Everyone had been a friend of Chris', back in the day. His best friend, or family friend, or something intimating an intimacy that no man could truly ever have with a man like Chris. He supposed he had fancied it, in a way. That sort of exclusivity that came with building emotional callous so thick a knife could bounce right off it.

Shame to say the same had not applied to real knives.

These days, Chris' old 'friends' were 'friends of friends of friends' instead. While the blame fell squarely on Simon's shoulders, no one wanted to be associated with a man whose dirty laundry had wafted that far in the aftermath. Where the lies and truths began was a matter of opinion. Public opinion.

The mud had had his name, and there was naught Zechariah could do (would do) to restore it.

Georgie was a friend of a friend of a friend of Chris', but he used to be a friend. What had not since changed was he was a quietly gay man with a 'nice' family and a nice golf course. So, of course, Zechariah had come dressed to the nines in a charcoal gray suit and fresh from a shave. He strode with familiarity over the course, though he paused and squinted when the silhouette of another was in view ...

Carrington. Darius Carrington. Friend of Chris' - or was it friend of a friend of a friend these days for him, too?

"Do I know you?" Zechariah said instead, though the harsh look in his eyes seemed to pose a philosophical rather than literal question.