New Year's Eve, 2002
It was one of New York's hottest new clubs, and the press loved to report that Willa Ford owned
it. JC supposed that technically she did. It was her money, at least, although it was Lance who
picked where she should be investing it, and it was Joey's idea, and obviously it was really
Chris's club. With a name like FuManSkeeto, come on, who owned the place, Chris or Willa?
No brainer.
JC slithered through the press of bodies, pretending to dance when he was really just trying to
maneuver. The way the lights flashed brought pieces of the graffiti on the cinder-block walls into
focus, one at a time. TRIP -- LOVE -- ANARCHY -- USA -- NYC -- NO FEAR -- ROCK --
WILD THING
Somebody's hands took hold of his waist from behind, and for a moment, JC let it happen. A
woman's body against his back, the squeak of vinyl pants. Music that moved into him, driving
deeper and deeper like a nail being struck over and over by a hammer, and he wanted to dance.
He threw his head back, feeling his throat open like wings, and for a moment he was poised, and
he could have sung, or screamed. Then the moment was over, and he walked away, suddenly
clumsy and self-conscious as he was moved through the crowd by other people's shoulders.
Chris was up in the booth, of course; JC wondered if he ever took a day off. He was flushed and
sweaty, which meant he'd been drinking, but the music was tight, flawless; Chris Kirkpatrick
didn't make mistakes, not in a DJ booth. There were women sitting in chairs along the wall,
balancing cocktail glasses on their crossed knees and gazing at Chris with eyes that somehow
managed to be simultaneously bored and rapt. JC stood in between two of them, leaning against
the wall and wondering what to do with his hands. "Hi," he said to the redhead on his left.
"Happy New Year." She frowned and sipped her martini. JC decided not to bother with the
woman on his right.
Chris took his break eventually, and he ignored the groupies every bit as coolly as they'd ignored
JC. "C, man," he said, closing in on him for a close handshake and a partial hug, shoulder
adjacent to shoulder. "You should've given us a heads up. Joey's not here tonight."
"I hope he's not. It's a holiday; he should be with his family."
"Yeah, but after midnight, though. I'm sure he would've worked it out, if he knew you were in
town."
Worked it out. Yeah. Joey was the master of working everything out. That was why JC
hadn't called ahead. "I won't be here after midnight. I've got -- plans, kind of. A -- I've got a.
Date. Later, I just was looking for someplace to...be. Until then. You know how it is, man."
Very good, Joshua. You could probably sound even more guilty, if you tried.
"Hey, brother. You know this is always your place to be, any time. Come on downstairs and let
me hook you up with a drink."
There was a VIP lounge in the back of the club, all in dark green leather and black plastic pipes,
but beyond even that was another room that served as Chris's office, and JC sometimes suspected
as his apartment as well. JC took a moment to stare at the colorful fish in Chris's tank while Chris
poured him a Scotch from the cabinet. "How's business?" JC asked.
"Ah, I get it now. You're here as a spy for Miz Ford." He'd never come right out and ask; Chris
would only make jokes that JC felt obligated to deny until he got a clear picture of what was
really going on. "Well, business is good. I don't know, we've got buzz right now. Come back
this time next year, ask me then."
The Scotch was good. JC wondered if that was just luck; Chris was a drinker, but not a picky
one, and he didn't usually care about good liquor versus bad. "How's Joey?" he asked, looking
down into his glass.
Ah, he thought he heard Chris say, and after a second he realized it was all just in the look.
"You should call him and find out."
"I can't. Right now, I can't."
"Your boyfriend wouldn't go for that, huh?" The mouthful of Scotch that had just reached the
back of JC's tongue suddenly went both ways at once, and he spit some of it back into the glass
and sucked some into his lungs. "Whoa, cowboy!" Chris thumped him on the back, his dark
eyebrows drawn threateningly together over worried eyes. "Okay, there?"
JC wiped his mouth with his hand. "Yeah, just -- I'm sorry about that. You startled me. I don't
have -- I'm not seeing anyone."
"You have a date."
Right. Amend. "I'm not...seeing anyone. In an ongoing kind of way. There's this guy -- it's
pretty new. It won't last, it's a dumb idea, I don't want to talk about it. I'm going to sleep with
him tonight. I don't want to talk about it. It's not the first time, but don't worry, it won't last.
That's really all I have to say. He's definitely not my boyfriend."
"Okay," Chris said, and poured himself a shot. "To the new millennium."
"It's...not, though. Um. The new millennium? That was earlier, Chris."
"Yeah, but you know. Everyone got the date wrong, right? It wasn't really the first year, it was
the second year. Of the century. 2002."
"Right, but, no. It was the second year, not the first year, but the first year was 2000 -- the first
year of, like, the twos. So the second year was 2001, and that was really the first year, last year.
It was last year, Chris."
"So what's this year?"
"Um. Nothing."
"Well, that sucks cock," Chris said, but he sounded fairly low-key in his disappointment. Maybe
the second shot was helping. "No offense."
"None taken."
"The thing about Joey -- "
JC set his empty Scotch glass down next to the fish tank and tugged on one of his long twists of
hair. "The thing about Joey is that I don't want to talk about Joey tonight. Please, Chris. If you
love me, don't talk to me about Joey."
"I love you, man, but Joey -- "
"He's your best friend, I know he is, I know how far back the two of you go."
"Universal fucking Studios," Chris said, strangely gleeful, and he lifted his empty shot glass
toward the ceiling. "Beetlejuice." He sighed and shook his head with a regretful, "Fucking
Beetlejuice. We were so damn young."
"And I know that he's your first priority. That's how it ought to be. But the thing is...."
"You don't want to hear it."
"I can't hear it. Because there's nothing to hear. Joey is married, Chris."
"Joey-loves-you," Chris said, one great whooshing word.
JC turned on his heel and reached for the door. "Goodnight, Chris. Happy New -- "
"No, C, no, don't, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Oh, God." He laughed, Chris's nervous, mechanical
giggle. "Joey's gonna kick my ass for that one. I must be losing it."
"I think you're a little bit drunk," JC said gently.
"I'm a little bit drunk a lot of the time. I don't know exactly when that started. Listen, C, do you
think you could do me a favor?"
"Of course." JC could hardly think of anything he wouldn't do for Chris; it didn't seem like
Chris, with his raucous sense of humor and his constant jittery energy, would be so easy to like,
but he was. Impossible not to like, really. He was a little confusing sometimes, layer after layer
to his personality, but if he had a really ugly layer, JC had never seen it. "Anything, of course."
"New York -- God, the stress level in this city lately. I heard Britney was doing a solo album, and
if you can find me an excuse. I mean, this isn't totally pathetic, it's not like we haven't worked
together before. I don't want charity, but if there's a track or two that just, you know, cries
out for the Kirkpatrick touch...."
"Chris, don't stress it, dog. Of course it's not pathetic; you're a great producer. Look, I'm not
completely sure what the situation is with Britney's album, but I know Timberlake's in the studio,
and he was so into what you did on Pop. Let me call him for you. Man, you gotta get out of this
club for a while. See the sun once in a while."
"You guys got that down in Florida, if I remember right. I would totally owe you one, C."
"You would totally not. I'll call him tomorrow. Hey, you could stay with me if you wanted."
"That would be cool. If you don't think I'd cramp your style," he added, with a quick, repetitive
string of winks that looked uncomfortably like a severe facial tic.
JC laughed softly. "Um, definitely not, no. I don't have a whole lot of...style."
"JC. Please. You get more action than Shaft."
And sort of, in a way, that was true. Somehow...things did seem to...happen to JC, and he was
much better at getting himself into strange relationships than he was at getting himself back out of
them later. But he didn't think of himself as some kind of playboy or something. Playboys didn't
get their hearts broken, JC was fairly sure. And all the ones JC had met managed to come across
a whole lot more together than the tres talented Mr. Chasez. He'd never lost the trick of showing
whatever he felt in his eyes. Lethal in Los Angeles, not much better in Orlando. It was only not
dangerous in the studio, where nothing mattered but the music, and it was only an asset in the
bedroom. Site of most of JC's best and worst moments, thank you very much. Cheers.
He smiled, a gesture of surrender. "I think I'd really like you to come stay as my guest. I'll get
back with specifics when I find out more about Justin's schedule."
"You're a prince. Look, I have to get back to -- "
"No, of course you do. Hey, it was good talking to you. But you're coming to Florida, though;
we'll get to hang out a lot more."
"Party on, Wayne."
"I'm just gonna stay a while, and." He gestured over his own shoulder, back towards the club,
and then he shrugged. "And dance."
"Good. Anything you want, you just tell them at the bar that I'm your man." That made JC
chuckle a little. "Well. In a non-gay way, of course," Chris added, and then waggled his
eyebrows lewdly. JC had to laugh; Chris just had the most expressive face, like an SNL cast
member or something. Another layer to Chris's cool.
The music was tight, flawless. It wasn't just a friendship thing; JC really thought there weren't
but two or three better guys spinning in New York right now, and he would be just right for
Justin's new urban mood, absolutely perfect. Everything's going so well, JC thought, and then
something about that sounded oddly familiar; a couple of minutes later, he remembered hearing it
on the DVD he'd watched on the plane up to New York. Lance always teased him about his
expensive laptop, and how he didn't know how to do much except check his e-mail and watch
movies on it. JC even found ICQ a little arcane, which made Lance turn slightly grey and very
tired-looking when Lance found that out. Of course, the guy who'd said that in the movie -- that
everything was going so well -- had been entirely wrong. JC thought he was probably entirely
wrong, too, but it was good music, and he could dance by himself and lie to himself until it was all
the same thing, illusions of mind and body, recreating everything from the inside out.
They were giving out bottles of wine in the VIP room, and JC left with one; he only realized in
the cab that it probably violated FuManSkeeto's liquor license, and wouldn't Willa and Lance just
have him shot if he got the club shut down on New Year's. Chris would probably just cease to
exist when they nailed the boards across the door.
JC's hands were sweating, warping the label. The last time they'd been in the same city -- it was
Los Angeles then -- they'd fucked for two days, and God it had been incredible. JC had never
had it like that before, rough-edged and ugly, feeling the tremble in muscles that forced him down
into the bed and held him there, no sound but cracked breathing and hissed obscenity and tiny,
crippled noises of resistance, from both of them. He'd never been with anyone who had that kind
of bitterness and confusion in him, who wanted to indulge himself thoroughly and to escape
himself thoroughly at the same time. JC had never been with anyone he was afraid of before.
It was nothing like with Joey. It was...something new.
"Happy New Year," JC said aloud.
"Back atcha," the cab driver said, and JC jumped nervously. He'd forgotten that cabbies, unlike
limousine drivers, could hear you perfectly well from the front seat. It was nice, actually. They
had to take the long way around to avoid the Times Square crowd, and JC made the driver listen
to him sing "Babylon" on the way, but then he tipped him two twenties to make up for it, and he
got out at the hotel feeling a great affection for New York.
He thought of Joey once more while he was waiting in line at the front desk, about the safety of
Joey's broad, tattooed arms, the weirdly paternal tickle of his beard on JC's ear, Joey's habit of
talking in movie quotes (everything's going so well!) without realizing he was doing it, Joey's
sloppy-soft kisses and his slow, generous hands. Joey, who actually used the phrase "the
neighborhood" when talking about his neighborhood, who collected comic books, who could
sing, who loved JC, who respected his wife and adored his daughter.
He gave his name to the concierge, who put a room key in his hand. JC's fingers closed around
the plastic. Nothing like Joey, he said to himself, and it sounded wonderful and awful at the same
time. Something new.
"Happy New Year," he said to the concierge, and got on the elevator.