ONE YEAR LATER
“No, no, NO!” Lance Bass shouted, waving his hands in the air. “All wrong.
You want to show emotion in this scene, Dylan. Don’t just stand their
stone-faced and say the words.” He shook his head and took his place in the
directors chair with a sigh. “Try it again.”
He hated directing. Hated watching these hopeless actors make fools of
themselves in front of the camera. Hated making shitty movies. Hated getting up
every morning to drive an hour and a half in traffic to the studio. Hated life.
Hated being alone.
“How was that, Mr. Bass?” the young actor asked eagerly, and since Lance
hadn’t been paying attention, he forced a smiled and an encouraging nod.
“That’s was perfect, Dylan. Just perfect. That’s a wrap, people!” he
shouted, tossing his script aside and standing to stretch. “See everyone in
the morning.”
He took long strides to the door, eager to get the hell out of this place and
home.
He scoffed at the idea of actually wanting to go home. Home wasn’t much better
than this place, except that at home he didn’t have to deal with the
incompetent assholes he worked with.
He slid into his car and sped out of the parking lot, thinking about what he’d
do tonight. Get home, throw in a TV dinner, read the paper, eat the TV dinner,
watch some boring television, drag himself upstairs, strip, slide underneath the
covers, close his eyes, and picture the man of his dreams, jacking off to
thoughts of an imaginary friend.
Bitter laughter escaped his throat at the thought as he came to a stoplight.
He blinked four times when he looked to the left and saw him.
A young man, clad in dirty denim jeans and a white shirt that clung to his
well-sculpted chest, dark blue eyes that Lance swore held some sort of secret…and
a line of dried blood stained on his forehead.
Something made him pull the car over, something made him turn it off, and
something made him get out and sit down next to the boy on the curb.
The boy didn’t look at him, just stared straight ahead, his breathing uneven,
almost erratic.
Lance was stunned at how beautiful this boy was. There was something about him…something
was drawing Lance to him, stirring feelings in him that he hadn’t felt in
years.
“Are you okay?” he said softly, not wanting to frighten this beautiful
creature away. He wanted to reach up and wipe the blood away, clean the dark red
off of his angelic face.
The boy’s head snapped up, and he blinked owlishly at Lance, as if he was just
now noticing the man sitting next to him.
“Are you gonna take me away again?” he whispered, the fear obvious in his
voice.
Lance frowned. “What?”
“Please don’t hurt me…I promise to be good…please…” he begged, eyes
filling with tears.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Lance said quietly, laying a gentle hand on
the boy’s arm.
He shied away from the touch as if it was searing his arm, his eyes dancing with
fear. “What do you want?”
“I’m sorry…you just looked like you might need some help…I can go if you
want, I’m sorry if I scared you,” Lance said, slowly rising to his feet.
A warm hand on his, and he was being tugged back down. “Help me? You want to
help me?”
Lance nodded, offering the boy a small smile. “If you need help.”
The boy nodded, eyes wide.
“Ok…ok. Can you tell me your name?”
The boy shook his head, his face falling.
“Why not?” Lance asked, frowning.
“I don’t know what it is.”
Lance smiled as he watched the boy sleep, snuggled under the covers, breathing
slowly and evenly. He hadn’t slept for days, he’d told Lance. He’d been
wandering around Orlando, trying to find someone he knew, something he
recognized.
But he hadn’t found anything, and he ended up on that curb, alone, tired,
hungry, and scared.
So Lance gathered him up, led him to the car, and brought him home, wiping the
blood from his forehead and getting him some clean clothes.
He didn’t want to push this boy into telling him anything. He just felt the
need to keep him safe, and that was just what he was going to do. He leaned
against the door frame, crossing his arms across his chest. “What’s your
secret, kid?” he whispered into the air.
Lance sighed, closed the door, and found his own bed, giggling to himself as he
stroked his cock to thoughts of a boy that was no longer imaginary.