Date: Fri, 28 Sep 2001 10:44:25 -0700 From: D S <denis141@hotmail.com> Subject: ALONE/TOGETHER, Chapter 6 ~ The Ghost Road Well, everyone, here is Chapter 6, which is about the halfway point -- I think -- because you know how these things can change. I would like to once more thank those few people who have emailed me so far with feedback and encouragement; I really appreciate it. The email address is denis141@hotmail.com if you'd like to add your voices to those who've already contacted me. NOTE: I wanted to make sure everyone knew that The Ghost Road is a real book, and it is a GREAT book, and you should read it. In fact, it is the third book in a trilogy, the first two books being Regeneration and The Eye in the Door. The portion below (in italics) where Lance remembers the book is a quote from it. I wish I could write that well, but, alas, I cannot. Anyway, if my story inspires anyone to read the books, it will be a good thing. Thanks again for reading my story. DISCLAIMER: I don't know any member NSYNC. (I wish!) What follows is a work of fiction, and solely a product of my imagination. As a result, it is not intended to imply anything about the person or sexual orientation of any member of NSYNC. The story also involves sex, sex between boys, and if that is not your thing, or if you are not old enough to read such things, you should stop reading now. TOGETHER/ALONE CHAPTER 6: The Ghost Road "We're both walking a tightrope and the last thing that either of us needs is to be watched by somebody who knows the full terror of the fall." -- Pat Barker, The Ghost Road Lance stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel from a pile that sat on the edge of the tub, and roughly dried his hair. It was nearly 3:30 in the afternoon and Lance had spent the majority of the day in bed trying to recover from the god-only-knows-how- many tequila shots he had downed the night before with Joey at his new club on Melrose avenue. It had been good to see Joey, and to find out that there were no hard feelings between them about the breakup of the band. "Dude, no one wanted it fucking over with more than me," Joey had said, clinking his glass against Lance's own and tossing back yet another shot of tequila. Lance dropped the first towel to the floor and then grabbed a second one from the pile and continued drying himself. The bathroom floor was made of shiny, fine-grained black granite. Looking down, Lance could see his body reflected back at him, almost as if he was standing on a mirror. This was a sight that might have interested him once, but it didn't anymore. He dropped the second towel on top of his reflection, and walked out of the bathroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him. Lance's skin prickled with goosebumps as he stepped naked into the cooler air in the living room area of his suite. It was a large and elegant room, filled now with the smell of flowers and fruit. He was staying at the Four Seasons, which is where he always stayed when he was in Los Angeles. When he'd checked in, the young woman at the front desk had asked Lance whether he wanted his "usual suite". This question -- so innocently posed -- had stunned Lance into momentary silence, and caused his face to redden as he realized that he'd never stayed at the hotel without JC being there too. "No ... that, uh...that won't be necessary," Lance had finally stammered. "Maybe something overlooking the pool would be nice." It was now nearly four o'clock and Lance's head was still pounding from his hangover headache. Picking up the phone next to the couch, Lance dialed the concierge. "Yeah, this is Lance Bass," he said, clearing his throat first. "Yeah, in 1019. Can someone bring me some Advil? Yeah. . . a bottle would be great. Oh, . . . and do you know if someone from Fred Segal has delivered some stuff for me. Yeah, a Sandy Dalal suit and shoes and some other stuff. They have? Cool. Can you bring that up too? Right....Okay...Thanks." Lance hung up the telephone and scratched the back of his neck. What Lance really wanted to do was to crawl back into bed, but unfortunately that was not an option. He had to meet Joey downstairs at five to get a quick drink before the limousine arrived at six to take them to the premiere. Lance was glad that Joey had agreed to go with him. Lance hated the burden of making small talk and it was so much easier at these things if he was with someone who was good at it. Hearing a sharp knock at the door, Lance dashed into the bedroom and pulled on the jeans he'd worn the night before. "I'll be right there," he yelled, as he fumbled with the buttons and dashed toward the door and then yanked it open. "Good afternoon, sir," the bellman said with a small nod of his head and a smile that seemed sincere. "I have your bottle of Advil, and your packages from Fred Segal." "Thanks," Lance said, snatching the bottle of Advil out of the bellman's hand, and then disappearing into the bathroom. "Can you put that other stuff on the bed?" "Certainly, sir," the bellman said, stepping into the suite, and allowing the door to close behind him. "Shall I unpack for you?" "Nah," Lance yelled from the bathroom. "I can do it." After taking three Advil, Lance walked into the bedroom holding a half glass of water. The bellman was younger than Lance, maybe twenty-two, and much taller. He had curly brown hair that gently framed a pale, lightly freckled face. Lance thought that the young man looked vaguely Irish and probably had a name like Brent or Sean. Lance stood and watched the bellman unpack his new clothes, and lay them out in smooth, neat piles, not remembering that he'd told the bellman moments before that he could unpack these things himself. Having finished the task, the bellman turned around and smiled at Lance. "Will there be anything else," he asked. "No," Lance said, shaking his head, and then remembering he needed money for a tip. "Uhh . . . one second though while I find my wallet" Lance tried to remember where he'd put his wallet. It wasn't on the bedside table, which was where he usually put it. Lance then checked the back pocket of his jeans, and immediately felt stupid for not having checked there first. Lance pulled out his wallet and handed the bellman a folded twenty-dollar bill. "Thank you, sir," the bellman said, his smile having not changed noticeably since Lance last looked at it. Lance smiled back, touched somehow that this young man seemed to genuinely appreciate the tip. "Sure thing," Lance said. "But call me Lance, okay? That sir stuff makes me feel really old." The bellman laughed. "Certainly," he said, walking past Lance to let himself out. "Have a great evening Lance." "Thanks," Lance called after him, and listened as the door clicked shut. * * * * * Lance had shaved and was nearly dressed when the telephone rang. "Yeah?" "Lance, it's Fatone. Where you at?" "I'm running a little late." "Like I don't know that. When you coming down?" "In like five minutes." "Yeah, well hurry up `cause I'm on my second drink and I know how you hate it when you're date's a sloppy mess." "Unlike you." "Well, you know what they say." "Yeah, yeah -- Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker." Lance laughed, and hung up the phone. He was trying to decide whether to wear a tie with the suit, and finally decided against it. Lance unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt so that it was open at the chest, and then pulled on his jacket. The suit was a deep indigo blue, so dark it seemed black, and it was cut narrow and hugged close to his body. Lance was surprised at how comfortable the suit was, and how the fabric seemed to give in all the right places; it didn't feel tight at all. When Lance had first tried it on, the salesman had said, "It makes you look sooooo sexy." Lance didn't feel sexy though, and he'd almost not bought the suit for that reason alone. Glancing at the clock next to the bed, and seeing that it was five-thirty, Lance put on his watch, stuffed his wallet in his back pocket, and headed out the door. "Joey's going to kill me," he said. * * * * * Lance and Joey had settled into the limousine and now it was pulling out into the traffic on Wilshire Boulevard and heading east. It was a short drive to Mann's Chinese Theater where the premiere was scheduled to occur. Lance knew it would be strange to do the red carpet alone -- that is, without JC -- and it made him sad and nervous. "You really miss him, don't you?" Joey said, bumping Lance with his shoulder. "Yeah," Lance said, nodding and looking away. "I do." "So anyway," Joey continued, knowing that it was best to leave the subject of JC alone, especially on a night where Lance was expected to be wearing the full-on happy face. "I'm stoked about seeing your flick. I heard it's good -- really good." "It was hell to make," Lance said softly, still looking out the window. "That's all I know. So I hope it was fucking worth it." The limousine slowed noticeably and the driver's voice crackled over a small intercom speaker. "Mr. Bass, we're two blocks from the theater. Will I be dropping both you and Mr. Fatone off at the same time." Joey pressed the button on the intercom and spoke. "Hey, James. This is Joey. Drop me off first, then circle back `round and drop Lance off. He's the star man." Lance smiled as he moved into the seat opposite of Joey so that he wouldn't be seen when the door of the limousine opened. "So I'll see you inside," Lance said. "You bet," Joey said. "Right next to the bar." Lance laughed and watched Joey climb out of the limousine into an explosion of flashing cameras and people yelling his name. * * * * * As the limousine circled around the block and back toward the theater, Lance felt suddenly sick to his stomach and took several deep breaths trying to calm down. Without being aware that he was doing it, Lance toyed with the chain around his neck and the ring that hung from it. Lance wished he could tell the driver to take him back to the hotel, but he knew that wasn't an option. This was something he needed to face. "We're here, Mr. Bass," the intercom crackled. Lance looked outside the window and waited for the door to open. The crowd was bigger than he'd expected it to be -- several hundred people at least, and there were television cameras too, and the usual throng of paparazzi. Lance buttoned the top button of his jacket, and ran his hand through his hair, and then stepped out of the limousine, waving to the crowd as the door swung open before him. The crowd recognized Lance immediately and began to scream his name. "Lance! Lance! Lance!" This was the part of stardom that Lance had never become accustomed to, and had never been able to accept without feeling that it was both comical and sad that people would get so excited at the mere sight of him. It was not just that he felt undeserving; it was also that he feared that he might somehow come to expect it, this adulation, or need it. But this fear was irrelevant now, because Lance knew he had a job to do, and he intended to do it. Lance paused just outside the limousine for several minutes, and dutifully turned in the direction of each shout of "Lance, over here" so that the paparazzi covering the premiere could get the requisite picture of his arrival. Lance then started to work the rope line, shaking hands, signing autographs, accepting the occasional hug or kiss, and speaking to print reporters who worked for publications too small to get a press pass. Lance paid no attention to what people said to him as he worked the line. Having done this so many times before, Lance knew it was about letting the fans see him, in real life, even though there was nothing real at all about what he was doing as he nodded and smiled and shook hands and made eye contact with people he'd never seen before and would probably never see again. Lance remembered how JC had always scolded him when he complained about meeting fans, always saying Lance, it makes them happy, and Lance always saying, Well, yeah, but it shouldn't. Lance felt someone squeezing his outstretched hand more tightly than usual, and he looked up to see a young man with pale blue eyes and short blond hair. The young man was probably no older than eighteen, and he was thrusting a an obviously-read copy of The Ghost Road at him. "Could you sign this to Jared and Thomas," the young man said, his eyes full of pleading and surprise. Lance took the book from the young man's hand, and nodded and smiled "Can you sign it to Jared and Thomas," the young man said again, trying to make sure that Lance had heard him above the noise of the crowd. "Sure," Lance yelled back, beginning to sign. "Thomas is my boyfriend," the young man said, leaning forward toward Lance, and trying to speak more softly. "You and JC are totally our heroes." Lance finished signing the inside cover of the book, closed it, and handed it back to the young man without saying anything more, and then he moved on. The young man watched Lance walk away, shaking hands as he went, and his smile barely clinging to his face. The young man then looked down at his book and opened it. Inside Lance had written: To Jared and Thomas, BE EACH OTHER'S HERO. Best Wishes, Lance Bass. * * * * * After ten more minutes of working the rope line, Lance finally arrived at the spot in front of the theater's main entrance where the television cameras had set up for interviews. Lance stepped into the circle of light that indicated where he was to stand, smiled, and waited for the questions to begin. "Lance, how does it feel to have your name above the title for the first time? Kind of exciting, huh?" "It's very exciting. And it's a real honor, especially since this is such a special and important film." "How did you like working with Ridley Scott?" "It was very exciting, and an honor. He really is a genius, you know, so it was great. I'd love to work with him again." "Did you ever think you'd someday make a movie about World War I?" "Well, I'll tell you, it's not just about World War I. I mean, sure, it's set there. But it's really a movie about courage, and about love." "So, Lance, were you surprised when the producer asked JC Chasez to write and perform the film's theme song -- or was that your suggestion?" Lance remained silent for what seemed like ten minutes, even if it was in reality a barely discernible pause. "Well, uh," Lance said. "As y'all know I'm one of JC's biggest fans." Lance laughed, trying to collect his thoughts. "No secret there, I guess, Lance continued, laughing again. "And, well, uh, . . . he really is a genius, and I've always really loved him . . . uh, loved his work, so... really, what can I say? I mean it's great. I can't wait to hear the song." Before anyone could ask another question, Lance stepped out of the camera-light and walked quickly -- blindly -- toward the theater's front door. Had the doorman not been watching from the other side, Lance would have crashed right into the door, but the doorman managed to open it just in time. Searching the crowd, Lance pushed past several people trying to get his attention. But Lance wanted only to find Joey, and to get a drink -- a big one. Standing next to one of the several hospitality stations set up in the lobby, just as he'd promised, Lance walked up to Joey and threw an arm over his shoulder. "There you be," Lance said, releasing a long sigh. "What's up with you," Joey asked, seeming both perturbed and concerned, which was mostly how Joey always sounded. "You look like you saw a fucking ghost." Lance paused for a moment and took a deep breath. "Nah, I'm fine. I just . . . anyway, I'm fine. So let's you and me see if we can get ourselves another drink." * * * * * Lance was sitting in the last of the five stalls that lined one side of the men's room, sitting on the edge of the toilet and leaning forward so that his forehead pressed against the closed stall door. He had come in here to escape, not to go to the bathroom. Lance had never intended to watch the film. On those few occasions when JC had cajoled him into seeing one of his own films, Lance had either kept his eyes close, or watched JC watching the film. Looking at his watch, Lance stood up and opened the stall door. The movie would be over soon and he needed to resume his position in the lobby. Lance exited the bathroom, and headed straight for one of the three large round tables covered with glasses of champagne. The tuxedoed attendant standing next to the table looked surprised to see him, but said nothing as Lance drained the champagne from one glass in a single, long gulp. Lance handed the empty glass to the attendant and then picked up a second glass. "It's almost over, right?" Lance asked, staring at the still closed theater doors. "Yes, sir," the attendant said, speaking softly like he was sharing a secret. "Only five minutes left." Lance felt cold, and his hands trembled. He took another sip of champagne and moved his feet farther apart, almost as if he expected the earth to shake and he wanted to make sure he had firm footing. Licking his lips nervously, Lance continued to stare at the still-closed doors. It won't be long now, he thought, moving his feet again, and taking another deep breath. Lance was startled when the doors opened, and he nearly tumbled backwards into the champagne table. The film was still playing and its soundtrack flooded the lobby with the sound of gunfire and then the sharp crack of a rifle shot. Lance recognized the shot because the sound of it was indelibly etched into his memory; it was the shot in the film that caused his character's head to snap back, and his body to slowly tumble forward into the broken, muddy earth -- a scene that Lance had repeated at least twenty times while Ridley filmed it from every possible angle, leaving Lance so bruised and sore and covered in mud that he could barely move for days after. It had been the last scene filmed, the scene where he died, the scene that in the book was so vivid and real that Lance could never forget it, and could clearly remember it even now, the last scene where "Prior was about to start across the water with ammunition when he was himself hit, though it didn't feel like a bullet, more like a blow from something big and hard, a truncheon or a cricket bat, only it knocked him off his feet and he fell, one arm trailing over the edge of the canal. He tried to turn to crawl back beyond the drainage ditches, knowing it was only a matter of time before he was hit again, but the gas was thick here and he couldn't reach his mask . . . . There was no pain, more of a spreading numbness that left his brain clear. He saw Kirk die. He saw Owen die, his body lifted off the ground by bullets, describing a slow arc in the air as it fell. It seemed to take forever to fall, and Prior's consciousness fluttered down with it. He gazed at his reflection in the water, which broke and reformed and broke again as bullets hit the surface and then, gradually, as the numbness spread, he ceased to see it." And it was as if the numbness Prior had felt while dying, and that Lance had felt while dying as Prior, was spreading in Lance again, like the thick and acrid gas he had breathed in on that long day of filming, and that he carried with him still, like something he'd forgotten to exhale. Lance stared at the open doors and wondered why no one had yet exited the auditorium. He turned and looked quizzically at the champagne attendant and at that moment heard the far-off sound of a bell beginning to ring, and then a piano playing stark and simple notes that at first sounded far away, like the bell, but then drew near, as if the notes were approaching slowly across some vast and empty field. Then out of nowhere -- it seemed -- there was a cello, and the long, slicing note it played made Lance shiver, like suddenly someone had run electricity through him, and then the singing started, passionate and pure, and Lance realized too late that this was JC's voice, and he was frozen by it, unable to flee, and forced to listen: If you were here now You'd see me standing Fists full of dirt Cursing the earth A face full of tears A heart full of fears Crying and trying to find the words just to say good bye. But there are no words There are no words All the poems ever written Every song ever sung Every book ever read Every bell ever rung All the words ever spoken Every story ever told There are no word that can describe What I lost when I lost you Hear me, hear me Listen to me now There are no words that can describe What I lost when I lost you. Now I haunt this battlefield So filled with broken dreams And I search the endless earth Undone by wicked schemes I walk the wind-whipped shore Where nothing seems the same The world has changed forever Nothing is the same. So, hear me, hear me Listen to me now There are no words that can describe What I lost when I lost you This battle that you won It left my life undone There are no words that can describe What I lost when I lost you. All the poems ever written Every song ever sung Every book ever read Every bell ever rung All the words ever spoken Every story ever told There are no words that can describe What I lost when I lost you. There are no words that can describe What I lost when I lost you. The last words faded softly away, engulfed by what sounded like wind and rain -- a coming storm, perhaps -- and then ending in silence. Lance continued to look at the doors and someone finally emerged -- an elderly man, hunched over and crying, his jacket dragging behind him on the floor like someone he'd just saved from drowning. And then others slowly emerged from the darkness of the auditorium, like animals crawling from out of a cave, and everyone walked slowly, as if everyone was lost and could no longer remember where they were, or where they were going, or why they were there. And no one said anything at all. It was as if the silence that ended the song had robbed everyone of the ability -- or the desire -- to speak. Lance decided that he should just slip away. He had no idea whether these people thought the movie was good or bad, and now he didn't care. Setting down his glass, Lance turned toward the door, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. Lance turned around and saw it was Joey, and he had obvious tears in his eyes, and his mouth was agape, but no words came out. Lance could think only to say his name. "Joey," he said. Joey blinked, as if in surprise, as if he had forgotten his name, and it was only Lance having said it that had reminded him of who in fact he was. "Joey," Lance said again, pulling Joey into his arms, and letting Joey bury his face against Lance's shoulder and cry.