| Fear 2/2 by destiny The prostitute sat perched on the corner of Lance's bed, awaiting her signal. Either way, she was getting paid, so if he wanted to sit there catatonically, it was fine with her. "Hey," she said again, "sweet cheeks! You all right?" She studied him in the faintly lit glow of the room, noticing his face had been loosing more color by the second. Lance scrunched his face up at the entire situation. "I'm fucking fine," he spat, chewing his thumbnail. He waited as his bodyguard left the room and made some calls, taking the offensive package with him. "You don't look fine," she commented, filing a broken nail on her jeans. "You wanna talk about it?" Lance laughed sourly, spinning around to face the strange woman. "Talk? Is that what you call it?" The woman dropped her gaze. "Whatever," she smiled. "Talk. Fuck. Suck. I do it all. So long as I get my money, I could give two fucks less." She made herself comfortable, leaning back against the headboard. "You look like a nice kid, don't look like you've any trouble pulling in the pussy. So something must be happening." Lance eyed her with curiosity. She wasn't bad looking, made up too much for his liking, but she sported a nicely toned athletic body. A bit older than he liked, with questionable taste in perfume and clothes. But, hell, a call girl is not expected to host designer duds, not one plucked so suddenly. No, there would be no fucking tonight, but she seemed nice enough. "Look," he said with a sigh, "I'm just, oh hell, I just didn't want to be alone tonight is all." He felt foolish trying to explain it to her, and doubted she gave a shit. He rubbed the back of his neck, still shaken from the rat tail and roses. "If you need to leave, go right ahead." She smiled at him again. "I'm not going anywhere, sweetie. Talk to me." She held her right hand up in promise. "Nuthin you say will leave this room. I got my own set of honors." He chuckled, thinking that as famous and rich as he was, the only person he could trust right then was a hooker. Irony at it's best. He climbed on the bed next to her and suddenly felt so tired, so drained he could barely think straight. "I fucked up," he started, letting out a yawn. "I said some shit I shouldn't have, and my friends are pissed." He paused for a moment, to see if she was really listening. Her hand rested on his thigh comfortably, and he continued, liking that hand. It gave him the first hint of warmth he'd had all week. "Now, I get rat tails and black roses along with death threats. We're trying to figure it all out." "I see," she said lowly. "Well, if they're your friends, wouldn't they forgive you?" "They're not the forgiving type," he bit back, remembering the time Justin took Busta for a walk and lost him for almost 6 hours. Chris still hadn't forgiven him for it, and that was almost a year ago. "None of us are very forgiving," he admitted, knowing there had been times in the past where he'd been a prick, like in Dallas when JC insisted upon taking his laptop into the venue and left it unattended. A fan wandering backstage had been found trying to break into it, and ended up erasing several important documents. Really, Lance hadn't let go of that either. "Seems to me you all got some growing up to do," she said, picking a piece of lint from his sweats. "You're just young, been given too damn much at an early age." Lance nodded, thinking about it. There was something to her statement. "Well, that doesn't help me right now." He let his eyes close, the sleep in his eyes unbearably heavy. "I'm not going to the Grammy's and all hell's gonna break loose in the morning." "You're gonna be dead by morning," she said simply. Lance bolted up at the tone in her voice. "Excuse me?" She glared at him, her hands quickly pulling a gun from her pants. Jumping up, she held the metal against his forehead. "D-e-a-d," she spelled out, tossing her hair back. "You don't deserve to live, Lance. You're ungrateful and petty, and your words cut like glass. Do you know what that feels like? To be cut by words?" All feeling left Lance's body as he trembled. The barrel of the gun was cool against his skin, and he closed his eyes, feeling his gut roll with panic, fear and sorrow. He didn't understand what was happening, how she was the stalker, and what was she talking about? "You don't remember me do you?" She was staring at him with daggers in her eyes, hate that writhed so obviously Lance winced. He felt dizzy, sick and wanted to hear his mother's voice. He wanted his mother to come and hold him, cradle him in her arms like she did when he was little and scared. He feared he'd never hear her soothing voice again, feared that this was the end of his line. "Well?" she asked again, careful to keep it down least the bodyguard break in. Lance tried to focus on her face, her eyes, anything that would give him a hint of who the fuck she was. Something. His teeth chattered uncontrollably and he shook harder as the gun pressed deeper into his flesh. He wanted to talk, say words that could make this woman change her mind and leave him alone. Any sounds he attempted died in his throat on the way up, stuck in the bile and lumps that blocked his passageways. Images of his family flashed before him and the time his dad taught him to ride a bike, the time he went away to Space Camp and threw up the first two days, his first kiss, the first day he sang with Justin, JC, Chris and Joey. The lawsuit and the video for Bye Bye Bye, the millions of records, the tour, Christmas in Mississippi with his whole family, his little cousins covering him with silly string, all of it, racing past his eyes at a dizzing pace. "Hello? You listening?" she snapped, shoving him hard. "Earth to pretty boy. Come on back." Lance inhaled at once, and felt the world crashing hard around him. "I can't...." His stomach revolted, expelling his dinner all over the bed, and his eyes rolled back. He passed out cold, hoping as he crashed that the gun wouldn't go off. She stared at the fallen figure in front of her. "Jesus Christ," she growled, using the butt of the gun to whack his head, hoping he'd wake the fuck up. She was far from done with him, and wanted him to know exactly who she was and why she was here. The gun cracked his skull and she watched in facination as a small trickle of blood seeped into his blonde hair, spreading in an obscene red pool on the white pillowcase. Yet, he didn't flinch. The kid was really out. "Fuck," she hissed, reaching for her cell phone. Dialing quickly, she looked around, debating on stealing some shit. "Hey," she said, "Hell yeah I got in. It wasn't easy. I hadda pay off like ten hookers to scram. Anyway, he fucking passed out on me. Yup. Out. Nope. He ain't got a damn clue who I am, little fucker. I dunno, he's got a bodyguard out there. Okay, hang tight babe. I'm on it." She clicked her phone off and went to the balcony. Lucklily it was only two stories down. If she could drag his ass out there, she could hurl him over, type up some kind of suicide note on his laptop, and instant gratification. Gaging his body with her eyes, she was unsure if she could actually lift him. He looked about 165 or 170. "Goddammit," she cursed, dahing back over to him. "Get up!" she seethed, shaking his arm. His face was emblazioned in her heart, in her very soul. He was nothing more than a rich asshole who didn't appreciate what he had. He could have helped her, should have. Yet, he chose to ignore her, turn her down, make her life hell because he liked to play God from his mobile office. She did what he asked, sent him a tape of her singing and dancing. He liked the way she danced all those months ago, when he hired her as a stripper to take her clothes off for him and his lowlife friends. He'd promised to hear her sing, give her a job, help her out. But where the fuck was he when she called to see if he'd gotten the tape? Unavailable. If he indeed had ever even looked at it. Fucking mortal man who should not be in that much control of anyone's life. Now he had to pay. He'd broken his promise. Promises that were broken deserved to have repricussions. Her lover agreed, helping her set up the fear in those lying green eyes. She tucked the gun in her waistband and rubbed her eyes as she took him in. Placing her arms under his, she tugged hard, grunting under his dead weight. "Shit, man," she bit, yanking some more. He barely moved a few inches. She could just kill him, put the bullet in his sweet blonde head, but that would be messy, and she wasn't sure she could actually pull the trigger. Her lover could have, but she was no where to be found now. "At home eating bon bons," the woman scowled, imagining her beautiful girlfriend indulging on sweets while she was here struggling with taking this kids life. "Fuck me!" Lance wasn't moving. She let go of him, collasping onto the floor to think. Anger was boiling her blood as she thought. All he would have had to do was give her a chance, make good on his promises. Instead, he'd treated her like a two bit whore, and that didn't rate very high on her good list. "Okay fucker," she sighed, standing up. Grabbing the hideous bedspread, she gave it a hard yank. It budged, slipping from the bed, Lance's body thudding along with it. He groaned and she panicked a bit. "Come on stay down," she begged, hauling the load to the balcony. A quick check revealed no one about. Now, how to get him up. Lance felt groggy, sedated and worn. His head throbbed and he tasted blood in the back of his mouth. The cool air whipped past him and he shivered involuntarily. His eyes wouldn' t open and he listened for any odd sounds. There was breathing next to him, and for a moment, he imagined he was back on the tour bus, and the breathy sounds were from Joey, or JC or one of the guys. The pit of his stomach burned, though, and he knew he was still in trouble. "Hey! What're you doing?" Lance heard Justin's voice faintly, and wanted to focus, prayed to the Lord to make his mind stop being fuzzy. "Nothing," he heard the reply. HER! Oh God, the gun and the hooker and it was piecing together slowly. "You're friend just called for a lil company is all. What's it to you?" Lance moaned, hoping Justin would stay put, hoping he'd hear his sick cries so small and muffled they were almost nonexistant. But he was still alive, for how much longer he wasn't sure. "It's a lot to me bitch," Justin snapped back. "You're not supposed to be on the floor." "I told ya, he called for me." Lance pulled his knees up a bit, trying to roll over and push himself up. "Justin?" he coughed, his voice still so tiny. His palms flattened against the bedspread and he struggled to climb to the concrete divider where Justin's balcony was. "Hey, what the fuck is going on?" Lance looked up, pried his eyes open and stared up at Justin who was gazing down at him with a horrified look. "Help," he whispered, crawling to the wall. Justin's eyes widened with fear and contempt. "Motherfucker," he spat, backing up as the woman produced her gun. His feet stuck to the ground in frozen terror. "Look," she said shakily, "I was only gonna take him out. Now I gotta do you too. Why the fuck didn't you just mind your own goddamn business huh?" She pointed the gun at Justin, and regretted having to take him out. He looked so young standing there trembling. He'd done no wrong, but he could end her, send her to jail for life, and she was not going there. No fucking way. "Let him go," Justin pleaded, inching closer. Christ, he'd just come out to the balcony for some fresh air. He wanted to clear his head about things, about the group ganging up on Lance, and the Grammy's and all of it. The last thing he expected was this nightmare. "You don't have to do this you know." He watched Lance' s hand reach up, then saw his face peering over the wall, blood quickly drying on his face and hair. "God, Lance!" he cried. She spun around quickly, unprepared for him to be on his feet. "Stay where you are," she screamed, trying to keep one eye on Justin, and the gun on Lance. "You, over here," she pointed to Justin, motioning for him to climb the wall. Better to keep them both in sight with the barrel pointed. Justin nodded, scrambling over the waist high wall, scraping his knees on the rough concrete. He slithered over to Lance, placing his arms around him, assisting him to his feet. "What's going on?" he asked. "She's the one. The roses and the rat tail, and damn, Justin. I thought it was you guys. I hired someone to protect me from you guys." Lance choked on the words sputtering from his heart. "We would never hurt you, Lance. God, is this what we've all become?" Justin hugged Lance tightly. "I love you man. It's always been the five of us. Always." Lance nodded, feeling comfort in the fact he would not die alone. She rolled her eyes at the drama. "Okay, that's enough sappy shit. Lance, over!" Her hand waved to the railing, urging him to jump. Lance blinked, clutching Justin hard. He shook his head. She'd have to shoot him dead, kill him with the fucking weapon in her hands because he was not going to kill himself. He was going to stay with Justin and shake like a baby and pray for forgiveness. Justin's nostrils flared. "Why you want him dead?" he questioned bravely, turning Lance's body away from her, toward the wall in some defiant move of protection. "I don't owe you an explanation," she stated, interested as to why he would put his body inbeween the gun and Lance. "But I'm in a mood so I'll offer one." She waved the gun at him carelessly. "He broke his promise. He told me he'd make me a star. I planned on that. I fucking planned on being famous and not having to strip." Sadness filled her eyes and she let her guard down a bit. "I wanted to take care of my woman." Her eyes pooled with tears as she stared at the young singer before her. She paused and Justin held his breath. "But him!" she grumbled. "He made promises he didn't keep. He thought I was just another whore and I'm here to let him know I'm not taking it lying down!" A single shot rang out in the dead of the night. One shot that made Justin push Lance down in slow motion, his body folding ontop of his friends. One shot and it was done. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The police carted the dead woman from the hotel room, a sheet draped uncerimoniously over her lifeless body. Joey, JC, and Chris sat in shock as Justin replayed the scenario for them, the police in force behind them. Lance was being looked over by EMT's and he made sure that Justin was never far from him. "So anyway, the guard got the shot off," Justin said in a hushed tone, reaching over to touch Lance's hand, let him know he was still there. "Christ, I don't believe this. It's like a bad movie," JC muttered. "She was that pissed Lance didn't sign her?" Chris asked. "Fuck yeah. Cracked him with the gun," Justin sighed, squeezing Lance's hand a bit. "How did his bodyguard know that he was in trouble?" Joey wondered. "Said he heard commotion from my balcony. I must have been a little loud I suppose." "Damn." "No kidding." "Hey guys," Lance croaked, sitting up a bit. "I'm so sorry. Really. I didn't mean..." "It's forgotten," JC smiled. "Yeah," Chris agreed. Joey touched his leg. "All for one right?" Lance blinked hard. Friends are friends forever. |