// The Hardest Choice // Lance lay on his couch for hours, the bitter sting of tears long since dried on his face. The only noise wafting through the air was the ticking of his Grandfather clock and the stilted sound of his own breathing. He stayed curled, his knees pulled up against his chest, his back to the couch cushions. A protective and lonely position--one he figured he’d need to get used to for. The phone screeched through the air sending his heart fluttering. It was late and the tone of the ring sent shivers through his body. For a fleeting moment, he thought maybe it was one of the guys, calling to talk it out--convince him not to quit. But he knew better. He knew he had cut each one of them deeply with his decision. But it wasn't his to make, that was the irony. He was doing it to save them all. Lance cocked his ear when the machine clicked on and struggled to sit up. Dizziness swallowed him and his head ached from sobbing so hard. Her voice came in sharp and icy tones--the mere sound caused him to freeze. "Pick up, Lance. I know you're there. Dammit, now!" There would be hell to pay if he didn’t pick up the phone--hell he’d already experienced firsthand. So he reached for the phone and tried to obliterate the tremors from his voice. “Hello?“ he whispered through strained vocal chords--chords long stressed from the entire sordid situation. "Did you do it? Did you quit?" He paused and tried to strengthen himself under the insistence of her words. Finally he said it--the words he never wanted to say again. “Yes. I did it. I quit N Sync.” His voice broke trying to choke it out and his pulse raced without mercy through his veins. Her laughter shook him, right to his soul. "Good boy. I'll be right over." The click in his ear was devastating and he threw the phone across the room, watching as it shattered against the wall. “Fuck you!” he screamed, hopping from the couch. He entertained the idea of leaving--of ducking out and driving somewhere safe. Then at least when she got there, he’d be long gone. Searching for his sneakers was a chore. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling, his body refused to cooperate. “Come on,” he moaned, struggling with the ties. “Please, God. Not tonight.” The crunch of tires sent him reeling and he slumped to the floor in alarm. She had been in her car, he realized, sitting out there somewhere taunting him. Enjoying a game he was incapable of playing. There was no escape for him now and his face fell with defeat. He sat on the floor, his back tight against the wall, and waited. She had a key, a key she didn’t ask for--there had been no need for her to ask. It was made long ago after she knew she had him. Lance felt his stomach roll, his body tense, his energy drift away. The deadbolt turned and he pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face in them. Closing his eyes was childish at best, but he felt young--vulnerable--fucked. He never cried because he feared she would win completely, snatch what was left of his soul and feed it to the devil. He didn’t cry, but he quivered--a lot. "Lance?" she cooed, and he saw the door open a crack. He was silent, hiding, pretending to be a mouse. Crouching down as small as he could in the hopes that she would miss him in the shadows of the room. It wasn’t to be, however, as she stepped into his home. Her heels clicked on the marble tile ominously, and he bit his lip. "Why in God's name are you on the floor?" she questioned, stepping over him. His glassy eyes met hers and he managed a pathetic shrug. “I’m upset,” he said quietly. “It was hard.” He wanted to be brave, stand up and shake her. Refuse to let her shred him apart again. But he had no courage--the heartbroken words of his best friends still weighing heavy on his heart. A desolate wish for the Earth to open and swallow him was wasted when she moved closer. He stood on wobbly legs and hoped--prayed--she wouldn’t want anything from him tonight. There was no warning as her hands shoved against his chest, thrusting him back into the wall. His thigh jammed on the corner of a small antique table nearby--from a tiny German store if he remembered correctly--and he cringed under her attack. Her talon nails scratched into his shoulder, scraping along his flesh. He cried out in pain when she drew blood and pleaded for some mercy. “My leg,” he whimpered, reaching down to rub at the welt. “My shoulder.” She pulled back, momentarily, and smiled. “Are you trying to get out of this, Mr. Bass?”  The way her eyes bore into him--steely gray eyes that held no soul--made his insides hurt. “Fuck your leg, Lance. You think I give two shits about your leg? Your shoulder?” Her hands curled around the back of his neck and she yanked him close. “I own you,” she hissed. “Let’s try not to forget that, little boy.” Her words spewed like poison, deadly poison that ensnared him in a thick web with no way out. Soon, she would spin him up--feast on him like dinner--then leave him alone and battered. Again. “Let’s go,” she said seriously. Lance’s eyes were wide and unblinking. She nodded toward the stairs and he reluctantly slipped upstairs. She was on his heels, trailing behind him by inches. “I’m not going anywhere,” he mumbled, objecting to the closeness. In mere moments, she would have him. He just needed to breathe. One lungful of fresh air that wasn’t tainted by her sour being. One hour of the day where he could be free, and clear, and the person he ached to go back to being. Depression was making it’s mark, consuming him with each step he took. Panic and anxiety riddled his body and the door to his bedroom seemed too close. Her hand brushed over his ass and he flinched--but he kept moving. The doorway of his room beckoned and he stood solidly in the frame with his heart pounding incessantly and his palms sweating. She was right behind him, shoving him through, pushing him into her world. Lance thought it was most cruel that she chose to collect from him on his turf--in his home. He thought it was more a slap in the face than anything. Yet another way to break him. “Have you been good for me?” she whispered, sliding up behind him. Her hands ran around his waist and tugged his shirt up. “I wouldn’t want to have to remind you of ... our deal.” “I’ve been good,” he sighed. “I’ve done everything you asked of me.” His blood ran icy as her hands ran over his flesh. Soon, his shirt was gone, balled up and dropped to the floor. Her fingers danced over his nipples, pulling at them roughly. His teeth mashed together instinctively, grinding because to have her hands on him--it was always too much. She hurt him. In everyway he could be hurt. “I like when you shiver,” she said, nipping his earlobe. Her hands were between his legs seconds later, tearing at his jeans like paper towels, ripping at them with the strength of a thousand hands. He felt the familiar taste of bile rise in the back of his throat and forced himself to swallow it down because he’d done that once. Vomited. The first time she touched him--the first time her hand wrapped around his penis and squeezed with malicious intent. He’d been unable to hold it down and his body refused to cooperate. She made it very clear he was never to do that again. Painfully clear. Now he was a master at throwing it back down, making it curl back down to his stomach until she was gone. Now he was a little older, a little wiser, a little more understanding that he had no choice--not really. He had no way out. She held the cards. And his dick. “You haven’t been with any little sluts have you, Lance? Any little girls with baby blue eyes and pink lips asking for some service from you?” She spun him around and squeezed his cheeks between her fingers, staring him down like the bitch she was. “No,” he said. “No.” “Good.” She let him go and backed up. By the time she hit the bed, her nylons were gone along with her panties. “Then let’s play.” For that brief moment, he wished it had been JC. He wished with the little boy inside of him that she had gotten JC. Then he wouldn’t have to do this anymore--he could run free. Because wasn’t it JC’s fault? He felt guilty instantly, shaking the thoughts from his head. JC was his brother--his friend--his blood. And for him, for them all, he would deal. “Jesus Christ,” she hissed, leaning back against his pillows. “Where the fuck are you tonight?” He blinked and rubbed his hand over his face. If he screwed up--it would all be over. Really over. “I’m here,” he whispered, crawling onto the bed. “Right here.” Her legs fell open and she settled back, patting his head. “Good boy. Now get to work with that talented tongue of yours. Lance sniffled once before lying down on his belly. Snapping his eyes shut, he began to service her. And let his mind wander idly to pretty scenes where he had never met her. Places he’d been before her. Places he wanted to go after her. Her moans and scratches continued to drag him back, refusing to give him any reprieve--mind or body. He winced as she ripped at his hair and pinched his shoulders. And for the first time in his life, Lance Bass wished he was dead. // continue // // menu //