Disclaimer: The usual stuff about these characters belonging to other people (and, incidentally, being the best thing to hit the WB since Animaniacs went off the air.)

Second Disclaimer: As we all know, Lex would never contemplate sex with a minor, so for our purposes, Whitney is eighteen. Or even older, if we assume he was held back a couple of years.

Better Than Nothing

"I'm not gay, you know." Lex gritted his teeth.

"You did mention that." In fact, apart from a brief moment when his mouth was otherwise occupied, Whitney had repeated it over and over, like a mantra, since he'd entered the house. As dirty talk went, Lex had heard better.

"Just making sure."

"Fine." Lex tied his shoe and stood up. On the way, he picked up Whitney's Playboy-rabbit patterned boxer shorts and tossed them at his guest. "You'd better get dressed, then."

It was Lionel's fault, really. Two days earlier, he'd phoned to tell Lex to take some time off.

"What?"

"It's not my idea. Some son-of-a-bitch in Washington found out I used to fence with the CEO of Enron and all of a sudden, they want to open my books."

"What's that got to do with me?" Lionel gave a harsh laugh.

"Nothing spells corruption to these people like a bald, 21-year-old, Machiavelli-quoting vice president. So I want you to lie low for a while, got it? If anyone asks, Hamilton's the boss out there. And his stock options are all legit."

"How long is it going to take?" Lex picked up his PalmPilot and scrolled down. He had five meetings scheduled for this week alone. And, he was pleased to notice, an appointment with his masseuse at 4:30 this afternoon.

"Couple of weeks, I guess."

"Couple of weeks?"

"It's the goddamn government. And don't you use that tone of voice with me. I'm not one of your shit-shovelling lackeys."

"What am I supposed to do for a couple of weeks?" Lionel laughed humourlessly again.

"Whatever passes for entertainment out there. Milk a cow. Raise a barn. Scatter dollar bills on the ground and watch your little jailbait boyfriend bend over to pick them up." Lex stiffened, even though he knew this was Lionel's idea of a joke. His father had been making such jokes more or less constantly since he'd found the bill for Clark's truck. Lex knew Lionel didn't seriously believe he had feelings for Clark, and he wanted to keep it that way. If his father ever did find out, there wouldn't be jokes. There would be lectures, and uncomplimentary name-calling, and most likely a transfer to the LuthorCorp caviar factory in Greenland. "I don't care what you do," Lionel continued. In the background, Lex could hear Lionel's secretary muttering. "Just don't screw this up."

"Fine."

"Good." Lionel replied, never one to let his son have the last word. Lex was about to hang up when Lionel added: "Oh, and Lex, there's no need to mention that time Martha Stewart came for dinner, OK?"

Ordinarily, being forced to take time off wouldn't have been the end of the world. Lex worked hard, but he also knew how to have a good time. He could think of a lot of great ways to spend two weeks' vacation. The problem was, at the moment, all of them involved Clark, and he wasn't speaking to Clark anymore.

It was, as he told himself, purely a matter of self-preservation. He had known Clark long enough to know the effect the kid had on him, and, while it was a lot of fun, it wasn't exactly productive. The sight of Clark impaired his judgement. When he thought of Clark, all other thoughts disappeared from his mind (including, as he'd found out the hard way, the meaning of the red light hanging over a busy Metropolis intersection.) The sound of Clark's voice filled his brain with pointless, time-wasting fantasies involving whipped cream and chocolate syrup. There was no doubt about it, he was a Clark-aholic. The first step was admitting he had a problem. The next step had been to develop a Twelve-Step program to combat it.

He was now on the fourth step. First, he had stopped running into Clark. Physically, this had been remarkably easy to do. There was really no reason, even in a small town, for a billionaire businessman to have any contact with a farm-dwelling high school student. Lex had been embarrassed when he realized, for the first time, just how far he'd sunk to contrive those constant "accidentally on purpose" meetings with Clark. But that was addiction, and that was what he was up against.

The next step had been to stop taking Clark's phone calls. By this time suffering some serious withdrawal symptoms, Lex had stalled on this step for three weeks. He couldn't hear Clark's plaintive, almost forlorn, voice on the answering machine without grabbing the telephone and dialling his number. So he gave the answering machine to his masseuse and employed an answering service instead, paying them a little extra not to tell him when there was a message from Clark Kent.

The third step had been to stop thinking about Clark while he was at work. This, too, was far from simple. Not for the first time, it seemed like the world wanted him to fail, and was doing its damndest to make sure he did. The first week on this step, he'd received a dozen emails about a take-over bid involving Clarkson Pharmaceuticals of Metropolis. A possible expansion site for LuthorCorp's fertilizer division had been found in the county of Kent, England. And Mary Kent Cosmetics had called to advise the "lady of the house" of a half-off sale involving their "Farmer's Daughter" range of lipsticks and blushers (Lex, after making a strangulated noise, had hung up so fast that the Mary Kent saleswoman drew the conclusion he was newly divorced, and had drawn a neat line through his number on their master list.)

But he'd gotten through it, and now he was on the fourth step. He was thinking of Clark for no more than two hours every day. If he kept to the program, Lex had calculated, he would be on the twelfth step, the one where he ceased to think about Clark entirely, except perhaps occasionally with some mild contempt, by the time they were both middle-aged. It was better than nothing. Once Lionel had hung up, Lex exhausted the last of his allotted time for the day by imagining Clark bending over to pick up dollar bills. Then he closed the door firmly on those thoughts and went for his massage.

Later that evening, when, without thinking about him, he knew Clark would be having dinner at home, Lex took his laptop down to the Talon. Lionel had forbidden him to work at LuthorCorp, but that didn't mean he had to neglect his other business interests. He was glad he hadn't. When he arrived, the place was deserted, some irritating Sixties music was playing on the stereo, and Lana was behind the counter, arguing with her boyfriend.

"Come on, Lana," Whitney was whining when Lex arrived. "It's been months..."

"Whitney!" Lana gave Whitney a pinch-faced scowl so menacing that Lex hoped she didn't give it to customers who asked for extra foam on their lattes. Although that would go a long way to explaining why their business seemed to have decreased since her arrival. "Leave me alone."

"Yes, Whitney, if you would, please." Lex glared at Whitney. Being with Lana had obviously heightened his natural immunity to dirty looks. After saying a cheerful: "See you later," to Lex and shooting a frown that made him look more vacuous than dangerous in Lana's direction, Whitney left. Lex turned to his employee.

Have I missed something?"

"What?" Lana wiped a drip of espresso from the counter, dropped the cloth into the sink, and unfastened her apron. Lex raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, have we given up the coffee shop idea and decided to sell fresh sockeye instead? Because if that's the case, I really should inform the suppliers."

"What are you talking about?"

"I would merely like to know why you decided your workplace was the ideal milieu to scream like a fishwife at your very unfortunate boyfriend." Lana transferred the scowl to him. After a lifetime of Lionel, Lex wasn't exactly intimidated. The pause did, however, give him time to recognize the song playing on the stereo. Gary Puckett and the Union Gap. Young Girl. "And get this crappy music off. It's no wonder people don't want to come here."

"I wasn't screaming." Without taking her eyes off Lex, Lana removed her apron and spiked it, football-style, onto the counter. "And you know something, Lex? You have been a real pain in the ass lately. If you were a woman, you'd be accused of having PMS. Although in your case..." she trailed off, clearly searching her brain for a sufficiently scathing rejoinder. She didn't come up with one. "I guess it's something else," she finished, lamely, as she came around the counter and headed towards the Employees Only door.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"It's six o'clock. I'm off. Actually," she glanced at her watch. "I was off four minutes ago. I won't bother putting in for overtime. Consider it your Christmas present." That was much better. With a smug grin, she disappeared into the employee lounge just as Melanie came out. Lex smiled when he saw her. She, a blue-haired, tattooed barrista who had worked at the Metropolis Starbucks, was the Cal Ripken of coffee. Lana, in comparison, was the kid who spent the games picking dandelions in the outfield. Melanie smiled back at Lex and said, in her mellow, pseudo-surfer drawl:

"What can I get you, boss?"

"Cappuccino."

"Sure thing. I'll bring it over to you." Now that, Lex thought, smiling, was an employee. He set up his laptop on a table in the corner and pretended to be absorbed in a spreadsheet when Lana stalked by, slinging her purse over her shoulder and calling good-night to Melanie. He also pretended not to notice the CD she had used to replace Gary Puckett. ABBA's Does Your Mother Know?

An hour later, Lex was still there, working on his second cup and looking over the spreadsheet. He didn't notice Whitney's return until the boy, holding an armful of red roses, appeared in front of him.

"Why Whitney. You shouldn't have." Lex glanced up at Whitney, then back at his computer screen.

"What?" Whitney blinked blankly. Lex sighed and wondered why Clark seemed to be the only adolescent in town with a sense of humour. Then, too late, he realized this was an unauthorized Clark thought and kicked himself. Literally. According to his Twelve-Step program, that little lapse meant he had to chop five minutes of Clark thoughts off the next day's allotted time.

"Lana left an hour ago," Lex snapped, peevishly, when he realized Whitney was still standing there.

"Oh." Whitney looked at the roses, then down at Lex, who had put a hand inside one lavender sock and was rubbing his ankle. "Are you OK?"

"Fine." Lex didn't know why Whitney should take this as permission to sit down, but he did, laying the flowers on the table beside Lex's laptop. Lex looked at him with what he hoped was a discouraging, if not withering, stare, but Whitney remained unwithered.

"Listen, Lex, can I ask you something?" Lex was vaguely curious as to what Whitney, with whom he'd exchanged no more than half a dozen civil words since he'd moved here, could possibly have to ask him. But not curious enough to ask.

"I'm kind of busy, Whitney."

"It'll only take a sec." Without pausing for reply, Whitney continued: "You've had a lot of girlfriends, right, Lex?" Lex picked up his cappuccino.

"A few," he admitted, modestly. Whitney clenched his fists, fortunately not around the flowers, and stared at the table.

"And you've...you know. Done stuff, right?"

"Done stuff?" Lex repeated, wondering vaguely if Whitney was about to nudge him in the ribs and break into an Eric Idle impersonation.

"You know." Whitney looked up, and smirked. "Stuff."

"Oh. Yes, Whitney, I can assure you that I have definitely done stuff." He looked back at his computer screen, his interest in this conversation waning rapidly. He was not a locker room football buddy, nor was he a school guidance counsellor, and consequently he had little to tell Whitney on the subject of sex.

"Well, what I want to know is, what do you do if you're, you know, ready, I mean really, really, ready, and she says she's not, even if you've been together for a long time and you're really ready?" Whitney finished, breathless, and looked at him expectantly. Lex sipped his coffee and wiped his lips on a Talon napkin.

"In that case, Whitney, I'd suggest you take matters into your own hands." Clark, Lex thought, would have blushed at that, but at least he would have picked up on the innuendo. Whitney looked at Lex like he had just unveiled the secret of life and, with utmost seriousness, nodded and said:

"Thanks, Lex. That's great advice." Then he picked up his flowers and left Lex ordering a third cappuccino.

Because he'd kept so faithfully to his regime, three days later Lex decided to reward himself with an extra five minutes of Clark thoughts. He was sitting at his desk with the lights off and a stopwatch on, enjoying every second, when the telephone rang. He took a couple of deep breaths to regain his composure, stopped the watch, and picked up the phone.

"Lex? How's the vacation going?" Lionel asked, although he didn't sound much like he cared.

"Fine." It had been fine. He'd considered flying to Gotham City for the two weeks, but had decided against that, and instead went sightseeing around Metropolis. Two days ago, he'd gone to a Picasso exhibit at the Metropolis Museum of Modern Art, and last night, because he'd been so good, he'd allowed himself to go to a club. Not Club Zero, but a place called the Vodka Dome, where he'd danced with several women, a couple of men, and had almost succeeded in not wishing they were Clark. "How's the audit?"

"I need you to give a hundred grand to your little boyfriend's high school. All above board, of course. Clean money only." Lionel replied, as if that was an answer.

"What for?"

"Whatever. Band instruments, football uniforms, computers. Tell them it's for a new Clark Kent Appreciation class for all I care."

"I don't think they need a class in that." Lionel barked, and Lex smiled. He couldn't remember the last time his father had laughed at one of his jokes, even a weak one. "Why the sudden generosity?"

"I need to buy a little time."

"Won't a sudden gift like this look kind of suspicious?"

"That's the point," Lionel said, coldly, as if any son of his should have figured it all out as soon as he'd picked up the phone. "While they're looking into the clean money, I'll have chance to move some of my other assets around." In Lionel's case, Lex knew, the assets usually moved from the Caymans to Switzerland, or vice versa. "I've already talked to the school about it. You're taking the cheque over this afternoon." He hung up without any further instructions, and without saying good-bye. Lex restarted the watch and used up his Clark thoughts time thinking how he could go to the high school and avoid seeing Clark.

Keeping a low profile was not typical Luthor behaviour, but it had been what Lex was hoping for when he showed up at Clark's school that afternoon. The idea, as he saw it, was to hand the cheque over to the principal and leave before school let out. But the best laid plans of mice and men, and all that, and it didn't quite work out.

To begin with, the principal, who had never had any real contact with Lex beyond staring at him accusingly when he came to pick up Clark, met him with a warm handshake and a:

"We really can't express our gratitude enough, Mr. Luthor. In these hard times..."

"It's fine," Lex cut him off. "Really." He reached into his pocket. "I'll just give you the money, then, and you can spend it however you want, sound good?" The principal laughed, as if Lex had just said something highly amusing, and put a hand on Lex's arm.

"A philanthropist and a comedian." Lex tried to move away, but the principal's hand gripped him more tightly. "The students are already assembled, and I believe the press have arrived."

The students were, indeed, assembled in the gym, and were sitting on the floor waiting when the principal dragged Lex in. All except for the cheerleaders, of course, who broke into a hastily altered version of "The Smallville Fight Song" and rushed forward to give Lex a collective kiss as the principal forced him onto the stage. Blinking against the lights, he just could make out the shapes of a bevy of bored-looking Metropolis reporters leaning against the back wall.

"Now, girls," the principal smiled indulgently as the last cheerleader marked Lex with a scarlet lip print and bounded down the stairs. "I know we're all very grateful to Mr. Luthor and his family, but let's give him the chance to do what he came here for." Yes, Lex thought. Do it, and get out of here as quickly as possible. The principal picked up a microphone. The resultant screeching feedback made Lex, and everyone else in the room, wince painfully. The principal, however, was clearly used to it and continued without missing a beat. "Mr. Luthor, since the majority of your very generous gift will be used to fund a new photo lab for our school paper, I've asked two of our most dedicated Torchers to accept on behalf of the school." Naturally, Lex thought, without surprise. He should have expected it. The world hated him too much to let the money go to the football team or the aquarium club. "Chloe Sullivan and Clark Kent," the principal continued, unnecessarily, as Chloe and Clark bounded onstage with just as much enthusiasm as the departed cheerleaders.

Plastering a smile on his face, Lex handed Chloe the cheque and shook her hand. Deliberately not looking, he leaned past her to shake Clark's hand as well. Everything was under control, until, out of the corner of his not-looking eye, Lex saw Clark coming in for a hug. Panicked, Lex turned around to shake the nearest available hand, which turned out to be the cold, clammy one belonging to the school nurse. As he surreptitiously wiped his hand on his trousers, any regret Lex may have felt dissipated. If he'd agreed to the hug, Lex knew he'd have immediately fulfilled every teenage boy's worst nightmare, the one about getting an obvious hard-on in front of the entire school and several members of the media.

Lex was well versed in the intricacies of the photo opportunity, but this one was worse than usual. Lionel wanted everyone in the world to know about this endowment, and Lex wondered just what his father had done to assure maximum coverage. He had obviously done something. After taking a dozen or so pictures of Lex, Clark, Chloe and the cheque, the reporters let Clark and Chloe leave and took another dozen pictures of Lex, the principal and the cheque. When Lex finally escaped from the principal's office, his hand was aching from repeated shaking and his pupils felt permanently dilated from the flashbulbs.

Blinking, he looked around the dark splotches in his vision and located his car, at the very far side of an otherwise empty parking lot. He reached into his pocket for his automatic car starter, and was grabbed from behind.

"Guess who?" There was no need to guess. Even if his brain hadn't known, his body was doing an excellent job of providing hints.

"William Randolph Hearst." Lex tried desperately to keep his voice level. Clark laughed and, with an arm still around his shoulder, moved beside Lex. Lex kept walking, because he didn't trust himself to stop.

"Not yet. Soon, maybe, now that we've got a decent photo lab." Lex felt Clark's eyes on him. "Thanks."

"It was my father's idea." Clark stopped, and was strong enough to force Lex to stop, as well. Lex tried to avoid looking at him, but he would have stood a better chance of averting his eyes from the Mona Lisa. Or a five-car highway pileup.

"I think I know where he got it from." The arm tightened around Lex's shoulders. Before Lex could explain, Clark started walking again. "You've been avoiding me."

"I've been busy." Clark smiled.

"Too busy to see me?" The arm slid down Lex's side until it was around his waist. This time, it was Lex who stopped. He didn't have much choice. He was barely breathing.

"Sorry." It was supposed to sound debonair and carefree, but it came out as a croak.

"Too busy," Clark continued, as if he hadn't noticed, "To even answer my phone calls?" He was smiling, but his eyes were sad. What the hell, Lex thought. He was off the wagon for today, anyway, and he might as well enjoy himself before he climbed on again.

"Want to come over tonight?" The arm withdrew, much to the despair of Lex's waist. And another part of his body, only a few inches lower, that was doing its best to make itself noticed. Lex held his hands awkwardly over his crotch in an attempt to keep it from attaining that goal.

"I would, but I can't. I promised Chloe I'd go bowling."

"Bowling?" Lex's voice cracked. That, Clark obviously noticed, but he just smiled.

"I'd invite you, but we're going with some friends of hers. It's someone's birthday, I guess."

"Oh. OK." Lex felt like a heroin addict who had developed an intense fear of needles. Unwillingly virtuous. He suddenly understood how Whitney felt.

"She's actually waiting for me, so I should probably get going."

"Sure." When Clark didn't get going, Lex tried to relieve the pressure on all of them by adding: "See you around." Then Clark hugged him.

Not in a friendly way. This was not the kind of hug you would give your grandmother, unless you lived in some very remote corner of the Ozarks. It was more like a vertical lap dance. Clark pressed his entire body against Lex's, which meant that he must have felt, quite painfully, probably, the ramrod Lex had stashed down the front of his pants. Lex expected him to let go immediately, an expression of disgust on his face, but he didn't. Instead, Clark held him for at least a minute before releasing him. He was blushing, but he didn't say anything except:

"See you." Then he left.

With blood pounding in his head and a strange kind of confused nausea rising in his throat, Lex leaned against his car, breathing heavily. The only coherent thought he could compose was that Clark was either the most innocent person to hit Kansas since Dorothy fell in with that Emerald City crowd, or he was the biggest cock-tease in the history of small town American high schools (an honour for which there was definitely some stiff competition, Lex thought, then winced at his unintentional pun.) Either way, Lex was crazy about him.

"Hi, Lex." He opened his eyes to gaze at Clark. But it was Whitney, complete with football jacket and cowboy boots, standing in front of him.

"Whitney." Lex stood up quickly, brushing off his jacket. "I was just leaving," he added, because Whitney was looking at him strangely. Whitney smirked as Lex opened the car door.

"Looks like my buddy kind of left you hanging, huh?"

"What?" Lex turned around, just in time to see Whitney flick his eyes down his grey suit until they hit his crotch. "I don't know what you're talking about." Lex got into the car and would have closed the door, except that Whitney had his arm slung over the top of it.

"Come on, Lex. Everyone knows."

"Knows what?" Whitney smirked, in exactly the way he had when he'd asked Lex for sexual advice.

"You know." He frowned suddenly. "I really hate it when people think I'm stupid just cause I play football." This may have been a cue for Lex to compliment Whitney's intellectual abilities, but he didn't. So, eventually, Whitney continued. "Listen, I'm not gay or anything, but you're not exactly subtle, either. Everyone knows you've got a major jones for Clark. Who cares, right?" Who's everyone, was a more pressing question in Lex's mind.

"I had no idea people thought that." Whitney rolled his eyes. Lex swallowed and, feeling about as nonchalant as a nun at the Playboy mansion, continued: "I hope Clark doesn't have that same misconception." Because if he did, and he was still calling and hugging Lex, what did that mean? Lex stopped that thought before it went any further. Falling off the wagon was bad enough, there was no need to lie on the ground until he was crushed under its wheels.

Whitney laughed out loud.

"I don't know what 'misconceptions'," he actually made quotation marks in the air with his fingers, which irritated Lex intensely, "Clark has. It's not exactly the kind of thing you talk about in the locker room. But you know him. He's a great guy, but a little slow on the uptake, know what I mean?" Lex closed his eyes for a second and wondered how his life had gone from perfectly fine to horrible in the space of a few hours. Then he remembered. It was Lionel's fault. As usual.

"I've got to go Whitney." Whitney licked his lips.

"I'm not gay." Lex raised an eyebrow, unsure what this had to do with him removing himself from the door.

"I didn't think you were."

"But if you wanted, I could maybe..." He looked at Lex. "Take matters into my own hands for you." It was vaguely arousing. Or it would have been, if Whitney hadn't immediately guffawed and said: "Into my own hands. I just got that." Lex rubbed his temples, trying not to think how absolutely typical this whole scenario was. He'd spent his entire life being offered things that were almost what he wanted, but for the single fatal flaw that made them completely unappealing. Being propositioned by Whitney was the sexual equivalent of being put in charge of a manure factory.

"I don't think so, Whitney."

"I wouldn't tell anyone. I'm not gay."

"I think we've established that." Lex turned the key in his ignition. If worst came to worst, he decided, he just drive away, even if that meant sacrificing his door. And possibly Whitney's arm.

"I'll let you call me Clark." Lex looked at him for a long moment. Hell, he thought. The manure factory was better than nothing. And if he performed well, there was always the chance of a transfer.

"Wow. This is some great place, Lex." Whitney whistled, then turned to look at him. "Where do you want me?" If it had really been Clark, it would have been the bedroom. Actually, if it had really been Clark, it would have been silk sheets and candles, Dom Perignon and soft jazz music in the background. In his pre-Twelve Step Program days, Lex had spent a lot of time planning it. But, he reminded himself, this wasn't Clark, so he said: "There's a couch in my office."

It wasn't the best Lex had ever had, but it wasn't the worst, either. It was, he decided, kind of like jacking himself off, except his hands were free to roam over Whitney's soft hair and hard muscles and pretend they belonged to someone else. He kept his eyes closed the whole time, images of Clark running through his mind. Then it was over and Lex felt no desire to linger.

He got dressed quickly, while Whitney was still lolling naked on the leather couch. Lex hoped they hadn't stained the upholstery.

"Thanks, Lex." Whitney smiled fuzzily. "I'm not gay or anything, but that was great. I mean, really. Wow." Whitney's enjoyment of things hadn't exactly been paramount in Lex's mind. Still, despite having permission, Lex had only said 'Clark' out loud on two occasions. It was the same number of times that Whitney had said 'Lana.'

"You should get dressed." Lex picked up the nearest article of Whitney's clothing, his flannel shirt, and tossed it at him. Whitney caught it, but made no move to put it on.

"I'm really not gay, you know."

"Sure." Lex glanced at his watch.

"I think it's kind of like pizza. I mean, I love pepperoni pizza. I could live on that for the rest of my life if I had to."

"Mm." Lex went over to his desk and switched on his computer.

"But sometimes, just for a change, I like to order a vegetarian pizza instead. It's not like I have to have it. I'd be really happy if I just had pepperoni. But sometimes I feel like something different. It doesn't mean I'm gay, I just like different things."

"Right." Lex opened his email and saw a message from his father. Nothing much, just a two-lined acknowledgement that Lex had given the money to the school. And a joke about him paying off his jailbait boyfriend that made Lex redden a little.

"The thing is, though, some guys don't understand that. Guys on the football team, I mean. They're kind of...narrow-minded. You know what I'm saying?" It took Lex a minute or so to realize this was not a rhetorical question.

"Oh, definitely. I imagine they tend to favour one type of pizza."

"Exactly. So you won't tell anyone, right? Cause I'm really not gay." Lex lifted his eyes to look at Whitney, who was still naked.

"Neither am I, Whitney." And neither were Elton John, Rock Hudson or Siegfried and Roy. "But I do have work to do..."

"Right. Sure." Whitney pulled on the Playboy-rabbit boxers and started to button his shirt. Lex deleted his father's email and glanced at another message, this one notifying the LuthorCorp staff that Hamilton was off to do field research in the Northwest Territories and was taking orders for duty free liquor and cigarettes.

Whitney cleared his throat.

"Listen, Lex, if Clark ever, you know, starts the engine then doesn't open the garage door..." From a pizza analogy to a car metaphor, Lex thought, as he deleted Hamilton's message. The Nobel Prize for literature couldn't be far behind. "Give me a call. I'll take you for a spin anytime." Lex jerked his eyes up, expecting to see Whitney laughing at him. He wasn't even smiling. Lex took his hand off the mouse and sat back in his chair.

"Thanks, Whitney." He smiled sarcastically to cover up the fact that he was sincerely moved. "Saves me from taking it into my own hands, right?" Whitney chortled appreciatively. Then added, just for clarification purposes:

"But I'm not gay."