Story Notes:

 stories/1513/images/sametimenextweek.jpg

WARNINGS: This story is NC-17, RPF, Drama, Romance. It is EXPLICIT and erotic in some chapters. Please cover your eyes and read through your fingers if you blush easily. 

Written for NaNoWriMo 2009

 

Author's Chapter Notes:
 In which we meet our main characters - JC and Shelby.

 

 

 JC

 

The clouds outside the small, oblong window looked like a blanket of cotton at 37,000 feet in the air. A never-ending fluffy white blanket covering the land below them. It was an illusion, one that always entranced him, whenever he flew. He felt like if he just opened the door, he could step out, onto that blanket of clouds, and go running over the tops of them into the distance.

Away. He could run away. 

But the logical side of him, the science nerd in him, knew that fluffy clouds were just a trick of the eye, water droplets gathering in the atmosphere and even if he managed to get the door of the jet open, he would fall to his death trying to run away on the tops of fluffy white clouds.

That didn't stop him from wanting to.

JC turned in his seat, his eyes roving the cabin of the plush, indulgent private jet. He felt a little out of place, though back in the day a private jet was the norm. He remembered those days, mostly fondly, when ‘Nsync was too famous to fly commercial. They'd never be able to get on the plane, and if they could, they'd be bothered nonstop and never be able to rest, which was all a plane ride was good for. Sleep. A private jet gave them room and luxury and a chance to rest, so while he felt a little out of place on this jet, he understood the need for it. He also understood the need for the full bar, and the flight attendant in the shortest, tightest, form hugging-est, slinkiest uniform ever, and the leather seats, and the flat screen televisions. He nodded his head, looking around. It was nice, back then.

But then, as they say, they grew up. The days of 5-part harmony and choreographed dance moves in coordinating clothing and bubble gum pop-though they'd tried hard not to be bubble gum-ran out like sands through an hourglass. Tick tock. One day he was part of a multiplatinum, Grammy nominated, award winning male pop vocal group. The next day he was on his own, staring at the wasteland that is the music industry, trying to figure out how he fit in. Nine years, two solo albums, many, many collaborations and projects later, he found his groove in music writing and production, where he could still be in the industry and still make music but he didn't have to be out in front, pulled from every direction, tempted with all the pretty, pretty sin. He found an excuse to be home, to stay holed up in the studio, or the writing room-it was his job, now. He was pretty good at it, sought after by labels and artists, and as the years rolled by he became more and more popular and in higher and higher demand. A musical force to be reckoned with, if he had to say so, himself.

Writing music wasn't hard. Producing albums wasn't hard. Making stars out of hormone-ridden teenagers and writing hit after hit after hit for established artists wasn't hard. He was kind of a natural, without being boastful, and it wasn't much of a challenge. He longed for something that stretched him, that made him grow, that made him wake up every day and hit the ground running and fall into bed every night, muscles screaming, wondering if he had one more day in him. He missed that feeling.   

Things in LA were bad. The music industry is a dirty, filthy business. He liked to think it was composed of loan sharks, the mob, and used car salesmen. Since it mostly centered in LA, and its stars and starlets, singers and musicians, wannabes and hangers on lived there, LA had become a dirty, filthy place by association. He often found himself in the middle of a debaucherous episode of LA life-drunk people diving out of windows, high people weaving to and fro, women scantily clad, strung out, and desperate for someone to take care of them and fund some habit or another-wondering when the hell these people were going to grow up. Then he realized that they weren't. They were his age and older, and either you were like him-walked the straight and narrow most of the time, with a few veers off the beaten path for fun-or you were like them

Sometimes JC wondered why he stayed. Why he toiled day and night in a job that wasn't much of a challenge for him, that didn't make him really think or really push him, musically. Why didn't he just go home, to Orlando? Retire and spend his days ordering Mai Tai's from a cute waitress wearing very little clothing, staring into the sun, allowing his mind to compose songs but not letting his hands write them down. Why did he stay in LA, where the air was thick with smog and the streets were littered with garbage and the homeless multiplied by the day, and the sticky-sweet slick layer of sleaze oozed all over the entertainment industry?

Kim was why.

He thought he'd found solace and peace and reason for living, a reason to not hang his hat and say ‘fuck it all' in her. Statuesque, glowing tan, an ever-present bright smile of full lips and white teeth, a body that fueled his day dreams and his night dreams and his in-between dreams. She was amazing, from day one. Funny and smart and sweet, down to earth, not damaged by The Business, jaded by fame. Kim modeled and tried her hand at being an actress. She wasn't very good at all, but then again neither was he. He couldn't really hold that against her. Besides, she was cute when she was trying.

He took his time, with her. Got to know her.  Opened up to her. Fell in love with her. He'd had the ring in his pocket, that day. The small velvet box stayed hidden away in that pocket for days and weeks and months after. After he found the letter from her.

She felt they'd grown apart. Had different goals in life. She'd found someone else. One of them, ironically. She wished him the best. She loved him, but wasn'tin love with him. What did that even mean? He remembered his bitter laughter, reading her letter to him while the small, square box burned a hole in this thigh. Grown apart? Not in love? He was about to ask her to marry him.

Life was never the same, after. And he felt like if he couldn't beat them, he should join them. It was only a matter of time before he was waking up in strange places, unable to remember what he was doing there and how he got there. And where his clothes were. It scared him, at first, but there was pain to numb, so it happened again and again and again. Weeks and months were wasted, pissed away in a drunken stupor. Deadlines missed. Reputation tarnished. He was becoming a statistic, one of them, and it was quickly getting out of hand.

A phone call-and the reason he was on this jet-had saved his life.

"Can I get you anything, JC?"

The soft, syrupy voice of the flight attendant, if you could call her that, interrupted his thoughts. He smiled up at her, into a face so worn by the sun that it resembled the leather of one of his jackets. She'd done her best to enhance it with makeup, but the damage was done. Looking into her eyes, he saw something that resonated in him, deep down to his soul. He tried not to, but he felt sorry for her.

Pain, maybe. Desperation. Shame that her job was to wear as little as possible and serve food and drinks for pop sensation Rod Phillips and his band. It was an okay gig, a little better than serving wings at Hooters, but not by much, especially when Rod got drunk and slapped her ass, demanding shot after shot of vodka. Sometimes he was barely able to walk by the time they got off of a flight. Her job was to serve drinks and look pretty, though. So, she just did her job.

"No thanks, honey," he said, tipping his still full water bottle at her. His staple, lately. He needed to be alert, because this experience was already a challenge. "Appreciate it, though."   Her smile was thin and barely painted on as she slipped past him to the seat in front of him, bending at the knee to whisper in the ear of the guitarist, Duke, who was already too drunk to be having more alcohol, but ordered another drink anyway.

He was tense. A little nervous. The water wasn't helping. He reconsidered a drink but thought better of it, and reached under his seat for his bag. The same worn, brown leather bag he'd been dragging around for years. It was sort of a security blanket, the one thing that held everything he needed-his tunes and his work. He pulled out both, shoving ear buds into his ears and cranking up the music. Anxiety began to subside, the longer he listened. Music was his healer. Always had been.

The laptop balanced on his knees, he opened the music composition program and scrolled the familiar menu, navigating by memory to a collection of songs he was piecing together. Trying to, at least. It was the challenge he sought, and longed for, and hoped for and honestly, needed. But he was terrified out of his mind of screwing it up.

This flight, the private jet full of rowdy musicians and one sullen, quiet Music Director, was on its way to Orlando, from LA. That was the biggest stipulation-for the time being home was Orlando again, since Rod was based there and hated LA with a passion. Ironic, since he partied like he lived in LA. Rock and roll was everywhere, no matter where you lived.

It felt like he was coming full circle, since Orlando was where he started. Working for Disney, and later becoming part of ‘Nsync, until Orlando just moved too slowly for him and he packed up and tried his hand at living in LA, again. Surely the experience wouldn't be like it was the first time, when he was 18 and was trying to make a name for himself, and had to come home, tail between his legs. LA was much better the second time around. Coming home to Orlando gave him a sense of comfort, a familiarity. His family was there, his friends were there, and he knew the city like the back of his hand. That would come in handy, because everything else would be a brand new game.

The past six weeks had felt like a year, so much had happened. So much had changed. It didn't seem like it was only six weeks ago that he was trying to remember how he ended up in a bed next to a woman he didn't know, in a house overlooking a golf course, staring at the phone as it rang.

"Roooddd," he slurred into the phone, trying to jog his mind. What happened? There was a party... and there were shots... and... something. He elbowed the snoring, naked form next to him. "Hey. Hey, chick. Where are we?"

"Covina," she mumbled, and rolled over, an arm flopping over the side of the mattress, a long snore rolling from her body.

"That doesn't tell me anything. Hey." He grabbed her by the shoulder, and shook her hard, but she had passed out, again.

"JC? JC." The voice sounded so far away...oh. He lifted the phone to his ear and the voice joined the sound of the jackhammer in his head.

"What?" he croaked into the mouthpiece, rolling out of the bed and stumbling around the room. There were clothes tossed everywhere, spilling out of the closet, across the bed, piled in a chair, but none were his.  "What's up, Rod? Whatcha need, I'll take care of it. That's what I do. Take care of people. What's up?"

"Man, where are you?" Rod was laughing. JC never liked that sound.

"I don't know. Covina, I guess. I need to get home. I need my clothes!" He inched the bedroom door open and peeked down the hall, relieved to find it empty. And to find a familiar pair of navy blue boxer briefs lying in front of the door. He snatched them up and pulled them on, then stepped into the hallway, in search of jeans and a t-shirt and a jacket. It was like a little treasure hunt. Except it wasn't fun. "Where are you, man? LA? What time is it?"

"3 here. So, noon there? Listen, can you take a meeting tomorrow? I'm on my way out there tonight. Got a job for you."

"Uhm...." His brain was mush. He didn't know where he was, let alone if he could be somewhere the next day. "I don't know. I don't... I gotta find... my clothes. And my keys. And a shower."

Rod was laughing, a wild, high pitched cackle that grated on every single nerve down his back. "You sound fucked up, man!"

"Yeah," he said. "I agree." And hung up.

Six weeks later, he was on the way back to Orlando. The LA house was empty, pretty much.  For the next year at least, Orlando would be home.

Rod Phillips was one of those child prodigies. Smart as a whip, multi-talented, as handsome as a model, even at eight years old. He started out as an actor, as the cute kid that every ensemble cast needed. By the time he hit puberty he was a bona fide star, and once the network realized he could sing, dance, play piano and guitar, they had him in their clutches. They'd turn him into another Hilary Duff, or Jonas Brothers, Ashley Tisdale, another Disney-turned- Pop star. Rod had other plans.

To everyone's surprise, he refused to renew his studio contract once he turned 18. Rumors flew about his intentions, and the vultures descended. Rod-and his lawyers and his mother-masterminded a landmark record deal. Not long after, he began releasing hit after chart topping hit. His much anticipated solo album blew everyone out of the water in its first week. His biggest hit, Evil Side of Me, written and produced by JC Chasez, cemented him in the Top 40, listed  him among entertainers that people most wanted to work with,  added him to the growing pile of men that women most wanted to sleep with.

As he aged, he grew taller and leaner, his dark hair and brooding eyes, and nonchalant stance on everything from war and peace to which way the toilet paper should hang -"Hey, I don't care, as long as it rolls, you know?" were among his best features. Rod developed a penchant for alcohol and leggy models, good food and good times. Really good times.

Deep down, though, Rod was afraid. At least that was JC's take on it, from their infrequent late night talks. Everything he had, everything that had been given to him was a gift. Subconsciously, he was trying to enjoy it while it lasted, but the thought that nagged him at night, kept him up most nights, was how fleeting fame was, and how easily it could be taken away. He could wake up on International Drive one day, penniless, nameless, without a career, without a hit to his name, and he could be that guy that everyone looked at with pity, mumbling, ‘didn't he used to sing, or something', and shake their heads and click their tongues and walk away to live their happy lives. LA would not remember him. The music industry would not remember him. And the fans, the fickle, picky fans would move on to someone else.

The time had come to shake things up. To bring a new sound, to grow up a little, to grow out a little. Do something else. Every artist needed to reinvent himself, after awhile, right? Gotta stay on the edge, out in front, razor sharp. One day while watching ‘E!' he caught a glimpse of his old writing partner and producer JC waving at a camera on his way into a movie premiere. That was when the courting began.

JC did not come to this new gig quietly and easily. It had taken some arm twisting and some convincing. Rod tried every angle, but the answer was no, no, no, every time. He'd never been a Music Director before. He didn't think he could do it, not on that scale. He could produce a few songs and a few albums, sure. Change the navigation of a career? Put together a tour? Man the Musical Ship? Surely there were other options he could pursue.  

Rod must have been desperate. He was begging, now. How emasculating.

"I don't want other options," he said, pounding the glossy wood desk in front him. JC sat on the other side, looking uninterested and aggravated at even being asked to take on the opportunity.

"You're the only option that'll work for me. You did my first hit. Remember that? Remember the writing session, and the recording session? That was out of this world! You're out of this world! We had a great time... we could do that again. We could be that team again."

JC mused, and pondered again. And again considered saying yes. He wanted to, but it wasn't his career he was taking chances with, it was Rod's. He was on top, and the slightest tumble could topple him. But wouldn't it be fun, to be that team again. Hanging out in Rod's living room, little white boxes of Chinese food with chopsticks sticking out of them covering the table, cans of Red Bull and dirty coffee mugs lining the kitchen counter, empty bags of Doritos and Hershey's Kisses filling the trash bin. Lyric after lyric, note after note, flowing from both sets of lips. Beat after beat tapped onto the wood of the table. Smiles and nods and satisfaction listening to the playback, the fruits of their labor. He remembered.

"Yeah man, I remember that. I just, you know, that's not my talent, I don't think."

"What do you mean, not your talent? You know music! I want you in charge of the music, of putting something together for me that'll blow people's minds! You're the only guy I know that still uses a synth."

JC laughed, tipping his chair back in his relatively clean office in his big, empty, lonely house, where he was doing nothing, anyway. Hadn't done much, since Kim left. Not inspired and not energetic and just didn't really care. This job could change all that. Give him a change of pace and scenery, something to do, to take his mind off of her.

Rod tossed his hands in the air and fell back against the chair he was in. It was a little bit of a tantrum-he wasn't used to hearing "no." He stared hard at JC, but his voice was soft and low. Sympathetic. "You gotta get back in the game, man. Kim's gone. She's not coming back. Sitting here, doing nothing but drowning in an alcohol bottle won't bring her back. You used to be the guy that lectured people about that stuff. Now you're the guy being lectured to. That's not the JC I know."

The lecture was familiar-he'd been hearing it from everyone close to him. Little by little, it was getting through. He'd stopped responding to it by getting up and walking out of the room, mumbling about people minding their own business, at least. And he thought it ironic, as well, that Rod was the one lecturing him about his drinking habits. Really rich, actually.

"Okay," he responded. Plain. Unemotional. Sort of non-committal, if he had to peg a feeling to it. "I'll try it. For you. But if it doesn't work..." He sighed, blowing a deep breath into stale, dusty air. "Man, I don't know about this."

Rod pumped his fists in the air, a wide grin on his face. "It'll work. I know it. I just know it." He stood, looping a finger around a key ring, a single key bearing a Mercedes emblem dangling from it. "Listen, I'll bang out some details, our people will do lunch or whatever the shit they do, and we'll talk. I can't wait to do this, man!" 

Orlando was muggy. Hot and humid, which mixed to create a sticky wet sensation as soon as the cabin doors opened and the staircase was lowered. Leather bag on one shoulder, duffel bag on the other, he deplaned and walked quickly to one of five waiting vehicles on the private airstrip. Rod and his band were riding in limousines, no doubt headed to Rod's mansion to continue the party before heading to their own estates with a Flavor of the Moment-what he liked to call the girls chosen to party with the band. He had other plans which included a shower, a bed, and a hot meal.

A rusted, noisy passenger van huffed in the distance, just beyond the fleet of long, shiny cars. The driver side door opened and a lanky man stepped out, his wiry, jet black hair just brushing his shoulders. He walked around to the side of the van and slid the door open, nodding at JC as he tossed both bags into the back seat, then climbed back inside. The van was old, but at least the A/C worked. JC climbed into the passenger seat and snapped his seat belt.

"'Sup, Ray? Thanks for picking me up. Were you waiting long?"

Never a man of many words, Ray simply uttered, "'Sup. Nope," put the van in drive and pulled away from the airstrip.

I don't believe I'm back here, he thought to himself, reclining the seat, flipping down the visor to block the afternoon sun.

~ ~ ~

Shelby

The crash of porcelain against stone tile rang out into the silence. A tortured, hissing "shit!" followed.

"What? What happened? You okay, in there?"

"I'm fine," she called out, her voice carrying out of the kitchen and around the corner to the den, where a woman who was in her 70's but didn't look a day over 65 was carefully arranging knick knacks and books on a shelf.

"What'd you do?"

"Dropped some plates. Dammit!" She swore under her breath, whipping around the messy, box filled kitchen in search of a broom and a dustpan. "Mom, do you know where my-oh, there it is." She plucked the broom from a dark corner where it had been propped behind a stack of boxes yet to be unpacked.

"You didn't break the Mikasa ones, did you? The ones we bought you from your registry?"

The fine China, now in shards and pieces, mixed with the dust and dirt of packing in the dustpan and tumbled into the garbage. "Yes."

"No!"

She sighed, rolling her eyes toward the den. "Yes. Don't worry about it, mom. I'll replace them."

"Well how many did you break?" The voice was suddenly closer. She looked up from her squatting position in front of the pile of broken dishes to find her mother leaning against the arch of the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. She seemed to glow in the light of the sun behind her, peeking out from behind the tightly drawn blinds. The house needed to stay cool, so though it was gloomy, the blinds stayed drawn until at least dusk. There was no such thing as cool air before midnight in the summer, in Orlando.

"Just two. It's no big deal. I'm never eating on more than one plate at a time. I don't need a ten place setting anyway."

"Well, what if you have friends over? Or have a dinner party? Or... have a ... friend... for dinner."

Shelby's eyes lifted again, this time betraying annoyance. Rather than argue, she went back to her task of sweeping up bits of expensive china and dumping them into the garbage. Not one to be deterred by silence, however, her mother barreled on.

"You could, you know. He wouldn't have to be a boyfriend. He could just be a friend, friend. Someone to hang out with."

"Mom..." she sighed, trying hard to be patient and form her words so they made the most impact. She stood, her knees creaking, and returned the broom and dustpan to their corner. "Guys... men... don't do the friend, friend thing anymore. If I invited a guy over here to eat, he'd think I wanted to have sex with him."

"Well." She shrugged, and opened her mouth, but Shelby cut her off.

"Don't even start," she protested, but giggled as she walked off.  "Let's keep working. I only have you until tomorrow and I want to get a lot of this stuff unpacked."

Memories. So many memories, packed away, stacked on top of each other like so much cargo. Shelby felt as if she'd already lived a full lifetime in her twenty eight years, like it had only been a few short months since she was a different woman, living a different life. In truth, it had been years since she was the same old Shelby. After the accident that took the life of her fiancé Lucas, she spent nearly a year in a tumultuous battle that was full of accusations and pointed stares and scathing messages and downright hate.  When it was over, and things didn't get better like they were supposed to, Shelby began to think that maybe a change would do everyone some good.

Then came the packing, stacking up the memories into plain cardboard boxes, saying goodbye to a place that had been home for most of her life, and moving three hours north. Close enough that people could still visit, but far enough away that people wouldn't drop in unannounced. It was a perfect place, a perfect time, a perfect way to start a new life.

Shelby and her mother Renee worked through the afternoon and into the evening, until the sun had set and the house began to cool. One by one, boxes were being emptied, flattened, and stacked in the garage. Room by room, things were taking shape, and bit by bit, the puzzle pieces were fitting together.

"Boy, I feel like I've been beaten by a stick."

Fresh from a shower, smelling like rain, wearing a cotton tank top and matching shorts, Renee plopped onto the couch next to a listless Shelby. Half a pizza sat between them, half a 2 liter of Pepsi, 2 glasses and, as an attempt to make the meal healthy, a side salad sat untouched on the coffee table in front of them. The TV blared a reality show that both were watching but not really paying attention to.

"Shelby, your bed is made. You may as well crawl into it. You'll sleep good tonight."

As if on cue, she yawned, sat up, and stretched, wincing at the pain of moving limbs that had become tight after resting for a few minutes. "You're right. I'll watch the end of this in my room. Thank God the cable guy showed up."

"No, leave that," Renee said, slapping Shelby's hands away from the pizza box. "I'll put it away, don't worry."

"Just... we get bugs here, just like you get in Miami. Put it in the fridge, okay?"

"Don't mother me," Renee said, smirking. "I taught you how to put away leftovers. Go to bed."

Shelby leaned over her, dropping a soft kiss on her cheek. "Night, mom. See you in the morning."

"Night, honey. See you tomorrow."

It was pretty much a sham. Shelby was going to bed, but tonight would end up like all the other nights. She'd lie there, staring at the TV, watching the flicker, then sliding down the pillows, onto her back, looking at the reflection of the light on the ceiling. Feeling tired, willing sleep to come, to overtake her, to allow her body and mind to rest. But it wouldn't. Like every other night for the past... forever, she'd lie awake, until the sun was just peeking over the horizon. And only then would she feel the cloak of sleep cover her, giving her a few precious hours before another day was set to begin.

How long was she going to have to endure this? How long would she lay there, night after night, thinking and tossing and turning and torturing herself? What had happened... happened. She couldn't change the past. If she could, she would have. She desperately wanted to, so she could rid herself of this nightly torture, wishing things had turned out differently.   

But they hadn't. And this was her life. The next day would come, and the sun would rise, and life would go on, with or without her. Time waited for no man, no woman, no situation. Guilt ridden sleepless night or not, when the alarm sounded, Shelby would fold back the covers and get out of bed.

‘Maybe I can catch a nap, later,' she told herself, bending and stretching out the kinks from the hard labor of the day before. She always told herself that. A bribe, to get her to keep moving through the day, keep going, keep pushing. Because maybe if she got tired enough, her body would just give in, and she could sleep.

It hadn't worked, so far.



You must login (register) to comment.

Story Tags: wank kitchensex carsex drunksex breakupjc producerjc tabloids celebrity