Sex, Wade, and Videotape

Sex, Wade, and Videotape

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Nick Carter/Wade J. Robson

Disclaimer: The young men who comprise the Backstreet Boys and *NSYNC are their own people. The author has not met anyone here described, nor does the author mean to suggest that these people act this way in real life. This writing is a work of fiction. I make no money from this venture.

Dedication: This slashfic is for Ewan McGregor and the Savage Garden slashwriters. It's also for Wednesday night's chatters.

Wherein I break the OC rule, toss in Michael references, and generally exhibit all the hallmarks of a bad writer.

Notice: I wrote Wadeslash. I admit it. But after "The Dancer," there wasn't going to be any more of it. Because, really, would I rather write about the pixie and the panther and the Beautiful Sex God, or Wade? Then I went to the chat on Wednesday night. And people started saying, hey, what about Nick/Wade? Bad people! Bad, bad people!

I would have titled it "Sex, Nick, and Videotape," but "sex" and "Nick" are redundant.

Alla

The Backstreet Boys had two questions to face: What were they doing wrong? And, what was *NSYNC doing right?

They'd made miscalculations. They'd made sloppy decisions. From now on, they'd be a lot tighter, more on-target, more attentive.

The secret to *NSYNC's success was not Lou or Johnny. It could be the vocal blend; their range of harmony was wider. Short of going back in time and castrating Howie, there wasn't much the Backstreet Boys could do about that.

*NSYNC spent more money. On what? Mobius Eight? What the fuck?

*NSYNC's videos were getting better, and their own videos were getting weirder. They could take care of that, no problem.

*NSYNC danced better. The Backstreet Boys hadn't had decent choreography in years. Not that *NSYNC's was flawless; what was that lame-ass squirmy move in "Bye Bye Bye?" Still, the Backstreet Boys could do better there.

The Backstreet Boys agreed to work hard on their songwriting. Kevin and Howie started to strategize promotions. Brian promised to learn to dance with more interest. AJ seduced Joey.

Nick looked at *NSYNC's latest hit, "Pop." The song, the choreography, even the fucking video, had one thing in common. The kid with the bad dye job. Wade J. Robson.

"It's okay, it's okay," Chris said to the bouncer. "They're with me. I'm baby-sitting, just stopped in to use the bathroom. I'll keep my eye on them."

"Chris, shut up," Justin said.

"You two know the drill," Chris said, pointing at Justin and Wade. "No drinking. Dance like human beings, not like you're starring in your own personal porn flick. When you sign your autograph, make sure it's not on somebody's bar tab."

"We're underage, not three," Justin said. "Come on, I want to shake my groove thing," he said, tugging Wade's elbow.

"We're going to shake our groove things," Wade told Chris, following Justin.

"I was afraid of that," Chris said. He sighed. "They grow up so fast."

Nick walked the edge of the dance floor, weaving through the wannabes, ignoring anyone who tried to get his attention. He kept his gaze locked on his target.

Wade wasn't Justin Timberlake, but he was Justin's friend, and he danced better than anyone else in the club. He'd attracted his own share of hangers-on, and was at that moment getting down with two pretty white girls.

Why Joey knew that Chris was taking Justin clubbing and Justin had invited Wade, Nick didn't know. Did anyone from *NSYNC sneeze without everyone else calling him up to say, "Bless you?" It worked well for Nick, though; the more information Joey had, the more information AJ had, and the more information Nick had.

Suckers.

Nick stepped onto the dance floor. He made his way through the press of bodies without much interest. He walked as though he were a superior being on a crowded street, taking care not to step on the little people, but not taking much notice of them otherwise. He was a man with more important things on his mind than their petty concerns. He didn't seem to be going towards any one person, merely moving through the throng.

Wade looked up in mid-gyration and saw Nick. Their eyes met. For one moment, as Nick passed right by him, almost but not quite close enough to touch, Wade held still, time suspended, lips parted, sweat trickling from his temples, unaware of anyone else, brown eyes seeing nothing but Nick - - superior, sullen, sexual Nick.

Nick walked on.

Wade dropped back into the beat. Spending a moment a bit distracted, he turned and located Justin. "Justin! Justin!" He caught Justin's shoulder and attention. "Is that-" he scanned the club "-Nick Carter?"

"Where?" Justin craned his neck and searched. "Oh, yeah. Damn. Ego alert, ego alert, in case of emergency, respiration masks will drop from the ceiling."

Wade didn't give it any more thought. Not much more thought. He knew who Nick was, knew who the Backstreet Boys were. He didn't work only with *NSYNC, nor was he *NSYNC's sole choreographer, but they were a nice fit. He worked them damn hard because they wanted to work damn hard, because they had to work damn hard. They respected him; he respected them. Wade and *NSYNC had a lot in common, and so had become friends. He was even writing music with them. It was the greatest thing, hearing his work on the radio. To turn on MTV and watch the guys dance and say, "I did that! I did that!" Millions of people were seeing his work, hearing it, loving it.

He'd never worked with - - no, for - - the Backstreet Boys. He hadn't been asked. He'd wanted to, had thought about it. *NSYNC was big in the States, but overseas, those people were screaming for the Backstreet Boys. It was a whole different world. The Backstreet Boys had a different musical set-up, but if it had a beat, Wade could dance to it. (Even if it didn't, he was still good.) Working with *NSYNC, he created routines of energy and pump. He wanted to take the Backstreet Boys and spike them up a little. See what they could really do. It would be wild to test AJ's limits.

Sure, Wade had a lot of dream jobs. *NSYNC was a dream come true. He had other dreams - - Janet Jackson, Broadway, time travel to Gene Kelly, Michael - - and, yeah, the Backstreet Boys.

But he had great contracts as it was, he was on his way, he was with *NSYNC, and he did not need to switch sides this late in the game.

He went back to the club two nights later. The bouncer knew him and let him in. He grabbed a seat and tried to watch the door.

"Hey."

"Hi." She was pretty.

"Is anyone sitting here?"

"No, go ahead. I'm Wade."

"I'm Carolyn. I've seen you in here before a few times."

"Yeah. Usually I come with friends, but I'm flying solo tonight." Hint: No, Justin wasn't coming.

"My friends are busy. Mind if I fly with you?"

He grinned. "Sure."

"I hate hanging out at these places alone. It's much more interesting with someone else. What do you do?"

"I'm a dancer. Choreographer."

"That explains why you're hanging out with *NSYNC. You're in the biz."

"I am."

"Who isn't, around here? The other night we were even graced with a great presence." She lifted her hands and rolled her eyes. "Shall we all bow down before him?"

"Who?"

"The other - - was it the night you were here? A Backstreet Boy was here. I thought we'd all faint. Everybody knows if you come here often enough, you'll see almost everybody, but that, as my friend so eloquently put it, was 'the ultimate.'" She made finger quotation marks and rolled her eyes again.

"You don't like Backstreet Boys," Wade noted with a smile.

"No offense. You probably work with them, too. But this is my home away from home. I've seen everybody pass through those doors. And let me tell you, there are two things that, until the other night, I never expected to see."

"What?"

"A Backstreet Boy, and someone with only good things to say about Backstreet Boys. Well, I've seen one. Now I'll wait for the second."

"You're kidding. I thought everybody loved those guys."

"Obviously you haven't worked with them, after all."

"Not personally."

"God likes you."

"I've always hoped so."

"I'll tell you one thing. You're in the good place. *NSYNC, they're on the move. It only gets better from here. The Backstreet Boys? Coasting on their name. Few years from now, you go to the Grammys, you see which one's up onstage and which one's showing you to your seat. Wade?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you waiting for someone?"

"No."

"Are you hiding from someone?"

"No. Why?"

"You have one eye on the door and one eye also on the door. Come on, give me a chance, I even put on my good lipstick tonight."

"Sorry. I'm, I was hoping to see someone here, but I don't think it'll happen."

"Someone catch your eye earlier? Sneaking back for a second look?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"Do I have a chance here, or should I stop wasting my time? I figure you're straight, I've only ever seen you dance with women. You're here alone, I'm here alone. You dance like the Pope prays, I've picked up a move or two. I'm hitting the floor. You coming or going?"

He stood, offering her his hand. "I dance like the Pope prays?"

She took his hand and rose with a smile. "Figured I'd try something you hadn't heard a hundred times."

"Mr. Robson, there's a package for you."

Hunh. Wade signed for it and accepted the cardboard box. Yeah, that was his name, his address. He didn't recognize the handwriting. The return address was for Jive. What was Jive sending him?

He carried it up to his apartment and dropped it on the kitchen table. He hurt his finger trying to open the box.

Videotapes. "Rehearsal 1," "Rehearsal 2," "Rehearsal 3," "Rehearsal 4." What? Wade took the tapes over to the TV and popped the first into the VCR.

It was he and *NSYNC. Working routines. As Wade watched the tape he nodded, anticipating the moves, muscles flexing unconsciously.

Why were they sending these tapes to him? Someone had too much time to spare.

Wade figured he could use this to his advantage. It was good to watch his own work, check his teaching style. He'd watch two tapes tonight, the second two tomorrow.

Resting on the sofa, letting his body unwind after a serious funk session, Wade watched himself on TV.

The screen went fuzzy.

Was the tape over already? Wade fast-forwarded.

Oh, people. He pushed "play."

Wait. He frowned. This wasn't he and *NSYNC. This was Fatima and the Backstreet Boys. He fast-forwarded. Then he stopped and watched, curious.

Brian was a laidback dancer. Boy needed to pop his groove. Howie had potential. AJ, Wade would love to work his routines. Kevin, yeah, Kevin was good, Wade could work with that. This routine was good, the moves worked, but she needed to push them harder. Make them work. Make them sweat.

This tape had to be a few years old. What he'd just seen, his work with *NSYNC, was recent, but this stuff was older. Kevin had short hair, AJ had hair, Nick was younger.

The guys goofed around some. Wade was used to that, working with *NSYNC. They were willing to work; he could feel that from them. They wanted to work, wanted to learn, wanted to do well. They had that drive, that spirit.

When the tape ended, Wade found himself hoping that the fourth tape would have Backstreet Boys instead of *NSYNC on it. He saw *NSYNC any time he wanted. This was different, and Wade wanted to learn more.

He pushed the fourth tape into the VCR.

More *NSYNC. Okay. He watched, mentally taking notes, approving and disapproving, remembering. The tape wore on, and he decided that there would be no more Backstreet Boys tonight.

The tape went to snow. Wade snapped to attention.

The Backstreet Boys's rehearsal room. Their choreographer was alone with Nick. Young Nick, wearing only sneakers and shorts. Slender and blond with soft hair and pale skin. She led him through the choreography. Wade wondered why they were working one-on-one. Nick was attentive and good-natured. That was one pretty kid. Kid, he couldn't be much younger than Wade was now. Someone called from off-camera and the choreographer took five.

Nick was alone onscreen. He walked himself through the dance. Then he spun around until he got dizzy and fell down, laughing. On the floor, he patted out a drum solo on his naked stomach. "All I wanna be is a pop star, pop star, all I wanna be is a pop star, pop star-"

"Nick Carter! Come on, boy." The choreographer came back onscreen and hauled Nick to his feet. "You can be a pop star later. Right now, you're a dancer."

"I'm a dancer," Nick repeated.

"Dance for me."

Nick counted off the beats to himself, then broke into the dance, singing in a soft voice as he went. Wade could see his deep concentration, his focus. Nick was a dancer. He stopped singing, hearing the music in his head, keeping the beat and not dropping one move. Wade had picked up the routine through watching, and could tell that Nick had it down.

The boy was good.

When the choreography ended, Nick whirled around, grabbed his crotch, and went up on his toes. "Ow!" he said. "I'm a dancer!"

"Come on, Michael, let's go show your brothers how it's done."

Wade smiled. What he wouldn't give to work with that kid.

The following afternoon, Wade asked Joey where Backstreet Boys hung out. Armed with the information, Wade wondered whether to hit them all frequently, or to haunt one and wait.

Wade worked and slept. He spent his free nights sitting around Sanfeerin's, eyes peeled for a tall blond Backstreet Boy.

He dropped some change and picked up Backstreet Boys CD's. After spending way too much time listening to them, he found himself stepping to "Get Another Boyfriend." He could already feel it, the rocking, the turn, punch it here...

Wade kept up with his workouts and his rehearsals and his regular gigs. He had to choreograph another *NSYNC show, to boot. But in his spare time, he polished "Get Another Boyfriend." He even worked it out in his car at redlights. When he started to slam in the elevator, though, he got some weird looks.

He got an idea. The next time he hit Sanfeerin's, he spent twenty minutes and fifty bucks sweet-talking the DJ.

Wade watched the Backstreet Boys rehearsal tapes again, literally taking notes. They had the talent, they had the rhythm, they had the desire, they just didn't have the best motivation. The best motivator. They needed more energy, more focus, more drive. He wanted to provide that drive.

He watched Nick spinning, slender, soft blond hair flying, arms out, dizzy and collapsing, laughing, beautiful boy spread on the cold dance floor.

Nick. Prone. Half-naked.

In his mind, Wade replaced the choreographer with himself. Instead of helping Nick up, he crawled on top, kissed soft red lips, found warm satin flesh...

When he was in the shower, Wade sang, "All I wanna be is a pop star, pop star, all I wanna be is a pop star, pop star." Realizing what he was doing, he stopped and patted out Nick's impromptu drum solo on his stomach. He laughed when he echoed the rhythm flawlessly.

He had to stop watching that tape.

Wade was in Sanfeerin's. The regulars knew him by now, which made him a regular, he guessed. The pansy-ass bartender never served him anything alcoholic. No wonder Justin never came here.

No one from *NSYNC ever came here.

Maybe *NSYNC and the Backstreet Boys had divided up Orlando. We go here, you go there; this is our turf, this is yours. The Sharks and the Jets. The Bloods and the Crips. Wade found himself humming songs from West Side Story and wanting to get up and dance.

Nick Carter walked through the front doors and into the club.

Wade almost froze. Nick! Real Nick, alive and in person Nick, not Nick on his television screen. Old and big and too, too real. Proud. Nick was served, never the server.

Wade pissed away his time watching. Nick ignored almost everyone, going to the bar and getting a drink, not deigning to talk to the mortals.

Then Nick saw someone he knew, apparently, and became quite sociable. Wade watched Nick smile and laugh and talk with a lovely young woman. Young, well, older than Wade was, probably older than Nick, too. Nick bought her a drink, got friendly with her, and then, after maybe half an hour of torturing Wade with cheerful smiles and physical affection, took her to the dance floor.

Dance floor.

Dancing.

Choreography.

Wade remembered what the hell he was supposed to be doing. But he couldn't do it now, he'd look like a jerk, he'd make an ass of himself.

Wade went to the restroom and locked himself in a stall. He was Wade J. Robson. He was fucking choreographing the biggest fucking show ever for the biggest fucking group ever at the age of fucking nineteen. He was real, he was a professional, this was his life. He danced like the Pope prayed. (That made no sense.) He could choreograph blind baboons if he wanted to. (Chris, you are weird.) He could make the Backstreet Boys look good, and it was time they learned it.

Wade closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and whispered, "All I wanna be is a pop star, pop star, all I wanna be is a pop star, pop star." He beatboxed the rhythm section and stepped out of the stall.

He checked himself in the mirror. "Wade, your roots are showing," he said to himself. God, he should have shaved better. And what was he wearing?

"Hi, I'm Wade, your new choreographer," he said to the mirror. He stepped back and did a little softshoe.

"Looking good, Wade the choreographer," someone said.

"Thanks." He tap-danced his way to the bathroom door. Time to face the music, and dance to it.

Later, he wondered how many people had seen him and thought he was drunk.

Wade caught the DJ's attention and gave a thumbs-up.

The DJ mouthed, "Now?"

Wade nodded.

The DJ shook his head.

Wade rubbed his first two fingers against his thumb. He'd paid cash.

The DJ wanted more.

"After," Wade mouthed.

The DJ pointed to him.

Wade held up his hands.

The DJ nodded.

Good. Wade hit the dance floor.

Nick twirled Lisa's hair around one finger and wondered what that boy was up to now. About time he got out of that bathroom. Nick had been getting bored. At least he was dancing now.

"He's a good dancer," Nick said.

Lisa looked around the club. "Who? Oh. Hell yeah."

"Go dance with him."

"Now?"

"Yeah." He gave her a little push.

She smiled. "Okay. If you're not out there for the next song, I'm coming to get you." She went off to track down Wade. Nick finished her drink and watched. Lisa slithered up to Wade, who smiled and incorporated her into the dance.

Sexy little fuck.

Lisa was pretty, too.

Nick slouched a little, spreading his thighs.

There it was! That was his cue. Wade pulled away from Nick's friend. He should stay with her, try to work that connection, but this was his chance, here was the song.

It was time to dance.

Wade had been dancing publicly forever, it seemed. He knew how to enter the dance, how to join the rhythm, how to lose everything else. Anyone watching, whether it was a crowded audience or a judge or a teacher or a wall of mirrors, was gone. Unimportant. Only the beat mattered. Only the dance.

There was no club. No other dancers on the floor with him. No DJ, no Nick. Wade was alone in his apartment, dancing to his Backstreet Boys CD and trying not to injure himself on the coffee table. He'd never worked this choreography in a studio; it seemed too important, too private.

For the most part, he danced the part he'd mapped out for AJ. Intense, physical, predatorial.

Nick watched Wade's every move.

So did everyone else in the club.

When Wade finished, he was sweaty and drained. He always danced hard, but that had been a real performance. He needed a shower and a nap. A hot tub. A place to curl up and die, because everyone was staring at him.

He stood there, catching his breath. He wiped off some sweat.

People turned their attention back to themselves.

Nick's friend was talking to him.

"-have to talk to Nick, he was watching, I know he loved it, everybody loved it, are you a professional dancer? The Backstreet Boys hire male dancers for their shows, you could go on tour with them-"

Nick was walking across the club.

"-can't believe it, that was incredible, you have to tell me who trained you, I know-"

Nick was at the bar. Leaning against it, ordering a drink, ignoring Wade.

"-but he worked under what is his name, you have to know him, he teaches everybody, he always wears yellow-"

Nick looked over one shoulder, right at Wade.

"Now where did he - - there he is, come on, I'll introduce you. What's your name?"

"Wade."

"I'm Lisa." She took Wade's hand and pulled him towards the bar. "Nick. Nick!"

Nick turned to face them.

"Nick, this is Wayne, he is the best dancer."

"Wade," Wade said, and wanted to kill her.

"Wade," Nick said. "Justin's friend."

"I'm *NSYNC's choreographer," Wade said.

Lisa dropped his hand.

"Joey's stand-in," Nick said.

"I co-wrote 'Pop,'" Wade said.

"You work for *NSYNC?" Lisa asked, drawing closer to Nick.

"I work with them," Wade corrected. He looked at Nick again. "I like that song. "Get Another Boyfriend.'"

"I like 'Shining Star,'" Lisa said.

Clearly that was supposed to mean something. Wade missed it. "It has great rhythm," he offered. He was not going to volunteer the information that every time Nick sang, "Baby you're as close as close can get," Wade was in the mood for sex. And the way Nick breathed, right after that line...

"What are you drinking?" Nick asked Wade.

"Uh, nothing."

"What do you want to drink?"

"What are you having?"

"How old are you?" Lisa asked.

"How old are you?" Wade asked.

"She's twenty-nine," Nick said.

Lisa looked offended.

Nick turned and said something to the bartender. A moment later, a drink was set on a napkin in front of Wade, by the same bartender who'd been offering him rum and Coke, sans rum, for two weeks. Wade lifted the glass and sniffed. Whoa. That was alcohol. He took a sip. Oh, that was good.

"You ordered him a Sweet Nick?" Lisa asked.

"He's hot, he's been dancing," Nick said.

"What's a Sweet Nick?" Wade asked.

"Secret ingredients, recipe by me," Nick said. "Made only by Jimmy, only at my request."

"It's good," Wade said.

"Come on, Nick, order me one," Lisa teased.

"Later. I'm heading home. You want to come?"

Nick was looking at Wade.

"Let's stop at my place first," Lisa said.

"No, thanks," Nick said. "Wade and I have shop talk. See you later." He kissed her cheek and gestured for Wade to follow him.

Wade was bisexual. He knew it. He'd learned early on that there were several paths to success. A few of them included performing sexual favors. Wade preferred to promote his talent, not to sell his body. To make things easier for himself, careerwise, he played it straight. If men thought that he was straight, they were, he believed, less likely to try to exchange sex for work. When women tried to play the game, he feigned confusion. That way, they thought that he was stupid, but they weren't as insulted as if he'd turned them down blindly, and he did less damage to his career in the long run.

Therefore, except for a few groping exchanges years ago, Wade's sexual experience with men had reached its high peak when he'd watched JC change clothes.

Until now.

When Nick licked sweat from his temple, ran fingers around the shell of his ear, and said, "Do you fuck men?"

"Yeah." In theory, yes. In practice, no. But he was willing to learn.

"I always wanted to try it. Are you clean?"

In the back of a taxi? "Yeah."

"When we get to my place, you want to fuck my ass?"

"Yeah."

"How big is your dick?"

How was he supposed to answer that? Oh, shit. He didn't have to answer. Wade closed his eyes and prayed that the cabdriver was not looking. This stuff never happened with *NSYNC.

"Do you use condoms, or do you want to ride me raw?"

Oh, god. Wade tried to relax now that Nick's hand was out of his pants. "I want to...I want..."

"What?" Nick asked, close and masculine and sexual and giving off heat and pheremones like...

"I want to choreograph your shows." Wade met Nick's eyes.

"I've seen your work," Nick said. "I know who you are. You're good."

Wade wanted to go back to the "ride me raw" portion of this conversation, but he wasn't sure how to reintroduce that idea. "I've seen your work, too."

"You want to work for - - sorry, with - - *NSYNC and us at the same time?"

"If I can."

"You can't. Stop the car." Nick tapped the glass.

What?

"Let me know when you're serious." Nick got out of the cab.

Wade's mind went blank.

The cabdriver turned and looked at him. "What about you?"

He didn't know.

He'd been with *NSYNC for a while now. They worked well together. He knew them, was friends with them, he'd even written with Justin and stood in for Joey.

The Backstreet Boys, it seemed, were sociopaths.

Nick had co-written "Shining Star." Oh. Lisa was a suck-up.

Wade spent long hours in the studio, working new routines for the guys.

Standing in the produce section, selecting apples, Wade sang to himself. "All I wanna be is a pop star, pop star..."

A blond teenager, alone in a studio, danced, spun, and laughed.

Wade watched it again, again, again.

"I'm a dancer."

Nick gave AJ a list of questions he needed answered.

AJ talked with Joey.

AJ called Nick.

Nick smiled.

Wade eased himself into a split, then lowered his chest to the floor.

"You're going to pull something," Nick said.

Wade almost did pull something, shooting to his feet.

Nick wandered into the studio. "How's it going?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Checking out the competition. I hear you're working the new choreography for In the Kitchen Sink's new show."

"Yes."

"Let me guess. You're borrowing from the great dance traditions of the Macarena and the funky chicken."

"No, I'd hate to borrow your best moves," Wade said.

"Word on the street is, you're straight."

"I thought you were straight, too, until you grabbed my dick."

"I like to try new things."

"How's Lisa?"

"Pissed. I walked out on her for someone who works with *NSYNC. I'm still not ordering her a Sweet Nick. She can get over it. So." Nick faced Wade. "You and Timba Timba Timbamotherfucker are pretty tight."

"Justin and I are friends."

"You're limber," Nick said. "Women must love that."

Now that was a non sequitur.

"Are you really straight?"

"Are you?"

"Asked you first," Nick said with a teasing smile.

"I've never been with a guy." He didn't think that his limited experience counted in Nick's world.

"I've never been wtih a guy, either," Nick said. "I always wanted to. I like Lisa because she fucks me with her finger."

Wade tried not to freak.

"I'd like to fuck you with my tongue."

Wade was not going to panic. "You're disturbed. Get the hell away from me."

"Do you want to work for us?"

"Not anymore."

"Why not?"

"I prefer to work with sane human beings."

"I'm not sane or human?"

"Not from what I've seen."

"You ain't seen nothing yet," Nick said.

"You owe me cab fare," Wade added.

Nick smiled. "Let me make it up to you."

"No, thanks."

"I'll drive you home."

"No, thanks."

"I know where you live."

"I'm going to move."

"Afraid to get in a car with me?"

"After last time? Yes."

"Your prick felt good in my hand. I've always wanted to touch another guy."

"Get another boyfriend," Wade advised.

"Come on. I'll drive you home."

"No."

"I'll give you a blow job."

"I don't want to get anywhere near your mouth."

"I'll only bite a little."

"That's a great pick-up line."

"Thanks."

"I have a strong urge to call the police."

"I have an urge, too. Want to hear about it?"

"No."

Nick kissed him. Lots of tongue, hand on his ass.

Wade tried to catch his breath.

"Come on," Nick said. "I'll drive you home."

"Why?"

"So I can suck your prick."

"Why?"

"So you'll fall in love with me and drop *NSYNC and come to work for us."

"Can't you just hire me?"

"This is more fun."

"No, it's not. Nick, come on. I don't want you in my apartment and I don't want to have sex with you and being alone with you makes me nervous."

"You kissed me back."

"It was a good kiss."

"You want me."

"I can live with that."

Nick looked at him.

Wade waited. What?

"I'm tired of playing," Nick said.

"Good."

Nick left.

Good. At least, Wade hoped so.

When Wade got home, half an hour later, Nick was leaning against the wall outside of his apartment. "Took you long enough."

Wade stared. "What are you doing here?"

"What do you think?"

"If I call security, your reputation is in trouble."

"You invited me here."

"I did not."

"What would Justin think if he knew you asked me to your place?"

"Justin knows you're a jerk. He'll believe me when I tell him you're also a nutcase."

"I bet I could fuck you on your back with no trouble. What other positions do you want to try?"

"Forget security, I'm calling the police if you're not out of here in-"

"I have a key."

"What?"

"I have a key. To your apartment."

"You do not."

"Yes, I do."

"Then why are you out here and not in there?"

"I didn't want to scare you too much this first time."

"First time?"

"You're too much for a one-night stand. I could get a lot of use out of you."

"You're certifiable."

Nick shrugged and unlocked Wade's door.

"What are you doing?!"

"Sshh, you'll upset the neighbors." Nick let himself into Wade's apartment.

Wade stared at the open doorway. This was his apartment. This was his building. He lived here. He was sure of it. He edged inside and reached for the cell phone. Clutching it, he closed the door and dropped his bag. "Nick?"

"What?" came the response from the next room.

Shit. He was in the bedroom. Wade turned on the phone and walked in that direction. "How did you get a key to my apartment?"

"You gave Justin one."

"That was months ago. What-"

"I stole it. Someone stole it for me." Barefoot, stripped out of his shirt, Nick stretched himself out over Wade's unmade bed. He scratched his stomach and opened his fly. "I'll give it back when I'm finished."

"Finished?"

"With you."

"Finished doing what with me?"

Nick smiled.

Nick slept.

Wade stared at the ceiling some more. Then he went to go wash the cum out of his hair.

Wade's world had narrowed. He worked out, he danced his ass off, he did his job. And he spent his free time building choreography for the Backstreet Boys. He turned down an invitation to go clubbing with Justin because he wasn't satisfied with the footwork for "The Call."

The Backstreet Boys already had choreography for these songs. There was no chance they'd relearn their entire show. He was wasting his time.

But Nick came over again, and they spent two hours discussing his routines before Nick fucked him.

It was hot, it was rough, it was hard. It was fucking. Nick came over at least twice a week, talking about choreography for a few hours, approving of his ideas, learning some steps. And then Nick took him to bed.

Wade did not for one second believe that Nick had never been with a man. He also didn't believe that Nick had a soul, but that was a different matter.

He said no a few times. He wasn't sure whether he meant it or not. It didn't seem to matter; Nick went ahead anyway. He didn't try to stop Nick. He said no, and he begged Nick, and he begged God, and he kept himself from crying.

Mostly.

His body was familiar with hard use, and didn't protest his new experiences much at all. Usually when Nick fucked him, he'd been dancing, anyway, so he was stretched out and warmed up.

Nick was sweat and semen, sex and power. Wade didn't want to escape. He never had.

Wade backed out of his contract with *NSYNC only weeks before the tour began. He waited for a lawsuit, but nothing came, and he signed on with the Backstreet Boys.

He learned that WEG had, in fact, been ready to sue, but Nick had intervened and cut a deal. Wade only heard about it years later when he ran into Lance at the Grammys.

Nick let him carry the Grammy home.

He licked Nick's cum off of it.

matthew@matthewtime.com
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