| The Great Outdoors by Destiny Lance Lance sat in Canada nursing a wicked hangover and a nasty case of the flu. His whole body ached and some whacked out grip had coerced him into going to a local bar the night before where he indulged in body shots and trippy dancing. No hip hop there. Just odd sounds of the Grateful Dead or some shit, and he was sure, fucking positive something got slipped in his drink. Drunk did not even begin to explain his actions. Completely and utterly out of control. "You all right?" Joey asked with a sneer. "You always gotta be up my fucking ass?" Lance snapped back. Yeah, casting Joey as his best friend wasn't the brightest idea he'd ever had. And with the summer tour coming up, he was destined to spend even more time with the big oaf. Joey had gotten on his last nerve on the first day of shooting and stayed there ever since. "You're a stuck up shit anymore, Lance. You're way worse than Justin ever was." Lance turned his head slowly to the side. "You're comparing me to Justin? Ha! That's a fucking laugh." A sneeze lodged itself in his sinuses and he growled in frustration. "You're a prick!" Joey hissed. "And you're a hypocrite," Lance battled back, reaching for a tissue. He stood up and walked away from Joey without a backward glance. Fuck Joey and his snide comments. Fuck Joey for knocking up his girlfriend and running off to get married without consulting any of them. Fuck Joey for knocking socks with every girl on the set causing JoeyChaos around every corner. Just fuck Joey in general. The set doctor had warned him of the ulcer in his stomach and the high blood pressure that a young man of 21 had no business having. He'd reprimanded him on his horrible eating habits and deplorable sleep deprivation. The doctor basically told him to lower his stress level or suffer a heart attack. His heart murmer was growing worse and late night parties combined with massive amounts of alcohol were taking it's toll on his smallish frame. His health was bad, far worse than he wanted anyone to know. "Do you need some DayQuil?" the makeup assistant asked him, dabbing at his raw nose with powder. "Try not to rub with the Kleenex. Dab instead." Lance nodded miserably. All those months ago doing a movie sounded like the perfect way for him to spend his off time from N Sync. Now, he regretted it greatly. He lay night after night in the condo he'd rented and thought of nothing more than his home in Mississippi, the way his bed stretched on forever, the way his coffee pot made coffee, the sound of the birds chirping from his balcony, he missed it all. Soon, the stadium tour would begin and he'd be stuck right where he was before Christmas. He feared burning out. He felt it coming on. He hadn't bothered to call Chris, or JC, or even Justin at all since making the Janet video. He hadn't wanted to honestly. The loud voice of the bullhorn made him jump. "We need Bass on set." Lance dropped his head into his hands and wanted to cry. The makeup woman pulled him up instead. "Go on," she smiled warmly. "Another two weeks and it's all done." Two weeks. Fuck. |