Playing for Keeps

Hello, one and all! I've been a reader for a quite some time now, however this is the first story I've written for Nifty. There are a lot of great writers on this site, I only hope I can live up to the high standards they've put forth. Ok, now I have a little warning to get out of the way: The beginning of this story is a little dark. It's a very important, but small part of the story. It is not the sole plot. Not even close! So consider it like a prologue, and bare with me, I promise it gets a lot more intriguing as we go on. Remember things aren't always what they seem! WINK

Disclaimer: This story is a complete work of fiction. It implies nothing about the sexual orientation, beliefs, thoughts or actions of the real members of NSync. While it is not a "pure sex" story, if you are under 18 or offended by male/male relationships, please go away.

And one last thing, I need to thank a good friend of mine: Evan your enthusiasm gave me the encouragement and desire to write this story. Thank you so much! You've been wonderful.

By the way, if you haven't checked out the story Justin's Dark Angel, I HIGHLY recommend it. It's a very suspenseful story with a unique plot. It's incredible!! Check it out! You won't be disappointed.

Any and all feedback is welcome! I'd love to hear what you think. Send it to Justme@astound.net. Now on with the story!

** Playing For Keeps **

Chapter 1

Sitting alone, wrapped in darkness, he found peace. The shadows wrapped around him like a child in their favorite blanket. It was comfortable, familiar: he wore it well. If not for the small shard of morning sunlight ripping its way through the heavy drapes, the room would be completely cloaked, a black void. He'd sat there motionless for more than an hour, completely quiet, enjoying the tranquility. But now a soft knock against the door threatened the silence.

"Yes, what is it Hillman?"

The door creaked softly as it opened. A large burst of light assaulted the room, casting eerie shadows across the book selves lining each wall. In the center of the room a pair of overstuffed leather chairs sat stoic atop a plush Oriental rug. Hillman found the man sitting in one of them.

"Good morning Sir." Without being invited, he entered the room and placed a small, yet elegant silver tray on the serving table alongside the empty chair. "I trust the flight went well."

"As well as expected, but it's good to be home."

Hillman smiled as he carefully poured some hot tea into a cup and handed it to the gentleman in front of him. Pillars of hot steam danced above the cup, caressing the man's face as he took a small sip. "Thank you."

"I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of checking on your...guest." The last word was spoken with reservation.

"How is he doing?"

"It seems he's been quite a hand full." He paused. "He refused the drugs. Put up quite a fight, as I hear it."

"Hmmm. And now?"

"Sleeping like a baby."

"Fine. Inform me the minute he wakes up. I want to see him." He placed the cup once again on the tray and reached for the new, finely etched, leather journal lying in his lap. He discovered it while strolling through a quaint village near Vienna. It surprised him how easily he'd found it. It was exactly what he needed.

"As you wish, Sir. Will there be anything else? Camilla prepared a rather extravagant welcome home breakfast for you. She's feisty, but I believe she missed you more than she lets on. I would appreciate if you did not tell her I told you."

For the first time the small glimmer of a smile escaped his employer's lips. "Your secrets safe with me. Tell her I'll take my breakfast on the south patio in 30 minutes."

Hillman dismissed himself with the usual, "Thank you, Sir," closing the door behind him. Again the room fell into darkness. He wished it were possible to write in the dark. He sighed deeply, and resigned to the fact that the lamp would have to come on. Removing the pen from inside the journal, he began to write:

Day 1 - And so it begins.

Today he remains safe. Tomorrow is mine. Tomorrow the wounding begins. Tomorrow the walls crumble to stone. A giant will fall...A god will rise.

"Hey, don't start the b-ball game without me!" Grinning as he picked up his jacket, Justin bounded toward the patio door. "Lance you gonna play? With Mikey here, I think we need ya to even out the teams. "

Walking to the refrigerator, Lance shook his head as he called over his shoulder, "Having me on the team is NOT going to help even things out. Remember the last time we played, I made one basket. ONE! And that was only cuz J.C. fouled me!"

Justin laughed to himself, just teaching this guy to dance had been a feat in itself. He was right, dribbling the ball and running at the same time was not his strong suit.

"Aw, come on Scoop!" Justin pushed his lower lip out in a mock pout. "You can be on my team. Just stand there and block, while I work my magic on the court!" In what resembled a bizarre tribal rain dance, he dribbled an imaginary basketball around the dining room table, weaving and bobbing amongst the chairs. Then throwing his hands in the air, he flicked his wrist smoothly, tossing the non- existent 'ball'.

"He shoots! He scores!...And the crowd goes wild!!" Justin laughed, jumping up and down; finally focusing back on Lance, who ignored him completely. He was struggling thru an array of leftovers and various condiments to find something to drink. "Just grab something already. Jeez! Its not that complicated, you know? There's some soda way in the back. Second shelf, I think."

Turning his back to Lance, he glanced out the kitchen window. The backyard buzzed with his family and friends. Birthday streamers littered the trees, colored balls floated aimlessly about the pool, baby blue balloons floated from any object heavy enough to hold them down, and eighteen candles graced the top of a cake so large it barely fit on the picnic table. Okay, so there was little difference between this party and his twelfth birthday, but he really loved all the hype and silly decorations. Of course if anyone asked, it was all his mom's doing. He was still "her little boy." How could he possibly break her heart! So for her, he was willing to suffer through the baby treatment. Luckily, the guys never questioned it.

Scanning the yard, his eyes fell instinctively to the basketball court. "Hey, Lance! Everybody's already hangin' at the court. So hurry!" Lance groaned, mostly to himself. Once again, Justin wasn't taking no for an answer.

It wasn't as if Lance really had a choice in the matter. The guys would hound him until he gave in anyway. Actually, rarely did he make his own decisions anymore. Whatever was good for the group... It was the motto that built Nsync.

But now that same vow haunted him:

In ways that kept his dreams dark. In ways that made looking in the mirror painful. In ways no one would ever know. NO ONE... except Justin.

"Yeah, yeah...whatever. I'll play." He sighed, dreading the inevitable string of wisecracks the guys hurled at him whenever he played sports. They meant it in a playful manner. It was a "guy thing." He knew that. He even laughed with them...usually. But deep down the constant reminders of his rather clumsy, anything but athletic, abilities made him feel like a outsider, not quite one of the guys. They had a bond he'd never share.

God, why did he have to be so awkward! It's not like he could even blame it on genetics. The Bass family home was strewn with trophies honoring his father's track skills and a fairly prestigious college soccer career. As a youngster, Lance would gaze at the shiny gold men poised high upon colorful pillars. Track lighting positioned just right made the wooden and plastic icons seem larger than life; and his father a god.

"Those are called trophies," his mother told him once when he was four.

"I like troppies! They are very pritty mommy!"

She tussled his fine blond hair, her smile soft and proud. "Someday you'll grow big just like your daddy. And he'll teach you how to win trophies too!"

"Really?" His young eyes sparkled with delight, as he wrapped a sticky set of hands around his mothers leg.

"Yep, I promise. Would you like that?"

He answered her with a smile so big it seemed painted on, "I getta be like daddy!"

Then, as often happens to little boys with even littler attention spans, his eyes caught hold of a favorite toy spaceship hidden halfway under the sofa and he was off. It was one of his earliest memories, and one of the only promises his mother wasn't able to keep. Growing up Lance saw very little of his father. Between working at Biotech Labs fulltime and attending graduate school at night, Jim Bass simply didn't have spare time or energy to devote to extracurricular family activities.

Sundays were the exception. Mom had a rule and it was simple: God made Sundays for family. No matter what was going on in their lives, no matter what deadlines needed to be met or chores needed to be done, the Bass family would stop everything and spend the day together. Church, always the forth pew from the altar; and Sunday School were the priority; but the afternoons were given to picnics and playgrounds. If weather was bad, the picnic was moved indoors where Dad taught them the finer points of chess or Stacy ran the bank in Monopoly.

Lance waited eagerly for the weekends and this time together. Basically, Sundays rocked. He'd wake up early, put on his best dress pants, pressed white shirt, black socks and small L-shaped onyx cufflinks given to him by his grandfather when he turned thirteen. Grabbing one of the two ties he owned, he'd gallop downstairs, a little too loudly, and wait for the rest of the family to wake up. Dad was usually the next out of bed. Strolling into the kitchen, he'd mumble a good morning, grab coffee and slip quickly behind the Mississippi Herald. Okay, it was quiet, but at least they were alone. Later, his father's time would be divided. Mom and Stacy needed him too. And on those special Sundays, grandparents and extended relatives might also be thrown in the mix. Sure, Dad wanted to spend as much quality time as possible with each of them, but even devoting Sundays seemed tough. From early on, he could feel his father being pulled in two directions. Lance would catch him glancing at the clock, distracted by other priorities or some uncompleted task that needed to be finished before Monday rolled around. There was always something important to be done.

Something more important than him.

Lance knew he wasn't the only one who felt the pull. His older sister, Stacy, was in what mom referred to as the "boy crazy zone." Put simply, a guy had to be sixteen, have a car and be breathing before Stacy paid any attention to him. The criteria was low, but apparently Dad didn't qualify. But Mom, well, he knew she felt it too. Her smile never faded. Not in public. Not in front of the kids. But more than once he caught her silently rolling her eyes, scolding Dad mentally, as he watched preciously needed minutes fade away in the name of family. Later, when she thought they were alone, the confrontation would come.

"The kids need you Jim." She was firm yet quiet, " I need you."

"Diane, we've been through this before. I'm trying, but there's only one of me," He matched her tone; hushed.

"And we need that one HERE."

Maybe they didn't know, but the 40-year-old walls were thin. Too thin.

"That's not fair. What choice do I have? I HAVE to go to work everyday. I don't like the long hours either, but the lab can't always just shut down after eight hours. It's not a bank, it doesn't work that way. And sure, I've got class twice a week, but we talked about that. We agreed!" The house vibrated as his father's stocking feet paced heavily across the kitchen floor. " You know it's not like I'm hang out at the bars. I don't drink. I don't gamble. What more do you want? I come home to you every night. I am here!"

A sarcastic laugh echoed out, "No... no your not. Your body's here, I'll give you that. But every time I turn around your either sleeping or hold up in that office of yours, sitting in front of the computer. Jim, just tonight at dinner Lance tried to tell you about his choir tryouts. Do you remember that?"

Dead silence.

"No."

"No, of course not. Because you cut him off with some excuse about being tired and needing quiet."

"It's not an excuse! I spend all day with people yapping in my ear, hounding me. Dammit, sometimes I just need to sit in peace. Is that so much to ask? " They were starting to get louder. He was starting to swear.

"Well he needs you. He needs your attention. Can't you see how much he wants your approval, your support."

"Oh please, I support both him and Stacy. God! Why do you think I'm killing myself to advance my career? It's to make a better life for us. Don't I put food on the table? A roof over their heads? Shit, college alone is going to cost..."

"You know that's not the support I'm talking about. Don't you dare start playing games!"

"You mean the singing thing? Christ Diane! I know the kid can sing. But he's fourteen, let's be realistic. At this point he's interested in everything. A month ago, he wanted to fly ."

"It was a year ago, and he wanted to be an astronaut." There was more, but it was mumbled, below Lance's ability to hear. He was glad.

Silence filled the house, then small, high pitched sobs. Oh god, she was crying.

His fathers voice softened, barely audible. "So did he make it into the choir?" It was his attempt to call a truce.

"Don't you think you should ask HIM that?" Lance flinched at her harsh, biting tone. Don't mom. Just let it go.

A large thump. Then something crashed. A glass? "Forget it! Just fucking forget it!"

Jim stormed up the stairs, ignoring Lance's bedroom door as he passed by.

Lance sat motionless at his desk. His grasp on the pencil steadily increased causing his fingers to ache, yet he hadn't written a single word. His history paper remained empty. It's okay. Really. I understand. He lied to himself. Squinting his eyes shut tightly, he willed the message to his mom. I'm sorry. He hated making his mom sad. He hated the fighting. He loved his dad. Why did I even bring it up?

Okay, so what. He'd never have the same athletic abilities as his father, but maybe in the end that was for the best. His childhood practically revolved around his mother, and she was incredible. In every memory, she was there; laughing, loving and playing. She spent hours teaching him the piano, and in turn, he loved to watch as she rehearsed with the First Baptist United Choir. Almost trancelike, he'd sit mesmerized as her angelic voice filled the sanctuary. Lance credited all the time he spent with her as the spring board to his own singing talent.

"Laaance...Yo! Lance!" Hearing his name, Lance's suddenly found himself back in the Timberlake kitchen, his head buried in the refrigerator; eyes fixed on a half eaten pan of Nana Timberlake's homemade peach cobbler; his nose unbelievably cold. The childhood memories quickly faded into the background and once again were hidden away.

"Huh? What?"

"Man. Where was your head? I've been calling your name for like 5 minutes already!" Justin voice softened as he watched Lance straighten up, registering his surroundings, slowing willing himself once again into the present. "Whoa, you okay?"

Lance ignored the question. "Sorry. What were you saying?"

"Well, it's just..." He moved a step closer, "you sounded...I don't know...tired? Hey, if you really don't want to play..."

"No, no, its okay. I'll play." Lance smiled sincerely at this friend. He shook his head and smirked to himself. Justin recognizing that someone might not feel like playing basketball? Man it was almost blaspheme! Never saw that one coming.

Bending down, he pushed the milk aside. Reaching for a raw carrot, he popped it into his mouth, then continued his search for the soda. Without even forcing it, his voice again became upbeat and alive. "Can you just give me a minute here, Curly? I need energy if I'm gonna have to watch you pounce around all day."

"I don't pounce, I move with attitude with style! Not that you'd know..." Justin moved toward the open patio door, his attention switching to J.C. and Joey's ongoing game of one-on-one. "Hey Joey, watch out for..." Just then the telephone rang, interrupting Justin and pulling him back toward the kitchen.

In a move as graceful as any dance step he performed on stage, Justin slipped his head into the light blue pullover jacket while picking up the receiver. A single, fluid motion. "Hello" he sang into the phone, giggling to himself as Joey tripped over Busta on his way to what just might have been a perfect layup. Damn I love that dog!

"Please hold for Mr. Huxley." A nasally, high pitched voice rang out.

Immediately the smile on Justin's face disappeared. As his legs faltered beneath him, he reached out, grasping for the kitchen counter in an attempt to steady himself. Gabe. Oh my god. Please not again. Not today.

While the house around him bounced with activity and laughter, Justin was only aware of his own heartbeat pounding in his ear and the cold silence on the other end of the phone. Glancing quickly at Lance, who remained buried deep within the refrigerator, Justin contemplated hanging up. He pleaded silently with each muscle of his body to move. To just hang up the phone. But it was too late. He stood there, white knuckled and frozen as the deep, professional voice seeped across the line.

"Hello, this is Gabe Huxley. With whom am I speaking?"

Justin felt the blood drain from his face and his normally radiant complexion paled considerably. Just the sound of the man's voice sent chills through the 18- year-olds body. He opened his mouth in an attempt to speak. He needed to say something; anything! This was not a man he wanted to piss off. Yet the knot tightening in the back of his throat prevented any sounds from escaping.

"Hello?... Hello?!" Gabe raised his voice, yet stifled the yell, "Is anybody on the line?!" Damn that temp agency. This was the third time in as may days that he had been disconnected. Frustrated, he glanced at the calendar sitting perfectly square on the left-hand corner of his mahogany desk. Embossed in 14 carat gold lettering , the words 'Gabe H. Huxley ~Talent Promoter' graced each page. Only two more days until Sheila returned from vacation. Maybe then things at the office would return to normal. Things would run smooth. In the meantime, he was damn well going to have a little chat with...with...why was it he could never remember her name! Her enticing green eyes and surgically enhanced breasts, sure, but not her name.

In an attempt to free his hand, Gabe awkwardly cradled the silent receiver between his ear and shoulder, letting the folds of his neck hold it in place. But then, as he was about to transfer the call back to the rent-a-secretary, a small sound cut across the line.

"It's Justin." A voice choked, barely audible.

"Excuse me?" Silence. "Is someone there?" Gabe's brow furrowed. He waited in silence. Had he imagined the noise?

"Um...yeah..."Again the voice wavered. "It's me Gabe. Justin."

Taking up the receiver in his right hand, Gabe slowly eased back into his leather chair and smirked. Glancing quickly at the promotional NSync poster that graced the wall opposite his desk, his thin white lips molded into a small, crooked smile. Aw, perfect! The golden boy himself had answered the phone. And, as a bonus, he was trembling. Justin's fear hung so thick across the line, Gabe could actually taste it . A warmth ran across his body and settled deep into his pelvis. He controlled everything. This was too easy...

Lance stopped everything; for a moment he wasn't even breathing. Frozen in place, not because of the cold breeze emitted by the refrigerator or the iced can of Dr. Pepper he finally settled on. It wasn't even the slight tremor he'd heard in Justin's voice. No, it was one word that petrified him.

Gabe.

Lance stood there, hand on the refrigerator door, catatonic. To an observer, his trance-like gaze appeared to be nothing more than an overwhelming fascination with jelly jars. When in reality his mind had pulled itself inside, running for cover. His entire essence, which had freely floated cloud-like around him, suddenly closed in on itself; a black hole. He gasped slightly as if the wind had been knocked out of him; as if he'd been hit.

Something...no...someone...HAD hit him. Repeatedly.

Gaining his composure, he backed out of the refrigerator, shutting the door as quietly as possible. By now it was instinct. Be quiet, be small, disappear and maybe this time he won't touch you. Turning, he saw Justin looking directly at him. But the moment Justin caught him staring, he blinked hard and looked away. Complete silence filled the room.

Lance watched as Justin collapsed onto a kitchen stool, placing his elbows on the counter, he carefully cradled his forehead in his left hand. The receiver occupied the right.

"Yeah, but today's my..." He cut away as Gabe's voice interrupted him. "No I know the deal , but couldn't we maybe..." Again Justin fell into silent compliance waiting for the harsh voice to finish. "I understand that, but my mom's got all these people here and...No! Don't do that... you don't need to talk to her." Keeping his head down, he ran his hand back through his hair. A meek, surrendering breath escaped his lips. "I can find a way...I'll get away."

Lance's vision tunneled falling into focus on Justin's face. He saw Justin's head bob and nod, saw him bite his lower lip and rub his temples. Words left his lips, but they no longer registered in Lance's brain. His gaze held steady, yet almost involuntarily, his body slowly began to move backward, guided by some unseen force, trying to get away. Unfortunately his back ran into the refrigerator door, blocking his escape.

Suddenly, Justin snapped upright and stared directly into Lance's eyes. Nervously pulling at his bottom lip with his left hand, his eyes widened with panic as they darted from Lance to an unseen spot on the floor then back to the older blond.

Lance didn't have to hear the voice to know the question. No. Please. I can't do this. I'm not here. Don't say anything. You haven't seen me.

"Yeah, he's right here." Justin shut his eyes and flinched as he heard Lance's head pound against the freezer door.

"Yeah, ok. I'll tell him." Justin had yet to open his eyes, "One hour then." With those words, the line went dead. Neither party bothered to say good-bye.

Instead of hanging up the phone, Justin quickly dropped the receiver as if the shiny black plastic object had burnt him. It crashed against the floor, then snaked it's way toward the wall, pulled by the spiral cord attaching it to the base. The sliding noise brought Lance to attention. He glanced at the phone lying on the floor, ignored Justin, and walked into the living room. Absently setting the Dr. Pepper down on the counter as he passed by.

Justin, making no attempt to retrieve the phone, followed closely behind him. Lance sank uncomfortably onto one of the many folding chairs positioned about the room. Leaning forward, he braced his elbows against his knees and cradled his head in his hands.

Justin simply stood there watching him. Neither boy said a thing. About five minutes into the silence, Justin began to fidget anxiously. He couldn't take it anymore. "So, you gonna go?"

The reply was quick. "I don't really have a choice do I? He knows I'm here." His deep voice was accusing, and cut to the bone. He turned and glared at the younger boy beside him. "Thanks J. Really, I mean it. Thanks a lot."

Justin slumped down in the faded blue recliner across the room from Lance. Eye contact was not even an option. Instead, he stared at his tennis shoes. They were a birthday present, opened just this morning. Back when this day was wonderful and full of potential. Now? Now, one of his best friends, a brother really, hated him. And for good reason. He'd sacrificed Lance to the wolves. He hated himself too.

"I don't know why I told him that. It just popped out. He makes me so nervous." His voice was tightening and he tried hard to fight the tears that threatened to come. He took a deep breath and spoke slowly. "I just got scared. I never expected it to be HIM on the phone...I'm so, so sorry Lance. Maybe I could just..."

"No, just forget it. I'm the one who's sorry. I didn't mean to say it like that. It's not you, J. He already knew I was here. He just wanted to make you say it." He paused, frustrated. "I just really hate him, you know? He such a fucking bastard."

Justin smiled weakly and rubbed his moist eyes. Lance never swore, and although the situation certainly called for it, somehow it just sounded silly coming out of him. "Next time put more emphases on the 'fucking' part. You need to really push out the 'F' sound. The way you say it is just...well...polite."

Lance looked at him incredulously, like he'd lost his mind. "WHAT?!!"

Both boys stared at each other, then suddenly broke into laughter. And although it was short lived, it eased the tension between them. Composing themselves, they fell silent once again, but this time they were of one mind. Both reflecting on the torment facing them in less than an hour.

Lance spoke first. "So what's his excuse this time."

"Legal papers we need to sign."

He rolled his eyes and sighed as he lifted himself from the chair. "Right." It was more matter-of-fact, than sarcastic.

Justin rose too and moved to the large picture window behind his chair. It provided the perfect view of all the backyard activities. He silently thanked god that no one else was in the house when the call came. Maybe it was because of how long they'd let it go on, or how cold Gabe had become, but both boys were finding it difficult to hide the anger burning inside them. To put up that cheerful front whenever his name was mentioned; to graciously agree to spend holiday parties at his house; or to wrap an arm around him and smile for a photo shoot. It was painful to watch everybody else love and trust this man. He was their buddy, their confidant, their friend. Hell, he made them famous. But it came with a price that somewhere along the line Lance and himself agreed to pay.

Just then, Justin caught sight of Chris crossing the yard toward the house. "Crap." He wiped at his eyes again. No tears had actually fallen, but he was sure they were red. "Chris is on his way in. He can't see me like this."

Before Justin finished speaking, they heard footsteps run across the deck and into the kitchen.

Lance turned and scanned Justin's worried face. He was right, Chris would know something was wrong. " Okay, okay...you go upstairs and clean up in the bathroom. I'll cover down here." He kept his voice low and gave Justin a quick shove toward the stairs.

"Hey, Just! What's the hold up? I thought you were coming out to..." Chris' voice trailed off as he realized he was talking himself. The kitchen was empty. "Oh well, it's not the first time." He laughed loudly. "That's it Chris, just keep talking." Moving toward the hallway in search of his youngest band mate, his eyes caught sight of the phone still abandoned on the floor. "What the..." He grabbed the receiver off the floor and replaced on the wall. Odd. Then quickly dismissing the sight, he ventured farther into the house. "Justin! Come out, come out where ever you are!"

Turning the corner into the living room Chris jumped out of his skin as he unexpectedly caught sight of Lance. "Holy shit! Don't ever sneak up on me like that again! You scared the hell out of me! Why didn't you say anything when I yelled?"

"Hey, it wasn't MY name you were screaming out." Lance smiled at him. "And I think you got that backwards. As I see it you snuck up on me, rather loudly, but still, its kinda hard for me to sneak up on someone when I never moved from this spot."

"Hey yeah, what were you doing anyway?" Chris glanced around, searching for a clue as to why Lance was standing there, by himself, in the middle of the room.

"Um...Actually, I'm waiting for Justin to get changed." It was the first thing that popped into his head.

Chris leaned against the railing of the stairs directly in front of him and yelled, "Oh sure Justin! Go ahead and change into that lucky bandanna of yours! Your going to need all the help you can get!"

Turning his back to Lance, he lowered his voice and moved once again toward the kitchen "Man I gotta win this one! I need to get my money back from that cocky kid! Thinks I'm too old for hoops. Please! Hey, your playing too, right?"

Lance followed right behind him. "Um, no. And Justin going to be a no show too. Sorry, guess you'll have to win that money back another day."

Shocked, Chris stopped short and spun to face Lance, who practically ran into him. "What?! Why?"

Lance backed up and looked past him, avoiding eye contact, "Gabe called. We have some, ah, papers to sign."

"Today? Right now?"

"So it seems."

Chris seemed confused, "Just you and Justin?"

"Yeah, remember that 'Americas Top Teens' show we co-hosted last week? Well, apparently we forgot to sign some legal release forms or something. And of course, it HAS to be done before it airs. Figures, huh?" Not bad for shooting from the hip.

"Well, if the birthday brat thinks we're stopping this party just cuz he's gone, tell him I said ~ NOT!" Chris laughed at himself, "He'll just have to catch up when you guys get back."

"Whatever. Hey, you wanna pass the message on to his mom. Tell her and everyone else, we'll be back as soon as we can."

Chris grabbed the unopened Dr. Pepper he found sitting on the counter and moved through the patio door. "Sure thing."

"Thanks Chris." Chris was already outside, but Lance said it anyway.

The thirty five minute car ride was largely silent. Justin drove, his long fingers wrapped tightly around the wheel. Lance sat along side him, gazing out the window, mindlessly playing with the ring that graced his right hand. He kept his mind blank, save one single thought: He wished somehow the car would go slower.

Lance leaned forward to turn on the radio. Not so much for the music, but as an excuse to glance in Justin's direction. To see if he was okay. But Justin's oceany blue eyes were clouded and blank. Void of all recognition. Already he was moving into his safe place. Somehow Justin had the ability to seemingly transport his mind somewhere else. When things got bad or even if he just got nervous, he would go into a fully functional, trancelike state and remain there until he felt safe again. They guys had noticed it for the first time while doing an interview for German television, back when NSync was just getting off the ground. When they asked him about it, he described it as 'opening up this door in my head and walking through. I still know what's going on, but it seems distant. Like it's happening to someone else." At the time, they all laughed at him. Chris went so far as to break out his psychology books and list all the disorders associated with that kind of thing. He had Justin believing he needed medication. Poor kid. He was really scared for while there. Lance felt sorry for him.

Now, driving towards Gabe Huxley's office, Lance envied him. I would give anything to go where you are right now.

With this thought still in his head, the car pulled to a stop outside Gabe's home office.

From behind his desk, Gabe caught sight of Justin's car. He shoved the stack of mindless paperwork he was working on carefully into the side draw. It's about damn time. On Saturday's he ran with a very limited staff, but even those employees had been sent home over forty-five minutes ago. He stood and moved just far enough away from the window. From this distance, no one would be able to see him, yet he could still see out.

He saw them get out of the car. He saw them hesitate. They were talking about something.

Gabe would have given just about anything to hear what they were saying. Well almost anything. But as quickly as the conversation started, it was over. Together, silent and side-by-side, they walked toward his office. That's it guys. It's easy. One foot in front of the other. He had already unlocked the spare office. It was empty and Lance would go in there. He liked to keep things separate.

The small front lobby was empty, Gabe's secretary no where in site. They turned left, down a short narrow hallway and stopped outside Suite 9.

Just as Lance was about to knock. Justin grabbed his hand.

"I can't do this." It wasn't so much panic, as a statement of fact.

"Justin, it's going to be ok."

"How can you say that? You know he's going to hurt you more than me."

Lance felt his stomach turn, "No, I'll be fine. Besides it's been a long time, maybe it's not what we think." He smiled weakly, knowing a lie when he heard one, then knocked on the door - quietly. __________________________________________________________________________

(40 minutes later)

"Get up." Gabe ordered coldly as he removed his hand from the small of Justin's back, releasing the pressure that held the young man prisoner across the desk. He pulled his pants back onto his hips and tightened the belt around his waist. The floor creaked slightly under his weight, as he moved to the small bar area in the far corner of his office. This called for a drink. Pouring himself a shot of brandy, he swished the alcohol into a whirlpool that danced inside the glass. Gabe inhaled the glistening oasis, allowing the sweet aroma to draw him in. He was pleased. Snapping his head back, he tossed the entire drink against the back of his throat, swallowing hard. One blond down, one to go. Suddenly a loud crash erupted behind him, forcing his attention once again to the forgotten boy. A green, marble container lay overturned on the desk, his perfectly sharpened pencils spewed like pixy sticks across the Persian rug.

Justin instantly gasped, his aching body frozen in place. Shit! In his struggle to get dressed, his knee buckled, pitching him forward against the desk. He landed hard, causing the office supplies to spill. His tear swollen eyes immediately darted in Gabe's direction. As Gabe turned around, Justin watch the older man's jaw line harden, his teeth clench, his eyes narrow. The look of pure contempt made Justin's heart stop.

"My WIFE gave that to me as a gift." He scolded, glaring steadfast at the boy. The tone alone caused Justin to visibly cringe. He diverted his guilt-ridden eyes down to the pullover jacket that remain clutched in his hands. It was the only security blanket available. God, this is all my fault. Why do I do these things?

Justin stammered nervously, "Oh god...I didn't mean to...sorry...I'm so sorry..." he bent down in front of the desk, eye cast downward, "I will pick it..."

"NO!" Gabe raised his voice forcefully and charged forward, "Dammit! Can't you do anything other than look pretty?!" Justin cowered and threw his hands out as if to prove he hadn't touched anything. But it was too late; Gabe didn't seem to care. He grabbed Justin's arm. HARD. Crushing his skin as he yanked him up into a standing position. Justin, winced out loud; he could feel exactly where each bruise would develop by morning.

"Please..." he began, but quickly cut himself off. Pleading only made matters worse.

Gabe half dragged the lanky young man, still clad only in his boxer shorts and a oversized t-shirt, across the office and into his private bathroom. He moved his hand to the back of Justin's neck and shoved him onto the cold tile floor. Looking down at the kid kneeling at his side, Gabe felt another rush of lustful excitement overcome him. Even at the age of eighteen, Justin remained tender and boyish. He had the ability to show such enthusiasm, playfulness and energy. This carefree passion for life exuded from every aspect of the kid. And from the beginning Gabe needed to possess it...to control it...even own it. He reveled in the knowledge that, with just the sound of his voice, he alone could dull the glimmer in Justin's eyes. Through humiliation, and yes, a lITTLE pain; he'd played on their insecurities, skillfully wielding his power over both young men. Neither boy had ever really protested. Not really. And now, Gabe dominated their every move.

His hand lingered on the back of the boy's head, allowing the soft, golden locks of hair to encircle his fingers. So beautiful Gabe's face softened slightly. Slowly he leaned in and caressed Justin's cheek with the back of his fingers. "Don't worry, you'll always be my golden boy." His hot, musky breath swept across Justin's neck, invoking a wave of nausea deep within him. From his position on the floor, he closed his eyes and eased away from the man, until his flushed, crimson cheek fell against the cool bathroom wall. He concentrated on the cold, allowing it to engulf him. Without opening his eyes, Justin knew Gabe had left; he felt his shorts being thrown at him as he heard the familiar slide of metal entering wood. Gabe locked the door. It was the routine: waiting it out until Lance was free to go.

Justin's body quivered as he suppressed the overwhelming need to vomit. He felt heavy and numb. As if in slow motion, he pushed his head threw the pullover jacket and snaked his legs back through the shorts. Drawing his knees up tight against his chest, a tear slid down his cheek as a single word escaped his lips.

"No."

It was the first time he'd ever said the word out loud. The first time he'd protested.

No one was around to hear him.

Gabe's sports coat still hung neatly on a hanger behind the door to the vacant office. He had removed it before his lunch meeting to avoid any unsightly spills from damaging the silk. Slipping his hand into the breast pocket, he retrieved a small gold key. It was risky keeping it there, but recently leaving it in the little wooden box it usually occupied on the shelf next to his never read copy of The Seven Habits of Highly Successful People posed a greater risk. Last week he had walked in on what's-her-name-with-the-knockers dusting his office shelves. Sheila would never stoop to dusting. As-a-matter-of-fact, Sheila would most likely drop kick him and spit in his face if he even tried to ask. God he missed her!

The twisted smile spread once again across his thin lips. In a swift motion he unlocked the top drawer of a large metal filing cabinet. It was a drawer Lance knew too well. He wanted to turn away, but he couldn't. A morbid need-to- know-what-was-happening type of curiosity took over. Suddenly Gabe's hand, which had been buried within the depths of the drawer, emerged with the all too familiar silk straps.

"Please don't bind my hands. I won't fight, I promise. I'll do anything...I just don't want it to be that way." Lance's soft deep voice begged, his eyes pleaded.

Carefully withdrawing the pieces of silk in one hand, he continued to contemplate what other "toys" would satisfy him. Gabe remained with his back to the pale, blond boy. "Lance, my dear boy, I think we will both have more fun playing this way. Don't you? " His voice was cheerful and calm, as if discussing the rules of a card game. Yet sheer terror quaked inside Lance's head.

Where is Justin's hiding place. I need to find it. I need to be there, not here, not now.

He blinked and saw Gabe walking towards him.

Closer.

RUN! His mind pleaded with him. I can't.

Closer.

THEN HIDE INSIDE I can't find the door. I don't know how Justin gets there. I don't know where he goes.

Gabe stopped face to face with the pale blond. His eyes held a sadistic twinkle of anticipation. Briskly, he grasped the back of Lance's head. The boy gasped and closed his eyes as he felt individual hairs being pulled from his scalp. I surrender... Again

But then Gabe did something he'd never done before, he kissed Lance. Not tender. Not loving. Hard and blunt. If lips could be callous, his were. Lance recoiled against the kiss as if he'd been slapped. He had expected to be slapped. He was used to that. It is how this game usually began. Pulling away as much as his the older man's grasp would allow, Lance felt Gabe's heavy body lean into him, suckling his lower lip. In a stoic, yet feeble attempt to regain control, Lance bit down hard on Gabe's top lip, causing him to pull away, but not before Lance tasted the salty sweet blood he left behind. He expected to see anger flash across his tormentor's eyes. What he saw startled him more; Gabe's eyes smiled. He wiped the pooling blood away with the back of his hand.

"I KNEW you wanted to play." Gabe's reached out and rubbed his thumb across Lance's pouty lower lip, removing a small trace of leftover blood. With that, Gabe grabbed at the young blond's wrists, wrapping them tight. Let the games begin!

Forty-five minutes later, Justin heard the bathroom door unlock. He'd waited out most of the time sitting on the stool, afraid of catching even the slightest glimpse of himself in the mirror. That had become the hardest part of the whole thing, facing himself. He counted out 60 seconds, then went out the bathroom door. Thankfully, to leave Gabe's office, the door was only five feet from where he now stood, no where near Gabe's desk. Justin could make a clean break. And as for Lance, he would already be in the car. That was the routine.

Moving towards the door, Justin didn't have to hear the papers shuffling to know Gabe was again working at his desk. Business as usual. It didn't matter, Justin was leaving, two more steps and he'd be free again. But just before he reached the door, Gabe's voice seared like a knife through his brain.

"Hey, Justin?"

He stopped cold, his hand already on the doorknob, he refused to turn around. "Yeah?"

"Happy Birthday."

Justin opened the door and slammed it behind him. He'd probably pay for that in the long run, but right now he didn't care.

Okay, I warned you it was dark. But I wouldn't put these characters through it if it was necessary. Like I said before, this is really only a small part of a much larger story. So please be patient. If all goes well, we still have a long way to go!

Thanks for reading!!

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