"It's not a fucking DATE! Would you just step back with that shit? It's a lesson, or a session, or whatever you want to call it. But not a date. So hush!" "Right." Lance rolled his eyes. "Lesson. Session. Whatever YOU want to call it, J……….cough……….blind date……….cough." "Fuck you, Lance." "Fine. I wouldn't mind if you did. Even though you're not really my type. But you'll have to get by Jesse first, if you think you can, tough guy." Justin skipped the opportunity to once again pronounce Lance the biggest smartass he knew. He didn't even glance over to where he sat on the small bench in the dressing room beside the neatly hung clothes Justin had worn to the office that day. "You're sure this outfit will pass as okay? It's not too……….too anything?" "Justin. Please. You don't trust ME? You want me to bring Flaming Gay Sales Boy in here and let him tell you how fine you look? I'll bet he's out there fantasizing right now about how we're back here sucking each other off in this little cubbyhole." "I'm sure he's seen and heard worse. This is West Hollywood." "You really do look awesome, J. Trust me. Mr. Personal Trainer will be major impressed." "Great," Justin whispered, a little sulkily, and half-turned to eye his backside in the shorts in the full-length mirror. "I look like a dumbass." "You ARE a dumbass." "Blow me, Lance. I'm having a serious retail crisis here, and you are zero help. Zero." Lance leaned forward and nudged his obsessively anxious friend's hip. "Look, man. Stop with the drama. This ensemble is perfect. You want to go for subtle and understated, not like you're a fashion whore who can't do shit except stand there on the court and looking like stellar hotness." "Jesus. Why am I getting so freaked-out about it? It's just a game, a little coaching session." Justin's royal-blue eyes rolled a slow circle around in their sockets. "Not a Fifth Avenue Spring Line Preview Show." Lance giggled. "Exactly! So chill out! Fix up the attitude. Stop being so nervous and trippy. You've got the right shirt and the right shorts now. Nothing too fancy and over-the-top-screaming-gay. Just a little Hilfiger. That'll do. And Lord knows you already had the right shoes for this gig." "Shut up about my shoes." "I'm just saying, bro, when you've got 729 pairs, you've fucking GOT to have the right ones for doing badminton things out there." "It's racquetball, you ass. Not badminton. Dork." "Whatever. You know what I mean. Now take that shit off. Let's go slap it on the debit card and then hit a bar for a drink. It's happy hour." Justin turned another eye-roll on him. "It's always happy hour for you, dude." "So? And remember to wash those duds tonight, about 40 times or so. Like while you're digging out your old badminton racquet or whatever from your attic." "Um, and why wash them?" "You know, so they won't look so glaringly NEW." Justin frowned, self-consciously, at his reflection in the mirror, trying out various poses in the crisp cotton sports clothes. "But the clothes. They are new, Lance." "Duh, man." Lance sighed. "That's why you gotta wash them and get them to looking UN-new. You don't want this guy to think you're pretentious enough or superficial enough or whatever else enough to go out and buy new crap just for this one date, geek-ass. Damn, was his voice THAT hot and sexy that it's got you THIS distracted and airheadedy?" Justin's frown slunk into a smirk, and he flashed a narrow blue glare at Lance. "Cut. That. Out. Not. A. Date. I told you already. What are you such a prick sometimes?" Lance shrugged, pretending to be bored but actually enjoying himself. "You said his voice got you hard, Justin." "I did NOT! I said it sounded nice on the telephone. YOUR voice sounds nice on the telephone too. And look at YOU in person. Scary. Run-the-hell-away scary." Caught off-guard, Lance laughed and laughed. "It's kind of fun. Watching you dangling all freaked-out like this. In so much fucking denial." Justin huffed and turned back to the mirror. "Some best friend you are." Lance sat back against the dressing room wall again, folded his hands in his lap, and watched Justin. Cunning and mischief flared in his green eyes and his grin. "Hey, I've got a brilliant idea. Something to ease up your overload of tension and sexual frustration, man." "I know. A super-strong cocktail. Or maybe just getting laid. Your two solutions for everything." "Shut up and listen……….Let's blow this snow cone stand and book over to that fitness club where you said the dude teaches his little sporting event and check him out, man. C'mon. Advanced screening sneak preview before tomorrow night." "No, Lance. We're not in the tenth grade. No fucking way." t "Yes fucking way." "No. And that's final. Drop it. You want to stalk, man? Stalk on your own time." "Justin, look. There's a method to my madness. If your boy's a troll, then you'll find out in advance and cancel your session before wasting anymore time. No harm done. See? It just makes sense. So c'mon. Change your clothes. Let's roll." Justin huffed again. "It makes sense to YOU, Lance. Because you're completely and happily insane. But the thing is, and maybe you haven't been listening to me all damn afternoon, but it doesn't matter if he's a troll or not! I'm going for the sport, not to score with this guy. Jesus." "Right, J." Lance rolled those bright, gem-like eyes again. "Whatever. But I want to see what dude looks like. Tonight. Whether you do or not." "Good for you. Have a lovely stalkerish time. Call me at home and give me a full report when you're done. Best of luck to you and your perverted illegal activity. If you're lucky, I'll visit you regularly in prison, Lance. Maybe," Justin said sassily as he twirled around on his heels and snapped his fingers in the air. "Shut up, Miss Divalake and get that fine-ass body of yours dressed. And hurry it up too. I'm mad thirsty." ~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~ "And so what do I say to this guy tomorrow night when he sees me and goes, 'Hey! Aren't you that freak loser that was lurking around the fitness center last night? Were you checking me out on the down-low, man?'" Lance looked over at Justin and sighed. "That is precisely why I am the one walking over to that counter and doing the talking, retard. You hang back here and pretend to be reading the membership brochure and crap like that. Pull that baseball cap down over your face like I told you and act like you're a big-time pop star boy-band celebrity incognito or something……….I swear, Justin. After all the time we've been friends, you'd think you'd trust me a little more to have a workable plan in place. Relax, man. Stop being so damn fussy. You're driving me up the damn wall, I swear." "The amazingly devious mind of Lance Bass spins out of control yet again into the wild oblivion of psychosis," Justin smirked and fidgeted anxiously. "You got it. And lucky you, getting to reap all the benefits of it too. Now go. Do some lurking, freak loser." "Bite my ass, Lance." "You wish." "This is just so wrong, man. I can't believe I let you drag me here. He may not even be here tonight. We may have driven all the way out here for zilch." "Well, we'll find out in about 90 seconds, won't we? Settle down, or I'm seriously buying you some fucking Midol." Lance shoved Justin's shoulder playfully and left him at the display rack of pamphlets while he crossed the lobby of the Trinity Fitness health club. He'd successfully "dragged" him here by reminding him that 1) he'd never steered Justin down the wrong path before, not in all the years they'd known each other, and 2) Justin had promised him dinner, and he fully intended to collect on that promise. Also, he was absolutely not about to leave now, not after making it this far, without seeing what - who - they'd come to see. The computerized mapping system in Lance's Nissan Pathfinder had easily provided them a straight shot to the place in Venice, just a block off the beach strip. Lance had stopped once to buy them a drink (or three) in a local pub, just to calm Justin's nerves a bit. But it hadn't helped much. As he approached the information desk now, he quickly read the female employee's brass nameplate in front of her and wondered if her parents had really given her a middle name of "Love" or if it was simply a Hollywood pretense. One never knew with all the actress/actor-wannabes in this town. "Hi, Miss Hewitt. My name's Kevin Gibbons. And I was hoping you could tell me where the racquetball courts are located. A friend of mine said he might be playing here tonight, and I'd like to check and see." The young girl behind counter - thin and petite except for her large, mostly exposed, sagging breasts, which Lance would have suggested, if he'd known her better, that she put something on over that tight tank top and cover up because who the hell wanted to see those bloated things anyway, whether they drooped or not? - looked up at him with big, dark eyes and grinned a very toothy, very friendly grin. "Hi! Welcome to Trinity! And you can call me Jennifer! Miss Hewitt's so, like, stuffy!" "Well, hiya then, Jennifer," Lance answered and almost tacked on the "Love" extension just to hear how ridiculous it might sound. "Nice to meet you." "Same here, Kevin! And the courts are over that way, to answer your question, just past the swimming pool. The Olympic-sized heated pool, I might add. Are you a member of Trinity? 'Cause if you're not, let me tell you about a special we're running this month if you join up. It's totally awesome -" "Thanks a bunch, Jennifer," Lance cut in gently. "But the thing is I'm a member already. I just don't use the gym enough to know where the racquetball stuff goes on. My bad. I should get off my lame, lazy bum more, I guess." Pushing her straight, dark hair behind her ear, Jennifer giggled a little more than was called for, and Lance spotted a huge wad of pink bubblegum in one corner of her jaw. "No prob! Some people like being couch taters! Each to his own, as they say! Right?" "Sure. Each to his own," Lance smiled, shiny, glamorous, and fake, ready to move on. "So who's your friend, Kevin? Maybe I know him. I play a little racquetball once in a while. And I'm pals with, like, lots of the regular members." She squirmed enthusiastically. "Oh. My friend." And Lance had to frantically scan his recent memory for that small yet ultra-important detail. What the fuck had Justin said the guy's name was? "JC. He instructs here, I believe." At the mention of the simple two-syllable name, Jennifer's entire face lit up like a glowing torch. Her eyes widened expressively and shimmered like a deer's caught in headlights at night. "Oh, JC! I know him! He's absolutely dreamy! And sweet as he can be! I adore him! Is he REALLY a friend of yours?" she squealed and shuddered a little in her chair, dramatically tizzied. Or dizzied, if you'd asked Lance. "Ohohoh, could you please put in a good word for me, Kevin? Please? 'Cause I'm sure he's single. I never, like, see him with any girls. Well, except for his girl students. I mean clients. Could you? Please? I'm sure he'd listen to you!" Lance winced at her unbridled teenyish excitement and was glad for the chest-high wooden counter between them. He was sure she'd latch onto him if she could reach him. All because he was "JC's friend." And it frightened him a little that she was so close. "Well, I'll see what I can do. 'Kay? If he's here, you know." "Oh, thank you thank you thank you! And yes! He's still here. I saw him come in about an hour ago, and he hasn't left by here yet. Oh, this is so neat! I've been trying to get him to notice me for months, I'm not ashamed to say!" Well, you sure as hell OUGHT to be, Lance thought as he smiled again politely, thanked her, and turned to signal for Justin to follow him to the "Olympic-sized heated pool." You ought to be ashamed AND sedated. Calm down with all that bubbly craziness. Take a Valium. Silly-ass unprofessional chick. Whatever. "What were you doing over there with Miss Thang?" Justin whispered when he caught up with his partner in crime and nudged his arm. "Telling her how I hoped she didn't actually pay for that godawful tit job. Did you see those nasty, saggy things? Down to her bellybutton, I swear." "Looked like you were flirting with her, getting yourself a date, man." Justin snickered. "Right, Justin," Lance hissed. "Because I date girls all the time. Big-unnatural-boobed ones. Sure. Don't make me puke……….And speaking of dates, your boy must be a real hottie. 'Miss Thang' was creaming her bikinis over him. Said he was 'dreamy,' if you can believe that shit. I was seriously getting sick to my stomach." "So wait. He's straight then?" Lance cut his eyes over to Justin and grinned evilly. "Did I say he was straight? And what do YOU care anyway, J? It's just a game, right?" "Fuck off, Lance." "Fine. This is me fucking off." "Where are we going?" Justin jogged a little to keep up with Lance's quick, determined pace. "To find this 'dreamy' son of a bitch with the hard-on-inducing voice. My curiosity is peaked to the fucking moon, man. I gots to see if dude is seriously all that." "You're insane, Lance. And married too. Don't let that slip your devious, twisted mind." "Shut up, Timberlake, and keep your hat pulled down. We're on a very important, very top-secret mission here. Don't fuck it up."