The phone caller in question wasn't, after all, JC Chasez, as Justin had hoped it would be. It turned out to be Michael Sciola, Vice President of Marketing over at Deer Park Water headquarters. And Justin found himself extremely glad that he'd filtered the shaky anticipation out of his voice before he answered. Was it too short notice to ask if Justin and the key members of the Creative Department team could join the Deer Park folks for a business lunch at Watershed near Studio City? Yes, today, if that's not too terribly much trouble. Around noonish? That wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience? Are you sure? "Of course, of course! We can swing that! No problem at all!" Justin assured Michael the VP in his most confident public relations tone. "Studio City is only about 20 minutes from here. We'll see you guys there." He sighed silently into the phone because he knew that a spontaneous, upbeat meeting called by a prospective new client so quickly after a pitch like this meant that the jury was in. And it was good news rather than a rejection. Bad news wouldn't require so much fanfare, wouldn't involve so many people from both companies. And besides, Sciola had even used the dandy little tell-tale metaphor "We'd like to get the ball bouncing on this project ASAP, if you catch my drift, Justin," which had 1) indicated subtly that they, indeed, wanted to move ahead with the ad campaign they'd been offered by Justin's team, and 2) reminded Justin with blinding clarity of the "bouncing ball" game he and JC had played the night before. Or, more specifically, had reminded him of JC himself. A topic that had, not surprisingly, been haunting Justin's thoughts all morning. So, yes. The lunch hookup was a definite go, he promised the VIP VP with a competent and positive ring to his voice. It would serve as a lovely distraction to focus his mind on too. At least until the afternoon. ~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~ On the way back from Watershed, Johnny Wright (who got to attend big lunches like this one because he was Austin-Adair's CEO) chose to ride with Joe so that they could make their usual sweet-tooth pit-stop at Starbucks' drive-through window. So Justin drove himself and used the time to phone the office on his cell and broadcast the great news in advance that the Deer Park account was officially and exclusively theirs. He always enjoyed lifting their spirits with positive reinforcements - and giving them any excuse at all to celebrate after work at the closest Happy Hour they could find. "Well, isn't that just fucking fantastic. Won. Der. Ful. Just means more work crossing my desk," Lance growled when Justin rang his direct line first from the car. "Means more bonuses and bigger salary increases too, man. Look on the bright side." "Well, here's the bright side of my ass, Timberlake. Look on that." "Nice, Lance. Very 12 years old." "I will be the one that has to revamp the Deer Park Web site once they incorporate their slick new tag line your creative genius came up with for them. And imagine how much ass-kissing I'll have to do to appease the fussy nitpickers too. So yay for me. Whoopee," he droned. Glaring out his windshield, Justin smirked. The cars in front of him were creeping along way too slowly for his taste, and he was way too antsy to be sitting still. "Lance, riddle me something. You get laid every damn night, and you're still the grumpiest person ever. Whassup with that?" Through the phone, Lance sighed unpleasantly. "Domestic issues." "What domestic issues?" "Jesse called and said Foster is missing. The little shit got out of the house somehow when they were coming back from a walk in the park and went tearing off down the street. He's loose in the neighborhood now, and I'm just in a pissy-ass mood. Even more so than usual." "Aww, man. That bites. Poor pooch. You've got a right to be rattled. Those dogs of yours. Feisty little beasts, just like you." Justin laughed a little, trying to cheer Lance up. "But he'll wander home eventually. He's gone AWOL before, right? "Yeah. But it still worries me. Fucking mutt," Lance groaned. "If he gets his running-away ass hit by a car before Jesse can track him down, man……" "Lance, don't even think that. Be positive. He'll be there wagging his tail and waiting for you when you get home." "Yeah, okay. I'm counting on it. Congrats anyway on scoring the new account. I knew you'd win 'em over." "Thanks. I'm planning to take you and the Jessman to dinner to thank you for all your advice and help. You pulled me through, buddy." "Hey, man. While on the subject of scoring, did you call up that dead-sexy sports guy yet? Like I told you to?" Justin rolled his eyes and almost banged on the horn at the stationary sea of cars and SUVs all around him. Why the hell was there traffic in LA at two in the bloody afternoon? "I've been working, Lance. No. I haven't called him yet." "You snooze, you lose." "Thanks, Mama Bass. You can shut up now. I've got to go. Can you put me through to Trace?" "No. I'll get troll cooties." "Lance." "Hold on." "Hey, buddy?" Justin softened his already soft voice. "Chin up about Foster. Okay? He'll find his way back to where he belongs. It'll work out." "I hope so, J. After we lost Jackson……….I don't want to go through that heartache again." "I know you don't. Stay positive. Love ya, man. See ya this afternoon." "Yeah, thanks. Me too. Now let me transfer you to that walking, barely talking buffoon you call your admin assistant. Over and out." Justin's impatience with the gridlock of automobiles on the road with him swelled as he waited for Trace to pick up the buzzing phone. And he made a mental note to contact whoever was responsible for Austin-Adair's "on-hold" musical entertainment. Those gruesome 98 Degrees losers and their nauseating vintage pop would have to get the damn axe. "JT! Dude! That's jacked up to the max! Awesome, man! Congradle-ations!" Trace spat into the phone excitedly when he heard the news. And Justin could picture him actually spitting unintentionally and then swiping the sleeve of his shirt across his messy mouth. "You snagged 'em, bossman! You da man!" "Well, it was a joint effort, Trace." "A joint? Where, man? You got one?" Trace guffawed wildly. "Aww, I'm juss kiddin'." "What I meant was that the whole team helped out to 'snag' Deer Park. Including you. Not just me," Justin explained slowly and rolled his eyes. "Well, that is truly awesome, dude. I am psyched for real. Major congrats in order!" "Thanks, Trace. I appreciate that a ton. So look. I'm on my way back to the office, but I'm stuck in some insane traffic that's hardly moving. Any, um, messages for me while I've been out?" "I'll check." Trace fumbled around on his desk, audibly shuffling papers, for several seconds. Which, to Justin, felt like several thousand years. He held his breath, anxiously hoping. "Nah, JT. I don't see any. It's all good." "Okay. Thanks." Justin sighed, disappointed. "I'll check my voice mail while I sit here in this crap going nowhere fast." Quite disappointed. Because he'd seriously been wishing for a miracle in the form of a call from………. "Dude! Wait! Here's one! I guess I, like, forgot! It's from……….Lemme see here……….Damn, if I can't even read my own scribble! Haha……….No. Here we go………Dude's name was Jay……….Jay………." Justin froze, breathless, and simultaneously felt himself gripping the tiny cell phone and the leather steering wheel way too tightly as Trace stumbled over his own atrocious handwriting. If he could have, he may have reached through and strangled the guy at the moment, for making the nerve-wrecking suspense ten times more unbearable. "Can you make it out, Trace?" He hissed the whisper, despising the drama he'd gotten himself involved in. But then again not despising it at all. "Yeah, man. I think it's coming to me now. Starts with a J……….Oh, Jameson! That's it! Your hairdresser dude. He called to remind you he's skipping out of town in two weeks. Said he's going on one of them gay cruises up in San Fran-Dicks-go, and I was like, 'Dude! Lay off the TMI! 'Cause I don't even wanna know! You hear what I'm saying, JT, man? Hahaha!" "Um, yeah. Okay," Justin muttered edgily and quietly through clenched teeth. But he had heard very little of what Trace had been saying after the name on the message didn't include a "Cee" following the "Jay." Yeah. Thanks a bunch, fate. You fucking tease. THAT was fun. Then, as if fate herself were arguing back at him, his cell phone beeped at him with a second call coming through. "Trace, I need to let you go, man. Somebody else is buzzing in." "Is it your moms?" Trace blurted out boldly. "Tell here I said 'hi,' yo. She's a sweetie. She needs to visit you, like, more at this joint, man." Unable to fight off a lingering surge of hopefulness that this might be him, Justin blocked out Trace's voice and pulled the phone from his ear long enough to check the lit display. "No. Not my mom. It's my friend Britney," he said with a sinking tone of dejection that blew right past Trace completely unnoticed. "Really? Aww, man! She's hot! A total babe!" Trace practically squealed into the phone. "JT, you think she'd go out with me, dude? Do ya?" Justin repressed a giggle at the surreally comical idea. "Uh, I think she's seeing somebody right now, man. But I'll check and get back to you. Cool?" "Cool beans, man. I tell you what. I could smear some of that 'tween two slices of white bread and eat it up in a heartbeat, I'm saying. Wow. Brit-ney. Yeah." Justin laughed. He couldn't help it. And it felt good, relieving. "Okay. I'll, um, pass that along too, Trace. I'm sure she'll be thrilled." "Dude! No! Don't tell her that! Jesus! Just feel her out for me, dawg. Hold up. I know you're not into the whole feeling chicks out and all that. My bad. I know you like dudes. But you know what I mean. Like see if she'll hook up with us tonight after work and party-hardy 'cause you know we'll all be kicking it somewheres after your big win today, bossman. And it's, like, TGIF to boot! Ask her, man." Trace pleaded and snickered excitedly. "I'll see what I can do. I promise. But I've got to jump off here and catch her. See ya whenever I finally get back there." "Later tater, dude." "Hey, Brit. Long time no see your pretty face, babe," Justin purred into the phone after he'd skillfully glanced down at it again and thumb-stabbed the appropriate button to get to her call. "Well, you could've seen it last night at karaoke if you'd graced us with your magnificent presence," she retorted girlishly but snidely and smacked a virtual air kiss into the receiver. "If that was your way of saying you miss me, then same back at ya." "Sorry. I couldn't make karaoke. I had a prior commitment." "I heard. Wade said you had a date," she sing-songed in her practiced-petulant tone. "Yeah, and Wade talks a lot of shit, babe. Most of which is none of his damn business. Including what the fuck I did last night," Justin snarled quickly, ill at the traffic, at the mention of Wade, at everything in general at that moment. "Whoa. What crawled up YOUR snatch, sweetheart? Is my fave ad exec PMSing today? Or is the problem maybe that nothing has crawled up your snatch in way too long? Hmm?" Justin sighed tiredly. Same familiar banter with Britney. Even though they hadn't really talked in quite some time. She knew him so well. They could so easily fall right back into the same pattern and rhythm with each other. Just like, well, riding a bicycle. Meep. "Sorry, babe. My mood just turned foul. Traffic in LA sucks ass. I didn't mean to take it out on you. Sorry." "Me bringing up Wade? Did that sour your mood, Juss?" "No," he grunted. "Sweetheart, are you still holding a grudge about what happened with him at your company Christmas party? Are you, Justin? 'Cause that was, like, months ago." "No! I'm not! Damnit!" Justin snapped. "Bygones are bygones. It's all forgotten." "Is it, hon? For real?" "Of course. It is for me. But sometimes I get the weird feeling Robson's still dwelling on it in his twisted head. He never really says anything outright 'cause he won't, you know, provoke anything in front of everyone else. But there's his smug, nasty little comments and he beady little eyes staring me down, glowering at me……….I know he hasn't totally dropped it or fucking let it go." "So you two have strained relations between you at work?" Britney asked softly, concerned. "Nah, not so much. We get along okay. Superficially, you know." Justin paused for emphasis. "Even now after he went and swooped in and took you away from me." Then he chuckled dryly. "Oh, give me a break, Justin! It was not like that. He didn't -" "Yes, he did, Brit. And he did it deliberately too, babe. Because you were close to me. I know Wade. That's totally his weasely style, his ultimate plan. He'll be working his voodoo spells on Lance next. I already see it starting up." "Why? Just because you turned-" "Britney, do we HAVE to talk about that? Please." "Well, hell hath no fury, I guess. And plus there's the fact that Wade's a slug, Juss. And he didn't swoop me away or cast witchy spells on me either. I just……….I don't know. He was fun at first. Maybe. But I'm still your friend. Your bestest female friend. At least I hope I am." "Of course you are, babe." "You haven't replaced me?" "You haven't betrayed me?" Justin snickered. "No. You ass. I still love you. Muchly." "And you're still the sweetest, prettiest face on the whole west coast." Britney puffed a brusque little sound into the phone, and Justin knew she was dragging her stubby fingers through her long, blond hair. "Leave it to a gay guy to keep mentioning my damn pretty face. I have other body parts too, you know. Girly parts, maybe. But they ain't too shabby." Justin laughed. "I know. And there are plenty of not-gay guys out there who appreciate all of your total-body hotness, babe. Trust me. I see them gawking at you." "Flattery, Justin, will get you everywhere." "Tell me something, girl. How've you been and why is Wade a slug today? Has he done something to you I'll have to hurt him for?" She yawned lazily. "Eh. I've been okay. Nothing terribly exciting. Wade keeps bugging the shit out of me to sleep with him. As if." Justin paused again, puzzled, and hardly noticed the sludge of traffic outside his car beginning to move slowly. "Um, call me crazy, babe, but I just figured you were already sleeping with him, Brit. You two seem so tight." "Oh, God, Justin! Not THAT tight! Ugh!" she shrilled back in his ear. And he winced. "You are crazy! I can do a crapload better than Wade! Wade's the kind of guy whose idea of romantic is taking me to the bowling alley with a bucket of greasy chicken and then seeing how many times he can wink at me and ask me to handle his ball for him. Yeah. He's about a millionth as cool as he thinks he is. Gross." Justin giggled. "Um, you two have been bowling?" "Once," she whispered shamefully. "Wow. Now that's classy, babe. Got yourself a real wiener there, Brit." "Oh, fuck off, Justin. He's a pig. I would never. Besides, after what you told me happened at that Christmas party, I didn't think he even liked-" "Bri, don't. Okay? Drop it, please. Just don't even bring that up again, okay? I'd rather not fucking talk about it." "Fine. Whatever you say. Sorry," she huffed and then snorted. "Consider the subject changed. So how've you been lately? And when are we going out clubbing again? Just you and me?" Justin would have answered her in detail, would have filled her in on all the recent goings-on of his life. However, just then, his phone beeped yet again with yet another incoming call. Too irritable and annoyed with being stalled and delayed in the gridlock for so long, he didn't even have the energy to muster his hopes up again that this time the caller might possibly be someone beyond the ordinary. Fuck expecting a miracle. That's so not my luck. Fuck it. "Brit, I hate to cut you off, babe, but I've got to go. Somebody's beeping in on the other line. Can I call you back? We'll set up a date to go out. I swear." "Sure, Juss. But you'd better call me back. No standing me up." "Promise. See ya, babe." Anticipating another dismal disappointment or routine familiar number on the phone display, Justin bit at the inside of his lip and tapped the Flash button to receive the new call. When the little digits burned into the small screen and burned into his reality, he almost choked with the series of hot breaths that hitched up on top of each other in his windpipe. 555-0131 Jesus H. Christ. Bloody hell. That's HIS number. Fuck. Me.