It’s ninety degrees and humid in lovely New York today, so oppressive that I can feel a line of sweat forming along my back and under my arms despite this morning’s cold shower.  I couldn’t finish my coffee, which means that my hangover is still ranging when I climb into my car.

I’m the label owner.  From experience, I know damned well that I could be a figurehead.  I have enough underlings panting to impress me that I could let them take care of everything for me.

Fuck that.  We’re not so big yet that I can’t keep at least try to keep an eye on everything.  I don’t trust anybody’s judgement but my own, and I’d sooner sell the company than sign some of the people who almost make it in every time I take a day off.

As if the hangover and the almost oppressive heat wasn’t bad enough, someone’s parked in my spot, the one that’s so carefully designated as mine that only a blind man could miss it.  There’s a confederate flag bumper sticker plastered on the back window.  The man- the kid, really- leaning against the hood stares at me when I pull into the empty space across the way, his face made even uglier by the expression on it.  Something about the pride sticker over my license plate, I suppose.

He thinks he’s intimidating.  How… cute.

His expression shifts a little when he sees the three piece suit, turning shady.  He straightens a little and waits for me to get to him.  When I get close enough, he shoves a grubby hand at me and says tersely,  “King Hardcore.  I have a meeting.”

King Hardcore.  Lord save me.  But my mother raised me to be polite, so I take his hand and resist the urge to wipe the dirt away when he lets go.  “James Bass.”

His eyes flare open, dart to the sign over where his car is parked.  He was expecting me to be a suit, not the owner.  I see.  Ducking his head, he says,  “Didn’t want to walk.”

I’d almost respect his balls if I hadn’t seen this too many times before.  Too many kids coming in here, convinced that they’re invaluable and that we need them more than they need us, that they’re God’s greatest gift to music executives.  Too many kids raised on ‘Behind the Music’, I guess.  Bad behavior sells more records than good music.

Yeah.  I learned differently, but then I’m from a different time.

I give him my best blank stare and polite, ruthless smile.  “You want your meeting, then you’d best move your truck.”

He tilts his chin and sticks out his lower lip.  I remember that expression on a different face, adolescent defiance.  I remember that it was endearing at the time.  And I remember exactly when those looks stopped.

They’re not quite as endearing anymore.

“I’ll park where I want.  You can’t afford to lose me.”  And the look on the kid’s face says that he believes it, that he can intimidate me into backing down.  “I’m going to go platinum.”

“Fine.”  The accent’s starting to slip through.  I clear my throat, try again.  “You move your truck, or you go platinum elsewhere.”

He sputters, eyes going wide, and I nudge past him to the doors.  I can see his reflection in the windows, mouth opening and closing.  It’s not a nice test, and we’re not going to be friends afterwards, but better now than when we’ve invested in him too much to lose.

I don’t think we would have passed the test, once upon a time.  I don’t think I would have given this test, once a time.  But that was back when I was young and stupid, and still had the energy to get into pissing contests with the talent.

There are too many young poor kids with potential out there, too many who are more interested in the music than the fame or the money, to bother with punk kids too impressed with their own importance.  That’s all.

And if maybe my standards are too high…  well.  There are reasons.

C’mon, kid, just move the fucking truck.  I’m not in the mood.

For a second, he wavers towards the driver’s side.  I can feel his eyes on my back, pressing in.  He opens the door, and climbs inside.  The truck starts with a roar that I think is supposed to startle me.  The engine growls, almost but not quite loud enough that I can’t hear him.

His voice is low and scratchy, with a very deliberate whine, as he sings at my back,  “If you wanna fly, come and take a ride-“

Fuck.

My head whips around, and my expression must be pretty damned honest because he falters for a second.  Then, face drawing into a sneer, he howls out the open window, “Digital, digital getdown, just you and me-”

He keeps it up as he pulls the truck into reverse and whips out, narrowly missing my car.  He waves his middle finger at me, singing loudly and off key.  “We can get together naturally or we can get together on the digital screen…”

It fades, mercifully, as he pulls out of the parking lot.  I wonder if I could put a rock through his back windshield from here.

My hands are shaking, white knuckled around the handle of the door.  I think I’m breathing too fast.

God.  How long has it been since someone else remembered that?

All my deliberate attempts to cover it up, changing the label name, using my first name, dyeing my hair and wearing suits, snarling at anybody who mentions it to my face, work almost all the time.  Have worked for almost two years now.

Not long enough by half.

I scrub my face with my hands and sigh.  A few deep breaths, a count of ten, and I’m just composed enough to walk in the door.

The desk secretary looks at me, wide-eyed, from behind the desk.  I offer her my best smile and nod.  “Good morning, Mrs. Wood.”

Mrs. Wood just fidgets, eyeing me for a second before she smiles warily.  “Hello, sir.”

“Any news?”  Work is safe.  I can feel the urge to bolt, to go back home and drink until that mocking voice fades, starting to slide away.  Calm.  Yes.  I can do this.

Casting a few sidelong glances at the parking lot, Mrs. Wood flips open her schedule and begins to read off the day’s appointments in a monotone.  She hesitates over King Hardcore, and erases the appointment almost gratefully when I shake my head.  Once the list has run out, she sets it aside and asks politely, “Will that be all, sir?”

“No.  Thank you.  Just call if anything else pops up.”

“Yes, sir. Your eight o’clock is already waiting in your office.  Would you like me to bring in some coffee-“

“What?”  I don’t have an eight o’clock.  If I had an eight o’clock, I’d have been here by six.

She turns those wide eyes to me again.  “He said you’d be expecting him.”

Great.  Another prospect, getting pushy.  The headache is getting worse.  I rub at the bridge of my nose, though I doubt it’ll help, and give him a weak grin.  “Oh.  Yes.  Okay.  Don’t bother with the coffee, by the way.  I’ve got a machine in my office.”

That gets me a shy grin.  It’s a joke between us, almost, the fact that I never let her bring me coffee.  I’ve got two legs, and I’ll never be so busy I need a woman older than my mother to get it  for me.  I hired a secretary, not a housewife.

I smile back at her, and manage to keep it on long enough to get out of sight before it cracks.  My office is tucked back in a labyrinth of hallways, mostly to prevent the type of visitor I’m headed to see from getting in.  By the time I reach my door, I’ve got the game face on and plenty of prime words to convince him never to try this again.  The knob twists under my hand and I flow into the room, ready to start with something cutting about how an appointment would have been appreciated, and-

And.

Oh, God.

Justin fucking Timberlake is sitting in the chair in front of my desk, easy as can be, invasive as always.  He has his feet up on my desk and my coffee cup in his hand.  His eyes dart up, catch mine, and he smiles.

Two years.  Two years since…

“Lance,” he says, smooth and soft as you please.  Last time we talked, his voice was rough from smoke and screaming.  He stands, and I back up a step.  He ignores that, if he sees it at all.  “Hey, man.  It’s been a while.”

“Justin.  I’m-“  I’m sorry I kept hanging up on you.  I’m sorry I switched phone numbers.  I’m sorry you were the one who never gave up.  I’m sorry you’re here.  I’m sorry he’s not.  I-  “Hello.”

He nods and looks me over, hands folded in front of him.  The skin is a little shinier than normal, patches of burn scars.  They go up to mid-arm.  I remember that.  “You look… the suit is nice.”

Justin attempting to be tactful is a sad thing.  It acts like a splash of cold water in the face, waking me up.  I straighten, moving my hand off the doorknob, and give him my best business smile.  Apparently it doesn’t look too different from the one he’s used to, because his face lights up in that dazzling grin and he surges forward.  Before I can stop him, his arms are wrapping around me so tight it threatens to crack my ribs.

It would be so easy to sink into it and accept the homecoming.  He smells like leather and smoke, coffee and the same cologne his mother gave him for Christmas when he was sixteen.  He’s warm and young and healthy, and so naïve it makes me want to laugh.  At least he got through whole.  At least he made it.

It takes him a second to realize that I’m not hugging him back.

He lets go of my jacket slowly and leaves his hands on my sides, leaning back to look at me.  His eyes are huge.  “Lance,” he says softly, and that note of uncertainty in his voice breaks the spell.

Hmm.  Funny, you’d think he’d know better than anyone that sometimes confidence is the only thing that lets you keep your hands on the wheel.  Sad that he’s forgotten, seeing as he’s the one who taught me.

Step back, away from his hands.  Give him the blank executive stare.  Turn away.  Go get coffee.  Choreography.  It would be easier if I couldn’t feel his eyes boring a hole in my back, but okay.

The coffee gives me somewhere else to look while I talk.  I know what look will be on his face: hurt sulk, number 325, reserved for when he doesn’t get his way.  “First off, Mr. Timberlake, it’s James.  I stopped using ‘Lance’ a few years ago.  Secondly, an appointment would be appreciated next time.  I don’t care how many Grammys you have.  If I had another meeting booked for right now,  you could just wait out in the parking lot until I was done.”  I glance up, and Justin is staring at me like I grew another head.  That, I can handle.  I slide into my executive chair and look at him from behind the desk.  “However, I don’t have anything until eight-thirty.  You’ve got until then.”

Justin’s grown up leaner, more hungry looking.  His face’s lengthened out of the last of that baby fat sweetness, better suited for that full mouth and haunted eyes.  The buzzcut looks better on him now.  The leather jacket suits him, traces the strong arms and slender body.  All grown up and finally allowed to show it.  Still, I’m not threatened or turned on.  I can meet his eyes without feeling a goddamned thing.  All too common lately.

“So that’s how it is,” he mutters.

“That’s how it is.”

He tilts his chin up, and the image is thrown.  He looks like Jup, like the thirteen year old who giggled madly when Joey picked him up and spun him, like the sixteen year old who I used to help tutor, like the charming boy who I could almost resent until he broke out that wide, graceless grin.  “It’ll be two years next week,” he says, throwing the words at me.  “We’re meeting.  I’d thought you might want to know.”

‘I’ comes out as ‘Ah’.  I remember some press release about Justin living down South, though I can’t quite recall which state.  Doesn’t matter, really.

“I see.”  Cold wall of crystal somewhere between me and Justin, blocking anything from getting through.  I take a sip of coffee and don’t really taste it.  “And why would you think that?”

He flinches, then seems to narrow somehow.  “You… you know, I thought you were better than this.  I thought you’d just been afraid to pick up the phone.  But you really don’t care, do you?”  I just look at him, and let him answer that question on his own.  His lips curl back in a snarl.  “God, Lance, that’s fucking cold.  He’s dead, and you don’t even care, you just picked up and moved on without him, and he loved you, we all loved you, and-“

“And you absolutely agonized before going on to your solo career, is that it?”  My hands are shaking.  I put them in my lap and brace them together, hope that Justin didn’t notice.  He was always easy to distract when he got angry.  “You waited a week.”

“I waited three months!  Joey and Chris had to drag me out of bed every morning, I was almost…”  His eyes narrow into slits.  “You know, never mind.  Never fucking mind.  I don’t know what I thought I would find, but this isn’t it.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“No.  It’s not.”  Justin sets down the mug, so carefully that it had to be a struggle not to hurl it at my head.  He stares at the floor, his voice low and cold.  “I just want you to know that he would have hated this.”

My hands clench on each other, so hard I can almost feel the bones grind.  “You have no idea what he would want.”

His smile is ever so slightly vicious.  “Not for you to turn into Lou fucking Perlman, James.”

That nice safe wall between us fractures.  I look at him, and whatever’s written on my face makes his smile widen.  “Get out.”  My voice sounds distant, but pleasant.  Courteous.

“Too close to the truth, huh?”

“Get.  Out.”  Powerless words, but I can’t think of anything else to say.  All I can think of is throwing the mug at him, hitting him, fucking scratching him.  I should hit the security button, but if I take my hands out from under the desk I’m going to hurt him or myself.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head.  I can see the pain on his face, but it’s as muffled as the little voice in my head chanting that I have to calm down.  “I’m going.”

And that’s it.  No parting shot, no rejoicing in his victory.  The hand that closes the door has a simple gold band on the right ring finger, and it sticks in my memory as I hear his footsteps fade.

We had so many plans.  Four best men, we all swore.  Room for everyone.  It was a promise.  I was supposed to be there.

JC was supposed to live to see it.  Promises are worth nothing.

It’s easier this way, even if I want to get up and run after him, even if it feels like something is bleeding inside, even if he was right.

The silence stretches on until it’s painful.  I drink my coffee and don’t think about it.  Breathe in, breathe out.  In, out.  Simple rhythm.  I close my eyes and taste every sip, let it slip inside and drown the pain.

By the time the intercom jars me out of it, the pain has trickled through my fingers.  I open my eyes and press my finger to the button.  “Yes, Mrs. Wood.”

“Your eight-thirty is here, sir.”

“Send them in.”