"Ah, man! This is so cool that you're still here! Whoa. I suck, and I'm big-time sorry about that, dude. Really sorry. I zoned out on a court downstairs, just hitting the ball back and forth like mad. I guess I thought I was off in a galaxy far away where they, like, had no clocks or whatever. Haha. I totally didn't realize it was so late. My apologies, man. Really. How glad am I you didn't give up on me." Justin's head shot upward at once, and his heart stopped completely, his bright eyes and every cell in his body riveted to the tall, lean cyclone that had just bolted open the door, blown wildly into the room, and blustered out the fluid string of quick, breathless sentences being hurled at him. He couldn't speak to respond because his brain had shut down too. His hand hung motionless in mid-air where it had been on its way to reaching for the athletic bag on the floor - so that he could leave the gym, of course, which is what he'd had every intention of doing three seconds ago. A thin layer of perspiration glistened on the cyclone's smooth, finely structured facial features, and two loose curls of dark hair stole down from a mass of others onto the high, slick forehead. Justin didn't move, didn't even inhale. He couldn't, didn't need to. Never before had he been aware that deadly forces of nature (such as cyclones) possessed such dramatically colored, deeply inset, outright paralyzing eyes. "Um, you're Justin, right? I busted into room 12, didn't I?" the cyclone asked and spun around for a second to check the number above the door. Say something, asshat! This is him! The guy you spied on last night! JC! Only he's without the bandana this time! Don't just sit there like a catatonic moron! Speak back to him, dorkus, like a normal human being! Or he might fucking disappear! "Oh. Yes. Sorry. Guess I zoned too. I'm Justin." "Cool. And I'm JC. You know, the dumbass who needs to start actually using his wristwatch. Know what I mean? And thanks for hanging out, man. I seriously suck, keeping you waiting like that." The powerful, blustery weather phenomenon had a name now and a gentle, bouncy laugh. He stepped closer to cordially extend a hand. Justin somehow managed to rise to his feet and accept the friendly shake - the warm, firm contact with this new person he'd had on his mind all day and who seemed more strikingly surreal in person than he'd been in Justin's hazy memory and imagination for the past 24 hours. Maybe, he thought - a little overwhelmed - a little caught off-guard - maybe he wasn't ready for this, for the possibilities of the scenario. Maybe he hadn't prepared himself enough for the potential consequences that could follow. And maybe - he could almost hear Lance berating him in his head - maybe he should just get off his ass and go with it. But damn. Look at him. Up close, he's, well, bracingly beautiful. To be a guy. Stunning, just standing there. "Hey. Nice to meet you. And it's okay. You're not that late. I just figured something unexpected came up," he said quietly, trying not to stare. JC backed up only slightly and dropped his bag to the floor by the bench Justin had been seated on. His face wrinkled into a sudden squinch. "Man, it's not okay. It's totally rude. And talk about bad first impressions. Hell, you know you were in here cussing me all out!" He snickered and then took a huge gulp from his bottle of water. Justin was about to argue that there'd been no cussing involved while he'd waited on this court alone - well, except for the cussing he'd done mentally at that bitch fate for screwing with him again, using seconds and minutes. Yes, he almost did. But at that moment, he took his eyes off the view of JC's head thrown back and the sheen of sweat on his throat as he drank and glanced at the object in JC's hand. Then he couldn't hold back a spontaneous, filtered-through-cotton laugh. JC swallowed and looked at him, puzzled. "So you were chewing my no-show ass in here to these walls? Dude, I so don't blame you. I deserve it." "No, man. No, no, no. Not at all." Justin threw his own head back and chuckled again. Funny things, social icebreakers, no? "It's just that, well, you're drinking Deer Park brand water." JC held up the bottle, examined it, and then slyly focused on Justin again, shifting on his feet anxiously. "Um, and that's not kosher? Dude, what's the joke? Fill me in already." "Irony. That's all. See? The deal is that I work for an ad agency. Today, we tried hard to sell Deer Park execs on a new commercial campaign." JC raised his eyebrows, bemused, and laughed. "Oh. So no more 'Tastes like real water oughta'? Man, that was lame anyway. You can help those clowns out with something more clever than that, I hope." Justin nodded, picking up a little more self-confidence as he went along. His heart was beginning to slow down its RPMs (rapid poundings per moment) against both his temples. "Yeah. I think we did exactly that today. One can hope anyway." "So what's your proposed new slogan then? Let's hear it." Justin smiled. He'd come up with this one all by himself. No help from Joe and Wade. "We went with, 'You are what you drink. So drink what you are. Drink more water.' Tada." Taking in another mouthful of sparkly, clear liquid from his bottle, JC mulled over what he'd heard and watched Justin carefully. "Hmm. Way sharper. Appeals more to the intellect. I like it. It works. And actually makes sense too. They should definitely go for it." "Thanks, man," Justin answered modestly and prayed silently to the heavens that he wasn't blushing or fidgeting self-consciously or doing anything else that was terribly dork-like. "Glad I've got your approval at least. If you happen to hear it on the radio soon, you'll know the source." "Hey, do you want one of mine?" JC asked briskly, like a cool stream flowing down a hill, raising his eyebrows. One of your what? Oh, fuck that. I'll take one of whatever you're offering. Hell, yes, I want one. Did you even have to ask? "Pardon?" "A bottle of water. I have some extras in the front pocket of my bag there. Not too chilled anymore, but help yourself to one if you want." "Oh." Justin smiled a little at his own mental perviness, his own wishful thinking. "Thanks a ton. I'm good right now." "Well, then if you're still willing to throw down, how about you show my tardy ass just what kind of game you've got?" Justin laughed softly and darted his gaze away. This guy's eyes, he'd noticed, shone with the same stunning teal-blue as the semi-snug T-shirt covering his chest, as if they were reflecting the color with corresponding luminescence. The subtle copper highlights infused throughout his black-brown waves of hair (which Justin had tragically missed out on in his undercover clandestine mission the previous evening because of that black bandana fashion accessory) teased and mocked the glow from the overhead track lighting. His body, long and lithe, bristled with energy beneath the T-shirt, sleeves rolled up crisply just over the visible rise of his biceps, and black shorts that swayed against the sleek muscles of his thighs. All-over something nice to look at, Justin summed him up unconsciously. But in a totally non-pretentious and completely unaware way. Which made him even more appealing. "Eh, I told you over the phone, JC. I have the equivalent of zero game." JC's smile was half-crooked, and his eyes did a little flashing thing as he easily tossed down the challenge gauntlet. "But that was over the phone. You're here now. And I want to see." "Fine. Then prepare to laugh your ass off." "Ah, I doubt that," JC swept a slow-rolling glance first down and then up Justin's body. The smile flickered as it swelled over his mouth. "You look naturally athletic to me, Justin. And I see lots of wanna-be's almost every day. You look like you've been around a court or two in your time." Damn. What I'd give for that to be a fancy you-checking-me-out look. Thanks be to Lance the fashion whore for these perfect-fitting clothes. 'Cause just damn. Could you maybe size me up again? Please? "Well, looks are sometimes deceiving. I'm warning you, man." "Yeah. Okay. This coming from a dude in, well, professional, um, advertising." JC winked slyly. "There's you some irony, bay-bee." Justin's nose wrinkled involuntarily. Grinning, he leaned down to grab up his racquet from where it stuck up out of a pocket on his bag. Then he met JC's intense, shimmering eyes again. "Okay. You're on. Bring it, bay-bee." ~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~ Justin started out a little unsure at first, a little nervous and shaky on his side of the wide playing area. He'd had to explain to JC that the "courts" he'd been around in his time - actually knew like the back of his hand - were basketball courts and that that was his real game, the one he dominated and kicked butt in. "Fine," JC had shrugged and twirled his racquet elegantly and professionally round-and-round in his loosely clenched fist. "You get cocky and master this sport, dude, and then you can show me the ropes in that one. Deal?" "Sure," Justin had rasped, flinching unexpectedly with the little dip-in-the-road queasy sensation in his stomach at the prospect of adding more "activities" with this guy to his almost non-existent social calendar. "Sure. That can be arranged." But the insecurity and hesitancy didn't take up squatting rights inside Justin. He was able to quickly knock them out and hurdle over them with ease. The physical activity of darting around on the court, the rubber soles of his shoes smacking traction on the shiny floor, and slapping powerfully at the little ball with his racquet began to ease his inhibitions and nerves. And, he might decide later, that it was at this point in the evening that he stopped denying - even to himself - that he wanted something more from this "lesson" than just a friendly game. Especially when JC held up his hand to stop the action at one point, trotted over to Justin's side of the court, and demonstrated - rather thoroughly - how Justin could get more "punch" out of his low-to-the-floor backhand swing if he made just a couple of "minor adjustments" to his moves. "Here. Like this. Let me show you," JC feathered out in a warm breath against the back of Justin's neck, easing up behind, flanking him with both legs, barely rubbing his hip over Justin's, reaching around and holding Justin's forearm with a gentle grip while slowly guiding his swing of the racquet across the front of Justin's body in a downward sweeping motion. "See how that works?" he whispered breathily at Justin's ear. "If I'm standing on my side over there, and I snap the little fucker against the wall and it comes at you from that angle, you jump on it, man, and fire it right back with this underside of the strings in a mean strong stroke like this so that it hits that corner of the wall, I'm telling you that thing will bounce so far out of my reach I'll never catch up to the bitch before it touches down like lightning just in bounds and then rolls away from me. Your point all the way, bay-bee. Got it?" "Um, I think so," Justin had murmured. Because what he'd really "got" was hot and tingly all over, feeling JC's presence, JC's revved up enthusiasm and energy, that palatable heat so close to his own, up and down the length of their parallel, very similar frames, breathing in JC's scent so near which was fresh and clean but also salty and rich, like the roiling ocean on a mid-afternoon in July. The sensation, the allure of being this near, very real and filling his head and his bloodstream, had been like spinning. Or falling. Or spinning and falling. Justin's pulse had roared with unmistakable, accurate pings on the ol' homo sonar this time. And those pings kept echoing over and over in his head pleasantly. "Good. See? I knew you'd catch on quick. You're a fast learner with these sports things," JC had said and brushed a swift, shivery touch of his fingertips across Justin's shoulders before turning and bounding across the floor again, gracefully, to get back to his half of the court. Then he'd jogged backward and winked. "Okay, dude. If you're ready, let's rock and roll." So Justin loosened up more, found his groove, and developed himself a rhythm as their simple volleying back and forth sped up and the competitive spirit and witty banter between them easily took on a life of its own. Maybe he was a natural athletic type. Or a fast learner. Either way, he wasn't sucking out here at this new game like he had - with sweaty-palms and racing-heart - feared he would. He was holding his own. Better than average, actually. And he was enjoying himself too. Again, better than average, actually. JC's fierce drive and contagious energy had infected him from the inside out. And how much fun was it to see this racquetball expert chase his sharp side-smack serves all over the court, surprised at Justin's newfound zeal and moxie, tanned flesh and dark hair glistening gorgeously with perspiration. How arousing in every way was it to watch this guy move that fine limber body, gliding swiftly and deftly from one black foul line to another, wiry and wired on adrenaline, a thing of cool, lean beauty. How stimulating was it each time their hips or thighs or even arms bumped against each other in an intense and physical point block or an attempt to race for the ball, neither seeming to mind the rough contact of their warm, wet flesh. Could it be that we're actually compatible? At least somewhat? At least in this little game? "Dude! You do this all the damn time, don't you? Come on out with it! You're hustling me, right?" JC spat out, hand on his hip, gulping in some air and laughing. "Nah. Seriously, I don't. And I'm not hustling you, man." Justin chuckled. "I haven't played since high school." "And when was that? Like last month?" JC giggled again. Justin grinned, pacing off his own juiced-up muscle tension, keeping his eyes on JC. "Please. Get real. More like five years ago. Even before I went to the university." "So you haven't gotten on a court since then? Man, you've got excellent reflexes and sharp senses. And you can move. I'm impressed. It's been, like, eons since one of my clients gave me a run for their money like that." Bashfully, Justin shrugged at the indirect flattery. "Thanks. But I was never really that good before. Guess I just got lucky tonight. Ye gods helping me out or something crazy like that, you know. Maybe your guru vibes just magically rubbed off on me, making my game look lots better than it is." JC exhaled audibly and grabbed at the hem of his teal T-shirt, lifting it upward to swipe his sweaty, ridged cheeks. Justin couldn't restrain the soft wince that came out of him at the glimpse of the tanned, muscled abdomen under there and that thin strip of wispy hairs that trailed down the flat planes into the waistband of JC's shorts. And he gawked. If JC noticed, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he dropped the cotton shirt and winked again casually. "Ah, you know how it is. You play the game once or twice, and you can always pick it right back up again later at the drop of a hat. Like, say, riding a bicycle." And as he sauntered over to his bag on the sidelines, he added softly over his shoulder: "Or, you know, like sex." Justin's stomach attempted a cartwheel but ended up falling all over itself sloppily inside as the murmured suggestive afterthought filled his ears and the sight of JC bending over liquidly for another bottle of Deer Park filled his head. Or for something. It didn't fucking matter what. The guy was bending over, for Christ's sake. And damn, was the view nice. Shorts tightening nicely around the smooth curves of his ass. And had he just whispered the word "SEX"? Oh. Lord. Help. Me. "Um, yeah. I guess you're right. It comes right back to you. Like a learned instinct or something," Justin answered very absently, not giving his words much thought. And they floated out quiet and drifty, like a softly-sung lyric. I'd bet big money that you probably know a whole hell of a lot about sex, now don't you, Mr. Chasez? Looking like that. Damn. Do you, by chance, have a little business card you leave around on community boards for THAT service? Then, as he was catching his breath, something hit Justin blazingly head-on in the analyzing, rational center of his brain, kick-starting the doubts all over again. Maybe he shouldn't have been so cocky and competitive and performed so damn well out there tonight like he did. Because, hello? If you know what you're doing and you're fairly decent at doing it, why would you ever need a personal trainer to show you how to do it? Had he just blown his chance with this "instructor"? How in the crap was he ever going to hook up with the guy again now? When he surely couldn't pretend he needed more guidance. Damn, Timberlake. What are you? Mentally handicapped? Guess you never heard of "faking it," have you, moron? Duh. Feeling his high hopes pierced with a fine-point needle and loosing substance in a slow, steady leak, he forced his legs to take him toward his own bag at the bench. As much as he didn't want to, he looked down at his watch and gloomily took in the fact that it was now 9:05 p.m. Time to go for real. He'd have to come up with a way to prolong this, to squeeze more out of it without coming off like a total desperate dork. "So hey, man. Looks like it's about that magical time," JC turned and said, between gulps of the spring water. "If you want to shower and clean up, knock yourself out. You know where everything is, right?" "Yeah, I do. Thanks, man," Justin answered quietly, suddenly remembering Lance's raunchy predictions about communal locker room showers and skimpy towels that fall to the floor easily and young, naked, sudsy, slick, wet, well-toned bodies………. "I need to drop off a couple of things in the office in the back, check for messages, and then I'm hitting 'em too." "Oh. Okay. Sure," Justin mumbled, trying not to sound too let-down over his sunken shower steam fantasies and giving in to the idea storming his head that this guy simply wasn't interested in him as anything more than a client. Because, well, face it. He was avoiding being near the showers while Justin was there, wasn't he? Yes. So obviously indifferent, so clearly not interested. "Hey, this was a great learning experience for me, JC. Thanks for the awesome game." "Yeah, I told you you're a natural at it, man. I'd even call you good. And trust me. I've seen a lot of not good." JC laughed. "Too good to be wasting anymore of your time on lessons then, I guess. Sorry about that," Justin blurted out, not seeing a reason not to. Assuming, sadly, that all was lost at this point. "Oh," JC said bluntly, as if this had surprised him. Or maybe disappointed him. "But see? You're not 'wasting' my time, man. You're actually, like, paying for it. You know? But if this was enough for you, then that's cool. Totally up to you. You've got my digits if you change your mind." In his own against-the-clock anxiousness, Justin completely missed the disappointment in the tone, overlooked the subtle offer to keep the communication open. "Ah, speaking of that………." JC looked at him sideways again, almost confused, mostly hopeful. "Speaking of what?" "The 'paying for it' part. What do I owe you?" JC smiled, darting his eyes away from Justin's gaze and swatting the air between them with a flip of his wrist. "Oh, that. Don't sweat it, man. I'll send you an invoice if you're cool with that. They, you know, help me out with the record-keeping stuff for taxes and all that, which I'm pretty shitty at." "That's fine. However you like to settle up." Justin sat down slowly, helpless with the feeling that he was really wasting time now. Or running out of it, running out of last-minute, last-ditch chances to do more, wondering still if he was just running in place for a guy who wouldn't even look twice at him. He reached down for his own gear, with the sound of his heartbeat thudding in his eardrum. This wasn't anything in hell like riding a bicycle. This was like swimming in quicksand. Had he been off the social scene for so long that now all he could do was draw cruel blanks on the sketch pad in his head? Was he that lame? "So? Do you, like, have a card or something with your address or e-mail on it, Mr. Ad-Man?" JC snickered, flaring his eyes back over to Justin. "That might help the getting-invoice-to-you process. I'm just saying." "Duh." Justin smacked his forehead with the base of his palm. "Sorry, man. You probably think I'm the dumbest blonde ever, and I'm not even very blond anymore. Sure, I've got a card in here somewhere." The exchange, from one warm hand to the other, of the small ivory Austin-Adair business card was a quick and routine four seconds in Real-World Existence. But in the confined universe of that racquetball court room where they stood alone in front of each other, the brief moments became slow-motion electrified flashes of white-hot time, alive and thrumming like a series of pulses or radioactive waves, fingers smoothing over fingers, blue eyes locking with blue eyes. Four burning seconds. All the time necessary to alter a world or two. "Thanks," JC hissed, but didn't glance away, didn't look down at the card. "Yeah. And thank you again for the go around the court. It was wild and invigorating. More so than I was expecting," Justin breathed out softly, holding the other pair of eyes with his own. "Well, for that, I should be thanking you. I haven't had such a damn workout from a student in, like, forever, dude. Like I said, it was cool to have a challenge." Say something else, Timberlake! Close the deal! "Yeah, okay. Nice meeting you. I'd better be hitting those showers now. I reek." No! Not THAT, you horse's ass! No wonder he'll be glad to see you and your negative brain cell count get the hell out of here. Jesus. "Nah, you don't. Not as much as I do," JC laughed sleekly one more time, a tiny flame prancing in his black pupils. Then he held out his hand for another shake. "Nice meeting you too, man. Sorry again I cut our time short." "Ah, it's okay. I had fun." Considering himself dismissed (and justly so), Justin accepted the friendly gesture with a waning half smile and shoved his racquet into a side pocket of his bag. Already fighting off the little demons screeching in his head, he hoisted the strap onto his shoulder and reluctantly crossed the room to the door. The bag suddenly felt much heavier than when he'd arrived. Or maybe, after the rollercoaster ride he'd just gotten off of, he felt much heavier than when he'd arrived. All the way back down the stairs to the changing area, he couldn't completely convince himself that there hadn't been something there with this guy. A flicker or two? Hadn't there been? Despite his own obnoxious, dumbassed behavior? They'd connected at least in some small way, hadn't they? Or was he high and delusional? Had the JC character stopped thinking of him two seconds after he'd walked out the door? And why hadn't Justin said or done something more to test the waters? Because he was reigning Stupid Shit Supreme of all Life Forms for freezing up and not doing something more. For not insuring that he'd see this unforgettable JC again. Soon. "You've got my digits if you change your mind." "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he cursed himself, the cumulative excitement of the night still slithering through his veins. ~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~ JC waited 'til he was safely alone in the deserted administrative offices in the back of the health club before he let his guard down totally and sucked in a few deep, desperate breaths, releasing them slowly so that maybe the process would calm him down. His senses were still hopped up to maximum levels, and his juices were still hot and flowing through him from the energetic match that had blind-sided him from out of nowhere and also from………. Whoa. That Justin dude. Where the hell had he come from? And couldn't a guy get a bit of a warning first before somebody like that just up and lightning-bolted into your day? Whoa. Tall and slender, no wasted flesh anywhere on that long, lean frame. Broad shoulders, toned abs, narrow hips. Sandy-brown hair cropped short. And eyes so cool-blue and transluscent- bright they didn't even fucking look real. And that mouth. The things that could be said about that beautiful mouth. Those full, pouty red lips. The way they swelled and glistened when the guy laughed or spoke. How perfect they were on that smooth, angular face. How they made his boyish cheeks look rounder and rosier when he smiled. And damn. What they must feel like, taste like. Just whoa. Definitely a looker. One hell of something nice on the ol' eyeballs. Takes care of himself, likes sports, got brains enough to go to college and get himself a decent job, for Christ's sake, has a winner of a personality, non-wimpy handshake. All of that in one neat, solid, well-built package. Wow. Dude had to have a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. No. Hold up. There were definite vibes coming off him. He's into guys. You felt it. He felt it. You were feeling each other. Subtle, but nice. It was there, man. In the air. Crisp and clear. "So yeah. He's got to have a boyfriend. No fucking way he's walking around single, man. Not that one." "And how would you know that? Show me some solid clues, some evidence, how 'bout it?" "The dude's got everything going for him. He's even got a snazzy, big-shot job in advertising. He's a somebody." "But maybe the one thing he doesn't have is a boyfriend. And that's why he was here tonight. Did you think of that, smarty pants?" "So what is this place now? A damn pickup bar? A meat market?" "Sometimes, yes, it is. Especially over in the open workout area. All those exercise queens lifting their macho weights, buffing and flexing for each other. But that's not what I meant. I meant this guy was here branching out, trying something new. Because he wants to meet new folks and do new things." "Hah. Right. He's on his way home to his awesome, gorgeous, muscle-man lover right now." "Call him and find out." "Call him? The fuck?" "You got his business card, didn't you? Hello? At least you weren't too dazzled-n-dazed to think of that." "Oh, yeah. Go, me." "So call him. What the hell are you waiting for?" "Shut the fuck up! I can't call him now! It's, like, been seven minutes since he left. I'm not that much of a loser." "But you know damn well you want to. Go ahead. Call him, chickenshit." JC sat down on an uncluttered area of the desk in front of him and rolled his eyes at his ridiculous internal conversation with himself. Then he pulled the card from where he'd stashed it in a small compartment of his bag and stared at it. Exactly like he'd tried not to stare at this Timberlake cat during the entire evening. And he can't deny that, yes, he'd wanted to. Wanted to just stop and take him all in, slowly swallowing, digesting, savoring all he could. There they were: all of the guy's personal numbers and an e-mail address. The window of opportunity hadn't shut down completely when he'd let the guy stroll off the court and out of the room a few moments ago without stopping him with some lame, last-minute excuse to make him stay. Yes, like he'd wanted to. He can't deny that either. Less than a damn hour spent alone with this dude, and he'd already gotten up under JC's skin, seeping into and flowing along with the currents of his blood. Something about that energy and charisma he filled the room with. Less than a damn hour. Whoa. No denying that. Just take a sec or two and feel the rhythm he left behind. It was crazy. "Call him, Chasez. When's the last time you ran across somebody you even wanted to call, man? And when will you ever again run across another 'somebody' with the 'everything-going-for-him' setup? Hmm?" "Stop nagging me already? Jesus Christ! I can't just call him with absolutely nothing to say, dude. I have to be smooth about it." "Not an acceptable excuse. You'll think of something." "You're getting on my fucking nerves, man." "I AM your fucking nerves, man. Stop fighting me. I'm not going anywhere. So call the boy." "Maybe. Shut the hell up so I can think about it with some damn peace and quiet around this joint. Can you manage that much?" "Well. All the same. You'd better get off OUR ass and call that sexy boy."