Obligatory warnings and disclaimers:
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If reading this is in any way illegal where you are or at your age, or you don't want to read about male/male relationships, go away. You shouldn't be here.
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I don't know any of the celebrities in this story, and this story in no way is meant to imply anything about their sexualities, personalities, or anything else. This is a work of pure fiction.
Questions and commentary can be sent to "writerboy69@hotmail.com". I've enjoyed hearing from all of you.
And now, let's continue.
I stared at Justin, Lance's suitcase in one of my hands and his keys in the other. Acting as if I stepped out of Lance's apartment every day, I casually shut the door and locked it behind me, and began walking toward the parking lot.
"I asked you a question," Justin said behind me, sounding annoyed.
"I guess I didn't catch it," I tossed back over my shoulder, not turning around. I'd stood up to Justin once, and I could do it again.
"I asked what you're doing in Lance's apartment," he repeated, following me.
"What business is it of yours?" I asked, opening Lance's trunk to put the suitcase in. Justin stepped right up next to me, leaning in, and his scent, the smell of his cologne and the musky smell of his own body, filled my nostrils. "Back up, Justin."
"Why?" he asked, smiling, scratching his belly, making his shirt ride up a little so I could see his abs and the trail of dark blond hair below his navel. "Does being this close to me bother you?"
"Not the way you think," I answered, slamming the trunk closed. I walked around to the driver's door, again forcing him to follow me. This was not going to be Justin's show, not again, not ever.
"Don't pretend you don't want it," Justin purred, staring at me, hands on his hips.
I stared at him, wondering what I ever could have possibly seen there.
"Sorry Justin," I said, shrugging. "Been there, done that. Notice, however, that I'm still with Josh, and not chasing after you."
I watched his jaw working soundlessly as I opened the car door and climbed inside. Apparently finally thinking of a witty comeback, Justin ran up to my door and knocked on the window. I powered it down a crack.
"Yes?" I asked.
"Does Josh know you're doing this?" Justin asked. "He won't be happy when he finds out you're helping Lance."
"You know what, Justin?" I asked, staring levelly at him, glaring into his big blue eyes. "You're right, he won't be happy, but he'll get over it pretty quickly, I'm thinking, because he'll be a lot more unhappy when he finds out why I'm helping Lance."
"You wouldn't tell him," Justin said, swallowing. I could see right through his false bravado.
"Yeah, I would," I said, smiling. "I'll tell him, or Lance will. You know what, Justin? Maybe you should tell him, and see if you can salvage your friendship with Josh while there's still some left, if you even know what a friend is. Oh, and you might want to watch your toes."
He looked down, jumping back as I threw the car in reverse. Thumbing the gate switch, I sped out of the parking lot, watching him stare after me in the glow of the taillights before the night swallowed him.
"Take that, Justin," I smiled, cranking up the stereo. It felt good.
I found my way back to the clinic, if that's what it was called, without trouble, and Lance was waiting for me in the foyer. When I gave him his suitcase, he hugged me again.
"Thank you, Jack," he whispered. "Thank you for everything."
"Are you ok up here, Lance?" I asked. "Are you all right by yourself?"
"I think so," he said, looking around. I didn't see any staff, but I was sure someone was monitoring Lance from somewhere. "I feel safe here."
"OK," I said, handing him a paper. "This my cell phone, and Josh's. I'm going to fly out the day after tomorrow to see him, but I want you to call if you need us, ok?"
"OK," he said, folding it carefully and tucking it into his pocket.
"And Lance, call even if you don't need us," I said. "Call if you just need to talk, or if you just want to say hi, or whatever."
"Thanks, Jack," he said, his eyes glistening again. "I, um, I'm going to go get settled in, ok?"
"OK, Lance," I said, watching him walk up the stairs.
I drove back to the apartment, and went right to bed. My sleep was blissfully free of dreams, which I took to be a good omen. All I had left to do, before I went to Josh, was to go find that address out on Wilshire, and settle things with my stalker. Two days ago I had been frightened by the thought of someone watching me, and was terrified of actually going to meet them, but now, after this, I felt like I could kick any ass that got in my way. Watch out, stalker. I've already taken down Justin Timberlake. You'll be a walk in the park.
When I got up, I went for my run, again without Chris. I was starting to miss him, and decided that once I got back from visiting Josh I needed to come back and patch things up with Chris. I didn't have to tell him what I had been keeping secret, because it should be enough just to let him know that I'd kept my promise, and told Josh. When I finished, I came back, took a shower, and checked the clock. I still had a little time before I needed to go, so I went to Lance's, and worked on cleaning up his apartment. When he came back, I didn't want him to walk into a place that looked like this. After a couple of hours, I had it more or less under control, although I figured the dent in his wall would probably rule out any chance of getting his security deposit back.
Checking the clock again, I called for a cab to come get me, and washed my face and hands. Waiting out by the gate for the taxi to come, I realized that my hands were shaking a little, and my heart was racing. I almost jumped into traffic when my cell phone rang.
"Hello?' I answered.
"Jack! Are you ok?" Carla asked. "You left like ten messages!"
"Carla," I said, wheels turning in my head. "Where are you?"
"I just got back to my apartment," she said. "I'm so, so sorry I didn't call you. Is everything ok?"
"No, not really," I said, my eyes scanning the parking lot. The only car there was Lance's, and nobody was hiding behind it. "Where have you been?"
"My mom had to have this emergency surgery, and I went to stay with her," Carla said. "I left a message at your apartment."
I hadn't checked my messages there, I realized. I figured the only people who needed to find me would think to call my cell phone, but Carla wasn't used to me having one, and probably hadn't been able to remember the number. That sounded plausible, but I was still wary. How big of a coincidence was it that Carla, one of my suspects, finally called me back now, while I was waiting for the taxi to come take me to the stalker.
"I left you messages," I said, scanning the street. Nothing suspicious, but if it was her, she'd probably already be out on Wilshire, wherever it was I was meeting her.
"I couldn't remember how to check my machine from my mom's house," Carla said. "Jack, you sound funny."
"I think it's my phone," I said. "I think it's cutting out."
I made one of those throat clearing, static noises, and then hung up. Proud of my quick thinking, I dialed her apartment, and was both surprised and relieved when she answered.
"Jack, what the hell was that?" she asked.
"Sorry," I said. "This phone is a piece of crap."
"Yeah, sure," she said. "Jack, what the hell is going on?"
As the cab pulled up, I gave the driver the address, and then I settled into the back seat, and explained the entire situation to Carla, who immediately went ballistic.
"You're just going to meet this guy?" she blurted. "Do you even know where you're going? It could be a warehouse, or his house, or God knows what."
"Carla, calm down," I said. "I'm not even getting out of the cab if it looks sketchy."
"Does anyone even know where you're going?" she demanded.
"Umm, I told you," I pointed out.
"Because I happened to call you!" she yelled. "Jack, how could you be so fucking stupid? This could be anybody. It could be a psycho fan, or one of the guys like you thought. What the hell are you thinking, Jack? Are you even thinking at all?"
"It can't just be a random fan, Carla," I pointed out. "It has to be someone I know. The first card came to my house."
"And you think the people you know aren't crazy?" she asked. "Jack, do any of these notes sound like the kind of things that healthy, well adjusted people write?"
"I can't just let it go, Carla," I said. "I can't sit and wait and see what shows up next. I have to know who it is."
"Jesus, Jack," she sighed. "Promise me you're not going to do anything else stupid, or take any stupid risks. Promise me if anything seems off you'll call the cops immediately."
"OK, I promise," I said, not pointing out that some people felt my promises weren't worth a lot. The cab pulled to a stop. "Carla, I have to go. I think we're here."
"Be careful!" she yelled, as I hung up and tipped the cabby, climbing out of the taxi and stepping onto the sidewalk.
We had stopped at a small diner. I checked the sign, and saw that this was the correct address. A diner was a fairly public place. Surely if he was planning to leave me for dead he'd do it in a park, or a back alley, and not in a diner. I walked inside, and saw a line of booths marching away from me on the left. Remembering the note, I realized that I was supposed to meet my mystery pen pal in the last booth, and I walked carefully toward it. As I approached, I saw that the seat facing me was empty, and realized that this was clever planning. I wouldn't be able to see his face until I was right up to the booth, because his back was to me.
I slid into the booth, staring across the table at him as he stirred his coffee. I should have known. I should have known, and put it together, long before this. I should have guessed it when I got the first letter. Only one person hated me enough to do this, to fly all the way out to California and find me, to clip out every glimpse of me they saw in the papers, just to fuck with my head.
"Jack," he said, smiling.
"Peyton," I answered, staring at him.
Peyton, the ex boyfriend I had described to Josh and Justin. Peyton, the guy who blamed me for ruining his life. Peyton, who I hadn't seen or spoken to in four years. They didn't appear to have been kind years, at least not for him. When I had started seeing Peyton, he was perfect, the most perfect man I'd ever seen. Peyton was on the baseball team, and was attractive in that way that all the really good baseball players seem to be, with a good face, a fantastic body, a big dick, and a tiny brain. He had a bulging chest that pushed out the front off all his shirts, and huge arms that stretched the sleeves. His neck had been thick, and his legs strong. I used to watch him work out, and drooled.
He didn't look like that now. He sat across from me, staring at me with red-rimmed eyes, the bags under them glaringly prominent in the light of the restaurant. His neck, once so wide that I had problems fitting my hands around it, was thin, like a bird's, with a little flap of skin hanging beneath his chin. His face, once so model perfect as to rival Josh's, or any of the guys on the cover of Men's Health, was stretched tightly over the bones, his cheekbones, nose, and jutting chin now angular and frightening. His arms were thin, and his clothes hung on him, like a scarecrow. He clutched a cigarette between the bony fingers of his left hand, and his skin, once so tan and perfect, looked dry, and waxen.
"Seen enough yet?" he asked. His grin was awful, like the rictus on a Halloween pumpkin.
"Peyton, what happened to you?" I asked. It was like he had aged forty years since I had last seen him, the day of our college graduation. "Are you sick?"
"Gee, Jack, you always did pride yourself on being smart," he said, taking a drag on his cigarette. "And really, after the number of times I've fucked you, you can call me Pete."
The waitress appeared at our table.
"Can I get you anything?" she asked.
"Coffee, black," I answered. "Please."
"Sure, no problem," she said, drifting away.
I stared at Peyton, trying to put all this together.
"Peyton, do you, um, is it HIV?" I asked quietly. I didn't have a lot of medical knowledge, but that was the first thing that came to mind.
"No, I didn't catch that from you," he hissed, glaring at me.
"You didn't catch anything from me," I said, leaning back, crossing my arms. "I was clean then, and I'm clean now. I don't have anything. As I recall, though, I got a nice case of crabs from you."
He laughed, a rasping, smoke releasing laugh.
"You still haven't shut up about those fucking crabs," he said, shaking his head. "Still whining about those like you whined about everything else. That's why I left you. Couldn't stand listening to you whine."
"Oh, is that why?" I asked. "I thought it was that girl you were seeing on the side. Or that guy from upstairs that you were fucking. Or whoever else you were playing around with. I had no idea it was because I whined."
"See, there's that whining again," he said, blowing smoke in my face.
The waitress appeared with my coffee.
"Do you want anything else?" she asked.
"Not just yet," I answered. "But thank you."
"You're welcome," she said, smiling at me as she hurried away from our table. I wondered if Peyton made her uncomfortable. She certainly seemed to be hurrying away from him.
"Peyton, why are you here?" I asked, leaning forward, steepling my fingers on the table. "Why are you doing this?"
"Goodness, you've become even pushier," he said. "Cut right to the chase now. Don't you want to talk about old times, Jack? Reminisce about the past? Talk about the good old days, when I was beautiful and you were on your knees, begging for it?"
"If you wanted to talk, you've had all this time," I said, sipping my coffee. "I wasn't aware we had anything left to talk about."
"That's a surprise," he said. "You always wanted to talk before. You always had so much to say, every time I tried to leave, every time you begged me in tears not to go. You always wanted to talk about how much you loved me, and how you'd do anything if I'd just stay."
I glared at him. It was a slanted version of the past, true, but the underlying feeling was true. I had been completely absorbed in him, and had let him walk all over me.
"We all make mistakes," I said coolly. "There's no point in dwelling on them."
"Yes, like the mistake I made when I met you," he said. "You ruined my life, Jack. You ruined everything for me, and now I'm here to ruin you."
"I didn't ruin anything for you," I spat. "You did that all yourself."
"No, it was you," he said. "I've had a lot of time to think about things, a lot of time, Jack, laying in hospitals, getting stabbed with needles, a lot of time to look at where I went wrong. Everything that's ever happened to me is your fault. You poisoned me, like you poison everything."
"Peyton, this is insane," I said.
"No, it's not," he answered. "You were there. You know what happened to me. You cost me Janet, after we dated all through high school. I was gonna marry her."
"I cost you Janet?" I asked. "You broke up with her."
He continued as if he hadn't heard me.
"You took baseball away from me," he said. "I had to quit the team because of you. None of my friends would talk to me. The guys wouldn't be in the locker room with me, coach wouldn't put me in the games. Baseball was my whole life, and you took it. You ruined it."
"You quit the team," I said. I was tired of this discussion. We'd played this game, danced these same steps, over and over.
"Because of you," he said, grinding out his cigarette and immediately producing another. "And my family, they disowned me. They still don't talk to me, do you know that?"
"I don't know anything," I answered. "I don't talk to you. I wanted to, but you're the one who left me, and who let me graduate and leave without even stopping to say goodbye. You did that to me, after all the times you told me that you loved me."
"I called my mother, Jack, my mother, to tell her I was dying, and she told me she had no son," Peyton hissed through gritted teeth. "She hung up on me, and wouldn't even talk to me."
"You're dying?" I asked.
"Like you care about anyone but yourself," he snapped. "Yes, Jack, I'm dying. I have cancer, Jack, the kind you don't get better from. I'm dying, Jack, but not before I settle things with you."
My mind reeled. He was dying, and all he had to think about was getting back at me?
"Peyton, how can you hate me this much?" I asked.
"Because this is all your fault," he answered with conviction. "Hate is all I have left."
"Then you don't have anything," I said sadly.
He laughed, that dry, rasping cackle again.
"That's not true," he said, smiling gruesomely again. "I have you. I have you right where I want you, and I'm going to fuck you over. You're happy, aren't you? I can see it. You have that dumb look on your face, in your eyes, and I'm going to crush it."
"You're sick," I said, shaking my head.
"Really? I hadn't noticed."
It was wittier than I would have given him credit for.
"I was in the hospital, Jack, waiting," he said. "You know what it's like to spend the last of your life sitting in waiting rooms? Sitting on uncomfortable couches, watching people stare at you, while you wait for a doctor to come out and tell you how many weeks you don't have left? Do you?"
"No," I answered. "No, I don't. Peyton, I'm sorry you're sick, but."
"Shut up," he said, cutting me off.
I stared at him.
"I was waiting, and I picked up the paper, and I saw you," he said, sneering. "I saw you in Variety, Jack, you!"
"I didn't ask to be in the paper," I said stupidly.
"You're doing it again, aren't you?" he asked. "Taking over some guy, making him like you. You're going to ruin someone else, but this time you're doing it right where everyone can see. Which one is yours, Jack?"
"That's none of your business," I answered. "What do you want, Peyton? Is it money?"
"Which one are you fucking?" Peyton growled. "You can tell me. We're old friends."
"I'm not telling you shit," I said. "I can't believe I was afraid of this, afraid of you. All this time, and this is still all you have. I'm sorry you're dying, but you're still blaming me for your mistakes, and trying to make me believe it. Just tell me what the fuck you want, so we can finish this. Is it money?"
"No, I don't want your boyfriend's money, whichever one he is," Peyton sneered. "Where would I spend it?"
"How did you know where I was staying?" I asked.
"Followed you home from the studio, when you and the little blond kid picked up the last letter," Peyton answered. "Sat in the parking lot for two days waiting for you."
I stared at him again, trying to see any scrap left of the person I had believed he was.
"Peyton, what do you want?"
"All I want is to hurt you."
"Then I'd say we're finished," I said, standing. "I don't think you can hurt me, Peyton. Cut up all the newspapers you want, take all the pictures. I'm not opening any more mail from you."
"Don't walk away just yet," Peyton said, grabbing my arm with one of his clawlike hands. I wanted to pull away, but was absurdly sure that his whole arm would break off. "I've made friends, Jack, powerful friends. Friends who are willing to help me get even with you."
"Get even with me?" I blurted. "What is this, the seventh grade? Who are these powerful friends of yours, Peyton, hmmm? Who are they?"
There was movement in the booth behind Peyton, the movement of people standing. I glanced at them, and dropped back into my seat in shock, unable to speak. Joey slid into the seat next to me, and Chris sat down next to Peyton, sliding in, forcing him to move over.
"Guys?" I asked, looking at them. They were both looking at Peyton, and I realized that maybe this wasn't what I thought.
"We'd kind of like to meet your friends, too, Peyton," Joey said, glaring at him. Joey could look pretty sinister if he wasn't smiling.
"Yeah, because Jack has friends," Chris said.
"He's our friend," Joey added.
"A friend of the band," Chris continued.
"And we don't like it when people threaten our friends," Joey said.
"Or hurt them," Chris added.
"Or try to hurt them," Joey said.
"We don't like it at all," Chris said.
"It makes us want to call our other friends," Joey said.
"Other friends of the band," Chris clarified.
"Friends who aren't so friendly," Joey said, Mafioso style.
"You get what we're saying?" Chris asked.
My head bounced back and forth between them as if I was watching a really good tennis match. It was like watching Chip and Dale verbally assault someone, and I wondered if they rehearsed it. Never mind that, actually, I wondered what the hell they were doing here. How had they known? I wanted to ask, but not in front of Peyton. Let him think I brought a posse, even if my posse was two-fifths of a boy band. I had friends, damn it.
"Are you threatening me?" Peyton asked, staring at them.
"I didn't threaten you," Chris said.
"Me either," Joey said.
"I didn't hear any threats," Chris chirped.
"Did you hear a threat, Peyton?" Joey asked.
"You don't scare me," Peyton answered. "You can't push me around. I don't care who you are. I have friends who want to help me."
I wondered if it was morally wrong to bully the terminally ill. Then again, if the terminally ill were bullying you, did that make it ok?
"So I heard," Chris said, smiling.
"You sure you have a friend?" Joey asked.
"I don't see him," Chris said.
"I'm right here," someone said from behind us, pulling a chair over alongside our booth. His face was familiar, but I couldn't place it. "Basil Morgan, reporter."
"And sleazy gossip columnist," I added.
I am on vacation for the next week, but I swear I will post as soon as I get back, ok? In the meantime, go read some other good stories. Or just keep rereading mine. :)