Juice with Junior

New York City Boys
Chapter Two - There Is Always Too Much or Too Little

(Revisit Chapter One here)

Lean and pale with jet black hair cropped close to his head, Macks was slighter than the coat he was trying to put on over his shoulders. It was January, and a coat was very necessary as the air outside was bitterly cold. Inside the Maritime Hotel downtown, it was very warm and animated as Macks left the long late lunch he had had with a few fashion friends from his time at DVF. In the lobby, there was a separate excitement brewing that Macks could see from the corner of his eye. Security guards were holding a black man back from entering the nearby restaurant, his arms flailing wildly as he protested their imprisonment. Macks flinched at the odd racism of the incident until he saw who the guards were holding back: Diego Perez, a model, drug addict, and all around troublemaker. Of course Macks knew him and knew him well from his own hedonistic days of illicit substance abuse and debauchery at some quite well-respected global fashion houses.

First, Macks and Diego were acquainted because as Diego had a smooth golden brown body, abdominal muscles sharp enough to grate cheese, and biceps shaped like baseballs, Macks couldn't resist himself. Secondly, with Diego being as amenable to pleasure as a dog with its belly exposed, he regularly enticed Macks at castings and the fashion shows he inevitably booked, and was never shy about the fact that he slept with men and women or better described, anyone interested. Plus, he had the uncanny ability to rustle up drugs with no money and questionable resources, which made him a favorite of Macks' companions. While Macks had long given up the drugs and most of the debauchery, a part of him longed to know what his old travel buddy was up to.

Just as Diego tried to fight his way inside again, Macks approached the security guard with a smile.

"You can let him go," Macks said almost in a laugh. "He's with me."

The hotel doorman standing nearby seemed hesitant to believe him. "He's with you?"

Macks repeated, "He's with me. Let him go, it's fine." The doorman and guards backed off as Macks held onto Diego's shoulders to survey the damage they had done to him. It was mostly his pride that was bruised, although the sight of Macks was enough to rejuvenate him. They kissed on both cheeks before beginning to talk.

"Macks Mosby..."

"Diego Perez, what the hell are you doing?"

"I was trying to get into the restaurant to talk to someone..."

"Who?"

Diego's eyes pointed downward and his hands slid into his jean pockets, "Michael Kors."

Macks threw his head back in laughter. Diego joshed him in the shoulder, "Come on, he's having lunch in there and..."

"And what?" Macks chortled. "You'd talk to him, remind him what an amazing model you are. How you can walk down a runway better than all the other thousands of models in New York and he'd what? Give you a job?"

Diego had lost his previous contract with New York Models after an incident during the last Fall Fashion Week. While tripping on acid, Diego believed a monster was chasing him down the runway. To avoid imminent death, he climbed onto the stage's lighting rig and the weight of his body almost made it collapse. Two spotlights fell into the audience, one injuring a magazine assistant. The story became worse when the second light fell dangerously close to Linda Evangelista, who left the show a teary mess. News of what Diego had done, along with the reason why, spread like a virus across New York, Paris, Milan, London, and beyond. He was dropped by his agent 20 minutes later and had been unable to get signed anywhere else let alone get a table at any restaurant of note or gain entrance into any reasonably popular nightclub. To the fashion world, he was persona non grata. This all made Macks uncontrollably giggly.


"I can assure you, my friend, that Michael Kors is not going to give you a job," Macks continued. "No one is. I would suggest you pack it up and move back to Queens or Staten Island or Jersey or wherever you're from. No one's gonna hire a problem when you can be easily replaced."

"Wasn't it you who said I had the best body you'd ever seen?"

"Yes," Macks paused. "But I think I was trying to fuck you at the time."

"You know, we never did that..."

"Diego, I'm not going to give you a job either," laughed Macks. "Don't you understand what you've done. You almost killed someone. You almost killed Linda Evangelista. Evangelgoddess! In the middle of a fashion show! I shouldn't even be seen with you right now. New York Magazine said you were not to be trusted. Videofashion called you a 'toxic property.' Menswear said..."

"I get it."

"So just take your beautifully-rounded ass on home," Macks advised. "Or go to Jersey and jack it for one of those gay-for-pay sites. With your abs, I'm sure you'll be very popular."

Macks began to walk away, a gleam of superiority plastered on his face when Diego walked ahead of him. "Aren't you gonna have a fashion show soon?"

"Diego, no..."

"C'mon Macks. Put me in your show. Or hire me to do your ad campaign or something. I can make it worth your..."

Macks laughed again, "Are you sure you want to finish that sentence because that would officially make you a prostitute, Diego."

Staring into Diego's liquid green eyes did give Macks pause. It's not like he meant to kill anyone. He was just doing what so many other people do in the industry except he acted stupidly and got caught. He shouldn't be rewarded, Macks thought, but maybe his punishment didn't fit the crime. It just as easily could have been me, Macks concluded.

"I'm not putting you in my show," Macks began. "But I'll think about helping you."

Diego gave him a sweet-natured hug.

"I'll think about it," Macks reiterated.

Diego released him, "That's good enough for me."

"I'm late for something else but I'll let you know if I find something. Do you have a..."

Diego leaned in, "Don't worry. I'll contact you."

Macks' left eyebrow almost hit his widow's peak.

"Alright," Macks said. "Just stay outta trouble."


Macks had a little two-room loft in Soho where he sketched, sewed, and stored his supplies for his burgeoning fashion empire. Macks did not pay rent on this space. For the past year, Macks had not paid for anything. After bouncing from DVF to Dior and back again, Macks caught the attention of Catt Kostas at the opening of some flagship store on the East Side. Catt was a former fashion model from Indiana turned wife of a Greek arts dealer; he sold things so expensive they didn't have prices. Impressed by the natural talent she witnessed, she asked Macks to make a dress for her to wear to a party in Majorca. She liked the glittery silver one shoulder so much that she agreed to finance the creation of Macks' own fashion line. Due to her lack of concern for the fate of her husband's money, Catt showered it on Macks who used some of it for supplies and the loft. The rest he used all over himself.

Macks did make two worthwhile purchases however: one, he hired a part-time assistant named Claudia, whom he called Claude, and paid her $25,500 a year, which was nothing for Mrs. Kostas. Claudia's main job responsibility was to deflect Mrs. Kostas' calls to Macks whenever she became antsy that the return on her investment was taking longer than expected. Second, Macks hired marketing developers Fiske Brand, Inc. to help create his logo and perfect his image once this oft-delayed line finally debuted. He was barely at the entrance of his loft when Claudia was on his cell phone. Mrs. Kostas was holding for him and Dominick Collins from Fiske Brand, Inc. was waiting for a meeting with him that was to begin 20 minutes ago. Claudia always said "Fiske Brand Inc." when introducing Dominick, which is why he loved her. Macks whipped open the loft's doors and glided over to Claudia's desk, thrusting his cell phone in her face.

"Can you get Jon on the phone? I've been calling him all afternoon and he's not picking up."

Claudia pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Mrs. Kostas..."

"I'll take Catt in the other room and tell Dominick I'll be with him in just a minute," Macks ordered before stomping into the second room and closing the door behind him. The loft's ceilings were high and white, but the square footage wasn't much, which meant that Dominick heard Macks' every word. He smiled to himself, folded his legs over each other, and kept waiting patiently.

"Catt, my love..."

"Macks, sweetie! Can you hear me, dear?! I'm on Stefan's yacht," Catt said in an accent that she wasn't born with.

"You're on the boat now? Isn't it nighttime there?"

"Where do you think I am, honey?"

"Greece, no?"

Catt laughed so loudly that Macks moved the receiver away from his ear.

"No! Crazy, we haven't been in Greece for weeks! We're in Morocco! You should be here! It'd be great to drum up business. I've told just about everyone about you! Stefan said I sounded like a proud mother! So Macks, sweets, when am I going to see more dresses? I gave one of your sketches to Mazzy de la Cruz, Paolo's wife, and she wouldn't give it back to me! She says it's hers!"

"Well Catt, honey, I said we have enough now for a viewing, but you want a full show and that takes time and money."

Catt laughed again a bit like a hyena, "I know love. It's always been my problem! I have the money but I'm so impatient! I can't wait! Fine, love. For you, I'll wait but I have no more fingernails because of you! I've bitten through acrylic waiting for you!"

"Catt, we both know you have never had acrylic fingernails."

Catt laughed again before the line went dead.

"Mr. Collins from Fiske Brand..."

"Thanks Claude, send him in," Macks said sitting down at the stool in front of his drawing table. "Did you get Jon on the phone yet?"

"Not yet," answered Claudia, slipping aside for Dominick to enter the room.

Dominick and Macks' relationship was somewhat complicated. Macks requested a gay man work on his branding so Fiske sent Dominick, a 32-year-old fashion merchandiser from London who was now based in New York. While Dominick was very good at his job, there was a problem. He was just Macks' type: tall, dark deep-set eyes surrounded by dark features, an accent posher than the Royal Family's, and a crooked flirtatious smile that made Macks want to pull his pants down every time he saw him. Strangely, unlike other men whom he was attracted in his life, Macks never had and actively resisted sleeping with Dominick. Now, the tension between the pair simmered with their every meeting, which was at least twice a week despite the fact that much of the work on Macks' account was complete. Dominick, in a European-cut navy suit, crisp white shirt, and shiny black tie, sat on another stool near Macks' drawing table. He began.

"You're a very hard man to pin down."

"I like everything about that sentence."

"I was waiting for," Dominick glanced at his watch: round face, snakeskin band. "30 minutes."

"I apologize. You could chalk it up to me trying to build up your anticipation to see me."

"It's up," Dominick paused. "And it's about to boil over."

"Well," Macks said, leaning back.

"Well what?" purred Dominick.

"Do you have anything to show me today?"

Dominick bent down to his case and pulled out some small sketches on card stock.

"Some new logo ideas. The ones I sent over by e-mail earlier were rubbish, but I do find these to be most improved."

Macks barely lifted the cards off the table. "Actually, I think I've seen these, and I think I didn't like them. Too sexual."

"Is there something wrong with sex?"

"No," Macks exhaled. "But my line will most likely be snapped up by the wives of rich men. I don't want them to think that my brand is nothing more than party dresses for floozies and skanks."

"Hmmm," Dominick brushed Macks' hand while collecting his sketches. "Then I should probably discuss your vision in more detail, perhaps over dinner tonight..."

"No, I think this needs immediate attention. I'll have to send Claude home and order in so we can work at this all night long. I know if we try hard enough and really put our heads together we'll find something great..."

The door swung open.

"Macks?"

"Claude, I'm in the middle of..."

"Sorry to interrupt but I have Rory on the line and she says that you said you'd pick her up and drive her to the airport 10 minutes ago. Do you even have a car?"


Rory was genuinely impressed with Macks when he pulled up to the St. Regis in the backseat of a charted Town Car but that appreciation turned into uncontrollable laughter when she heard the circumstances in which Macks had acquired the money to afford such expensive transportation. Rory, a friend of Macks and Jon's from fashion school, had been working in Paris for the better part of a year and was only back in Manhattan for a few weeks due to the death of a relative and to catch up with her old friends. When doing just that with Macks turned to his new fashion line and mysterious benefactor, Rory said she didn't believe him and Macks vowed to prove that the money existed hence the Town Car.

"You aren't gonna be late for your flight are you?" Macks asked.

"Macks, I built into my schedule one hour of contingency time knowing that you would probably be late so we're fine," Rory said amazed at the car's fixings. "Look at you, Mr. Manhattan. What else is this poor woman paying for that she has no idea."

"Catt is far from a 'poor woman,' trust me. She loves me partly because of the clothes I make for her sure but she also loves the image I project as well. Fun. Youth. Energy," Macks explained. "Plus, it's not even that much money and I am being somewhat responsible."

Rory threw her head back and laughed. "I talked to Jon for two hours last weekend after you couldn't be but so bothered to stay with us at the Bowery and he told me all about the parties and the champagne and the shopping..."

"Jon's one to talk! I haven't been able to get a hold of him all day because I suspect he's working a sugar daddy of his own..." Macks countered.

"Don't you ever get nervous that this woman is going to start to wonder what her money is actually going to pay for and she'll demand material from you? I couldn't handle that kind of..." Rory explained, a Louboutin falling off her foot onto the plush chartered car floor.

"Well of course," Macks said becoming quiet. "But contrary to popular belief, I am working. I have a team of little Jewish women on 36th Street sewing samples for me as we speak. There are clothes, just not enough to have an entire show. Not yet, but I'll get there. Furthermore, I resent this idea that just because I use the money I'm being paid to have fun every once in awhile that means I'm irresponsible. I've become much more responsible this past year let alone in the past five years. I drink less, there are no drugs as you know, and, and I expect some kind of applause for this, I am not sleeping with anyone at the moment..."

Rory feigned surprise, "How can this be?!"

"I've decided that maybe, maybe now that I'm starting this new chapter in my life that maybe I would like to share it with just one guy."

"Any potentials?"

Macks bit his lip, "There's one guy who is working with me on my brand who is probably top of the list. There are some others, but he's up there for sure."

"Are you seriously not fucking anyone else?" Rory asked.

Macks became silent again, "Okay, fine, there's the owner of a bar I like downtown who I slip it to every once and awhile but that's solely to get free booze, which I consider to be a very responsible method of saving money."


After his meeting with Macks ended abruptly, Dominick returned to the Fiske office to finish up some work on other projects for the day. A small gathering of staffers gathered around the desk of Lawrence Greene, a decent ad man although Dominick considered himself more creative, to celebrate his promotion to VP. The more he thought about it, the more Lawrence Greene's promotion angered Dominick and in looking for answers, he found himself venting to another marketing rep, Griffin, in the lounge.

"Just tell me if you think it's because I'm gay, just tell me that," Dominick stammered. "Because at least if I hear someone else confirm it, I won't constantly replay the bloody tape in my head. It's maddening."

Griffin leaned against a wall, "Are you kidding me? Trust me, you being gay is... Listen, the reason I wasn't promoted is because you're gay. You see, you being gay and British and handsome is the reason we all thought you'd be promoted first. I lost 50 bucks on this, and while I was trying to figure out why, I realized something."

"What?"

"Lawrence Greene just got married."

"What are you saying?"

Griffin started to slow his speech pattern down, "I think the ones up top may be concerned with your, how would you say, instability."

"They want me to get married?!"

"No," Griffin laughed. "But they would like to see you settled down a little. You bring a different guy to every function. You have no pictures of a steady boyfriend at your desk. I mean, we love the stories but they hear them too and, frankly, the gay guy who gets around is not the kind of image they want to parade in front of their best clients."

Dominick scoffed, "That's fucking discrimination."

"No, what's discrimination is the fact that I'm ten years older than you with more experience and know-how and yet you're working on more accounts now than I've ever had," Griffin began. "What I said is the truth."


Manhattan in the dead of night had always been Macks' favorite time. The streets were sparse with people and the lights from inside buildings sparkled like flickers of sunshine off a prism. In his loft, Macks was busy sketching some new dress designs in low light. He'd dropped Rory at JFK and sent Claudia home. He wasn't even playing music. The only sounds were the faint car horns from six stories below and the occasional ambulance siren. When he heard the click of the elevator door open, Macks turned and wondered who was trying to get onto his floor at this time of night. As he slowly opened his loft's door to take a look down the hall, the door swung back and he was face to face with Diego, wrapped in a bubble coat unzipped to show his tight white t-shirt underneath.

Diego pushed himself inside the space in silence, letting the front door close behind him and Macks heavy breathing fill the room. He pushed Macks against his drawing table and with one hand holding the back of his head, Diego ran his other hand along Macks' inner thigh.

He whispered, "Have you given any more thought to helping me out or do I need to convince you?" Before Macks could speak, Diego had kissed him so hard he bit Macks upper lip. Diego then lifted Macks onto the table and unzipped his pants. Macks was in such shock that he closed his eyes as if ending the sight of it would stop it altogether or at least give him some time to make sure it was what he wanted. However, the longer Macks waited to respond, the further Diego went as his hand had ripped Macks' boxer briefs apart and Diego was now stroking Macks' penis forcefully while his other hand caressed his face between kisses.

As Macks felt a familiar heat rush through his body, he gave into it and wrapped his arms around Diego and kissed him back, his moans becoming louder as Diego sped up the intensity of his movements. Wrapped up in this moment, Macks did nothing when his office phone started to ring. After several rings, the answering machine picked up the line and for the next minute the loudest sound in the room was the sound of Dominick's voice.

"Macks, hi, this is Dominick. I'm terribly sorry to phone you so late but I gather you won't listen to this until the morning anyway so it should be all right. Anyway, listen, I was having a thought about the fact that you and I have been working together for some time now and we clearly get on very well or at least I think we do and yet, we've never been properly out to get to know each other outside of working... Like on a date. I guess I am asking you out on a date like they used to do in the 80s or so I'm told. Sorry, that was a bad joke. Anyway, um, there's no rule that says we can't date just because I'm working on your account and it's pretty much over anyway so I figure that why don't we just go for it now because well, I like you Macks. I find myself thinking of you and I think you feel the same. Not to be presumptuous, but that's what I gather.. Listen, I'm rambling and your machine will probably cut me off so I just wanted to say that this is Dominick and I would like to ask you out on a proper date this weekend and that I'd hope you'd say yes. Alright, good seeing you today. Bye."

The machine beeped once to indicate the message recording was complete and the room fell silent again with only the sound of Macks exhales audible. Macks was hunched over desperate to catch his breath as Diego kissed him a final time before zipping his coat up and walking out of the studio as if he had just caught his bus.

Macks covered his face with his hands and laid himself down on the drawing table. He thought it would be best if he'd just rest there for the night.





New York City Boys
Chapter Three - Friends and Enemies and Family

Andrew stared down at his loafers and found a golden Pomeranian barking at him feverishly as the barrel-chested Fire Marshal talked at him about the structural integrity of his seventh-floor Central Park West apartment. The entire space behind him was ravaged; blackened papers were strewn over the floors and marks from the smoke shaped like steep mountains and low valleys crept up the sides of the walls. Andrew scooped up the Pomeranian with one hand before nodding hurriedly at the Fire Marshal and heading to his open apartment door. There, Mrs. Rosen was peering inside his space from the hallway, along with a group of other concerned ladies. Andrew caught their attention when he handed Mrs. Rosen back her yappy dog with a rigid expression on his face.

"Ladies, I know the fire was terribly distressing for everyone. However, I would appreciate it if you didn't set up a viewing gallery in front of my apartment. The marshals will be coming in and out and its just not safe for you to be keeping watch like this."

Mrs. Rosen chimed in, "Do they know what caused it? You don't smoke, do you?"

"I wasn't even home when it happened, Mrs. Rosen," Andrew explained. "I will be sure to let you all know once the marshals finish investigating, which they won't be able to do with you all blocking the door and staring at them..."

The crowd of those concerned slowly began to break up and as it did Andrew spotted Jon's head jutting above a terrace of silver hair. Andrew's face filled with color as he wrapped an arm around Jon's shoulder, his hand landing on the top of Jon's back. Strangely, Jon hugged back. Day two of Jon's odd relationship with Andrew Kirshner had not yet failed to disappoint. Jon wondered why he was hugging this man who tried to kiss him the day before; why push forward when you want to pull back.

"I'm so glad you're here," Andrew exhaled.

"Sure, I guess. I mean I wanted to talk with you about the magazine but if you need to postpone me, I completely understand," Jon mentioned while his eyes scoped out the damage. "Your apartment being on fire is a good enough excuse in my book, and now I see you weren't kidding..."

"Yep, it's pretty bad," Andrew replied in a detached manner. "But that's not really what I meant. I'm just glad you're here. This whole ordeal has been so... exasperating... I just need someone to stand next to me."

"Mr. Kirshner, I need to ask you some questions. Is there someplace..." the Fire Marshal began to ask before Andrew interrupted him.

"The kitchen. We can talk in the kitchen."

Jon took one step back. "I can wait here until you're..."

"No, come with me," Andrew advised or ordered, Jon wasn't sure which.

In the kitchen, the Marshal peppered Andrew with questions. Apparently, the fire was started in Andrew's office and some kind of accelerant was used to help it spread. The fire didn't set off any alarms until it reached the living room, destroying a Murakami print in its path. They couldn't place anyone on the floor at the time the fire started because Andrew had the closed-circuit cameras removed from the hallway. I don't like people I can't see knowing who's coming in and out of my apartment, Andrew explained.

The Marshal asked, "Is there anyone you can think of who would want to harm you?"

Andrew laughed. "Well, I did fire about 40 people from a magazine I own yesterday, so yes, I can think of a few people who are a little mad at me right now."

"I'm gonna need to see a list of those people," the Marshal noted, writing something on a pad in his hand. "Any of those people have a key to the apartment? There were no signs of a break-in."

"Um," Andrew paused for what Jon thought was a really long time. "I don't think so, but then again, I haven't changed the lock in awhile and I've given out a number of keys in the past."

"To whom?"

"I couldn't tell you all of their names," Andrew answered in a whisper.

"Anyone you fired seem particularly upset with you or said they would get you or otherwise threaten you in any way?"

"No," Andrew replied. "Not that I can think of..."

Andrew looked down at the ground, batted his eyes a couple of times, inhaled sharply and let the air roll out of his lips slowly. This caught Jon's attention. It had only been two days but Jon noticed something different about Andrew's behavior. Then, Jon realized something: Andrew was lying.

Jon's cell phone rang. He picked it up, but didn't answer it. Macks had been pestering him about Andrew all day and now was not the time.

"Mr. Kirshner, will you be available after we finish taking a look around?" the Fire Marshall asked, ignoring Jon.

Andrew glanced around, touching his wrists and staring at appliances. "What time is it now?"

"It's 11."

"Shit!" shouted Andrew. "Shit, shit, shit... Um, no, I actually have to leave right now."

"For what?" Jon asked, realizing he was inserting himself into Andrew's life when he promised himself he wouldn't do that. Andrew had left the kitchen and was now putting on a coat he left on the living room sofa. That half of the room was intact.

Throwing his arms into the coat, Andrew said "I have to go downtown to do a photo shoot with my father" as if it were a natural thing to say. Jon was incredulous.

"A photo shoot... with your father?" he asked, inserting himself again.

Andrew rolled his eyes. "Yes, he's been letting this reporter from New York Magazine follow him around for the past month to do this tell-all expose on my family. It's ridiculous really, but I agreed to take one photo for it because he's my father and he asked," Andrew stopped. "And because I don't want them to choose an ugly picture of me when they run the thing. Do you think you could stay here until the marshals leave? I shouldn't be long. Consider it official business."

Jon had already begun noting which areas of the apartment he was going to tour with Andrew gone. "Sure, I guess... Why would they want to run an article about your family in New York Magazine?" Jon had given up his pledge of not getting involved.

"You'll get to read all about it next week," Andrew said wrapping his coat around him and heading out of the apartment. Jon glanced at the few remaining investigators standing at the damaged side of the apartment and turned away from them. What was down this hallway, Jon wondered.


Xiomara was experiencing something of a problem. No matter what she did, changing the pose, adjusting the lights, altering the angle, nothing could make Andrew Kirshner look anything less than completely annoyed at being in the same room with his father. She dropped the camera to her hip and thought of some other tricks she could use to liven up the dour son.

"Mr. Kirshner?" she asked to which both father and son replied "Yes."

She exhaled. "Sorry, Mr. Kirshner, senior..."

"Call me Arthur dear, and may I say that I love your work. I just adore it," Arthur Kirshner gushed. "You took a portrait of Liv Ullmann once, oh this had to be years back, that was simply divine. She looked so beautiful..."

Andrew acted like he couldn't hear his father. "Alright, let's just finish please."

"Arthur, we'll have you sitting and Mr. Kirshner, the son, how about you stand behind him and turn your body toward the windows a little, and you're father's so jolly. How about a little smile?"

Arthur, shaped like a Santa Claus who kept the gifts he was supposed to give away, had a hard time looking up at his son while seated, but tried.

"It wouldn't kill you to just smile a little, Drew."

"Is my smiling a requirement of some sort," asked Andrew to no particular person.

Arthur shook his head disapprovingly. "Our Lady Sister Andrew, patron saint of the righteously indignant, could you just try to act somewhat pleasant in my company. It has been months and months and months of this inanity and, frankly, I am starting to lose sympathy for whatever you feel I have done to you that was so awful..."

Andrew laughed ruefully. Xiomara snapped what seemed like 40 frames there was so much light.

"You lied to me and you lied to my mother, and now you seem proud of it and upset at the fact that I don't just embrace you, whatever this you is that you've become. I am here because you asked me..." Andrew explained.

Arthur's once warm face had turned. "And because there's a camera. Lest we forget that there's nothing that Drew loves more than being the center of..."

"Finish that sentence, fat man, and I will kick this chair out from under you."

Xiomara stopped them both. "I think we've got it."


The marshals had left about 30 minutes ago but Jon still hung around the good side of Andrew's apartment. The marshals informed him that aside from soot on the walls and destroyed furniture, the apartment was completely safe. Jon would have stayed regardless. That morning, he and Erik were tangled in their usual fight: how much money was Erik not going to contribute to bills that month. Erik mumbled something about an upcoming audition. Jon would have pressed further if Andrew didn't say the word "fire" into his phone.

Jon was now firmly scrunched in a nook on Andrew's plush leather sofa staring out the window at his incredible view of Central Park and the buildings beyond. His cell phone rang again.

"Jesus Christ, Macks, I was gonna call you back eventually. Yes, I'm in his apartment but I promise you it's not like that," Jon spouted.

There was a pause on the line. Then a cough.

"Jon, hi, this isn't Macks," the voice said.

Jon bolted upright, "Oh my God, I'm sorry. Um, this is Jon. Who is this?"

"It's Preston. Hi."

Jon brow furrowed. Preston Everett was Jon's former editor at Version Magazine until the day that he wasn't anymore; the day Andrew showed up in his life and basically took over. Jon assumed Preston would never want to speak with him again given the fact he was bound to know that Jon was Andrew's lone holdover. That, and if anything Cassandra said was true, Preston was none too pleased at being replaced.

Jon treaded lightly. "Preston, of course, hi. How are you?"

"I'm well, considering. I hear you're dancing with the devil..." Preston laughed and a bead of sweat rolled down Jon's forehead.

"Well, let's hope not," was all Jon could find.

"Hey Jon, I understand. The man offered you a job. You took it. There's no harm in that, but similarly, do you think we could sit down for lunch today and talk about your future. You can't believe that Andrew Kirshner is going to keep that magazine going."

"He said he would..."

"Where are you," Preston asked quickly. "We could have a lunch and I'll tell you everything you need to know about your new boss."

"I'm on the West Side, the Upper West Side," Jon said realizing he never said it before meaning he was sitting on a couch in a gorgeous Architectural Digest-worthy apartment on the Upper West Side, of course, withstanding the fire damage.

"Great. Stay there. Meet me at Bar Boulud in 20 minutes."


Jon and Preston's lunch started off well. The pair reminisced about their days together at the magazine, old articles and crazy parties. Things veered off course when Preston brought up the topic of Andrew. Suddenly, Preston's whole demeanor changed. He became red-faced and angry, and as the minutes passed, Jon wanted to leave more and more. But, as much as the lunch was uncomfortable for Jon, he not-so-secretly liked being in the middle of this war between two rich, white, gay professionals and had to know what would happen next. Jon smited himself for thinking this, but he couldn't help but note the class warfare that was occurring over his head. Thus, he kept the wine flowing, at Preston's expense, and tried not to interject too much.

"Jon, see you're a writer. You're not in the business end of this whole thing, but guys like Andrew... They are not to be trusted. They use people. They spit them out when they're done. That is if they even give them a chance. You see how callously he fired everyone. Didn't even bother to help a single person get a job. You see, that's what I'm doing. I'm moving to Metro or Out Life or any other magazine and I intend to take you guys with me because I take care of people. Then, I will wipe Version Magazine off the map because Andrew Kirshner, whoever the fuck he is, cannot think he can get away with treating people however he feels," Preston said in a voice that was bordering on a yell. "I gave 12 years of my life to that magazine. I could understand they needed to sell it because they didn't have the money but to Andrew Kirshner and his cronies. Andrew Kirshner is a bad, bad man and... Listen, I came here to tell you to leave and ask that you'd consider following me wherever I go. I understand that that's a tall order, but then I realized something..."

Jon's hand was now covering his mouth. He'd never seen anything like this before.

Preston continued, "You are in a very enviable, almost wonderful position. He kept you. That means he trusts you in someway. We'll never get inside that head of his to see what he has in store for you, but you can use your position to your advantage by finding out anything you can about how he operates. If you told me, I can work from the outside to see that this man doesn't hurt anyone else ever again or the magazine for that matter. I care about Version and I don't want to see it in the hands of some..."

"Wait," Jon realized what was happening. "Are you asking me to... spy on Andrew?"

"Think of it as, oh I don't know, an insurance policy," Preston dropped his wine glass. "Just in case he tries to fuck you over, you'll have something to use against him. Insider trading, extortion, theft, anything. He does it all. How the fuck did you think he got so rich at such a young age. It's not his father's money."

Jon was dumbstruck. "Preston, I'm not going to spy on anyone. That's insane. I know you're upset about losing the magazine, but if Andrew didn't buy it someone else would have... Why do you have such a personal vendetta..."

Jon lost his breath. The apartment, he thought, oh my fucking God, the apartment. Oh my fucking God, Preston burned down Andrew's apartment. Oh my fucking God, I'm sitting next to an arsonist or worse.

Preston screamed, before quickly quieting himself. "I do not have a personal vendetta against him! I just, no I'm fine, there's no problem here thank you... I just don't like being dicked with."

"Preston, I have to leave," Jon said standing. "It's been interesting."

Preston held onto Jon's wrist.

"Think about what I said," he whispered. "Just think about it."


When Preston returned to his apartment in Tribeca, his boyfriend George sidled up to him with a kiss and a note. Preston took the note and saw a phone number, and George explained.

"The police called and said they wanted to talk to you. I asked about what and they wouldn't tell me, said they had to talk to you. Why do you think?"

"I have no idea."


Erik was calling him, Macks was calling him, but Jon ignored everyone because there was only one person he wanted to see.

"Why didn't you tell the investigators that Preston Everett burned down your apartment?" Jon shouted. He texted Andrew for his location and Andrew texted back "The Mark." When Jon got to the hotel's front desk, they gave him a room key. All of this would have smacked Jon as inappropriate, but he needed the answer to that question. Things were swirling and they didn't make sense. Andrew would make heads or tails of it.

Andrew sat on the couch, CNN on the TV, his laptop by his side. He laughed.

"Wow, you've been busy," Andrew said still laughing. Jon waited.

Andrew continued, "Okay, so how did you find that out and how did you know that I know?"

Jon sat on a chair opposite Andrew. "I found out because Preston invited me to lunch and asked me to spy on you for him."

Andrew snorted.

Jon continued, "And in talking to him, it was obvious that Preston hates you and is determined to destroy you like some kind of cartoon character. I knew you knew he burned up half your apartment because I could see in your face that you were lying to the Fire Marshall this morning."

"Wow, you really are a journalist."

"Why didn't you tell the marshal about Preston?" asked Jon again.

Andrew sat up, "I didn't say anything because, I don't know, I want to know what he's planning. Burning down my apartment to try to kill me or whatever he wanted didn't work. Turning you into a spy didn't work. What's next, I wonder?"

"What is going on here? What history do you guys have?"

"None," Andrew said, shrugging his shoulders. "I knew Press a little socially, but that's it. I guess he's just disgruntled."

Jon exhaled and sat back in his chair.

"You know, there's no reason to stay in a hotel," Jon said. "The other half of your apartment is totally liveable, beautiful even."

Andrew smiled, "You like it? I don't know. I was thinking about moving. The old ladies who lunch in the building get on my nerves."

Andrew tapped Jon on the leg.

"Hey, you want to talk about your job now?"

"Oh yes, I do," Jon brightened. "We just have to go out. I'm not spending an extended period of time with you in a hotel room."

Andrew belly laughed. "Why not?! I told you I won't try to kiss you. Don't you believe me?"

Jon sunk deeper into the chair and replied, "I don't believe anything anymore."