“You go on back out there first.” “No. You.” “No. You.” “No!” “Yes! Now stop sassing and scoot!” “Why me?” “Because you left the scene first. Duh.” “So?” “So. Just cut it out and go. Pronto too. We’ve been gone too damn long already.” JC turned off the water flowing into the men’s room sink, reached up to grab a few paper towels, and gracefully spun around to glare at Justin with shimmering, slow-blinking eyes. As they narrowed and crinkled at the soft edges, he couldn’t hold back a smug smile from spreading over his lips. “Damn. If I’d known you were such a bossy little slut, I would’ve never hooked up in a real, live relationship with you. Who the hell said your ass could order me around like I’m your personal bitch?” Justin’s grin started its cunning rise to brilliance even before he raised his gaze from where he’d been readjusting the fit of his uniform shorts around his waist again. By the time he faced JC fully, his hands had fallen to his angular hips, and his features had lit up like a tropical sunrise. The pink tip of his tongue shot out teasingly for a lazy swipe at the corner of his mouth. “Um, who you calling ‘slut’?” JC laughed quietly. “Yeah. You heard me. Slut……….hauling me back here away from the safety of a crowd to the dark, scary basement during a very public event, for chrissakes, and forcing yourself on me in raunchy, obscene ways……….That’s definitely cheap and ho-ish……….Fucking cute slut.” Justin snorted out a giggle and rolled his eyes. “Forced you. Right, baby. That was some fucking fight you were putting up too……….and you said you liked ‘bossy’ me then……….when I was all ‘take charge’ and shit. It was getting your juices flowing like mad……….Don’t be trying to play me, sweetness. You dug that as much as I did.” JC shrugged and daintily wrinkled his nose. “True, that. It was……….hot.” “*You* were hot, Jace,” Justin whispered and moved his arm to slide an index finger down the taut sleekness of JC’s bicep. “So, um, *glossy* out there……….so gorgeous……….and so damn fuckable.” “How flattering. What lovely charm you have.” JC snickered sarcastically as he turned to toss the wadded, damp paper into a disposal by the sink. “So what merits me this special, exclusive attention from the one and only Justin Timberocean that those chicks out there would chop off limbs to get a chance at? Hmm?” Justin lifted and lowered one shoulder quickly, still staring at JC’s tanned, smooth arm under his fingertip. “You’re my main squeeze, baby. Not them. Not anybody else. You’re what does it for me……….the one I got the jones bad for.” “Ah. More poetic flattery,” JC said in a hushed, alluring voice, scanning Justin’s face with a bright blue glow. “Kudos straight from the ghetto.” “You’re the one I love, sweetness……….my very own something beautiful.” And the warm, feathery words drove JC’s half smile upward into a full-blown blushing grin. “Oh. Yeah. Now *that’s* nice. Such finesse and romance. I like that. I’m serious, J.” “Good. It’s for real.” “And I liked the way you squoze me, you know, before. Just now.” Justin’s face contorted with tight, squinting wrinkles. “*Squoze* you? What the fuck?” JC sighed. “Man. You said I was your main squeeze, right?” “Yep.” “And when you actually did that, squoze me up against this sink here..........That was, ah, well, it rocked. Hard.” Justin’s head rolled backward on his neck as waves of rambunctious laughter tumbled out of him. “Jace, stop it! You crack me the hell up, baby! You and your homemade words. Squoze……….Oh, man! I fucking *love* that. Haha.” JC giggled along with him. “And what I love is you……….Now c’mon. Wash your paws ‘cause we gotta go. You first.” “No. You first, C.” “Bossy slut,” JC hissed. “Okay. Shit. You win, baby. Let’s go. I’ll reappear first……….Damn. What I wouldn’t do for you.” “I’ll make it worth your while later, babe.” Justin groaned sweetly and shuffled his feet as JC’s hands clamped onto his hips from behind and shoved him toward the bathroom door. “Don’t even start, Jace. Please. You’re just too much.” ~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~ Snickering in whispers and shoving each other playfully, the couple came near trampling Lance in the brightly lit hallway because he was trudging along toward them almost aimlessly with a hand up over his brow. They slowed up next to him, artfully bumping against each other as if accidentally, and sneaker squeaks bounced from the floor to the walls around them. “You okay, Lancerella, dawg?” Justin asked. “Or does that wall there REALLY need your shoulder holding it up, yo?” Lance had stopped when he’d noticed them approaching him and tiredly leaned into the hard, flat surface. His nose wrinkled quickly now into a bothered smirk, and his heavy green eyes wandered over to where they stood. “I think I died. And this is hell. Seriously, y’all.” “That would make you Satan Extraordinaire, J,” JC giggled and elbowed Justin’s side gently. “Uh, I don’t think so, baby. You’re eviler than me. Much more, um, devilicious.” Justin laughed quietly and nudged him back. “Okay. Right. And who’s the crazy ass making up his own words now?” JC inched in closer, hotly at Justin’s ear, brushing white shiny uniform fabric against blue. “I learned from the mastah himself……….And, damn it IS kinda hot in here. Bassman may be onto something, baby.” Again, Justin gave in to a giddy snicker. Lance groaned and sighed at once, shifting his weight up off the wall and rolling his eyes. “Will you two freaks shut the fuck up and get up off each other? You want me to hurl right out here?” “Yeah, Jace. Have a little consideration, babe. Lance is feeling a bit peak-ed today and major high-maintenance.” “Bummed and bitchy,” JC whispered and snickered again. Sullenly, Lance gave him a middle finger. “Yep,” Justin went on, tilting his head to the side sympathetically. “He looks like he might blow chunks at any sec. So don’t, like set him off. That would get ugly.” “Hey, there’s more aspirin in my bag, man. Help yourself,” JC offered with a softened smile. Lance shrugged. “I’ll live. Somehow, I always do. Thanks. And where’ve you two been anyway?” “Taking a leak, man,” Justin was noticeably quick to blurt out immediately. And JC’s silent, sneaky smile never faltered. Lance slowly cocked an eyebrow up his smooth forehead as his glare shot past them and down the corridor behind them. Suspiciously, his eyes darted back to theirs. “But, well, the restroom is right *here*.” “Sure. ONE of them is,” Justin quipped. And Lance sighed/groaned again, plowing fingers through the perfectly messy spikes of his hair. “Shut up. Please just shut up. And don’t even force me to hear any more. I will SO throw up……….you sick perverts. Can’t you get a damn room, for chrissakes?” “Hey, man,” JC spoke up softly. “When you gotta go, you gotta go.” And he laughed again against Justin’s shoulder. “Yeah, Grumpy Lance. We *had* us a room, dude. It just wasn’t *our* room. Haha.” Lance brushed them off impatiently with a backhand flip of his wrist. “WhatEVER, man. Chris was right.” “What the fuck was Chris ‘right’ about?” Justin said, with a slightly higher-octaved voice. “The both of you. Back here banging each other.” “Hey! Says who? You peoples don’t have anything better to talk about out there?” “Yeah! The fuck? You got it, like, streaming on the Jumbo-Tron or something, you weirdos?” Surly, and bored, Lance glared from one of them to the other. “Look. CK rang up my cell and asked where you’d run off to, Timberlake. I guess he was clever enough to put two and two together when you vanished too, Josh.” “Yeah, and clever enough to come up with seven. Fucking dwarf,” JC smirked. “Wait, wait, wait.” Justin pat lightly at the air in front of him with his slim fingers and narrowed his eyes. “Dude *called* you on the phone? During the game?” “Yes. From a cross the court. What’s the big on that?” “It’s whack. That’s what. Twenty feet away, and you gotta use cell phones.” Justin shook his head. “Fucked-up, spoiled celebs. Make me nauseous.” JC giggled at Justin’s exaggerated irritation that was meant to distract the topic of conversation off them and their discovered adventures. Lance rolled his eyes again. “Gimme a break, Ju. Like YOU don’t have yours out there, on the sidelines somewhere.” “Allow me to correct you, Bass. That would be a big-ass NO. Everybody I wanna have, um, contact with is here.” Stealthily, his forearm slid past JC’s chest for a brief, warm touch. “Well, that’s just clever as hell,” Lance droned, beginning to turn to head into the clubhouse, his original destination. “If I were you two VIPs, I’d take my clever asses back out to the court. Joe’s probably onto your little disappearing *cough* trick too, and when I left he was getting awfully antsy and frisky with the loud speaker microphone……….Good fucking luck.” ~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~ Trace wasn’t feeling all that swift when he checked in at the posh hotel Justin had chosen for close members of the entourage to hole up in during the Chicago tour dates. He couldn’t determine if he was too drunk or not drunk enough, and that, friends and neighbors had to be about the worst feeling in the whole damn universe of feelings, Trace thought. Well, besides being all by your lonesome. Which Trace was at the moment. Yeah, that one takes the mother-humping cake, he figured, in some hazy, non-analytical corner of his mind. Being by yourself. A-lone. The goddamn pits. For shore. No, sure. For sure. It hadn’t occurred to him once that he wouldn’t have even known which hotel to ask for if that lighting crew dude — who’d coincidentally and conveniently stayed around the scene in Miami all weekend for the Challenge events and had headed to Chicago on Trace’s flight — hadn’t taken pity on him and helped him out at O’Hare after they’d deplaned. Trace had squinted with his flushed cheeks and shrugged and muttered, “Thanks a crapload anyway, bro. But I got a handle on where I’m going.” That, however, had been a bold-ass lie. Just like the lie he’d slurred to the yummy-sexy blond flight attendant in First Class when he’d tried like hell to persuade her to accompany him back to his “blinging penthouse digs.” “Mama, how you get to be so fine? Look. I’ll even throw in Mr. JT for some three-way action if ya think ya can handle it. You know who THAT is, doncha, girl? Then you MUST know who I am, I’m saying.” That, he assumed now as he remembered it all, must have been about the time her face had clouded into a frown and she’d suggested that he go easy on the double shots of whiskey, declining his indecent proposal by ignoring it. Undaunted, he’d leered at her ass while she’d walked away and called out to her with a loud laugh. “Yo! When ya come back, bring back da Jack. It’s free up in here, ain’t it?” Elisha would’ve blushed about 12 shades of fuchsia and scolded him if she’d been on the plane beside him. Hell, he wouldn’t have even needed to act like a bugging fool that way if Elisha had been there with him. But she *wasn’t* there with him, now was she? Bitch. Trace still didn’t understand her sudden, urgent insistence on meeting up with her agent in Hollywood the next day instead of hitting Chicago with him. She’d been bushels of fun and hotness all damn weekend, going along with all of his wild and crazy crap, as far as he could tell. But once the parties started winding down and the celebrities began drifting away and the cameras flashed less and less, she was ready to high-tail it back to Cali. And Trace hadn’t felt like worrying about it or trying to change her mind. “Whatever,” he’d shrugged her off carelessly, looking around for his drink. There was always plenty more party-girl pussy wherever Justin went, wasn’t there? And even if JT didn’t want to take full-ass advantage of any of it, his number-one Tennessee homeboy certainly did. Hell, the gang didn’t call this one “T & A” for nothing. Wink, wink. And, speaking of the gang, “that fucker Chastain” was supposed to hook up with Trace in South Beach and then blaze a trail up to Chicago for some rocking and rolling. Trace had seen neither hide nor hair of him. Nick hadn’t even bothered to ring him. Asshole. Well, he hadn’t tried to ring on Trace’s cell phone, at least. And fuck knows nobody could get through on Justin’s private number. Not when his ass was all slung up with Chasez and focused on absolutely jack shit besides his lover boy. Like now. Yeah, the Terrific Twosome were hanging back in Miami together ‘til Justin’s sound check Tuesday afternoon. Doing their love thang. So, yeah. Trace. Here. All alone. He squinted a glare around the hotel lobby as he trudged through it and realized that, technically, he wasn’t so solitary at all. Guests milled about left and right, coming and going. With a sudden, puzzling thought, he glanced at his watch. Why all this pedestrian traffic so damn late? 2:27 a.m. Or wait. Was it really 1:27 in the morning? Or maybe actually *3:27*? Had he reset the fucker to Central Standard on the plane or not? Damn. He hated constantly jumping around in all the time zones. Such a fucking confusing pain in the ass. And, damn, he could use a drink right about now. His suite had BEST have a well-stocked mini-bar, or some graveyard-shift room service fuck was going to get a fucking earful. He’d hung around the South Beach club scene after the afternoon’s event-closing basketball game because the NSYNC guys and their friends were partying together one more night before going off on their separate paths again. It had been a wicked hoot, in Trace’s foggy perception, to watch Fatone and Kirkpatrick give JC and Justin hell on a Chinette platter for their little sexcapades in the bathroom during the game. The straight boys had been viciously funny ragging on the gay ones, wanting to know which one of them had been “Peter CottonTAIL” and which was “Banging Bugs Bunny.” And Trace had been sure he’d seen JC blush big-time more than once under that healthy sun glow on his cheeks. But, honestly, Trace hadn’t seen what the whole, wild deal was. After all, didn’t everybody get their freak on in a public restroom once in a while? They did, right? So what’s the big whup? And there’d been something cool going on between Justin and C, Trace had somehow noticed. He’d actually surprised himself by picking up on it ‘cause he wasn’t usually tuned in to shit like that. But this had been so *thick* and *sparkling* that even ol’ Stevie Freaking Wonder could have seen it. Trace would’ve used the words “chemistry” or “connectedness” to describe the concept he was observing if he’d understood their relevant definitions. But, instead, he satisfied himself by explaining it as a way-strong hook-up between them that was so fiercely and tenderly alive that everyone around them could feel the intense power of it. You didn’t have to be a fucking genius to figure it out those two had it bad for each other. And it had been kind of strange — a *good* strange — to be in the presence of something like that, to bask in its glittery radiation, even if Trace would never admit it out loud. Since his best friend had gotten with JC *like that*, Trace had never been sure whether Chasez liked him or not. Sure, he *wanted* the dude to like him. But he hadn’t spent a lot of time trying to figure it out. Just in case the answer was “no.” JC wasn’t easy to read. That was for damn sure. He had a weird habit of going way inside his own head and losing Trace on the way down. “Pensive and introspective,” Justin had called it once, with an affectionate smile Trace had come to recognize was always for JC. And JC sometimes struck Trace as, um, odd. All the way over to the scary side of bizarre, in fact. Like that one time he and Trace were in JC’s living room watching some stupid cooking show on the tube together before Justin came home and JC about flipped the fuck out when Bobby Flay put grilled corn kernels in his damn guacamole. “That cat’s crazy!” he’d leaned forward and screeched hysterically, startling Trace out of a blissful stupor. “Wrong, dumbass! Is cooking a new thing for you? Read my lips! Chunky and creamy, yeah. But not CRUNCHY, dude! Gah-rossss!” However, not matter what level of freaky JC could achieve sometimes, when Trace had watched him looking at Justin in the VIP section of that club tonight, telling Justin with his crystal-clear eyes alone that he adored him more than anything, Trace had subconsciously carved out a little soft spot in his heart for that guy, whether that guy was fond of him or not. If he was as fond of Justin as *that* look had screamed he was, then he was fucking okay by Trace. “Shit,” he hissed now when he realized he was standing at the wrong set of elevators for the 21st floor. “Why don’t ALL the fuckers go to ALL the fucking floors anyways? That’s fucked up.” His head buzzed and pounded simultaneously as he sighed and pulled the strap of his single piece of luggage further up on his shoulder. Maybe what he needed was a good night’s sleep. Think so? Nah. Fuck that. He could get plenty of that all day tomorrow. He’d find SOMEbody around here to go out and slam some clubs with him. It wasn’t THAT late yet. And he was far too tense and irritable to try snoozing now. Finally on the floor of his suite, he felt lots of dizzy as he ambled down the corridor. When he turned the corner, it took him a couple of seconds to hone his blurry vision on the tall, willowy figure approaching him. What. The. Fuck. No. Not this. Not now. Danger, Will Robinson. Alien life form. Proceed with utmost caution. Or just turn the fuck around and run like hell. “Trace, buddy! When did YOU get in? Is this your floor? Really? What a trippy coincidence! I just got off on the *wrong* floor by accident. I know. I’m a real RE-tard sometimes. Haha. Small world, running into you here, huh?” The quick-fire voice was deceptively lilting, barely masking a shrill acidity. The fusion of spread lips and alabaster teeth was wide, too wide, and did as much for a real smile as cubic zirconia does for natural diamonds. Gleefully brazen. Trace’s usual slit glare iced over into a fine, reflexive smirk. Rocket-scientist brain power? Hell, no. He’d never come close. But he *did* have a wide-ranging bullshit radar as razor-sharp as any around. And its bells and whistles had just jumped into “full-throttle” overload. Wink, wink. “Um, yeah. I just got in from F.L.A. And what a big-ass shock that you weren’t staked out at the airport waiting on me instead of HERE at my damn room like the paparazzi, Camster. I’m, like, so honored.” Trace snickered at his own unintentional wit, at how much the nickname he’d come up with so spur of the moment had rhymed with “hamster.” And he missed the dramatic rolling of her pale, almost colorless eyes and the flippant twitch of her nose. Still she grinned, though, and faked a sickly-sweet friendly tone. “In your dreams, maybe, bay-bee. That’s NOT my name, by the way. And why’d you stop answering my phone calls anyway?” “Well, lemme see……….‘Cause I didn’t wanna talk to you?” The model-turned-actress huffed petulantly, as if not wanting to talk to her was an unheard-of sacrilege. “But you were supposed to be getting a message to Justin for me, Trace. What’s up with that?” Bored and tired and totally unimpressed with her and her fame, Trace now knew: he was definitely not drunk enough, as opposed to too drunk. He needed a triple double. Bad. And he certainly didn’t care to find out what was behind that fading façade of a happy face. “Yeah, so. I gave J the damn message. Does that make you and me fucking going steady now or something? Like so you gotta wait around for me outside my door and walk me down the hall to my next class? Is that how this shit works? Or wait. Maybe we just bestest fucking friends. Is it like that? You know what? I’m surprised as fuck you even remember my damn name,” he slurred and giggled again at how he’d come so close to saying “fuck buddies” instead of “fucking friends.” And then he realized how very UNfunny that concept tasted in his mouth. Because, even if she WAS a hella-popular movie star, he and Cameron……….him all up on it……….just……….NO. Absolutely, he’d pass on that stuff. She seemed to flinch a little, as if stung by the very horrid idea that she and Trace could be friends, let alone high school sweethearts. “And what did he say? I haven’t heard from him at all. I was hoping you’d have some news when you finally showed up.” Trace scrunched up his face impatiently. How the fuck did Justin always make this look so easy? “What do I look like over here? A damn translator for the U-fucking-N? Huh? If he had something to say, he woulda said it to you, chica. I ain’t his fucking secretary, no matter what peeps be thinking that shit,” he seethed, more and more irked by the second with this “coincidental” encounter. Cameron’s cheerful _expression slowly melted and then hardened again into a less-than-tolerant, more-like-hostile one. The edgy, condescending one Trace had grown quite accustomed to receiving and thoroughly enjoyed smirking at in return since Justin had put this latest glitzy prop on the payroll. “He’s still in Florida, isn’t he? With his *gay* boyfriend?” she asked coyly. Snake-like. Trace shrugged and smirked again. He SO wasn’t in the mood for more of this crap. “I dunno. He’s somewhere other than here, yes, with his GAY boyfriend. What other kind of boyfriend would he fucking have? Christ. You got something against JC now, yo? Dissing him like that? And I believe J told you exactly when he’d be getting in town. Did you forget, girlie?..........Wow. You must be a *real* fucking blonde.” “Fuck you, Trace,” she spat out, warm droplets of venom splashing his cheeks and chin. “In your dreams, bay-bee. I don’t wanna, and I’m not even queer. How do ya like DEM apples, huh?” Her nose bunched up into tiny fleshy hills when she sniffed audibly, as if she’d detected an obnoxious, repellent odor. But she didn’t address his biting sarcasm. She wasn’t finished with him yet. Moving further into his personal space, she glowered down at him with blatant contempt. “So I gotta sit here in this god-forsaken town and wait for his ass two more damn days? Oh, maybe Lynn The Professional Mom, who’s *always* around, lemme just add in here, can take me to some pawn shop sales for a new tat or to flea market or two so we can buy some other people’s damn trash before we start downing the Budweiser sixteen-ouncers at lunchtime……….Jesus Christ. Does she live in the same fucking trailer park as YOU? This lifestyle basically sucks wind. Glamorous? Yeah, right.” Trace snorted and hoisted his bag to his other shoulder. “What stupid shit to say. I swear. Jeez, Eloise. I’d sujess you grow the fuck up and get your OWN lifestyle if this one sucks so bad, but aren’t you, like, 20 years older than Justin? I mean, shit, don’t you have, like, an existence of your OWN? He’s not REALLY your boy toy, airhead. Duh. He’s not responsible for you twenty-four-fucking-seven……….And hello? Who in the hell do you think you are? You let him find out you been slamming on his mama, you dipshit, and he’s likely to rip you a new one. Or two. Seen him mad yet? Huh? Boy’s got a wicked temper.” “You’re an ass. An ignorant one at that,” was her growled retort, and she narrowed the spooky eyes. “And?” Trace attempted to raise a lazy, cocky eyebrow. “So fucking what? That’s supposed to bother me, mamacita?” “Why’s he doing this shit to me, Trace? Treating me like this?” Trace’s face bunched into quizzical wrinkles. “Like what? No, wait. I don’t care. Don’t wanna get involved. No way. What the hell do I look like? Dr. Fucking Phil over here?” “What do you look like? Backwoods trash, bay-bee. Or a scary little troll. Or a drooling street urchin who’s so fucking wasted all the time he might burst into flames if anybody lights a damn match around him. That’s what you look like. Surprise, bay-bee. Since you asked. Twice. And, no. I guess you’re NOT his secretary, are you, Jethro Clampett? That doorknob there has more smarts than you. Eighth wonder of the modern world, everyone: Why Justin Timberlake keeps that inanimate object known as Trace Something around him all the fucking time. Lord God Almighty. If I was dumb as you look, I might think you were the love interest instead of that twink transsexual-wanna-be JC Chasez,” she finished with a mocking grin and a grand flourish of her right arm. Trace paused, taking in her surly look, and then pursed his lips in an immaculately cool sneer. “What is WRONG wid you, bitch? You need to step back some and take a good look at the big picture. I don’t know what kinda hater issues you got going on, but you are here ‘cause you PAID to be here. End of story. You think you doing us all a big, fat favor, gracing us wid your mofo celebri-tie status and shit. But ain’t nobody fucking WANTING you to hang with us. You nuttin’ but a conceited, selfish Hollywood shark, wide-ass ugly mouth included, going on and on about dissing on everything J loves. You ain’t go no real feelings for anybody but your pizza-face self. Ya need ta stop wasting my motherfucking time. I seen ‘nough of your true colors, darling. Run along now and use the hell outta somebody else, puhlease.” “It’s rosacea, you hillbilly fool. Not pizza-face acne. How typical of a pathetic slug like you,” she edged in and hissed back defensively while throwing a hand up to her blemished cheek. “A disease I have to live with all my life, heartless bastard.” “A disease,” Trace laughed blandly, unsympathetically. “Boo hoo hoo for you. Poor Cam Diaz. Got some zits. Everybody pull out your vats of sorry. She can trash the fuck out of my best bud AND his mother AND his boyfriend. But the ho wants us to care about her middle-age pimples. Yo, kiss my hillbilly heartless bastard ASS! Brit mighta been a hoochie skank that got on my LAST fucking nerve, but she had more spunk than you. And no warts either. How ‘bout THAT? Huh?” Visibly stunned and flushing an even deeper shade of red, Cameron stared viciously, not knowing what to say. Which lasted all of 10 seconds. “You’re vile, Trace. Like a little rabid dog. The very definition of LOSER.” “And then what? You think I care what you say about me? I’ll be around long, long, after you’re gone.” “Sure. Like a cockroach. Always survives. That would be you,” she snarled. “And cockroaches don’t get no zits. Yay me.” Trace snickered again, with the icy squinted sneer that hadn’t warmed up one degree. “Fuck off, Trace.” “YOU fuck off, Cameron,” he shot back tiredly. “You think I’m gonna let some actress-come-lately bleached-the-fuck-out twat priss her long-legged ass up in here and get nasty wid me and knock my boy and be a bitch to his fans and talk shit about everybody he worships? You’d better take that shit back to the land of bad movies, bitch, and get the fuck outta my face with those bubble-gum pink dumbass jeans. What are those anyways? Baby Gap chic in size 161?” “These? They’re the hottest new thing. Like you’d know fashion. Ha.” She glanced down at her body quickly and whispered, and it sounded like the beginnings of defeat. “Right. The hottest new thing to make me puke.” “Aww……….That’s rude and insulting. You don’t like pink?” Cameron darted her eyes back up at him and smiled with an evil kind of seduction. Trace grimaced involuntarily. “Man, no. Not exactly. Not unless it’s that *special* pink, the stuff all up on the inside. Haha……….And Chasez looks hotter in pink than *that shit right there*……….I’m straight and all that, but I’m just saying. He’s got you beat, girlie. Give up on tryin’ ta outdo him.” “You’re mentally handicapped, man.” She gave him the smug, frozen smirk again, and he imagined an old, sleek cobra, coiled and bristling, ready to strike and maim. He rolled his eyes and started walking. “Whatever, babe. Gotta go. This horse shit is cramping my style. How ‘bout you eat my dust?” “Trace! Trace! Goddamn you, Trace!” she hissed at him as he strolled nonchalantly down the hallway. “Trace, you fuck! I agreed to this whole deal with Justin as a favor to a friend. Justin needed me, and his sorry ass had better wake up and smell the fucking latte! I won’t be left out in the cold like this! I’m not just anybody, you know!……….I’m fucking serious!” “Yep. So am I,” he rasped out as he found his suite number and stopped. Turning slowly and raising one hand and one carefully-chosen finger, he smiled, swallowing down the sweet flavor of an easy victory. “Bored now, so fuck off already. And, yeah. I’ll be sure and pass this lovely little convo along to Justin too. Iss my job, ain’t it? Oh, and a piece of advice for you, bitch……….Do not EVER get up in my fucking face again……….Toodles.”