Justin had himself a nice, fat hangover headache when he got into Austin-Adair the next morning. The night before, Jesse had hooked up with him and Lance at Bone's steakhouse after the clandestine trip to the health club and had enjoyed Lance's animated rendition of the "prowling for sexy-ass racquetball tutors" fairy tale so much that he'd started ordering round after round of tequilas for the three of them to celebrate. "There's nothing to fucking celebrate, man," Justin had slurred in protest but kept emptying the little shot glasses down his throat because the Quervo was making him feel better and more relaxed than he'd felt all day. "Nothing fucking yet," Lance had corrected him, winked across the semi-darkness of the booth they were all in, slung back another tequila in time with Jesse beside him, sucked a sliver of lime, and then fallen into a deep, flavor-exchanging smooch and sloppy embrace with Jesse that Justin had giggled at and hoped wouldn't get them tossed out of the place for public indecency. "Can we watch, J?" Jesse had whispered hoarsely, coming up for air after the kiss but still holding Lance snugly around his waist with both arms. "I mean if this guy's as hot as you both say he is, can me and Lance, like, take a peek when you two finally get it on?" Justin had spit out the sour green fruit clenched between his front teeth and squinted at them. "No! Absolutely not! I mean……….fuck……….there's not going to be any damn thing to watch, man! You're as much of a twisted perv as your little boyfriend over there! You know that?" The couple had snickered and pressed their swollen lips together again. "Right, J," they'd said, in unison, and laughed again. Justin had sighed, shaken his head, and given up. "Whatever." So now Justin suffered from a self-induced throbbing head AND a nauseous gut because he'd gulped down way too many Advils before he left his house without eating any breakfast. Dumbass, Timberlake. You know better. PLUS he still had the Deer Park Spring Water ad campaign concepts to finalize before an over-lunch presentation to their representatives. PLUS his secretary was playing that jarring "classic rock-n-roll" music so damn loud out in that cubicle that Justin felt his ivories chattering in his jaws. (Yeah, that bitch Melinda in Human Resources had thought she was being wildly clever and maybe even politically correct by hiring a "male" admin assistant for the out-and-proud homosexual executive when the male admin assistant in question had turned out to be Trace Ayala, the planet's least-evolved and, needless to say, most-straight human ever in history.) Justin stood up, adjusted his business-casual attire, opened his office door, and marched out a little unsteadily. "Hey, um, Trace. You got a second?" "Aww, morning, Justin! How's it hanging, dawg?" Trace's grin was genuine but definitely not quick on the uptake as he yanked his headphones off and turned to see who had tapped his shoulder. "Good morning. How ya doing?" "I'm awesome, dude. Really awesome. It's, like, a grand day out there, man. Life is swell." Justin shuddered a little, inside, invisibly. He didn't dislike Trace. Not at all. And he usually ended up defending him when Wade or Joe called him an obnoxious "circus dwarf" or "midget Bubba." And it wasn't that Trace was totally incompetent either. He handled basic word-processing and simple copying-and-collating tasks on an average, acceptable level. His telephone technique was fair to middling too - he was capable of taking messages for Justin or transferring calls to his voice mail - if Justin could only get him to stop referring to business associates and potential clients as "dude" and "dudette" or "mamacita" and "daddio." And he was nothing if not loyal to Justin - sometimes to a fault, sometimes aggravatingly so. "He follows you around like your sawed-off shadow, or like a little messed-up runt of a puppy, J. You are SO his hero, man. And that's just kind of……….it's just gross," Lance sometimes said and shuddered dramatically. But this wasn't the first time Trace had reminded Justin, sadly, of the reincarnation of Jeff Spicoli from "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." Yep. Justin would definitely be having the final word on the choice of his next admin assistant, no matter what that sly bitch Melinda Bell said. "Great. Sounds fabulous. Any calls for me today? I didn't see any on the voice mail." Justin hadn't been expecting any calls, but he didn't have the heart yet to mention the atrocious blaring music, now that he was out here. "Nah, man. None by me. Not yet. You got a clean slate, dawg." Justin tried on a weak smile. It was achingly painful. "Well, um, do you think………I mean……….Are you sure you could hear the phone if it rings? I'm just saying that, well, if you could -" "Aww, man!" It had taken Trace a slow glance down at his portable CD player on his desk before it dawned on him what exactly Justin was trying to get across. "Have I got The Crue blasting too powerful, dawg? 'Cause, you know, Motley and all rocks, man. We were just jamming. I didn't realize how loud." "It's cool, Trace. Don't worry about it. Just crank it down a notch or two, if that's okay. Deal?" Justin asked quietly, fighting off a wave of nausea that had just hit him when he glanced over and spotted a can of Spam ("extra spicy!") in a corner of Trace's cluttered cubicle desk. "Deal, man. I'm, like, WAY sorry. Serious. I didn't mean to disturb the bossman and stuff." Trace hit the off button on the little device quickly and scrunched up his face apologetically. Justin stepped closer and brushed his shoulder. "No big deal. It's all good. 'Kay? Say, have you seen Bass this morning? Is he here yet?" "Yeah, man." Trace looked up and grinned again. "I saw Homes in the kitchen chugging some coffee earlier. He looked like he might spit fire at whoever said boo-shit to him. So I was like, 'Dude, whoa. Take an aspirin and lay down.' Musta been a rough night." And Trace paused in his story to snicker at his own naughty thought. "Or an extra-special good one. Know what I'm saying, man? Hehe." Justin clenched his back teeth and restrained his eyes from rolling. "Or maybe both, knowing Lance. Have a good day, Trace." "Back atcha, man. You know where I am if you need me." "Yes. Of course." ~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~ "Hey, J. What's cooking?" Lance groaned when he picked up his office phone, not sounding very bright-eyed nor bushy-tailed. "Jesus. It's afternoon, Lance. Are you still hung-over, man?" "Oh. I didn't realize there was an expiration date on the fuckers. My bad. And you'd better NOT have me on fucking speaker phone or you're so dead." "Aww, I feel responsible. It was all my fault you were out slugging back 189 shots of tequila last night. You want me to send you down some soup, darling?" Justin teased and snorted. "Do you have some?" "I do." And Justin did. The company's large hospitality budget had provided a fine spread of Japanese delectables for Justin's power-lunch pitch meeting. ("Dramatic impact versus manic impact, people. Stay focused. We will own Deer Park Spring Water.") There were leftovers in the kitchen, as usual. "What kind is it? Something foul and horrid? Something fishy? I swear I'll barf," Lance grumbled and hissed. "It's miso soup. Catered from Shiro. Brothy manna from Heaven. The absolute best there is. It did the trick for me. I was feeling rough too this morning, but now I'm alive again. I'll have Trace bring some down for you. Want a spring roll too, Miss Cranky?" "No. And can you bring it down yourself?" Lance wasn't especially tolerant of Justin's secretary. "I don't speak troll or stoner, man. Not even when I'm hurting big-time with a bitch of a hangover." "Sure. I got your back. On my way in a sec. But look. Maybe you need to go on eBay and check out getting yourself some vitamins or something. You don't bounce back from a night of partying like you used to, man." Lance sighed, and Justin waited for the "more" he knew was coming. "Justin, FYI. When you actually have somebody you care about to go home with, the party doesn't always end at midnight, you know? So hello? I'm more exhausted than hung-over. Do the math." "Don't lecture me, Lance. It's your fault you got yourself a hotter-than-hot boyfriend who's way younger than you are. Too bad you can't keep up," Justin snickered. "TWO YEARS younger than me. Ass-goober. And I keep up just fine. Ask him." "Whatever. I don't need details, thank you all the same." "Dude, you might. It's been so damn long, you probably forgot how." Justin smirked even though his pal couldn't see him. "Shut up, Lance. Look. Here's why I called. The thing is I'm bailing on the racquetball gig tonight, man. Bad idea from the get-go. Just thought I'd give you a clue so you won't be bugging me with a gallon of stupid questions tomorrow." Lance sighed and groaned simultaneously. And Justin could imagine him flinging his legs up on his desk and slinking down into his high-back leather chair, a gorgeous hand thrown over his eyes as a shield. "Timberlake, I feel too damn crappy right now to come up there and break my foot off in your ass. So tell me you didn't just say into that fucking phone that you're not going to keep your 'appointment' with Mr. Hot Athletic Guy tonight. Assure me I didn't hear that." "I can't do it, man." And Lance didn't allow an elaboration on the sentence. He huffed audibly into the phone. "Listen to me. You are NOT backing out now. Not after all I've got vested in this thing. NOT. Understand? Just not. Don't make me get evil on you." "I'll embarrass myself a thousand percent out on that court, Lance. I don't have game. I'm in pathetic shape. I won't measure up to what he's used to -" "Shut up!" Lance rumbled impatiently. "Stop being a self-conscious twink. That's bullshit. You shoot hoops all the damn time. You play golf, if that even counts as a sport. You work out more than anybody I know……….Well, with the exception of that freak Robson, and he doesn't count, not even as an exception. So stop being a pain in the ass about how you fucking look. You look fine. No, you look fantastic. And maybe you don't have that game - what's it called? Badminton?" "Racquetball, prick." "Racquetball. Maybe you're a little rusty at it. But that's why you're hooking up with this JC dude in the first place, right? He's supposed to be helping you, not intimidating you, right? Just commit already. Give in. Why are you making this so damn hard, Justin?" "Because. I don't know." "Bullshit. Because it's easier to hide like a pussy behind your silly-ass insecurities and not take any chances. Ever……….Look. You said he looked good last night, man. There was, like, a little spark of possibility that you might enjoy meeting him and enjoy yourself with the little sport. What the hell changed since then?" "Lance, wake up. Somebody who looks like that is surely with a partner already." "And there you go assuming. Like the same couldn't be said about you. You look great, and you don't have a partner. Right? Just quit it. Quit thinking about it so much and overanalyzing it. Shit. Go back to the 'it's just a game' idea. Take it from there. No freaky intensity or scary paranoia at all. Just some exercise and maybe fun on a court with another guy. Simple and innocent. If that's all it ends up being, then fine. You didn't lose anything. And you gained a better swing of that almighty racquet than you had before. Right?" "--------" "Justin." "Right." "Just loosen up. It's really that easy, man. Live your life. This is nothing more than meeting a new person and possibly introducing him into your little world. Take it slow. Get comfortable with it at your own pace. And dude, just have fun." Justin rolled his head backward and around against his own high-backed leather chair and gazed out his office window. He sighed. "You should change careers, man. You'd kick ass as one of those fired-up motivational speaker dudes." "Right. You didn't call the guy yet and cancel did you?" "No." "See? If you'd been serious about doing it, canceling, you would've done it already. Without needing me to whip your ass back in line and scream some sense in that thick blasted skull of yours." "Shut up, Lance." "And you'd better not call him now either. Or I'll go back to that damn gym and get him and bring him here. I swear I will. I know who and where the dude is now, you know." "Fuck," Justin whispered and winced. "And you would too. You suck. I hate you." "Wrong. You don't. You love me. Admit it." "I'll bring you miso soup instead." Lance snickered. "Because you love me. You know it's your destiny to meet this guy, J." Justin moaned. "Will you please not start up with that destiny crap, man?" It hits WAY too close to home, and I don't want to deal with it. "Justin, don't worry, babe. Chill. Go out. Have some fun. And I'll still be here vegging on the first floor when you come back down to earth. Okay?" "Lance, promise me you and Jesse won't sneak your horny 12-year-old asses in there tonight and spy on me. Promise." Lance rumbled a laugh. "Now there's an idea." "Lance. I'm warning you, dude. I will hurt you. Bad." "I wouldn't, I wouldn't. Relax. This is our movie-and-takeout-food night, man. We'll be staying in. All snuggly and cozy. Takeout leads to make-out leads to……….fuckmybrainsout." "Lord. You're so a married couple." "Something for you to look forward to finding for yourself, J. It could happen, you know." Justin closed his eyes and smiled. "I love you, man. Thanks for, you know, everything." "I love you too. Gallons. Now come hither with soup. I shall hug your skinny ass for bombastic luck. I want you to have it, man. Whatever it is."