anything he wants
//
"The girls over here are different." Justin twists the phone cord around his
hand and pulls it tight, until the tips of his fingers are taut and red and stinging.
"Different? How?"
Lance sounds bored, and Justin imagines him leaning back against the wall, his eyes
closed, cellphone tucked under his chin. There's no cord on Lance's phone, but an image of
slowly crawling up Lance's body to wrap a slick plastic noose around his neck flashes big
and bright in Justin's mind and he blinks once, twice, to clear his head. A rush of
adrenaline spikes through him, and he shudders through a shiversick twist in the pit of
his belly.
"I, uh. They just are."
"Right." For a long moment, there's nothing but Lance's steady breathing down
the line, then, "So, was there anything else?"
Ask me how the show went, you fucker, Justin thinks, but out loud he says,
"Not really. Just, y'know." Round and round he twines the cord, looping it
between thumb and index finger and back again, over and over. Thick, tacky plastic bites
and grabs at his flesh, until his hand is pale and swollen and throbbing. He hisses out a
breath from between teeth he's clenched so tight his jaw is aching.
"Justin--"
Don't make me ask. Don't make me ask.
Over and over in his head, like it will change things somehow, and it won't, he knows,
because they've danced this dance so many times, and Lance is always just that one step
ahead. He knows that Justin needs to ask, and Justin knows it too. No matter how much he
tries and wishes it away, it's still there. It's always there.
"One more time, Lance-- please." His voice wavers on the last word, and he hates
the way it sounds-- like he's begging somehow-- because he's Justin Fucking Timberlake and
he can have anyone he wants. He can have any girl he wants, any one of the soft-skinned
girls who line the foot of the stage, slick and sticky glossed mouths crying out his name,
reaching up to him with their pale, damp fingers. Sloe-eyed girls who'll do anything for
him, to him, let him say anything he wants for as long as it takes to spread their thighs.
Any one of them. Anything he wants.
Anything at all.
Lance sighs then, and Justin pretends not to hear it, won't let himself think that this
time might be the last. That next time Lance might not play along. Panic flares in his
belly, fever-hot and sudden, and he breathes through it, pulling air into his lungs to
ease the skittering in his chest. He lets the cord unwrap from around his hand, watching
the numb and swollen flesh slowly fill with colour as trapped blood starts to flow again.
"What's her name?" It's spoken so quietly Justin almost misses the words beneath
the blood drumming in his ears, and he has to swallow back a fierce-hot surge of acid. Finally,
he thinks, finally, his whole body thrumming with sick heat, and he moans softly as
he quickly presses the heel of his hand between his legs.
"Her name," Lance says again, and Justin jumps, biting hard into his lip to
focus. He glances down at the fan of blonde hair across the pillow beside him.
"Leah," he says softly, the word curving thick over his tongue, watching the way
her green eyes dart nervously back and forth above the cotton stretched taut across her
mouth, "she said her name is Leah."
"I want you to touch her stomach first," Lance says from a thousand miles away
as Justin closes his eyes and trails his fingers across the soft, warm skin he's imagining
is somebody else.
//
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