| Fear 1/2 by destiny If it was a game, he wanted out. This shit didn't fly, not with him, not with his plans. He hated being left out, lost in the four of them like just another peon in the crew. He was not! He was part of the group and fuck them if they were pissed off. If he had one more goddamn death threat issued to him, or one more black rose left at his door, he was going to mess them all up, every single one of them. The middle of the night and he couldn't sleep, couldn't rest. The Grammy's less than 24 hours away, and this was the fucking shit he had to deal with. Yeah, alright, so maybe he hadn't been the most vocal at inputting ideas for the routine they were planning, and maybe they were still pissed about the whole idea of him missing the past few recording sessions, but shit, they didn't need him there, really. His vocals were far and few between, and he hated the idea of sitting there mindlessly, trying to pretend not to be bored, or frustrated. Jesus, he had other things to do, businesses that needed his attention. Fuck them if they couldn't understand. He'd hired his own security guard to stand outside his hotel room, much to the others disgust, but the death threats were freaking him out, and while he was almost postive it was only Justin or JC fucking with him, it was entirely possible that they could be real. He kicked off his covers and paced the room, wishing the small red light blinking on the smoke alarm would stop, and wished he was back home and the fucking awards show was done. But he knew, just knew, that once the Grammy's were over, he'd be stuck finishing up the new album, and then his movie. Finally, something he wanted to do, something he craved to do. The phone rang in his room, sending chills down his spine. A knock at his door let him know his guard was still out there, and he hurried to let him in. "Okay, Lance. It's tapped. Go on." Lance eyed the wires connecting to the phone and picked the phone up gingerly, fearful it might explode in his hands or some shit. His heart hammered inside of him and he gulped down any terror he had. "Hello?" "Don't ignore me." the voice said, muffled and digitalized. "No Grammy's for you." Lance's eyes widened at the threat and he looked at the burly guard who was rotating his fingers, trying to get a trace. "Why don't you want me at the Grammy's?" he asked shakily, his knees buckling beneath him. "I have to be there. My group will be there and..." "You don't give a shit about them. Just don't show up, or it'll be the last place you ever go." Click. Lance inhaled deeply at the words. The last place he'd ever go? God, what the fuck was going on? He wished that he could rely on his former friends, run to one of their rooms and sleep there, hide out under their protection. But for all he knew, it was one of them doing this. He'd pissed them all off more than once in the past few months. "What do you think?" he asked aloud, tugging at his hair a bit. The man before him pulled his headphones off and popped the small tape out of the recorder, lableing it with the time and date. "I think we can't get a goddamn trace on it, and that's fucking this all up." He looked at the younger singer before him, his skin pasty and his eyes red rimmed from lack of sleep, bags prominant under him. "We'll get whoever it is. If it is one of the guys from your group, that's some fucked up situation." "Tell me about it," Lance groaned, falling back onto the bed. He stared at the ceiling, and knew that it was partially his fault, okay, well actually mostly his fault for slamming the others publicily. It was his choice, dammit, his life they were messing with. When this was all done, they could all continue to be singers, but he, well, he'd be nada. "Want some comapany?" the guard asked, tucking the tape into his pocket. Lance rolled onto his stomach and buried his head into the pillow. "Sure," he said unenthusiastically. A random body would be better than this emptiness he had in his heart. He shut his eyes trying to figure out just where this had gone so sour. "Shut your fucking mouth, Justin. That's disgusting." Justin sat across from Lance on the private jet hired to take them to Rio, his mouth open showing the swirled up contents of his ham and cheese sandwhich, giggling uncontrollably. "You're such a baby," Lance hissed, turning away. Justin laughed again, swallowing his food. JC threw a nerf football at Lance's head. "Stop being a prick," he growled. "There's going to be tons of media there for us." Lance scowled at JC. "Fuck you," he spat. Joey sighed. "Guys, not now. Come on, we're on our way to paradise. Can't we keep the insults to a minimum?" Lance shook his head. "Oh, ya'll want me to be nice now huh?" His green eyes flashed with anger. "Now Lance needs to be nice, right?" Justin threw his napkin down. "You're a pain in the ass, Lance. You and your fucking half ass. If you're not into this anymore be a fucking man and say it. Don't just keep dissing us. That's all you're doing, man." "Half ass?" Lance grimaced. "Oh, half assed now. That's what I'm doing?" And he was, honestly. His heart was gone from it all, and the distance that grew each day was mostly on his part. He couldn't handle Justin and all the attention he got, or Chris and his dumb sense of humor, or JC ordering them all around, even Joey was starting to get on his nerves, Joey with his play dumb act that Lance knew was anything but. Then the article had come out. A business magazine in Rio that interveiwed him regarding Free Lance and he'd spoken his mind about his group mates while unknowingly being taped. The magazine had published the indecresions, thus causing the unrepairable rift that was happening. Moments later, Lance heard another knock at his door. His bodyguard was gone, fetching him a companion, and unless he'd done so in record time, the knock meant trouble. "Who's there?" he called, sitting up in his bed. His pulse raced with uncertainty, and when no one responded, he thought it must be the stalker. He dared it to be JC or Justin, prayed it was. "Hello?" Slowly, he crept from the bed, inching his way toward the door. His bare feet tingled and the hairs on his forearm stood at attention. As his hand reached for the knob, a manilla envelope slid under the door, hitting his foot. "Jesus Christ," he yelled, jumping back. He glared down at the envelope, his name spelled out with carefully cut newspaper letters. He laughed bitterly, thinking how cliche it was, thinking about any horror/mystery movie he'd ever seen. He opened the door, hoping to catch a glimspe of someone, but the hall was empty, Not a soul around. He stepped out, heading next door to Justin's room. Pressing his ear up, he heard snoring, but nothing more. Unless Justin had become a light sleeper, it obviously wasn't him. Lance hurried back to his room, pikcing it up and sitting cross legged on the bed. He debated on opening it, but what if there was some poison or shit that would hurt him inside. He tossed it down, deciding to wait. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he picked up his cell phone, wondering who he could call. His mother, ah, but it was late. She'd be sound asleep. Maybe Stacy. She too would be asleep, and she was still pissed that he'd talked trash about the guys as well. He realized with sudden sadness he had no friends. JC, Justin, Joey and Chris had sustained him for so long. It had been the five of them for the past six years, holding onto each other, and he'd fucked it all up. "Lance?" He snapped his head up at the sound of his bodyguard. Dashing to the door, he flung it open. A tall brunette stood there, cheap perfume assaulted his nostrils and he bit back a cough. Where the hell did this one come from? God, she looked like she was some hooker from the street. Surely he was worth more than that? Right? The bodyguard shrugged as the woman pushed her way inside. "It's all I could find right now, unless you want me to call an escort service or get a fan..." his voice trailed off, feeling truly sorry for the kid. He didn't deserve what was happening to him, hell, no one did. Lance waved his hand in the air. "Naw, it's cool. I'll deal." He grabbed the envelope and thrust it into the large man's hands. "Came right after you left. Shoved in under the door." Lance bit his nail as it was opened, trying to catch a peek at it's contents. "What is it?" The giant man tipped the envelope, biting back a gasp as a rat tail tumbled out, landing on the floor along with dozens of black rose petals. Lance jumped back as the vile contents hit his foot. "Motherfucker," he screamed. "Calm down," the bodyguard said, looking inside for a letter or anything else. "I'm calling my assistant. He'll take this for fingerprints." Lance backed into the room, his hands shaking. Why would someone do this just to him? He was more sure than ever it was one of his irate group mates, positive. "Honey, you okay?" the prostitue asked, snapping her gum in his ear. "Fine," he croaked, trying not to look at her. She was making him sick, everything was making him sick. There was no fucking way he was going to show his face at the Grammy's. No way. |