehan? Detective Jim Ellison, Cascade PD." The detective made the professional, if somewhat curt introduction. "I've been assigned to handle the security detail while you're visiting --" He'd put his hand out to be shaken. It, instead, immediately went to grab Pierce, who was swaying toward him. As Jim grabbed the singer to keep him upright, another figure popped quickly out of the doorway to do the same. From the background files he'd reviewed earlier in the week, Ellison recognized him as Hal Meehan, Pierce's 12-year-older brother-manager.

"Careful, there, Mick. We don't want to have you take a nosedive during your first three minutes in Cascade. Detective Ellison! It's good to meet you. I'm Hal Meehan." The smooth voice seemed well practiced in making small talk and pouring oil over the troubled waters of Pierce's actions. "I was told you'd be here to meet us and I understand you're going to be taking care of us while we spend some time in your fair city." Hip boots. Jim thought. That's what I'm going to need around these people to avoid the shit they're going to throw my way.

"Hello, Mr. Meehan. I know who you are." Jim Ellison also recognized David Talbot, a personal security specialist, black belt bodyguard and old family friend who had been a part of Pierce's inner circle from the early days of the singer's career. Talbot had gone to school with Hal Meehan in Dublin. The smallish, yet powerfully built Talbot silently acknowledged Jim with a nod of his head. The ruthlessly red hair made him look like an enormously muscled Opie Taylor.

Ellison nodded back. "I've been briefed on everybody in the group, Mr. Meehan. We're ready for you."

"I'm impressed."

"Well, I won't be doing it single-handed. Detectives Rafe and Brown over there will be my backup for Mr. Meehan himself."

"Call him Pierce, please."

Jim Ellison grimaced imperceptibly. Only someone who knew the detective would recognize that telltale clenched jaw as evidence of how unhappy he was to oblige the suggestion.

Standing between the two men yet apparently in a world of his own, Pierce seemed singularly unimpressed and apart from everything swirling around him. Like always. He was only marginally interested in introductions, and mumbled something that even sentinel ears couldn't catch. Ellison gave him a cursory once-over, then turned all his sensory dials set to high to make sure he didn't miss whatever the singer said or did next.

In any battle, it was best to know your opponent's strengths and weaknesses.

Pierce drank expensive scotch with beer chasers, liked cheap Taco chips and some sort of even cheaper bacon-horseradish dip. He'd apparently finished up the nutritionally questionable meal with cherry-flavored Lifesavers. Lots of them. He wore an expensive, private blended aftershave so distinctive that Jim Ellison could pick it out in a crowd a mile away. The scent of ylang-ylang and patchouli were two he could target in a minute. The detective had gotten a crash course on the wide world of scent as part of his Switchman investigation. He'd been forced to visit every perfumery in Cascade.

Unfortunately, the strong smell didn't mask the fact that the singer hadn't bathed or showered in the last six hours. At least to a sentinel's nose.

The overall gestalt of Pierce, nee Michael Morgan Meehan, of Sligo, Ireland, and one of the biggest names in the entertainment world, gave Jim Ellison a colossal headache.

And then Pierce stopped for a moment, looked Jim Ellison square in the face and whispered in a husky tone. "So, Detective, Ellison, is it? I imagine you'd like to be anyplace but here. Am I right?"

Ellison's face said it all.

"I promise I'll try to behave." And then Pierce smiled. It was like the sun came out in the middle of the Cascade night. Jim Ellison was momentarily stunned. It seemed as though even the stiff-necked, tight-assed detective wasn't immune to the effects of being "Pierced."

As Jim guided the group, which seemed to move en masse, to the waiting limousines, he had to admit that, even half-dead on his feet, Pierce still was awash with that "X" factor - charisma so strong you could practically feel it pouring from him.

And the pictures of the man didn't do him justice. You could also understand why people fell in love with the guy. A blind man could see it with his cane. The pale skin, the golden brown hair reflecting light like prisms to the sentinel's keen eyes, and green eyes like emerald fire when they were turned on you. All of it seemed designed to turn you on. At least that's what the press kits said.

Even now, hung over and more than a little surly, being poured into the black Lincoln by his brother, with Rafe and Brown standing at the head and foot of the car respectively, Pierce was an unbelievably good-looking man, someone whose appearance seemed to have been created for film. Cameras unabashedly loved him. It was one of the principal reasons that he'd starred in a half-dozen or so movies - moneymakers all. Pierce's latest, in which he played an alien trapped and experimented on by a team of government scientists, was breaking box office records around the world. The soundtrack, that featured six new songs by Pierce, had gone platinum the week it was released.

Jim Ellison was drawn back to the reality of the situation by Hal Meehan's pleasant voice, surprisingly similar to that of his megastar brother. "Sorry to bring you out at this ungodly hour, Detective, but we find that's easier for everybody concerned if we come in as early as possible. Fewer crowds. Fewer problems."

As if to contradict Meehan's statement, there was a sizable group of die-hard fans near the gate area the detective's keen eyesight picked up. Ellison called one of the black and whites that had been assigned as backup on his two-way radio. "Ellison to Zebra-417. Duran, we have 100 or so people at Gate 22. Three M is ready to move out. Let's make sure this stays orderly and peaceful. The Mayor and the Police Chief don't want to see anything that would upset their morning coffee. Over."

"Zebra-417 to Ellison. Got it. We're all in place. Everything seems quiet. Ready when you are. Over."

"Zebra-417. We're rolling. See you the 'Nest.' Over and out." There was no mention of the Cascade Meridien Hotel. Inveterate fans would probably be scanning police band frequencies to get a handle on where their idol might be roosting during his weeklong stay.

Jim climbed inside the back of the first stretch limo, after Hal Meehan, alongside Pierce, who slumped down into the plush seat and promptly fell asleep. David Talbot sat across from them. Rafe jumped in next to the chauffeur. When everyone was in place, they were off, followed by the second car which carried the rest of Pierce's retinue. Brown was acting as the Cascade PD presence in that vehicle. Two black and white units took up the lead and rear positions in the small motorcade.

The stark landscape around the airport gave way to the lusher, upscale section of Cascade where the Meridien and all the other high-priced hostelries were located. "Well, that was surprisingly painless. Thanks, Detective. Mick really appreciates all you're doing for us. I'm sure we want to make our time here as easy and as successful as possible for everybody concerned. Anything you need us to do, or not do, just let me or Davey know, and we'll try to oblige."

Jim nodded, then sat in silence for the rest of the short ride to the five-star hotel. Ellison took a look at the brother Meehan. Hal Meehan was in his early 40s, wearing a $1,000 Savile Row suit and an unmistakable air of confidence. Besides being his brother's manager, he was also a practicing attorney. What's more, he had the gift of the blarney most Irishman seemed born with. Jim could tell the little speech he'd just heard was a well-rehearsed one, probably having been used on countless other occasions in countless other cities with countless other police officers like himself.

As always, Jim Ellison took everything said to him - particularly by lawyers and people in show business - with a grain of salt. And, unless he missed his guess, in the case of Pierce and everybody connected with him, the salt would be rimming the edge of an enormous margarita glass.

Jim Ellison was spared any further introspection, as the limousine pulled into the Meridien's underground parking lot and up to the private elevator. Waiting patiently was the de facto welcoming committee: Howard Miller, the hotel manager, and Larry Cunningham, security chief of the jewel in Cascade's hotel crown.

Jim knew and had worked with both men during other high-profile VIP visits. Miller, a relatively recent transplant from the Meridien in San Francisco, was a top-notch executive being groomed by the corporation for even bigger things. Former Seattle police officer Larry Cunningham had a military background like Ellison's, was up-front, no-nonsense and thoroughly professional. Seattle's loss was private industry's gain.

For all his sophistication, Howard Miller seemed genuinely flushed with excitement at Pierce's arrival. Jim paced the man's rapid heart beat and increase in respiration rate. Cunningham shrugged his shoulders as he and Jim Ellison shared a common thought about the folly of fame.

Whatever Miller was about to say was lost in the rush of the Pierce people sweeping their half-asleep star by him. Not to be left behind, the manager hustled himself into the waiting elevator waiting to take the group to the penthouse, with Ellison and Cunningham following his lead.

Once the Presidential suite was swept yet again for possible intruders, and Pierce safely ensconced in a bedroom so big a third-world country could host its coronation in it, everyone said their good nights. Hal Meehan and David Talbot took the two "smaller" adjacent bedrooms on either side, promising to yell if they or the man of the hour needed anything. Detective Rafe would remain inside, and Brown outside the door. They'd be relieved when Ellison came back to shuttle the entire group over to the Convention Center for a 3:00 PM rehearsal.

Everybody seemed to give a collective sigh of relief that Phase 1 was over. But they also knew that this was just the beginning of a long day and an even longer week.

***

Pierce's rehearsals were a business-as-usual miasma of technical problems, missing back-up musicians, emotional bloodlettings, and acrimony. The hours before the first concert were a nightmarish haze of temper, trauma, and tyrannical maneuvering. And with all that, Jim was endlessly amazed at how much shit - especially if it were sugar or money-coated - people would take to stay in the good graces of someone like Pierce. Relatives seemed to take the most. Maybe the whole blood-thicker-than-water business also made the lesser sibling immune to the glamour and charm that scuttled most hangers on.

From what Jim Ellison could observe, inner circles and entourages of superstars changed faster than the direction of the NASDAQ.

At the very moment when Pierce screamed to Hal about 'bleeding Evian instead of Pellegrino,' Jim would have gladly given a year's pay to be anywhere else, especially ass deep in hearth, home and his guide-lover.

Lackeys slunk by with chagrined looks on their sad faces and cases of the requested liquid in their penitent hands. The detective sighed deeply and resigned himself to protect and serve even this son-of-a-bitch by keeping his sentinel eyes and ears open for any trouble.

He had less than 60 seconds to wait.

A teenager --14 or 15 years old, at most -- sprang out of thin air. She was sporting a Pierce t-shirt and an even more determined look on her face, bolted past Rafe, who was guarding the star's dressing room. A professional at such backstage maneuvers, the camera-toting girl had brought a small group of other young women whose sole function it was to run interference. All blue eyes and curly hair, "Darlene" (the name Ellison spied on an I.D. bracelet) seemed to sport the strength of 10, or at least that of a small ox. The adrenaline rush she was on made Darlene surprisingly formidable, which Jim Ellison discovered. He'd extended his long arm to grab her wrist and block her from entering Pierce's inner sanctum, when to show her extreme displeasure at being thwarted from her ultimate prize, the girl fiercely swung the camera toward him. Had Jim's lightning fast reflexes not deflected the blow, the side of his face would certainly have connected with the Minolta.

The gray-green door to one of the dressing rooms suddenly flew open. There stood an irate Pierce, shirt and pants evidently askew, disdain and contempt painted across his wild-looking features.

"What the fuck is going on out here?" the entertainer practically roared. "I have a bleeding show in less three hours!" All of the backstage personnel and interlopers stood immobile, frozen to their respective spots, dozens of pairs of eyes now on the ranting singer. They also noticed a young woman, equally disheveled, who'd popped her head out from behind the mega-star to see what was going on. Apparently, Pierce had needed a little company to help him decompress. Jim Ellison wondered how the hell anybody had been slipped by all of the police. Still struggling with Darlene, the detective figured that either Hal Meehan or Dave Talbot had found their boy the company he needed. That was part of their job description: keep Pierce happy, and clean up after him. Jim Ellison hated this part of privilege. What was it about that a title or a talent could turn other human beings into commodities to be procured, then disposed of?

The gatecrasher squirming in the detective's grasp refocused his attention to the present problem. "Pierce, I love you!" Darlene screamed, joy brimming in her reedy, youthful voice.

"Can any of you Keystone cops get her the hell away from me?"

Jim and Henry Brown took the teenager by either arm, ready to remove her from the area. But Darlene obstinately refused to budge before she got what she had come for. "Pierce, please can I just have a -"

"Bloody cunt." The singer spat out the ugly words, raised his hand and slapped the enthusiastic, if misguided, fan across the face hard enough to make her stagger backward, and leave an imprint. The teenager started sobbing loudly, as much from who her violator was, as from the pain. Darlene's idol wasn't the kind, considerate man and/or lover of her dreams. Pierce was just like every other guy she knew, but with better teeth.

Surprise turned to anger in Jim Ellison. Nobody deserved to be a punching bag, especially on his watch.

"Back off. Now!" With one hand, the detective pushed the girl behind him, putting his solid body between the two. He placed his other hand on the singer's bare chest and shoved him away, harder than he actually needed to. Luckily, Hal Meehan was there to catch his almost-falling star.

"If you were doing your fucking job, I wouldn't have to do it for you!" Pierce was incensed that Jim Ellison had dared to interfere. Apparently, nobody ever said 'No' to him. At least to his face.

"Back off. Now! We'll take care of it, Mr. Meehan."

"If you can't keep trailer trash like this away from me, get me someone who can!" With that, Pierce shoved his brother aside, pushed the afternoon diversion back into his dressing room with a "get back in there" and slammed the door shut, actually hitting Hal on the back of the head. Knowing that he'd have to do some explaining, Hal Meehan, sprang into action to diffuse the situation at hand. He immediately wrapped his arm around the still crying fan in a fatherly gesture. He shared a sad, sympathetic look with the crying fan, an apologetic one with Ellison and the other witnesses to his brother's tirade.

Then, Hal Meehan did what he always did. He smoothed over and took care of the mess his errant sibling left behind. "Honey, are you alright?"

Darlene peeked from behind Jim Ellison, slowing her sniffling as she nodded.

"I'm sure Pierce is sorry. It's just that he's really wired before his concert. You know how it is, right? What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Darlene."

"Darlene. Pretty name for a pretty girl." Even a rebellious teenager like Darlene was not immune to flattery, particularly when Pierce's brother, who could be as charming as his more famous relative, liberally doled it out.

"Darlene what?"

"Bretano."

"Okay, Darlene Bretano. Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to leave backstage passes for you - " Hal looked at the four other teens Detectives Rafe and Brown were keeping at bay - "and all your friends for the concert tonight. Now, I'm not making any promises, but maybe - just maybe -- I can get you into the Green Room afterwards. How's that sound?"

"Fucking A!" Darlene shouted, everything forgotten in the blink of an eye and in the promise of a glimpse of Nirvana, Pierce-style. Then she remembered whom she was talking to: the Man With The Power. "I mean, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!" Gyrating wildly in her newly found happiness, Ms. Bretano, resident of suburban Fleetwood, WA, returned the hug and wrapped her thin arms around Hal Meehan, even as her friends did a little dance of celebration themselves. The group of now-happy "Piercers" was finally escorted out.

Finally, calm, if not quiet, returned. Pierce did not reappear. Hal turned to Jim Ellison and began another pro forma apology. "I'm sorry, Jim - can I call you Jim? Anyway, Mick would come out and say he's sorry Jim, but he's just -"

"Wired before a performance?" Ellison parroted Meehan's own party line.

"Exactly. Just so. Anyway, you won't have any other problems until the concert. He'll sleep for the next hour or two."

"I imagine his company would take care of that."

"Yes, well, Jim, you're a man of the world. My brother needs-"

"To take the edge off."

"Well, yes."

"Mr. Meehan-"

"Hal."

"Mr. Meehan, when you pull a stunt like this, you undermine our plans, all of our work. " Jim Ellison sounded as inflexible as he felt at the moment. "I need to know what's going on or I won't be able to do my job. I don't want to find out that you or anybody else has snuck anybody else into the rehearsal hall, or the dressing rooms, or the hotel. Are we clear?"

"Clear as glass, Jim. And I guarantee we won't get into any more trouble. "Jim caught the royal "we" in the sentence. But like Queen Victoria, the big detective was not amused. His face showed it.

"Uh-huh."

Almost as an afterthought, Meehan tried a carrot instead of a stick with the still-aggravated man standing next to him. "Jim, I didn't ask. Is there anybody you want to bring to the concert? You know, to see Pierce perform? Maybe meet him afterwards?"

Shit. Blair. Blair, the fan of Pierce's music. Blair, the fan of Pierce's movies. Blair, the fan of Pierce's good works.

Even though taking a bullet would have been preferable, Jim Ellison bit it instead. "Well, my ... roommate, Blair Sandburg."

"Blair Sandburg? Is that Sandburg with a 'U' or an 'E'?"

"With a 'U.'"

"Well, excellent. I'll have a pass with all backstage privileges waiting for her."

"Him. For him."

The tone in Jim Ellison's voice made Hal Meehan scrutinize the other's face.

In that instant, Hal Meehan 'knew.' Detective Jim Ellison knew that he 'knew.'

Like all good second-in-commands, Meehan kept his own counsel, but wisely made no comment. He just nodded knowingly in Ellison's direction. "Anybody else?"

Remembering a conversation in Simon's office the day before, Jim hastily added, "Captain Banks would like to bring his son, Darryl, later in the week. That's Darryl with two 'R's."

"No, problem, Jim. The Thursday concert, okay? I'll take care of it all."

Jim Ellison had no doubt he always did. Hal Meehan excused himself to make some phone calls, and presumably check to make sure his temperamental brother/star hadn't been too upset by the goings on of mere mortals.

The atmosphere quieted down, except for the noise of last-minute construction fixes. Rafe and Brown took the opportunity of shooting the breeze with Pierce's road crew, many of whom had been with Pierce's tour since it had begun 11 months ago. From his military days, Ellison knew it never hurt to make friends in the enemy camp, so he'd suggested the two detectives learn what they could.

On the sentinel front, Jim Ellison had managed to handle all of the sensory fluctuations by using the calming, yoga breathing Blair Sandburg had taught him. But the breathing the detective longed to hear was of a different sort. He wanted to hear Sandburg's heavy, ragged breathing just before his guide came.

Now, that was real music to a sentinel's ears.

***

Jim Ellison made the mistake of telling Blair Sandburg over his cell phone about the special backstage arrangements for Pierce's concert that night.

To say that his lover was excited about this unexpected perk was a classic understatement; rather like saying the Grand Canyon was just another hole in the ground.

Blair Sandburg almost blew Jim Ellison's eardrum out, shouting his thanks. Promises of never-ending sexual favors his guide cheerfully offered were the only things that placated the half-deaf sentinel.

"Can you get yourself to the stadium, Chief?"

"Well, duh, Jim. Yeah, I think I can manage that mission on my own." The laughter in Blair's voice made Jim smile in spite of himself.

"I know it's a toughie."

"No, it's a hardie."

"Sandburg, stop."

"Stop, what, big guy?"

"I swear to God, I'm going to shoot you when I see you."

"For this, man, you can shoot me full of whatever you like." If anybody were listening in to this conversation made up totally of double entendres and R&Ls (rudes and lewds, in Blairspeak), charges were probably now pending.

"Sandburg, take pity on this poor old cop. Be good."

"I'll be better than good, Ellison. I'll be pumped." Shit! Blair shorthand. Actually, when Sandburg said he was pumped, Jim needed more of longhand to take care of it -- and his lover. "See you backstage."

"6:30. Don't be late."

"Yes, sir. 6:30, sir. At the entrance on Yeager. I'll be the one looking for a great-looking guy with muscles out to there."

"Chief-"

"If I don't see him, I'll come find you." With that, Blair Sandburg, the surprise love of Jim Ellison's life was gone; off to do whatever the hell he had to do to get ready for the big night out.

Kids. Jim could only wonder and sigh at all that youthful exuberance, which had long since passed him by.

Maybe some of it could still rub off on the sentinel, if he positioned his young guide just right after they got home.

***

The concert had been going on full blast for over two hours. There were no opening acts, no preliminaries.

Only Pierce. That's whom the thousands of people in Cascade's Arena had paid to see. That's whom they wanted. And that's whom they got. The singer was truly in his element. The full, rich voice took the crowd from the heights of love and lust, down to the bottomless depths of broken dreams and broken hearts.

And Pierce knew how to play the audience. In between numbers, he pulled them in with surprisingly intimate conversations, telling them about his humble beginnings, about song writing, about giving back to the world through music and charity, about almost anything that came to his creative, calculating mind.

And the roaring throng became almost a living, breathing entity. They wanted this magic time never to end. They wanted Pierce to stay on stage, to somehow stay in their lives.

Jim Ellison's lover seemed no exception.

In the middle of all the insanity, Jim caught sight of a totally transfixed Blair Sandburg about 20 feet away, between bodyguard Dave Talbot and his host for the evening, Hal Meehan. The lights danced in Blair's wild, unruly curls; shafts of almost unearthly illumination from random overhead Kliegs and their color gels pooled over where Sandburg stood. If the young man had been standing beneath stained glass windows in a cathedral, Jim Ellison couldn't be struck any harder by the sheer beauty of his mate. It brought feelings of boundless love and raw desire thundering into the detective's chest.

Blair was dressed in black, much like everybody, except the knit shirt he was wearing -- one that Jim loved on him -- had threads of gold and bronze running through it. As Sandburg bounced uninhibitedly to the ever-escalating frenzy of Pierce's music, Jim took in the show his guide was putting on. Not for the first time, Ellison was reminded how primal and how sensual that damned little yoga instructor could be. For a second, the sentinel lost focus on everything and everyone except his guide.

Then their eyes locked. "You okay?" Blair's asked softly, knowing only Jim's ears would pick it up.

"Now I am." Jim mouthed the words. Their visual connection lasted until one of the huge roadies repositioning a piece of equipment stepped in their line of sight.

But it didn't matter. Over the almost ear-shattering din, Jim Ellison could feel Blair breathe life into his soul as he now shouted, "I love you!" loud enough for the world to hear.

God, how Jim Ellison wanted and needed to be away from this crush of humanity, how he wanted and needed his guide.

And then the unthinkable happened.

"Back at you, lover!" The detective was surprised to hear his unspoken answer come from someone else's lips. It had spilled from Pierce's wet, raw mouth at breakneck speed as he danced across the sweat-soaked stage. The singer had tossed the words haphazardly to several people in the audience, the way he usually did at this juncture of the show.

It couldn't have been meant for Blair. His Blair. Could it?

Jim Ellison tried to shake the uneasiness off, but failed. The more he looked at Pierce, and watched what Pierce was doing, and where he was looking, the more he knew in his heart of hearts that the singer was fixating on Blair Sandburg. Jesus Christ, this was the beginning of every nightmare Jim had where his lover was concerned.

Jim couldn't wait for damned Pierce to leave Cascade.

Five days and counting.

***

Even in the seeming chaos, which surrounded the after-concert blowout bash, Pierce still reigned supreme. The concert had been outrageous and fantastic. "A god-damned mother fucker of a show," his drummer was screaming at anyone who would listen. Over the steady din, Pierce's laser-like eyes scanned the crowd and came to rest on Blair Sandburg who was chatting with the Mayor's wife.

Pierce threw an oblique look in Blair's direction, and asked his brother: "Who's that? The one over there with all the hair?"

Throwing a cold Michelob down his throat, Hal Meehan caught the look his brother was giving Blair Sandburg - it was the one that always spelled trouble. "Mick, please ..."

"I asked you a question."

"His name's Blair Sandburg."

"Is he the new guy from the record label? From Teddy Sperling's office, maybe?"

"No, he's not from Echo. Mr. Sandburg came with Detective Ellison."

"A cop? No. You don't have to answer that. Nobody who looks like that could be a cop. A guest?"

"Mickie, please ..." Hal fell back on the familiar name he used when he really needed to get his brother's undivided attention.

"Please, what, Hally? I'm only asking a simple question."

"No, you're not, Mickie. You're scouting the local talent. Don't this time. We'll be out of here in a couple of days, and we don't want any trouble."

"What? You don't think ... Sandburg, was it? ... Sandburg would like a little private chat? A little bit of 'Piercing'?"

Hal grabbed his brother's sleeve. "No. I think he probably wouldn't be interested. I also think that that big detective might have something to say about it." He dropped his voice a notch so that nobody else could hear him. "We don't want a repeat of Detroit. Please, Mickie."

"That was then, this is now, Hally. Jesus Christ, I'm not going to murder the guy. I'm just going to talk."

"It's never the talking, Mickie." Hal Meehan answered unhappily. "It's what comes after. Detroit was too close. The next time..."

"Ah, fuck, Hal. You're worse than having my old lady around. That's why I don't take her on the road. Hang on; he's coming this way. Do me a favor. Go get a beer. Do a couple of lines. Or a couple of girls. Just let me have a little fun."

"Are you trying to kill me, Mick?"

"Only if you keep interfering with my plans, Hally."

***

The late night gave way to the early morning hours. Jim Ellison continued watching intently backstage visitors streamed in and out of the hallway to and from Pierce's dressing room, including the star-struck Darlene Bretano and her posse. Ellison looked for anything out of the ordinary and could find nothing. All of the detective's senses were on heightened alert, but he found no erratic heartbeats -- other than those just happy to be among the chosen few, with an invitation to Pierce's after-concert party.

And suddenly Jim heard it. Again. And this time, there was no mistake about it. Pierce was speaking in low, hypnotic tones to Blair. More than that, it sounded as though he were touching Sandburg's hair.

Earlier, Ellison had left Sandburg all but hidden in a corner of the overcrowded green room, talking to one of the backup singers, and virtually ignored by the "A" list of Pierce's Who's Who guests. It was now apparent that he hadn't escaped the notice of the man of the hour.

"Hello, I don't believe we've met. I' -"

"Pierce."

"Smart lad. And you are?"

"So totally happy to finally meet you."

"Interesting name. The monogramming must be a bitch." The singer was pushing his charm into overdrive.

"Blair. I mean, Blair. Blair Sandburg."

"'The' Blair Sandburg?"

Even from the hallway where he was standing, Jim could swear he 'heard' his lover blush.

"You run that wonderful children's program here in Cascade, isn't that right? Here, let me freshen your drink. What's your poison, lover?" Pierce took a sip of Blair's drink, and then made a face. "Christ, cola with a twist? Doesn't anybody here drink?"

"Well, some do. I just figure it's better for my body not to."

"What, are you pregnant?"

"No, I'm a yoga instructor."

"Ah, well, now I understand. Serene and sober. All right, my little tea-totaler, sit down and tell me more about this literacy project of yours. I'm really interested."

The detective walked back into the now dimly lit room, and was taken aback as he saw Blair in a different light than he'd ever seen before. Here was not the kind and gentle yoga instructor, nor the intelligent police observer, nor the passionate, animated, and giving lover. This was yet another Blair Sandburg, one he'd never met, but one perfect for the venue. This Sandburg was a shrewd, insightful philanthropist, using his "Blairness" rather shamelessly to attain a worthwhile goal.

The two were deep in conversation about the viability of a public relations campaign featuring the singer for Sandburg's privately funded charity. "Read To Me" was Blair's ambitious attempt to get each and every person in Cascade to buy a book for a needy boy or girl or to donate the time to read to an underprivileged child. Jim was so proud of what his lover was trying to accomplish, of giving back to the community, of making the world a better place, he couldn't find the words to tell Blair.

Words weren't Jim Ellison's strong suit.

On the other hand, Pierce had absolutely no trouble at all. Within 10 minutes, he was flattering Blair outrageously, praising Blair to the hills, and wooing Blair ever so slightly.

Megastar Pierce Meehan was out to take Blair Jacob Sandburg away from Detective James Joseph Ellison. It was as simple as that. It didn't matter if Pierce thought about Sandburg in terms of hours or days or lifetimes. If he succeeded in making Blair another notch on his bedpost, the damage would be done.

And Jim was at a loss on what to do to fight for his younger lover that wouldn't make him look like a jealous fool, a possessive Neanderthal, or a hopeless also-ran. The detective stood by the picked-over food that looked as though it had been trampled by wild animals. Falling back on old military habits, Jim walked the perimeter of the room, carefully avoiding the sea of empty bottles, half-full plates scattered helter-skelter all around the room, and grossly overflowing ashtrays wherever you looked or stepped. As he pretended to listen to the music critic from the Cascade Inquirer rave ad nauseum about the show, Jim Ellison closely watched and eavesdropped on the tête-à-tête between Pierce and Blair. As they fell deeper in conversation, oblivious to everything and everyone, they were unaware that the detective was making his way toward them. Jim finally found himself standing behind the couch where the singer and Blair sat. The young man sensed his presence, looked up over his shoulder and threw Ellison a smile that was pure incandescence.

"Jim! Big guy! You're never going to believe it!"

"Try me."

"Mick-"

"Mick?" Now Blair was using a nickname that Jim had only heard Hal Meehan use.

Because Blair was Blair, he realized Jim was disturbed about something, and that just maybe "Mick" might be that thing.

Jim still had a lot to learn about love and trust. "Uh, Pierce." Sandburg amended. "He's promised to do a series of PSAs for 'Read to Me.'" Blair was beaming. "Isn't that like so great?"

"That's great, Chief." Jim Ellison honestly tried to be happy for the turn of events. In his heart, he knew that the public service announcements with Pierce in them would earn a tremendous amount of airtime, and lots of new donations to the cause so near and dear to Sandburg's heart. It made the detective begrudgingly grateful to the rock star. At the same time, Ellison had to admit he felt envious of someone else who could do something big and important for his lover that he couldn't.

Pierce could read situations like a medium reading a crystal ball. And he was a man who could sense an opportunity and take advantage of it.

"Chief? Interesting nickname. How'd you get it?"

Blair was about to start an enthusiastic explanation, when Jim Ellison placed his hand on the small of Sandburg's back.

"Can we pick up the conversation later?" Jim gruffly interrupted. "It's almost 2 AM. Blair and all your other guests need to leave. And I need to get you back to your hotel." Ellison's voice gentled perceptibly as he looked down at Blair's open face. "I'll meet you back at the loft when I'm done. Be careful driving home, Chief." He added, not only for Pierce's benefit, but, strangely, also for his own.

"Is it that time already?" Pierce smiled indulgently. "Cinderella leaving the ball? Are you sure you don't want to join the rest of the gang up at the suite, love?"

Hal Meehan had been hovering by his brother's side, watching Pierce maneuver and manipulate the way he always did. He was waiting for just the right time to interrupt, and this was it, if Meehan were reading the clearly unhappy detective correctly.

"Mick, listen to Jim."

"All right, all right. Whatever you say, Detective. And anyway, Blair and I can talk before the concert tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Jim said through taut lips.

"Yes. That is, if Blair won't be bored sticking around for a second show."

"Are you serious?" The yoga instructor's eyes opened wide. "I can't believe it! I am like so there!"

"Wonderful! And you can get a better vantage point if you're with Ray Henrickson, my light man, at his board. Sound good?"

"Sounds great!"

It didn't sound great to Jim Ellison, detective, sentinel and lover of Blair Sandburg.

It sounded like trouble in Paradise thanks to a snake named Pierce.

***

Detectives Ellison, Rafe and Brown, along with a handful of uniforms, made sure there were no other encounters with overenthusiastic fans during the short limo ride back down to the hotel. Once the singer was again safely housed in his protective tower, Jim Ellison debriefed hotel security chief Larry Cunningham, reviewing what had happened before, during, and after the first show, along with exchanging information about any and all possible persons who might take hero worship to another, less innocuous level.

"I think that covers everything, Larry. Here's a Polaroid of Darlene Bretano and her friends from this afternoon, just in case she wants to take another run at getting a more personal souvenir."

"Young, curly hair, blue eyes." Cunningham studied the photo. "That's how he likes them. Or so I've heard."

Jim's eyes hardened. "What?"

"Got a minute for a cup of coffee?"

That didn't sound good.

"What's the scuttlebutt on this guy, Larry?"

The two went down to Cunningham's large, immaculately kept office on the fourth floor. Once seated, with surprisingly good Columbia blend in hand, Jim Ellison settled back in the oversized leather chair across from the other man.

"This goes in the vault, Jim, because I don't have any formal incident reports."

The hairs on the back of the detective's neck were starting to stand straight up.

"In the vault, Larry. Now what's it about?"

"I've heard from a few of my buddies - one in Boston, the other in New Orleans - that Mr. Meehan likes them young and likes to treat them rough."

"You mean he-"

"He makes them jump through hoops. If they can't, well ... he's been known to mess them up pretty badly."

"He ... rapes them?"

"No. Nobody's ever accused him of that. And between Pierce's lawyers and that brother of his, everything always seems to get smoothed over." Jim blinked for a minute. It was still hard for him to believe that local police departments would turn a blind eye and not officially investigate any problems concerning underage participants, no matter how willing.

As if reading Ellison's thoughts, Cunningham spoke. "Don't look at me like that. You know what happens. For enough money and whatever the hell the poor kid wants, problems go away. And, dammit, it's Pierce, Jim. For most people, this guy walks on water. He's rich, famous, pretty damned talented, and he seems to be out there as a citizen of the world. You know, saving rainforests, fighting against landmines, supporting education ..."

"And literacy programs ..." Ellison added, almost glumly.

"Yeah. And you know how it is. Some people might think that maybe anybody who's getting into Pierce's personal space by hook or crook might not be as pure as the driven snow. So, it's -"

"Swept under the rug?"

"Jesus, Jim, everything still black and white with you?"

"Don't give me that bullshit, Larry. Right is right. Nobody - a congressman, a teacher, or a rock star -- should use a kid, even if the kid wants to be used. 'No' still means 'no' where I come from."

Larry Cunningham knew he wasn't going to win this conversation, principally because he agreed with Ellison. Trying to calm the other man down, he added: "Anyway, after the last few times, Pierce has been making sure his company's 'legal.'"

Ellison snorted derisively. "And that entitles him to beat these girls up and throw them away with a couple of bucks and an autographed CD?" Jim jumped up and started pacing around the office, flashing back to the thin Darlene Bretano, with the backstage pass in her hand, and a bruise the size of the man's hand on her right cheek.

"My sources tell me the payoffs are usually quick and big. Come on, you know how the game is played. All of them took the money and ran."

"You can put whatever spin you want on it, but it's still wrong, Larry, and you know it. Pierce should have to be accountable like everybody else. It should be a level playing field where justice is concerned."

"Jim, wake up and smell the $4.00 latte. Justice and the law are two different things."

"They shouldn't be."

"But they are." Larry Cunningham's dark, brown eyes rested on the man standing so stiffly, so uncomfortably across the room from him. "That's why I had to leave." He threw his own empty cup into the nearby wastepaper basket and gestured toward Jim's. "Can I take that from you?"

"Yeah." Jim Ellison handed it off to the other man.

"Well, thanks for your help. Brown's and Rafe's, too. Tell them I want an invitation to your next poker game. I've got a balloon mortgage payment coming up."

"I'll tell them."

"Keep a good thought, Jim. Let's hope this guy does his shows, makes tons of money for himself, and leaves tons of it behind."

"Sounds like a plan. Any problems, you have all the numbers at the station and my cell."

"Uh, one other thing before you go." The Meridien's security chief hesitated. "He ... doesn't confine his attentions to women."

"No?" Ellison's eyes narrowed.

"No. If I were you," Cunningham's eyes locked with Jim's, "I'd keep him away from your-" He left the sentence unfinished. Larry Cunningham had met Blair Sandburg at a police function held at the hotel. Blair Sandburg was a real head-turner. And Jim Ellison was a smart man. He could put two and two together.

After shaking hands, the two men went their separate ways: Larry Cunningham to morning e-mail and reports; Jim Ellison, back to his loft, his bed, and a corker of a fight when he told Sandburg that, despite what he might or might not be able to do for "Read For Me," for the next few days, Pierce was persona non grata in their lives.

***

When Jim Ellison got home, he found Blair Sandburg nestled in their large bed under the yellow and blue comforter that had been a six-month anniversary gift from Blair's world traveler mother, Naomi.

Mouth slightly open, with just a hint of drool around the corners, face unlined, almost dewy in appearance, surprisingly enhanced by the stubble on his cheek and chin, his lover looked as beautiful as Jim ever remembered seeing him. The auburn hair was haloed around his head, snaking out in all directions. A large tress of it seemed to be making its way toward Jim's empty pillow, as if searching for its absent owner.

Jim bent down and gently kissed the small patch of forehead visible under that marvelous mane. Even in sleep, Blair Sandburg smiled. A hand appeared from under the cocoon of covers and patted Jim's forearm.

"Hi."

"Go back to sleep, babe. It's still early."

"Come to bed, Jimmy." Coming from Blair Sandburg's mouth, the term of endearment made Jim Ellison feel outrageously happy and wanted. When Carolyn Plummer had used it, it had only made him feel diminutive and inadequate. That was probably one of the reasons the head of the Cascade Forensics Department was now his ex-wife.

The big detective quietly peeled off his clothes, folded them neatly and placed them on the chair in the corner, as opposed to Sandburg's pile of discards, half-cleans, and "crunchies," as his lover tagged some of the on-the-floor wardrobe selections. Sliding into bed, Jim spooned against Blair's strong, well-muscled body. As he inched his right arm under the other man's head, he wrapped the left around Sandburg's waist, then reached down with his hand to find the ample prize he was searching for. Even in sleep, Blair's cock knew Jim was home and it wanted to play.

Ellison found his own growing arousal being loosely gripped by Blair's butt cheeks. As he began to stroke Sandburg slowly and lovingly, his guide responded in kind by clenching the eager dick in a pulsing motion that drove the sentinel wild.

Sleeping wasn't going to be an option. Jim needed Blair.

"Babe, you up?"

A small chuckled response was music to Ellison's sensitive ears. "How do you mean?"

"How do you think? Hang on, Chief, I need something."

Jim fumbled blindly for the tube of special unscented lubricant, but Blair stopped him, as he took the big man's finger. First he drew it to his lips and kissed the tip of it before sucking it into his mouth. Sandburg smiled in the dark hearing Jim Ellison's reaction.

"No, you don't. " He pulled the wetted finger from his mouth, and then slid it easily into his already prepped, slippery hot passage, well past Ellison's knuckle. "I'm ready for you."

"You sure you were never a Boy Scout?" Jim laughed as he added a second finger and scissored them back and forth, just to make sure his lover was ready.

After a few minutes of the exquisite torture, Blair Sandburg was begging for - no, demanding - more from his big lover.

"Jesus Christ, Ellison. Stop playing. Do it. Fuck me. Fuck me hard." Ellison understood and pulled his fingers out, just as Sandburg reached back and smeared precum all over his partner's throbbing cock. Then, Blair left no room for doubt as to whom was controlling the fucking he was going to get. In one deliberate motion, the smaller man pushed backward and swallowed up Jim Ellison's dick until he was riding it for all he was worth.

Jim Ellison howled as everything around the two lovers fell away. Now, nothing else mattered. No "later" or "tomorrow" or "forever." Certainly, no "Pierce."

Just "now" for a sentinel and guide needing desperately to couple, to mate fast and furiously.

"Jim ... coming ... I'm ..." With that, Blair lost his control and shot everything into Jim's waiting hand.

It was all too much for Jim Ellison: the incredible heat, the silky feel of this most secret part of Blair's body, and the total trust with which his lover offered himself. An orgasm of unbelievable intensity literally ripped through Ellison's body, along with a scream that could probably be heard by the entire apartment building. It seemed to catch them both off-guard and left them half-laughing, half-sobbing with relief and more than a little exhausted.

In the hazy aftermath, Jim realized, somewhat belatedly, that his hand was sticky from Blair's intense rut. Sandburg ran his thumb back and forth over the top of his lover's hand, then pulled it up to his mouth and started to lick his own essence off. It made Jim Ellison's cock jump.

"Jesus Christ, Chief, you're incorrigible." Jim half grunted. "Give an old man a break."

"Sure, big guy. Send him up any time. Tuesdays are best for me." Jim Ellison had fallen in love with a stand-up comedian. Maybe a lie-down comedian was closer to the truth. The detective smiled into Blair's sweaty, twisted mane of hair. One of the things Ellison loved best about Sandburg was that incredible sense of humor. Much of the time, there was as much laughing as lovemaking in their bed.

A solid yawn from his spent guide signaled that sleep was the most sensible thing for the two of them to do now.

As Jim Ellison drew Blair Sandburg's thoroughly sated, very sticky body into a protective embrace, he knew, just as certain as morning followed night, that this wonderful man was his missing piece.

Jim Ellison could survive anything - and had. But losing Blair Sandburg, no, "that" he wouldn't survive.

***

Just as Jim Ellison had predicted, fighting followed the fucking. It was served up with breakfast. He broached the subject as Blair smeared cream cheese over the toasted cinnamon raisin bagel he preferred. Sandburg grew quiet as he listened to Jim's concerns about Pierce Meehan.

Blair, usually a roll-with-the-punches kind of person, was uncharacteristically stiff-necked on the subject of the singer and the allegations against him. He wouldn't listen to Larry Cunningham's bad-mouthing, or anyone else's, for that matter. Especially not his lover's.

"Jim, think about what you're asking me to give up. Pierce can help "Read To Me." You know that. I'd have to work from now to Shavu'ot to try to make a tenth of the money he can raise for me in just a few months. Come on, babe. Don't make me choose. This program is too important to me."

Jim Ellison stood his ground. "Blair, you don't get it. I don't want anything to happen to you. Pierce is bad, bad news."

"Do you have any proof?"

"I have my gut instinct."

"That's not good enough."

"It should be."

The two men stared at each other. Blair was saved from having to answer the loaded statement by Jim's cell phone ringing. He answered it, even as he watched his angry lover leave the table without cleaning up his dishes, go into the bathroom, and slam the door shut.

"Jim, it's Simon. How are things going?"

Jim Ellison had no idea.

***

"See, it's a constant struggle to keep "Read To Me" afloat. You know, the old one small step forward, five giant steps back."

Blair had been surprised to get a call from Pierce's people, asking that he stop by the hotel to discuss his literacy project further. Even though Sandburg was grateful for the opportunity, he couldn't help but be subdued. He and Jim hadn't spoken since the detective left the loft that morning. Blair hated fighting with Jim.

There were several interruptions, including one by a feature writer from the Cascade Scene Magazine, another by executives from Pierce's production company who stopped by to discuss a possible new film in development, and a third by several members of the singer's worldwide fan clubs.

Pierce took everyone's compliments and praise graciously, magnanimously, but sent them off as soon as they'd done their business and paid their homage. His dance card seemed to be reserved exclusively for Sandburg this afternoon. Pierce gave the young man his undivided attention

"As I told you, over the past year, our operating expenses have been growing like nobody's business, but the contributions haven't kept up. So, if you could see your way clear to help me with one or two public service announcements, it would make such a difference. I'll make my financials available to you and your lawyers, just so you can see my organization is on the up and up." Sandburg pushed the hair away from his face and paused for a moment, as he examined the ice cubes in his soft drink. "I'm only asking because there's just so much need."

"'Need?'" Pierce sipped his neat Dewars, all the while studying Blair Sandburg. "Now that's a word I'm familiar with." If the overt nature of the singer's statement registered with the other man, he chose not to acknowledge it.

At that moment, a harried looking Hal Meehan wandered over to where the two were sitting. "Blair! Good to see you again. I take it Detective Ellison must be somewhere nearby." The comment seemed more for Pierce's benefit than the Sandburg's. At the mention of his lover's name, Blair Sandburg looked unhappy and began to chew his full, bottom lip. He tried to sound light-hearted but the lightness didn't reach his soulful, blue eyes.

"Hello, yourself, Hal. No. He's down at Metro filing reports." Sandburg took a sip of his Pepsi, but volunteered no other information.

Pierce sensed trouble between Blair and that detective of his. Things were looking up. "Blair, do you mind if I do something?" With that, he stroked the shorter man's long, silky hair. "My God! This is just wonderful. So '60s. I'm tempted to let mine grow out."

Blair Sandburg tried conjuring up the picture. It made him laugh good-naturedly. "Man, no offense, but I think you'd end up looking like Sting in a little Orphan Annie wig."

"Ouch." The rock star made a mock "wounded" sound. "You think it'd be that bad? After all, I'm much younger and much better looking than Sting. Don't you think?"

Hal interrupted them. "Mick, it's three o'clock. You need some downtime before the concert tonight to -"

"To what? Do I look uptight or out-of-control to you? I think Blair's having a calming influence on me. Too bad you can't bottle it, love. Or better yet, come on the road with me as my own personal stress buster."

"I'll consider it. But I guess I'd better let you go. See you tonight. And, thanks again, Pierce, for everything." With that, Blair picked up his briefcase, and let himself out.

The singer watched Sandburg leave. Yes, he was going to have the young man's fine ass. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe he'd even stick around a few extra days, if he had to. Whatever it took for him to get those full, moist lips wrapped around his dick.

And nobody - not his brother, not that cop, and certainly not Blair himself - was going to stop him.

After all, he was Pierce.

***

"Ellison."

"Jim, it's me."

"Uh, hi. Where are you?"

"I'm heading back to the loft. Are you coming home for dinner?"

"I wasn't -"

"Come on, Jim. I hate it when we fight. I ... you know."

"Yeah. Me, too."

"Well, then, I'll pick something up for dinner. See you there. Around five okay?"

"Five it is. Bye."

"Bye, big guy."

As Jim hung up the phone at his desk, he just hoped that Pierce wasn't the "something" his lover was picking up for dinner.

***

Dinner was a battle masquerading as a meal. Every subject Blair had brought up, no matter how innocuous, was answered tersely or not at all. Sandburg played with a piece of mushroom in the vegetarian lasagna and pushed it around from one side of his plate to the other. He concentrated on the vegetable as if he half-expected it to move on its own, all in an effort so avoid confronting an angry, sulking sentinel sitting across from him.

For Jim's part, he had tried to let everything go that happened between them over the last 24 hours. But everything came back to Pierce, and Sandburg's bullheadedness about the singer. So Ellison was toting all that baggage with him when he arrived home.

"Jesus Christ, Sandburg, stop it!" Jim Ellison finally spat at him. At that instant, Blair knew that he'd failed miserably in his quest for invisibility. Sandburg wasn't going to be able to skirt around the elephant on the sofa -- the Pierce thing - any longer.

Blair put his fork down, picked up his plate and took it over to the sink. He turned around, braced himself for whatever was going to happen next. Jim Ellison had left the table, wandered over to the couch and thrown himself down on it. Squeezing the remote tightly, he turned on the news, just in time to see images of Pierce promoting the concert that night.

But for bad luck, Jim would have no luck at all. Feeling defeated, he turned the TV off.

"Okay, Jim. You're not going to let this go. It's your dime. So, talk."

"My dime, huh? I'm not the one who, who -"

"Who what? Just what do you think happened?"

"For fuck sake, I can smell him on you. You..."

"I what?"

"Pierce... he--"

"He ruffled my hair, as in patted me like a damned cocker spaniel. End of story."

"That's not all there was to it."

"Yes, that's all there was to it."

"He wants you."

"What--"

"He wants you."

"Okay, so, maybe he does. What about it? I'm not going to -"

"And you..." Jim Ellison's voice dropped in volume, so much so that Blair thought he had gone deaf in the middle of the argument.

"I what? Give those of us not blessed with Sentinel hearing a break."

"And you wanted him."

Blair froze. "I did not."

"You did. That's what I could smell."

"You're wrong on so many levels ..."

"I won't have it, Sandburg. You hear me? Not again. And not from you."

"Just a minute. You won't have it? What are you? The lord of the manor? Since when did I become a body appendage to you? News flash, buddy. My life, my call."

Jim Ellison sat, stung by the words. Blair Sandburg stopped talking. His words were harsh and unbending even in his own ears.

"I'm sorry, Jim. I didn't mean it."

"... "

"Jim, you're not yourself. All of this shit with Pierce is making you tense, off balanced. Come here, big guy." Sandburg grabbed Jim's hands in his and pulled him off the couch onto the floor.

"I don't want to do yoga."

"You're stiff."

"I'm a what? A stiff? Since when? Since something better came along?" Jim exploded furiously at the imagined slur.

Blair stood silently by the sofa, trying to regroup. This was going from bad to worse. "I said you're stiff. You heard wrong."

"..."

"What's the matter with you, Jim? What's this really about?" Sandburg's voice was rusty with emotion.

"Nothing."

Blair stared at the man he loved, the man who was trying to hurt him - hurt "them." "Nothing, huh? Yeah. Sure. Sometimes, you're the most rigid, inflexible moron I've ever-"

"Fucked?"

"-- Loved, you frigging retard. LOVED." Blair Sandburg found himself shouting, because he didn't know what else to do. "Get it? I. LOVE. YOU. But, honest to God, Jim, you're making me crazy."

"You don't have to put up with it."

"What did you just say?" Stunned at the hurtful comment, Blair Sandburg was rapidly losing patience with his lover.

"I have no hold over you. You said so."

"How am I supposed to respond to that? Look, Jim, I haven't done anything that would give Pierce any encouragement. He knows we're together." What was wrong suddenly hit Blair between the eyes. "It's me you don't trust, isn't it? You think I'm going to run."

The detective waited a fraction of second too long to answer. Jim Ellison looked back at his lover's wide blue eyes, brilliant with unshed tears of anger.

"Chief -"

"No. Don't say it. I am so out of here, man."

"I'm sorry. I didn't-"

"Leave it alone, Jim."

"Where will you be?"

"What the fuck do you care? As long as it's not with Pierce, I can go straight to hell and it's okay with you, right?"

"You know it isn't. Are you going to be at the concert tonight?"

"No, I guess I won't get my 'star fuck' in this time. Too bad, huh?"

Ellison didn't rise to the bait. "Will you be at the warehouse?"

"Keeping tabs on me? Five heightened senses not enough? How about an ankle monitor?"

"Stop it, Blair."

"Me, stop it? You're something else, Ellison." Blair stalked over to the basket on the table beside the door, and picked up the keys to his Volvo. "Yes, I'll be at my place."

Suddenly, Jim Ellison knew that he'd been 100 percent wrong. He was acting like an asshole. He had to make it right somehow. But first, Jim had to go protect that even bigger asshole who had started it all. "I'll see you later?"

"Not if I see you first. Look, Jim, I think it's better if we spend some time apart." And then Blair Sandburg was gone.

And Jim Ellison was alone.

Again.

***

The rest of Pierce's stay in Cascade proved largely uneventful.

Blair stayed at the warehouse, taught two classes at the Yoga Institute, did some work for the "Read To Me" fundraiser he was going to host in September, and didn't speak with Jim Ellison.

The detective had left several messages on the answering machine, but Blair Sandburg was still too furious at his lover to pick up.

Unfortunately, no matter how much Sandburg had intended to punish Jim Ellison, he was feeling the brunt of their separation.

Blair was miserable, and lonely, and wanted nothing more than to be in his partner's incredibly strong, safe embrace.

No. He wasn't going to give in. Ellison had acted like a jealous jerk for no reason. Love meant trust.

An hour of yoga did nothing to rescue Blair Sandburg from the incredibly blue funk he now found himself in.

Jim Ellison could be such a pain in the ass, a stiff-necked, hardnosed, unbending, anal-retentive, and as repressed a son-of-a-bitch as you'd ever want to meet.

In the middle of the mental diatribe, Blair touched his collarbone, still sensitive from where the big lug had left his mark - then licked it, catlike, as they lay together. Blair's cheeks warmed as he remembered the next place Jim stuck his tongue, and didn't stop until he had left his smaller partner a steamy pie of boneless guide on the floor where they'd fallen unceremoniously from the bed ... was it only a few nights ago?

And who would have thought someone as tough as Jim Ellison would love to cuddle? All night long, they lay in one another's arms, Blair feeling his lover's steady breath stirring the hairs by the side of his neck, and stoking the fires of love in his heart.

Damn Jim Ellison! Damn him and his fucking sensitive eyes and ears and skin - and soul.

Shit. Blair Sandburg wanted and needed his other half. So, why was he on one side of the city and the man he loved more than his own life on the other?

Because, if Blair were being totally honest with himself he'd admit to acting surprisingly childish and petulant for someone almost 30 year old, he hadn't gotten his way. Because the thought that someone as wonderful as Jim Ellison could have chosen him still didn't seem real. And because what the two of them had wasn't "until something better comes along." It was the forever-and-ever type of deal.

And, because of it, Blair Sandburg was scared spitless. Just like Jim Ellison. How could they be so blessed and so stupid simultaneously?

Just lucky, Blair guessed. So why was he standing here? He had a lot of apologizing to do. And he couldn't do it over the phone. Keys in hand, Sandburg was just about to open the door, when he heard a deliberate knock at it.

They were right. Great minds did think alike.

"Jim, I'm so sor-" as Blair swung the door open, he came face to face with Pierce. Sporting a black silk shirt and leather pants outfit that looked like the one he'd worn his last album cover, the singer was the epitome of style and élan. The belt at his slim waist was decorated with at least a dozen silver milagro arrows.

Sandburg found his tongue. "Pierce! Jesus, I didn't expect ... uh, hello."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Blair. If, in fact, I am a disappointment."

Blair Sandburg looked over Pierce's shoulder to see how many of the singer's entourage were out in the hallway and found, to his surprise, no one.

"The answer is 'yes,' I assure you I am all alone." The singer's voice was rife with amusement. "As, I presume, are you?"

Pierce didn't wait for the answer he already knew. He'd been sitting outside Blair Sandburg's warehouse for a half-hour. The only car on the street was Blair's. Detective Ellison's truck - the one Sandburg had prattled on about during their little talk earlier in the week was wonderfully absent.

"If it's not too much trouble, love, could I come in? I'd rather not hang about the hallway."

"Uh, sorry, sure." As the singer walked past him, a strange, almost chilling sensation brushed over Blair, but he shook it off. For a moment Blair Sandburg thought there was something different about the superstar. There was. First off, the outfit was tailored, not the form-fitting shirt and jeans the singer wore on stage. Pierce's golden brown hair wasn't spiked and the skin wasn't oiled with that gold stuff Jim Ellison had noticed and mentioned.

People on the street wouldn't have recognized this GQ version of Pierce. They'd just think, "Jesus H. Christ! What a damned good-looking man!"

That's what Blair was thinking.

And something else. Tonight, the cologne that somebody in London had specially blended for the superstar was missing.

Somewhat surprisingly, Pierce was also wearing a pair of leather driving gloves that looked soft and as expensive as everything else Pierce had on.

In the background, a soft, plaintive lyric was washing over the two. The song, "Late At Night," from Pierce's film CD seemed even more meaningful and doubly plaintive, somehow. As naturally as breathing, the singer opened his mouth, and began to do what he did best.

Two lost and lonely people,
Living apart and belonging together,
Regretting that they let each other go,
Two sad and foolish people,
Giving up the chance of forever,
Never letting one another know,
They need each other so. Late at night ...

Pierce fell back into humming the sad, beautiful tune, even as he sank into Blair's overstuffed yellow chair. A portion of Sandburg's brain registered the somewhat disturbing image of a king on his throne ready to pass sentence.

"Blair, lover, I wanted to talk to you ..."

"About what? The television spots?"

Pierce was momentarily distracted. "Well, yes, that, too. But I was thinking more along the lines of after I leave Cascade."

"After you leave Cascade?"

"Yes, actually, I wanted to talk to you about your future."

Blair didn't quite understand, nor like, the turn the conversation was taking. "What do you mean 'my future'?"

Pierce stood up and wandered slowly around the apartment, picking up and examining several of the artifacts Sandburg had collected on his many travels.

"Why, your future with me, naturally."

"Wait a minute. Wait a minute. My what? My future with you? Mick-"

"Pierce."

"No, Mick. Michael Morgan Meehan." Deliberately using the equalizer of the singer's real identity, Blair took the conversational bull by its dangerous horns. "Pierce is just your job. My future is first, last, and always, my business. And it's with -"

"-The valiant Detective Ellison? So where is that stalwart police officer this evening?"

"He's not-"

"Here?" Pierce already knew the answer to that question. The singer had called the loft just before knocking on Blair Sandburg's door. As soon as he'd heard Ellison's voice, he'd hung up. "No, he's at his loft. 852 Prospect Avenue. That's the address, isn't it?"

Blair heard an alarm go off in his head as he stared at Pierce who was at the moment examining a small Anasazi bowl. Jim had always told him to listen to any little voice that said, "Run for the hills!" You did it, then asked questions after. The million-dollar voice brought him back. Pierce was now standing nearby.

"Blair, while I grant you he's remarkable, his prospects are so limited, I can't think why you'd be with him, other than the sex. I imagine sex with him must be punishingly intense." Pierce reached out and grabbed the smaller man by the wrist, not tightly exactly, but with an undeniable possessiveness attached to the gesture. "I expect you've grown to like that kind of thing." The fingers pressed into Sandburg's wrist, their sharp nails cutting into the flesh. "Or, you've always liked it that way."

Like a striking cobra, Pierce pulled the yoga instructor's well-muscled body back toward him, as he rubbed long, elegant still-gloved fingers down Blair's hip.

"What the fuck-" Sandburg sputtered, jumping at the unexpected and unwanted, blatantly sexual overture. "Stop it!" Pierce paid him no attention, but planted a small, wet kiss back Blair's left ear, which turned into a playful nip.

"Cut it out." The smaller man was now shouting. "Now."

"Say please."

"What? Are you serious?"

"I said, 'Say please.'"

"You're crazy."

"You're going to say it before we're done."

And with that sentence, Sandburg knew he was in serious trouble. The singer let him go, but ratcheted up the tension in the room as he nonchalantly began to undo his belt buckle.

"Okay, man, I think you'd better leave before - "

"Before what?"

"Before this goes any farther."

"Nothing's happened, dear boy. Yet. But the night's young." That having been said, Pierce reached over, as though to brush back Blair's hair. Sandburg pushed the singer's left hand away, but not before Pierce had grabbed a fistful of the auburn mane with his right hand, and pulled hard enough to cause tears to flow freely from Blair Sandburg's eyes.

Twisting it even tighter, the singer forced the smaller, struggling man down to his knees. Sandburg clawed at Pierce's hand with both of his, but the grip was unshakable, vise-like, and more painful than he could have imagined.

"Jesus, Let me go, Mick."

"And if I do?"

"We'll just forget this ever happened."

The singer pressed his knee hard into Blair's back. He looked down at Sandburg. The smile was cruel, almost and obscene.

"Tell me the truth, Blair. This is how you like to be taken, isn't it? Hard. Lots of fight. Gets the juices flowing. Am I right?"

"Let me go, man. Jesus, you're hurting me!"

Pierce relished the pleading. "I have to admit that's how I like to have it off. So why don't we just get comfortable?" He loosened the grip on Sandburg's hair slightly. The singer whispered again, this time lacing his words with true menace. "Don't even think about getting away, dish. It's worse when you run. Try anything and I'll snap you like a twig and throw you away before you can blink. Besides, Blair, what's all this fuss? You want it. You know you do. They all do. And you as good as told me so at the concert."

"No, you're crazy."

Pierce's eyes turned lethal-looking. "You said that before. Don't say it again." To make sure Blair was paying attention, he twisted the hair around his fist again.

"Come on, Sandburg. 'No' is never really 'no."'

With sickening clarity, Blair Sandburg realized that at the very least, he was going to be raped by his unexpected guest, sodomized brutally and there'd be no one to witness it in the virtually abandoned waterfront area.

It was only the two of them. Blair Sandburg, the gentle yoga instructor, was going to have to fight for his life.

"Now, are you going to play nice, love? Nod your head. There's a good fellow."

Blair knew he had only one slim chance to escape, and that would be if he could get Pierce to momentarily loosen the death grip on his shoulder-length hair. Sandburg relaxed his body, stopped struggling, and tried to calm himself.

"Yes."

"What's that, pet? Speak up. Say, 'Pierce, yes.'"

"Pierce, yes."

"Say, 'Pierce, I want it.'"

Sandburg gritted his teeth. The abusive, power-feeding words stuck in his throat but he forced them out. "Pierce, yes, I want it."

Pierce smiled indulgently. "See? Now wasn't that -"

Blair reached back, hit the singer on the side of the head with his closed fist, which sent his would-be rapist sprawling onto the coffee table. Sandburg rolled quickly to the side, was up and heading for the front door, followed by a now enraged Pierce who'd somehow gotten to his feet. Lunging at Blair, he grabbed the other man's arm, swung him around, and slapped him with an open gloved hand, which sent him spinning backwards toward the couch.

Pierce brushed his own flushed cheek with his fingers, drew them away and saw blood he'd felt seeping from a cut. He'd hit the edge of the table, and now he was marked.

This time, there was evidence.

"My fucking face is bleeding!" Pierce reached down and delivered a vicious closed-fisted blow that rolled Sandburg off the sofa and onto the floor. "You're going to be SO sorry. And I'm going to have SO much fun." The same fist swept back and struck the other side of Sandburg's face, harder if that were possible. Blair could taste blood in his mouth where he'd bitten his tongue, and felt a stream of it pushing past the even white teeth over his swelling lips.

Sandburg was suddenly lifted onto his feet and literally dragged over to the futon bed, virtually unused since he'd been living with Jim Ellison.

Jim. Jim had been right. And now things would never be the same.

"Pay attention, bitch." The ugly words were a prelude to uglier actions. Thinking he was going to be struck again, Blair tried to cover his face defensively. He was unprepared for Pierce using a perfectly executed judo move and knocking his legs from under him. His body was sent hurling past the bed. He skidded across the cold, cement floor onto the small Navajo rug that had been a present from Jim. Sandburg struggled to stay conscious, even as he looked up through the veil of pain to this man whom he had liked and admired.

"'Pierce.' Say my name, Blair." The voice was low and seductive. "You're such a pretty thing, Blair." Another backhanded slap almost rendered Blair Sandburg senseless, and unable to block the third closed fist punch. "You're starting to look like hell, but that's alright. I'll close my eyes as I'm doing you."

Then, there was a moment of blessed relief, surcease from the physical pain. But Pierce was merely regrouping.

"Of course, you're going to be face down in a few minutes, so I won't notice, will I?" Through the mist swirling in front of his eyes, Sandburg looked up and saw the singer casually taking his belt off before undoing the tight leather pants he was wearing. The hand-tooled Brazilian leather belt fell to the floor, its beauty in stark contrast to the ugliness of the gesture. Sandburg tried lifting his hands and arms up defensively in case the belt whipped in his direction.

"Please. Don't. You'll - "

"You need to stop talking. Now." Pierce reached over, grabbed Sandburg's hand, and twisted it forcefully. The sickening sound of Blair's little finger breaking erased any other thought in Blair Sandburg's brain, except for pain. His scream lasted for what seemed to be an eternity, but in reality was only a split second, just until the agony subsided. Suddenly, a damp cloth soaked in something bitter tasting was roughly shoved into his mouth. The effects were quick, and should have been alarming. But the black chasm that was rapidly opening up in front of Blair Sandburg held out the tantalizing comfort of oblivion.

But the singer wasn't letting him go, just yet. Pierce reached down, and easily tore off Sandburg's yoga pants. He roughly shoved three of his fingers into Blair Sandburg's ass. Even soft leather made the pain unbearable, the violation unimaginable.

"No - "

A final slap snapped the dazed smaller man's head onto the floor again.

"ARE YOU NEVER GOING TO LEARN? NEVER SAY NO TO ME DO YOU HEAR?" And then Pierce sounded like ... Pierce again, amused, matter-of-fact, and almost charming. "Well, Mr. Sandburg, I have to say that this foreplay has really gotten the blood pumping. I'm really ... REALLY going to enjoy our time together, however short. And so will you ... eventually. Trust me. We're going to have some fun now."

Sensing the inevitability of what was going to happen, Blair relaxed and let himself drift away. Even if his body were assaulted, Sandburg was still safe because he carried Jim Ellison in his guide's heart. There, his sentinel would protect him.

As the savaged Blair Sandburg slipped into unconsciousness, he thought he heard someone yelling, "Jesus Christ! Stop it, Mickie! Leave him alone!"

Son of a bitch. Sometimes the cavalry did make it in the nick of time.

***

Jim Ellison's skin was crawling. He paced around the loft, feeling every inch the caged panther he was. The detective had made several false starts to go down to his Ford and drive across town to Blair's place. But Sandburg had made it pretty clear he needed space and time, both not occupied by Jim Ellison's tall carcass.

Shit. This was worse than it had even been with Carolyn. But, of course, Jim never wanted his ex back this much. Maybe he'd call and leave another message on his lover's machine.

"Chief, hi, it's me..." Maybe, this time, Sandburg would take pity on him and pick up.

***

On the other side of Cascade, somewhere in Blair Sandburg's mind, he thought he'd heard the phone ring and Jim Ellison's voice speak to him. No. He and his lover and fought. Hadn't they?

Blair staggered to his feet and took broken baby steps to a mirror on the nearby wall. "Jeez, Blair, you don't look so hot." The remnants of his pants were tangled around his ankles. Sandburg wasn't quite sure why he was almost naked. He did know his body ached badly around the hips and back, as though they'd been kicked several times. But, again, he couldn't for the life of him remember why. He knew that he needed to call somebody.

The battered young man speed-dialed the first number, but it was busy. Blair's mind wasn't being at all cooperative, but "911" would bring help."911" was good. He could manage "911." And why did his finger hurt so much? It was sticking out in a weird angle from his Swollen hand. That couldn't be right.

And where were two men who had been yelling at one another somewhere in the apartment? He couldn't quite visualize who they were, but one, he was pretty sure, had been angry with him. Had it been Jim? Had Blair been stupid enough to make Jim that angry? Angry enough to do this to him?

Sandburg was blessed from having to deal with so terrible a notion as someone on the other end finally answered. The female voice sounded crisp, efficient, and not unkind.

"911. Please state the nature of your emergency."

"Um, I'm not sure." Right before passing out a second time, Blair mumbled, "But I think I'm hurt pretty bad..."

***

"Come on, Chief, come on. Answer, god-damn it."

"Hi. You've reached 555-1948. I'm not in, but then you knew that, right? Leave your name, number and whatever's on your mind, and I promise I'll get back to you. Namaste."

Detective Jim Ellison was about to leave yet another message on Blair Sandburg's answering machine to keep the other dozen or so company, when a second call beeped his phone. He paled as he recognized the number he knew by memory.

And Cascade General Emergency didn't call him at home just to say hello.

***

Almost timidly, Blair Sandburg slowly drifted back to the land of the living from wherever the hell he'd been. He was having trouble opening his left eye, until he realized, with some alarm, that it was taped shut. The vision in the open eye was fuzzy at best. So was his mouth. Had he been sucking on a cotton sock? The rest of Blair Sandburg hurt like he'd been ... what? Run over by a garbage truck? No. That hadn't happened to him, he was almost sure of it. It had happened to ... someone Blair Sandburg knew.

"Blair, it's Jim. Glad you're back with us, Chief." A voice from above, laced with what seemed to be affection and gratitude, said. Fingers seemed to be stroking his hair. That was nice. Then, he felt two lips gently kiss his forehead. That was even nicer.

Slowly, he started to remember "who" he was. Blair Jacob Sandburg.

Good.

Next, remembered "what" he was. A yoga instructor.

Also good.

Then, he remembered "where" and "when" it was.

Sort of. It was damp. But this was Cascade, WA. Cascade, right! And it was always raining here. So that didn't necessarily mean anything. But hadn't he just been walking around without a jacket? So, as cold-blooded as he was, it was probably spring. Yeah. That was right. And hadn't he just started a new semester wherever it was that he taught? So if Blair were right, it was probably May.

"May?"

"May you what, Chief?"

And of course, there was Jim bending over him, breathing gently on his face. Blair could feel the air tickling his upper lip.

"No. May."

"Yeah, buddy, that's right. It's May. A few days after the Memorial Day weekend."

Wait a minute. Blair seemed to be missing a few days.

"Jim?"

"Take it easy, buddy."

"I don't feel too good."

"You're in Cascade General, and you're going to be fine."

"You promise?"

The hopefulness that Jim Ellison felt was instantly crushed by the uncertainty in Blair Sandburg's broken voice.

Whoever did this to his lover would pay. And Jim Ellison had a pretty good idea whose handy work it had been.

Proving it was another matter.

***

The two men sat outside Sandburg's room. Jim Ellison looked out the window, silent, anguished, white-hot rage at what had been done to his mate eating him alive. Captain Simon Banks knew the look, knew his officer, and knew he had to do something because nothing good could come from this situation. He decided that the best defense was an offense.

"Who would have done this to Sandburg, Jim? Does he have any enemies? Wait, I know." At the look of incredulity thrown at him by his best detective, Simon Banks held up a hand. "Stupid question. Sorry. It would be like Mother Teresa or a puppy having enemies."

The answer was so quiet, so strained, Banks had trouble hearing it. "Well, there had to be one."

"So, what's your detective gut tell you?" Simon forced a cup of hospital coffee -- possibly the worst in recorded history -- from the vending machine down the hall into Jim Ellison's hand.

"I don't know, Simon."

"I hate to bring this up, but --" Jim's captain hesitated.

"But what, sir?"

"Could it be someone on the police force?" Although it wasn't common knowledge, several people in Metro had at least inkling that Jim and Blair Sandburg were a couple.

"What, you mean someone who wanted to get even with the kid for -- 'turning me?' Is that what you mean?"

Would Jim and Blair being lovers so enrage anybody on the Cascade police force to do something so terrible -- particularly if they knew that Jim Ellison would come gunning for them, track them down, and do his worst to them? Nobody would be so stupid.

Yet, somebody had been. Somebody who would live to regret it.

For at least a little while until Jim Ellison could change that.

***

The investigation proved surprisingly fruitless. Blair Sandburg's apartment seemed to have been swept clean by an expert. Even Jim Ellison's sentinel abilities couldn't pick up any traces of the perpetrator.

Jim's first suspect, Pierce Meehan, had a string of alibis for where he'd been. Of course, alibis could be bought and paid for. But without any corroborating evidence, Pierce and his group left Cascade to go back to New York and Pierce's East Hampton shore estate for what Hal Meehan described as "some much needed R&R."

Jim Ellison had wanted to put things right for Blair. His Blair. Even though his lover hadn't been actually raped, the brutality would be with him a long, long time.

Jim Ellison wanted to serve up the head of the son of a bitch who'd done this to the most decent person on the face of the earth on a fucking silver platter. But he hadn't been able to.

And Blair remembered nothing about the actual attack. His doctors had said that Sandburg might never be able to bring the details to light.

Physically, Blair was healing. Emotionally, it was another story. Terror had saturated every corner of the nightmare Blair Sandburg had been having for the past month since Jim Ellison had brought his lover home from the hospital. Tonight was no exception. Exhausted by day, plagued by unseen demons at night, there seemed to be no respite for the anguished young man.

Each night was the same. A nameless, faceless horror would be chasing him, chasing him, chasing him, and finally catching him and doing ... what?

And each night, Jim Ellison was there to catch him, to comfort and console him. But it wasn't enough. The soft, gentle touching and the incredible intimacy that went with it -- something that had always been the best part of their togetherness -- now only served to terrify Blair Sandburg. So Jim had stopped. Instead, he latched onto his partner in an almost wrestle-hold, chin anchored on his lover's smaller, sweat-slickened shoulder, and held on until Blair finally awoke and realized that he was home and safe.

"Jim ... "

"Shhh, babe ..." Ellison tried to make comforting sounds in his lover's ear. "It's all right, Chief ... you were dreaming again ..." Jim didn't need sentinel ears to hear his partner's sobbing. He also caught the unmistakable, pungent scent of urine. In his effort to escape whatever demons were hounding him, Blair Sandburg would lose control of his bladder.

"Christ, Jim ... I ... wet ..."

"Here. Sit over on the chair while I change the bed. Put this around you." Ellison wrapped his own robe around the smaller man's shoulders.

As Jim worked silently, efficiently stripping the bed and replacing the blue sheets, he heard the now-familiar question. He'd heard it every day - and night - since Blair's attack. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

The tall man stopped what he was doing, went over and knelt down beside his lover. "You were hurt by a vicious animal ... You're ... so good, so decent ... It wasn't your fault ..." And Jim Ellison found he couldn't go on. Tears were running down his face. They were tears for his violated lover and everything he'd suffered. But they were also tears for himself because the "Sentinel of the Great City" had been unable to protect his guide, the one person on earth who meant more to him that his own life. There was nothing to be done.

Jim helped Sandburg back into bed and slipped in next to him. As he listened to his lover's breathing even out, the un-religious Ellison prayed to whichever God was listening, that his mate would be granted at least a few hours of trouble-free sleep.

The detective and ex-Ranger also prayed that he be the wrath of that same God if he found the one who had done this to his Blair.

***

Even though Blair hadn't been raped, the physical and mental damage of what had happened sent him to a psychologist who specialized in victims of attacks recommended by the PD's Dr. Tracey, who had personally recommended the therapist.

The twice-weekly counseling sessions seemed to be doing Blair Sandburg no good. If anything, things had gone from bad to worse. Now, Blair was uninterested in anything. He stopped doing yoga, which was his mainstay. He shied away from his friends, and talked about selling the warehouse.

No matter how loving or gentle Jim Ellison was with his partner, it made no difference. Blair had taken to sleeping on the living room couch or the sofa in the spare room under the steps to the loft.

Sandburg couldn't bring himself to tell the therapist or, more importantly, Jim, the reason why.

Blair's memory had returned. The afternoon it had happened, everything flooded back with such intensity that the small man curled into a ball and wept uncontrollably. He'd been beaten and nearly raped, not by some anonymous, twisted stranger. No. Blair Sandburg's attacker had been an incredibly, powerful wealthy amoral psychopath, the creative genius the world adored: Pierce Meehan.

Working in the dark, at a loss for what else to do, Jim treated Blair with kid gloves. For his part, Sandburg became increasingly frustrated, angry at being treated like something broken. When he couldn't wait a minute longer, Sandburg had tried his best to seduce Jim Ellison back into their bed where they'd been so happy, and back into their lives where they'd been so complete. He'd stripped naked, and almost wantonly, began to peel his lover's shirt and pants off. Ellison remembered what the counselor had said, that Blair might exhibit uncharacteristic behavior as he tried working through what had happened to him.

Blair seemed possessed. He'd pushed his bigger lover down onto the bed, covered Jim's hungry, waiting mouth with his own, as was about to pump Jim's throbbing cock with his hand, when he heard one of Pierce's songs through their open bedroom window being played in the apartment below them.

Blair Sandburg froze.

Jim looked up and saw the anguish on his lover's pinched face. "Blair. Talk to me, baby. Please. What's wrong?"

"I can't! I ... " Blair lurched from the bed and dashed down to the bathroom where he began to vomit violently. The gagging, heaving sounds gradually subsided. Jim had followed Blair downstairs, but resisted breaking down the door. What would it accomplish? "Fuck Jessie Doohen" was all that the detective could mutter over and over as he looked down "at" her through the floor. Yeah, fuck her and her lousy taste in music and her even lousier timing.

Finally, Ellison heard Blair brushing his teeth and using their special mouthwash. The door opened. Sandburg staggered by Jim, looking pinched and ashen, now wrapped in the bathrobe that had hung behind the door. He said nothing, but his beautiful face was a portrait in agony.

Jim leaned his head against the wall, and quietly made a promise. "I swear if we ever find the guy, Blair, he'll never make it into custody."

"What are you saying, man?"

"You know what I mean."

"Oh, Christ, promise me you won't. You'd never get away with it, Jim."

"Yes, I would."

"Jesus, no you wouldn't. You'd be the first person they'd suspect. You'd end up in jail - or worse. You'd never, ever survive prison. It would kill you - and me along with it."

"Chief, believe me, nobody would ever know."

"I'd know. Jim, I'm serious here. On your mother's grave, swear that even if we find out who the guy was, you'll let justice run its course."

"..."

"Jim, I mean it. I've never asked you for anything." Tears were running down Blair's face. "I'll never be able to get my act together if I can't be certain you'll be with me. Please."

"All right. I promise."

"Thank you." Blair kissed his lover. "Now, come back up to bed."

"You sure?"

"Your loving me is the only thing I am sure about."

***

"We're going to have some fun."

No.

"Trust me. We're going to have some fun."

No.

"Trust me. We're going to have some fun", dish."

NO.

NO.

NONONONONONONONONONONONONO!

An exhausted Blair Sandburg awoke with a start. He looked around, gulping for air, trying to calm himself from the horror he'd just confronted. The soothing blue walls of his office at the Yoga Institute where he'd returned to teach an introductory yoga class did nothing to help settle him.

Pierce had been the one. Pierce, the entertainer. Pierce, the media's darling and Hollywood's golden boy. Pierce, one of the richest men in the world. Pierce had brutalized him without provocation, traumatized him so that he was a shadow of the man he'd formerly been -- and, what's more, had enjoyed every debasing minute of it.

As Blair Sandburg tried to center himself with cleansing yoga breaths, the way he always instructed his students, tears clinging furiously to his eyelashes began to spill down his pale cheeks in glistening trails. You have to think, Blair. What can you do? How can you get a handle on this? And Jim. Oh, Jesus, Jim ... As his mind raced 1,000 miles an hour, Blair Sandburg sat, looking for answers.

There were no answers, only more and more questions. Blair was spared more of this hellish introspection when Kai, the part-time receptionist, buzzed him on the intercom.

"Mr. Sandburg, you have a call on line three. He says - oh, this guy has to be lying - he says he's Pierce, the singer. Should I tell him to take a hike?"

His stomach roiled at the name. Sweat began to run down from Blair Sandburg's temples, to mix with the tears already there. He fought hard to keep his voice calm. "Uh, no, that's all right, Kai. I know who it is."

"How dare you call me, you bastard? I remember everything."

"No, hello? Well, how are you, Blair? I hope you're well."

"I remember everything."

"Yes, my concert in Cascade was wonderful, wasn't it?"

"I remember everything."

"Well, since you don't seem to want to chat, I'll get right to the point. Hal seems to feel we left a great many things unsaid. And undone." A small, nasty chuckle leaked from the receiver. "And, I just wanted you to consider how any talk of ... our time together would be unfortunate."

"I remember everything."

The unseen Pierce was beginning to lose patience. "In the final analysis, Blair, I won't suffer. But Jim Ellison will. Because I'll make sure that if anything at all happens to me, the details of everything will be made public. EVERYTHING. Won't that be a pleasant experience? Seeing as how he thought that you and I were becoming ... 'good friends.'"

Blair's tears were choking him. He knew that what Pierce said was true.

"Blair, are you still there?"

"Yes."

"Then, say you understand. Say, "Pierce, I understand.'"

"Pierce, I understand."

"Say you agree. Say 'Pierce, I agree.'"

"Pierce, I agree.'"

"Such a good boy. Well, I have to be off, now. Say hello to that big, strapping detective of yours. Now say goodbye."

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye. And don't worry. You and I will see one another again, 'Chief.' God, how I love that nickname. And when we do, I guarantee we'll have fun."

The phone went dead. Blair stared at it for several minutes, before replacing the receiver. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't hold him. Suddenly, he felt the breakfast Jim had coaxed him to eat coming back up his throat. He narrowly missed vomiting all over his notes, and hit the metal wastepaper basket under the desk instead. It was the only bit of luck he'd caught.

And then Blair Sandburg thought about Jim, and saw Jim's face when he told him the truth.

At that moment, Blair knew he'd have to take this horrible thing that had happened to him to his grave. Even though, in his heart, he knew what he should have done, Sandburg would keep silent. If he ever told Jim the truth, his lover would go after Pierce with all the rage that only an ex-Army Ranger trained to kill a man in a thousand ways could.

So now, there was nothing for Blair Sandburg to do but clean himself up and go home.

But first, he needed to sob his heart out.

***

Time helped with Blair Sandburg's healing. At Jim's suggestion, he and the detective went to couple's counseling. Blair realized just how difficult it had been for his partner to even suggest that type of therapy. It made Sandburg realize, not for the first time, just how much Jim loved him.

At Dr. Tracey's suggestion, Blair had joined a local victims of abuse support group, finding a great deal of comfort and solace there.

Physical therapy lessened the stiffness in Blair's finger broken during his attack.

Jim's and Blair's lives together had gone back to pretty much the way it was before the attack, except that now Jim Ellison was even more in love with Blair Sandburg - because he'd almost lost him. They thought that a change of scenery might be good for both of them, and decided on some fishing and sunning in Baja, CA.

Jim Ellison had cleared the time with Simon. Blair found a substitute instructor to take over his yoga classes for the two weeks. The "Read To Me" foundation work would be handled by several efficient volunteers under the watchful eye of assistant director Paula Hopewell, who recently joined Sandburg's staff. Jim and Blair were scheduled to catch a Wednesday morning flight to San Diego, where they'd pick up a rental car, then take a leisurely drive down the coast.

As Blair was closing the last suitcase, and Jim was checking all the locks for the umpteenth time, the two men both saw a breaking news bulletin flashing across the TV screen. Pierce Meehan had been accidentally shot to death in his newly purchased Palm Beach mansion. There were conflicting reports about some late night altercation having broken out between the rock star and one of his new employees, a chauffeur who was the latest addition to Pierce's staff. Statements were being taken from his brother, Hal Meehan, the star's bodyguard David Talbot, other weekend houseguests, and the chauffeur himself. The EYE ON News report finished by flashing a picture of the man in question - a slightly fuzzy one probably taken by a paparazzi swarming around the retreat. Standing on the patio next to Hal Meehan was a smallish, longhaired, exotic looking young man, who seemed pale and dazed. His face had dark mottling around the mouth and cheekbone. Pierce Meehan's recent hire, Christopher Zavion from Coral Springs, FL, could have passed for Blair Sandburg's long-lost twin.

Blair's eyes welled up. As the newscaster went on with an extended biography of the dead superstar, Sandburg turned slowly toward his sentinel, lover and protector, his guide's voice low, strained, but determined.

"Jim, I have something to tell you ..."

THE END

Thank the author! Back to Main Index

Acknowledgements: Thanks to the Mongoosians who continue to encourage me in my TS voyage.