Date: Fri, 1 Dec 2000 22:34:43 -0800
From: whippedcream@audiohighway.net
Subject: Never Been Kissed

Disclaimer: This is fiction. I don't know the Backstreet Boys, they don't
know me (their loss). I don't know a thing about their sex lives, and I
don't really care, unless that story in the National Enquirer is true, in
which case I know too much.

Standard Blah: Hi, this is my first *real* attempt at slash, and it's
pretty tame, but hey, I'm a girl, its not like I'm writing from
experience. :)

Anyway, it's short, it's bittersweet and it's random. Like me.
Oh, and I'm a feedback whore. Hit me, baby.

JJ
whippedcream@audiohighway.net


Never Been Kissed

I can just hear the argument now.

"What do you mean you lost him?" That would be Brian, his face all red, his
mouth set in an angry line. AJ would probably be just as pissed, though
some of that would probably be directed toward me. Kevin would be calm,
trying to work out a solution with the rest of the security staff, saving
the anger for when he has me alone in the hotel room. And Howie would be
frantic, the only one that would see past the present and realize that me
alone in Southeast Washington, DC isn't good for anyone. Just think of the
trouble I could get into.  Especially after the events of the day.

I'd be thinking about it, if the pain weren't distracting me. I wince, and
look down.  There's a big red patch on my shirt, and it's starting to
attract curious glances from people. But it has its advantage; as long as
they're looking at my shirt, they aren't paying attention to my face.  I
can only imagine the chaos that would break out then. A lone Backstreet
Boy, completely lost in the most dangerous part of the murder capital of
the world, blood on his shirt, limping, and the sun rapidly setting. My
mind breaks through the pain finally to register the encroaching panic.

I want my Mommy.

Breathe Nick, I try to calm myself. Freaking out isn't going to fix
anything. But it sure as hell beats leaning against the grimy brick of
another rundown building with shot out windows, trying to catch my breath
and ignore the lancing pain that shoots through my side at each attempt.
Maybe I should just pass out now.

***

It's dark. Why is it so dark? I open my eyes, and then wish I had kept them
closed. Now it's too damn bright.

"Hey, are you okay?" I open one eye again, this time a little more
carefully, to see a man leaning over me. Well, he's a man in much the same
way that I am, I guess.  He's probably not much older than AJ.

"Uh, yeah," I squeeze out, and then try to sit up. Ooooh, bad idea, I can
feel something give in my side and suddenly all I see are stars.  "Fuck!"

"Easy there," he says, "I wouldn't try that, if I were you." Thank you,
Captain Obvious. I glare at him through my one open eye and he returns my
look with a grin.

"Thanks," I mutter, lying back down and closing my eyes again. I can feel
his cool skin as he brushes my hair out of my forehead then rests his palm
there briefly.

"You're a little warm," he murmurs, "but I don't think you have a fever."
"What happened?"

"I should ask you that. I found you out cold in an alley off 4th
Street. Not a smart move." Does he have a mental ailment that makes him
continually point out the obvious? Even I'm not that clueless.

"Trust me, it wasn't intentional." I feel him move around me and lift my
head slightly, tucking a soft object just behind my neck. "Thanks again."

"So how'd you get out here? Oh, I'm Jake, by the way." I open my eyes to
check him out again. Dark hair, dark eyes, nondescript. The kind of guy
you'd pass on the street and not look at twice. Not like me, I think
bitterly.

"Nick. I got lost, I think." I try to remember what happened
today. We... "Where am I?"

"I kinda half-dragged you, half-carried you into my apartment. You passed
out at my backdoor." Now that my head's stopped spinning, I risk a glance
around the room. It's not exactly a penthouse at the Ritz, but not everyone
gets to live like me.

"A tour," I mutter.  He raises his eyebrows. It suddenly dawns on me that
I'm shirtless. Like, I'm not wearing a shirt. Which is a minor miracle. I'm
always wearing a shirt.  "Where's my shirt?" Jake blushes.

"I, uh, had to cut it off, so I could fix the nasty hole in your side." I
look down and almost pass out again. There's a big mess of bandages
covering my side, and just thinking about it makes it throb.

"Oh, God," I whisper. Immediately, I feel Jake's hand just below my
ribcage, its warmth radiating across my skin. Reassuring.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "It's not as bad as you think. Just a cut, and it
stopped bleeding. I've cleaned it out, so it won't get infected."

"Once again, thanks."

"Do you want to try sitting up now?" he asks. I nod, and very gingerly,
with one arm around me and the other supporting my waist carefully, we
manage to get me slightly more vertical. The room slips a little, but then
the v-hold steadies again.

"So, uh, what do you do?" I ask. I'm only half listening to him, though, my
mind is on more pressing matters, like how the hell am I going to get to
the others?  "I'm a med student at GW," he explains. "I work at Amnesty
International. I live here because it's dirt cheap." It had damn well
better be.

"That explains this," I say, pointing to my side. He nods.

"So, Nick, how do we get you home?" I look into his face, into his
eyes. Like really look, not the casual glance I'd come to perfect over the
years, the one that has the teenyboppers fainting because Nick Carter
looked in their direction.  And he's not as nondescript as I had first
thought. That stirs something vaguely unsettling in me; when did I become
so blasé about people?  He's actually not that bad looking, the kind of
guy I think my sisters would find attractive. The dark hair is somewhere
between long and short, cut in that style that screams budget, but somehow
it suits him.  And the dark eyes are actually very dark, and right now,
they're looking at me with some mix of concern, worry and confusion.

"Uh," I manage to get out, realizing he just asked me a question, "call the
hotel, I guess." I wince as I think about the reception I'm going to get,
which starts my thoughts down an unwelcome path. Another night, another
hotel room, and in the morning, off to another city, with me "grounded," of
course. Like any of this was my fault.

"Okay," he says, reaching for the phone. "What hotel?" I look at him, as a
thought suddenly strikes me. He doesn't know who I am.  Right now, I'm just
Nick. But if calls that hotel, I'm in deep shit.

"Listen," I hear myself saying. "Um, I don't think my, uh, friends will
have checked in yet." My mind is frantically searching for a suitable
explanation. But Jake just looks at me and nods.

"You don't have to go back if you don't want, Nick," he says softly, and I
like the way he says my name, like I'm just another guy. Not screaming it
in my ear, or threatening me, or yelling at me again for messing up.

"Thanks," I say, gratefully.

"But if you thank me one more time, you're sleeping on the street," he
threatens, but there's a twinkle in his eye.  A sudden image of Brian
flashes before my eyes, and I realize how much Jake reminds me of my best
friend.

"Okay," I say with false meekness, then pause for measure, "thanks." He
just grins and shakes his head.

"Would you like something to eat?" he asks, suddenly, a frown creasing his
forehead.

"Yeah," I confess, "I can't remember the last time I ate."

"Okay, I don't have much, but I have a feeling you shouldn't have too much
either."

"You're the doctor."

"Not yet." But he's grinning again, one of those smiles that just lights up
his face. I can't help but smile back.  He gets up and moves toward the
kitchenette, pulling open a few cabinets and removing some cans and setting
about preparing something. My guess would be soup. Everyone has soup in
their house. You can't mess it up. Well, I could mess it up, but like I
said, not everyone is like me.

"So, Nick, are you in school?" he asks, his back to me, as he stirs the
soup. I'm glad he's not looking at me, because I'm pretty sure my thoughts
are evident on my face.

"Um, I'm a singer," I say quietly. I would make something up, but I hate
lying. Besides, I'm supposed to be proud of what I do, right?

"Really?" and this time he turns to look at me. I sigh. I hate this.

"Yeah." I'm not saying any more unless he asks.

"Are you famous?" He's studying me now, the soup forgotten, and I fight the
urge to cover myself. I feel naked. Well, I am. Half-naked anyway.

"Yeah," I answer reluctantly.  Now he's gonna ask about my music, or what
band I'm in, or if he should know me.

"So what were you doing in a dingy alley in the shady part of town at
sunset?" he asks, and I'm a little taken aback by the question.

"Uhh." I start. "I got lost." He raises an eyebrow.

"Lost? Where were you supposed to be?"

 "We were at the Capitol Building." He pauses.

"You were at the Capitol Building." Didn't I just say that?

"Yes."

"Today?"

"Yeah."

"Shit."

"Well said." He turns the knob on the stove and comes back to the bed,
sitting on the edge of it.

"What was it like?" he asks, a mild curiosity in his face. I shrug.

"Having confronted mobs before, I'm kind of used to it, though having a
crazy man fire three shots above my head is a new experience."

"Shit," he says again. Yeah. Then something I said must have registered.

"You're used to mobs of people?" he asks. Damn it.

"Um, yeah. A hazard of the business."

"How famous are you?"

"Very." I think he catches on because he doesn't press it.

"So let me guess, you got separated from your... friends? And your
bodyguard?" I only nod. He falls silent.

"They must be frantic," he says, finally. I nod again.

"And angry." He looks at me, startled.

"At you?"

"Yeah."

"Why? It's not exactly your fault."

"I know that. You know that. And deep down, they know that. But getting
angry at 'little Nicky' beats feeling guilty. I mess up enough anyway, at
some point the anger will be justified." He doesn't respond for a moment.

"That sucks." Well, not only is he master of the obvious, but he has a way
with words too. I decide I like him.

"How about that soup?" I ask, if only to change the subject. He smiles
ruefully.

"Oh, right. Sorry." He stands up and moves back toward the stove, pouring
the soup in a bowl and bringing it back to me. After a glance at the side
table, and then me, he sits back down on the bed, this time closer to me,
his knee poking slightly into my thigh.  I reach up to take the bowl, and
only then do I notice my hands shaking. Not trembling. Shaking. Jake
notices too, because he frowns and retains his hold on the bowl.

"I think," he says, his voice carefully neutral, "that I should feed you."
I would have choked, if there had been something to choke on.

"Uhhh..." He looks at me, his expression masked.

"You're going to spill it all over yourself. And that won't be good for
your bandages." He's right, and I know that in some part of my mind, but
the rest of me is concerned with the weirdness of the situation. Aw, hell,
this day has gone badly enough, it can only get better, right?

"Okay," I surrender and open up. He smiles lightly, and places the spoon in
my mouth. Mmmm, tomato. He feeds me, spoonful by spoonful, like my mom used
to do when I was sick. Hell, like the guys used to do when I was sick. I
miss being a kid.

But there's a new element this time. However I say this, it's going to come
out completely wrong, but I'm going to say it anyway. It's kind
of... sensual. I don't know what it is, maybe the intense way Jake is
staring at my mouth. Most likely it's to make sure he doesn't miss it, but
this is my mouth we're talking about. Whole fantasies have been constructed
around it.

"This is really good," I say, hoping to create some sort of dialogue
between us, trying to ignore the disturbing thoughts in my head. Jake
smiles.

"I'll let the Progresso people know." We're on the last spoonful now and I
feel a vague sense of disappointment. Stop it, Nick, I tell myself.

"All better?" he asks me softly. I wonder, if I say no, will he kiss me and
make it better? Whoa. Where the HELL did that come from?

"Yeah," I say, just as softly. Something is happening here, and once again,
I'm too clueless to figure it out. It's not attraction; I'm not attracted
to guys.  He places the bowl on the side table next to the clock radio and
looks at me carefully.

"Are you feeling faint or dizzy or anything?"

"Kinda," I answer, without thinking. He's got concern etched all over his
face now and he reaches over and lightly brushes the bandage.  "Not cuz of
that." Once again, I curse my talent for speaking before thinking. His hand
stills, and then slowly, slowly, his fingers travel across the gauze of
white and onto my bare skin. I can't help the sudden intake of air as his
skin comes in contact with mine. Especially across my stomach, easily the
most sensitive part of my body. He looks up again, and our eyes meet and I
wish I had the life experience to be able to read the silent message in his
eyes.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, and I guess he can't read my eyes either.

"I don't know," I say honestly. His hand has stilled again, just barely
resting on my abdomen. I wouldn't even feel it, except that all my
attention is focused on it. And then his hand starts to move again, this
time skimming up my body.  Lightly, the pads of his fingers play across my
ribcage, stopping briefly at my collarbone before I feel the backs of his
knuckles caress my neck. And then his hand is on my jaw, and suddenly, I
can't see anything but his dark eyes.

"I've never done this before," he whispers, before he leans his head
forward and gently touches his lips to mine. It's the faintest of caresses,
but I can feel it all the way down to my toes.

"Me either," I reply when he pulls away half a second later. He looks a
little startled, like maybe he thought I was experienced at this sort of
thing. That makes me laugh. I barely know what to do with a girl, let alone
another guy.

He smiles, and leans in to kiss me again, his eyelids fluttering
close. This time firmer, a hint of passion that threatens to spill out. I
barely even register my hand reaching up, my thumb running over his earlobe
as my fingers tangle in his dark hair. I'm surprised at its softness, like
he washes with baby shampoo.  I find that strangely appealing.

The hand on my jaw moves back down my body again, his open palm pressing
into my skin, a desperate ferocity that sets my nerve endings on fire.

His mouth is on fire, too, moving over mine insistently, and I have no
choice but to open mine under the onslaught. And then everything I thought
I was feeling pales before this new sensation as his tongue dances around
mine, teasing and tasting, causing something I'd never felt before to stir
deep within me.

I lean forward a little more, trying to move closer to him. I feel him
shift and suddenly he breaks the kiss, his open mouth leaving my lips to
drift down my jaw and onto my neck, moving to everyone's favorite spot,
just below my ear. I can't help but moan and the hand that's settled on my
rib cage presses deeper into my skin.

And then the sudden blaring of the TV snaps both of us out of our trances
and we spring apart, looking for all the world like we'd just done
something wrong. Jake smiles ruefully at me.

"Uh, wow," he says. Like I said, a way with words.

"Yeah," I respond. I look down to see my hand resting on the remote control
and smile sheepishly. "Oops."

I laugh and run my hand through my hair, aware of his watchful gaze. I
think maybe he wants to touch me again, but then again, I'm not one for
reading people. I want to touch him again. Of its own volition, my hands
reaches out, but the voice on the television makes me stop, my blood
running cold.

"And in wake of today's incident at the Capitol Building, Metro Police
state that Backstreet Boy Nick Carter is still missing. If anyone has any
details as to his whereabouts, you are urged to call-" The announcer goes
quiet suddenly as I hit the mute button.

"Shit!" I watch in horror as my face fills the screen. I can't look at
Jake.

"That's you," he says, his voice devoid of any emotion. I sneak a
peek. He's staring at the screen like it had just sprouted legs and done an
Irish jig.

"Yeah," I say. There's no point in evading it now.

"I just kissed the guy my little sister fantasizes about every night," He
turns to look at me, incredulously.

"No, that's Backstreet Nick," I reply. "This is just me. Just Nick." He's
still staring at me.

"You are plastered all over her walls. I can't believe I didn't recognize
you!"

"I cut my hair," I offer, inanely. He's either about to go into major
teenybopper mode or kick me out, I'm not sure. Either way, I'm getting a
little scared.

"You have to call them," he says, switching gears suddenly and pointing at
the screen. I sigh. I hate my life.

"I know," I reply softly as he hands me the phone. I dial information and
get the number of the hotel, all the time looking at Jake and wondering
what he's thinking.

"Hi," I say, cutting off the receptionist's spiel, "can I talk to Michelle
Andrews?"

"That's not important, but this call is."

"Well, let's just say if she finds out I called and you wouldn't put me
through, you might want to look into another career. Preferably one
involving a deserted island somewhere in the Pacific." Jake's watching me
again, fascination and something else on his face.

"Michelle? It's Nick." I wait for her to take a breath.

"I'm okay, a little hurt, but nothing serious."

"I'm at-" I look at Jake.

"301B 4th Street, SE," he replies. I repeat the address to Michelle. She
tells me to sit tight (would I be going somewhere?) and that they'd come
get me soon. I thank her and hang up, then stare at my hands.

"Are they on their way?" Jake asks softly. I nod and blink suddenly. I
think there's something in my eye.

"Um, about what happened," I say, but stop. I don't know how to address
this.

"It was nothing," Jake says. I look up suddenly. Nothing? It didn't feel
like that to me. He smiles gently. "You were lost and scared and I helped
you out. You're grateful and I liked feeling needed."

"Oh," I reply. I don't know how to respond.

"But it was nice?" he offers. I feel the smile tugging at my lips. There's
a knock at the door. Damn, that was hella fast. Jake gets up to answer the
door, then pauses and looks at me. He heads to his closet and rummages
around, then pulls out a t-shirt and walks over to me.

"Lift your arms," he says as the knock sounds again. I obey, and with a
little bit of trouble, we manage to get the shirt on me. He stands again
and goes to answer the door.

"Frack!" Brian brushes past Jake and runs over to me, dropping onto the bed
and enveloping me in a tight hug. I see Jake over Brian's shoulder turn
away, and I want to tell him it's not what he thinks it is. Brian and I are
brothers. But these are things I can't say out loud.

He squeezes tighter, brushing my bandaged wound and I cry out in pain. He
pulls away quickly, his eyes large with concern.

"Are you okay?" He looks down and frowns, then gently reaches for the hem
of my shirt, lifting it. He gasps at the sight.

"It's not as bad as it looks," I offer.

"We should get you to hospital." I look up and finally notice the police
officer that accompanied Brian.

"I'm fine," I say. "Jake's a med student." Brian and the officer turn, both
of them slightly startled to see someone else in the room. Brian stands and
walks to him, smiling.

"Thanks, man," he says, sincerely. "We've all been so worried." Jake just
looks at Brian, then me, and smiles. And once again, I want to shake my
head and dispel his thoughts, but I can't.

"He rescued me," I say instead, hoping no one notices the slight catch in
my voice. Frick does, of course, and he frowns slightly. But he doesn't say
anything.

"Let's get you back," he says. He and the officer approach the bed, and
help me rise to my feet. I'm a little unsteady but I concentrate on putting
one foot in front of the other. They lead me to the door and the officer
passes through, leaving me leaning on Brian. I pause and turn slightly to
look at Jake.

"Thanks," I say, sincerely and Brian nods. Jake smiles again, lighting up
his eyes.

"Take care of him," he says to Brian, and then gently closes the door
behind us.