You remember a time, about four years ago, when they thought it was funny, a big fucking joke, that anyone would think they needed bodyguards. Who were they after all? Five average-looking American white boys who sang and danced and smiled for the cameras. Who did they need protection from?

Nobody's laughing now.

It took two of you to pry her off. Two 300 pound men against one tiny 100 pound girl, and still it wasn't easy. Teenage girls are fucking strong when they're obsessed; you learned a long time ago not to underestimate them. This one tonight made it over the fence and on to the catwalk in about eight seconds, right between the arms of stadium security.

Stadium security, of course, is a goddamn joke. A bunch of fuckin' locals, who think they're the shit in their yellow shirts and laminated badges, because it's all the same to a stadium full of 15 year old girls desperate to make a connection. A badge is a badge. Flirt a little, show off the tits, maybe they'll get to meet Justin and Lance. It never works. Locals can't make it happen, but they never tell the girls that.

You watch Justin, still toweling the sweat from his head and face, wardrobe people stripping him out of his performance clothes. Usually he's full of adrenaline after a show, talking and laughing and flirting, but tonight he's silent, and you know he's thinking about screams in his ear and fingernails clawing at his shirt -- the same thing you're thinking about.

When he's down to his jeans and a sweat-soaked undershirt, he leaves without a word, and you follow, just as silently.

It's what you do.

He says he's okay -- says it to everyone who asks -- as he walks through the corridors, eyes straight ahead. But after four years of walking two feet behind him, slightly to the left, you can read every mood the kid has by the set of his shoulders and the rhythm of his stride.

He's not okay.

He doesn't look at you, but you're pretty sure he knows you're there. You're always there; you don't remember the last time you weren't. It's not safe for him anywhere anymore, so you stay with him constantly. Grocery store. Movie theater. Clubs and bars he's too young to go to. It gets on his nerves a lot more than it gets on yours. His life has become your own. Somewhere along the way, you stopped minding.

You don't remember when you started to like him, but you do, so you stay, even though the other guys think you're fucking crazy for not switching off with them periodically.

Justin's not easy like JC, who has just as many screaming fans but doesn't mind you being around and never strays out of sight. He's not like Joey, who finally learned to appreciate having a bodyguard, when a fan with scissors managed to cut off a piece of his hair in Philly. Or Lance, who's easiest of all, because he'd rather stay inside and work on his computer half the time than go out and cause a stir just because he can.

Justin is a hard assignment.

He's harder even than Chris, who has attidude and energy to spare and is all over the fucking place, dragging you with him. Justin's hard for a lot of reasons; bcause he's young and spoiled and tempermental, but mostly because he forgets. Twenty years old and more money than God. He goes where he wants, when he wants without waiting for you or even looking to see if you're following, and he just trusts that you'll be there if he needs you. God help you both if you're ever not there.

You were there tonight, but not soon enough, not before he was on the ground, looking for you, with a panic-stricken, wild-eyed look that will stay with you a hell of a lot longer than it will haunt him. You turn a corner behind the quick change room and realize you have no idea where he's going. You figured he would head for the quiet room. The kid's moody, but he never broods for long; a little time in quiet room with the other guys is usually enough to fix whatever's troubling him. They're good with each other that way. Tonight, though, you know what's wrong -- you know because you pried it off his back in front of 71,000 people.

Tonight, you doubt anything can fix it.

He's almost to the corner when a pair of arms reach out from a small alcove near the corner, and grabs Justin hard, pulling him off balance. Your heart pounds, and you run forward a step or two before you see a red sleeve and spiky brown hair and you realize it's only Joey.

He's not smiling. He looks serious, and he says something to Justin that you can't hear, don't really try to, and you see Justin nod, and look away, casual shrug of his shoulder.

Joey's a good kid, you think, watching him whisper something else that makes Justin smile, and you're relieved to see it. You think maybe it's fixable after all.

You wait while they talk. Waiting is a big part of your job; you walk when they walk, stop when they stop, blend into the woodwork as much as a 300 pound black man possibly can.

They don't acknowledge you, and you stand out of the way near the hall and look at your watch. Thirty five minutes to roll-out. Justin and Joey don't seem to say much, a few words, and Justin's head bobs a couple times in agreement with something Joey says. Then Joey opens his arms and Justin steps forward.

You look away until you think it's been long enough for you to look back, but when you do, they haven't moved apart. Justin's arms are tight around Joey's neck, Joey's hand spread wide around the smooth curve of Justin's shaved head.

They pull back and look at each other, then Joey's hand cups Justin's cheek and he leans in close. The kiss is soft and deep, and familiar, Justin leaning into it easily. Joey's hand stops rubbing circles against Justin's back, and slips beneath Justin's damp cotton T-shirt, rubbing up and down bare skin.

The kiss goes on.

You hear Justin whimper, a soft sound that seems to echo, and you turn quietly to walk back out in the main hallway.

Chris and Tiny are walking toward you, probably looking for Justin or Joey, and you don't stop to think before saying, "Yo, Chris, man, JC's lookin' for you."

You gesture down the alternate hallway, as though JC just headed that way, and Chris nods and says, "Thanks, man" heading in the direction you pointed, Tiny following a few feet back and slightly to the left. You don't feel guilty about the lie. After four years, the quick save is second nature.

You're paid to look out for these kids.

You're good at your job.