WARNING: NC-17 Slash Fiction

View the Cast Photo Gallery
View CK "New Man" Ad #1
View CK "New Man" Ad #2

Author's Note: This Chapter begins the morning after the events in "Monday Night Quarterback." Please bear in mind that this is an Alternate Universe in which the events of Seasons Two and Three of "Smallville" did not occur.

7:04 a.m. Tuesday, September 26
One Luthor Plaza

Lionel didn't believe in jealousy. He acknowledged its existence as a concept that applied to other people, but Lionel Luthor did not indulge. If he coveted something, he acquired it. And once he possessed it, he held onto it for as long as it suited him. People, places, things... There was little difference. Absolute ownership precluded the need for jealousy.

Take Whitney Fordman, for example, the star quarterback who was upstairs in Lionel's bed, still sleeping off the effects of last nights' celebration of his victory over the Steelers. Whitney belonged to Lionel. All the right buttons had been pushed to acquire him. The proper protocols had been observed; the right negotiations had been conducted; the proper moves had been calculated and executed. Lionel was systematically giving the emotional, excessively romantic young man everything his excessively emotional nature required to bind him to Lionel. And since Whitney believed in the concepts of honor and commitment, infidelity was so remote as to be almost--but not quite--laughable, which was good, because Lionel didn't embrace the idea of sharing, either.

Therefore, since jealousy was not in the Luthor Lexicon, it stood to reason that jealousy had nothing whatsoever to do with Lionel being in his office at 7 a.m. demanding an explanation for how his investigators had missed something as monumental as the fact that Whitney Fordman had fallen in love two summers ago without Lionel knowing about it--and with his son's lover, no less.

"There was a surveillance team on each of these young men, Jacob," Lionel pointed out to the employee across the desk from him. Lionel's voice was calm, but had an edge sharp enough to rend flesh. "Two teams. How did your people miss this?"

"Actually, sir, Fordman was only under spot surveillance, and we had no operatives in Smallville during the time period in question," Jacob Manning replied, respectful but seemingly oblivious to the danger in his employers voice. Fifty-four and bald mostly-by-choice, the investigator always looked distinguished and alert, even after being roused out of bed by 2 a.m. phone calls. But then, terse, middle-of-the-night calls like last nights' were nothing new to the former FBI man who had been the head of Lionel's security force for more than a decade. "At the end of his sophomore year, Mr. Fordman did four weeks in the Kansas State summer training camp, then went home to Smallville on July 3. Since strangers are conspicuous there, our plan was to use The deMedici to keep tabs on his activities, but that was the summer Lex packed up his household and moved back to Metropolis." The deMedici was Manning's code for the coterie of moles that rotated in and out of Lex's personal staff. "My notes indicated that we discussed this in our July security briefing and decided that since Fordman was 'low priority' surveillance at that time--"

"--we wouldn't risk discovery. Yes, yes, yes. I remember," Lionel snapped as he stood and moved briskly to the coffee urn on the breakfast cart. He regretted his abrupt movement immediately. He'd ridden Whitney's cock too hard last night, and he was going to be feeling the aftereffects of his enthusiasm for another 24 hours, at least. He couldn't deny that the celebration had been worth the current discomfort, though. His cock roused at the memory of the magnificent athlete who serviced him, but he clamped the legendary Luthor control on it. Whitney was still upstairs, but Lionel didn't have time to return to the penthouse and properly awaken his sleeping beauty.

"So we have nothing on that summer?" he asked irritably as he refilled his cup.

"Precious little. Kent worked at a stable while the owners were out of the country. According to my research on the Fordman family, it was the same stable that purchased the Fordman's horses when the father became ill. It doesn't take much creativity to imagine that the stable is where the two of them connected."

"I have no intention of imagining the two of them anywhere," Lionel growled and instantly cursed his outburst. There was no place for emotion in this discussion. This was about information and the power that came from knowledge. Facts were impersonal. They conferred control to the man who knew how to use them. In the gathering of Intelligence there was no place for creativity or imagination or vexing images of Whitney lying naked and sated in the arms of Clark Kent -- handsome, virile Clark Kent, poor as a churchmouse, but young. So very young. And beautiful. And apparently intelligent and challenging enough to keep Lex panting after him all these years.

Last night, Whitney had insisted he was no longer in love with Kent. Lionel had to know if that was true.

"What about cross-referencing Whitney's file with Lex's?" Lionel suggested. He had been keeping an extensive database of Lex's activities and known associates since his son's first "peccadillo" had led to the construction of the Luthor Science Hall at Carrington Prep. He had gigabytes of cross-referenced data that spanned several continents for every friend and every enemy, every dealer who'd sold his son drugs and every addict who'd purchased the designer "chemicals" Lex had played with engineering back when he was trying to get his father's attention the hard way: Without caving in to Lionel's expectations. With the help of the Lex Files, as he referred to them to no one but himself, he could determine down to the penny every contribution, payoff, and outright bribe he'd paid to keep Lex's indiscretions from destroying the boy's future.

The Lex Files were, of course, incredibly dangerous. The statute of limitations had run out on most of the offenses against Lionel, which mainly consisted of bribery, obstruction of justice, and the like, but since there was no expiration date on murders committed at trendy clubs, Lionel kept the database under lock and key and retina scan and voice print id on an encrypted, removable flash drive. Manning had the only copy that wasn't in Lionel's personal vault.

Ironically, for all the data in the Lex Files, there was precious little on Clark Kent. But why should there be? When the bulk of your son's known associates were lowlife scum looking for a meal-ticket, a pretty high school student from a salt-of-the-earth family wasn't cause for adding extra surveillance. In fact, until last night, the only things Lionel had found interesting about Clark Kent were his police-documented proclivity for helping people in trouble and the barely-legal circumstances surrounding his adoption. Lionel had files on both, but to the best of his knowledge, neither had anything to with Whitney Fordman.

"The cross-reference leads us to a few conjectures, but not much in the way of hard facts," Manning informed him. "Apparently the two young men were rivals for the hand of a comely cheerleader named, uh--" He paused to search his notes.

"Lana Lang," Lionel said impatiently. "I know about that. What else?"

"Local rumor has it that Kent was on the receiving end of an annual high school hazing. Members of the football team hang a 'scarecrow.' Fordman apparently chose Kent, strung him up in a field, and printed some ritual markings on his body."

"By all accounts, Kent is exceedingly strong. In high school he made some miraculous rescues of classmates and friends, including Lex. He couldn't get himself off a wooden post?"

"Apparently not."

"Curious." Lionel frowned. It was hard to imagine Whitney involved in something so childish and potentially cruel. It was even harder to imagine Clark Kent standing for it. And harder to still to imagine Kent becoming the lover of the young man who had persecuted him. Apparently Clark had perverse need for domination; something that might account for the longevity of his relationship with Lex. But that wasn't the issue. "What else?"

"I found a police report in Lex's file that mentioned Fordman."

"In what capacity?"

"Related to a series of break-ins that included the castle Lex's first year in Smallville. According to the police report, Fordman figured out the identity of the burglars and enlisted Clark to beard the suspects in their lair. Lex found out what they were up to and called in the police."

"The purported walking-through-walls incident."

"Yes, well..." Manning's skepticism showed plainly. "That was the rumor."

"Anything else?"

Manning shook his head. "Nothing. And I don't need to tell you that ferreting out information about a two-and-a-half year old clandestine teenage affair would be extremely difficult. In a town like Smallville, investigating without alerting the subjects would be impossible."

Lionel's steely blue eyes glittered dangerously. "Oh, I think that depends on your approach, Jacob."

The investigator frowned. "Sir?"

"Metropolis University. Noon today. Last night, I overheard Mr. Fordman and Mr. Kent make plans to get together for lunch between Kent's classes. Later last night, Mr. Fordman confessed the summer affair with Kent." Lionel moved purposefully to the window and his commanding view of his domain. "It seems logical to me that Mr. Fordman might impart that information to Mr. Kent over lunch today."

Lionel didn't have to look to know that Manning was smiling. He could hear it in his voice when he suggested, "And a discussion of said affair might ensue?"

"A distinct likelihood," Lionel said, turning. "As well as an excellent opportunity for you to redeem yourself for your embarrassing failure to inform me of the affair at the time it occurred."

Manning inclined his head. "Audio or video?"

"Both, if possible, with a complete transcript of their conversation on my d--"

The buzz of his phone cut him off. It was the line he reserved solely for Whitney, but Manning had no way of knowing that. Holding up one finger as a gesture to wait, Lionel picked up the phone. "Yes?"

"You in a meeting?" Whitney's voice was husky with sleep and the promise of sex. Lionel could picture him in bed, hair spiky and tousled, his eyes closed, one hand lazily caressing his morning erection. Lionel forcibly quieted his quickening pulse before the blood could find its way to his own cock.

"For the moment."

"How many moments?"

"Five, perhaps."

"Good. Unlock the elevator as soon as they're gone and I'll come down there and suck your cock until you scream for me to stop."

Blood slammed into Lionel's cock with such force that no amount of discipline could stem the tide. Damn him. Lionel bit back a smile. Whitney knew very well that screaming was unlikely, but he also knew that Lionel couldn't very well contradict him with an audience in the office. Nor was he likely to be able to escort his guest to the door now.

"I think something along those lines can be negotiated, with certain modifications," Lionel said smoothly as he eased into his chair. "I'll schedule that on my calendar."

"Good. I'll be waiting in the elevator. You can't miss me -- I'll be stark naked, wearing nothing but a silver cock ring and a huge hard on."

Lionel swiveled his chair, placing his back to Manning. "You know, your estimation of the size of your assets never fails to amaze me. I'll make that determination myself, thank you very much."

"Okay," Whitney conceded, "But you better have a yard stick ready."

Lionel chuckled darkly. "I'll see what I can come up with." He swiveled back to the desk, placed the phone in its cradle, and looked at Manning, perfectly composed. "Where were we?"

If Manning knew that his employer was hard as a brick from arranging a blow job, he had the courtesy not to show it. "You were about to ask me to have a surveillance transcript on your desk by tomorrow morning."

Lionel shook his head. "Oh, Jacob. I thought you knew me better than that." Lionel smiled. "I'll expect the transcript by five this afternoon."

"Of course."

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another meeting coming up."

"Audio and video." Not an easy bill to fill, but with a little luck, not impossible, Jacob Manning reflected as he made his way out of Lionel's still-deserted outer office.

Audio was no problem. Whitney Fordman's SUV was in Lionel's private garage downstairs. If that phone call Lionel had taken was what Jacob suspected, he'd have a bug under the dash of Fordman's car before the cum dried. And if Fordman took Kent back to his condo, that was covered, too: Devices had been installed before the Sharks' quarterback had taken possession of his new home in the Lancer Building. They had been activated for only a brief period in August during a lover's quarrel, but reactivating them was a simple matter. Manning would have live audio and video feeds coming from Fordman's living room and bedroom by midmorning.

Kent's dorm room had a dormant audio device that could be activated, too, if necessary. Lionel had ordered it planted the previous year when he suspected Lex was behind a bid to take over one of LuthorItalia's key holdings. Lionel had thwarted the coup without ever proving Lex's involvement, and he'd had the bug deactivated so that it would be invisible to an electronic sweep in the event that Lex got paranoid.

For surveillance outside of the personal space of Manning's two targets, he'd just have to rely on telephoto video and a parabolic mike. Or maybe he'd have one of his people brush against Fordman and tag him with micro-transmitter.

There were numerous options and by the time the elevator reached Security Headquarters on the second floor of One Luthor Plaza, Manning had a half-dozen pliable scenarios in his head. Improvisation was the key to any successful surveillance and Manning knew how to improvise.

If there was such a thing as a perfect day, Whitney was pretty sure he was having one. A thundershower late last night had delivered the first real taste autumn, and as he strolled across the Met U campus, the air was crisp and clear, God was in his heaven, all was right with the world, and Whitney's life was about as close to perfect as it could possibly get. Oh, there were things he wanted and couldn't have -- like a world without homophobic prejudice where he could be himself and love whoever he wanted to, openly and honestly -- but all things considered, Whitney knew he couldn't ask for his life to get much better. He could still taste last night's victory over the Steelers just as strongly as he could taste his lover, hear the roar of the crowd and the silken whisper of Lionel's voice; he could close his eyes and see his lover's face transported by passion, move and feel the fullness of Lionel's cock inside of him. And tonight they'd have a romantic dinner at the penthouse and tomorrow Whitney would start prepping for next Sunday's home game against the Raiders.

Oh, yes. Complete and utter bliss was a wonderful thing, indeed.

"Whoa, hotshot! That's some set of moves you got there! Stylin'!"

Clark's teasing voice brought Whitney to a halt on the busy sidewalk in front of the library, and he turned to discover that he'd just walked right past his friend. "Clark! Sorry. I didn't see you up there."

"That's not surprising," Clark said, grinning as he jumped down from his perch on one of the concrete lions that guarded the long flight of stairs up to the Julian Luthor Memorial Library. "You were a million miles away."

"Reliving last night's victory," Whitney told him, dodging students to get back to his friend.

"Who are you trying to kid?" Clark murmured in his ear as they did the guy-hug thing. "That strut only shows up after a really good fuck."

Whitney shrugged. "Hey, a victory is only as good as the celebration that follows it."

Clark frowned. "Who said that?"

"I did. Just now. Have you considered having your hearing checked?"

"Sorry. I've been around Lex too long. Everything's a quote."

"Tell me about it. I guess father and son do have a few things in common, after--"

"Hey, Look! It's Whitney Fordman, the Sharks' QB! Hey, Fordman! How about an autograph!"

The anonymous voice came from out of nowhere, startling Whitney, as did the exclamations of "Where?" and "Cool" and "Holy Shit!" as people stopped and looked and recognized and flocked. Within seconds, Whitney found himself surrounded by a gaggle of students plying him with backslaps, forcing handshakes on him, and shoving notebooks and body-parts at him for autographs. Whitney went into his "meet the public" mode. He was aware of Clark being rudely pushed aside, but all he could do was smile and sign autographs and make a gracious escape as quickly as he could. It took half a block of walking backward, saying polite "thank yous," and "Gotta goes" before he was alone on the sidewalk and Clark was free to rejoin him.

"I think that falls under the category of 'be careful what you wish for or you just might get it,'" Clark said with a dazed shake of his head.

"Definitely not one of the perks of fame," Whitney replied, but he couldn't quite hold back a grin. "But it's kinda neat to be recognized."

"You mean idolized."

Whitney snorted. "Yeah, right."

"Hey, get used to it. After the way ABC canonized you last night, mob scenes like this are going to become a way of life."

"ABC said good stuff about me?" he asked brightly.

"Oh, yeah. Haven't you seen the broadcast? I figured you'd record it for posterity."

"I did, but I haven't been home long enough to watch it yet."

"Really? That's great!" Clark grinned his huge, gosh-darn grin that used to make Whitney's pulse race and his cock twitch. Now it just made him smile in return. "My one o'clock lab was cancelled--let's go back to your place and watch the game. You can give me a play-by-play. I can't wait to watch you watch yourself. "

Whitney laughed. "All right! Let's do it." They picked up their pace as Whitney's SUV came into view just ahead of them. "So tell me, what did they say about me? ABC?"

"They raved. Great arm, great instincts, great command of the field, great ass--

"They did not!"

Clark raised one hand. "Swear to God."

"Who said that? Madden or Michaels?"

"I'm not telling. Wait and see." The rest was lost in laughter as they climbed into the SUV.

A block away in an unmarked, unassuming silver van, Jacob Manning was smiling as he transferred channels from the bug his man had just planted on Whitney to the one he'd personally planted in Fordman's car this morning. He fiddled with the reception until it was clear.

"Do we follow them, Jacob?" The voice from behind the wheel of the van was the same one that had started the autograph-seeker's feeding frenzy on the stairs of the library.

A cackle of static. Fordman's voice: "Let's stop for burgers-to-go at McGinty's. It's right on the way."

"Cool." Kent's.

Manning shook his head. "Why? We know where they're going. Just head toward the Lancer Building by way of Monument Boulevard. That will keep them in range."

"Yes, sir."

Audio and video, coming right up, Lionel, courtesy of the bugs in Fordman's living room and bedroom.

Manning's smile faded. For everyone's sake, Jacob hoped that this afternoon's replay of the game stayed in the living room. The boss had a rare, emotional investment in this one, and if Fordman betrayed him, Lionel's wrath would make the earth quake and the heaven's roar.

Lionel scowled at the report from his Construction Supervisor in Visakhapatnam. This expansion into India was beginning to seem like more of a pain in the ass than it was worth. The report was carefully worded, but reading between the lines, Lionel gleaned the fact that vital excavation permits were being held hostage by a greedy bureaucrat who felt that his palm hadn't been sufficiently greased.

Lionel understood the necessity of bribery and payoffs, but at some point a deal had to be a deal.

Removing his glasses, he leaned back in his chair and lightly tapped his computer screen with the frames, weighing his options: pay up -- again -- or blow the whistle on the greedy little bastard at the Ministry of Commerce in New Delhi. Getting the bureaucrat fired and ostracized might send a valuable message to the dozens of other functionaries he'd have to deal with in the coming months, but it seemed a little too early to be exercising his power at that level. It also meant a trip to India--something Lionel avoided unless absolutely necessary. He'd set up the LuthorIndia Corporate office in Switzerland for several reasons, but one of the prime ones was to keep trips to the country a minimum.

Payment of the bribe and a carefully delivered threat seemed to be an acceptable--

Lionel's intercom buzzed.

"Yes, Grace?"

"Security just delivered a report for you, sir."

Lionel checked his watch. 4:57. Jacob Manning was nothing if not punctual. "Bring it in, Grace."

Whitney and Clark. Lionel clamped down on an unexpected surge of trepidation that coursed through him. He forced himself to be calm and unemotional as Grace crossed the room and laid the envelope in front of him.

"Thank you, Grace. You may leave for the day. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes, sir. Have a good evening."

That all depends on what's in this envelope, Lionel thought, fingering the silver holographic security seal. Did he really want to know what had happened this afternoon? What had been said? What had transpired between the two former lovers? Lionel already knew that Whitney had taken Kent back to his condo -- he'd learned that when he'd called Whitney to change their dinner engagement from 7 to 8 to accommodate a conference call he had to initiate this evening.

Clark at Whitney's condo. Yesterday he wouldn't have given it a second thought. Today the very idea made him want to rip out Clark Kent's throat with his bare hands. An extreme reaction, yes, but Lionel believed in posting large No Trespassing signs around his property.

The irritating email from India forgotten, Lionel broke the seal. The first sheet was a note from Manning with a Time Index and a suggestion that Lionel might be particularly interested in the transcript that began at time code 14:10.

Avoiding the temptation to dive immediately into that time code, Lionel began at the beginning, scanning a playful discussion of ABC's coverage of Whitney's performance last night. That was followed by Clark's intense questioning of Whitney about various aspects of the game during ride in the SUV. More banter. Some business about Clark's classes... Brief bits of description made the dialogue easier to follow as Whitney and Clark arrived at the condo and cued up the game on the VCR in the living room. Over burgers and beer the former lovers began watching the game. Lionel kept reading.

Discussion of the game....more discussion of the game... Whitney's fears, his exhilaration. What he'd thought and felt on certain plays. Lionel scanned more quickly; most of what he was reading was nothing more than a rehash of what Whitney had shared with him last night. Lionel was irrationally pleased by the knowledge that those thoughts and emotions had been shared with him first. The intimacy of that act of sharing belonged to Lionel; Kent was getting stale leftovers.

Time Code 14:10. Lionel slowed, reading more closely when he realized which section of the taped game had sparked the conversation Manning found interesting: Those tense moments in the third quarter when Whitney had been knocked unconscious.

Fordman: Ouch! Shit, that still hurts.

Kent: I don't doubt it. He clocked you good. You had us really scared for a while, pal.

Fordman: Oh, yeah? Was--

Kent: What?

Fordman: Nothing. You want another beer?

(Fordman gets up from the sofa.)

Kent: No, I want you to go ahead and ask me if Lionel was as scared as the rest of us.

Fordman: Shit. Am I that pathetic?

Kent: No. But it's what I'd want to know if our positions were reversed.

(Extended pause.)

Fordman: Well?

Kent: Well what?

Fordman: Asshole. You really meant it when you said you wanted to hear me ask. Okay. Was Lionel scared?

Kent: Yeah. He was scared. I mean, it wasn't like he melted down or anything. He covered it really well. I don't imagine any of the others would have taken his concern as anything but an owner's concern for an expensive team asset, but he was scared. In his gut, not his pocketbook. Even Lex could see it.

Fordman: I'll bet that went over big.

Kent: You have no idea. Last night put your relationship with Lionel in a whole new perspective for Lex. I'm not sure what the fallout is going to be.

Fordman: What do you mean?

Kent: Lex has this image of Lionel as a cold, emotionless bastard who's incapable of loving anyone other than himself.

Fordman:That's bullshit.

Kent: No, that's Lex's way of coping with the certainty that Lionel does not now nor has he ever loved him. But you're shooting holes in his whole concept of himself.

Lionel stopped reading, stunned. Clark Kent was insane. Of course Lex knew that his father loved him. How could he not, when everything Lionel had ever done had been for his children? The LuthorCorp empire that spanned the globe would someday be Lex's. Granted, business had often made him something of an absentee father, but even from a distance he had never stopped giving to Lex. The lessons he had drilled into him were to teach him how to be strong. To survive. To compete and win. And after a decidedly rocky start, Lionel's efforts had finally paid off. Lex was a strong, independent, brilliant-if-sometimes-emotional businessman who'd finally started making Lionel proud to have him as a son. How could he not know that his father loved him? It was absurd.

But it also made a strange, sickening sense. If Lionel accepted Kent's assessment as truth, it explained a great deal of Lex's animosity. But Lionel didn't accept it. He couldn't.

Scowling, he returned to the transcript.

Fordman: What did you mean I'm shooting holes in his concept of himself?

Kent: If Lionel is incapable of loving anyone, then there can't be a deficiency in Lex that makes him intrinsically unlovable. Realizing that Lionel is in love with you --

Fordman: Realiz-- Wait a minute. Who told him Lionel is in love with me?

Kent: Isn't he?

Fordman: Not according to Lionel.

Kent: Then he's either in denial or he's totally bullshitting you, because Lionel Luthor is in love. I saw it last night. Lex saw it--

Oh, good grief. Lionel's scowl deepened and he shook his head. Romantic fools! For Kent and Lex to draw the conclusion that he was in love on such scant empirical observation was absurd! Not that he wasn't capable of loving, because he was. And not that he didn't believe in love or that he thought love was a sign of weakness. On the contrary, he'd never been stronger than when he'd fallen in love with the woman who had become Lex's mother. Lillian's energy and ambition had complimented his own; they had wanted the same things, shared the same desires and goals. Her beauty had been immeasurable; their passion, limitless. Loving Lillian had made Lionel stronger than he had ever imagined he could be; he had achieve more than he could ever have dreamed of on his own. Losing her, little-by-little to illness, then to Lex as she grew weaker and more determined to leave her mark on the boy, and finally to death...

Oh, yes. Lionel could love. And he could be devastated by loss. And therein lay the crux of the matter. Lionel wasn't sure you could enjoy the strength engendered by love without being crippled by the weakness of loss, and so he had spent a goodly number of years avoiding the issue, substituting lust for love, fleeting companionship for commitment, business deals for emotional nourishment.

Whitney Fordman was a passionate companion, a little less fleeting than most, but he wasn't a partner, a mate, a center for Lionel's too-tainted soul. He wasn't going to inspire Lionel to new heights of greatness. He was an incredible fuck and someone surprisingly comfortable to come home to, but Lionel didn't love him in any way that would make an appreciable difference in his life if he lost him. No matter what Clark or Lex thought to the contrary, Lionel wasn't in love.

He returned to the transcript, picking up where he'd left off.

Kent: Then he's either in denial or he's totally bullshitting you, because Lionel Luthor is in love. I saw it last night. Lex saw it--

Fordman: You were looking, projecting... And Lex-- Lex is just looking for excuses to hate me because of you. Anything will do.

Kent: Well, that's true. But it's also true that Lionel is in love. Whitney, what's wrong? I thought you were convinced Lionel loves you.

Fordman: I was. I mean, I am. Convinced he loves me. I just didn't know...I mean (unintelligible phrase)... can't explain it.

Kent: Knowing it in your heart and having it validated so your brain can process it are two different things.

Fordman: Something like that. I can "know" it all I want, and you and Lex can interpret things Lionel does till your dad's cows come home, but until he says the words...

Kent: You might be in for a long wait. Lionel is stubborn.

Fordman: Hey, I'm young. And he's worth it.

Kent: Sorry. I don't see it. But if you're happy.

Fordman: I've been in love with him since I was eighteen, Clark. Sometimes I feel like everything I've done for the last four years has been just for him, leading me to this place.

Kent: Including that afternoon at Miller's pond when we went skinny dipping?

Fordman laughs: Well, no. That wasn't for Lionel, but -- don't take this the wrong way, Clark -- but if that had been Lionel's cock that summer --

Kent: No! Don't even go there! That is NOT an image I want of my boyfriend's father!

Fordman: Yeah, well, Lionel would never admit it, but that image of you and me is not one that he likes much, either.

Kent: Likes? What? You mean he knows about us? About that summer?

Fordman: Lex overplayed his hand last night. Lionel figured out that he was jealous.

Kent: Oh, great. How'd he take it? You made it clear that we're ancient history, right? That's an analogy he would like and understand. I do not need a jealous Lionel on my ass!

Fordman: (pause) I don't think you meant that quite the way it came out, did you?

Kent laughs: Definitely not.

Fordman: Good. 'Cause you can't have him. He's mine.

More laughter was indicated in the transcript, then something on the television caught their attention and the conversation shifted back to football. Lionel closed the transcript. He didn't need to read any more. He'd learned everything he needed to know about Whitney's relationship with Clark Kent. There was nothing between them but friendship. Whitney was in love with Lionel, deeply, blindly and romantically in love. Lionel was irritated that he'd doubted it. The fact that he'd required proof was now discomforting, for it signified that perhaps he had been -- just a little -- jealous.

That was not a tolerable situation.

Disgruntled, Lionel picked up his phone and dialed Security. When Manning answered, Lionel said tersely, "Discontinue the surveillance on Fordman. And have Cannons file a flight plan for New Delhi. I'm leaving for India tonight."

When he arrived at the penthouse, Whitney noticed two things immediately. One was the magnificent piano solo reverberating through the apartment. The other was Lionel's bags stacked on his luggage cart near the elevator. A lot of bags. His next trip to Switzerland wasn't supposed to be until next week, damn it.

So much for Whitney's perfect day.

Swallowing his disappointment and preparing himself for the role of supportive lover, Whitney followed the music to the Conservatory. He stopped in the open archway to take in a scene that was pure staged theatricality Lionel Luthor-style. Painted against the dramatic backdrop of city lights, the Conservatory was sheathed in darkness, lit only by a few pinpoint spotlights that shone directly from the ceiling. One pool highlighted Lionel's Stradivarius, another fell on a crystal champagne bucket and glasses, and of course one light struck Lionel at the piano from directly overhead, illuminating his upturned face in sharp relief. Eyes closed, he was lost in the thundering chords of something wild and unrestrained. Whitney didn't recognize the composer or the piece, but it was violent in its beauty and breathtaking in its power. It built to a tumultuous crescendo, then fell like fireworks blazing bright before sparkling lightly to earth, and then softer still, into a luscious, ripe melody, like a lover's caress.

Sex.

That's what the music was meant to emulate, Whitney realized. The composer had succeeded in translating an orgasm into a dazzling composition.

On the heels of that insight came the realization that Lionel was now looking at him. The heat in his gaze indicated he knew what the music meant, too; had chosen it carefully for just this moment.

Whitney sent up a silent prayer that Lionel's flight wasn't leaving as immediately as that pile of luggage might indicate. With the music enveloping him like a siren's song, he moved to the piano, stopping just long enough in one of the pools of light to pour a glass of champagne; Lionel's fluted glass was already on the piano.

There was plenty of room for him on the long, padded bench, but instead he moved behind his lover, sifted a handful of Lionel's hair off his neck, and bent to press a kiss to his throat on the pulse-point above the standup collar of his snow white shirt. Whitney's cheek and chin brushed the fabric -- silk. Embroidered. Far Eastern in design, with matching pants that encased his legs loosely and pooled around his ankles. Whitney was getting the picture, but for the moment he focused on doing wet, sexy things to Lionel's earlobe and pulse points.

"Ahem... You'll make me miss the arpeggio," Lionel cautioned, but he didn't sound particularly distraught at the prospect.

"I'd rather make you miss your plane," Whitney countered, his lips brushing Lionel's throat lightly. "You're leaving."

"Ummm...India."

Whitney straightened enough to run his free hand down Lionel's chest, relishing the delicious contradiction of hard and soft beneath his fingers. "That explains the silk. When are you leaving and why do you have to go?"

"In an hour. A problem with construction permits that must be dealt with decisively."

"By you?" Was that whining? Whitney hoped not. He hated whining. He moved around the bench and sat. He made sure his voice was firmer when he continued, "Don't you have an Executive Vice-Sycophant who could go to India and throw your weight around? Send that toad, Dominic."

Lionel chuckled darkly, his hands caressing the keys in a light-as-air arpeggio. "My darling Whitney, there's no point in having weight if you can't enjoy throwing it around yourself. You should be accustomed to this by now."

"Oh, I'm used to it. Doesn't mean I have to like sleeping alone, though."

"I question whether sleeping is your primary concern."

That was true, but Whitney ignored the jibe. He was in his prime. He was expected to crave sex morning, noon, night and all compass points in-between, wasn't he? "Will you be back in time for the game Sunday?"

"Not likely. I have a meeting in Zurich on Monday," Lionel replied without missing a note. "I should be back on Tuesday. We'll celebrate your victory over the Raiders then."

"You're awfully confident."

"You're awfully talented..." The music ended on three soft chords and Lionel reached for his champagne. "I have yet to be disappointed by you, Whitney --" He brushed his glass against Whitney's. "-- on the field or off."

Whitney absorbed the deep regard in Lionel's gaze, unable to escape the feeling that some secret meaning shimmered just beneath the surface. Something was there that hadn't been there yesterday, or even this morning, for that matter. Whatever it was, it was wonderful. He gathered in the warmth behind the compliment and tucked it away for safekeeping."I'm glad. You sure you can't make that departure in two hours instead of one?"

Lionel pursed his lips thoughtfully as he covered the keyboard. "It is my plane. I suppose I can leave whenever I like."

"Good." Whitney stood. "Let's go to the bedroom and I'll see how hard I can make it." He grinned down at his lover. "To leave. Hard to leave."

"I rather preferred the inferred meaning." Lionel stood. "But wouldn't you rather eat?" Lionel's smile was pure wolf; his voice, a sexy purr. "Dinner, I mean. Eat dinner."

"You know me better than that. Come on." Whitney reached for him, but Lionel disappeared into the shadows and reappeared at the champagne table.

"I have a better idea." He touched a button on a remote panel and another pool of light swelled around a gold brocade fainting couch.

Whitney grinned. "Should I get the smelling salts?"

Lionel tossed a wicked smile over his shoulder. "Are you planning to swoon at the sight of my fully engorged manhood."

"I'll try to stay strong."

"Then I think I've taken care of everything we'll need."

"You always do." Whitney moved to him. Walking in and out of the pools of light was strangely disorienting. He reached Lionel, approaching him from behind, and slipped his arms his waist. The beam of light was so tightly focused around the table that Lionel was fully illuminated, but Whitney was cloaked in darkness. He bent his head to nuzzle Lionel's throat while his hands roamed lower. His long white shirt--called a kurta, if Whitney recalled correctly--hung loosely down to Lionel's knees, but it was only buttoned from his throat to his waist, making it a simple matter for Whitney to slide his hand beneath the kurta, into the waist of the trousers and discover nothing beneath the loose-fitting Indian silk payjamas but a cock that was quickly gaining interest in the proceedings.

A small moan of pleasure vibrated in his throat as he took the cock in his hand, but somehow Lionel managed to escape, removing Whitney's hand, caressing it lightly as he reversed their positions, placing Whitney in the light. The shadows swallowed Lionel except where he touched Whit.

"Ah, ah -- Have you learned so little in all these months?" Lionel dipped his head and placed a kiss in the palm of Whitney's hand, then gently traced lines around the callouses, finding the soft, tender spots and sending shivers down Whitney's spine as he admonished, "You always move too quickly toward the main course when there are so many delicious precursors to sample."

He pressed a soft, sucking kiss to Whitney's throat. "Shoes," he murmured and Whitney obliged by slipping out of his shoes, putting them on equal footing.

"Better. First course: Appetizer. Caviar and Creme Fraiche," Lionel murmured, kissing him. It was a slow, lazy exploratory kiss that ignited a low fire and occasionally peaked with the promise of a conflagration to come. Whitney was so focused on the kiss that he was barely aware of Lionel plying at the buttons of his shirt, pulling it free from his jeans, baring his chest.

"Or perhaps something sweeter for the first course," Lionel whispered against Whitney's throat, then nibbling a trail lower, across his collarbone, pressing little nips and licks across the hard, smooth pectoral muscles. "Like French Chocolate Truffles," he murmured, and then his lips and teeth and tongue punctuated the suggestion by working the most incredible magic on one very responsive nipple, savoring, devouring. The sensation jolted hard downward, hitting Whitney's cock and spreading out to his veins. He swallowed hard and did his best not to moan, but the sensations were just too good. He wove his hands in Lionel's hair and tugged, silently begging for equal time on the other crest.

He tried to put his arms around Lionel, but that wasn't allowed. Instead, Lionel moved behind him, kissing and stroking, seemingly intent on sampling every ripple of lean, corded muscle. He brushed the shirt off Whitney's shoulders as he circled him, kissed his shoulder as the shirt slid down his arms, and before Whitney realized it, his shirt had become soft shackles for his wrists and forearms.

"Second course..., Caesar salad chiffonade, I think," Lionel murmured, tugging on one of the knots.

"Evil. You are so evil," Whitney said with an appreciative chuckle that turned to a gasp when Lionel came round to face him again, his hands at Whit's waist this time, releasing his belt, unbuttoning his jeans, splaying his fingers against Whit's side, then running them down his flanks, over his hips; hands so hot against his skin, peeling away jeans and boxer-briefs, skillfully freeing Whit's aching cock. Crouching but never kneeling, Lionel pressed soft, moist kisses against Whit's groin as he pushed the jeans into a pool at Whit's feet.

Whitney gasped a delirious, "Yes, Please!" when Lionel took the cock into his mouth, tongue swirling lightly around the head, flicking over the slit, then sliding deeper; back, then deeper again, sucking and sliding until the Conservatory sang with Whit's pants and curses and pleas for completion that he knew would be denied.

And so it was. With technique born of skill, practice, and an instinct for knowing his lover's body more intimately than he'd ever known anyone's, Lionel pulled off Whitney's cock an instant before it would have been too late.

"Fuck!" Whitney swore. He claimed Lionel's mouth in a searing kiss when Lionel stood and slid one arm around his waist, balancing them so that Whit could step out of the jeans and kick them away.

Their bodies bound together, Whitney ground his cock against Lionel's, staining the white silk that still separated them. With his free hand, Lionel wove his fingers into the soft blond curls around Whitney's cock, then filled his hand with the sac, tugging, rolling, applying the perfect pleasure to make Whitney moan. The hoarse rumbling was lost in Lionel's mouth.

"Your third course better be soup," Whitney cautioned him between kisses.

Lionel shifted his exquisite exploration to the shaft of Whitney's cock. "Butternut squash."

Whitney dropped his head to Lionel's shoulder. "Followed by Lemon Thyme Sorbet to cleanse the palate, and then the main course? Please, God, the main course."

Lionel chuckled. "Since you ask so nicely."

"Soon?" Whitney moaned.

"Patience, my darling. A fine courtesan knows that patience is the most powerful aphrodisiac of all."

Whitney raised his head and sought Lionel's eyes. Despite his calm voice, Lionel's eyes were bright with the fire of his concentration. "Is that what I am? A courtesan?"

"Everyone who aspires to please a lover is a courtesan, Whitney."

"Even you?"

"Do I please you?" He made sure to punctuate the question with a gentle squeeze of Whitney's cock.

"God yessss," Whitney hissed, closing his eyes and fighting the overpowering urge to come all over the hand that was torturing him so sweetly.

"Then follow the syllogism."

Syllogism? Sweet Jesus! How was he supposed to remember what a syllogism was, much less make one with Lionel doing that? "Ummm... Courtesans give pleasure. Lionel gives pleasure, therefore Lionel is a courtesan."

Lionel chuckled. "Not elegant, but acceptable." He rewarded the effort by increasing the friction he was applying to Whitney's cock.

Whitney gasped. "Lionel! I can't..."

"Then don't," Lionel whispered, continuing to jack Whitney as he slid around behind him, pressing his body close again. Whitney felt the heat and hardness of Lionel's erect cock pressing against his backside and he came hard, head thrown back, hips thrusting into Lionel's unrelenting fist. He was vaguely aware of Lionel's other arm wrapping around him, steadying him until every last frission of pleasure had been milked from his cock.

Whitney didn't question the miracle that allowed him to stay on his feet, but it had more to do with Lionel's strength than his own at that moment in time. He didn't try to talk and blessedly, Lionel didn't ask for conversation. He became increasingly aware of both Lionel's arms around his torso, both hands caressing his chest. Lips massaged the back of his neck; Lionel's breathing nearly matched the slowly-evening pace of Whitney's.

"Acceptable?" Lionel queried softly after several long moments.

"My compliments to the chef."

A deep, sexy chuckle. A brush of beard and lips against his shoulder. Hands tracing the contours of his chest, becoming intimately acquainted with the ridges of his abs, the hard line of his lats, the curve of his pecs, as though touching them for the first time... Whitney was astonished when Lionel moaned and whispered against his throat, "You have the body of a god."

Whitney couldn't help it. The question was out before he could call it back. "Is that why you love me?"

"That is why I fuck you. However... " Lionel moved around Whitney, hands never leaving his sweat-slick skin, just sliding, sampling, massaging until he was there in front of him, meeting Whit's questioning gaze with those fathomless blue eyes as he added, "I dine with you, play chess, debate politics and history, give you unrestricted access to my home, and on occasion make love to you because you have a keen mind, a generous spirit, and a champion's heart. Accept my regard for what it is, Whitney, and stop trying to brand it with labels."

Whitney whimpered, though whether it was from the eloquent words in the silken voice or from the hands caressing him, he couldn't have said. "Make love with me tonight," he pleaded.

"Not tonight." Lionel reached behind Whitney and released the shirt that bound his arms. "Over there," he instructed, directing Whitney to fainting couch sat in a pinpoint of light. "Sit. There's a casket on the floor."

Whitney sat on the soft velvet brocade and reached beneath the chaise expecting to find the antique chest that normally graced the living room. Instead, he found a much longer container; antique, yes, but long and narrow, more suited to a short-sword or a dagger.

He opened it and found the expected lube and condoms. He also found a somewhat chillingly realistic sex toy. The cock portion was beautifully formed, but Whitney suddenly understood the rationale behind dayglow dildos. Whitney searched for Lionel in the darkness and discovered him at the edge of pool of light. He had shed his clothes and was magnificently naked, cock jutting up, shining in the light with the dew of pre-cum. He stepped to Whitney at the end of the couch and commanded, "Suck me."

Only too happy to oblige, Whitney planted his hands at Lionel's hips to steady them both, and took him in, skillfully lathing the head and reveling in the way the cock thickened and pulsed beneath his tongue. He flicked the cleft and was rewarded when Lionel gasped and bucked hard into his mouth. A second later, though, Lionel pulled out.

"Sheathe me. Now," he demanded, and Whitney did. "Lube. Slick it." Whitney had never heard Lionel's voice that low and harsh. He looked up at Lionel's face, but it was lost in shadow. He slicked his hands and then the condom. Lionel's cock twitched in his hand, and then amazingly, inexplicably, Lionel backed away, slowly disappearing into the shadows.

"Prepare yourself for me, Whitney. I want to watch you open yourself for me, stretch yourself, fuck yourself."

Lionel had never asked Whitney to perform for him before; oh, Lionel had watched him jerk off before, but this was different. "Lionel, I don't need much preparation for you."

"Then it won't take you long to begin stroking your prostate with that cock."

"Lionel--"

"I want to see you, Whitney. I want to take pleasure in watching the play of your muscles as you touch yourself. I want to memorize the arch of your back as your fingers stretch your ass. I want to see your face as that cock pierces you, watch your hips and those incredible thighs flex as you work the cock deeper inside you. I want to see your cock grow harder and harder as you gratify yourself. Would you deny me those pleasures, Whitney?"

Whitney's cock was already hardening at the sound of Lionel's voice, the descriptions he had provided were only fuel to the fire. Shifting higher on the chaise and rolling onto his side, he reached for the lube and coated the flesh-colored dildo. Another dollop of lube went onto his fingers, and he reached behind him, smoothing the lube around his hole, then sliding one finger inside, then another, scissoring, forcing himself to relax the way he always could when Lionel came to him. He removed his fingers and reached for the dildo, but his ass tightened in reflex.

He couldn't do it.

Sex games were one thing, but this wasn't a game. Whitney had sensed it the moment it became a power trip, manipulation, punishment, payment due for words that had sounded treacherously close to "I love you."

Whitney dropped the dildo back into the casket and repositioned himself so that his back was resting against the rolling curved arch of the fainting couch. One leg bent at the knee, the other comfortably outstretched, he let his legs fall apart, affording Lionel an unrestricted view of his half-erect cock and his lube-slicked ass.

"Sorry, Lionel. I don't take plastic," he said, his heart hammering as he scanned the blackness for some sign of his lover. "Not when you're here and I can have the real thing. Of course, once you're in India..."

A dark chuckle rolled through the room. "You're defying me?"

"Kinda looks that way, doesn't it?"

"There aren't a handful of people in the world who are comfortable defying me."

"All the more reason you should treasure a pearl like me. Now, for the love of Mike, will you get over here and fuck me?"

A long pause, then, "I don't respond well to commands," Lionel told him, but he stepped out of the shadows anyway. His sheathed cock was still glistening, jutting up in defiance of gravity. Whitney's mouth went dry and he drew up his other knee. His own cock lolled wetly against his abdomen.

"You wanted me to be ready for you, and I am. I always am," Whitney crooned, running his hands along the inside of his thighs, then one hand cupped his balls while the other lightly fingered his hole. His ass flexed in involuntary response to the expectation of being filled, and suddenly Lionel was pulling Whitney to the edge of the chaise, ass perfectly placed as he knelt on the floor and positioned Whitney's legs over his shoulders.

With no ceremony, he spread Whitney's ass cheeks and thrust his cock against the hard ring of his pucker, finding only enough resistance to make Lionel moan at the heat and the pressure as he thrust in hard.

Whitney gasped against the pain of the graceless entry, but when Lionel pulled out and slammed in again, Whitney grabbed the edge of the bench to hold himself in place so that the could accept all of what Lionel was giving him. He tried once to pull Lionel to him for a kiss, but Lionel resisted, focusing instead on finding a new angle for his thrusts and quickening them when Whitney screamed, "OHGOD! FUCK!" and grabbed the sides of the couch to keep from coming off of it, grinding against Lionel, thrusting to follow him when his lover's cock retreated to his entrance and slammed back in again, eliciting another scream and jets of cum that showered them both. His ass clenched hard with the power of that screaming orgasm, and suddenly Lionel was pumping shorter and harder, erratic, desperate, as his own burst of pleasure rocked him. His body went rigid, his head fell back as Whitney's name was wrenched out of him in a shout that was half prayer, half curse. His hips thrust again and again until there was nothing left but the dazzling echo of sensation.

Sanity slowly returning, Lionel pulled out and sank back, head bowed, catching his breath. After a moment, he raised his head and looked at his astonishing Adonis, legs splayed, cock spent, heaving chest glistening with cum, eyes closed as he tried to bring his body back into control. Every fiber of Lionel's being wanted to be in contact with Whitney, screamed for him to slink onto the couch and run his body the length of Whitney's, mate their sated cocks as they lazily kissed and caressed and coddled; to finish this sex act with a tenderness that had had no part of the act itself.

Instead, he rose silently. He couldn't conquer the weakness in him that always drew back from breaking the boy, prevented him from proving to Whitney once and for all who was the master in this relationship, but at the very least he could keep the young man from seeing just how much power he had over his older, more mature lover. God, he was beautiful. Blindingly so.

Lionel didn't believe in blindness any more than he believed in jealousy or falling in love.

*****

Suspended in a white world that existed only in the nether realm between really good sex and sanity, Whitney floated without any desire to leave. Some rational part of his brain recognized that the white behind his eyelids was the light over the chaise, but the really good sex...? That was real, and the sanity was out there, too. Somewhere.

"How do you do that to me?" he managed murmur. "Lionel?" Whitney raised his head and managed to peel open his eyelids. Lionel wasn't at the foot of the couch. "Lionel?" He peered into the darkness, but that was useless.

Rolling gingerly to one side he managed to come to his feet. Considering the punishment his ass had just taken, practice tomorrow would be a challenge. Whitney didn't care.

"Lionel?" He moved to the champagne table and punched buttons on the lighting remote until all the pin-spots were at full intensity, chasing the shadows into nothingness. Lionel was gone. His kurta and pyjamas were gone, too. Whitney snagged his jeans and slid into them, but lost any sense of urgency before he even had them zipped. Lionel was gone. He knew it even before he made his way to the foyer and discovered the luggage cart was missing. Chasing after him would have been pointless. Lionel was making a statement. "I'll fuck you senseless, boy, but it doesn't mean I love you."

Smiling, Whitney shook his head and returned to the Conservatory to collect his things. He wasn't very experienced in relationships, but he knew what running from yourself was all about. That's what Lionel was doing. Running from what he felt for Whitney. Either that, or he was a complete and total bastard who was only using Whitney for hot sex.

Whitney chose to believe the first interpretation because the second would be almost unbearable. He had another glass of champagne and went home.

7:21 p.m. - Thursday, September 28

Whitney turned away from the refrigerator, hands full. Two kinds of lettuce, scallions, carrots, radishes, and a bottle of his Mom's homemade red wine vinaigrette dressing. He spied some bacon bits in the refrigerator door, but he he didn't have a free digit to snag them with, so he closed the door with his hip and moved on. His grill was already on the counter, as was the lean, inch-and-a-half Angus porterhouse he'd picked up on the way home from practice. Now if he could just manage not to eat the damn thing raw.

The phone rang.

"Shit." Whitney dumped his soon-to-be-salad into the sink and sagged against the counter trying to decide whether or not to answer. Practice today had been grueling -- there wasn't a muscle in his body that didn't hurt, despite the whirlpool and a massage after his workout. He didn't want to answer the phone. He didn't want to be sociable. He wanted a medium rare, melt-in-your-mouth steak, some healthy rabbit food for roughage, and his answering machine to pick up and stop that damned ringing!

"Good evening, Mr. Fordman, this is Lionel Luthor."

"Shit!" All the fatigue vanished. Whitney instinctively reached for the kitchen phone, but it was cordless--not secure. He changed directions and started a mad dash for the living room phone, but had to dart back to turn off his grill as the answering machine continued to record, "I'm just calling to let you know you should expect to hear from your agent sometime tonight or tomorrow. Something very--"

Whitney hurdled over the back of the sofa, sliding onto the cushion as he snagged the phone. "Hey, Sexy. It's me. Mr. Fordman."

Lionel chuckled. "Just being cautious in case you had company."

"Nope. Nobody here but me and George Foreman." Whitney reached for the remote control and reduced Miles Davis to a mellow whisper on his stereo. He shifted to get comfortable. "So how's India?"

"It is a country with a remarkably rich history, a diverse and fascinating people, and unlimited economic possibilities."

"You hate it."

"With every fiber of my being. The stench of garbage in the streets, the animals eating it, the beggars. What passes for genius entrepreneurship here is cutting off your child's fingers so that he makes a more sympathetic beggar. And Lex finds my parenting skills questionable."

Whitney shuddered at the image. "Then come home. I'm remarkably diverse and fascinating, and I never beg. Well. Hardly ever, and I've never known you to mind when I do."

Whitney could hear Lionel smiling at that. "Tempting but hardly practical. Dominic and I are flying to Visakhapatnam this morning to meet with the rest of the LuthorIndia Executive Group, then on to headquarters in Switzerland."

"Dominic's with you?" Whitney said, frowning.

"Why does that question reek of disapproval? What do you have against Dominic?"

"He has the slimy, obsequious look of a man who can't wait for you to tell him to bend over."

Lionel chuckled. "Dominic has taken a great deal from me, Whitney, but never that. There are some lines between business and pleasure that are dangerous to cross. That would be one of them."

"Doesn't keep him from wanting it."

"Wanting and having are very different things."

"Yeah, well, he wants what I have and I don't have to like it."

"Nor would I expect you to."

"Good. So what was that about me getting a call from Carla?" Whitney asked, changing the subject to something only marginally more pleasant. Whitney had one of the best sports agents in the business, but charm wasn't her strong suit. They didn't call her Cutthroat Cathcart for nothing. "She's been on the phone every five minutes all week relaying requests for interviews -- everyone from that snake, John Vincent at the Planet, to Chris Berman at ESPN."

"Be patient with the media, Whitney. Make nice."

"I am. I will. I've given two interviews since you left Tuesday night, I have one tomorrow, and we're doing a live satellite feed from the stadium with ESPN Saturday morning."

"Is Vincent one of those?"

"Nope. Not making nice with Vincent," he said flatly. "Remember how he twisted my words last week? I'm making a media rule--I only allow a reporter to screw me once."

"Whitney--"

"Not open for debate, Lionel. I have a game Sunday that I need to concentrate on. I'm playing nice with the media because I have a responsiblity to the franchise, but that doesn't mean I have to fillet myself once a week to feed bloodsuckers like Vincent."

"You know we can't bar him from the locker room."

"Not asking you to," Whitney replied, eyeing the distance from the sofa to the refrigerator. Not enough phone cord. A Corona would have to wait. "I'll bite the bullet and talk to him like any other reporter if he approaches me in the locker room, but there's nothing in my contract that says I have to whore myself to the Daily Planet."

"Very true. I will respect your judgment."

Whitney laughed. "Bullshit! You'll just have Media Relations set up an interview with Vincent and not warn me in advance."

"Whitney, please! Give me credit for having more finesse than that."

"You'll call Carla and tell her to make me behave?"

"Exactly." They both chuckled at that, and Lionel continued, "I expect she's rather busy at the moment, though. You've been approached for a major product endorsement. She should have a deal hammered out tomorrow morning."

"You're kidding? Who?"

"I'll let Carla have the pleasure of telling you that."

"Asshole. How is it that you know about my endorsement offers before I do?"

"The fine print of your contract. In order to protect the integrity of the franchise, I have final approval on any advertisements or public service endorsements may players make."

Whitney laughed. "Oh, I'll bet Carla's loving that."

"She agreed to it."

"Yeah, but I'm vaguely recalling you didn't give her a choice. What's the product?" Whitney pressed.

"Something of which you will approve. My people are setting up a campaign pitch Tuesday morning for the company's ad reps."

"Is that when I'll see you again?"

"Most likely."

Whitney paused, then asked, "Promise me you won't do another disappearing act like Tuesday night?"

"No."

"Asshole."

Lionel chuckled. "I see you have a new favorite word."

"No, you're just being particularly irritating. Either that or I'm in a really bad mood because I miss you. I wish you were going to be here on Sunday."

"I'm more worried about your interview Saturday with ESPN," Lionel said wryly. "Don't let Berman's wit lull you into saying something you don't want to say."

"Don't worry. I won't." There was about as much chance of getting Lionel to admit he missed Whitney as there was of Whitney flying to the moon, so he gave up trying and reached for a piece of mail he'd dropped onto the coffee table last night. "Got your invitation."

There was a slight pause. "To...?"

"The Sharks Charity Ball on the 21st. It's addressed to Mr. Whitney Fordman and Guest." He managed to keep his tone light. "I'm guessing your guest is Celeste Willingham."

"An accurate assessment," Lionel replied. "You, of course, will be escorting your friend, Lois Lane. If you haven't already invited her, you should do so immediately. This is an important occasion, Whitney -- one of the social highlights of the season. It is imperative that you make a very public appearance with your girlfriend."

Whitney sighed heavily. "Save the hard sell, Lionel. I called Lois last night."

The relief in Lionel's voice was palpable. Clearly he'd been expecting a repeat of the Fund Raiser fiasco. "Excellent! You will purchase her airline tickets, of course, and you should reserve a limo now. Oh, and I strongly suggest you gift her with a designer gown for the occasion. The Spring Collections are showing in Paris now. I might be able to get her something off the runway. I'll also pave the way for you to borrow some tasteful but spectacular jewels for the occasion."

Whitney chuckled. "Gee... And I was just going to order her two carnations in a wrist corsage."

Lionel chuckled too, but reminded him, "It's important she be dazzling, Whitney. Memorable. A woman worthy of the constancy you show her."

"And a gown off a Paris runway is going to do that?"

"It will guarantee that Miss Lane headlines the Fashion page the morning after the Ball. Once she enters the public consciousness, people will draw their own conclusions based on your behavior toward her."

"And what do I say if someone asks how a rookie quarterback got the juice to snag a runway design? You know, not everyone can call up Paris and say, 'Hey, Georgio! How's it hanging? Can I borrow a dress?'"

Lionel chuckled. "Don't worry. After Tuesday, no one will think to ask that question."

"What's Tuesday? Oh. You mean the endorsement, thing?" Whitney sat up straighter on the sofa, really intrigued now. "Who the fuck is--"

"Carla will tell you, and I want your reaction to be genuine," Lionel replied lightly. "It wouldn't do to have her know we had this conversation. There really is no reason for the Sharks owner to be calling up his star quarterback to, er, uh, dish about endorsements and fashions and their dates for the senior prom."

Whitney laughed. "You never went to a prom in your life."

"True, but I was the most coveted escort in Metropolis on the Cotillion circuit," Lionel conceded. "Now, go eat your dinner. Have a beer. Draw a bath and spend the rest of the evening imagining how we'll celebrate when I get home."

"May I touch myself and imagine it's you?"

Lionel sighed with great forbearance. "Only if you must."

Saturday, September 30

John Vincent's desk at the Daily Planet was immaculate. Folders neatly filed. CD's and datadisks separated and labeled. His stack of narrow reporter's pads all precisely stamped with his name, phone number, and the promise of a modest reward if lost and returned. Even the art on his cubical walls was perfectly balanced, from his SI Swimsuit Calendar to his journalism awards to the needlepoint sampler one of his wiseass coworkers had made for him that said, "A place for every paper clip, and every paper clip in its place."

Even the notes on Vin's bulletin board were symmetrically arranged, although that was hard to maintain because the jokers in the newsroom liked to mess with his head and every time he left he could pretty well count on coming back to find that someone had haphazardly added a message to the board: A photocopy of his Press Pass along with the legend, "Anal Retentive Asshole" was an office favorite that never failed to draw chuckles no matter how often it was used.

Known for his long memory and the ability to hold a grudge, Vincent was the Felix Unger of sports reporters and the butt of endless jokes about his neatness fetish, but the one thing no one questioned was his skill for ferreting out stories. In addition to his regular syndicated column and virtually-unlimited Travel Allowance, the Daily Planet had given him a high-profile Internet feature that was the centerpiece of thedailyplanet.com. At 41, thrice-divorced and more than passably handsome, he was at the pinnacle of his career, and there was really no place higher for him to go unless he wanted to segue into sportscasting, which he emphatically did not.

John was happy where he was, which, at the moment, was at his immaculate desk watching ESPN's SportsCenter on his 10-inch TV/VCR Combo. The one black spot on an otherwise excellent week was going to be interviewed as soon the network sold its quota of Norelco shavers.

"We're back, and you're watching Sports Center and I'm Chris Berman, talking live, in person via satellite to the Metropolis Sharks' newest carnivore, QB Whitney Fordman. Whitney! That was quite a display of pearly-whites you put on last week with the Steelers."

"Thanks, Chris. It was a thrill for me to start my first game against such a formidable team."

"Well, you certainly announced your presence with authority, as the saying goes. What are you going to do for an encore?"

Fordman gave the camera a big, friendly, blue-eyes-sparkling smile that made Vincent want to barf. He'd interviewed Fordman three times in the last two years and hadn't quite figured out if the kid's down-home Jimmy Stewart act was just that. An Act.

"I think Coach Lessening would be happy if I hit the end zone a few times and managed not to get anything broken."

"You've already beaten the Raiders once this year. You confident you can take them again?"

"Well...that was pre-season, Chris. The Raiders were re-tooling their new defensive strategy because they'd just brought Ricky Eisner on board. Only a suicidal idiot would take on Oakland thinking they were candy."

Well, he's not stupid, Vincent granted grudgingly. Most first-round draft picks who had some early success became cocky assholes overnight, if they weren't already cocky assholes to begin with. Fordman was playing a different game. Modest, unassuming, respectful and grateful to be playing with the big boys. Not many rookies went the humility route. Wonder how long it will last? Most of the media was already canonizing him, but Vin had seen too many flash-in-the-pans to hop onboard the Fordman Love Train.

Vincent listened with one ear as Berman continued to ask questions, which were being dutifully recorded by Vin's VCR, but the lion's portion of the reporter's mind was still noodling over the mystery of why Fordman had ducked his requests for an interview all week long. The QB had met with at least a half dozen reporters this week, but he'd been "too busy training" to take five minutes out for the Daily Planet.

Not only was antagonizing the Planet's heavyweight reporter a stupid move, it didn't make any sense that Vin could see. His article on Fordman the previous week had been so innocuous that Vin had been grateful he wasn't diabetic. High school heartthrob, dying father, rich benefactor, college gridiron hero, 8-figure NFL starting QB. Despite Vin's desire to prove otherwise, Fordman was a rags-to-riches Prince Charming without so much as a hangnail or a wart to spice up the Fairy Tale, and Vin had as much as said so in the article.

So why was the rookie dodging him?

"So, good looking fellow like you got a girl? I want to know if I'm breaking hearts across the country."

Vin faked a yawn and muttered, "Yeah, yeah. Longtime Sweetheart out at Cal Berkeley, incredible lady. Make with the good questions, Berman," Vin muttered as the blondie on the screen said,

"I have a long time sweetheart out at Cal Berkeley...just an incredible lady."

Vin straightened in his chair. Exact same words he'd used when Vin had asked a similar question last week. Exact down to the embarrassed 'aw-shucks-you-caught-me' delivery. What PR firm is writing dialogue for this kid?

"Marriage plans?"

"That's kind of hard to say, what with the distance and all, but Lois graduates this spring, and then we'll see. I want a family -- there's no question about that."

Berman went on to a couple of questions about Fordman's college career -- just killing time to the next commercial break, and Vincent tuned them out. Literally. He hit the mute button on the remote and leaned his chair back as far as it would go while he studied the pretty-boy with the 37 million dollar arm.

Too good to be true, Vincent concluded, and his orderly mind took the thought to its rational conclusion that if it looked too good to be true, it probably was.

What are you hiding behind that smile, kid?

9:15 a.m. - Tuesday, October 3
One Luthor Plaza

"And we're moving Bran Sutton up to Level 2 for the New Orleans game next Sunday."

Lionel groaned. "The lunatic again?"

"Yes, sir. The threats started over the weekend," Jacob Manning replied. In front of him he had the Monthly Reports for all aspects of the Luthor empire's security, including the football franchise.

Shaking his head in disgust, Lionel swiveled his chair so that he was angled parallel to the desk. He crossed his legs and smoothed the crease in his trousers. It would have been impossible for anyone not acquainted with his schedule to know that he'd been on a plane from Switzerland all night and hadn't slept more than an hour of the last 30. "Do we have any idea how much that delusional asshole has cost us in increased security for Brandon Sutton in the last three years?"

"I don't have the figures in front of me, but I can get them."

"Do, please. The numbers may come in handy when it comes times to negotiate Mr. Sutton's contract. This lunatic's personal vendetta started before Mr. Sutton came to the Sharks. I'm not certain how much longer I want to pick up the tab for his increased security when we play in the southeast."

"I'll get you those numbers."

"Thank you."

The security chief continued his Team Threat Assessment. They discussed the timing of the first random drug testing, and Lionel surprised Manning by instructing him to be certain that all rookies were included in the "random" sampling of players.

"All?" Manning asked, his voice loaded with significance.

Lionel cut him with a laser-like glare. "I rarely misspeak, Jacob. And I want the full blood panel, not just the cursory drug screen."

If he thought it was an odd request, he didn't let it show this time. "Yes, sir."

He moved on to Luthor Plaza security concerns, which included a rash of break-ins at the Lancer Building. Manning suspected an inside job; Lionel authorized a sting operation to uncover the culprit who was apparently providing internal security codes to an outside entity.

"All right, what else?" Lionel asked when it appeared that Jacob might at last be winding down. It was nearly 10 a.m., time for his next meeting, and Lionel was anxious to get to it.

Manning hesitated. Lionel raised an eyebrow, prompting Manning to continue, "I'm putting Whitney Fordman on Level Two."

Lionel frowned. "I thought I told you to discontinue surveillance on Mr. Fordman last week."

"And I have. But this has nothing to do with his activities."

Lionel uncrossed his leg and leaned forward. "There's been a threat?"

"I believe so. Credible enough to justify Level Two."

L-2 security assigned a personal body guard to a Sharks' player during home games, practices, and away games any time a credible threat was made against that player. Level Three upped the ante to vastly increased electronic surveillance in the stadium. Level Four meant direct, round the clock surveillance and body guards. L-4 had been instituted only once, when the wife of a player went ballistic over a paternity suit filed against her husband. Only Manning's diligent security measures had prevented a deadly reenactment of "Annie Get Your Gun" at one of the home games.

Given how many "crazies" there were in the world, L-2 security wasn't uncommon, but it was still worrisome because Jacob Manning wasn't reactionary. If he said there was a threat, there was reason to worry, at least a little.

"How on earth can Whitney possibly have made any enemies? Good Christ, he's only started two games. And he's on a winning streak! Who could possibly object to that?"

"Well, we've received a couple of hate-mails from disgruntled Dale Brookline fans, but that's to be expected. The communication that worries me appears to be someone from Fordman's past," Manning said, handing Lionel a divided folder. "This is the correspondence he's received since the beginning of the season -- snail mail to the Coliseum and email to the Shark's website."

The Public Relations office handled most of the fan mail for the players. The franchise even provided a "fan" email account through the Sharks' website, which was funneled directly to the PR office. Questionable correspondence was shuttled off to Security for assessment.

Lionel flipped open Whitney's folder. The first divider contained ordinary fan mail. Most of it would eventually be siphoned to Whitney so that he could see what people were thinking of him. Lionel glanced at the one of top:

To Whitney Fordman

I must say that I was most impressed with the toughness and grit you showed last
Monday Night. I was not a big fan of yours--I'm an OK grad, but you have made a
believer out of me. I have never seen such poise in a rookie. Consider me a new fan.

Sincerely,

Brad Jones
Metropolis

Sane, rational. Someone obviously with a little too much time on his hands if he could afford to sit around writing fan mail to football players, but Lionel held little disdain for this class of letter-writers. They were the fans whose support made his franchise lucrative.

The mail behind the second divider was what Manning's people labeled as "Monitor Mail." Basically harmless, but worth filing for future reference. Lionel called it "Kook Mail." He glanced at the first communication -- an email -- that read:

To: WhitneyFordman@MetropolisSharks.com
From: sexybabe3295@yahee.com

Hey, Hot Stuff! Saw you chew up the Steelers and spit out the Raiders. Have only one thing to say!

CAN I HAVE YOUR BABY?!?!?!?!?

A name, vital statistics, and phone number followed, but Lionel didn't waste time on it. He flipped to the third and final section of the folder. Its red tab needed no other label. There were three letters in clear plastic holders, all composed on a computer. Each one began the same way.

"My darling?" Lionel said disdainfully.

"They're classic delusional stalker," Manning told him. "Either that, or Fordman is carrying on an affair with an old college flame."

The barest hint of humor ate at the edges of Manning's usually-stoic demeanor, indicating how unlikely Manning considered that option. Lionel frowned and directed his attention back to the "stalker's" first letter.

My darling--

I can't tell you how thrilled I was to see you last night. Being with you again--

Lionel's frown deepened into a scowl. He stopped and flipped the sheet holder to look at the envelope tucked behind the letter. It was postmarked one week ago today, the morning after Whitney's appearance on ABC Monday Night Football. That ruled out the "affair with an old flame" theory. Lionel knew perfectly well where Whitney had been a week ago last Monday night. And Tuesday night, as well.

He returned to the text of the letter.

--Being with you again was like sunshine and rainbows and showers of pure joy. I gave you the time you asked for when you left K State--it was painful, but I know you had to pursue your dreams. I support you in that, my darling, and I always will, but you have the success you craved, now. It's time for us to be together.

Your only Love

It was signed with an elaborately scrawled "K".

Lionel looked at Manning. "Is this for real?"

"I think so. And I'm betting it's been going on for a long time. This isn't something that sprung up overnight. My guess is that this woman fixated on Fordman while he was making a name for himself at K State. She may have been a student in one of his classes, an anonymous fan in the bleachers--or she could very well have been one of the women he dated." Manning paused.

"Are you sure it's a woman?"

"No, but I have to believe that no self-respecting homosexual would use a phrase like 'sunshine, rainbows and showers of joy.'"

Lionel almost smiled. Manning's closeted sexuality had been Lionel's first hold over him. Now that he was divorced and his only son wa