Part 1


I never will forget those nights
I wonder if it was a dream
Remember how you made me crazy?
Remember how I made you scream?

And I can see you
Your brown skin shining in the sun
You got your hair combed back and your sunglasses on, baby
And I can tell you my love for you will still be strong
After the boys of summer have gone

— Don Henley/The Ataris

[Friday, July 18, 2003 – Miami, FL]

“Up and at ‘em, you sexy hunka burning American pop idol love. Time to hit the sun, sand, and surf, bay-bee.”

On the bed, from under a thick layer of sheets and blankets, Justin groans at the intruding sound in his room and achingly grabs for the stray pillow beside him to cover his head completely. The weakening sweet fingers of blissful sleep still clinging to him desperately and trying like hell to keep him in their embrace of hazed oblivion, he curses his own stupidity for not locking the damn door that connected his hotel suite to *hers*.

*Yep. You’re a bona fide fucking dumbass, Timberlake. You knew better.*

Yeah, dude. But she would’ve just kept beating on the fucker ‘til I was forced to get up and open it. You know full well how she is……….about as subtle and dainty as a maimed wildebeest in the river trying to run and survive from a ferocious lion.

*Well. Even so. You could’ve just ignored her clunky, loud ass ‘til she gave up and went away. And whined to Mom or to the bodyguards about what an uncaring, rude ‘bastid’ you are. Again.*

Oh, yeah. Sure, I could have done that. Yep. And then paid through my dick later for those precious extra moments of solitude away from her — paid for it about 10 times more than it was fucking worth.

“No! Don’t touch the damn curtains! Walk away from ‘em and leave ‘em closed!” he muffles a screamed command through the pillow’s fat softness as he hears her trudge over toward the window in her predictably graceless shuffle.

There’s a moment or two of pout-swelled silence. But the drapes remain closed. The ones blocking the 10:45 a.m. searing Miami sunshine outside.

“Okay! They stay closed! Jesus Christ. Don’t have a cow, Missy Hissy……….Don’t you want to hit the beach, hon?” she whines in that nasally crass tone that has lately started to rake across Justin’s every frayed nerve like the proverbial sharp scrape on a chalkboard.

“Maybe. Later. I’m sort of feeling like a bowl of microwaved shit right now. Not prime beach material.”

“Still? Hmph! Damnit!” She contorts her smooth, overexposed features into a wrinkled, pitiful grimace and flings her long arms in the air to let them plop back down against the bare skin of her thighs. “You know, Justin………. ‘Maybe’ almost always means ‘no.’ I’m not a dumb blonde. I do know *some* things.”

And Justin grits his teeth beneath the covers, controlling the mounting irritation before it grows to visible proportions. “Yes. Still. I’m really sick, in case you forgot. I’m not bluffing. So why don’t you go on and make the scene without me, sweets. I’ll catch up. I promise,” he mutters and tries to sound sympathetic, or even half-way interested.

He knows she’s still miffed about missing out on the South Beach club action the night before. She’d been looking forward to it since she basically had little else to do with her time.

But fuck. He couldn’t help it, damnit. He just couldn’t always do everything and be everything for everybody.

With a head full of sinus membranes and passages swollen and throbbing behind the backs of your eyeballs and pressing with pain from hell against your forehead and cheekbones so severely that you actually WANTED it all to fucking explode and bring you some priceless relief, you didn’t feel like sitting in a smoky bar with thousands of yapping, staring people and ungodly decibels of thumping music when you seriously needed to be in your bed — ALONE — sleeping.

So Cameron — or “Cams,” as she preferred to be called — had been shit-out-of-luck and unentertained the evening before. At least by Justin. He’d dropped her off at her own suite’s door after dinner (which he barely managed to make it through since he was feeling so miserable) and had then crawled into his own bed, desperate for some rest and recuperation. And, yes, for some quality time away from her.

“Are you going to catch up with *him* first this A.M? Hmm? Is he here yet?”

He feels the bed sag and slope as she flops down on the mattress next to him, and he doesn’t move a muscle in his body. Not even when she giggles and jabs an index finger against his ass. Since this glitzy, circus-like “affair” of theirs sparked and flared in the media weeks ago, she’s been obsessively determined to uncover exactly who Justin’s real, *secret* love interest is — the one that dare not speak its name. At this point, she knows only that *he* is, in fact, one of the other group members, but that’s as far as her investigative powers have gotten her.

“Oh, come on, Justin! If I’m going to be around to camouflage the specifics of your sexuality, you can at least be a little more ‘specific’ with me on who it is you’re sexifying on the down-low,” she’d badgered him in course whispers several times during their publicly “intimate” moments.

But Justin’s hadn’t relented. He hadn’t seen a reason to. Who holds his heart is personal. Need-to-know basis and all that good shit.

He groans again now and pulls his legs up toward his chest. His entire head aches, and his throat is bone-dry from breathing through his mouth. Maybe the hot, steamy sunshine will burn this crap off later and heal him. Maybe. If he’s lucky.

“I’m sure he’s here. But I haven’t talked to him yet, if you must know,” he says, not intending to put so much of a moan into his voice.

“Oh, I see. Just trying to get me out of the way this morning so you can hook up with him? A little bump-n-grind reunion planned, eh? Is that it?” she shrills and snickers, and Justin shivers, pulling the heavy blanket closer around his neck.

“No, Camer— Cams. That wasn’t the fucking plan at all. In fact, there isn’t even a plan in place yet. Not ‘til I get in touch with him. So just back up a few steps and chill, how ‘bout it?”

“Oh. Whatever then,” she quips blankly, as if reading new script lines for the first time and stripping them of any emotion they might require.

From where he lies, Justin can’t see her (by his own choice), but his mind flashes up the image of her that he knows is currently playing on the big screen — the wide, puffed-out, petulant bottom lip, the careless smirk and shoulder shrug, and the insolent backward hair flip that all demand she get her way. Then more persistent needling.

“Guess that kicks Lance out of the pack of hopefuls, doesn’t it?”

“The fuck? Lance? What are you on about now?” Illness and impatience drive Justin’s raspy voice up volumes and octaves, but he still sounds muted under the covers, which he stops himself from throwing off because this is about all the contact with her he can handle right now.

She giggles again. Fingernails. Blackboard.

“Shit, Justin. Everybody in South Beach knows Lance and his Chippendale harem are here. Didn’t you even talk to him yesterday after he arrived?”

“Sí. I did.”

“Christ. He brought every gorgeous homosexual in L.A. down here with him. Man, talk about a PRIDE parade. Every-fucking-where they go.”

Justin chokes out a laugh into his pillow. Not *with* her. No, *at* her. But Cameron doesn’t know him well enough to catch the difference.

“Like, no, darling. He didn’t bring every one of them. Only the finest, the cream of the crop, the elite. That’s Bass for you. He don’t mess around, man.”

“That’s what he goes for?”

“That’s what goes for him. And he takes full fucking advantage of it too, if you know what I’m saying.”

Cameron’s eyes widen a bit. “Like what?”

“Use your imagination, babe,” Justin mumbles, bored.

“Pretty queer-boy parties where they do body shots off each other and get wild and freaky?”

“Keep going.”

“Sex soirees and………God, all-out pretty-boy-on-pretty-boy *orgies*?”

“Hmm. Maybe. I’ve heard stories. The boy knows how to entertain and have a good time……….But look. That shit’s something else you can keep under your hat. I’m dead serious. Don’t be trashing him with some lame-ass gossip.”

“Trashing him? Hell, I want to WATCH! And maybe get me a little of that action. Damn. That’d be hot as hell!”

Justin rolls his eyes. “Dream on, babe. You’re a GIRL. Duh.”

“Oh. Well, okay. Maybe I will do a little imagining of my own then,” she whispers. And Justin can hear the wheels in her head turning slowly as a small dose of hush-hush, behind-the-scenes-of-a-boy-band info penetrates and sinks in.

*See? That’s why you gotta spoon-feed the dirt to the select few you reveal secrets to. You don’t want to crash their little senses of reality with what might be shocking truth. Although in this one’s case, that shit could hardly be shocking……….*

“So it’s not……….I mean he’s not the……….Lance isn’t your……….”

“No, Cams. Get real. Lance Bass is definitely not my Mystery Dream Lover. No way.”

“Has he *ever* been?”

“Nope. Nosey bitch. Christ. Don’t you have a fucking date with some waves or a gritty beach towel or something?”

“Then it’s got to be Chasez, Justin.”

“Why?” Justin almost screeches and surprises himself with his own high, jarred tone. “How do you figure JC?”

“Process of elimination, darling. Joey and Chris? Hopelessly devoted to straightdom, as I see it from here.”

“Ya think.”

“Yeppers,” she says with sullen confidence, in that sort-of husky voice that bordered on unrefined. “So that leaves the other songbird among you. And, man, I always assumed he was gay anyway.”

“You did,” Justin drones, not even bothering to put the lilting question note in his voice.

“Sure. Most folks in the biz do. It’s not big deal. Nothing wrong with it. I mean who really cares if he is? Or if YOU are? Besides, JC’s beautiful, Justin. I couldn’t stop fucking staring at him when he came in to do that whole cheesy little Movie House interview thingy for MTV. Totally stunning. Yeah, man. But, like, it was so obvious he wasn’t interested in any of us. Three hottest chicks in Hollywood at the moment, and he’s off talking to some dude when the cameras shut down.”

“Jace could have any piece of pussy in the world, Cams. Thank you very much.”

“Sure, Justin, sweetie.” Cameron neighs with glee, and Justin cringes. “But would he *want* it? I think not.” She pokes his butt again playfully. “I think *you’ve* got exactly what Josh wants.”

“No! You say ‘JC’! He’s ‘JC’ to the folks who don’t know him so well. Got it?” Justin’s random cringe sharpens to an angry, bristling snarl. “Not everybody gets to use his real name. So don’t call him ‘Josh,’ if you don’t mind. Not ‘til you’re more familiar with him.”

Cameron’s quiet for about 12 whole seconds. Then she lets loose with a whooping hysterical howl of triumphant laughter, which cowers Justin down under the bed sheets and pillows as far as he can get.

“Well, holy mother FUCK! If that’s not the biggest damn confession of love I’ve ever heard in my life! Possessive of the pretty boy you adore much, Justin?”

“Shut up and get lost,” Justin mumbles from beneath.

“Justin and JC sitting in a tree. F-U-C-K-I-N-G,” she hops up and sing-songs off-key around the room. “First comes Justin’s tour, then JC’s. Then they come all over each other as much as they please! Hahahaha! I knew I’d crack the case! I’m such the genius!”

“You’re such the annoying, obnoxious bitch. Go the fuck away,” Justin growls this time, still huddled under the concealing shroud.

Cameron giggles and pounds the bed. “I’m just playing, honey! It’s all about having fun, no?”

“Then how ‘bout having yourself plenty of fun some fucking where else? Leave me alone and let me get some rest.”

“Aye-aye, master. As you wish. Damn. Lighten up……….Couldn’t you at least tell me I was right? That it IS JC you’re committed to?”

“Please, Cameron. Go. I’ll join you later.”

“Oh, sure. Uh huh. Only because you’re required to,” she backs away and whines petulantly now.

“Oh, grow up. Get in the game. You know what this is all about. Learn your lines, and smile for the flashes. That’s why you’re here.”

“I know, I know, I know.”

“I don’t think you do, babe.”

“Sorry, Justin. I’m just new at playing the real-life decoy……….I’ll behave. I swear.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’m just not feeling so hot and a little on edge to boot……….Go catch some rays. I’ll be back in top form pronto.”

“Justin?”

“Yes, Cams.”

“A big two thumbs up from me on JC. I mean it. I’m sure you two are magic together.”

“Later, Cams.”

~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~

Justin smiles to himself as he hears her let herself out of his room, pleased with the fact that he worked it handsomely so that he never had to toss back the covers and see her once. When he’s sure she’s gone, not to return for hours, he groans as he stretches an arm out to the nightstand where his cell phone waits silently. Fortunately, just in painstaking reach of his grasp.

The speed dial number he punches isn’t the one he’s been trying for days now — heartbreakingly, with no luck at all. No, it’s a different number. Not used as much lately as it used to be, but still quite familiar. It’s answered gruffly after the first stark ring.

“Yo.”

“Yo yourself, Lons.”

“What up, Timberlass? Anything good?”

“Are you guys here yet?” Justin asks, a bit hesitantly.

“We’re here, man. Humidity kicking my ass already. This ain’t L.A., yo.”

“So, man……….” Justin trails off, timidly, then grabs at his voice again. “*He’s* here too?”

“Whatchu think? ‘Course he’s here, dawg. Why would *I* be here if he ain’t here, hmm? ‘Sides, don’t you ALL got a photo op or some shit in, say, coupla hours?”

Justin glances over at the bedside clock and sighs, slinking further backward into the pillow cocoon. “Fuck, yeah……….And I feel like the walking dead, man.”

“Sorry for ya, man. Take some tablets.”

“I AM taking tablets……….Why won’t he take my calls, Lonnie, man? He’s killing me. I’ve been waiting like crazy to see him again this weekend, man! He ain’t supposed to be icing me out. What’s the story with that shit, Lons?”

“Don’t know, Ju. Don’t be asking me ignorant shit like that. I ain’t your Counselor of Getting It On.”

Justin huffs into the phone. Why had he expected anything any different? “Cut me a little baby break here, ‘kay? I know he talks to you, man.”

“Not ‘bout THAT shit he don’t. So don’t bug me ‘bout it again. Hear?”

“How is he, Lonnie? Can ya spare that much? Is he okay?”

The mammoth-sized bodyguard cleared his throat. “He’s fine, I guess, man. Sorta quiet at times. Withdrawn and moody. But that ain’t uncommon. He’s okay……….Did a radio interview yesterday before we left LAX with some fool DJ down here.”

“I caught it,” Justin perks up excitedly. “It was too fucking short……….but at least I got to hear his voice. And you know? He sounded kinda……….lonesome.”

“Hey, Timberlake. Don’t be crying me a fucking river in my ear, man. ‘Kay?”

“I miss him, Lonnie. It’s sucking major ass to be so fucking addicted and have to be separated from him……….and I don’t give a damn how queer and sissified that makes me sound. I do miss him. ”

“I know ya do, man. Trust me. I know.”

“Will ya tell him I called? Please, man? And don’t give me any lip about not being his fucking secretary, Lonnie. It’s just a tiny little thing, man. No skin off your ass.”

Lonnie pauses. “Yeah. I guess I can work that.”

“And that I seriously need to talk to him?”

“Awright, you’re pushing it now, Ju. I already tole you I ain’t your Dr. Joyce Fucking Brothers, if you’re getting my drift.”

Justin sighs, taking what he can get. “Thanks, man……….So where’s he staying? Or is that woo-scary confidential too?”

“Not at the Loews, man. He had his people change that a few days ago. Boo hoo. Now he’s a little ways further up the strip. Him and his privacy issues, you know.”

“Fuck,” Justin hisses, knowing already that the “privacy issues” included getting the hell away from HIM as much as anything else. “So much for making advanced plans to meet at this place.”

“Timberlake, babe, look. Straight up, man. I’ll be honest wid you. He seemed really jacked-up anxious to get down here. Know what I’m saying? He’s psyched ‘bout something, and my money is definitely on that ‘something’ being you. No lie, dawg. I been ‘round awhile……….I saw you somewhere in those blue peepers of his.”

Imagining the sheer, surreal gorgeousness of “those blue peepers” in his mind, Justin sighs involuntarily. And smiles. “You’re a god, Lons. I owe you big-time, man.”

Lonnie chuckles deeply but quietly. “Just chill, Timberlake. There’s lotsa time for getting your boy back. Lotsa time, man.”

“I hope.”

“I know.”

~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~

The press conference is, well, a press conference. Like most press conferences. Except this one is held in the blazing early-afternoon heat at Eden Roc’s upper-deck pool. Humidity suffocates, cameras zoom, microphones jab, reporters and fan hover and leer. Tanked up and wired on Pseudoephedrine HCI, Acetaminophen, and Dexbrompheniramine, Justin has his sea legs back and hams it up charmingly with the other guys.

His insides are suffering from severe jabbing of thousands of sharp pins and needles. And not from the cranked-up medication either. No, but rather from a throbbing anxiousness, a burning anticipation. And no, not from the press conference itself. He can handle that shit in his sleep. The real reason for the well-hidden jittery-ness now is the impending arrival of the final member of the group, the one he so desperately wants to see.

“Yo, Sponge Bob! Whassup with you, dude? You look like the bus done went and ran you over a few times, man! Did you die and we didn’t get the memo?” Joey laughs big and loud and slaps Justin on the back.

“Dude, I’m sick as a dawg. Cut me some slack,” Justin groans and tries to work up his most winning grin. “Maybe this damn relentless sun will burn some germs off, man. I hope so ‘cause it ain’t much fun when you can’t, like, breathe, ya know.”

“Or we can just get your ass trashed. Alcohol is killer for burning off crap too,” Lance offers and throws a hug around Justin.

“Yeah, like brain cells. And you’d know all about that shit, wouldn’t you, Lancers?”

Jovial Joey chimes back in, still enjoying a snicker. “So you gonna rock the House of Blues to the ground in Shy-Town too next week? Like back in L.A.? ‘Cause me and the Basstronaut need a party to crash, some trouble to get into, man.”

Justin laughs too, shiny and bright now, full of perfectly-aligned enamel and successfully covering all tattered nerves. “Man, you and the Basstronaut had better not fucking bring your drunk asses up on MY stage again, yo. You spilling-beers-on-each-other and making-me-forget-what-I’m-‘sposed-to-be-doing fuckers. Besides, I doubt there’s enough seating in that place for all Lance’s pretty, pretty boyfriends.”

Lance shoots him a bird and chuckles. “Fuck off, Timberlake. At least I get to *choose* who I run around with.”

“Woohoo, he got your ass there, Ju. Savvy Lance.” Joey belts out another boisterous, sarcastic laugh and high-fives Lance.

“Losers. When are you two announcing your damn engagement?”

“Eat me, Timberlake.”

“Hahaha. But yeah. I’m juss kidding. C’mon to Chicago with me. We’ll rip that mother again if you think you got the balls,” Justin throws down. He’s still snickering and grinning widely, enjoying himself as much as he can.

And he turns to Lance once more. “Seriously, Bass. You pimping a male escort service now, or is the whole fleet of young men all for YOU?”

Joey laughs more and proceeds to make kissy/smoochy sounds. “Bassers is starting his own boy band. Didn’t you hear? Just call him Lil’ Lancie-Lou P now.”

Justin beams with his infectious laughing, and Lance turns to glower at both him and Joey. “That is more than enough outta you, Timberlake. And Fatone, you’re digging your own grave, man. You just wait. Revenge is gonna hurt you SO bad and taste as sweet as honey to me, man.” Lance smirks and then chuckles again, like the threat of far-off thunder.

“Um, okay. Sure, Bass. Famous last words from your cute little mouth. I’m shaking in my jock strap over here, dude.”

Lance wrinkles up his smooth, tanned face and makes a quick “time-out” signal with his hands. “TMI alert! Man, shut up! That is nasty!”

Chris sidles up into the fun now, dark eyes dancing and mischievous, a thick hand clamped onto the back of Lance’s neck. “Dudes, lay off poor Poofu now. Stop being your usual rude asses. He’s just psyched about his hot new buff bod, his very sexy photo shoot for that gay porn rag — what’s it called? — ‘Hanging Out and About,’ and his evil new tat he’s unveiling in grand fashion for the masturbation pleasure of boys and girls everywhere this weekend! And he’s celebrating with 87 of his closest fuck buddies, er, friends. Right, pal?”

“Aw, fuck you too, Kirkpatrick,” Lance jerks away from his grasp and rolls the surreal-green eyes but has to laugh along with everyone else’s out-of-control guffaws. “Troll. Why’s everybody bugging so much over my friends? You’re all just jealous bitches.”

“We don’t got a problem with ‘em, Lance, baby. They’re beautifully harmless!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance pretends to sneer. “At least nobody wonders what damn rock I’ve been living under.”

Chris’s turn to roll his big, deep eyes. “No, dude. What they wonder is which rehab center to forward your fan mail to, man. Haha. And F to the Y to the dirrrrty I for you, Baby J, I won’t be making the trek to Chicago with you, dahling. I’ve seen you shake your cute little ass and yelp with your little helium-jacked voice all my damn life. Enough, enough, enough to last me forever. So I’ll pass on you messing up the HOB up there, man. Got me?”

“Yo, you’re such a scrote, Kirkpatrick.”

Justin’s now laughing so hard his stomach hurts, and he’s glad for the distracting, bonding camaraderie between them that never seems to die or even fade slightly. Not even between himself and Lance, especially considering all the personal issues that went down over the previous year and a half since the “Celebrity” tour ended — the deaths and births of emotions and the exchanging and rearranging of important things in hearts and lives. They’d all gotten through it somehow, survived the changes, and emerged on the other side shining and only slightly scarred.

“Ju, where’s C, man?” Joey interjects casually and jabs Justin’s arm. As if Justin is the one who would know — absolutely and hands-down — the answer to that question. And Justin realizes in an instant that, actually, he *should* know. He’s the only logical one to ask. “You didn’t leave him in your suite, did ya? ‘Cause dude will get seriously lost trying to find the damn lobby.” Joey chuckles again, the playful aura surrounding and caressing all of them, convincing anyone who might be looking on that the congenial spirit of this reunion was anything but contrived.

Spell of denial shattered, Justin’s face darkens and falls in two seconds flat. His voice drops to a whisper. “I, um, don’t know. He didn’t check into the Loews like we’d decided. So, well, I’m not sure where he is.”

Some version of a strained “oh fucking brother” is groaned out with dramatic eye-rolling and tones of dread by all three of Justin’s “brothers,” and he sighs resignedly. “He’ll be here.”

“Are you two fighting? Aw, man. Where is the love?”

*No. We’re not even fucking talking. That can’t qualify as fighting, can it?*

“Well, he’s pissed at me,” Justin confesses quietly.

“Because you got the Bad-Ass Angel in tow?” Lance winks at him.

“Yeah. I guess that’s it. You know how he is,” Justin winces, frowning.

“Oh, *I* know how he is. All too well,” Lance says, sympathetically. “Lemme guess……….Cold, silent snow treatment. Like you don’t even exist.”

“Exactly. He won’t even return my calls.”

“Okay. So how much am I looking forward to THIS weekend, kids? BOTH of the divas acting pissy ‘cause they need to get laid?” Chris says in a high-pitched, overly-theatrical whine and huffs aloud.

“Shut up, Keebler Boy,” Justin pouts.

“Dude, The Diaz is HOT! What an ass! And legs up to her tits. Whoa. You hitting that, J? How is it? As juicy as it looks? Man, I could wear that stuff OUT.”

Justin blasts a scowl of disbelief in Joey’s direction. “Joe, man, could you be any more trash-mouth and gross? You skanky ho. And no, I’m absolutely not hitting it, for you information. God, no.”

“Why not, man?”

Justin rolls his eyes and sighs. “Because, hello? It’s pussy?”

“Because it’s not *JC’s* pussy,” Chris adds in a whisper, and he and Lance laugh so hard they grab each other for support to keep standing.

“Because it’s just not JC period, you nerds,” Justin simpers at them. “Fucking simpletons. When you’ve had the best, it hard to go back to —”

“Aw, hell. Somebody gag his infant ass before he starts that ‘when you’ve had the best’ bullshit again.” Chris laughs and flings a small towel at Justin.

“Hey, if they’ve both got blue balls from being pissy with each other, Lance can lend ‘em both a piece for the weekend. He’s got plenty to spare,” Joey snickers, and Lance shoots him a knock-down glare.

“Ah, well, speak of the She-Devil herself. Look at that cat Lonnie just dragged in,” Chris completely butchers a familiar cliché.

All four turn in the direction of the pool area’s entrance where girlish squeals are arising and JC’s brunette head can barely be seen bobbing amid the three large, hulking blocks of walking midnight who flank him on all sides and from behind. He smiles and waves pleasantly at the mostly female gathering of onlookers, and his smoky protection shades catch glints of streaming-fire sunshine.

Justin’s soul melts to goo which then begins to ooze through his veins sluggishly, and his heart pole-vaults and sprints like a gold-medal Olympic athlete. He hasn’t seen JC for two entire weeks — not since their private little getaway to a cozy chalet in the North Carolina mountains during Justin’s five-day break in the tour just before the July 4th holiday. And, as usual, he’s astounded all over again by the unpretentious and fluid beauty of all of JC.

*Almost too gorgeous to even look at……….like something fine and precious from Heaven that shouldn’t be down here on this grungy Earth.*

“Damn. Jace is looking good. Check him out……….I’m not a homo or anything, but I’d do him. Just once. He’s hot,” Chris whispers huskily.

And Justin scowls and hisses. “You try and you die, ass.”

“I’m kidding, Timberlake! Jee-zuss! Make a note, dudes. The PMSing has officially begun.”

Predictably, Lance and Joey break down laughing. But Justin recomposes himself and turns the charisma up on high for the few fans with access to the seal-off area and for the cameras so anxious to make love to him.

Effortlessly, he sways through all the usual questions and bulb flashes and manages not to fidget or twitch when he feels JC staring at him from behind those opaque sunglasses. He also does his best not to notice the misbehaving waves of short, dark hair as they blow luxuriously in the sea breeze or the errant little curl that pulls free of the mop and falls down loosely over the glistening high forehead.

And he pretends not to remember the silken feel of that sun-streaked ebony hair as his long fingers brush through it or the fevered, soft moans that come from that slender throat and vibrate against his lips as he gently kisses the warm neck and caresses the fine, lightly scented tendrils.

Oh, he does well at pimping his act too, until he sees JC slip away after all the questions and exit the spectacle in the surrounding custody of the security pros. Fourteen long minutes is all he can force himself to wait before pulling his cap down over his brow and signaling to Big Mike and Eric that he’s ready to be “outta here” too.

Joey had sneakily gotten out of JC, during the course of the press party event, which hotel he was in and promptly reported back to Justin. So, of course, that’s Justin’s single-focus destination now. And, he surmises as the car whisks him along and he grinds his rows of teeth together unconsciously, Lonnie had better NOT try stopping him from finally getting close enough to JC to talk intimately.

Justin certainly doesn’t *want* to hurt the big, black bodyguard. But he may have to.



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