Fucking shit!

      Fucking mission!

      Fucking cover!

      Fucking Job!

      *N Stink finally won the lawsuit. Apparently, while the Backstreet Boys didn't had enough reasons to prove that Pearlman hadn't earned his money, *N Stink had. So the guys can be happy that the story of how the group was formed has been repeated a thousand times, and every time it always begins with 'It was Chris' idea'. And I can be thankful that no one asked too closely about how the rest of the members came to the group, or my cover would be even more blown that what it's now.

      We're rehearsing for the tour. It's only a couple of weeks away, and I can't but feel I'm being watched 24 / 7. Which, in part, is true. We have M- fucking- TV following our every step because the group is doing a Making the Tour special to go with their 'HBO special' concert.

      Fuck! As if no one had already seen our faces a thousand times.

      When we went to the Fucking Rolling Stone magazine, I knew I
was a dead man. I know Scarpazzi reads that mag, I used to buy it to him back when my name was James Giordanni and I was trying to get into the family to find charges against him. I miss those times. But I know I'll never have that kind of jobs again.

      I don't even know if I will survive this mission. Since we started working on the stage – a hideous big thing that I cannot believe he said was cool – there have been some accidents. Once, we were rehearsing with Robson, and a crane almost fell right on top of him. Only the fact that he has really good reflexes saved him. There was a pyrotechnic explosion too near of him later on. Thankfully, none of those events were recorded by MTV.

      There have been more incidents, and Robson and I agree on something. Someone is trying to kill him. Someone knows who he is, and what's he doing there. It's the only way to explain why he was taken away from Spears and put with the 'expendable' group.

      I am sure that there's a fucking relationship between Robson's drug case and my own. I'm sure that Transcon has a mole on Jive. It's the only way to explain why the kids were accepted so easily.

      And that mole knows Robson is an FBI agent, and is trying to off him. He must be one of the 600 people who is around us all the time. One of the ones who fixed that hideous set.

      Shit. Timberlake and Kirkpatrick are waving at me. I have to smile, and become him again.

      I missed my last appointment with Vicks.

      I hate this fucking job.

* * *

"What do you think about JC and Lance, Joey?" Chris asked suddenly. They were sitting in the far end of the quiet room, where the MTV cameras couldn't enter, talking about everything and nothing, about the tour, about the way that Jhonny had managed to put everything they wanted on it… The question had come out of no where.

"What do you mean, what do I think about them?" Joey answered, frowning. He was playing with his Superman necklace, that he hadn't been wearing lately because the guys from MTV had complained that it reflected the light of the cameras. "You know what I think about them, they're our best friends."

"Sometimes I don't know what you're thinking, Joe." Chris said, and there was no smile in his voice, because it was true. "I meant, about them being together. Do you think it will… I don't know… hurt the group somehow?"

"That's a hard question, Chris." Joey sat up and walked towards the full lenght mirror, touching his reflection. "And I… well… I think, if they ever broke-up, there might be tension. Everyone would pick sides. But since you're JC's best friend, and Lance and I are such good friends, and Justin likes them both… I don't think that would hurt the group. If the press found out, however… that's a different story. But then, it depends on our fans. On how they take the news."

"So you don't think it was wrong that they started a relationship?" Something in Chris' voice made Joey turn around and look at his friend. Where usually Chris couldn't sit still for more than a minute, now he was in the same position as he had been when Joey left the coach. Watching Joey, waiting for an answer.

"Life is too short, Chris." He finally answered. "I think… I think I would've been mad if they didn't hook up. I mean, you knew Lance wanted JC, I knew JC wanted Lance… I'll take any disappointed fans instead of the sexual tension those two were developing!"

      They stayed silent for a long time on the empty room, until Joey apparently couldn't take more silence and walked towards the stereo, turning it on so the first notes of "Digital Getdown" could be heard. They almost didn't rehearsed that one back at the Compound, since the convertible belts were a must for it. But Joey loved it. It was the only thing of the tour he could call his, and thus, had been rehearsing every single movement over and over, trying to make it perfect.

      After a few seconds, Chris joined in. During the latest choreographies, they were rarely together in the same side of the stage more than for a brief moment. Joey was backing JC's vocals, and Chris was providing the balance between Lance's and Justin's so there was no time for them to be together. But there were a few moments in Digital Getdown, a brief second here and there, were they were almost touching. And so, DG was becoming quickly one of Chris' favorites in the new set.

      As they danced, he fingered quietly the box he had on his jacket pocket. He had been carrying that box for almost a year now, ever since Joey had gone to Lou's office to demand that Chris was going to sing again his solo in 'I drive Myself Crazy'. Chris hadn't been around that time, but JC had, and JC told him on how Joey yelled at Lou, about Chris' voice, and Chris' talent, and the fact that without Chris there would be no 'fucking group for you to take their money away'. But when Chris had asked Joey, Joey had shrugged, smiled, and said JC was exaggerating.

      A week after that, Chris had seen it on a jewelry store, and bought it without a second thought.

      But he still didn't work the courage to give it to Joey, because Joey… was Joey. And there was no way of knowing what Joey was thinking or how would Joey react.

      Still, every day that passed, Chris would touch that box in his pocket, because he always carried it with him, and got more and more courage to do give it to Joey.

* * *

      My life is finished. My fucking life is over.

      I know that everyone thought I was a paranoid psycho, always believing that my cover would be blown. But, fuck that. It is.

      I should've known something was wrong after the last attempt against Robson's life didn't work. Timberlake was too nervous. Jumping at every sound the stage made, messing up simple steps that even Bass dominated by now.

      So Kirkpatrick and Chasez finally confronted the kid. Kirkpatrick because he's the oldest, Chasez because he is the kid's best friend. And Timberlake said that he had seen who messed up the wires, so Robson almost died electrocuted. That's why the kid was jumpy.

      Because he knew he was next.

      Robson and I contacted our bosses, and next morning, with the
MTV crowd gone, and only three days before the tour opened, we were surrounded by FBI agents posing as crew members.

      I know Kirkpatrick was nervous about it. So was I. But we were nervous for different reasons. He was afraid that someone would do something stupid. I was afraid because I couldn't be him in front of my former workmates. And I couldn't be me around the group.

      He doesn't let me be me around the group.

      Another little thing I never told Vicks. And now I've missed about five appointments with her, so I'm sure she has the fucking inform about my 'instability' situation finished and stamped.

      I guess a padded room will be as good as a fucking desk.

      The dress rehearsal was going good. We skipped the wires, because no one wanted to subject Kirkpatrick to more scares than necessary, and everything went perfect, without hitches, right until Timberlake's beatbox routine.

      When he got close to the public, in the transparent moving platform, I heard a click.

      Robson heard it too, and he and other two agents were running in the direction of the sound in no time.

      I yelled for Timberlake to run, and when he turned around, shocked and surprised, like a deer in the middle of the road, I made a run for it, covering him with my body just as one bullet passed by, barely missing my cheek and Justin's head. I pulled my own gun, not caring for the gasps of surprise from everyone, too busy trying to squint my eyes in the dark, to see the shooter.

      I heard Robson's clear voice, yelling for the man to surrender.

      It was one of the technicians working for the laser show, hired to kill Robson, and Timberlake because the kid had seen him.

      So it seems that Robson case is closed, because our bird will sing. But of course, we had to give some explanations to the group, to Wright. They needed to know the truth, in order to cover it with a good lie.

      We told them. We told them that I am an FBI agent, working undercover for the last four years. We told them that I am 28 years old. We told them that my name is Jonathan Barr.

      I had to see the shocked faces of the kids, as they realized all that I told them was fake. That my 'brother', was actually my contact with the bosses.

      I had to see him leave the room, his eyes dead.

      And then, then the bosses told me I had to stay, because my case wasn't closed.

* * *

"You lied to us."

"No. I was merely hiding the truth."

"Don't play games with me!"

"I wasn't trying to. Look, I'm not happier with this situation either…"

"So what? You would rather keep the lie?"

"I would rather have this case closed! You don't know how hard this has been to me! You don't know what I had to sacrifice! You don't know…"

"You're right! I don't know all that, because I don't know you! I thought I did, but the truth is that you're not the one I thought was my best friend!"

"It's not that simple…"

"What? Now you're going to tell me that those words you say weren't lies? That when we were alone you were not acting?! You can't fool me now, Agent Barr! I saw you in that meeting… And whoever the hell are you, you're not the one I called my friend!"

"You don't… You don't mean that. You know I couldn't tell you…"

"Why the fuck not? Were you afraid that I would blow your cover?! Shit, man… I thought… I thought you knew you could trust me."

"I…"

"No. That's wrong. My friend knew he could trust me. You… You can't."

"…"

"…"

"… Look… If it was up to me, I would leave. At least that way, things would be less awkward. But I have a job to do."

"Sure. Your job. I bet that's all you care about, right?"

"I know you don't like me, but…"

"You're right. I can't stand you. And you know why?! Because I fell in love with the man I thought you were!!"

-SLAM-

"…… Oh… fuck…"

* * *

      I haven't talked to him since then. I can't. And I cannot slip into my 'boyband' persona either. The others must have noticed,
because they keep me in the back for the pictures. They don't
talk to me anymore.

      Sure, in the stage, I'm still he. The fans are none the wiser. But things are different inside. I am no longer invited to their parties, or to clubs. I get the single room when we're in a hotel, and usually ride alone in the bus. I haven't seen Robson in a while, so I guess he's off to a new mission, a new drug cartel to break.

      I never thought I would miss the noise of the group around me.

      I never thought I would miss him.

      But I do. And now, the only times when I see him is when we're
on stage together. Or when we have an interview. But while touring, those are rare. So it's only the stage, were we practically never touch.

      We're in New Orleans now. I think. I can't remember, and I can't go ask the others. They wouldn't answer, and things would be… awkward.

      We go on the stage, get flung high in the air for the big entrance. I can't help but look at him, to see how is he doing. He seems fine. He isn't looking at me.

      No Strings Attached comes and goes. So does I want you back.
He still doesn't even spare a glance in my direction, and it hurts. Fuck. Why it hurts?

      God must have spend a little more time on you.

      Tearin' up my heart. And when we are behind the stage,
changing clothes, he ignores me. Timberlake, curiously, smiles shyly at me. I answer the smile, and I thing he's surprised to see I don't have my gun with me anymore.

      I hate that gun now.

      Timberlake does his routine, and we sing It's Gonna be Me. I can recite this concert in my sleep. We've done it a thousand times. I drive myself crazy, and Kirkpatrick sings his solo. His golden solo. And for the first time, I realize that the fight to get it back was worth it. I thought she knew, and my voice creaks. If the
fans notice it, I don't know, and I don't care. Just Got Paid. Kirkpatrick has another solo, albeit small. I have to dance with the fans, but there's something wrong, something I can't place my finger on.

      Space Cowboys, and my back hurts, really bad. I don't know why. It Makes me Ill, and I think I could just lie in the floor, not get up for the next song. We get closer to the public for This I Promise you, and the pain in my back is still there. I must have strained it or something. I lean a little closer to the edge, to wave at the fans, but it's hard to smile.

      My head hurts. I feel dizzy.

      And there, among the crowd, I see one of the blondes with whom I danced. She's smiling and waving… And next to her…

      Scarpazzi.

      Grinning.

      Something flashes in his hand. Long… pointy… A knife covered
with blood? How? How he managed to get that past security?

      My head is spinning, my legs are weak… I can't stand for much
longer… I turn to see Kirkpatrick, and he's not singing. He's frowning at me. I want to ask him what's wrong, but I'm too dizzy.

      I just want to lie down, and… close my eyes…

      I don't know if I closed them… But… I can't see… I hear…

      Many voices… But… one of them calls me…

      He's calling for me… For…

      For… Joey?…

      But…

      That isn't… my name…

      My name is…