Disclaimer: It’s not real, yo.
 

He had been 14 that first time.

Even now, eight years later, he remembered that it had been a sunny day. He could still picture the faces of his three friends-since-forever--Mike, Ben, and John--bathed in sunlight. He could still see their taunting smirks, the rolling eyes. He could still hear their words of scorn echo in his head.

"Show us those jazz hands," Mike had said. "Spread those fingers, Bass."

"Don’t you mean ‘spread those legs?’" Ben had laughed and made an inarticulate gesture at his own crotch.

"You’re becoming a goddamn girl," John had said. Then he’d done a weak imitation of what Lance did on stage every weekend. Ben and Mike had laughed. Lance had growled: "I’m not a flipping girl."

It had begun there, on the cracked pavement of that parking lot in front of the local convenience store. There had been words: a mocking "prove it," from Ben and then Mike telling him what to do. And there had been actions: John accompanying him into the air-conditioned store to make sure he completed all aspects of the dare.

All he had to do was stick the candy bar in his pocket and walk out of the store. And because he was a _man_ and not a _girl_ he had done the task with little more than a blink of uncertainty.

Oh it had been exhilarating that first time: a rush of adrenaline like none he’d felt before or since. The power and freedom he’d felt as the door closed behind him had been immense, and they had only been sweetened by the taste of the candy he’d soon put in to his mouth.

The only rush he’d experienced since that day, until now, that had even slightly compared, was when he’d gotten drunk off of stolen swallows of his father’s vodka. The memory of the bitter liquor had turned to sugar in his throat when Stacy was blamed for the watered down mess that resulted from his attempts at covering up the crime. She had tried to tell his parents that it had been _him_ stumbling around drunk off of the alcohol, but her grounding had merely been extended for lying on top of drinking.

They were a good family, his mother had always said.

And boy, was he good. No one ever suspected him for anything. Not his father. Not his mother. And it was simply because he was _James Bass_.  He sang in a musical performance group thing and did show tunes for crying out loud.

He was innocent.

When he’d joined ‘N SYNC it had been a given. He was shy. He was quiet. And his mother traveled on the road with them for-flipping-ever. Those three things added together to spell ‘innocence.’ In the public eye he’d let the image evolve slowly. First, he was the gangly teenager that smiled too much and had stupid hair. And then he’d become known as the nice one. That was what the guys had said in their interviews. It became common knowledge that he was the peacemaker of the group. He was generally non-confrontational, always fighting for what he believed in his own subtle way. An iron mouse, so to speak.

Mice, except when they were eating the food in your kitchen, or in this case, stealing the food from the supermarket, were innocent.

And criminals didn’t solve other peoples’ problems--they caused them. He had never caused a problem in his life. Except for the increase in disappearing candy bars, and later sodas, and then cigarettes, and now--

"Yo, Scoop." Justin’s voice came through the thin folding door of the bus bathroom. "You flushin’ yo stash, man?" He laughed at his own joke.

Lance thought it was ironic that out of the entire group it was Justin, the virgin who’d never smoked pot and rarely touched alcohol, that chose to sound like he was from the ghetto, to sound like the _bad_ boy.

Lance met his own gaze in the spotted mirror of the bathroom— unwavering green meeting unwavering green. If the guys _only_ knew.

"I’ll be out in a minute," Lance said.

He flipped the thin, black velveteen covered box open, and looked at the necklace so delicately attached to the cardboard inside. He’d been picturing this particular piece of jewelry in his mind for months, ever since he’d gotten the challenge. It was beautiful: moderately sized diamonds linked together by their gold settings. He flipped the box closed, palmed it, and stuck his hand in the large front pocket of his khakis.

"Come on, dawg." Justin’s voice sounded slightly desperate. "You jerkin’ off or something, yo?"

"I’m out, _yo,_" Lance said. He opened the door to the bathroom, folding it into its crevice. "It’s all yours _dawg._"

Justin rolled his eyes. "You do shit home talk, yo."

Lance crinkled his nose up slightly as he smiled. "I’ll just have to keep practicing then, cause I want to be _bad_ like you, baby." He lay a hand on Justin’s shoulder and pouted his lips in what he hoped was a sultry expression.

"Eeww," Justin said. He stepped quickly into the bathroom, pulling the door shut between himself and Lance. Lance could hear the laughter behind the door.

Lance walked down the aisle of the bus, his green eyes dancing. Oh, yeah. If the guys _only_ knew.
 
 
 

Lance got a lot of sex. Justin was sure of it.

Back when they’d first started out in Europe, when Lance’s mother had accompanied them everywhere they went, Lance had been the good boy: he never swore, he had four glasses of milk a day, and he always ate his vegetables.

And after his mother returned to the States he was still the same nice, if somewhat dorky guy they’d come to grudgingly love. He still didn’t swear much. He still drank his milk and ate his vegetables.

"It helps me keep up with you guys," Lance had said on more than one occasion. Then he’d laughed. "I need my energy."

Justin knew he needed the energy for other things though. Things like sex.

Lance’s mother had been gone for about a week when the late night visits started. They were always nice looking people, both guys and girls, but Justin didn’t like them. He said it was because they just seemed to be a smidge on the seedy side. Most of them didn’t seem to be much older than Lance. Some of them were.

Later, Justin remembered being envious because hey, Lance wasn’t the _cute_ one, and what sixteen-year old male wasn’t envious that his friend was getting some and he wasn’t. Okay, getting a _lot_ when he wasn’t getting _any._ Lance had been the stupid looking one: all arms and legs and mousy brown hair bleached blond. But when the people left his room a few hours later, Lance had always walked them to the door, a self-satisfied grin on his face--with a matching one on the face of whomever he was escorting out--and eyes that danced in the dim hotel light.

It had made Justin sick.

Justin hadn’t wanted to believe that Lance was getting a lot of sex. First because Lance wasn’t that good looking, and then because Lance was the innocent one; the one who’d never seen a condom before Joey had showed him the three he kept in his wallet at all times. And Lance was shy, and didn’t talk or flirt or dance with people in the clubs they went to. If that was what it took, Joey should have been getting laid every hour of every day and night.

It didn’t take long before the other guys came to the same decision Justin had, something he knew because they’d talked about it one night while Lance was holed up in his room with the latest man--a thirty-something.

From that point on, because they didn’t want to believe it, they’d all tried to get Lance to admit to what he was doing behind those closed doors (Lance never said _anything,_ just smiled, blushed, and shook his head) but none of them had been successful. Chris had increased his number of snide comments hoping to finally push Lance over the edge. JC always cocked his head and stared at Lance in a disappointed fashion. And he’d searched Lance’s room for condom wrappers--he’d never found any. Joey had scoffed, rolled his eyes, and spent more time with Lance hoping that maybe, possibly, some of whatever charm Lance had would rub off on him. Joey hadn’t admitted to that; he’d always said that it was because Lance was a cool guy, but Justin knew better. Lance? Cool? That had been a joke. But then, when they got back to the states and the late night visits continued, the people had gotten better looking. And Lance had gotten better looking. And Justin had begun to think that possibly there was a coolness there that he hadn’t seen before.

They were in Europe still, Justin remembered, when the guys had decided that they needed final confirmation as to their suspicions. Joey had dared him to interrupt Lance, and because Chris had made it a double dare and made degrading comments about his masculinity, Justin had agreed.

He’d knocked on Lance’s door early the next morning about two hours after the latest woman had entered the room. He’d been hoping that the woman would leave, and he wouldn’t have to go through with the dare, ‘cause if the woman wasn’t there, he couldn’t interrupt them. And he’d knocked. He’d listened closely for, well, _anything_ and he’d heard some rustling of fabric, a clicking sound, and a muffled curse. He’d knocked again.

"Hold on!" That had been Lance’s voice: hurried, rushed, guilty.

Justin had swallowed, unsure of what he was going to say when Lance opened the door.

"Be right there." Lance’s voice had come through the door again.

Justin had shoved his fingers into the pockets of his jeans and tugged his lip in between his teeth.

The door had opened and Lance had stood there, face flushed, bleach blond hair mussed from someone’s fingers running through it. His clothes appeared to be on straight, which confused Justin, but his hand was in his pocket, cupping something.

"What’s up?" Lance had asked when Justin didn’t say anything.

"I—" Justin had swallowed again. He looked behind Lance, to the woman sitting on the hotel bed-- all blond, legs, and fully clothed in a short skirt with high heels. She was fiddling with the clasp of her purse.  "I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company."

"It’s okay," Lance had said. He had looked over his shoulder, and then back at Justin.  He smiled an easy, practiced smile. Not like any smile Justin had seen on him before. "We weren’t doing anything important. What do you need?"

Justin had looked down at the pumpkin colored hotel carpeting, and had proceeded to dig the toe of his shoe into the soft yarn loops. "No," he’d said softly. "I’ll see you at breakfast."

"Okay," Lance had said. He’d looked at Justin with an odd expression before shutting the door of the room.

And that had been how Justin, and thus the rest of the guys, knew Lance was getting a lot of sex. Because Lance was flushed when he opened the door. Slightly sweaty. Because he’d had a beautiful, somewhat flustered woman on his bed. Because he’d said it was nothing important.

And Justin had made a vow, right then and there, before reporting his findings back to the guys, that he was never going to have sex until he was sure it would mean something to him. He refused to believe that sex was nothing important.
 
 
 

It had been two days before his audition with ‘N SYNC that Mike had let himself into Lance’s room, hands completely encased in the pockets of his dirty blue jeans, and face hidden in the shadow of the gray sweatshirt hood.

"I need help, man," Mike had said. He’d rubbed the toe of his sneaker on the carpet, leaving a small smudge of mud on the white threads. "You gotta help me."

Lance had looked at Mike, and then at the suitcases sitting at the foot of his bed. "You in trouble?"

Mike had shifted his weight and nodded. "This is bigger than a candy bar, man, but you’re good at that, and I need someone who’ll be good."

"What," Lance had said. It hadn’t been a question.

Mike had pulled a transparent plastic baggie tied with a twist-tie out of the front pocket of his sweatshirt. "I need you to get rid of this for me while you’re in Florida. I have a name."

Lance had pinched an edge of the baggie between his thumb and index finger and held it to his face so that his pale green eyes could inspect the contents.

"Shit," Lance had said.

"Will you do it?" Mike had asked. "I have a name. I just need the money. And if I sell it here, it’ll be traced."

Lance could still remember the way the baggie with the heavy gold necklace had felt resting in the palm of his hand. "Where’d you get it?" he’d asked.

"Nowhere," Mike said. "You don’t want to know."

Lance had nodded and felt the familiar surge of adrenaline flush through his veins. It wasn’t quite as strong as the feeling after the first candy bar he’d jacked, but it far outweighed any feeling since. "What’s the name?"

And that was how Lance had hooked up with Darren. It had been a brief meeting--he’d only had so much time he could find to get away from his mother--something in the alley behind a coffee shop in downtown Orlando. He’d handed over the necklace and Darren had handed him 800 dollars.

"Be sure to keep some for yourself, kid," Darren had said. "Something for your trouble."

Lance had nodded, green eyes wide. "Oh yeah," he’d said. "I plan on it."
 
 
 

JC had always known that Lance was the business minded one of the group. At first he hadn’t liked it because he, JC, was older, and he was the lead singer, and he wanted to be in charge of the business side of ‘N SYNC because he was anal like that.

He’d said it with pride: "I’m anal like that."

Lance had shown too many teeth in his smile, and had nodded his head just slightly too enthusiastically when JC had told him that.

But after awhile, when their schedules had become too hectic for him to keep it all straight in his sometimes drug addled mind, JC had let Lance take over.

JC knew Lance was good at business because he always had the newest stuff, the most recently released electronic equipment, and even when times had been tough, Lance had always had money to spare.

"Good investments," Lance had always said, his face strained to the limit by a smile. "I’ll recommend my stock broker."

But the other guys hadn’t wanted to invest in stocks. They were in the group to sing, not to make money. Well, maybe make a little money.

Sometime in the middle of their first US tour, Lance had bought an Armani suit and had started to go to meetings. "With executives," he’d said. "I’m thinking of starting my own company. _Free_Lance. My mom came up with the name." He’d crinkled his nose as he smiled. He’d bought a briefcase too, but JC figured it was just to make himself look important because he’d looked in it one time and only seen balls of crumpled up newspaper.

JC had watched Lance start his company, and it had really been that which motivated the rest of the guys to get off their asses and do something useful and beneficial to society. No one had been sure where Lance had gotten his start up capital, but before any of them had known it, Freelance Enterprises had been up and running with two people to represent. One was Meredith, a girl who had been in that musical performance group thing with Lance. The other was a model guy who had shown up at several of their hotels over the past two years: first in Europe, and later, back in the States.

JC had been pretty sure that the model guy and Lance were screwing, but he was open-minded, and he hadn’t cared. He’d watched Justin care though, and that hurt.

"How can he do that?" Justin had asked on more than one occasion when the model guy and Lance were holed up in a hotel room for hours. "How can he not care about who he sleeps with? That guy could have slept with Europe for all we know."

"Probably did," Chris had remarked snidely.

None of them had liked the model guy, and none of them had been upset when Lance had announced he’d decided to focus his fledgling company solely on music.

"Darren will be missed," Joey had said, but he’d been laughing, and Justin had been doing a victory sign--arms akimbo--behind Lance’s head.

It was after Darren left that Lance seemed to really throw himself into all aspects of his business. He always had a Wall Street Journal under his arm, his nose stuck in a Forbes, and a stack of rare coin and jewelry magazines by his side.

"I need a new hobby," Lance had said when Chris had questioned him about the circled rings and necklaces, and the limited edition gold penny with the red ‘x’ through it. The magazines had disappeared though, and the rest of the guys never heard anything about jewelry from Lance again.

Later, JC wished that maybe he’d listened to Lance’s suggestion, and found a good stockbroker.
 
 
 

Darren had called him during that first week in Europe. "I need a drop off point," he’d said. "Just a place where the shit can change hands safely."

"I’m in Europe," Lance had said.

"I’m going global," Darren had said. Lance could almost picture him flipping his long hair and rolling his eyes. "More money that way."

"What’s my cut?" Lance had asked. "What do I get for my trouble?"

Darren had laughed and told Lance that he was learning.

And Lance had learned.

He’d enjoyed the curious looks from the rest of the group when people started showing up to see him in the middle of the night, and then the confused questions trying to figure out what he did behind those closed doors. It had been part of the deal that the drop-off/ pickup people would stay for a few hours, until the first doorman’s shift had ended, and the second took over, and then leave. He’d talked to them during those hours they spent in his room. He’d learned about them, about technique, about the biggest jobs they’d pulled, and how they’d accomplished it. He’d begun making contacts.

"Networking is the key to success," he’d told the rest of the guys when they’d been curious about all the meetings he went to. "That’s what gets you places in life."

And slowly, slowly but surely, Lance had built connections in every country he’d visited. And the people had come to know him. His name _James B_ was making the circuits. He was discreet, he’d heard people say. He was going to go someplace. He could be trusted.

He’d signed Darren onto his company because Darren knew big people. He had to if he had planned on going global. And Lance had met those people, getting Darren a few modeling jobs along the way, and he’d built more connections, made more ‘friends.’

So, when Darren had wanted him to do the same old lackey job on the No Strings Attached tour, merely be a drop off place for the normal five grand, he’d told the older man where he could shove the jewels he’d been counting on getting.

"It’s me now," Lance had told Darren the last time the man had shown up at his hotel. He’d wrinkled his nose as he smiled. "I’m going global."
 
 
 

Joey had always wanted to be in a movie. He’d wanted it more than being a singer. He’d wanted it more than beating the crap out of Backstreet’s first week sales record. He’d wanted it more than getting a number one hit single on the Billboard Charts.

He’d been working on a screenplay for weeks, writing, erasing, and knowing that it was never going to get produced. He was reluctant to let the other guys see it because he knew they’d laugh--it was a romance after all.

But Lance had nagged at him until Joey couldn’t say no anymore. He’d handed over the typed pages with a shaking hand and retreated to the back of the bus so that he wouldn’t have to watch Lance laugh at him.

Three hours later Lance had plopped onto the couch next to him and handed the screenplay back to him.

"I like it," he’d said. "I want to make your movie."

Joey had furrowed his eyebrows, not quite understanding what he had been hearing. "You what?"

"I’ve got some money," Lance had said. "And I should have some more coming in. I know other people who would be willing to finance, too. I want us to make your movie."

Joey had opened and closed his mouth a few times before proudly declaring Lance his new best friend.

"You start getting actors," Lance had said as he stood up. "Get the best you can. Don’t worry about the funds."

Later, Joey realized he should have seen the inevitable end result coming just from that conversation. He hadn’t, though, because sometimes its very hard to see what’s right under your nose.
 
 
 

It seemed to Lance that he always had a cellphone pressed to his ear nowadays. His right cheek almost bore a permanent indentation from the plastic number pad on his phone.

It always seemed like he was saying to the guys, "hold on, I’ve just got to take this call," before running out of the room so he could discuss his business--his real business--in private.

He often wondered if the others suspected anything. He’d almost seen something click in Joey’s head when he’d offered unlimited funding for the movie, but not quite.

Images took a long time to die, Lance decided. He swore, was commonly referred to as ‘bitch’ by the rest of the guys, and he was still considered the nice one. Of course, it was better that way.

And he was nice. He wanted to do nice things for the rest of the guys like make Joey’s movie, or tell all his connections to request FuMan Skeeto clothing. Which they had done, because he’d told them to.

Images took a long time to build, too. He’d pushed for ‘N SYNC to do a world tour because he wanted to strengthen his overseas connections, and make sure that they swore allegiance to him and not to Darren, but the rest of the guys had nixed the idea.

"Home be where it at, yo," Justin had said during the argument.

The rest of the guys had agreed and so ‘N SYNC had stayed at home, on the wrong side of both oceans as far as Lance was concerned, and he was forced to build overseas business relationships over the phone. Being nice made friends in the business, but it didn’t guarantee loyalty.

It was a risky business.

It was the fact that he was nice that had helped him build his world after the separation from Darren. It was because he was nice that people preferred to deal with him. He’d discovered his true talent in life as the connection maker. He was the liaison between sophisticated criminal--no petty crook for him--and buyer. His job was the same as it had been under Darren, but now he was the one giving other people their cuts. And he was making more money than Darren had hoped for in his wildest dreams.

Later, he would be asked why he’d done it. He’d say that it wasn’t for money, or power, but simply for the rush that he got holding a stolen piece in his hands, seeing the illegal glow of light reflected through precious stone. They’d ask why ‘N SYNC wasn’t enough of a rush--the fans, the stage, the fame--and he’d be forced to shrug.

"You were at the top of the world," they’d say.

"It was just something I had to do," Lance would reply. "That’s it. I was bored, and it was fun."

It was the boredom that led to his downfall.
 
 
 

Chris had always felt bad whenever he’d said that he hadn’t liked Lance when the group had first formed, but it was the truth, and Chris believed in always telling the truth. He’d laugh immediately afterwards, though, and clap Lance on the back, letting the younger man know that all dislike had long since faded.

He’d liked Lance before their first round of legal troubles, but it was the lawsuit that made him love the kid. Lance had been so strong, so on top of it, so knowledgeable about the whole legal process. He had become fast-friends with the hotshot lawyers The Firm had provided, and Chris was pretty sure that Lance still spoke to them on a regular basis. For what, Chris had no clue.

He’d asked Lance once, and that blond had replied: "I told you. Connections."

Lance had always been an enigma to Chris. He was kind, and quiet, and knew more people than the rest of the members of ‘N SYNC combined. He kept odd hours and always seemed to be talking in hushed tones over the phone.

And he collected magazines about jewelry, something that Chris really hadn’t understood, because he never saw Lance with more jewelry than the wardrobe people gave him.

Although Lance had stopped leaving the magazines around, Chris had seen Lance stick an issue in his briefcase once, and while Lance was asleep, he had pulled it out. He’d been hoping to get some more of a clue about this man with whom he’d practically lived for four years, but all he’d seen was more circled pictures, and one--listed as one of the ten most beautiful jewelry pieces in the world--with a phone number scrawled next to it. That was the last time he’d been able to find any of the magazines.

In the months that followed the collapse of the world ‘N SYNC had built, Chris thought that he had probably been the first to notice the change from fun loving, happy Lance to tired, stressed out Lance. He wished he’d known more about the reasons why, but he wasn’t sure what he would have done with the information.

Because he believed in the truth, and the Lance he’d grown to love was nothing close to the truth.
 
 
 

Mike had called him early one morning asking for a meeting, and because Mike had been one of his early friends, and because Lance was a nice guy, he had agreed.

The man who had been escorted to his hotel room door was nothing like the teenager Lance remembered. He’d talked the same talk though. He’d had a plan, like he’d always had a plan. He’d had a buyer who would pay good money for the impossible to be accomplished. He’d made the dare, and because Lance was the _James B._ he’d accepted with little more than a blink of uncertainty.

It was the challenge, the fact that he was getting bored with the minor if profitable heists, that made him take the job. He’d made large, expensive jewels disappear, but never the ten most beautiful pieces of jewelry in the world as stated by Jewelry Today magazine.

He’d never done something that would make the name James B. world-renowned.

And, like everything he’d done, it had begun simply. The first piece was in Greece. It was in his hands a week after he’d contacted his person. The second was in London. That one took two weeks. That had been the point where speculation had begun that maybe these weren’t just random disappearances. The third had been in Russia. Lance had thought that that it would be among the most difficult to obtain, so he’d decided to strike before it was impossible to get the piece out of the country. That one had taken a month.

It had become the conventional wisdom that this was a calculated attempt by a single person to acquire all ten of the pieces. The world began to take notice.

"You almost wonder when he’s going to strike again," JC had said.

"Or where," Justin had said.

Lance had wanted to say Milan, but he’d managed to keep his mouth shut and turn the topic of conversation to something innocuous.

Milan had taken six weeks of careful planning, bribery, and charm. Things had begun to get a little hot after the ruby ring had disappeared, though, and Lance had made the decision to lay low for awhile.

He kept the pieces in his briefcase, and kept the briefcase with him constantly. When it wasn’t with him, he left it with Lonnie. He’d become edgy. He’d never held onto a piece for more than a few days before, and the longer he held onto the pieces, the more likely it was going to be that he could be traced.

The piece from Iraq arrived two months later, on his 22nd birthday, and the piece from Mexico City just a mere two weeks later.

"They haven’t caught the guy yet?" Joey had asked, his eyes wide. They’d all spent hours staring at the television, watching the destruction from the fire that had been set to cover the disappearance of the amber pendant.

"I’m sure he’s just laughing at the world right now," Chris had said. "Cause they’ve got no clue who he is."

Lance hadn’t been laughing, however. He hadn’t been sleeping. He’d been pushing his food around his plate. He’d smiled though, and said that it as just a bug he’d caught.

The seventh came from South Africa in a box of imported chocolates three months later. It was a necklace of heavy gold links set with native stones. Lance had thought that it was ugly in the magazine, but when he’d held it, the weight so real in his hands, he’d decided that maybe it was beautiful in it’s own way. He’d wrapped it in newspaper and shared the chocolates with the rest of the guys.

This time the candy did nothing to sweeten the bitter taste in his mouth.

The eighth piece came from Ireland--Dublin, to be specific. It was a kilt pin inlayed with emeralds. If one looked closely the silver had small pictures etched on it. He’d been feeling daring the week it had arrived in the mail, and he’d worn it on the inside of his coat, almost begging someone to ask him where he got it.

Two weeks before his half birthday the ninth piece arrived. It was the one he’d found to be the most appealing out of the entire set. It was simply elegant: diamonds linked together by their gold settings. It had arrived in a box of condoms that he quickly ditched in the bathroom wastebasket. He’d only dared a glance at the necklace before Justin had knocked on the flimsy door with his ‘yo’ and ‘dawg’ talk. He’d stuck the velveteen-covered box in his pocket, and opened the door. He’d almost wished that Justin knew what was in his pocket as he walked down the aisle of the moving bus.

He got to his bunk and transferred the necklace to the briefcase. He locked it, and swallowed harshly. Nine down, one more to go. He was that close to pulling off the impossible.

Mike called him two nights later.

"I just saw the news," he said. The tenth one had disappeared an hour before from a private residence in New England. "Good job, Bass. I’m impressed."

"I’m the best," Lance said.

"Cocky," Mike said. "I like that."

"Unlike you, I have something to be cocky about," Lance said. "I’m good, Mike. That’s why you came to me."

"Yeah," Mike said softly. He sounded almost resigned. "Yeah, that’s why I came to you."

Lance hung up the phone feeling slightly confused, but the tenth piece was arriving at his hotel in an hour and he didn’t have time to worry.

And he didn’t worry until Mike showed up to collect the pieces the next morning, followed by fifteen armed policemen instead of the five million dollars he’d promised.

"I’m sorry," Mike said as he unfolded his FBI badge. "God, James, you couldn’t have said no. You had to achieve the impossible, didn’t you?"

Lance nodded dumbly as his hands were cuffed behind his back, the steel cold against his wrists.

"Why couldn’t you just stick with candy bars?" Mike continued.

Lance’s pale green eyes flashed for the last time. "You were the one who pushed me to the next level, remember?"

"I’m sorry," Mike said again before turning and walking out the door.

Chris, Joey, Justin, and JC stared in shock as the quiet, shy, innocent Lance was led out the door.

"I’m sorry," Lance said before he left the room. Those were the last words he spoke to them.
 
 
 

The trial was fast, the end of ‘N SYNC faster.

JC tried to be positive, thinking that really they should thank Lance, because if it hadn’t been for his encouragement to develop connections outside of ‘N SYNC, all of them would have been washed up rock stars with nothing but their name to see them through.

Chris wanted to hate Lance, like he had in the beginning, but even though the younger man had ended ‘N SYNC, and even though he’d been living a lie the entire time the group was together, Chris couldn’t.

Joey, having had one movie made, decided to write a screenplay about their experiences. "It’ll be more than a made for TV movie," he said.

And Justin, well, he wished that Lance really had just been having a lot of sex.