"*James. Van Der Beek!*"
Poor Lance, who always responded to words before he did to the tone behind them, like the naive
son of a bitch he still was in a lot of ways, looked up from his newspaper, damnably bright-eyed
and interested. Joey was in the kitchen, too, but not close enough to stop him before he started.
"Yeah? What about him?"
And that was all it took. Sometimes the least little movement, when Justin was in this kind of
mood, would turn his attention on you and catch you square in the backdraft of his anger. Lance
hadn't just moved; he'd stripped naked and rubbed himself down with barbeque sauce. Joey
could almost hear the hydraulic sound as the ten-ton machine that was Justin Timberlake's temper
reversed course and headed straight for Lance.
"Well, he's not on the *bus,* if that's what you were hoping," Justin spat, lacing his false
sweetness with just enough contempt to make Lance's face darken in suspicious confusion.
"Here are your goddamned Ho-Hos, Joey," he added as an afterthought, slamming them down on
the table. They'd be a total mess, but Joey guessed if they could keep Justin's fit from affecting
anything other than snack cakes, it would be a good day on tour. He didn't say anything.
He had a clear line of sight through the doorway to where Chris was pacing the main room,
toothbrush still in his mouth and his forehead creased with the silent question, *What's going on
in there?* Joey just shrugged helplessly at him.
"Justin, are you okay?" Joey tried to telegraph instructions to Lance -- *shut up, don't look at
him, just let him fume* -- but he should've known better. Lance was a nice guy, and Justin was
his friend; he had to ask if Justin was okay. If he didn't ask, he wouldn't be Lance.
Joey loved him a lot sometimes. But right now he mainly wished Lance were *anywhere* else,
because he was totally the wrong person to be caught in the path of an oncoming Justin. Joey
could handle it; Joey had taken him on like this before, though not usually at such an unholy hour
of the morning. Lance was completely unarmed.
"James Van Der Beek!" Justin's voice spiraled up impressively, and as JC entered the kitchen, he
immediately pressed the heels of his hands to his ears.
"Shit, Justin," he said amiably, "what's with the vocals? It's seven a.m., man."
"He doesn't even have a career, he doesn't even have a fucking *career,* except that stupid show
that nobody watches but ninety teenage girls and Lance!"
High spots of color appeared on Lance's cheek, and Joey wanted to come to his defense, but all
he could think of to say was that Lance owned a copy of *The Skulls,* which was practically
legal proof that he had a jones for Joshua Jackson, not James Van Der Beek, because why else
would you *buy* a copy of *The Skulls*? Somehow, that didn't sound like it would adequately
cover the *Dawson's Creek* angle, though -- or at least, not in Lance's favor.
"It's an okay show," Lance managed, which was the worst thing, the absolute worst *possible*
thing he could have said. Joey knew that, and even if he hadn't known that, he would've
assumed, because Lance usually said the wrong thing.
Joey wished Chris would get in here and deal with this. Somehow, Chris usually dealt with Justin
when no one else could.
Justin hauled off and threw the magazine in his hand right in Lance's face, but it was much too
light to work up any real momentum. It fell open in midair and arced across the table with more
fluttery noise than strength; just the edges of a few pages caught Lance across the cheek, leaving
him shocked but unharmed, and strangely silent. "You're full of shit! It is not an okay show!"
"Justin, stop!" Joey ordered. What the hell was wrong with JC and Lance, that they would
always just stand there looking like clubbed seals while Justin crossed the line with the sound of
squealing tires? Why did they all treat him like some kind of bizarre and delicate bomb, instead of
just kicking the shit out of the fucking kid?
Lance had picked up the magazine and started thumbing through it. People's Fifty Most Eligible
Bachelors. It was a pretty good bet, given his mood, that Justin hadn't made the cut. "Look at
this," Lance said, blatantly trying to divert Justin's attention. "Joey McIntyre."
"Who the fuck is Joey McIntyre and why do I care?"
"He used to be in New Kids On the Block. I guess he's coming out with a solo album now.
That's nice, you know? That's nice that he's still making albums, because--"
"Go fuck yourself, Lance. Who the fuck even knows who Joey McIntyre *is*?"
"I do," Lance answered, the slightest hint of iron creeping into his deep, soothing voice. *You tell
him, baby,* Joey wanted to say, but didn't. "People magazine does."
"You fucking fag," Justin said, and the chill in his voice was twice as devastating as anger. Joey
could see shock just like his own written plainly across Lance's open face; no sane guy would try
a line like that in a room full of people who goddamn well *knew* where *he'd* been. "Do me a
favor and shut up about your obscure, no-talent 80s pinup boys."
It was way too late, but better than never. "Justin," Joey growled, "just knock that shit off before
I knock it off for you."
At least it had the desired effect of moving Justin's attention from Lance to him. "What do *you*
care all of a sudden?" he spat. "You looking to get back with Lance? He's kinda moved on,
y'know, but--"
"*Justin, shut up!* Just shut up!"
"--but what the hell, you oughta ask him, I mean, what's the worst that could happen? Maybe
you could work out a three-way with--"
Joey lost the details after that. It was just a blur, throwing himself across the narrow kitchenette,
the bang of folding chairs being scattered and Justin's shirt, skin, muscles, and a struggle. He did
eventually notice that he wasn't on top of Justin anymore, and he even came to his senses enough
to realize that the arms that had pulled him to his feet didn't belong to the same person whose
hand was pressed firmly into his chest.
JC was hanging onto him, but it was Chris in front of him, still holding his toothbrush in one hand.
"Chris, I'm gonna fucking kill him." He just felt like Chris should know.
"I'll take care of it," he said darkly. "You just sit down and chill."
Justin was still on the floor, and goddamned if Lance wasn't down there with him, fussing over
the bruise that was beginning to darken on the edge of his narrow jaw. Why did Lance have to do
that kind of thing? Why did he have to just...be like that?
Chris turned his attention down to the pair of them and just stared for a minute -- and then longer,
and longer. Forever. "Chris, don't give me that look," Justin finally said, caught between
repentant and defensive. "I had a bad morning, okay?"
"I'll say," JC muttered.
"You shoulda let me kick his ass, man," Joey said quietly, just for JC to hear, and JC smiled and
just said, "Show tonight."
And Chris was just staring, gathering force like a storm. They were all hanging now, waiting for
him to say something, *do* something.
You never did know what Chris would do. Sometimes he would just rub his eyes tiredly and
avoid Justin's eyes, turning instead to whoever it was who'd gotten dragged into the fight Justin
came in spoiling to have. "Dude, come on," he would say. "He's a kid." And after that, Joey
because it was almost always Joey -- felt guilty for fighting with Justin, because of the way he
suddenly seemed slighter and younger and more out of his league than he had before.
And sometimes he'd turn on Justin like the wrath of God, shake him and cuff him, yelling, "Snap
out of it! I'm gonna lay a fucking *curse* on you, I'm gonna pay that crazy psychic from Wichita
to put the fucking evil eye on your ass!" and other such random shit until Justin was flailing wildly
to ward off his medium-light pummeling, and then he was laughing, and then they were both
roughhousing all over the bus and they ended up playing rock-paper-scissors, best ten out of
nineteen, to decide who was going to have to write the check to replace whatever they ended up
breaking, and chortling together like they didn't know the meaning of the word enemies.
Sometimes, when Justin was out of control, Chris would slide right in under his radar, just fake
him out with some minor concern about their choreography or an observation about the weak
defense of whatever team Justin's celebrity league was getting ready to play or an artfully not-
that-I-care-but appeal to Justin's sense of fashion about that night's clubbing wardrobe. Just
something that would get through to the part of Justin that wasn't a spoiled and temperamental
superstar, but just a kid with too much energy to be spending ten hours a day cooped up in buses
and recording studios and industry brunches and photoshoot sets.
And sometimes, especially when Chris was hung-over or worried about his own personal life, he
would dispatch the problem with bitter, razored efficiency. He'd just flick his eyes up and down
Justin's long body with a critical arch of his eyebrows and say, "Knock that Evita shit off, Infant.
It don't look as good on you as you think it does." And that would be enough. That would make
Justin go completely to ground and stay quiet and pliant for a day or even two. Nobody else
could do that like Chris could.
Watching Chris work his mojo on Justin was like fucking opera tickets. The man was an *artist.*
He always seemed to know when Justin just wanted to be the center of attention and when he
really needed to get rid of some steam -- and more importantly, he always seemed to know when
to let Justin have his way and when to put him in his place. Joey was pretty sure the group
wouldn't have survived thirty solid days of Justin Timberlake without Chris' well-placed
management, let alone five years.
Chris' eyes wandered down to the magazine on the floor, and he prodded it with his toes. "Didn't
want to marry you, huh?" he said, and it was neither openly a taunt nor completely sympathetic.
It was more just an observation. Damn, it was good to have Chris around sometimes; Joey could
put up with a hell of a lot of Chris' schitzy bullshit, as long as he hung around to ride herd on
Justin.
"It was just..." Justin was looking down now, studying the floor. "They just did some stupid
survey. Favorite -- under thirty -- that kind of shit."
"They picked *James Van Der Beek* over *you*?" Lance said, obviously appalled, and Joey saw
the edge of a tired smile, even though Justin still had his head ducked. That was the good thing
about being as awkward and blunt and earnest as Lance was. You had to really believe him when
he talked, because you knew he just wasn't saying what he thought you wanted to hear; he
couldn't say what you wanted to hear when he *was* trying, let alone on the spur of the moment.
Joey really did love him a lot sometimes.
Chris picked up the magazine and tucked it under his arm. "I'm just gonna take this until you
children can learn to wield the power of the media responsibly."
And the storm passed, and Justin looked up with a careless, cocky grin and said, "Dude, I paid
money for that, you know. Don't get the picture of Ben Affleck all sticky."
Soberly, Chris saluted in Justin's direction with his toothbrush, and then noticed the sack on the
table, next to Joey's seriously unhealthy looking Ho-Hos. "What did you get me from the grocery
store?"
"Nothing," Justin admitted, and then, off of Chris' look, "You were asleep!"
"Jesus, you're worthless. All of you. I'm going for doughnuts."
"Hey, Chris, could you bring--" JC started.
"I could bring *doughnuts,* and you'll eat 'em, and you'll love 'em, because I was thinking about
my brothers when I bought 'em. You'll tell your fucking grandkids about these doughnuts, and
what a great guy I was. It's the summer of 2001, my boys, and we are all rich and beautiful and
famous and talented and happy, though some of us more some of those things than the others, but
c'est la vie. Wake up and feel the doughnut-love, because I am going to hook you up, and you --
Joey, my old friend, Lance, my young friend, and most especially *you,* Calendar Boy -- are
going to kiss and make up by the time I get back, because we got a lot of this tour ahead of us
and we might as well have a little bit of fun, don't you think? Where the fuck are we, anyway?
Columbus?"
It took Joey a couple of beats to process all of that, and a couple more before he started to
get...angry. Because it was one thing for Chris to work his psych-major mojo on the kid when he
was having some kind of prima donna fucking *stroke,* but lumping them all in together, like
Joey needed his goddamn guidance, like *Lance* was practically as much to blame as Justin was,
Lance who hadn't done anything all morning but try to be nice to the little bitch.... It was fine
that Justin was Chris' *special friend,* just fucking *whatever,* right? But this was just it was
just wrong. "We're in *St. Louis,* and who died and made you my dad, Chris? What are you
going to do, ground us? I mean, what the fuck? Yesterday you were making Mount Rushmore
out of tiny spitballs on the bathroom mirror, and today you're up in everybody's business like our
fucking babysitter?"
Chris just looked at him for a minute, as if he were trying to decide whether to have his feelings
hurt or just not to give a fuck. Finally, he said, "Okay. You're right. Yeah, I'm nobody, Joey,
I'm just some spazz who's almost thirty and living on a bus playing Tomb Raider and dropping
pop rocks into JC's mouth while he snores. You're right, I'm not your dad, and I'm not up for
the Nobel Peace Prize, so what do I know? Don't kiss and make up. Cage-fight to the death,
Joey vs. Justin; survivor gets doughnuts. Jesus, the rest of us could use the fucking peace and
quiet around here."
"Chris, come on," JC said hesitantly. "You're gonna make it worse."
He shrugged, a spiky gesture that looked like he was using it to channel off the energy he was
tempted to use for a punch. "Whatever. Joey doesn't care what I have to say."
"I just "
"No, look, Joey's right. I don't know. I'm no expert on the inner workings of the universe. I'm
going to the store."
Joey would have just let him, if it had been anyone but Lance who said, "Joey, go after him
would you go after him, please?" Because...shit. What was a guy supposed to do say no to
Lance? Shit.
He caught Chris at the door of the bus, and then realized he didn't know what to say. He cleared
his throat twice, and finally settled on, "This is kind of stupid, right?"
Chris glanced down at the magazine that was still in his hand, and tossed it aside. "Yeah, you
know what, Joey? I changed my mind. I am an expert. I'm a expert on *you guys.* I damn well
ought to be, as long as I've been living with you. Like let me hit you with a few pieces of my
unstoppable brilliance, whaddaya say? JC for a thousand. JC is beginning to get really sick of the
way the music critics talk about us, and he'd love to get out of the boyband gig and do something
a little more respectable. You know why he doesn't? Because he's so used to having all of us
over his shoulder while he writes that he's afraid he won't be able to produce anything anymore
without having us there to kick ideas around with him."
"Chris, come on, I "
"No. No, I'm just getting warmed up. How about Lance? This fucking bus is Lance's *home.*
Touring is a pain in the ass, but this bus is the only place he's ever felt like he completely belongs,
and he doesn't know *what* he's going to do when we split up. He has fucking nightmares
about it. And I know you want to strangle J with his own tongue, and I know he's really fucking
begging for it lately, but I also know that you have never known your own limits and you get used
to living your life like it's one huge party you get paid to attend and you refuse to scale back
when we're on tour; you turn into the Girl Who Cain't Say No and you spend the whole thing
strung out and tired and hair-triggered and you lose patience with him way too easily. But that's
all just trivia. Doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that when it's not seven in the
morning and we haven't been on the bus for like a decade and Justin's got his picture in a
magazine, we love each other. Always have. And you know it just as much as I do."
You never did know what Chris was going to do. But it was usually pretty smart.
"I'll apologize if he will."
"He will," Chris promised lightly. "He's over it now."
"You're so sure?"
"I know my boy. Oh, hey, and Joe?"
So sweet, so wide-eyed and innocent. Joey was pretty sure something freaky was coming up
next. "What?"
"That's not up in your business. Up in your business would be if I said, Dude, make up with
Lance. You guys are better together than you are apart."
He smiled, slowly. "You're right. That would be up in my business."
Chris held up both hands. "That's why I'm not saying it. Meditate on doughnuts until I return,
Grasshopper."
"He *is* begging for it. He's totally out of control what he said to Lance "
"I heard him. I'll talk to him later, okay? Just you don't know everything that's going on with
him right now. Seriously, I probably shouldn't say anything, but he's taking a lot of flak from a
lot of directions for staying with the group. Some asshole businessman he's got working for him
is swearing up one side and down the other that he'd make more if he went solo, and a lot of
people around him are ready to believe it."
That was...hard to imagine. Justin leaving. Sure, Joey *killing* him, that was easy to visualize.
But not Justin not *any* of them just waking up one morning and deciding not to be there
anymore.... He replayed Lance's soft voice in his head on fast-forward: *I guess he's coming out
with a solo album now. That's nice, you know?*
Shit. Joey had just assumed.... Shit.
And even though Chris Kirkpatrick was definitely *not* his dad, Joey felt sort of young and
needy as he said, "You're going to talk to him, though, right? I mean you're not going to let
him...." Let him? Let him what? Chris had a fucking black belt in whipping Justin into shape, but
how long could that possibly work, now that Justin was only barely a kid anymore? Even the
Timbertwink had to grow up and slip out from under Chris' influence eventually, didn't he?
Chris smiled at him, a hard-edged, tense smile that was reassuring in its sheer stubbornness. "I
talk to him every day."
"But "
"Don't worry about it."
Because payback was a bitch mostly, and also a little because he loved them both and it really
needed to be done, Joey said, "You're never gonna be happy without him. You ever think about
telling him that?"
"You know me. I almost never think." He was lying. His eyes and his face and his voice,
everything about Chris except for his words, said *I think about it all the time.*
Joey sighed. Chris had been right about almost everything all morning long especially the part
about *a lot of this tour ahead of us....*
end