| ...part one... "For chissakes, watch where the hell you're going." Lance scrunched his face up in disgust at the intern, no more than 18, he guessed, as she turned beet red, her head lowering immediately. "Oh, Mr. Bass, I'm so sorry. I wasn't watching where I was going. Can I get you another coffee?" She rambled, because, truth be told, it was her first day, and the last thing she needed was someone as famous as Lance Bass complaining that she'd knocked his jumbo sized mug of coffee all over his seat. Her hands worked feverishly with tissues she kept in her pocket, dabbing at his chair, the one that had "Talent" emblazoned on the back, and his shoes, which were now stained with small droplets of the hot liquid. She stooped to her knees, wiping themcarefully. These shoes were easily $500, and she knew, just knew he was going to have her fired. Lance shook his head, staring down at the girl. "Fucking incompetant...." His words trailed off as a well known, slightly done for, People magazine journalist walked by. He bit his toungue, smiling broadly, helping the accident prone geek to her feet, just for show. "Don't worry about it, darlin'," he cooed, hitting her with his best southern twang. She stood up and gazed into big green eyes that went on forever. Maybe he wouldn't complain, maybe he wasn't the nightmare her boss had warned her of. The woman from People magazine sauntered over, embracing Lance quickly. "How's the hottest singer in the world of music?" she oozed. He hugged her back, a gesture he knew was necessary. "Such a flatterer." He backed up a bit, eyeing her. "What are you after?" She pointed to herself, and grinned. "Moi? Whyever would you say such a thing?" Lance tilted his head, and cocked an eyebrow. "Okay, okay. You got me. A quick interveiw maybe?" Lance laughed deeply, playing his part to the hilt. The old bag was way past her prime, scouring the halls of MTV for anyone who would give her a quote, a statement, anything to rejuvinate her dying career. He didn't have time for this shit, and where the hell was his assistant? He paid the girl oodles of bucks and she couldn't save him from dumb ass interns who spilled coffee on his new shoes, or washed up rag writers trying to con him into saying something that she would only distort and turn against him anyhow. Where the fuck was Justin, anyway? He was usually always early, and Lance had grown used to relying on him to take most of the attention. Grumbling lowly, he shook his head at the reporter. "Sorry, I can't now. Justin's arriving any moment. He might have a few minutes for you." He shot her one more smile, just because, and headed off, making a mental note to give that intern's boss hell for letting her touch his shoes, which were now speckled with tiny tissue residue that would be a bitch to get out. It was not his day, not at all. Moving easily through the halls of MTV, he brushed by several people, finally spotting Justin in the make up room. He looked in, scowling. "Where you been?" Justin's head turned, as much as allowed with the woman applying various shades of goop to his face, and flashed a brilliant smile. "Having my teeth cleaned," he answered. Lance rolled his eyes. What Justin meant was he was at the dentist's fucking the dental assistant, for whom he'd recently developed a hard on for. "God, couldn't you wait?" "Hey," Justin defended himself, returning his attentions to his reflection. "I've already been in this city for a whole day. I'd say that shows definate self control." He chuckled at the thought of the pretty woman, laying spread eagle in the chair, while he rocked her world. Well, at least he thought he rocked her world. He hadn't exactly asked her, but he was pretty sure. "Well, hurry the hell up," Lance complained, still gazing at his ruined shoes. "I want to get this shit done with and kick back for a while." He was annoyed that the tour had been over and still they were summoned to the MTV studios, what with the Superbowl bonanza coming up, and the Backstreet Boys breathing down their necks with their new album. He smiled to himself though, becasue no matter who came out first, BSB still hadn't been able to beat the first weeks sales of No Strings Attached. He bit on his nails, leaning against the doorjamb thinking back to when their publicists had first dreamed up the idea to create a rivalry between the two super groups. Lance loved the idea, but the fucking Backstreet Boys had taken it too far, slamming their talent in public. N Sync had never sunk that low, never, and he had wanted to. Chris had warned him not to, though, and of course he never said anything. Well, only once. He'd been asked to help host a "Best of TRL' thing which featured a Backstreet fan talking about her love for the group. And Lance had gotten it in, his little dig, his sentence 'there's no accounting for taste'. Chris screamed his head off at him, but he didn't care, and when it slid past the edit team, and been aired, he leapt for fucking joy. Justin climbed out of the seat, and grabbed his bottled water. "Okay, I'm ready," he grinned mischeviously, still thinking about his little sexcapade earlier. "Didcha hear from JC today?" "No, why?" Lance asked, leading the way to studio A. "Oh, man. He's in some deep crapola." Justin shook his head at the phone call he'd recieved from JC's girlfriend, screaming and yelling at him about her man. "What'd he do now?" Lance asked, only half interested, as he spied that intern from earlier. He couldn't forget to complain about her, and filed it again in his head. "Cheated, but caught. Pants down, so to speak." "Oh yeah?" Lance snickered, thinking how very much he hated that bitch anyway. She was no good, and had come onto him one night after consuming an astronomical amount of coke, mixed with some alcohol, and she was fucked up, grabbing at his crotch, talking dirty in his ear. He shuddered at the though of her sniwey body and cold hands roaming over him. "I hope he dumps her skinny ass." "She's got a nice ass," Justin defended, not caring for her all that much himself, but he'd fucked her once. He had some compassion. Lance stood near the director and waited for their cue. They were filming a spot for MTV's year of hate crime awareness, and he wished he was anywhere right now. Sure, he didn't care for hate crimes, but god, he was supposed to be on vacation and playing Lance Bass from N Sync, the good one, the caring one, the fucking cherub, was making him sick. He wanted to escape for a bit, cruise through a stip club, or maybe just hole up in a hotel with a beautiful six foot model and fuck her silly. No, MTV in January was not where he wanted to be. An hour later, their spot was taped, with gushing and thanks from the whole staff. Lance had smiled dutifully, and even forgotten about his ruined shoes. As soon as they got the green light, he dragged Justin, who was eating up the praise, especially from the very lovely Mya, who was there to tape some segments herself. "Justin, we gotta go." He would have left the guy there, but they only hired one car to take them back to the hotel, and he wasn't interested in hanging around while Justin tried to score again. He nodded and smiled at Mya, who seemed more than a bit disappointed that Justin was being dragged away. Boyfriend or not, he was a cutie, and she liked his stuff, not just the music stuff either. Once out on the streets of NY, two burly bodyguards rushed them into their car, and Lance leaned back, closing his eyes. "I gotta get the fuck outta this city!" he whined. "It's cold, and it's dreary, and I hate it." "It has sex shops," Justin mentioned casually. "Lots of them, upscale ones that we could be ignored in." That piqued Lance slightly. "Yeah?" Normally, with the others, anything other than what was 'N Sync worthy' was not done, a Chris rule. But Justin was Lance's partner in crime, and he nodded. "Okay, back to the hotel for a change and we'll explore this city." Justin pulled out a bag of pot. He hated drugs, but pot wasn't considered a drug. At least he didn't think so since everyone he knew indulged at one time or another. It was just like drinking, no more harmful. Lighting up, he took a deep drag and passed it over to Lance, ignoring the looks from their bodyguards. What the fuck did they pay them for? Certainly not condsending looks and frowns. "What are you looking at?" he snapped. The bodyguards shook their heads at one another, then proceeded to glance out the window, knowing their place. Lance took a drag and passed it back, letting the smoke out slowly. He scratched absently at his crotch, and sighed. Being Lance Bass was never easy. But it was something, right?" |