Chapter One


Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!

Lance jumped at the shrill sound of his alarm clock going off, his arm immediately moving to the bedside table to smack the offending object. He winced when his aim was off and instead of hitting the “snooze” button, his wrist bone hit the corner of the wooden table.

“Ow!” he said with a groan, moving to rub his sore wrist with his other hand.

He hit the button to turn the alarm off harder than he needed to, and let his head fall back on the pillow with a sigh. His brain pounded as if he had a subwoofer inside of it, his ears rang, and his eyes were sore.

Must have been a hell of a night, he thought to himself as he closed his eyes and rubbed them with his thumb and index finger, pinching the bridge of his nose.

When the door of the bedroom flew open, so did his eyes.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” the bubbly brunette said as she came in and moved to his side of the bed. He swallowed hard, noticing she was half-clothed, wearing only an old black NSYNC t-shirt with his and his bandmates' faces staring back at him.

“I made you breakfast,” she said, staring down at him. “Well, get up lazy bones!”

“Where'd you find that?” he asked groggily, pointing at her shirt.

“Buried way down deep in your underwear drawer,” she said with a smile, flipping her long, wavy hair back around her shoulder.

“You went through my underwear drawer?” he asked.

“Not intentionally,” she said, grinning. “I was looking for new clothes to wear.”

“Clothes?” he asked, rubbing a hand down his face. “You needed clothes?”

“Unless you wanted me to walk around downstairs naked,” she said with a giggle.

Must have really been one hell of a night, he thought to himself.

“Are you coming down for breakfast?” she finally asked.

“Uh...yeah,” he said, throwing his arm above his head. “Give me a minute.”

“Don't take too long precious, don't want it to get cold,” she said with a wink before she opened the door and closed it behind her.

Lance sighed and rubbed his hand down his face again, attempting to wake his brain up a little more from the hangover.

“Oh shit,” he said to himself. “She's gotta go.”

After blowing out a breath and preparing himself for the headache when he lifted himself from the pillow, he groaned and let his head fall into the palms of his hand, sitting on the edge of the bed. The picture was fuzzy. It was December and there was a party – it must have been the Happy Place Christmas party from the night before. There was always a lot of employees, music, and alcohol, because he always put on one hell of a holiday party for the employees of his production company. He must have been drunk, judging by the hangover, and he must have picked her up there – what was her name? Clarissa? Larissa? Laura? Something like that.

He bent down to grab the faded blue jeans and the wife beater from the floor, giving them a quick smell to make sure that they weren't any older and dirtier than he thought they were. When they passed his test as acceptable, he pulled them both over his aching body.

When he stepped out of his bedroom and walked down the winding staircase in his two-story Orlando townhouse, he immediately smelled the aroma of strong coffee and sizzling bacon.

“There you are,” she said when he walked into the kitchen. “Pancakes?”

When she shoved the porcelain plate stacked with two buttery pancakes in front of him, his nose curled at the smell.

“No,” he said, fighting his upset stomach after a night of heavy drinking. “Just coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.”

Once he had filled a mug full of dark coffee, he sat down at his island counter and grabbed the bottle of Tylenol, shaking three pills out into his hand.

“Fun night, wasn't it?” she said, noticing the amount of pills.

“My head tells me yes,” he responded, immediately popping them into his mouth and chasing them with a swig of coffee.

“I'm sorry,” she said. To his surprise, she walked over to him and wrapped her arms around him, leaning down and giving him an unwelcome kiss on the lips. “But at least I'm still here.”

“Speaking of that, uh...uh...”

Her eyes opened widely, watching him search through his brain using his index finger.

“Claire.”

“Claire,” he said. “That's right, from accounting. Listen, Claire, I hate to cut this wonderful morning short, but I have to get ready to go to work.”

“Oh, we can drive to the office together,” she said. “It's not a problem.”

“I'm...I'm not going into the office today,” he said. “I've got a few business...things, to take care of.”

Smooth, Lance, he thought to himself. Real smooth.

“Business things?” she asked, her manicured eyebrows raised in suspicion.

“Yeah, you know, meetings, things on set to take care of, executive things.”

“Sounds boring,” she said with a smile.

“The life of a CEO,” he said with an overacted, nonchalant shrug. “Sorry to have to run you out this early, but I'm such a busy guy, I really gotta get ready to go.”

“Oh, that's okay,” she said, only mildly disappointed. “You don't happen to have some pants I can wear though, would you?”

“What about the ones you came in?” he asked.

“I didn't come in pants,” she said with a laugh. “I came in my costume.”

“Costume?”

“My Santa's Little Helper costume? Don't you remember?” she asked. “You had me, Julie, and all the girls from accounting dress up in Santa's Little Helper costumes for the party last night?”

It was then that he remembered. He had given all the girls in his accounting department short, skimpy outfits to dress up in to play “Santa's Little Helper” roles at the party for the other employees. Typical crushed velvet red material with white fur around the outsides – only much sluttier.

Jesus, I am an asshole.

“Um...there might be something in the bottom drawer of my dresser that will fit you,” he said, thinking of his drawer with drawstring sweats and workout pants. “You can go ahead and check there – and keep whatever you find, and the t-shirt too.”

“Cool,” she said. “Good, 'cause I kinda like it.”

You and half a million hormonal teenage girls, he thought as she ran back up his staircase. When she disappeared, he let his head fall down on the counter with a groan.

At only 25 years old, he was one of Orlando's youngest CEOs in history, of his own company, A Happy Place Productions. He had created the company from scratch during his days with NSYNC, and after the band had gone their separate ways he had put all his focus into the company. It was fast-rising to possibly be one of the biggest production companies in the United States if they continued to grow at the pace he had set. He could see expanding in the next few years to creating an office in Los Angeles.

His life had been good the past few years, despite the band going their separate ways. He filled his days with plenty of work with the company and although there were times he missed performing and jet-setting across the world with the guys singing, he was happy where he was at. He finally had plenty of time to spend with his family back home in Mississippi, a beautiful two-story townhouse in Orlando near a small private lake and a few minutes away from Chris's home, and two beautiful cars including a sporty red Mustang. He had a good life.

And women. Lots of women.

It had all started back in the days that he was touring with the band. He had come from humble beginnings in Mississippi, raised by two wonderful parents who had instilled good values in him – but all the good values in the world couldn't beat the temptations of Hollywood stardom and fame. All the young women throwing themselves at him – beautiful, willing, young but of-age women – had broken him down at the age of nineteen. He was at an age where puberty was past him, but hormones were not.

Joey did it; JC did it. Justin did it possibly more than any of them combined. After a while, seeing how much fun the others had with women backstage after shows, never hurting anyone, he eventually figured – why not? Why not use this fame that he had been thrown into to his advantage?

But now, six years later, he had found that his life was actually a wreck. He had noticed a pattern, and that pattern seemed to be a new woman every night. He had convinced himself that he was not the “settling down” type and enjoyed this lifestyle, but he had recognized that living the lifestyle he lived was actually incredibly lonely.

Something had to change.

He pushed his untouched coffee off to the side and stood up, preparing to go upstairs and get dressed to go into work when he heard feet already coming down.

“Well,” she said, coming back down the staircase with the now-familiar velvet costume thrown over her arm, “I'll be going I guess. I have to run to my own house and change into my own clothes before I head into the office.”

He followed her to the door. “Claire, about that--”

“I know,” she said with a smile. “You don't date people from the office. I'm not stupid, Mr. Bass. I know what you're doing asking me to leave right now. You have a reputation, you know.”

“I do?” he asked.

“Mr. Bass,” she said, holding up the costume to show him. “Come on. Really?”

His eyes landed on the red monstrosity and he couldn't help but laugh.

“I'm sorry, Claire,” he said. “Never again. I promise.”

“The accounting department appreciates it,” she said, chuckling. “I'll see you in the office next week, Mr. Bass.”

“Claire?”

She turned from his open front door to look at him.

“Don't call me Mr. Bass,” he said, smiling.

“Sure thing, Lance,” she said as she left, closing the door behind her.

He turned from the door, scratching his head.

“She'll quit in a week, tops,” he said to himself. “God, Lance, reevaluate your lifestyle.”

He had turned the corner to head upstairs and get dressed when he heard his cell phone ring from the coffee table in the living room.

“Hello?”

“Hey Lance, it's Ben Miller.”

The voice of Lance's lawyer came back in his ear from the receiver.

“Hey Ben, how's it going?” Lance asked, taking the stairs two at a time.

“I'm good, how are you?”

“You know, getting by.”

“That's good,” Ben said. “I called wondering if you were available to come to my office today. We've got a bit of an issue going on.”

“With the company?” Lance asked as he walked into his bedroom, his curiosity piqued.

“No, Lance, it's actually about you,” Ben responded.

“What? Am I being sued or something?”

“Not quite. Lance, were you aware that you had a daughter?”

Lance scoffed, laughing. “Yeah Ben, and were you aware that you were the Pope? Very funny. What's going on?”

He was surprised when his lawyer didn't laugh.

“I'm not joking, Lance.”

He felt his face go white and all the oxygen leave his body.

“What?” he asked.

“Meet me here in an hour,” Ben said. “Don't be late.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


“Lance, buddy, come in. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

He had shown up at Ben's office in an hour on the dot, so scattered that he had almost forgotten to check in with the secretary at the front. Ben had come out of his office a few minutes later and called Lance in.

“How are you doing today?” Ben asked as they both sat down in their seats.

“I was splendid until you called me.”

Ben smiled. “Yeah, I figured. Let's get down to it then, shall we?”

He reached into a folder on his desk, pulling out a paper.

“Do you remember a woman named Lacey Jackson?”

Lance thought for a moment, trying to remember anyone named Lacey that he had ever met – someone at the office that might have once worked for him, possibly. When he couldn't come up with anyone, he shook his head.

“No, I don't remember anyone named Lacey.”

“Well you should,” Ben said, pushing the paper towards Lance. “She was the mother of your child.”

Lance picked up the paper from the desk in a haste – putting it in front of his face, he could see that it was a copy of a birth certificate record. Scanning over it, in the spot that said “Mother” he saw the name – Lacey Elizabeth Jackson. Moving over a space, he huffed a breath when he saw “Father” - listed as James Lance Bass.

“Ben, come on,” he said, shoving the paper back at his lawyer. “I'm a celebrity. Like, a household name. Any woman could put my name on a birth certificate. That doesn't make it true. What does she want, money?”

“Lance, she doesn't want your money,” Ben said. “She's dead.”

For the second time that morning, Lance felt his face drain of all color.

“She's what?”

“Car accident,” Ben said. “She was 23 years old, from Richmond, Virginia. She was coming home from work when a semi-trailer stopped suddenly. Died on impact.”

“That's awful,” Lance said, “but what does that have to do with me?”

Ben had opened his mouth to answer when the door to the office swung open.

“Daddy!”

Lance turned around at the voice, to see a young girl, not more than two or three feet tall with dirty blonde hair, being held back at the arm by a young, professional-looking woman. Looking at both of them, it was then that he finally put together the pieces.

“Oh no,” Lance said turning back to his lawyer and shaking his head. “No, no, no, no...no. Ben, you're not serious.”

“I'm sorry, Lance,” he responded. “There's nothing I can do.”

“Aren't there grandparents? An aunt? A sister? Some other kind of family?”

“There's nobody,” Ben responded. “Lacey was a foster child. She had no family to speak of, and was estranged from her foster parents that took care of her from the age of twelve until she aged out at eighteen. As the person listed as the Father on the birth certificate, you have a legal responsibility to her. Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do for you.”

Lance felt breathless. “Paternity test?”

“I've already ordered for one,” Ben said, reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out a small business card, handing it to Lance. “Your appointment is at this lab at four o'clock, and the results will be sent to me as soon as they're in. Unfortunately, the results do take two business days to process, and today is a Friday. So until at least Wednesday, we're stuck.”

Lance choked.

“I'm sorry, Lance.”

Lance turned to look at the young girl, who was holding onto the woman's arm with both hands, digging her toe into the carpet as she stared back at him. She couldn't have been more than four or five at his best guess. He was terrified; and if he was feeling that way, he couldn't imagine how she was feeling – being in such a strange place, with strange people, without her mother.

And with a man who people said was her father, who she didn't know and he didn't know her.

“Ben, what am I supposed to do?” Lance said, raising his voice. “I'm not capable of taking care of a kid! I'm a CEO of a production company, I'm gone at the office all the time. I don't have a babysitter, or clothes, or a bed, or even a car seat!”

“Don't worry Lance, Mrs. Stanley has one of those to provide you for the day,” Ben said.

It was then that the woman grasped the little girl's hand tightly and walked over to Lance, holding out her free hand to him.

“Mr. Bass, I'm Leann Stanley,” she said as he shook her hand. “I'm with Florida State Social Services. I'm the social worker assigned to this case.”

“Case?” Lance said.

“You and Kayleigh,” she said. “I'll be overseeing you for the next few months for the state, to ensure that you're fit for legal custody. I'll be making regular home visits on a periodic basis to check and make sure that everything is running smoothly and Kayleigh's safety and well-being is the first priority.”

“Kayleigh?”

“This is Kayleigh, your daughter,” she said with a smile, looking briefly down at the little girl who grasped her hand tightly.

She stared back at him, and it was then that he noticed her eyes – bright, clear blue. Her shoulder-length, curly hair was a dark, dirty blonde with sunny streaks of lighter blonde, and she had bangs cut just past her eyebrows. Her cheeks were chubby with a light pink blush to them, and she wore pink stud earrings in her little pierced ears. She wore a light pink dress with a sash around the waist, white tights, and black Mary Jane style shoes, her arms covered from the December cold by a white cardigan sweater.

“Hi, Kayleigh,” he finally said.

She only stared back at him with the piercing blue eyes.

“Mr. Bass, I know this is a lot to process for you,” Mrs. Stanley finally said. “Kayleigh has had a rough couple of days, as you can imagine. She's been staying with me while we found contact information for you and drew up the papers and everything – but right now, she needs a home with someone who can give her some comfort.”

“Mrs. Stanley, with all due respect,” he said, “I'm not so sure that someone is me.”

“I fully understand,” she responded lightly. “I know this is a shock. And I will be here for you every step of the way, I promise.”

“I...” he stuttered. “I don't have anything for her. I don't have clothes...”

“Her social worker in Virginia sent along some necessities with her,” she said. “She's got a few clothes, toys, coloring books and crayons, that sort of thing. The state can provide you with some money to help offset some of the costs of the other things...”

“No, it's not about money,” he said. “I can afford things for her. To tell you the truth – I have no idea how to raise a child.”

“And that's why I'm here to help you, Mr. Bass,” she said. “I can help you out. But first, you have to help Kayleigh. We both do.”

Lance looked down at the little girl once more, realizing the social worker was right. He couldn't walk out of this building and leave this little girl in the care of the state, to end up with a foster family as her mother had, bouncing back and forth between homes. He couldn't leave this little girl behind.

His little girl.



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Story Tags: daddyl lance