Justin’s not thinking about how peacefully quiet the service elevator is as it lifts him and his menacing security guys from the ground floor up to the top level of the Loews luxury hotel. He isn’t considering the irony in the fact that, so far, no rabidly obsessed fans have ferreted out this smaller, seldom-used and hidden entrance at the house’s rear and disturbed his longed-for privacy. Instead, he’s distractedly lost in a very fresh memory of the lightly-saline taste of JC’s skin, the heat of his mouth, the firmness of his body as he’d moved against Justin’s, so like liquid erotica. Curves and crevices sliding into one another, fitting and filling together perfectly; hard spots and soft spots frictioning back and forth, contrasting and conjoining to create grooves that mix and match; muscles and tendons lengthening against each other, rippling and quivering at the shared energy and mutual anticipation. Hoping his painful hard-on isn’t jutting out in the front of his shorts and broadcasting for the world his secret thoughts, Justin smiles privately at the sweetness that fills his mind and exits the elevator as the steel doors hiss open before him. His stuffy nasal passages and head somehow still retain lingering traces of the tangy-syrupy aroma from JC’s room — the one he recognizes from the kiwi-and-honey-laced candles he’d sent JC as a surprise gift from the U.K. on his last stop over the pond. *Yes. That’s my boy.* “THERE ya are, hon! Where’ve ya been? Cammy says you’re ‘sposed to meet her on the beach, baby. But you’ve been AOL since the photo session. You okay?” Justin had almost run smack-dab full-frontal into his mother in the hallway as he’d proceeded toward his room with his head down, focused entirely on his passionate, soulful rememberings. Startled into a breathy gasp, he glances upward at her now, both her eyes and her face tinged bright red, and then over her shoulder at Trace breaking up in cackles with his “Fuck You” cap askew and his cheeks flushed as well. “Dude! Is you blind? Call room service and have ‘em brang you up one of them eye-seeing dawgs, dawg. You almose barreled right over us, yo!” *”AOL”? “Eye-seeing dawgs”? Are they both fucking DRUNK already? What the hell time is it anyway?* Justin stares at them without _expression, without showing the lack of interest he’s feeling in their apparent merry-making. “Moms. You know she hates being called ‘Cammy.’ Please. Not to her face. ‘Kay? The more bitchiness we can nip in the bud, the better for us all.” Lynn rolls her big, glassy eyes and laughs a little too loudly. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Pardon muah! Is *that* the one that’s off-limits? CAMMY? Well, whoopidee shit and blow me down! Just crack the bullwhip on my hide if I step outta line and offend The Queen! Lord, have mercy! Hahahaha!” Guffawing so obnoxiously that he’s clearly embarrassing even the bodyguards, Trace adds, “No, no! Hold up, yo! JUSTIN is The Queen! Cammy-poo is much too masculine for that shit.” And that bit of down-home “hilarity” earns another boisterous round of howls from both Lynn and Trace. Justin isn’t amused at all. He frowns and shakes his head at both of them. “Fuck off, Trace. Don’t you have somewhere to go and make a BIGGER horse’s ass out of yourself?” Trace is, as usual, too slow on the uptake to respond before Lynn does so instead. She half-hugs her tall son, still smiling at him. “Jussstin, honey. Did ya take your medicines? How ya feeling today?” “Yes and okay,” Justin monotones. “Did ya finally find Josh?” “Yes. And that’s where I’ve been. Not ‘AOL.’” “Lemme, lemme guess. He’s got hiz thong all up in a bunch ‘cuz you brought Cammy comp’ny wid you, ain’t he?” Trace giggles and jiggles, and Justin unwillingly inhales the sickly-strong sweet fumes of Jack Daniels straight. “Tole you, tole you, bro. Didn’t I tell ya C’d be pissed? Didn’t I?” “Well, word, man. He’s not pissed anymore. Because Miss Thang’s time in South Beach is about to end,” Justin declares and smirks. “Aw, Lord, Juss.” Lynn wrinkles her brow and shakes her head in overdone sympathy. “And whose little tail feathers do ya think THAT little announcement will rustle, hon? Her Royal Highness, indeed. Prepare the ol’ applecart for upset.” Justin shrugs. “Fuck it. I’d rather have Cameron pissed at me than JC.” “Hmm, I wonder why. No dick up those short skirts, man? Nut’ing dangling between those killer-strong Amazon thighs? Hehehe.” Trace snickers at his own sad attempt at comedy, and Justin sneers back at him in wordless reproach, a tireless dance they’ve perfected as friends over the years. “Well, can’t say I’m sorry to see her go. She’s too high-falutin’ and uppity to fit in around here, hon,” Lynn barely whispers. His mother speaks the simple words sincerely and seriously, and they splice into Justin’s inner workings and immediately attack a newly-exposed nerve. He sighs to pause and form his question. “Hey, tell me something, you two……….Do you think I might’ve offended the other guys by showing up here with her? Like stealing their spotlight or coming across like she’s the shit now and they’re not worth my attention? Is anybody getting that vibe so far? ‘Cause it’s, like, bugging the hell out of me that it could be a possibility.” Obviously antsy for another hit of liquor, Trace shrugs and fidgets impatiently. “Naw, man. Not me. I don’t think they give a whole big damn ‘bout you and your celebrity-it is, Ju. You’re still Justin, ain’t you? That ain’t changed. And I think that’s, like, how they see it too. You’re like their bro. Always, man. Done deal. Don’t get all paranoid and wig, J. Nobody’s vibing negative. It’s cool.” Lynn brushes Justin’s arm affectionately and gives off warmth and kindness from her eyes. “Baby, you worry too much for your own good. You haven’t dissed the other guys at all by having a movie star with you this weekend. I mean don’t they all know why she’s *really* here anyway? Even if the fans don’t know, the guys do. And if they seriously thought you were acting out over the top or something, don’t you think you woulda picked up on it at the press kickoff thing today? Weren’t they all as chummy to you as usual? Okay, with the exception of Josh, but that’s all fixed now, right?” Justin wrinkles his nose and purses his lips and he considers both honest answers. “Yeah. I guess it makes sense. I just didn’t wanna, you know, be the standout asshole.” “Too late, dude,” Trace whispers and explodes in hoarse snickers. But Lynn sushes him before Justin can hurl more curses at him. “Honey, just have fun and raise lots of dollars for the children. That’s why we’re all here……….And stop making yourself sicker and sicker by fretting over every little thing. Just relax. It’s going to be okay.” “Okay, okay, okay,” Justin mutters to himself all the way down the hall as he goes to change into his swimming trunks. “Okay.” *The thing is that I just don’t want to be hated. Not at all. I can take anything but that. That’s worst of all.* ~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~ Behind opaque sunglasses, Justin still squints at the glaring ball of fire that holds golden court in the sky and spreads its brilliance out over the expanse of ocean. He’s hot and gritty and wishing he was anywhere other than here in this uncomfortable lounge chair watching the tide drag in and barricaded from the rest of his faithful public by an outer edge of rather conspicuous security pros who are all, most likely, as bored and restless as he is. Huffing aloud, he turns his head and looks over at Cameron again, stretched out flat of her back on her own chair and completely inert under her own thick shades. As his eyes move over her oil-slicked form, he becomes aware — quite by random circumstance and nothing else — of how her breasts sag and fall off the sides of her chest in the flimsy black bikini top and of how the outside v-shaped edges of her skimpy bottoms have darkened with sweat as they disappear down into the creases formed by her upper thighs and abdomen. There are no visible kinked pubes sneaking out the tightly pressed edges, and he figures she must have the shit shaved or even waxed on a daily basis. And then he’s suddenly hit with a churning wave of nausea. Probably because he’s on his fourth cold Red Stripe 12-ounce after having skipped lunch. And maybe due to other — obvious — factors too. *Ugh. No that I even give a fuck about her pubes and shaving and blah, blah, blah. Who CARES? And when did the female anatomy become THIS unappealing?* “Don’t let your eyes buy you something your body can’t pay for, bay-bee. You gotta have the funds before you get the goods,” she groans out unexpectedly and spooks Justin from more mental meanderings. Then she laughs, and Justin is sure he can hear it echoing like a clang and clatter up and down the beach. “Don’t worry. You’re absolutely safe,” he sighs. “Your loss, asshole.” He doesn’t answer. There’s no point. *Just squeeze your eyes shut to the blinding, fierce, omnipotent sun.* Cameron’s not pleased one fucking iota to be given the rest of the weekend off. And she’d pout over it for about 60 years now, Justin estimates. But hey. Shit happens. And sometimes it happens to you. Deal with it, muchacha. This is simply the most strategically beneficial move the pawn needs to make at this point. And besides, what other gig does the pawn have to worry about anyway? Nada? Yeah, that’s what I figured. Beggars can’t be choosers, eh? So hit the fucking road, por favor. “Did they call back and say what time your flight leaves tonight?” he asks, just to make civil conversation. “What do you care?” she retorts edgily, without moving any part of her body. Justin *doesn’t* care, really. He hadn’t even been following whether or not her cell phone had rung again with the travel change information. He peels his eyelids open to slits and vaguely envies the passengers of the faraway sailboats on the horizon. They’re WAY out there. Way away from here. With her. “Okay, look. I’m trying to be decent here, Cams. Why can’t you return the favor? You knew up front you wouldn’t be very visible around here anyway this weekend. What’s the fucking big deal if you go on to Chicago a few days early? Just another chance to throw a tantrum? Is that it, huh?” “It’s just……….disrespectful,” she mumbles and huffs. And Justin moans as he pulls himself out of the chair and stands up in the sand. He glares down at her, feeling her angry eyes on him although he can’t see them. He wets his dry lips with his tongue. So that maybe he wouldn’t snarl too viciously. “Did you seriously say ‘disrespectful’? The fuck? You KNOW what the arrangement is. If it’s not acceptable to you anymore, then there’s nothing stating there has to be an arrangement at all. Just say the fucking word, and you’re free to be free……….On the other hand, I have things to do here this weekend that do not involve you, believe it or fucking not. So I’ve asked you nicely to occupy yourself somewhere else. I wasn’t rude, and it’s not like we’ve got any ties that bind or any shit like that. So I don’t need princess-bitch attitude from you. It just won’t fly. We do things MY way on this ride, or we don’t do them at all. Got it, sweetHEART?” Sullenly, she stays quiet for several seconds, unconsciously allowing the echoes of his aggressive impatience to sink in and moving only to brush some blown sand off her tanned thigh. Then she slides her glasses off and over the top of her head to squint up at him, conceding but with flames of spite leaping out of the milky aqua eyes. “Got it. Loud and clear.” “Good.” “Whoa. Hostile much? I didn’t know you could be so, um, take-charge and ballsy, man.” Justin stands there towering and glowering, like an ice sculpture in the radiant sunshine. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me. And never will. So let’s try this scene again. When’s your damn flight?” “Ten fifty-seven. Is THAT okay with you, Mr. Crabby-ass Timberlake?” Justin turns to glare out toward the crashing waves again and ignores her insult. It doesn’t matter. He’d gotten what he wanted. “Then we’ll do dinner first. Tiny bit more exposure for ya, bay-bee,” he says in a hushed growl, his tone jumping with barely-bridled sarcasm. She snorts dismissively. “Don’t bother. I’m a big girl.” “Cameron, fuck. I’m not *that* much of a bastard.” “Yes, you are.” He sighs heavily and slouches his reddening shoulders. “No. I’m fucking not……….So, if you still wanna go through with this thing, be packed by seven. I’ll swing by your room, and we’ll hit some visible touristy joint for some grub. To get seen and shit. Just for you. You’ll make the airport in plenty of time.” *I won’t make the team meeting and scavenger hunt, but that’s a small sacrifice I think I can afford. When I do finally make it to the after-party, I’ll be nag-free again and ready for the rest of the weekend. It’ll be all mine. To rock and roll with JC. My JC. All I want and need.* ~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~ JC comes dangerously close to stumbling into one of the iron umbrella-ed tables as he makes his way around the near-empty pool area to get back inside the hotel. He’s still zoned-out and groggy from the long nap he just accidentally took on one of those mega-comfortable cushioned lounges. And when he finds his cell phone after digging around in the small Prada bag he’s brought out here poolside with him, he also finds that the tiny electronic device is turned OFF. Yet again. “Fuck!” he grunts. It’s a brand-new sleek little model that he’s still getting acquainted with, and he seems to keep switching it off somehow without meaning to. *Fuck. How many missed calls? And from whom? Justin? Mom and Dad? Somebody from L.A. about the CD? Hell, THAT’S why I slept like a drugged-up elephant. No ringing interruptions like usual. Fuck.* “Yo, C-man. Whatchu planning on doing out there? Cooking yo-self into some shrivelly boy-band jerky? Just check you out. Red as a fucking boiled lobster, man.” Lonnie, rather than a premise doorman, holds open the brass-handled door for JC and looks him over as he steps through. For hours, the big man had been keeping a protective eye on him from inside the air-conditioned clubhouse area since the threat of eager, stalking fans is practically nil thus far at this upscale, off-the-beaten-path high-rise. The superstar’s lodging whereabouts hadn’t been discovered yet. “Man, pipe down. I do NOT look like some damn lobster,” JC hisses, self-consciously glancing at his arms. “Naw. Not yet. But you will, dawg. Don’tchu know how to be telling time and knowing when you need to be coming inside?” JC keeps walking, slowly meandering through the winding corridors toward the lobby and frowns at Lonnie’s bluntness. “No. Not when my phone’s off and I can’t read the clock on it. Duh, dude.” “Well, now, who run over there and switched it off for you, Chasez, huh? One of those sea gulls flying around out there? Or how ‘bout a starfish from the beach? That it, man?” Stopping in his tracks now, JC turns and narrows his eyes at his faithful protector. “Okay. So you wanna be like THAT, eh? A giant-sized smartass that just wants to give me a fucking hard time? Fine, man. Whatever. Knock yourself out at my expense.” “Hey, man.” Lonnie shrugs nonchalantly. “You tha crazy-ass white boy out there getting yo beauty sleep on in that hell-hot sun for fi’teen hours. Not me……….Timberlake worth all that sweat ‘n misery, dawg? Is he?” JC blinks his long eyelashes slowly and smirks. “Yes. He is. And he’s worth a hell of a lot more than that too, if you wanna know the truth. So shut up already and tell me what time it is. IF you don’t mind.” Lonnie’s still chuckling, deep and thunderously, and now glances from JC’s pink-glowing face upward to a clock on the wall behind him. “Six-oh-eleven, Chasez. And that would be *P.M.* F.Y.I.” JC grimaces, wrinkles contorting his features. “It’s after SIX? Are you for real?” “Did I stutter, man?” “Shit. CK’s coming by to get me in a matter of minutes. We gotta be over at the team meeting thing and all the extra-curricular hoopla shit around seven or else Melinda will be in full Satan form. Why the hell didn’t you wake me up, Lonnie?” “Chasez. Word. Bodyguard does not equal secretary.” “Neverfuckingmind, man,” JC shakes his head and paws at the damp curls of hair matted against the side of his neck. “So what time we hitting the club?” “Don’t know yet.” JC shrugs. “Guess I’ve missed out now on snagging some room service for dinner. The less lunatic-stalker potential, the better. And if know Chris, he’ll be heading straight for the mini-bar so he can drink his down. I’ll give you a buzz when he gets here and we’re ready. Deal?” “Okay by me, man. You tha boss.” “Well, well, well! If it isn’t JC Chasez! Looking all hot and bothered! Woohoo! What’s going on, dude? Fancy meeting you here!” The startling voice booms from out of nowhere and bounces off the marble floors and walls and bombards JC from all sides. It’s loud, crass, and tinny — vaguely feminine but in an unrefined, cloddish sort of way and vaguely familiar in an unpleasant, you’ve-got-to-be-fucking-kidding-me sort of way. He knows immediately who it is, and immediately he wants to bolt away in the other direction without even turning to acknowledge the “greeting,” as it were. His reflexes, however, still warmed and relaxed by the sun, aren’t quick enough to act on the urge to escape, and he’s suddenly surrounded and overtaken in a boisterous, sloppy attempt at a hug by a tall sleek body and long gangly arms. But, just as quickly, he’s repulsed by the presumptuous, overbearing physical contact and instinctively twists and wriggles out of the unwelcome full-body grasp. “Hey, hey! Watch it there, man! I’m, like, sweaty and stinky as hell, woman! I’ve been in the hot sun all freaking day,” he practically screeches and backs away defensively. Then he giggles, letting the twinkle gleam in his irises — not to be polite or friendly, but at the mental possibility in his head now of bitch-slapping her if she tries to touch him again. “Aww, man! Like I’d mind a little Chasez funk on my shirt! No way, bay-bee! I can sell that mother on eBay for half a mil, you bet your ass!” JC swipes the end of his towel down over his slick bicep, as if wiping her and her perfume off his person, and looks up. “Whoa. You scared the crap outta me. I wasn’t expecting to be mauled in the lobby.” “‘Mauled.’ Christ, JC. What a drama queen thing to say. I was just being friendly.” “Yeah, okay. Friendly in a rowdy rodeo manhandling sort of way,” JC sneers and vows silently to have himself a word or two with Lonnie later about who CAN and CANNOT tackle him to the ground in public places. “Hey, would you just chill out? I didn’t even touch your hair, if that’s what you’re tripping about. And it looks faaaaabulous, by the way. Even if you ARE gonna be acting all like a girl about it.” Now she’s the one laughing, but JC only smiles at her and watches how wide her mouth gapes open to reveal such a deep, dark cavern lined with miles of frightening ivory and wonders why that’s considered even remotely attractive by *anybody*. He also wonders something else too. Something that’s starting to gnaw away irritatingly at the edges of his mind. Something such as………. “Cameron. Whassup? What the fuck are you doing here at my hotel, girl?” *Better yet, what the FUCK are you doing here in Miami? Still?* The lanky blonde smirks and whisks at the air with the back of her hand. Several gaudy silver bracelets fall together at her wrist in a metallic clash that seems to set the stage for the sound of her voice. “Eh, just slumming. Ju-baby is napping before dinner. Boy sleeps all the damn time, I swear. And I heard a friend of mine’s shacked up here. So I thought I’d kill some time and be social……….Is that okay with you? Since it’s YOUR hotel?” The smile she slings his way to punctuate her words is saucy and shrewd. Way overdone. *Brazen, snippy bitch. He must have finally told her about us. And now she’s feeling all jealous and maybe even a little inadequate in that fucked-up kind of way they all get when it hits them that they can’t compete, no matter what. As if envy and catty sarcasm are going to do her any damn good. Add “stupid” to that Screen Actors Guild resume.* “Sure. I grant you permission to move freely in my hotel,” he says blandly. *Like right the fuck out of my way, if you don’t mind.* “Great. Gracias. So how you’ve been, JC? I haven’t seen your ass since that day at the MTV studios.” She then realizes her own unintentional joke and bursts out with a snorting, resounding laugh. “Oh, my God! No pun intended, man! But you have seriously got the cutest little plumber’s crack in the whole world!” JC rolls his eyes and wonders, hopefully, if he’ll wake up soon and discover this is all a surreal nightmare. Lonnie chuckling quietly a couple of feet away isn’t making anything any better. “Nice, Cameron. Never heard that one before.” “Liar. Bet you hear that and the ‘crack me up’ jokes ALL the time now.” “And the ‘crack kills’ ones too. Don’t forget those,” he drones, lacing his bored tone with subtle mocking cynicism. “Since you’re blowing me and the Lon Man here away with this wicked comedy routine of yours.” With the slight tightening of the side of her mouth, Cameron silently and unknowingly owns up to enjoying the sharp-edged little game they seem to be playing. She smirks again, squints at him wryly, and then sassily tosses in the gauntlet. “And why aren’t you staying over at the Loews, JC? Justin’s a poor sick little Juppy. He needs some, um, taking care of.” Smooth and thick like syrup, refusing to be baited and taunted, JC blinks slowly. “Ah, but I thought that was *your* big role this weekend, double-oh-seven. Pet-sitting the ill puppy. No? Or is it some other big ol’ thrill-to-kill mission? Maybe just to look glitzy and glamorous?” “JC, you’re mean.” Cameron giggles, clearly lacking a sufficient comeback. And clearly craving one for spite. *Really now? Your “puppy” says I’m sweet. But hey. You want mean? I can be meaner. Keep messing with me. Or, better yet, hold off on the narrowing or rolling those weird milky eyes at me, babe. The truth hurts sometimes. Too bad for ya. Get over it and move along. And don’t come over here trying to work me. I’m not the one who has to put up with you. AND I’m not in the mood.* “What are you *really* doing here, Cameron? I mean here at this hotel. Stalking me, by chance?” “Puhlease.” She rolls her eyes, action-movie-style. “Hardly, JC.” “Thank God above,” he whispers before he can catch himself and then glares up at her, tiring of this tense and unnecessary little charade. “I need to book on outta here before I reek up the whole place.” And as if she thinks she’s putting on a performance worthy of an MTV moon man, Cameron shifts her weight from one hip to the other, grabs that hip with a heavily-accessorized hand, and sneers a decidedly smug and arrogant grin in his direction. “Now, JC, honestly. Stalking? Me? Why would I need another cute little NSYNCer to bum around with when I get to monopolize, like twenty-four-seven, the one in the bright-hot media spotlight right now? Hmm? My very own sexy-as-hell, white-hot pop mega-star. Oh, he treats me like a million dollars too. I couldn’t ask for more. And don’t we just look brilliant together? Probably makes little teeny Justin lovers’ heart throb.” Inside, JC bristles because he knows she making every foolish effort possible to push his buttons and get under his skin. But he stays beautifully calm and absently wonders why no other hotel guests have happened up on their little surprise encounter. Perhaps, he thinks, this really is a bad fucking dream. “Cameron, babe,” he starts off, with a slick, sly, slow smile. The voice has a twist of grit in it, and some well-balanced hisses. “You must have had one hell of an acting coach, woman. That little stab at ‘bitchy and vicious’ there was about the best shit I’ve seen! Ever! VERY top-drawer in thespian achievement! Man, really. You should give dude a big-time bonus for making you THAT good. ‘Cause I’d be willing to bet that, with that little speech, you’d successfully convince at least……….oh, about……….TWO dumbass twelve-year-olds that you and Justin are actually a genuine thang. Bravo, girl! You must rehearse, like, constantly! I’m proud as can be for you and your skill and talent. You touch even ONE person, and you’re a success. Congrats!” Cameron’s scowl wrinkles her nose and seems to icily disregard JC’s quiet snickers. “Don’t patronize me, JC. You’re not fucking funny.” “Ah, honey,” he still laughs as he reaches over to punch the UP button on the wall. “I don’t patronize. I don’t have time. But since you did make the effort to come all the way over here and get all up in my face completely un-fucking-invited, lemme just toss you a tiny piece of advice……….See, back to those pet sitters……….I was thinking about how totally pathetic they become when they get all damn attached to the sweet little fuzzy creature they’re taking care of for a short time, and then the real owner comes home to rightly reclaim what’s his and what he loves dearly, and then the adorable puppy or whatever drops the paid substitute sitter like a hot rotten potato and runs to the one who takes care of him and loves him better than anybody else on the planet……….Poor attached sitter is the big-L loser in the end. Just collects the money and goes home alone. It’s so, so sad……….So watch out for yourself, sugar-pie. Pathetic isn’t very fucking attractive on, say, anybody — not even angels……….oh, and demons either. Gotta run. See ya.” The shiny elevator doors open then — on cue, of course — and JC steps in calmly with Lonnie following stealthily behind. He’s still chuckling as they slide shut again, and he’s still holding in his mind the vision of a wide-eyed, bitterly stunned famous actress who’d just lost a battle of bitchiness she’d spawned herself and wrongly assumed she’d reign over. As the car ascends, Lonnie perfectly mimics a caterwauling ferocious cat in the throes of attack. “Man. Cat fight central, yo. Flying fur and sharp claws everywhere. I wuz getting ready to turn the emergency fire hose on you two, dawg,” he laughs. JC throws his free hand in the air and then smacks his thigh with the open palm. “Son of a bitch! Did I ask for that mess, man? Over here minding my own business, and barracuda trash rolls up unsolicited into my space. Damn.” “Nah, you didn’t ask for it. But you handled yo-self like an ace, C. I’m proud of you. Girlfriend just bugging and trying to start shit, and you out-bitched her without breaking a sweat.” “Well, she got exactly what she came for. Jealous ho.” “Um huh,” Lonnie agrees. “Don’t she know whose boy Ju really is?” “Well, I sure as hell hope she does now.” JC groans as he stretches his neck and shoulders, beginning to feel the effects of the blistering sunrays on his flesh. “Say, where was everybody else, man? I know there are other fuckers in this hotel. Did they just disappear? Like ‘Twilight Zone’?” “Her security kept ‘em at bay back there in front of the lobby. You didn’t notice?” “Duh. No. I was too busy keeping *her* big ass at bay. And what the fuck is she still doing here anyway? J said he’d handle it. She should be vamoosed outta here by now.” “Just be chill, Chasez. Give him the benefit of the doubt, dude. You already know he’s trying.” “Yeah, okay. Miss Full-Throttle action hero said he’s snoozing. Must be his medicine. Maybe he, you know, snuck out of her damn kennel this time without him knowing. I didn’t see a collar.” Lonnie’s booming laughter fills the elevator space just before the doors re-open. “C, you are one whack mofo, man. You know that?” “Yeah, I know. Definitely schizo all the way,” JC says softly as he exits the elevator onto thick, plush carpet. As he pads down the hallway to his right, he keeps the little disclaimer to that last statement to himself and smiles: “Crazy about Mr. JT.” In the bathroom, as he peels off his shorts and steps into the shower stall, he considers calling Justin simply to see what’s up with Cameron’s weird visit. But, for two reasons, he doesn’t: 1) he doesn’t really have a lot of time to spare before Chris will be barging in and barking orders, as if he feels that since he’s the oldest that’s what he should be doing; and 2) he truly doesn’t want to argue with Justin anymore, especially not over *her*. So JC settles his nerves with a few shots from the bottle of ice-cold vodka Chris shows up with as he fusses at the vanity mirror with his obstinate hair and the blow dryer until hyper, bullying Chris drags him toward the suite’s door so they can leave. JC huffs and makes a useless attempt to protest. “Dude! I’m not finished getting ready yet! Hold up!” “Enough primping, Chasez. You’re already too damn beautiful for your own good. Grab your shades if you need ‘em. It’s time to ride.” “You’re hurting my arm, midget.” “I don’t care. C’mon. Time to make some fucking waves and have some fucking fun. ‘Cause, dude, we ARE the action in Miami tonight, baby.” “Bastard.” “I love you too, JC. Now move that nice ass and let’s go.” ~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~ Despite popular belief, Justin’s not sleeping back in his room, even though he probably *should* be. No, he’s relaxing his body from a long and draining tour schedule, and he’s shutting his mind down to everything other than having fun with all the guys in general and making love with JC specifically. i.e., he’s drinking. He’s sipping warm, dark rum alone, and he’s been doing it for two hours now. But he’s forgotten how long he’s been sitting here, facing the big window in his suite’s living room, watching the ball of fire in the sky slowly fall toward the water, enjoying the peaceful sensation in him that’s gradually overriding and replacing the dull ache around his heart of missing how things used to be, before they got this far-out and wicked complicated. The voices inside and outside have been silenced now, and he likes how calm and quiet this store-bought serenity feels. Just another hour or two. One more unpleasant, stressful dinner. And then he’ll be set free. Free to be, if only for a few days, as wonderfully light-hearted in public and as lovingly affectionate in private as he once was. Not very long ago. His system a little shaky but not necessarily all from the liquor’s influence, he slowly gets to his feet to find the shirt he’s decided to wear. After one (or maybe two) more splash of the amber fluid in the glass, he’ll go. Down the hall in her room, Cameron waits for him. But, more importantly, JC waits for him somewhere else. And that’s what makes him smile at the approaching, promises-to-be-spectacular sunset outside the window.