Chocolate.
Armed now, the owner’s wife set to work. The Restaurant de Guiche quickly became renowned for its dessert menu. Everywhere you looked, bonbons. Tartes. Mousses. Cakes. Those little after-dinner mints covered in chocolate. And she insisted that everything be tested before being put on the menu. She graciously accepted volunteers from the staff.
Antoine never had a chance. Inside a season, he went from lithe to whopping, and the owner never glanced in his direction without sad bewilderment clouding his eyes. (Antoine, it might be noted, seemed only cheerier throughout his enlargement. He eventually moved in with the pastry chef, and they both ate a lot until old age claimed them. Things, it might also be noted, did not fare so cheerily for the owner’s wife. The owner, for reasons passing understanding, next became smitten with his very own mother-in-law.)
The year Justin turned ten, the most beautiful boy in the world lived just outside Athens. Georgia, that is. He was the son of, what else, a successful peach farmer. This boy’s name was Phineas, and his skin was of a dusky perfection unseen for eighty years. Phineas could also sing the blues like nobody’s business. Even Ed McMahon said so.
Justin saw Phineas one day, the day Phineas sang for the world. (His performance was legendary, as was so ably chronicled by Star Search. Except this was before Star Search.) He paused in his organization of his Legos by color and by shape (naturally, this was after Legos) and watched, open-mouthed.
“Mama?” he said, still looking at the tv.
“Yeah, baby?” she asked, not looking up from the onions she was chopping.
“I want to be a star.”
She smiled indulgently. “Whatever you want.”
Phineas lost on Star Search and returned home to work on his daddy’s peach farm, which did wonders for his physique. He was nineteen when the pox hit Athens. Phineas survived, even if his skin did not. And Justin knew what he was going to do with his life.
The year Justin turned fifteen, Alan Terrell, of Sussex on Thames, was easily the most beautiful creature. Alan was twenty, and so far did he outdistance the world it seemed certain that he would be the most beautiful for many, many years. There was some sort of disturbance concerning his perfection and the maintenance thereof, but Justin was aware of none of this. However, if he had been, he would have found it completely fathomable. If you were going to be good at something, or be beautiful at something, what use was there in doing or being it if you weren’t the best? (Justin, at this time, was nowhere near the most beautiful, not even in the top twenty, and he was as high as he was primarily on potential. His nose and hands were still too large for the rest of his body, his knees were too bony and his elbows not bony enough, and for the sake of decency, we won’t even speak of his hair.) What he liked to do, preferred above all else really, was to sing and dance.
And so it came to pass, Gentle Reader, that Justin and his mother happened to move to Orlando to pursue stardom. There it was that Justin came to be signed by a record label of no great consequence. His favorite pastimes were playing basketball and tormenting the other boy who worked there. His name was Lance, but Justin never called him that. He was always Dance Boy, the silent, blushing shadow to Justin’s every move.
Nothing gave Justin as much pleasure as ordering Lance around. After rehearsal, when it was just the two of them left alone in the big mirrored room, Justin would blatantly ignore Lance stretching in the corner until he was ready to leave. “Dance Boy,” he’d toss over his shoulder as he was walking out the door, “you’d better make sure the mirrors are cleaned tonight. Darren’ll want to see his face shining in them tomorrow morning.”
He’d pause, one hand on the door, until he heard Lance’s soft, low, “As you wish.” It was all Lance ever said to him. They sang together; they danced together; they had class together, but all Lance would say to him directly was “As you wish.”
This drove Justin absolutely apeshit for a time, making him tease Lance even harder to try and get him to slip up, but Lance proved even more stubborn than Justin. Even with his cheeks and the tips of his ears burning bright red, Lance would meet Justin’s gaze with disconcertingly green eyes and remain silent. Then, after Justin’s inevitable spurious command, Lance would drop his gaze, then look up at Justin through his lashes and murmur, “As you wish.”
The day this stopped making Justin crazy was the day he realized that what Lance was really saying when he said “As you wish” was “I love you.” This startled him so much that he stopped singing. This was unfortunate, as he and Lance were in the studio at the time. The producer rolled his eyes, called a five minute break, and left the room.
“Dance Boy,” Justin managed, his throat tight, “give me one of those water bottles. Please.”
He looked away quickly, so he did not see Lance’s steady gaze as he inevitably answered, “As you wish.”
As startling as all this was, it in no way prepared Justin for the realization that he truly loved Lance in return.
It was late, and they were alone in the classroom, finishing homework. At least Lance was. Justin was instead chewing on his lower lip and trying not to doodle Lance’s name in the margins of his chemistry book. Finally, in his nervous fiddling, he snapped his pencil in half, the pieces rolling to the floor between their desks.
“Dance Boy,” he said, greatly daring to meet Lance’s eyes. “Pick up my pencil.
Lance bent over and picked up the bits of pencil without looking away from Justin. He leaned forward to place them on Justin’s desk, bringing their faces only inches apart. He breathed, “As you wish” against Justin’s lips one last time before kissing him.
Together, they lived and worked and played. They loved each other, and they were truly happy. Which is why Lance’s death hit Justin the way it did.
Not long after pencils were broken and kisses were first exchanged, the record label for which Lance and Justin worked was bought out by the larger label of Florin. A Florinese exec, a swarthy German by the name of Jan, determined that Lance did not fit the “look” that they were promoting at that time, so Lance was let go. (Jan was later heard to say that Lance couldn’t dance and looked too much like Ellen Degeneres, except, of course, this was before Ellen Degeneres.) As Lance had no money of his own, he set off for Russia to find his fortune in the space program and maybe go to a couple auditions on the way.
This was a very emotional time for Justin.
The last night before Lance left, they were curled up in Justin’s bed, the covers pulled over their heads. In the darkness, Justin buried his face in Lance’s neck and whispered, “What if I never see you again?”
“Of course you will.” Lance smoothed the curls away from Justin’s forehead and ran soft fingers over his face.
“But what if something happens to you?” Justin pressed close to feel Lance’s voice rumble through him.
“I will always come for you.”
Even miserable, Justin snickered at this till Lance poked him in the ribs. Sobering, Justin worried his lower lip between his teeth. “But how can you be sure?” He was mortified to hear his voice crack on the last word.
Lance licked gently at his abused lower lip, then kissed him hard. When he spoke, Justin was surprised to hear the lazy smile in his voice. “This is true love. Do you think this happens every day?” When Justin started to speak again, Lance stopped his mouth with another kiss.
When Justin awoke the next morning, he was alone and Lance’s bags were gone, but there was half of a broken pencil lying on his pillow.
It was nearly six months later when Justin was called out of rehearsal and into his manager’s office. After Johnny was finished speaking, Justin sat quietly. “Killed?” he repeated.
Johnny sat back, his eyes sad. “He was auditioning at a studio where Vanilla Ice was recording. The Dread Slim Shady stopped by.” He paused. “The studio was destroyed.” He paused again. “Everyone knows Shady never leaves captives alive.”
“Oh.” Justin was very still. “Thank you for telling me.” When Johnny reached out as if to touch his arm, Justin stood up in one smooth motion and backed away. “If you’ll excuse me.” Quietly, he left the office. Quietly, he went to his room. Quietly, he locked the door.
He stayed there three days. He neither slept nor ate. He emerged three days later.
His hair – having reached the optimal stage of fro and the blondness of wheat in the late afternoon sun – was perfect. His body – muscled through long hours of dancing, into which he had finally grown, whose elbows and knees were neither too bony nor not bony enough, whose head finally matched his nose – was perfect. His eyes held a sorrow and a grace beyond his years. He was eighteen. He was the most beautiful boy in the world.
“I will never love again,” he said.
And he didn’t.
What with one thing and another, three years passed.
Now, Gentle Reader, you must bear with me. During this time, Justin continues to sing and dance, and his status as the most beautiful boy in the world does not go unnoticed by the Powers That Be at Florin Records. At some point in this three years, Justin gets a record deal. At some point, his record is successful. At some point, he buys matching Harleys for himself and his mother. (Lynn, of course, has followed her baby all the way. When he would not let her cry with him for Lance, she cried for both of them. Both her boys, for she had always adored Lance, although he did remind her of that nice gay lady with the sitcom who was really much better at stand-up. However, this was still before Ellen Degeneres.)
At some point, though, and this is kind of an important point, Justin comes to the attention of the main artist of Florin Records, the cash cow, one might say. One might also say the veritable Princess of Florin. One might say, indeed. On that fateful day, Britney – for that was her name – was idly paging through a magazine (US Weekly, the week of September 27, the one with Brad and Jennifer’s wedding on the cover. No, not that Brad and Jennifer. The other ones. And, yes, still before Ellen.), when she stopped suddenly. “Wade, who is this?” She tossed the magazine in front of her choreographer/dancer/minion, who was sitting on the floor, wrapping his toes in tape.
Glancing at it, he said, “Justin Timberlake. Signed with Florin a couple years ago.” For it was indeed a picture of Justin accompanying a review of his first album. (A-, but People gave it a C+. Rolling Stone gave it 3 stars and said he showed promise. However, his cover of Son of a Preacher Man was bitchin’ by all accounts.)
Britney said, “Florin? He works for me, er, here? Why didn’t I know this?”
Wade shrugged. “You do now.”
Britney sat back in her chair, face contemplative. “You know what, Wade?” she said suddenly.
“What.” His disinterest was heavy in his voice.
“I think I need a boyfriend. Every pop princess needs a prince, right? Just look at -” she paused. “Huh. Never mind. Just get me his manager’s phone number. And put some shoes on. That’s disgusting.”
“As my lady wishes,” Wade said, with no discernible trace of irony. He reached for his shoes, of which the right one was slightly larger and misshapen. For Wade Robson did indeed have six toes on his right foot.
But other than this, really, not a whole lot happens that’s going to affect the story later on, so it’s just easier, Gentle Reader, if I say, “What with one thing and another, three years passed.”
And thus it came to pass that Britney and Justin became the royal couple of pop music, and their betrothal was a public relations inevitability. If the announcement of their engagement just happened to coincide with the announcement of a summer concert tour celebrating Florin’s 50th anniversary as a label in which the blissfully happy couple would be the headline performers, well, wasn’t that lucky for everyone?
Justin was twenty-one. His first album had sold well; his tour had sold out. He was reputedly nailing the reputed finest piece of ass on five continents. (Surprisingly, the finest piece of ass in North America was not Britney but rather the daughter of a Mexican politician. Also, in Antarctica, there was a research scientist with legs that had been known to make grown men weep. But five out of seven ain’t bad.) His emptiness consumed him. The only thing that gave him any sort of joy in his life was his daily ride on his Harley. It was the only time he was allowed to leave the Florin Compound, outside of appearances and dates with Britney, which were pretty much the same thing. Normally, his mother accompanied him on his aimless wanderings through the backwoods of Florida, but on the day of the announcement, she got tied up with reporters, wanting to know how she felt about her baby boy, all grown up.
And so it happened that on that bright spring morning, Justin roared out of the Compound alone, waving to all the girls gathered to bemoan the end of his single status. The sun glinted off his curls; his smile was as bright as the diamonds at his ears, and all eyes that followed him drank in his polished pop perfection. All eyes except two.
From the highest tower, in the farthest corner, deep in the shadows, two eyes tracking Justin that morning were filled with hate and despair. Eyes that flashed, bright and deadly…
As soon as Justin broke free of the crowds around the Compound, he turned east, heading out onto the back highways of the state that linked all the forgotten, sun-baked towns of central Florida. With the wind in his hair and the bugs in his teeth, he could forget, for a few hours, everything but the road and the bike rumbling between his legs. He was about an hour outside of Orlando, almost ready to turn around, when he spotted a van pulled off the side of the road. There were three men clustered around it: one small and dark, one tall and skinny with a mane of wild hair, and one enormously large and sweating profusely. When they spotted him on his bike, the large man began waving frantically to flag him down. On a whim, Justin slowed his bike and pulled over.
Greeting him with a wide smile, the large man said, “Our van broke down over an hour ago, and you’re the first person to stop. Is there a house or a town nearby where we could get help?”
Justin frowned. The small, dark man would not meet his eyes. “There’s no one around. Not for miles.”
His sinking feeling grew when the large man actually giggled and said, “Then there will be no one to hear you scream.”
Justin didn’t scream, but, hampered by the bike, he couldn’t escape the deft fingers of the tall, skinny man, which crept around his neck to pinch and steal his consciousness.
The tall skinny man plucked Justin’s limp form off his bike and deposited him in the back of the van. “Chris,” the large man said, turning to the small man with dark eyes, “take the bike to the outskirts of the small town ten miles up. Leave it on the side of the road with this -” he tossed him a bundle of cloth – “draped on it somewhere. We’ll pick you up at the gas station in town.”
“What is this?” Chris asked.
Pearlman – for that was indeed the large man’s name – rolled his eyes. “Part of the jacket of a Guilder security guard. When the princess finds this on his abandoned bike, she’ll think her rivals from Guilder have abducted Prince Charming over there. When she finds his dead body on Guilder’s doorstep, her suspicions will be confirmed.”
Chris scowled even harder, and the third man, JC, said, “You never mentioned anything about killing anyone.”
“I’ve hired you to help me start a war,” Pearlman said comfortably. “In this day and age, it’s corporate warfare, but we still shed a little blood every now and then. It’s a profession with a long and glorious tradition. Wait’ll you see what it does for record sales.”
JC shrugged, wrapping his arms about himself. “I just don’t think it’s right. He’s not hurt anybody.”
Pearlman’s smile twisted. “Am I going mad, or did the word ‘think’ just escape your lips? I didn’t hire you to think, pretty boy. Keep your mouth shut and your pants tight, and we’ll all be much happier.” JC opened his mouth again, but Pearlman cut him off. “Do you remember what you were when I found you? Nothing. Not even that; you dreamed of being nothing. Friendless. Hopeless. Helpless. Do you want me to send you back to where you were? Unemployed? In Maryland?” His voice had risen steadily, and he shrieked the last word.
“I agree with JC,” Chris said from the motorcycle.
Pearlman whirled on him. “The sot has spoken!” His laughter grated. “Don’t worry about the prince back there. I’ll kill him when the time comes. Just never forget this. When I found you, you were so stinking drunk, you couldn’t even buy beer. I saved you, and you will owe me till the day you die. Now get rid of the fucking bike.” Pearlman returned to the van to fuss with Justin, while JC walked with Chris and the motorcycle.
“I don’t like this,” Chris muttered. “This isn’t what I agreed to.”
“It’s what you’ll get your fee through,” JC said.
Chris nodded shortly. “Did you see the boy? His eyes were red.”
“Because he cried?” JC tried.
Chris winced. “You have a…gift for rhyme,” he paused.
“Only some of the time.” JC’s voice was mournful.
“I’m waiting!” Pearlman’s voice reached them from the van.
Chris clapped JC on the back. “Go. I’ll see you on the other side of town.”
“Until then, try not to frown,” JC said, smoothing his fingers over the deep lines etched around Chris’s mouth.
Surprised, Chris ducked his head and threw a leg over the bike. He looked over his shoulder and said, “Be careful. There’s trouble ahead.”
JC smiled brilliantly at him. “If so, we’ll all be dead!”
Chris roared off. Pearlman shouted irritably, “No more rhymes now. I mean it!”
JC hummed to himself and said under his breath, “Anybody want a peanut?”
Justin awoke to feel the van slowing as it left the interstate. From the sporadic light from passing streetlights, he could see Chris driving and Pearlman riding shotgun. JC was curled up fast asleep in the back of the van with him. His mouth was cottony, and his skull felt too tight for his brain. He stretched.
Pearlman caught sight of his movement and grinned. “His Highness awakes!”
Justin tried for bored and unconcerned. “You know Britney’s goons will find you. Money can’t buy any better.”
“The only neck in this van that I’d be worried about, if I were you, Highness, is yours. Turn here.” This last was to Chris, who was looking in the rearview mirror instead of watching the light turn green. “Why do you keep doing that? We’re fine. No one at Guilder knows what we’ve done, and no one from Florin could have gotten here this fast.”
“There’s been a black SUV behind us for the last 50 miles. It exited when we did. It turned left when we did. He’s still behind us.” Chris’s voice was dry.
“It’s probably a local out for a pleasure drive in the romantic moonlight in the back streets of Miami,” Pearlman tried. “In any case, he’s no concern of ours. We’re almost there, anyway.” He busied himself with his briefcase.
At the next stoplight, Justin exploded into action, throwing himself at the door, wrenching it open, and hurling himself onto the street. He took off running. He could hear the squeal of tires and Pearlman’s shrieks of rage – “Unfuckingbelievable!” - behind him, and he ran harder. He took every back alley and narrow passage he could find. His legs burned and his breath was fire in his throat, but still he ran. He could hear the van behind him, but it was fading, replaced with bass thumping in a nearby club. He darted down another alley, towards the bass. Finding the back door of the club ajar, Justin pushed his way in, hoping to lose himself in the crowd.
He found himself in the back of a punk club, the darkness broken in patches by swirling colored and strobe lights. The room was crammed with disaffected youth in strategically ripped clothing and experimental hair. The band had yet to take the stage, but an eerie howl had started to build over the pounding of the dj. With his slightly rumpled fro, pristine jeans, and strategically tight t-shirt, Justin stuck out like a sore thumb. He tried to melt into the background, but he melted straight into the person standing behind him. He turned to apologize and duck away, but the strobe light flashed to reveal Pearlman’s grinning face. Justin started to bolt again, but the crowd surged behind him, pinning him next to Pearlman, as the strange howl rose in pitch and volume.
Pearlman put his mouth next to Justin’s ear. “You hear that? Those are the Shrieking Eels. They always get loudest just before they come on.” (The Shrieking Eels, in an interesting side note, had recently garnered prominence and popularity/notoriety beyond the independent punk scene with their new single – “I Wanna Rape Justin Timberlake’s Nostrils.”) “You’ll be found, you know. If you leave with me now, I promise no harm will come to you.”
The handcuffs that JC slipped on his wrists while he was trapped by the crowd sort of rendered the question a moot one. JC dragged Justin out of the club in Pearlman’s rather impressive wake into the van Chris had waiting out front.
“That was stupid,” Pearlman informed him. “I suppose you think you’re brave.”
Justin did not look at him. He sank back against the side of the van, trying to arrange his handcuffed hands more comfortably.
“He’s right on top of us,” Chris’s sharp voice cut through any possible reply. His eyes were fixed on the rearview mirror.
“He’s too late!” Pearlman said gleefully, looking out the windshield. “See! The Cliffs of Insanity!”
In the next block, rising in a completely non-phallicly symbolic manner, were the enormous office buildings that housed, among other things, the main Guilder offices. (Sometimes a skyscraper’s just a skyscraper.) The office complex was officially named the White Cliffs, as they were, well, white and owned by John J. Dover. After Dover went mad and hurled himself off the top of Cliff #3, they gained the unofficial moniker of the Cliffs of Insanity, and rent prices tripled. Today, for the first time, Justin found the nickname particularly apt.
Chris parked in back, and they all piled out. Justin stared up the height of the building. Even from the ground, it was dizzying. Pearlman shoved him into Chris’s grasp.
“Only JC can get through this way. He’ll have to wait for opening hours. Or take the stairs. He’s no concern of ours.” When JC hesitated, Pearlman barked, “Go. Or you’ll deal with me, too.” Justin could feel Chris twitch at this, but JC tightened his mouth and pushed open the back door.
They waited in the shadows for ten, tense, silent minutes.
Justin jumped with the door opened and JC reappeared with a set of keys and a swipy card. Justin tried not to notice JC’s bruised and swollen mouth or Chris’s tight, angry eyes. Pearlman ushered them all in the back door, past a conspicuously empty guard station, and around to the front bank of elevators on the mezzanine balcony. JC knelt to try various keys on the elevator, and the light from his flashlight was startling in the inky blackness of the lobby.
A loud rattling from the ground floor made them all jump. Pearlman grabbed the flashlight and shone it at the front door. A figure in black was crouched next to the door, barely visible. With a click, the door swung open before the man in black. “He picked the lock,” Pearlman muttered. “Unfuckingbelievable.” The man in black looked up at this, then he sprinted to the stairs.
“We’re in,” Chris called. The express elevator door had opened, and they all crammed in. Just as the doors were closing, Justin saw the man in black emerge onto the balcony. He wore black from head to toe, with his hair covered by a black bandanna, black gloves on his hands, and even a black half mask. The doors shut before Justin could meet his eyes and determine if he would be help or more trouble.
The elevator took them to the lowest of the Guilder offices, eighty floors up. Pearlman then herded them to the fire escape stairs. From a very long way down, they could hear the rhythmic slapping of feet on stairs. “He’s climbing? Unfuckingbelievable. Fine.” He shoved Justin back at JC and turned to Chris. “He’s obviously seen us with his Highness, so he has to die. If he makes it to the top, fine, do your thing. If he stops, go down and get him. Just don’t let him leave the building.”
“If he makes it to the top, I’ll have to do him left-handed,” Chris warned.
“You know what a hurry we’re in,” Pearlman said.
“If I use my right, it’s over too quickly.”
“Fine. Have it your way. He doesn’t leave the building.” Pearlman’s long-suffering patience was clearly stretching thin. He lumbered off, heading upstairs.
Hands resting on the rail, Chris peered down the stairwell. JC sidled up beside him and covered his left hand with JC’s right. “Be careful. Men in masks are tricky,” JC said, pitching his voice low.
Pearlman’s voice floated back down the stairs. “Hello? Kidnapping in process? Missing the hostage?”
JC kissed Chris’s cheek swiftly then vanished up the stairs with Justin in tow. Chris pressed his fingers to his cheek. He muttered, “This day just keeps getting stranger and stranger,” but his eyes were soft.
Chris turned back to the railing. The soft slap-slap-slap of feet on stairs continued. He could see a gloved hand pull on the railing on each corner, but he could see no more of his opponent. He shrugged, turned away, and began a quick check – knife and gun on ankles, larger knife on each thigh, gun in small of his back, knife between his shoulder blades, two guns in shoulder holsters, and Game Boy in back pocket. Good. Everything was still in place and secure. He stretched swiftly, ran through a few deft moves with both knives and guns, then went back to dangling over the railing.
“Hey,” Chris called down experimentally. The slap of feet on stairs answered him. “Going kinda slow?” More footsteps. Chris waited. He checked his weapons again. He patted his Game Boy regretfully. He waited some more. Then he started to fidget. He went back to the railing. “Look, I don’t suppose you could speed things up?” he called.
The footsteps stopped, and a dark head appeared in the stairwell. “Oddly enough, this is not as easy as it looks, so unless you have the key to the elevator, you’re just going to have to wait.”
Chris fingered the key in his pocket and muttered, “I fucking hate waiting.” He called down, “As a matter of fact, I do have a key, but I should probably let you know that I’m just going to kill you when you reach the top.” He winced. “That didn’t sound too good, did it.”
“No, not really.” The man in black’s deep voice was dry. “And it does put a damper on our relationship.” The footsteps started up again.
“Isn’t there anything I can say to get you to trust me?” Chris winced again. This was just not going well. Yes! Trust me, so that I might kill you faster! He should’ve stuck to singing and dancing.
“Nothing springs to mind.”
“I could give you my word as a Pennsylvanian?” Chris was hopeful; he really fucking hated waiting.
“No good,” the man in black said between measured breaths and footsteps. “I’ve known too many Pennsylvanians.”
“How about as a Floridian?”
The man in black stopped again, stuck his head out over the railing, and just looked at him. Then the footsteps started again.
Chris was getting tired of wincing. He took a deep breath. “I swear on the soul of Beverly Eustice that you will reach the top alive.”
The footsteps stopped for the last time. The dark head appeared again. “Your mother?” He didn't wait for Chris's nod. “I’m on the twenty-third floor.”
When the elevator doors opened, the man in black dropped into a fighter’s crouch and emerged warily. Chris, leaning against the door to the stairwell, waved him off. “Take your time.” He had no problem waiting now that he could see his opponent. He slid down to sit on the floor, but he kept his hands loose, just in case.
“Thanks.” The man in black unbent and sat himself neatly on the floor. He was taller than Chris, but lithe instead of muscular. He had the advantage of Chris in reach, but Chris would lay good money that he was stronger and faster. He wasn’t too worried.
The man in black began unlacing his boots. Chris watched in morbid fascination, and he couldn’t help himself and had to ask. “I don’t mean to sound even more psychotic than I am, but you wouldn’t happen to have six toes on your right foot?”
The man in black stared at him but waved a perfectly normal socked right foot at him. Chris nodded his thanks. “Do you always start conversations like that?” the man in black said while stretching a bit.
“A six toed man ruined my life and the lives of my family,” Chris said without emotion. The man in black nodded in encouragement. “It was five years ago. I was working for Florin Records. I sang and danced, and I was damn good. I have five sisters that my mother is—was—raising on her own. I sent home all the money I could. I was on the verge of getting my own deal.” He grimaced. “And then the six toed man – well, really, he was a boy then – showed up.”
“They could only sign one of us. He was a better dancer than I was, but he couldn’t sing half as well. I was almost assured the deal. It would have meant the world to my mother and sisters. The night before they were to announce their decision, I ran into the six-toed man in a back hallway. There was a dance-off. He walked away; I didn’t. He let me live, but he left me with these.” Chris pulled up his pants to reveal deep, ugly scars on both knees.
“He did that just by dancing at you?” The man in black was openly skeptical.
“Nah. He hit me in the knees with a big chunk of pipe, hard enough to really, really fuck them up. I was nearly crippled for a year, and I lost the deal. I had to leave the business. Without my help, my mom couldn’t pay the bills, and the state took my sisters away.”
“How old were they?” the man in black asked.
“The youngest was six.” Chris’s knuckles were white where they gripped the edge of his pants. “When I was strong enough, I dedicated my life to hunting him down and making him hurt as much as he hurt my family. The next time we meet, I will go up to him and say—”and here an almost feral light glinted in his eyes—“‘Hello. My name is Christopher Kirkpatrick. You destroyed my family. Prepare to die.’ I was going to go with, ‘You killed my knees,’ but I thought it lacked a certain something.”
The man in black agreed wholeheartedly. “So for five years you’ve done nothing but study the art of asskicking?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say nothing,” Chris said. “I had to keep up my voice, and they keep coming out with sequels to Grand Theft Auto, and then there was Halo, but, yeah. Lots of asskicking.”
“Really.” The man in black seemed to prick up his ears. “A fellow Playstation fan?” He looked Chris over again. “Is that a Game Boy in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?”
Chris grinned wolfishly.
“Are you ready?” Chris asked.
“If not, you’ve been more than fair.” The man in black prepared himself again.
“You seem like a decent guy. I hate to kill you, “ Chris said.
“You seem like a decent guy,” the man in black returned. “I hate to die.”
Chris took a deep breath and flexed his hands. “Begin.”
And so the battle was joined. It was truly epic, two masters at the height of their game. There was a stillness in the air, as if the very office walls were aware and in awe of the staggering proportions of the duel to which they were witness. The silence was only broken by the heavy breathing and harsh grunts of the competitors. Oh, and the jangly little music emanating from the two Game Boys linked by a single, fragile cord.
“Ha!” Chris’s crow of triumph quickly switched to a shriek of rage. “You got the fucking power pack! What’s the trick? Where’d you find it?”
The man in black grinned but said nothing.
“I gotta know,” Chris said, focusing intently on his screen, twisting his body in sympathy with his character.
“Get used to disappointment,” said the man in black, his body perfectly still but his hands flying. His grin softened the words.
The battle raged on. After long minutes of fierce competition, Chris interrupted the (relative) silence to say, “I gotta admit it. You’re better than I am.”
“So then why are you smiling?” A wicked grin was indeed dancing on Chris’s lips.
“Because I know something you don’t.” Chris was positively smirking at this point.
“What would that be?” The man in black’s calm was unruffled.
“Britney Spears’s tits are fake.”
“Knew it.”
“So’s her cherry.”
The man in black hit pause and stared at Chris. “You mean she—”
Chris nodded gleefully. “Medically speaking, and all that, she’s still a virgin. Is one again. Whatever. And from what I heard, even her fiancé doesn’t know.”
The man in black looked taken aback. “Huh. I had no idea. How did you—?”
Chris shrugged. “I did a little side work for her doctor. Turns out confidentiality contracts don’t really hold up when you’re drinking with your private investigator after you find out your wife’s cheating on you. With your mom.”
The man in black’s wince was visible even through the mask.
“But I digress. I know something else you don’t know.”
“I’m desperate to know.”
With a flourish, Chris flipped his controller, unpaused the game, and decapitated the little man on the screen. “I’m not left-handed.”
The battle resumed with even more skill, passion, and profanity than before. “Motherfuck,” the man in black swore as his little guy was shoved to the edge of a cliff. “There’s something I should tell you,” he bit out, fingers flying furiously.
“What?” Chris grinned at him, all teeth.
“I’m not left-handed either.”
Pause, flip, flourish, unpause, and, oh yes, the battle began anew. It was a duel for the ages. Both players of exceptional skill, knowing all the tricks and shortcuts, with hand-eye coordination that would make brain surgeons and professional baseball players weep. This was a no-holds-barred battle to the end. Fingers flew; lips were bitten, and pixels flashed. In the end, though, only one man could triumph; one man’s hands were a hair’s breadth’s faster.
As the screen flashed Game Over and his little guy twitched in headless, gory death, Chris let his Game Boy slip from nerveless fingers. He looked up to find the man in black pointing a gun steadily at his forehead. “Kill me quickly,” Chris said blankly. “Please.”
The man in black smiled at him with an odd sort of fondness. “I’d as soon smash a stained glass window as destroy an artist like yourself, but since I can’t have you following me…” He reversed his gun and dealt one sharp blow right above Chris’s left ear. Chris dropped like a stone. “Please understand I hold you in the highest respect, and I hope you one day find what you’re looking for.”
The man in black reholstered his weapon, switched off and placed Chris’s dropped Game Boy on his chest, and turned back to Pearlman’s path. “More fucking stairs,” he muttered, then began climbing steadily once more.
The slam of the fire escape door made Pearlman jerk his head up. He lumbered over to the end of the hallway and peered around the corner. “Unfuckingbelievable,” he muttered when he saw the bandanna-ed head of the man in black at the other end of the cube farm. Pearlman went back to the office door and jerked JC up by the scruff of his collar. "Leave that to me," he said and slapped a gun in JC's hand. "I'll keep working here, and you go finish that little masked piss ant your way."
JC raised an eyebrow at him. "My way?" he asked.
Pearlman heaved another sigh, clearly put-upon yet again by the incompetence of his help. "Hide behind the cubes," he pointed, "and as soon as his head comes in view, shoot it!" He shoved JC around the corner and back into the cube farm.
JC stared at the gun. "My way's not very sportsmanlike, is it," he said softly, not a question. Anyway, the cube farm didn't answer back.
The man in black infiltrated the mess of cubes swiftly and silently. He padded on cat-soft feet to the end of the aisle, ears straining to hear the ambush he knew had to be waiting for him. As soon as his head cleared the last cube wall, he felt and heard a bullet whiz past his exposed ear. He and his opponent emerged into the hallway at the same time, guns drawing an unwavering bead on each other. JC's movements were languid, but there was a sharpness about his eyes and hands that bespoke easy familiarity with the gun.
"I didn't have to miss," JC said gently.
"I believe you," the man in black said with a fervent nod. "What now?"
JC smiled, his eyes almost disappearing but gun never moving. "We face each other as God intended. No tricks, no weapons. Your skill against my own." There was a telling pause before the word 'skill.'
The man in black looked skeptical. “So you'll put down your Glock and I'll put down my Beretta, and we'll try to take each other like civilized men?”
JC nodded and grinned, all tooth.
“Very well.” Both men lowered their guns slowly and moved towards each other.
The man in black was one of the best in the world. Here and now with JC, he showed the full extent of his skill, pulling every trick he knew, using all his ingenuity and dexterity. JC just grinned and stretched happily.
The man in black stopped and let JC's cock slip from between his lips. “Look, are you just having me on, or something?” he demanded irritably.
JC propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at the man in black, mildly affronted but mostly amused. “Not at all! I just wanted you to feel that you're doing well. I hate for people to die embarrassed. Little death, whatever.” JC hauled the man in black up the length of his body to steal his indignation with a kiss. Distracting him with the slow, deliberate thrust of his tongue into his mouth, JC flipped the man in black. He grinned lazily and gave a liquid twist of his hips against the man in black's heretofore-neglected cock.
Keeping up a steady, maddening thrust against the man in black, JC reached up with one hand to finger the black mask. “Why do you wear a mask?” he asked, only slightly out of breath. “Were you hideously scarred by acid, or acne, or something?”
The man in black's eyes snapped open, and he pushed JC's hand away. “No,” he said, striving vainly for nonchalance. “It's just that they're terribly comfortable. I imagine everyone will be wearing one next season. I hear Paris Hilton wore one at Sundance this year.”
While JC contemplated the wonder of a masked Paris Hilton, the man in black did something entirely sneaky and flipped them so that they were both mouth-to-cock. “You're quick!” JC said, surprised for the first time in a very long time.
“It's a good thing, too,” the man in black said, before rededicating himself to his task.
The office was quiet - well, mostly quiet - for long minutes. Both men strained, breathed hard, and exerted themselves fully. JC's tongue danced and hips rolled, and the man in black danced and rolled with him. Finally JC was forced to pull back for a moment. “I just figured out why you're giving me so much trouble,” he panted, out of breath for real this time.
The man in black paused, clutching fitfully at JC's ass. “And why,” he paused again, breathing deeply through his nose, “is that? Do you think.”
JC rested his head on the man in black's hip, still jacking him intently. “It's just that I haven't dealt with just one person in so long.” He sucked meditatively on the head of the man in black's cock, then shuddered hard. “I've been specializing in groups. For local charities, that kind of thing.” He bit his lip, the tension hard in his shoulders, then returned to his task.
The man in black threw back his head in silence. “And why,” he forced out, “should that make such.” He stopped and bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. “A difference?” He braced a hand on JC's hip and sucked him as deep as possible.
JC whined softly. “It's just. That you use. Different. Moves.” His thighs were shaking at this point, and the man in black pressed on. “When you're with a half a dozen people,” JC rushed out in one breath, hands fluttering frantically over the man in black. “Than when you're with only one.” With his last word, JC closed his eyes, tucked his head, and came in silence.
The man in black swallowed, pulled away, and finished himself off discreetly. He dressed and set himself to order again. JC was still lying quietly, mostly asleep or blacked out, when the man in black returned. He tied JC up swiftly and efficiently and placed a knife on top of his folded clothes within easy reach. He rested a hand on JC's side. “I do not envy you the backache you will have when you awake. In the meantime, rest well, and,” he paused, thoughtful, “dream of small men with dark, spiky hair.” With one last pat, the man in black was off, still intent on his pursuit of Pearlman and Justin.
“There was a mighty duel, “ Big Rob said with grudging respect. “Both masters at the top of their game.”
Britney snorted. “Yeah, and that game was Super Mario Brothers.” She turned away from the computer screen
“Well, actually, it was -” Big Rob started. He was cut off by Britney’s death glare. He cued up the security tape again, watching and taking notes. He made a small noise of surprise.
Britney turned back immediately and perched over his shoulder. “Who won? How did it end?”
Big Rob pointed to the freeze frame on the screen, showing Chris’s fuzzy, collapsed figure in the stairwell. The time-date stamp in the corner showed that it had taken place three hours earlier. “The short guy lost. About twenty minutes later,” he fast-forwarded briefly, “he ran off alone, back down the stairs.”
“He doesn’t matter. Where did the winner go?” Britney went to bite her nails but stopped the motion halfway.
“The winner kept going up the stairs towards Guilder’s offices.” Big Rob looked grim.
“Can you get those tapes, too, or do we need to go to Miami?” Britney asked.
“You are staying here,” Big Rob said firmly. “At least until we know more.”
“Do you think it could be a trap?” Britney asked, a gleam in her eye.
“I think everything’s a trap,” Big Rob sighed. “It’s why you’re still alive.”
The man in black slammed open the door to the office of the president of Guilder Records. Pearlman was seated behind the enormous desk and greeted him with a sharky grin. Justin was seated next to him, bound, gagged, blindfolded, with a knife to his throat. “So it’s down to you, and it’s down to me,” Pearlman said cheerily.
The man in black nodded once and took a step forward.
“If you want him dead, then by all means, come on down!” Pearlman was even more exuberant.
“Let me explain -” the man in black started. He stopped when Pearlman pressed the knife hard enough to make Justin squeak.
“There’s nothing to explain,” Pearlman said comfortably. “You’re trying to kidnap what I’ve rightfully stolen.”
“Perhaps an arrangement can be made?” the man in black said, hands spread and empty, trying to move forward slowly.
“There will be no arrangement, and you’re killing him.” Pearlman’s voice had gone cold. Justin didn’t make any noise, but Pearlman’s knife nicked deep enough to draw blood. A drop of red wound its way down his neck.
The man in black stopped fast. “Then we’re at an impasse.”
Pearlman’s affability returned swiftly. “Afraid so. I’m not going to be able to compete with you physically, and you’re really no match for me mentally.”
“You’re that smart?” The man in black’s voice was all awe.
“Let me put it this way,” Pearlman stretched and grinned. “Plato, Aristotle, the guy who put together the Jackson Five? Morons.”
“Really.” The man in black sounded impressed. “Well, then what would you say to a battle of wits?”
“For his Highness?” Pearlman was intrigued.
“You read my mind.” The man in black’s voice was filled with wonder.
“It only seems that way.” Pearlman brushed it aside. “Merely logic and wisdom. To the death?” Pearlman was practically salivating.
The man in black only trusted himself to a short nod.
“I accept!” He took the knife away from Justin’s throat but left it on the desk.
“Very good. Now open the minibar.” The man in black seated himself neatly across the desk from Pearlman. “Fix whatever you like for yourself. Pass me the vodka. And a little umbrella.”
“What’s the umbrella for?” Pearlman asked, intrigued in spite of himself.
The man in black raised a single eyebrow hidden by his mask. “It’s pretty.” He reached into a hidden pocket and pulled out a small vial. “Inhale this but do not touch.” He removed the stopper and passed the vial to Pearlman, then busied himself with fixing a vodka martini. He looked up at a loud snort.
“I smell nothing,” Pearlman said, rubbing his nose furiously. He passed the vial back with one hand. In his other hand, he held a rolled up hundred dollar bill.
The man in black stared at the faint dusting of powder on the glass top covering the desk. The physical effort it took not to roll his eyes was visible on his face. “What you do not, erm, smell is iocane powder. Odorless, tasteless, dissolves instantly in any liquid, and it is one of the deadlier poisons known to man.”
“Oooh.” Pearlman put the finishing touches on his cosmopolitan and stuck a bright blue umbrella in the martini glass. The man in black stopped him before he could take a drink. He appropriated Pearlman’s drink, picked up his own vodka martini (appropriately vermouthed, little green umbrella), and turned his back. Pearlman craned his neck, trying to see what was going on.
The man in black turned back around. He started to switch them back and forth in a modified shell game, but then he looked at the pink drink in his right hand and the clear drink in his left. Shaking his head, he set the cosmo in front of Pearlman and the martini in front of himself. He tossed the empty iocane vial onto the desk between them. “Where is the poison? The battle of wits has begun. It ends when you decide and we both drink. Then we find out who is right and who is dead.”
Pearlman actually laughed. “But it’s so easy! All I have to do it decide whether you are the sort of man who would put the poison into his own glass or his enemy’s.” He rocked back in his desk chair. “Now, a clever man would put the poison into his own glass, so I can clearly not choose the drink in front of you. But you must have known that I was not a great fool; you must have counted on it, so I can clearly not choose the drink in front of me.” He looked pleased with himself.
The man in black fidgeted. “So you’re ready?”
“Not even! Because iocane comes from Australia, and everyone knows that anyone from Australia is a lying, thieving bastard. I’ve met Robson. Criminals are used to not having people trust them, as you are not trusted by me. So I can clearly not choose the drink in front of you!”
“Clearly, you have a dizzying intellect.” The man in black looked taken aback.
“Wait till I get started!” Pearlman cackled in glee for a long moment, then paused. “Where was I?”
“Australia.”
“Yes. Australia. You must have suspected that I would’ve known the powder’s origin, so I can clearly not choose the drink in front of me.”
The man in black plucked the umbrella from his drink and twirled it between his fingers in a nervous twitch. “Now you’re just stalling.”
“You’d like to think that!” Pearlman had to wipe spittle from the corners of his mouth. He fixed the man in black with a fierce stare. “You’ve beaten JC, so you might have put the poison in your own drink, hoping to outlast its strength, so clearly I cannot choose the drink in front of you. But you’ve also beaten Chris, which means you must have practiced, and have excellent hand-eye coordination, so I can clearly not choose the drink in front of me.”
The man in black’s distress visibly grew. “You’re trying to trick me into giving something away. It won’t work.”
“It has worked!” Pearlman shrieked. “You’ve given everything away. I know where the poison is!”
“Then make your choice.” The man in black’s voice rang with hollow bravado.
“I will! I choose -” Pearlman stopped, a look of utter horror crossing his face. “What in the world is that?” He flung a hand out to point behind the man in black.
The man in black whirled, half-drawing his gun. “What? Where? I don’t see anything!” He turned back.
Pearlman grinned at him. The pink drink with the blue umbrella now sat in front of the man in black, and the umbrellaless vodka martini sat in front of Pearlman. “Damn. I could’ve sworn I saw something.” He was unable to suppress a hearty chuckle.
“What? What’s so funny?” The man in black sounded defensive.
Pearlman waved him off. “I’ll tell you in a minute. First, let’s drink. Me from my glass, and you from yours.” He clutched the clear drink like a lifeline. The man in black raised the cosmopolitan in toast. They each eyed each other, and Pearlman waited for the man in black to swallow first. Pearlman drained the drink in one gulp and slammed the martini glass down in triumph.
“You guessed wrong.” The man in black said this casually, as if reporting the weather.
Pearlman chortled again. “You only think I guessed wrong! That was what was so funny! I switched glasses when your back was turned!”
The man in black had no reply to that. He sat stunned in silence.
“You fool!” Pearlman’s glee was expansive. “You fell victim to one of the classic scams. The most famous is, 'Never get involved in a boyband in Asia.' Only slightly less well-known is never get involved with a talent scout/manager when death is on the line!”
He howled with laughter, even going so far as to slap his knee in amusement, and was really quite cheery until the iocane took effect. His dead body slipped out of the chair and thudded on the floor.
The man in black sat quietly for a moment, then tossed back the rest of the cosmopolitan. He reholstered his gun, drew a knife, and cut Justin’s bonds and gag. He slipped the blindfold from his eyes and hauled Justin to his feet.
Justin rubbed at the rope burns on his wrists. “And to think,” he said. “All that time, it was your drink that was poisoned.”
“Neither was poisoned,” the man in black said shortly. “The dumb bastard snorted it at the very beginning.”
“What would you have done if he hadn’t snorted it?” Justin tried a few tottering steps, wincing at the needles of returning circulation.
“Shot him.” The man in black grabbed Justin’s arm and tugged him towards the door.
“Who are you?” Justin demanded, trying to wrench his arm free. The man in black’s hand would not budge.
“I am no one to be trifled with, Highness. That’s all you need to know.” They headed towards the elevator.
Big Rob waved Britney over to the laptop in back of the van hurtling towards Miami. “We found him again! He beat -” and here Big Rob gave an impressed whistle “- a giant.” Britney watched with interest as JC got dressed again in fast forward. “The loser – though I’m not really sure I’d call him a loser – ran off again. What shall we do now?”
Britney looked away regretfully. “There will be great suffering at Guilder if Justin dies.” A pause. “Can we watch that again?”
They ran through the streets of Miami, dawn ghosting closer on light feet. The man in black drove Justin forward, pushing him on when he faltered. Finally, he slowed to a stop. “Catch your breath,” he said harshly.
Justin collapsed against a brick wall, breathing hard. He was sore and stiff from being bound all night, and he kept testing the man in black to see how much he could get away with. He was very conscious of the gun strapped to the man in black’s thigh. He thought ruefully that he wouldn’t be surprised if the man in black had other weapons scattered on him.
“If you release me, you’ll get whatever you ask for, whatever ransom you want. I promise it,” Justin tried. “I’ve got money, I give you my word, and -”
The man in black laughed, a cold, dark sound. “And what is that worth, the promise of a spoiled little rich boy? Your promise, your word,” he bit out. “You’re very funny.”
Justin drew into himself, afraid for the first time. “I was giving you a chance. No matter where you take me, they’ll find me.” He hoped that didn’t sound like false bravado. “Britney has the power and the money to move heaven and earth to get me back.”
“You think your dearest love will save you?” The man in black’s scorn was evident.
Even frightened, Justin bristled at that. “I never said she was my dearest love.” He grew fierce. “And, yes, she will save me. That I know.”
The man in black cocked his head. “You admit to me freely that you do not love your fiancée?”
Justin looked away, then back. “She knows I don't love her.”
“‘Are not capable of love,’ you mean,” the man in black corrected gently.
“I have loved more deeply than a killer like yourself could ever dream,” Justin hissed, drawing himself up to attack the man in black.
The man in black caught him easily and slammed him face first against the wall. He wrenched Justin’s right arm up behind him until Justin cried out. “That was a warning, Highness,” the man in black whispered in his ear. “The next time, my hand flies on its own.”
They started to run again.
Britney nudged Pearlman’s corpse with an expensive shoe as Big Rob pored over the desk. He wiped one finger in the powdery residue on the desk and delicately sniffed it. He immediately wiped his nose. “Iocane. I’d bet my life on it.”
Britney picked up Justin’s dropped bandanna, which had been used to gag him. “So he’s still alive, or was an hour ago. If he’s not when we find him? I will be very put out.” She tapped a nail meaningfully on the desk.
In another alleyway, shadowed now that the sun was creeping over the horizon, Justin and the man in black paused again. “Rest, Highness,” the man in black said, out of breath himself this time.
“I know who you are,” Justin said with a horrified sort of wonder. “I figured it out. You’re the Dread Slim Shady. Admit it.”
The man in black bowed neatly. “With pride. What can I do for you?”
“You can rot in hell. You can die a horrible, miserable, painful-” Justin said, building up steam until he was cut off by Shady’s tsking.
“Hardly complimentary, Highness. Why bitch at me?” Shady sounded genuinely curious.
“You killed my love.” The words were soft and low but painted with Justin’s heart’s blood.
Shady considered. “It’s possible. I kill a lot of people. Who was she? Another princess? Spoiled, rich, and scabby?”
“No.” Justin threw the word at him. “A dance boy. Poor. Poor and perfect. With eyes like the summer sea after a storm.” His voice faded with memory, but anger drew him back up. “At a small recording studio, your posse attacked. Everyone knows you never take prisoners.”
“I can’t afford to make exceptions,” Shady explained kindly. “If the word leaks out that I’ve gone soft, people would start to disobey, and then it’d be nothing but work, work, work. All the time.” He heaved a sigh at the thought.
“You mock my pain.” Justin was furious, the only thing keeping him from tears.
“Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something,” Shady said, kindness gone. There was a moment of silence, Justin wrapped around himself in grief, Shady considering. “I remember this dance boy of yours, I think,” he said thoughtfully. “This would be, what? Three years ago?”
Justin nodded silently.
“Does it bother you to hear?” The veneer of kindness was back.
“Nothing you say can bother me anymore.” Justin met his eyes fiercely.
Shady looked away. “He died well. That should please you. No bribe attempts. He didn’t cry. He only said, ‘Please. Please, I need to live.’ It was the please that made me remember. I asked him what was so important. He said, ‘True love.’ And then he spoke of a boy of surpassing beauty and faithfulness. I can only assume he meant you.” He waved a dismissive hand at Justin. “You should really thank me for killing him, I think. Destroying him before he found out what you really are.”
“And what am I?” Justin demanded.
“Faithfulness, he talked of. Your undying faithfulness,” Shady snapped. “Tell me, just between us. I promise I won’t tell the tabloids. When you found out he was gone, did you sell yourself to Britney that same hour, or did you wait a whole week out of respect for the dead?”
“You mocked me once. Never do it again.” Justin’s voice was harsh. “I died that day.”
The two of them were frozen, locked together by Justin’s words. For a long moment, the city around them did not breathe, holding its breath to see what happened next. Their stillness was broken by the sound of a van roaring past the mouth of the alley. They both turned instinctively, just in time to see the Florin label on the side of the van flash past. While Shady's back was still turned, Justin shoved him hard into the wall, which gave way into a doorway. Shady tumbled down the hidden flight of stairs, disappearing into the darkness. “You can die too, for all I care,” Justin whispered after him.
The sound of Shady’s body thudding against the stairs drifted back to Justin for a long time. So, too, did his last words – “As. You. Wish.” Finally, there was silence.
Justin froze again. He stretched out a hand to the blackness of the stairwell. “Lance?” dripped from his lips, and then he was hurling himself down the stairs, unseeing in panic and darkness. He slipped and fell, then tumbled the rest of the way down. The two bodies lay still at the foot of the stairs.
The van drew up to the mouth of the alley from which Justin had vanished. A rear window rolled down, and Britney stuck her head out. Big Rob peered out the driver’s window. “They disappeared.” Britney swore. “He must have seen us coming. He may panic, make a mistake. Unless I am wrong, and I am never wrong,” she fixed Big Rob with a glare, “they’re headed straight for the Fire Swamp.”
A third head popped out of the van. “The Fire Swamp? What, are they suicidal?” Wade shook his head in disgust.
Slowly, oh so slowly, Lance tugged himself into a sitting position. His mask and bandanna had fallen away in the terrible fall. He crouched over Justin’s still form and laid a careful hand against his face. Justin twitched and opened his eyes slowly.
Lance asked softly, “Can you move?”
Justin reached one hand up to clutch at Lance’s wrist. “You’re alive.” He ran disbelieving fingers over Lance's face. “You’re really alive. If you want, I could fly.”
Lance kissed him swiftly, carefully. “I told you I would always come for you. Why didn’t you wait?”
Justin closed his eyes. “You were dead.”
Lance curled up next to Justin and tucked his face in his neck. “Death cannot stop true love. It can only delay it for a while.”
Justin tried to roll to face him but was hampered by Lance. “I will never doubt again.” He rained soft kisses on what parts of Lance he could reach.
“There will never be a need.”
At this point in the story, several of my beta readers want it known that they feel violently cheated, not being allowed to see the full scene of reconciliation on the floor between the lovers. My reply to them is simply this: (a) each of God’s beings, from the lowliest on up, is entitled to at least a few moments of genuine privacy. (b) What actually was spoken, while moving enough to those involved at the actual time, flattens like toothpaste when transferred to paper for later reading: “my heart,” “my soul,” “bliss, bliss,” et cetera. (c) Nothing of importance in an expository way was related. However, it should be noted, in fairness to all, that (1) he did weep; (2) so did he; (3) there was more than one embrace; and (4) both parties admitted that, without any qualifications whatsoever, they were more than a little glad to see each other. And, no, you dirty-minded Gentle Reader, they did not get it on. They’re fleeing for their lives! Do you think they had time for sex? There was, however, a not-insignificant amount of gropage.
Lance grabbed Justin’s hand and tugged him forward, but Justin resisted. “Where are we going?” he asked, afraid he already knew the answer.
Lance gestured with their linked hands to the shadowed doorway at the end of the dark hallway at the bottom of the black staircase down which they had so recently tumbled. “The Fire Swamp.1 We’ll be safe enough in there, and we should be able to sneak out the other side and avoid Britney’s goons.”
Justin regarded Lance seriously. “We’ll never survive, you do know that. Not us.”
“Bullshit,” Lance said cheerfully. “You only say that because no outsiders ever have.” He tugged on Justin’s hand again, and they crept towards the black door.
1A few words now on two related subjects: (1) Fire Swamps in general and (2) the Miami Fire Swamp in particular.
(1) Fire Swamps are, of course, entirely misnamed. As to why this has happened, no one knows, though probably the colorful quality of the two words together is enough. Simply, there is a chain of clubs found in the darkest basements of cities across the land which contain a large percentage of pyrotechnics that occasionally burst into flame for dramatic effect. The walls are covered in swathes of rich, dark, one might even say stereotypically goth fabric and chains, not all of which are purely ornamental in nature. The shadows, the draping effect on the walls, and the overall décor theme tend to make the flame bursts seem particularly dramatic. Because the clubs are dark, they are almost always moist and secretive, thereby attracting the standard community that prefers a moist and secretive climate. In other words, a Fire Swamp is just a club, period; the rest is embroidery.
(2) The Miami Fire Swamp does have some particular odd characteristics: (a) the Quicksand mosh pit and (b) the presence of the R.O.U.S. about which, a bit more later. Quicksand mosh pits are usually, again incorrectly, identified with your standard mosh pit. Nothing could be less accurate. Your regular mosh pit is generally moist, mobile, and stompy, and it basically destroys by drowning in people. Quicksand mosh pits are much more tightly packed and destroy by suffocation.
Most particularly, though, the Miami Fire Swamp is used to frighten children. Well, not all children everywhere, but the children of the pop music industry based in southern and central Florida. There is not a former child star for Disney, Universal, or any of the assorted record labels in Orlando that at one time or another was not, when misbehaving very badly, threatened with abandonment in the Fire Swamp. “Do that one more time, you’re going to the Fire Swamp” is as common as “Clean your plate; there are supermodels starving in L.A.” And so, as little pop stars grew, so did the danger of the Fire Swamp in their enlarging imaginations. No one, of course, ever actually went into the Fire Swamp, although, every year or so, a group of bright young things heady on their own success would drive through the Fire Swamp’s neighborhood at dawn after a night of carousing, daring each other to go closer, and a battered and worn R.O.U.S. might wander out and wave forlornly at them, and this sighting would only add to the myth and the horror. The largest known Fire Swamp is, of course, within a day’s drive of Perth. It is impenetrable to those not already acquainted with it and over ten thousand square feet. The one in Miami is barely a third that size. No one has been able to discover if it is impenetrable or not.
They found themselves at a side entrance, supposedly locked, but Lance picked it swiftly.
Once inside, Justin blinked in the flash of a strobe light and grabbed at Lance blindly. The strobe flashed again, and Justin stared up into the face of a large, looming man who grinned down at him, white teeth startling against his black lipstick. Justin dropped his hand quickly. The man’s piercings glinted in the darkness, and he raised a half-gloved hand to trace a finger down Justin’s cheek. He leaned in close enough that his mohawk brushed Justin’s ear. “Did you get lost in the woods on the way to grandmother’s house, little boy?”
Lance was a sudden, solid presence at Justin’s back. “The big, bad wolf has already eaten him,” Lance said, his voice pleasant. “Perhaps you’re looking for the three little pigs?” He gestured behind the large man.
The man considered Lance with heavily kohled eyes. Lance grinned, all teeth. The man nodded briskly. “Maybe I am.” He faded off into the darkness between strobe flashes.
“It’s not so bad,” Lance said, right in Justin’s ear. Justin stared at him, at an utter loss for words. “Well, I’m not saying I’d like to make it my favorite summer hang-out or anything,” Lance clarified, “but the music’s actually kinda nice.” He kissed Justin swiftly, in the dark of the strobe, and the bass rattled the air between their lips. “Let’s try to blend in, at least a little.”
Justin waved a hand at his grimy, still-too-tight jeans and tshirt, rumpled fro, and overly-recognizable face, and raised his eyebrows. “You’ve got to be shitting me.” Lance just grinned, and Justin tucked himself close behind Lance, trying to be as invisible as possible. “The Shrieking Eels are starting to look good,” he muttered in Lance’s ear, making him snicker. They weaved their way through a seething mass of humanity, all writhing to the throb of the bass. Squeezing past pvc-clad bodies, Lance stared down men and women who reached out spidery, clutching fingers draped in silver and black to touch and caress whatever bit of Justin they could reach.
A woman with multicolored, matted dreadlocks and who was adorned only in artfully placed strips of leather was persistent, and Justin drew himself up to his full height, smacked her hand away and hissed at her. She shrieked in outrage. He caught her hand when she reached out again, and Lance said, from over his shoulder, “Baby’s got teeth. It’s not nice to tease.” They backed away slowly, too intent on her angry face to hear the popping noise from near their feet.
They did notice, however, when Justin’s right leg caught fire. He yanked it back from the pyro trigger hidden on the floor, and he and Lance beat frantically at the flame. It extinguished quickly, and Lance ran careful fingers over Justin’s leg to make sure it wasn’t a serious burn. “Singed a bit, but not too bad,” he said, taking Justin’s hands again and pulling him along.
They made it to the corner bar without further incident, excepting two artfully avoided flame spurts. Justin ducked into the shadows, and Lance signaled for two beers. “If we can wait here just a little while longer, I think most of the people looking for us will have moved on to other neighborhoods,” Lance said, leaning close to be heard over the music. “Then, if we’re careful, we should be able to make it to Revenge, Shady’s Miami headquarters. And since I, as you guessed, am Slim Shady, this will all soon be a happy memory.” Lance looked pleased with himself.
Justin rolled his eyes at the “happy memory,” but then he frowned. “I still don’t get the whole Shady thing. He’s been on the scene for ten years, but you only left me three years ago. How did that work?”
“That’s the funny thing,” Lance said, grinning almost to himself. “Well, one of the funny things. What I told you before, about saying please? That was true. It caught Shady’s attention, as did my description of you. He looked at me for a long time, and then he said, ‘All right then, Lance, I’ve never had a body double before. You can try it for tonight. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.’” Lance leaned in confidentially. “We don’t actually look that much alike, other than being blond and relatively skinny, but you’d be surprised with how much you can get away with. There was this one time, in a hotel room, and Shady had broken his thumb-” Lance broke off when Justin kicked his chair. “Right. Yes. Most likely kill me in the morning. For two years he said that. ‘Good night, Lance. Good work. Sleep well. Most likely kill you in the morning.’ It was a good time for me, except for the not being with you part,” he added smoothly, “and I was learning to fight, to rap – sort of – anything anyone would teach me. I do a damn fine voiceover now. Shady and I eventually became friends. And then it happened.” Lance grinned again, still almost in wonderment.
Justin was practically vibrating with curiosity. “What? Don’t stop!”
Lance took a large swallow of beer and continued. “This was right after Shady’s fourth album, and profits were rolling in nicely. He started to think about retiring. One night he took me into his dressing room after a show and told me his secret.” Lance leaned in close again, practically in Justin’s lap. “‘I am not the Dread Slim Shady,’ he said. ‘My name is Mathers. I inherited this gig from the previous Slim Shady, just as you will inherit it from me. The man who passed it on to me was not the real Slim Shady, either. His name was Inem, but I just called him Em. The real Slim Shady has been retired six years and living like a king in Detroit.’ Then he explained that it was the name that was the important thing for inspiring the necessary fear. You see, no one would pay to see – or run screaming from – the Dread Slim Lance. Plus there were trademark issues.”
Justin nodded in understanding.
“So then, for the next tour, we hired an entirely new crew, and he stayed on for a while as road manager, all the while calling me Shady. Once the crew believed, he left, and I’ve been Slim Shady ever since.” Lance shrugged elegantly, as if that explained everything. “Except, now that we’re together, I can retire and hand the name over to someone else. Everything clear?”
Justin wasn’t sure his eyebrows could properly express his levels of bemusement, and he opened his mouth with a thousand questions. Before he could ask, though, the railing against which he’d been leaning gave way, and Justin tumbled headfirst into the mosh pit below. The throng of people quickly moved to absorb him, and every trace of him soon vanished. Never hesitating, Lance threw himself down after him. He, too, was immediately swallowed, and the rhythm of the club moved on, as if they had never been there.
A ripple started to move through the club, starting from the wall opposite the mosh pit. The crowd parted like water around a stone as a clump of people moved through them. A wall of black-clad and bepierced men and women had formed around five young men huddled together, and the wall swept them through the crowd. The young men were snappily dressed in the height of TRL fashion, but fear clung to them as if they were dressed only in saran wrap. There was a blond one, who clung to the arm of the ferret faced one. There was the one with dreads, if one used that term loosely, who clung to his guitar. There was the other one with creative hair who tried to cling to the arm of the nondescript one, but he kept forgetting that the nondescript one was there. The Fire Swamp staff ushered them through the crowd and into a large open area which, if one squinted a bit, was not entirely dissimilar to a wrestling ring. A hiss ran through the surrounding crowd, one not sounding entirely dissimilar to, “rousssssssssssssss.” The hiss faded; the crowd closed back over the pathway of the five young men, and the party continued on, undisturbed. For the moment.
At the very edge of the mosh pit, Lance and Justin exploded out from among the heaving throng of people. Much worse for the wear, they worked themselves over to a wall, up against which Lance propped himself, with Justin draped over him. They both panted for breath, clothes torn and trampled. Justin was missing a shoe.
“We,” Justin panted into Lance’s ear, “are never going to get out of here in one piece.” He closed his eyes and buried his face in Lance’s neck.
Lance, looking more than a little peaked, rested a hand on Justin’s back and stared up at the Fire Swamp employee gesturing and waving in their direction. “Sure we are.” He frowned as he saw the employee clearly mouth the word “rodent,” but he smoothed his face into a wry grin as Justin looked up at him in bemused horror. “No, really,” Lance encouraged as he propped Justin up even further. Justin looped an arm around Lance’s waist, and together they moved off, painfully slow, edging around the crowd. “What are the three terrors of the Fire Swamp? One, flame spurts, which are easy enough to avoid. Though they were kinda cool.” Lance got a fond, almost dreamy look on his face. “Pyro on the club floor. Who would’ve thought?” Justin poked him. “Yeah. Terrors. Um. Number two is the Quicksand mosh pit, which you were lucky enough to discover.” He smoothed affectionate fingers over Justin’s frown. “But now we can avoid that, too.”
“What about the R.O.U.Ss?” Justin worried his bottom lip between his teeth.
“Rodents Of Unusual Size? The poppiest outsiders they can find, stuck in a wrestling ring and forced to fight to the death like rats in a cage?” Lance shook his head. “Just an urban legend.”
It was then that the Fire Swamp employees seized them, whispering in their ears, “Fresh game.”
It wasn’t exactly like a wrestling ring. There was no announcer, and there was no give to the ropes. Nor were there any readily available folding chairs. Still, the five young men from earlier were clustered in one corner; Lance and Justin had been shoved into the opposite corner, and the crowd seethed just beyond the ropes. One of the employees leaned over and whispered in their ear, “It's either you or them. Only one of you comes out of this ring.” He then shoved them both out into the center of the ring.
The two groups circled each other slowly, the five TRL rejects all shoving each other in an attempt to hide in the back, Lance and Justin each maneuvering to protect the other. Finally, the creatively haired one and the nondescript one threw themselves at Lance, while the other three tentatively approached Justin. Once the battle was joined, though, it verged on epic. The TRL boys fought like cornered rats once they realized they were in a life-or-death situation. The crowd around them howled, egging them on. The nondescript one managed to sink teeth into Lance's shoulder and bite deep into his muscle. Justin threw off his own attackers long enough to kick the nondescript one away from Lance, but he went down under the combined attack of all four of them. He cried out to Lance, who dragged himself together and threw himself back into the melee. (It was like Fight Club, only less civilized. This was after Fight Club. Of course.)
Their defeat was inevitable. There were five of them and only two of Lance and Justin. They fought bravely and well, but in the end, the numbers were simply against them. They were battered, bruised, and beaten almost beyond recognition. Lance and Justin locked eyes once more and read their fate in each other. Then, from just beyond the edge of the ring, a popping noise caught their attention. Words unspoken flew between them again, and before it was too late, they each hurled an attacker outside of the ring to land on the flame that suddenly spurted up next to them. Moving as one, they stalked two more and tossed them out onto new pyro as well. They turned to face the fifth and final boy. He threw himself over the ropes.
The Fire Swamp was quiet except for the moans of the badly burned TRL boys. Lance and Justin helped each other over the ropes and out of the ring, and the Fire Swamp's denizens parted a path for them as they limped away from the ring.
It was just after dawn. Early morning sounds filtered through the streets of Miami, the grinding of the milk foaming machine heralding the first cappuccino of the day at Starbucks. However, in the darkest corner of the darkest alley, all was still...still. Even the pigeons clustered around one of the dumpsters were hushed, only pecking lackadaisically at the garbage. The back door of the Fire Swamp slamming open startled them, though, and they squawked indignantly at Lance and Justin when they stumbled out. They collapsed against the brick wall of the Swamp and against each other. (Lance and Justin. The pigeons had already turned back to their garbage and weren't very good at leaning in the first place.) Both of them were bruised and ragged, and Justin would probably have to shave his head to get rid of the enormous wad of gum one of the Fire Swamp's inhabitants had thrown at him, but they were alive and in one piece.
“We made it,” Justin breathed, almost in disbelief.
Lance said nothing in return, just grinned slightly and twined his bloody fingers with Justin's. He tilted his head up to Justin's for a kiss.
Later, they couldn't tell which made them spring apart first – Lance accidentally nipping Justin's split lip or Britney clearing her throat in front of them. “Oh, just give up,” she said, voice pleasant and eyes hard.
Lance slid his body in between Justin and Britney. “That's awfully nice of you to let us know you're giving up,” he said, equally pleasant. Britney sneered elegantly at him. Lance raised an eyebrow in response. “And how are you going to do that? We know the secrets of the Fire Swamp, and we can stay there quite comfortably for some time.” Justin thumped him. Lance ignored him magnificently. “In other words,” he continued, “you and what army?”
Big Rob stepped out from behind Britney where he had been hiding. Wade stayed back by the van but waved his gun at them genially.
“Oh.”
Britney's temper frayed. “Give it the fuck up!” she snapped.
Lance never lost his pleasant smile, but it got toothier. “Death first.”
“I can have that arranged.” Britney raised a hand to motion Big Rob into action.
“Will you promise not to hurt him?” Justin blurted out as he threw himself in front of Lance.
“What was that?” Lance thumped him.
“What was that?” Britney sounded genuinely surprised for the first time in years.
“What was that?” Big Rob just sounded relieved.
Everyone turned to look at Wade. He just smiled, dark eyes fixed on Lance.
Justin cleared his throat, and everyone looked at him again. “If I go back to Orlando with you, will you promise not to hurt him?” Justin clutched at Lance's limp, stunned hand. “He's a sound tech for the Dread Slim Shady. Will you return him to his studio?”
Britney held up three fingers in the Girl Scout salute. “May I live a thousand years and never shop again.” She also shot Wade a hard glance.
Justin plucked helplessly at Lance's hand. “I thought you were dead once, and it destroyed me. I can't let you die again, not when I can save you.” Lance said nothing. Justin opened his mouth again, but whatever he was going to say got cut off when Big Rob dragged him off by the scruff of his neck. Lance stayed slumped against the brick wall and followed Justin with empty eyes until the van door slammed shut on him and Big Rob. Britney tipped her newsboy cap at him and sauntered back to the van. It drove off, leaving Lance and Wade alone.
Wade strolled forward, keeping his gun trained steadily on Lance. “C'mon,” he beckoned. “We have to get you back to your studio.”
Lance heaved himself upright. He still barely reached Wade's shoulder. “We are men of action. Lies do not become us,” Lance lied. He assessed Wade quickly and grinned.
“What?” Wade asked, lightly curious.
Lance nodded at Wade's feet. “You have six toes on your right foot. I know someone who is looking for you.” He paused. “Or maybe you just have really weird shoes.”
Wade's face twisted into something ugly, and he clubbed Lance hard against the temple. Lance dropped like a stone.
Lance regained consciousness slowly, his mind still sticky with disappointment and anger. He started to stretch, and he snapped fully back into consciousness when his stretch was hampered by the chains on his wrists and ankles. He opened his eyes to see a black man with dreads, a nose ring, and terrible fashion sense blotting gently at Lance's shoulder with a bloody cloth. “Where am I?” Lance demanded.
“The Pit of Despair,” the man creaked, his voice nothing more than a hoarse rattle. “Welcome to the Wade Robson Project. I'm your boy, Boogie.” He flashed Lance the devil horns, which Lance did his best to reciprocate, though his motions were hampered by his restraints. “Don't even think -” Boogie turned away from Lance, did his best imitation of a cat hacking up a hairball, then continued in a normal tone of voice. “Don't even think about trying to escape. It just makes Wade laugh. And forget a rescue. Nobody knows you're here, and only Wade, Britney, and I know the way in and out.”
“So I'm just going to rot down here till I die?” Lance was unimpressed.
“Till they kill you, yeah.” Boogie blotted away at Lance, then swiped a disinfectant wipe over the worst of his wounds.
“So why bother with the first aid, then?” Lance asked, craning his neck to see the rest of the room.
“Wade likes it when you're healthy before he breaks you.” Boogie broke out the Snoopy bandaids and began applying them liberally all over Lance.
“Torture?”
Boogie nodded gleefully.
“I can handle that.” Lance set his face, visibly drawing into himself.
Boogie shook his head gleefully. “Nuh-uh. You get props for making it through the Fire Swamp, but nobody withstands the Machine.” He chuckled to himself.
Lance swallowed hard.
Later that week, Britney and Wade peered into the open doorway of Justin's rehearsal room. They both winced as Justin flubbed a basic stage hump. The choreographer chewed him out at great length, but he didn't seem to notice. He just stared unseeing into the mirror.
They let the door slip shut silently. “He's been like that ever since the Fire Swamp,” Wade said.
“It's the stress over the upcoming concert and tour that are getting to him,” Britney explained, eyes wide.
Wade nodded thoughtfully.
That night, MTV news broke a story featuring Florin's CEO, its third most popular – and incidentally underaged – recording artist, a troupe of Danish midget clowns, six pogo sticks, and an undisclosed amount of orange jello. (It was the fact that the midget clowns were Danish that really threw everyone.) In response, Britney and Justin were married immediately.
They appeared together publicly the next day for the first time since their engagement, on a Very Special Episode of TRL. Carson stared longingly at Justin for an endless moment, heaved an ever-suffering sigh, then launched into his patter. “Last time you saw them, they were just two crazy kids in love. Now they're the married couple set to take the pop music world by an even bigger storm than they did before. Hurricane levels, people.”
Many of the girls in the audience were crying, but they shrieked obligingly at that. Carson smiled grimly. “If they love each other as much as you love them, there will be joy. Let's bring them out!”
They were stunning in their matching denim outfits. (Literally stunning. Several members of the studio audience promptly fainted at the sight of them.) Britney's smile was almost as shiny as the rock on her left hand. Justin's smile was blank, with desperation creeping along its edges. The shrieks were deafening.
Suddenly, in the midst of the clamor and chaos, a lone voice could be heard shouting, “Boo!” (Well, actually it was, “Boo! Boo! Uh-huh, thankyouverymuch. Boo!” but that will become obvious in just a moment.) Slowly a figure fought its way forward from the back of the crowd, which parted to reveal a highly spangled and sideburned, if slightly pudgy, man. He shook a heavily-jeweled fist in Justin's face, and when he raised his arms, the sequined cape on the back of his suit was revealed in all its sparkly glory.
Britney's smile remained fixed, but Justin demanded, “What the hell?”
The man adjusted his enormous sunglasses. “Well, baby, you had love. Love, real love, not the kind you and I sing about. You had it in your hands, and you gave it up.”
Justin dropped Britney's hand like a hot curling iron. “They would have killed Lance if I hadn't done it! Or, well, at least broken his legs in several important places. And possibly castrated him.”
The man made a dismissive noise and waved his ringed hand at Justin again. “Your true love lives, and you went and married her?” He turned to the crowd. “True love, ladies and gen'lmen. He had true love. True love saved him in the Fire Swamp-” the crowd gasped at this “-uh-huh, that's right, and he treated it like shit. 'Cause that's what he is. He's the new King of Shit. So, yeah, shriek for him when he twitches his hips. Shriek for him like you used to shriek for me. Shriek. Shriek at the King of Shit, the King of Trash, the King of Putrescence, thank you very much.” He started moving even closer to Justin, shaking his hand and hips all the while. Justin could smell the alcohol heavy on his breath, layered with peanut butter and banana. Getting a little panicky, he recoiled from the man's clutching fingers, who was inexorable in his approach. “Boo! Trashy, no-good, worthless, disgrace to the city of Memphis, boo! Boo!”
Justin sat bolt upright in bed, smacking his head on the bottom of the bunk above him. It was ten days until the wedding, and he and Britney were on a promotional tour, though promoting what he still wasn't quite sure. There had been no scandal with any Danish midget clowns and underaged singers (at least not that had been released to the press), but Justin's nightmares were growing steadily worse. At least he'd stopped dreaming about Lance's twisted and mangled body, but the booing was more than bad enough. He threw himself out of his bunk and stumbled into the lounge area, where Britney and Wade were chatting quietly. They clammed up the moment he set foot through the doorway. He took a deep breath.
“Let's cut the bullshit,” he said. “I love Lance. I always have; I always will. You have to know that already. So if you tell me we have to go through with this farce of a wedding, I figured I'd let you know I'll be dead by morning.” He threw himself on the couch opposite them, still mutinous but relieved to have finally said something.
Britney and Wade sat immobile, stunned. She passed a hand over her face, visibly shaken. Finally she said, in a small, heartfelt voice, “I never want to be the cause of such misery to you that you might show it in public. Consider our wedding off.” Wade raised an eyebrow at this, and Britney turned to him. “You returned this,” she looked at Justin, “Lance, is it?” Justin nodded. “You returned Lance to his studio?”
Wade raised his other eyebrow, looking mildly affronted. “Of course.”
Britney looked satisfied. “Then we'll simply page him. You've got his pager number?”
Justin bit his lip.
“His cell number?”
Justin scrinched his nose.
“His home address?”
Justin studied his nails.
Britney tapped hers on the back of the sofa. “Sweetpea, are you sure he wants you? I mean, you did kind of ditch him outside the Fire Swamp, and you don't even know where he lives. Not to mention he works for Slim Shady. Are you sure you trust him? I wouldn't want to see you hurt. Publicly.”
On this, Justin was steadfast. “Lance will always come for me.”
Wade snickered. Justin looked slightly murderous, then giggled himself. Britney rolled her eyes at both of them. “Look, let's make a deal here. You write him a letter, and I'll set my four best people on tracking him down. Shady is always near Orlando this time of year. If Lance wants you, bless you both. As long as you keep it out of the papers. If not, maybe you'll think about me as an alternative to suicide?” She used the big kitten eyes and smiled winningly.
Justin grinned back, accepting immediately. He would agree to whatever she suggested, as long as it got him in touch with Lance. He had said he would never doubt again, so he didn't.
Back in Orlando the next day, Britney and Wade strolled through the Florin compound, comparing notes on the upcoming anniversary/wedding/merchandising event/celebration. “You know,” Wade said, cracking a sunflower seed with his teeth, “Justin really is kinda hot. Dumber than a stump, but I can see the teeny appeal.” He spat out the seed hulls.
“I know,” Britney said comfortably. “He's done wonders for my career, and it just keeps getting better. I thought it was gonna be great when I hired Pearlman to kill him right after the engagement announcement, but it's gonna be so much more moving when I drug and strangle him on our wedding night.” She sighed happily. “Just think of the press.” Wade mmmed in response, pleased.
They reached the end of a hallway that dead ended into a blank brick wall. Wade squinted at the wall and muttered, “Now where is that secret brick? I can never remember.” Britney shrugged. He started pressing bricks randomly until he finally stumbled on the right one. The wall slid down to reveal open elevator doors. Wade stuck a foot in the door to keep it open and turned to Britney. “Coming down? I'm starting Lance on the Machine today.”
Britney forced a smile and laid a hand on Wade's shoulder. “Sweetie,” she dripped with sincerity. “You know how much I love to watch you work. But I've got a concert extravaganza to rehearse for, my wedding to arrange, my husband to murder, and Guilder to frame for it.” She shrugged helplessly. “I'm swamped.”
Wade pressed her hand between his. “Make sure you get enough sleep,” he soothed. “If you haven't got your health, you haven't got anything.” He gave her one last smile and pat, then let the elevator doors shut.
Britney shuddered delicately. “Gah.”
Lance stared dubiously at the contraption before him. There appeared to be some sort of harness and electrical generation and a garish bath mat and a tv and a veritable plethora of little suction cups, but he couldn't quite figure out how they all fit together.
“Beautiful, isn't it?” Wade beamed. Lance expressed all his indignation and disbelief through his eyebrows. Wade motioned Boogie forward to wrestle Lance from his chains into the harness. Wade began attaching the suction cups himself all over Lance's body. “It took me half a lifetime to invent it.”
“A whole six years, then?” Lance asked solicitously.
Wade backhanded him casually and went about his work. As he shoved the gag into Lance's mouth, he continued, “I know you already know about my deep and abiding interest in pain and poppin' fresh dance moves. I've taken the centuries' old concept of Twister and, well, Boogie, tell the man what he needs to know.”
“Right!” Boogie crowed. “My man Wade here is hooking you up to electrical current, so that whatever the little guy onscreen does, you do.” He stopped and looked at Wade, who raised an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah, that's pretty much it.”
Lance peered down his body, past the harness and rigging, to the mat on the floor. There were four arrows on it; top, bottom, left, and right, and there were triangles in each of the four corners. In front of him, just below eye level, was a tv screen. It took a moment for him to resolve the flashing colors and dizzying patterns, but eventually he discerned an animated figure at the bottom of the screen, positioned over an animated mat identical to his. The little figure bobbed in time to the boppy, grating electronica chirping from the speakers. Wade fiddled with the connector chords and, as best Lance could tell, various thingies, while Boogie double-checked the electrodes and suction cups all over Lance's naked body.
“Now, since this is your first session, we'll just do one round at the lowest level,” Wade said solicitously. “One day I might take you up to five, but I really don't know what that would do to you. We'll start here. Welcome to my revolution. Dance! Dance!” He flipped the switch.
A woman's digitized voice warbled, “Have you never been mellow?” on constant, strident repeat. Lance watched his own body in horror. Little arrows drifted up the screen in front of him, and when they reached the top, the electric current running from the bizarre contraption to the countless electrodes on his body made Lance's legs stomp the corresponding arrows on the mat beneath him in time. He found he could flail on his own during the off beats, but he was helpless to control his own body when the arrows reached the top of the screen. The woman's warble took on a more strident note, and the arrows began scrolling up the screen faster. And faster. And yet faster still. Lance nearly bit through the gag and thought waspishly that no, no he had not ever been mellow. Then he couldn't think at all.
After an endless stretch of time (or six minutes and thirty-seven seconds, whichever came first), a psychedelic sound effect announced the end of the song. The current was cut, and Lance sagged simply in his traces, fingers and right leg still twitching occasionally. His body had been pushed to its limit by something not under Lance's control, and he wasn't sure which had fucked with his head more: the betrayal of his own body or the excruciating music.
Wade cleared his throat to draw Lance's attention. He sat behind an enormous desk, fingers poised over a laptop. “You've just danced one year of your life away, so let's just start with what we've got so far. Tell me, what did this do to you? Remember, this is for research purposes, so please try to be honest. It makes my grant proposals look better. How do you feel? Really?”
Lance opened his mouth to verbally flay Wade past the point of recognition. Instead, to his great shame, he whimpered. He could force nothing else out of his mouth.
Wade smiled.
Meanwhile, back in Britney's office, there was a swift knock on her door. “Come in,” she called. A man of indeterminate age, of average height, average weight, and average coloring stuck his head inside the door. He was wearing a red shirt. “You wanted to see me, ma'am?”
Britney nodded briskly. “Yeah.” She motioned him forward, and he scampered to the front of her desk. She sighed, snapped her fingers, and pointed to the floor beside her chair. He scampered some more. “Captain Throwaway, you're in charge of security for the wedding, so I trust you with this information. My people are telling me about reports coming in about spies from Guilder. They say that these spies are going to try and murder Justin on our wedding night.”
“Really?” Throwaway looked baffled. “I haven't heard a word about that.”
Britney scowled, but Justin chose that moment to stick his head in the open doorway. He was fresh from rehearsal, towel still draped around his neck. Britney and Throwaway slapped smiles on their faces. “Any word from Lance?” Justin asked.
“Too soon, lovemuffin,” Britney said through gritted teeth and perfect smile.
Justin snorted and pulled the door shut behind him.
Britney's smile vanished, and she slammed a perfectly-manicured hand on the desk. “He must not be hurt. I want the compound emptied of everyone who doesn't work directly for me, er, Florin.”
Throwaway gawped at her. “Are you sure? A lot of the nonessentials will protest.”
“Form a brute squad, then,” she snapped. “My wedding must be safe.”
“It won't be easy,” Throwaway warned.
Britney sighed, deep and weary. “Try ruling the world sometime.”
The day before the wedding, the compound was deserted. Just outside the compound was a howling mob of irate people driven away from their homes and work. Throwaway was doing a final checkthrough when one of his flunkies approached him, filthy, battered, and more than a little disgruntled. “We're all clear, except for this one Pennsylvanian. He's giving us,” he paused to wipe away egg yolk and shell dripping into his eyes, “a little trouble.”
Throwaway smiled, all teeth, and reholstered his gun. “Then I'll go give him a little trouble.”
Chris was crumpled in the back corner of one of the enormous cafeteria pantries. He curled protectively around a bottle of Florin's finest whiskey.
“Yo, dude,” Throwaway called from the pantry doorway.
Chris cracked a bleary eye. “Go fuck yourself with your 'yo, dude,'” he muttered. He raised his head, weaving a little, as Throwaway approached. He pegged Throwaway with four unerringly-thrown, overripe tomatoes. Then he let his head nestle back in his arms again.
“All right, dickmunch,” Throwaway snarled, wiping tomato from his eyes and drawing his gun.
Before the gun had cleared his holster, Chris had unfurled himself and stood with a gun pressed to Throwaway's forehead. He wobbled a little as he stood, but his gun hand was steady. “We planned ahead. We said if anything went wrong, go back to the beginning.” Chris blinked furiously. “Well, everything got shot to shit in a handbasket, and this is where it all started. So I'm staying here till Pearlman gets here, and you can't fuckin' move me.” He nodded firmly, bonked the muzzle of his gun against Throwaway's forehead twice, and curled up back in his corner.
Throwaway gaped, then cocked his gun. Before he could fire, his head slammed against the doorframe, and he sagged to the floor. Chris didn't open his eyes at this, but he did at the gentle hands on his shirt tugging him into a sitting position. He grabbed on of these hands, held it up to his own, and tried to focus. Longer, more elegant fingers than his own, but a strong hand. A good hand. He knew that hand. He looked up and blinked owlishly at JC's squashed grin. “It's you,” he muttered happily, giving JC the sweetest smile he had ever seen on Chris's mouth.
“True,” JC agreed.
Chris immediately faceplanted into JC's shirt, passed out. JC settled him on top of a sack of potatoes, pulled the pantry door shut, and locked it from the inside. He rolled Chris over on his side and curled up behind him. They slept.
Chris woke up the next morning with a foul hangover and a fouler temper, only slightly softened by JC's presence. (JC's aspirin helped more.) As they waited for the coffee to brew, JC caught Chris up on everything. (JC had lurked around the compound for weeks, trying to get information on Chris and the man in black. Finally he wised up and turned to the internet. Three google searches and a quick spin through livejournal, and he knew all there was to know about Justin, Lance, Lance's secret identity, Pearlman's connections with Britney, and the type of underwear Justin preferred, not to mention some really horrific pictures of Lance and Justin from the early years. Because, of course, this was after livejournal. But still before Ellen DeGeneres.) “Everything,” of course, being Pearlman's death, Lance's capture, Justin's return, and Wade's identity. Considering the years of rage and grief Chris had carried around, waiting to pin on Wade's shoulders, he handled the news surprising well: he passed out again. Then threw up and passed out for the third time. (This was, of course, before coffee. Well, not before the invention of coffee, as this story takes place in civilized society, and there was no such thing as civilized society before coffee. No, this was just before Chris had had coffee that morning.) After a shower, caffeine, and more aspirin, Chris was ready to face the situation with more equanimity.
“Right. So Wade is holed up somewhere in the bowels of the compound with Britney on the day of her wedding. Security has got to be tight. How many security guys could you take out if you had to?”
JC shook his head. “No more than ten or fifteen at most.”
Chris furrowed his brow. “Right, okay. Then that leaves me,” he paused, “...carry the two...multiply by pi...” His frown grew deeper. “That leaves me with sixty guards, three dog units, a closed circuit video monitor system, and Britney's mom. Dude, not even on my best day.”
JC winced. Chris shook his head. “Goddamn, even if Pearlman was a slimy rat bastard, at least he could scheme. He could find me-” Chris broke off, a light coming back into his eyes. “No. No, I don't need Pearlman. The man in black beat both of us at our strengths; if he won, he must have outconnived Pearlman. Who I need is the man in black.' Chris became a flurry of movement, gathering weapons, putting on clothes, and hiding traces of their night in the pantry.
“What about-” JC started.
Chris shook his head, impatient. “Fuck the details. Tonight, after six years of misery, I will avenge my family. There will be blood spilled tonight,” he almost howled.
Justin met up with Britney just outside the conference room for a final press briefing. She wound an arm around his waist and beamed up at him. “Today's our big day. We perform, and then we get married. Tomorrow morning, my entire posse will escort us to the airport. Then we'll be whisked away for the greatest honeymoon ever designed. Way better than any of J. Lo's, and that's saying something.” She squeezed Justin's waist in satisfaction.
“All your posse except your four best,” Justin corrected absently, looking over set list changes.
Britney made an inquisitive noise, mostly distracted by her cheerful gloating.
“The four best guys you sent to track Lance down,” Justin reminded her, putting aside his papers and letting a hint of satisfaction creep into his voice.
Britney laughed, bright and hard. “Of course not them, silly,” she smiled. “I figured I didn't even need to mention them.”
“Gotcha,” Justin said. “I wondered if you'd ever slip up and admit you never sent them. It doesn't matter, though.”
“You are a stupid child,” Britney snapped.
“Maybe,” Justin agreed. “For ever agreeing to this farce in the first place, for not realizing sooner what a scared, selfish little girl you are.” He tried to unwind Britney's arm from around his waist, but she was immovable.
“Shut up,” she hissed at him, dragging him away from the conference room.
He walked with her, not fighting. “Why should I? You can't hurt me, not in any way. Lance and I love each other, and that's something you just don't understand. You can't buy it; you can't order it around, and you cannot change it, no matter how much it pisses you off and you want it to change. It kinda makes me sad to know that you're too small and petty a person to ever understand what it means to love another person.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Britney shrieked, and she used leverage and surprise to hurl Justin into a spare office, slam the door shut, and lock him in. She tore through the compound, a blur of blonde hair and rage. She kicked the secret brick on the first try and stabbed at the down button over and over. This just made the doors stick open, and her roar of inarticulate fury almost drowned out the Muzak version of The Girl from Ipanema that perked out of the speakers.
Wade looked up, startled, when she burst out of the elevator. She ignored him and stalked over to Lance, dangling in the Machine's harness. She grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. “You truly love each other, huh?” she demanded. “So you might have been truly happy together. Not one couple in a hundred, a thousand, hell, a million these days has a shot at that, no matter what the fairy tales say. It fits, then, that you should suffer like one in a million. Doesn't it just break your fucking heart?”
Wade was moving, flying, as soon as he guessed her intent, but he was already too late. “Not to fifty!” he cried, but the switch had been flipped. The screen was a mass of arrows and triangles, and for a heartbreaking moment, Lance's body tried to keep up. Soon he was simply locked in a rictus of pain. His back arched, his head was thrown back, and he howled.
His voice stretched up from the depths of the compound and reached the crowds of fans and photographers clumped outside the gates. They rustled uneasily. It reached Justin, locked in the empty office, carefully sharpening a knife and polishing his sneakers. He shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself. It even reached Chris and JC, who were scaling the back wall of the compound to look for the man in black outside.
“What in the fresh hell is that?” Chris said, slightly horrified.
“Someone being forced to listen to Jessica Simpson's cover of Take My Breath Away?” JC said, eyes brimming with innocence but with devilry lurking in his smile.
The howl continued. Chris's grin faded, and he leaped off the wall. “No. I recognize it now. I made that sound the day I learned they took my sisters away. That's the sound of a heart breaking. That's Lance.”
“Lance?” JC was startled.
“Lance,” Chris confirmed. “His true love is marrying someone else tonight. Of course his heart is breaking.” He considered a moment. “Well, that, and they're probably torturing him, too. C'mon. We gotta find him.” Chris and JC tore off into the very heart of the compound.
The howl faded long before they could find the secret elevator, but they got close. Close enough that they ran into Boogie in the dead end hallway. Boogie was headed towards the false wall, idly tossing a set of keys and carrying a book under one arm. (“How to Torture And Maim Through Poppin' Fresh Dance Moves In Eight Easy Steps – Free coupon for ass velcro inside.”)
Chris tackled him from behind and slammed him against the wall. “Where is Lance,” he hissed in Boogie's ear. Boogie gaped like a dead fish. “JC, jog his memory,” Chris instructed.
JC moved in, fingers already in Vulcan nerve pinch position. JC squeezed, and Boogie dropped like a smacked fly. JC winced. “Damn. Jogged a little too hard. Guess I'm out of practice.” He toed Boogie's limp form. “Now what?” When Chris didn't answer, he looked around.
Chris was crouched next to the far wall, clutching his cell phone to his ear with both hands. He was silent for a long moment, then he started to talk. “Mom? Mom, are you there? Mom, I've almost found him. I know where he is, but I can't do it alone. There's a man who can make it happen, but, Mom, I've lost him. I'm lost.” He got up and started to pace. “Are you there? Can you hear this? Mom, it's been years, and I can't make it right, but I can make it better. I can't do it alone, and I don't know what to do anymore. Can you help me? Can you tell me what to do, where to go? Mom, Mama, I need you now. What do I do? Where do I go? Are you there?” He snapped the phone shut suddenly and looked up at JC, bleak. “The goddamn machine cut me off.” He slumped against the back wall of the hallway.
The wall slid down, dumping him on his ass, and the elevator doors slid open. Chris and JC stared. The Girl From Ipanema continued to chirp from the elevator speakers.
In the basement, Wade's secret lair was deserted. The Machine was quiet and dark. The only sound was the occasional water burble from the laptop's screensaver. Lance had been taken down from the harness and was stretched out on a table. He was frightfully, ominously still. Chris strode over to the table but pulled back at the last instant, hands clenched by his sides.
JC picked up Lance's hand. It flopped straight back down to the table he lay on, slightly crumpled. He checked Lance's pulse and breathing quickly, but he shook his head. “He's dead,” JC said.
“No.” Chris clutched at the hem of Lance's shirt, bewildered. “So many years, and now I fail because my master planner fucking dies on me.” He lowered his head, then slammed his hands against the side of the table. “No. It's not gonna end like this.” He struggled to swing Lance's body over his shoulder. “Got any money?” he asked JC.
JC shrugged. “A little.”
Chris’s face was grim. “I just hope it’s enough to buy a miracle.”
It was a tasteful house, set back on a tasteful lawn, in a tasteful neighborhood, with tasteful gates. (Tasteful gates which JC quickly hotwired. Except this was before hotwiring.) On closer inspection, the tasteful lawn was a dangerous viper’s nest of kids’ toys and push-along vehicles. Chris got entangled in a Big Wheel, and JC nearly went shooting across the lawn on a Cozy Coupe.
“Clever,” Chris muttered. “Very clever. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.”
“Or maybe he just has a lot of kids?” JC offered.
Chris shushed him. He passed Lance to JC, then rang the doorbell. From somewhere deep inside the house, they could hear the faint strains of the doorbell version of the Indiana Jones theme. No one came to the door. Chris rang the bell again. Still no response. Finally he just started banging on the door.
The intercom next to the door crackled to life. “We're closed,” a man's voice snapped.
Chris and JC exchanged glances, then Chris started banging the hell out of the door again.
“What?” the voice crackled irritably.
“Are you Miracle Joey who used to work for Florin Records?” Chris asked quickly, before the intercom disconnected again.
The voice snorted. “Until Florin's fuckin' pop princess fired me, yeah. Said I was too Italian looking for pop music. And thank you so much for bringing back such good memories. Why don't you just go ahead and slam my hand in a car door for good measure? Go away!”
“Wait, wait,” Chris cried. The intercom crackled quietly. “Do you still have your, er, side trade? It's very important.”
“Why would you want my help? According to Florin, I might accidentally kill someone with my 'side trade.'” The air quotes were audible even through the intercom.
Chris grinned. “This guy's already dead.”
The intercom crackled thoughtfully. “What the hell. Bring him in.” The door opened, and Joey shooed them in.
They stretched Lance's body out on the couch in the living room. Joey poked and prodded at him, humming idly. He picked Lance's arm up, but it didn't flop quite as loosely as when JC picked it up. Joey hmphed. “I've seen worse.” He kept poking.
Chris shifted back and forth. Joey kept inspecting. Chris sighed. Joey peeked under Lance's shirt. A vein on Chris's neck started throbbing. He cleared his throat.
Joey didn't look up from his inspection of Lance. “What?”
“We're kind of in a rush,” Chris said.
“Yeah, you're in a rush, and you're gonna get a shitty miracle. Nobody wants a shitty miracle. You have money?”
“Sixty-five.”
Joey winced. “I never worked for so little. Well, there was that one time,” he grinned to himself, “but that was a very noble cause.”
Chris's eyes were huge. “This! This is a noble cause.” He started to tear up slightly. “His wife has cancer. If he stays dead, his five children will starve to death.”
Joey smirked at him. “Dude, are you a rotten liar.”
Chris leaned over the couch, intense. “I need him to help avenge my family, destroyed six years ago.”
Joey considered, then said, “Your first story was better, but let's ask him. He probably owes you money.” He propped pillows underneath Lance's neck.
JC shot Chris a 'back away from the crazy man' look. Chris waved him off. “Joey,” he said solicitously, “Lance is dead. He can't talk.”
“Oooh, look who knows so much,” Joey hooted. “It just so happens that your buddy here is only mostly dead. There's a fuck of a lot of difference between all dead and mostly dead. Hang on a second.” Joey bent his head and breathed into Lance's mouth. He came up for air. “Mostly dead is still slightly alive. With all dead, there's only one thing you can do.” He bent back to Lance.
“What's that?” Chris demanded.
Joey sat up again. “Go through his pockets and look for loose change.” He breathed for Lance one last time, then slapped him lightly on each cheek. “Hey! Dude! Anyone in there? What's so important? What do you have to live for?”
Joey pressed firmly on Lance's chest, and two indistinct syllables escaped his open mouth. “Troooo.....luuuuuv.”
They all stared at him, slightly taken aback. Chris beamed. “True love! It doesn't get any more noble than that.”
Joey patted Lance's cheek. “Dude, true love really is the greatest thing in this world. With a nice meatball sandwich coming a close second of course, when the meat is nice and lean and the tomatoes are so ripe. They're so perky; I love that.” He sighed happily, then frowned. “And that would be great, but that's not what he said. He clearly said 'to blaaaave,' which we all know is Orlando street slang for 'to bluuuuuff.' I can see it now, you were playing cards, and he-”
Before Chris could leap over the couch and tackle Joey, a shriek came from the back room. “Liar!” A whirlwind of fury came barreling towards them. “Liar!”
“Get back, witch!” Joey made frantic shooing motions as he grinned at Chris and JC.
The fury resolved into a small woman with lush curves and a halo of curly hair. “I’m not a witch, I’m the mother of your child and your long-term girlfriend of ten years who wears a ‘friendship’ ring on the fourth finger of her left hand! But not wife,” she added as an aside to Chris and JC. “At least not yet.” She whirled back to face Joey. “But after what you just said, I’m not sure I want to be even that!”
“You never had it so good,” Joey muttered, trying to usher her away from the living room.
The woman clutched at his sleeve. “True love, Joey. He said, ‘true love.’ My God -”
Joey gave up the shooing and started trying to get the couch in between him and the woman. “Don’t say another word, Kelly.” He tried for a threatening tone, but his sidling towards the couch belied that.
Kelly turned to Chris and JC even as she clung hard to Joey’s arm, not letting him get away. “He’s afraid. Ever since Britney fired him, his confidence is shattered.”
Joey groaned and wrenched his arm away. “Why’d you say that name? You promised me you’d never say that name.” He sidled faster around the couch.
“What, Britney?” Kelly grinned. She followed Joey. “Britney, Britney, Britney,” she sing-songed after him.
“I’m not listening!” Joey tried to clamp his hands over his ears and frantically bat Kelly away at the same time.
“A life’s expiring, and you don’t even have the decency to say why you won’t help!” Kelly made an impassioned plea.
“Still not listening!”
Kelly abandoned pleading. “Britney Britney Britney!”
Chris cut into Kelly’s litany. “But this is Justin’s true love. If you fix him, he’ll stop Britney’s wedding.”
“Shut up,” Joey wailed at Kelly, still Britneying in the background, as he whirled to face Chris. “Wait, wait. I make him better, Britney suffers?”
Chris’s eyes gleamed. “Humiliation galore. I’ll even call US Weekly.”
Joey laughed, loud and bright. “Now that is a truly noble cause. Give me the sixty-five; I’m on the job.”
Kelly whooped with joy.
Joey and Kelly disappeared into a back room for a good half hour, the only hint of their activities being assorted mysterious thumps and, on three separate occasions, monumental crashes. Chris and JC wandered through their living room and kitchen, attempting to be discreetly nosy. JC managed slightly better than Chris, who spent the last ten minutes frantically scrubbing at a large red stain from what he sincerely hoped was Kool-Aid. Finally Joey and Kelly reappeared, slightly rumpled and very dusty, both looking very pleased with themselves. Joey shoved something into Chris's hand.
Chris was openly skeptical. “That's it?” 'That' was a small brown blob, roughly the size of two Milk Duds stuck together and not entirely dissimilar to a Dud in appearance.
“100% genuine, certified Miracle Pill(tm). I've got the paperwork on it, if you want.” At Chris's dubious stare, Joey shrugged. “I know a guy who knows a guy.”
“The chocolate coating helps it go down easier,” Kelly said helpfully.
“So I give him this, and he comes back?” Chris rolled the Miracle Pill(tm) around on his hand as JC peered over his shoulder.
Joey consulted a sheet of heavy, ornate paper covered in calligraphy. “Give it forty-five minutes to reach full potency. And he shouldn't go swimming or do any synchronized dancing for at least an hour.”
“A good hour,” Kelly added.
“What about synchronized swimming?” JC asked from behind Chris.
Joey and Kelly exchanged a quick glance. “I guess that'd be okay,” Joey said slowly. “Yeah. That should be fine.” JC nodded, apparently satisfied.
Chris pocketed the Pill, scooped up Lance's still body and headed out. “Thanks for all your help,” he called back over Lance's shoulder. JC waved.
Joey and Kelly stood arm in arm in the doorway, waving back. “Bye bye bye boys!” Joey called. “Have fun storming the compound!”
“Think it'll work?” Kelly asked in an undertone, still waving.
Joey grinned. “It'll take a miracle.”
The tent on the compound lawn was filled with the glitterati, the cognoscenti, the illuminati, the paparazzi and pretty much every other -i one could think of, except perhaps the literati. It was a veritable who's-who of the movers and shakers of the pages of US Weekly. It was a sea of color and sparkle, with the crowd decked out to the very limits of fashion, with some naturally going beyond. Still, all of it paled in comparison with Britney's self image. They would be talking about her wedding gown for years, if only to conduct elaborate physics experiments to discover how it stayed up.
Just outside the compound gates was everyone who was anyone but not someone enough to get inside the gates and onto the lawn. Behind them were the screaming teenies. Behind them was the parking lot. Tucked behind the first row of cars, just out of sight of the valet stand, Chris and JC struggled with Lance's body. They wrestled him into something approximating a sitting position, and Chris pulled out the Miracle Pill(tm). He glanced at his watch while JC snuck a glance around the front bumper to keep tabs on the crowd. Chris raised his eyebrows, and JC shook his head. “At least six hundred people,” he said.
Chris swore. “Well, at least we've got him. It hasn't been forty-five minutes yet, but I don't think we can wait any longer. The wedding's about to start, and we have to move before then.” With the deft skill of one who has pilled many a cat, Chris popped the Miracle Pill(tm) in Lance's mouth, stroked his throat and blew in his face to get him to swallow.
“How long do you think it'll take?” JC asked. Chris shrugged.
Lance's eyes popped open. “I'll beat you both apart. I'll take you both together. One hand behind my back.” He paused. “Why won't my arms work?”
“You've been mostly dead all day,” JC said.
“Joey knows a guy who knows a guy,” Chris added.
“Ah,” Lance said. “Who are you?” He rolled his eyes around. “Why am I behind this car?” JC and Chris could see the realization hit. “Where's Justin?” Lance demanded.
“Let me explain.” Chris opened his mouth, then closed it again. “No, there's too much. Let me sum up. Justin is marrying Britney in little less than half an hour, so all we have to do is get in, break up the wedding, steal his Highness, and make our escape. Oh, and I've got to stop by and kill Wade, but that won't take long.”
Lance arched an eyebrow. “Well, what are we sitting here for, then?”
“You just moved your eyebrow. That's wonderful!” JC was delighted.
“I've always been a quick healer,” Lance said modestly. “Now then, what are our liabilities?”
Chris ticked them off on his fingers. “There's just one gate into the compound.” JC and Chris twisted Lance around so he could see it. He winced. Chris continued. “Between us and it, there are several hundred screaming fans and photographers. There's also sixty armed men. Only one of them has the key to the gate, though.”
“Our assets?”
Chris beamed. “JC's sleight of hand, my guns, and your brains.”
Lance gaped at them silently. “That's it? You're shitting me. Maybe if I had a month, but half an hour?” He shook his head.
JC sought the positive. “You shook your head. Isn't that good?”
Lance rolled his head back to look at JC. “The three of us against that in thirty minutes, and a little head jiggle is supposed to make me happy?” He huffed in disgust. “I mean, if only we had a cherry picker, that would be something.”
Chris turned to JC. “What did we do with those cherry picker keys Boogie had?”
JC patted Lance down and produced the keys from Lance's hip pocket. “Stuck them in his pocket, I think.” He jingled them in front of Lance.
Lance snapped at them with his teeth. “Why didn't you list that among our assets in the first place?” He sighed again. “What I wouldn't give for a holocaust cloak, though.” He held his breath; it had worked before -
JC pulled a cloak out from inside his shirt. “Where'd you get that?” Chris was shocked.
“From Miracle Joey. It fit so nice,” JC trailed off.
Chris whacked him in the shoulder. “They have a toddler! They need something fireproof like that!”
JC looked mutinous and ready to respond, but Lance cut him off. “All right, all right. We need to get moving. Help me up.” As they draped him over JC's back, he added, “I'll also need a gun at some point.”
“Why?” Chris asked. “You can't lift one.”
“True,” Lance admitted grudgingly, “but that's hardly common knowledge, is that?” His head drooped back, and Chris propped him up again. “Thanks. Now, we may run into trouble once we're inside.”
Chris snorted. “No shit. How do I find Wade? Once I do, how do I find you guys again? Once I find you, how do we escape?”
JC cut him off sharply. “Don't bug him. He's had a hard day.”
Chris softened his voice. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.” JC nodded Lance's head in acknowledgment.
“Chris?” JC nearly whispered.
“Yeah?”
“I hope we win.”
It was a Catholic ceremony, so Britney kissed the Madonna at the start of it. Justin thought he saw a flash of tongue, but his face remained expressionless. The Madonna looked well-pleased and slightly smug as she was escorted away.
Finally, after all the cameras were in place, and the lighting was deemed appropriate, and the sparkly couple had every curl and lock of shiny, shiny hair in place, the priest emerged. He was bedecked from head to toe in diamonds and chains and very baggy pants. His white and blue Air Force Ones were immaculate, as befitted a brother of the Order of St. Lunatics. (Management had insisted that he officiate and conduct the entire ceremony in country grammar. They thought it would give the event crossover appeal.)
The impressive priest cleared his throat. “Merrriage,” he intoned, the room settling into an expectant silence, “is what brings us together herre today.”
Suddenly there was a ruckus from outside the gates of the compound. A track-suited figure rose slowly above the crowd, perched in the bucket of a cherry picker. His bandanna-covered head was down, obscuring his face, but the tattoos on his well-defined arms were unmistakable. Slowly he raised his head, blue eyes flashing. He had no sound system, but his voice stretched to the far reaches of the crowd.
“I am Slim Shady! Yes, I am the real Slim Shady! All those other Slim Shadys are just imitating! You asked for the real Slim Shady to stand up, and here I am!” The cherry picker screeched to a halt at its apex, and the crowd cowered before Shady's imposing figure and ice cold stare. The cherry picker began to inch closer to the gate, and the crowd broke smoothly around it.
Inside the compound, the crowd grew restless, stirring at the commotion from outside. The impressive priest rambled on, but Britney caught Wade's eye. She jerked her head towards the gate, and he nodded once, then melted back into the crowd.
“Luuurve,” the impressive priest reached a new crescendo, “even when you with your boo -”
Far beneath Shady, in the cab of the cherry picker, Chris kept one hand hovering over the auxiliary controls as he drove steadily, inexorably forward. “Should I light him now?” he asked Lance, never taking his eyes off the crowd.
Lance eyed the controls almost lovingly, then flopped his head to look at the crowd. “Not yet,” he decided. “Give him another minute.”
Shady did not disappoint. “I am the dread Slim Shady! There will be no survivors!” His voice was a well-controlled shriek by the end.
Below, Lance approximated a nod. “Light him.”
“Now?” Chris was struggling to shift gears on the ancient truck.
“Now!” Lance bellowed. Chris flipped a switch. Slim Shady went up in a blaze of pyrotechnics, his holocaust cloak ablaze and gloves on both hands raining sparks down on the crowd. From the depths of the flames, Shady's voice rang out once more.
“No. Survivors.”
The crowd fled.
“So that ain't frontin'; just work it for each other.”
Britney cut into the impressive priest's recitation. “Skip to the end,” she snapped.
“Got the ice?” Britney snatched the ring from Justin's best man and shoved it on her own finger and glared at the priest. The impressive priest gulped and turned to Justin. “And do you, my dirrrty -”
Britney cut in again. “Man and wife,” she bit out. “Say ‘man and wife.’”
The impressive priest looked confused. One of his posse leaned in and whispered, “Boo and mami.”
The impressive priest’s face cleared. “Oh. Boo and mami.” He tried to take Justin’s hand and engage him in a complicated hand clasp/back slap, but Britney hustled Justin away in a whirl of blonde hair.
“You should have given up long ago. Your Lance is dead,” she spat as they stalked out of the chapel. “I killed him myself.”
“Then why are you running scared?” Justin asked reflexively. He didn't look to see the truth in his words, the fear behind her eyes.
She shoved him at the man who had given her away. “Take him to the Honeymoon Suite. I’ll be there shortly.” She whirled away again, leaving only the faint scent of hairspray behind.
Justin followed along obediently, quietly. There was something broken in his eyes. So quiet that not even Michael could hear, Justin mouthed, “He didn’t come.” Michael took his hand and led him gently along.
Only a single guard remained in front of the compound gate. Chris brought the cherry picker to a rattling halt in front of him and slowly lowered the bucket. As Slim Shady descended to face the cowering, defiant guard, Chris ran around to the other side of the truck to scoop Lance up and settle him against his back. Chris stared down the guard. “The key,” he demanded.
The guard, a waiter by day, security flunky by night, and an aspiring actor in whatever time was left over, gave the performance of his life. “Key? What key? I have no key? No, no key here.” (There was a reason he was working two jobs and not taking Hollywood by storm.)
“Shady, tear his arms off,” Chris instructed. Shady grinned, a wild light in his blue, blue eyes. He lifted a hand.
The guard reached into a pocket, brought out a key card, flung it at Chris, and ran shrieking into the night. (Incidentally, after that night, the guard gave up acting for good and today is a mid-level flunky at a prestigious accounting firm.)
Chris passed the card to Shady, who slipped off his bandanna to run a hand through his rambunctious brown curls. As he worked swiftly on the gate lock, he asked Lance, “How'd I do?”
Lance smiled beatifically at him. “The pyro was wonderful. You did great, JC. Marshall himself would have been proud.”
JC propped the door open and straightened up. “Oh, good. I was a little worried, because the tattoos started to melt off when the cloak ignited.” He slipped the stub of the eyeliner pencil in his pocket and rubbed his fingers thoughtfully through the smeared remains of Hailie's face. “Maybe next time waterproof mascara?”
Lance nodded thoughtfully in return.
Chris admirably restrained himself from actually stamping his foot. “Hello? Wedding to stop, revenge to be had, escape to be made, buffet table to raid?” JC and Lance had the grace to look ashamed, and the trio disappeared into the depths of the castle.
Michael looped his arm in Justin's and guided him down the hall. Justin was senseless for a long moment, then shook himself out of it. He stopped Michael with a hand on his arm and kissed his forehead softly.
Michael was delighted. “What was that for?”
Justin smiled, already far away. “It's just that you've always been so nice to me, and I won't be seeing you anymore, since I'll kill myself before I'll be married to Britney.”
Michael patted Justin's hand wound through his arm. “Isn't that nice!” He called out to no one, “He kissed me!”
As Justin and Michael shuffled down one hallway, Chris, JC, and Lance lumbered down another, hampered by Lance's persistent inability to control his legs enough to walk. Chris had passed Lance off to JC as he tried to remember the layout of the compound. When they passed the same tasteless statuary arrangement for the third time, Chris started to get a little frustrated. JC, hampered by Lance, only just stopped him from breaking his hand on a wall. They started off again, only to quite literally slam into Wade and three enormous bodyguards.
Chris and Wade locked eyes, both frozen for a moment in a rictus of memory and hatred. Never looking away, Wade said lightly, “Kill the dark one and the freak, but leave the blond one unharmed for questioning. Mostly unharmed.” The three large men loomed forward.
Chris's eyes flicked over them briefly, and his right hand blurred. The bodyguards hit the floor, howling in pain and clutching their shattered kneecaps, while Chris stared at Wade and moved implacably forward. “Hello,” he said, almost conversationally. “My name is Christopher Kirkpatrick. You destroyed my family.” A satisfaction as deep and rich as pure dark chocolate filled his voice. “Prepare to die.”
Silence hung between them for an endless moment. Even the bleeding bodyguards held their breath. Chris grinned ferally and took aim.
Wade fled.
Chris was surprised enough to freeze for a breath, and then he took off on Wade's heels. They pounded down stairs, Chris only a hairsbreadth behind Wade. Still, it was enough for Wade to dart through a side door and slam it shut in Chris's face. Chris tore at the handle, but the door was locked and wouldn't budge.
Chris went wild, throwing himself across the hallway at the door, attempting to body slam it open. “JC,” he wailed. “JC, I need you!”
JC and Lance exchanged a glance. “What the hell am I supposed to do with Lance?” JC yelled back.
“JC, he's getting away from me!” Chris was frantic, throwing himself at the door again and again. “JC, please!”
JC sighed and draped Lance across the ugly statuary. “I'll be right back,” he said. JC ran down the stairs and stopped Chris from hurting himself against the door. With three deft movements, JC had the door unlocked and swept it open before Chris. Chris shot him a desperate, despairing look, said, “Thank you,” and flew through the door. JC watched him until he vanished around another corner, then headed back to the statuary and Lance.
Lance was gone. JC stood quietly for a moment, then swore creatively, fluently, and at great length. Then he started walking in the wrong direction.
Meanwhile, back in the chase scene, Chris pounded down stairs and burst into the empty banquet room, hot on Wade's trail. He drew up short when Wade shot him. Wade had produced a small handgun from somewhere, and there was just enough lag between them that he had time to turn and shoot before Chris could fully clear the doorway. The impact flung Chris back against the wall, and his hands flew to his stomach, but it was too late. He pressed hard against the wound to try and stop the bleeding. His vision grayed on the edges. “Sorry, Mama,” he muttered, head rolling back against the wall. “I tried.”
Wade set his gun on an elaborately decorated table and strolled over to Chris. He tilted Chris's chin up, and recognition flooded his eyes. “Now I remember. You're that washed up dancer I taught a lesson to all those years ago. Incredible,” he marveled. “Have you been chasing me all these years only to fail now? I think that's the worst thing I've ever heard.” He sighed happily. “How fabulous.”
Chris collapsed to the floor.
Justin waved goodbye to Michael, then closed and locked the door. He slumped against the door, head rocked back and eyes closed. After a long moment, he opened his eyes and walked to the desk. His gaze was irresistibly drawn to the top drawer, which he pulled open with shaking hands. He took out the box inside and held it for another long moment. “Why'd you have to fucking die on me again,” he breathed, then pulled the gun out from the box. One more long moment, and he placed the gun to his lips.
“There are a shortage of perfect mouths in this world,” Lance said from the bed, as if in passing. “It would be a pity to ruin yours.”
Justin yelped in surprise and almost managed to blow his head off anyway when he accidentally squeezed the trigger. “Lance!” he cried and flew to the bed. Lance was stretched out casually, propped up on an enormous pile of pillows. A security guard's gun lay next to his hand. He grinned at Justin, his heart in his eyes, but he did not move. Justin swarmed over him, all hands and lips and desperate love. He straddled Lance's waist and mouthed at his collarbone. “Why won't you touch me?” he asked around Lance's Adam's apple.
“Gently,” Lance said, trying to kiss back. Justin clutched Lance's face between his hands and kissed him fervently. “Gently!” Lance nearly squealed when they broke for air.
“Lance?” Justin stared at him, worried.
Wade cocked his head, studying Chris as he tried to force his way into a standing position, left hand still clenched against his stomach. “Holy shit.” Wade sounded both amused and condescending. “Are you still trying to win?” He drew a knife from the small of his back and ran the edge of the blade down Chris's cheek. “That overdeveloped sense of vengeance is going to get you into trouble one of these days.” He flicked his knife deep towards Chris's heart, but Chris managed to flinch aside at the last moment. The knife buried itself in Chris's left arm. Wade frowned and yanked it out. Chris's face was a blank . Wade tried again, and this time Chris raised his right arm to block him. Again the knife buried itself in his right arm, but again Chris did not seem to notice it. Wade reared back to strike again, but before he could, Chris yanked his own knife out from its lower back holster and flicked it across Wade's cheek.
“Hello,” he mouthed, barely audible. “My name is Christopher Kirkpatrick. You destroyed my family. Prepare to die.”
Wade narrowed his eyes and struck forward, his blade nothing but a blur. Chris, fully upright now, blocked him easily. “Hello,” he said, louder this time, gaining strength with every blow he blocked. “My name is Christopher Kirkpatrick.” He struck out, slicing a long gash along Wade's right cheek. “You destroyed my family.” When Wade clutched the wound, Chris struck again, giving him a matching slash down his left cheek. “Prepare to die.”
“Quit saying that,” Wade snarled. He backed up, trying to make it back to the ornately decorated table and his gun, but he could not take his eyes off Chris long enough to find the table. Chris swarmed in, knife glittering in his fist. The two men locked together body-to-body for a brief instant, until Chris disarmed Wade with a neat flick of his knife.
“HELLO. MY NAME IS CHRISTOPHER KIRKPATRICK. YOU DESTROYED MY FAMILY. PREPARE TO DIE.” Wade read his own death in Chris's eyes. Chris drew his gun and fired precisely on Wade's gun before he could reach it, knocking it across the room.
“No,” Wade whispered, hoarse with newfound fear.
“Offer me money,” Chris spat.
“Yes,” Wade breathed. Chris fired once, taking out Wade's left knee. Wade crumpled against the table.
“Power, too. Promise me that.” Chris's voice was strong, unwavering, as if he were not clutching his own life in his left hand.
“All that I have and more,” Wade swore, unaware of the tears leaking from his eyes. Chris fired again, destroying Wade's right knee.
“Offer me everything I ask for,” Chris roared.
“Anything you want.” Wade crawled forward, heedless of the pain, reaching with clutching fingers out towards Chris.
Chris's voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried through the entire room. “I want my family back, you son of a bitch.” He pulled the trigger one last time.
“Forgive me.” Justin's voice was muffled from where his head was buried in Lance's chest.
“What for?” Lance sounded gently amused, which made Justin rear up in surprise.
“Let's see, I publicly sort of got married to someone else, I thought you were dead again, I almost killed myself.” Justin ticked each one off on a finger.
“Well, as long as you only 'sort of' married someone else, I'm okay with it.”
Justin looked at him from under his lashes and smirked. “Now you're teasing.”
Lance smiled. “Only a little. You didn't say, 'I do,' you're not married. Also, I'm pretty sure you didn't have a license. Wouldn't you agree, Highness?” Lance raised his voice to carry to Britney where she stood in the doorway.
“A technicality soon to be fixed. But first -” she pushed off from the doorframe and drew her gun. “To the death!” Justin covered Lance with his body and fumbled for the gun next to him.
“No.” Lance's voice rapped out. “To the shame.”
Britney arched an eyebrow. “I'm afraid I'm not familiar with what that is.”
Lance smiled, sugar-sweet. “I'll explain. I'll even use small words. Just let me know if I use too many syllables for you to understand.” He nudged Justin out of the way, who went unwillingly.
Britney raised her other eyebrow. “Wow. That may be the first time anyone has ever dared to insult me to my face and live.” She paused. “Well, you're alive for the moment.”
Lance brushed that aside. “Oh, don't worry, it won't be the last time, hose beast. 'To the shame' means that the first thing you lose will be your left breast – just the silicone, of course – and then your right. Next your left set of fingernails will be ripped off, then your right.”
Rolling her eyes, Britney said, “Yeah, and then you take away my voice. I killed you too quickly last time. It's a good thing I learn from my mistakes.”
“I wasn't finished,” Lance interrupted calmly. “Then your hair extensions will be torn away, then your tattoos.”
Britney flapped her hand at him. “And then my ear piercings; let's get on with it.”
“Wrong,” Lance snapped. “You get to keep your ears. Know why? So that you can cherish every teenie's horrified shriek. So you can relish every baby you make sob when you come too close. So that every mocking review, every vicious piece of gossip, every cry of, 'Dear god, what is that thing?' will echo in your perfect ears. That is what to the shame means. It means we leave you wallowing in freakish misery forever.”
“You're bluffing,” Britney scoffed, pale under her makeup. “You're so fucking weak right now you can't even stand up.”
“It's possible, shrew,” Lance conceded. “I might be bluffing, you self-centered, witless, bony, egotistical, miserable tart.” He tilted his head. “Or maybe I'm just lying here because it's comfortable. Nice sheets, by the way. So maybe I've got the strength after all.”
Slowly, oh so slowly, but inexorably, Lance pulled himself up off the bed and stood, tall and proud. He raised his right hand to aim his gun precisely at Britney's heart. “Drop. Your. Gun.”
Britney's gun clattered to the floor.
“Sit down,” Lance said, gesturing with his free hand, gun hand unwavering. Britney scooped up the enormous skirt of her wedding dress and scurried to the nearest chair. “Tie her up,” Lance instructed Justin. “As tight as you want.”
Britney's squawk of pain was audible even out in the corridor, where Chris heard it. He slipped into the room, one hand still pressed to his stomach, just in time to see Lance break off mid-sentence with a “whooo” as his knees gave out. Lance caught himself on the footboard of the bed an instant before Justin managed to wrap an arm around his waist and haul him back upright.
Justin said, “Baby, what the fuck?” but he was drowned out by Britney crowing, “Hah! I knew you were bluffing! I knew he -”
She clamped her mouth shut at the sound of Chris's gun cocking next to her ear and his soft, “Shut it, princess.” He turned back to Lance and Justin, who were making sure Lance's legs were working right again. “We might want to hurry. JC has disappeared; I think we've committed at least five major felonies here tonight, and security's got to be onto us.” They passed a grim look between the three of them, then tossed a despairing look around for good measure, too. Before anyone could lob a hopeless look out in the room, a shout from outside distracted them.
“Chris!” JC bellowed from below. “Chris!”
They ran to the window. (Well, Justin ran; Lance was dragged by Justin, and Chris limped.) JC lost some of the tense lines around his eyes when Chris's head popped out the window, flanked by Justin and Lance. “Chris!” he called again, relief apparent. “I ran into the security team not long after I lost you. They're onto us, and they know about Wade. We have to get out of here. Now.”
“How?” Chris cried, waving his bloody hand at himself and at Justin propping up a very pale Lance.
JC actually grinned at this. “I got lost in a garage around the corner, and there were four motorcycles parked there, with the keys right beside them. I thought if we found Justin – hey, your Highness,” JC waved at Justin, who grinned at that nickname for the very first time, “there would be four of us. So get down here!”
“JC,” Chris said softly, “you done good, kid.” JC's grin splattered across his face and nearly blinded them all.
Lance and Chris offered Justin a hand over the windowsill. Justin paused halfway over and pinned Lance to the window frame with a kiss. “Just in case,” he muttered, feathering fingers over Lance's face. He winked at Chris, who mock-shoved him out the window, then jumped. He seemed to hang in the air for the space of an indrawn breath, then fell lightly to the ground. (Three feet below the window. The honeymoon suite was on the first floor of the compound.)
JC and Justin ran to bring the motorcycles around, while Chris and Lance were left to haul themselves out the window. “You know,” Chris said when he paused to press his hand tighter against his stomach to stanch the bleeding, “I'm not sure what I'm going to do now. I've been in the revenge business for so long, I think I've forgotten how to do anything else.”
“Have you ever considered rapping?” Lance asked, fruitlessly trying to get his arms and legs to obey him properly. “You'd make a kickass Dread Slim Shady.”
Chris hmmmed thoughtfully at that. “Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a male vocal harmony group. We've got most of the range between the four of us, and surely we could come up with some poppin' fresh dance moves.”
Lance blanched at this. “What about a baritone? We couldn't do it without a baritone.”
Chris grinned. “It just so happens that I know a guy,” he said and promptly fell out the window.
“A boyband?” Lance muttered. He tried to shrug. “Well, stranger things have happened,” and he threw himself out the window, too.
They had to abandon two of the motorcycles and just drape Lance and Chris across Justin and JC's backs, but eventually they roared off into the setting sun. They snuck out a back way, scattering the few intrepid paparazzi who had made it that far. Finally, the compound faded into nothingness behind them, and the open road stretched out in front of them. They were free. Lance and Justin turned to each other.
Since the invention of the kiss, there have been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one didn't even come close. Sure, they were passionate, but there was nothing pure about it. The handlebars kept digging into Justin's back, and they had to keep stopping to let Lance breathe, and the setting sun was right in their eyes to blind them, and Lance managed to nip Justin hard enough to draw blood by accident, and the two loons on the other bike kept catcalling and hooting at them (at least until they followed Lance and Justin's good example and made out a little themselves), and it failed any technical or traditional formula for determining quality. But for the two of them, at that moment, in that little slice of time, having fought their way through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered to be with each other? It was perfect, the rest of the world be damned. It was perfect.
Nick closed the book and rested a fond hand on the cover. Aaron still had a distant look on his face, and Nick ruffled his hair. Nick stood up, checking his pockets for keys and generally puttering around. “All right. Okay. All right,” he muttered to himself, putting on his coat. When he reached the door, Aaron’s voice stopped him.
“Hey, Nicky?”
Nick turned. “Yeah, kiddo?”
“Do you think, maybe, you could come over and read it again tomorrow?” Aaron tried not to look too hopeful.
Nick grinned like sunshine. “As you wish.”