He stopped and looked at her, his eyes meeting hers. She parted her lips slightly and ran the tip of her tongue first along her upper lip, then the bottom. A sly grin appeared on his face, and it continued to grow when he realized rehearsal was almost over.
She blinked a few times to break the gaze, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment as Darren Henson's voice cut through her thoughts. "Morgan. Morgan, can you get us some water?"
Morgan shook her head gently, bringing her thoughts back to rehearsal and the choreographer's instructions. "Water? Sure, no problem." She and JC Chasez exchanged one last glance before walking out of the dance studio.
Morgan walked into the small kitchen area, which consisted of a refrigerator, microwave, and a table with chairs. She opened the fridge and removed six bottles of Poland Spring Water, mumbling under her breath, "All I ever do is get water. When am I gonna get to assist choreography?" They were paying her the wages, but she knew she?d gladly step down to be replaced by a good water fountain.
Kicking the refrigerator door shut with frustration, she sighed. She had thought she landed the opportunity of a lifetime. When she was just a struggling dancer in New York, an instructor at the Broadway Dance Center, Frank Hatchet, told her Darren Henson was looking for assistance while 'N Sync was touring. Frank set up a meeting, and Darren immediately asked Morgan Ramiccio to join the team. She thought she had finally arrived. Instead, she was the water girl. That's what she did; fetch water and cue music. Everyday she went to rehearsal in dance clothes, and had yet to step out onto the floor.
Morgan promptly returned to the studio and distributed the bottles to the six men. When she handed JC a bottle, his fingers brushed hers and electric currents ran through her body. Their eyes locked for a moment and they smiled at each other, secretly hoping no one noticed the exchange. They didn't.
A few minutes of silence passed, only the gulping of water and the slowing of breathing could be heard. Morgan looked down at her toes, raising her heels to stand on the balls of her feet, only to lower her heels back down to the floor. It was during these breaks of rehearsal that she felt the most uncomfortable, because she felt so useless and insignificant.
Darren ran the cold bottle across his forehead. "Ready to start again?" he asked the five, young men. They nodded their heads, set down their bottles, and got in formation on the dance floor. "Cue the music," the choreographer instructed Morgan. She nodded her head and hit the play button of the CD player.
Morgan leaned up against the mirror and slid down to the floor, watching the members of 'N Sync try to nail the choreography for the bridge of "Space Cowboy" for what seemed like the millionth time. "Doesn't Darren get it? It's not working. Instead of torturing the guys, why not just change the counts? After all, it's dancing, not rocket science," she rolled her eyes, thinking up the words, desperately wanting to say them. She would say them too, if he asked her to grab more water.
"Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop!" Darren's arms flew all over, signaling the group to cease all movements. "Guys, what is with you? You're a beat and a half behind and you're just going through the motions. It's supposed to be sharp. You've got to attack it!" He clapped his hands on the word "it" for emphasis. "Run through it again," he instructed the guys, nodding his head at Morgan for her to start the music again.
She stood and cued the music, but quickly turned it off when Darren held up his hand. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. "Darren Henson." He nodded his head a few times before addressing the guys. "I gotta? take this outside. Run through it a few more times with Morgan, and have it good to go when I get back."
They watched the choreographer walk out and then fixed their eyes on his assistant. "Ready?" she asked them, poised at the CD player. They nodded their heads in unison and she hit the play button. As they practiced the combination she looked down, counting the music and doing the moves in her head. She looked up to find the five young men staring at her, waiting for criticism. "How about we try something?" she said to them, walking out onto the dance floor and turning around so they could watch her move. "Instead of rushing through the transition, hold 5, head up on 6, pivot on 7, and pop on 8." She demonstrated the moves to the new counts. "What do you think?"
Chris Kirkpatrick tried the new counts. "Oh! That's much better! I don't feel so rushed." He brought the end of his T-shirt to his forehead, wiping off the beads of sweat.
One by one the rest of the group tried the altered choreography, finding it much easier to do and looking much cleaner as well. "Ready to try it with the music?" Morgan asked. She pressed play on the stereo and the guys once again attempted the choreography, this time nailing it. She nodded her head. "Looked great, guys."
"It felt great," JC lowly said, trying to get his breathing under control. She snuck a wink at him, wondering just how many secret jokes two people could share.
"What was that?" Darren's voice echoed through the dance studio, and six heads snapped in the choreographer's direction. His arms were crossed in front of his chest and his legs were shoulder-width apart in a stance of dominance.
Morgan's eyes widened in surprise. She swallowed, searching for her voice. "Um . . . the guys were having some difficulty with the transition. I thought if I changed the counts . . ."
"We asked her to," JC quickly interjected. He turned to look at his fellow bandmates, waiting for them to agree with him. Slowly they all nodded their heads, but their expressions clearly showed confusion at JC's sudden statement.
Darren surveyed the group before speaking. "I don't see why you're all having problems. It's not that hard . . . Tell you what. We'll try it a few more times my way. If you haven't gotten it by then, then you . . . you can do it Morgan's way." As if the words had left a bitter taste in his mouth, he quickly unscrewed the cap of his water bottle. In his attempt to take a quick swig, water found its way onto the front of his shirt and the floor. Disgusted, he sighed. "Morgan, get the music ready. Guys, watch me closely one last time, then you try it."
Darren got into position and Morgan played the music. He was really getting into it, not paying attention to where he was standing. "Darren! Watch out!" his assistant shouted. But it was too late. He stepped into the small puddle of water, and his legs slipped out from underneath him. He fell to the floor, lying in pain.
"Oh my God!" Morgan shouted, kneeling over Darren, the rest of the group standing behind her. "Don't move," she told the choreographer. "Lance, go call an ambulance," she instructed the singer, who quickly left the studio.
"That won't be necessary," Darren said, squeezing his eyes shut tight in pain. "I'm fine, really."
He started to sit up, but Morgan pushed him back down. "Don't move. You probably pulled a ligament with the way you came down."
"How do you know? You're not a doctor," Justin Timberlake said, wiping the sweat from his hairline onto his forearm.
"No, I'm dancer, which is the next best thing," the assistant responded. "They're gonna wanna x- ray you," she told the choreographer. She wore an expression of concern, but inside Morgan Ramiccio was giddy. If she was right and Darren did pull a ligament, he would be out of commission for at least two months. That meant two months of her being in charge.
"This way," Lance said, entering the studio, followed by two paramedics pushing a stretcher.
"What happened?" one paramedic asked as he and his partner lowered the stretcher so they could transfer Darren to it.
"He fell. Slipped in a puddle of water. The way he went down ... I think he might have pulled something, maybe even torn it." Morgan gently chewed on her bottom lip, hoping it would appear she was concerned when in reality she was trying to keep from smiling.
The paramedic nodded. "We're gonna move you Mr. Henson," he told the choreographer. He looked at his partner. "On the count of three. Ready? One, two, three!" The men moved Darren to the stretcher and then raised it. "We'll take him to the hospital and have him x-rayed."
"Guys," Darren addressed the group, "do the transition Morgan's way. Morgan," he addressed his assistant, "you're in charge now. Keep rehearsing with the guys." And with that, the paramedics wheeled him out of the studio.
Morgan turned to face the group, five sets of eyes looking at her expectantly. She drew in a sharp breath, feeling a stab of guilt. As much as she wanted her moment, her chance to shine, Darren didn't have to get hurt for it. She didn't want to have to benefit from his misfortune. "Uh ... why don't we run through the transition once or twice, and then you can go?" she suggested. She was suddenly feeling incredibly nervous.
An awkward atmosphere settled in the room as the group worked in silence. The guys didn't really feel comfortable under Morgan's direction, and truth be told, she really didn't feel comfortable being in charge. Usually she sat in rehearsal and relaxed, sneaking glances at JC. Now she had the group's undivided attention, and the newfound responsibility was making her shoulders tense. "That looks great, guys. Really," she said, nodding her head for emphasis. "Why don't we call it a day? We'll pick up where we left off tomorrow morning."
Four guys mumbled their agreements, picked up their towels and water bottles, and walked out of the room. Morgan's cell phone rang. JC lagged behind the guys, saying, "I'm going to stay after with Morgan to make sure everything's okay."
"Make sure you tell us what happens," Lance told him as he walked out of the room.
"Who was that?" JC asked as Morgan hung up the phone.
"Darren," she replied. "He's gonna be out of commission for at least two months. He's apprehensive about leaving me in charge, but he doesn't have much choice. He'll be calling in every day, checking out how things are going and giving me instructions. One slip and I went from Assistant Choreographer to Choreographer." She bit her bottom lip gently. Morgan Ramiccio, Choreographer. She liked the sound of that.
"Oh, so you're the choreographer now, huh?" A sly grin slowly appeared on JC's face. "Chief boss, head honcho, and the only one I have to answer to now?" He stood, staring at her intently, lips parted slightly as his breathing picked up a little.
Morgan grinned playfully. "Sorry, but I'm afraid tonight I'm someone else's chief boss, head honcho, and the only one he has to answer to."
"What? Going on another date with Mr. Big?" JC raised his eyebrows up and down a few times as he stepped towards her.
A flirtatious grin played on the corners of Morgan's lips. "I have to, you know, but I would go on a million dates with Mr. Big to sneak on the tour bus for a quickie, when you're all alone..." she whispered, gently tracing his jawline with her index finger.
JC's eyes grew as big as saucers and his jaw dropped. A small laugh escaped Morgan's lips. She leaned in and whispered in his ear, "I'll see you later." She gave him one last look before turning and walking out of the studio.
"Chris, have you seen the cargos I was wearing last night?" Justin barged into the bus, finding Chris on the sofa entranced in another book.
"Not now, Justin. I'm busy." Justin was shooed away from Chris' spot in the parked vehicle.
"Why you gotta' be reading books like that, Chris? They're just gonna' upset you like all the others." Upon being ignored, Justin shook his head and walked on to the front to search for his missing pants. He knew all too well about Kirkpatrick's love for a certain series of romance novels. Every book ended in such suspense and Chris was hooked; often, the entire entourage had to stop at Barnes and Nobles from city to city for many a tired eyed 'N Sync employee to get Chris the latest novel. He spent a fortune on the obsession, but more than anything he kept the others awake, shining a flashlight at all hours of the night, sobbing into his pillow when he thought no one could hear.
"Have you seen my cargos?" Justin asked Diana, the twenty-one-year-old aspiring fashion designer, but now wardrobe assistant, who was picking up abandoned dirty clothes strewn about the band's living quarters. "Diana, you don't have to wash our clothes," Justin offered after she shook her head to his question.
"You guys are busy and Tammy hasn't assigned me anything to do, today," she said of her boss. "It's the least I could do." She smiled, pouting her lips to show off the light pink Maybelline lipstick she'd undoubtedly stolen from Lance's secret stash. "On second thought, I might've already taken those cargos down to laundry. Those ones you wore last night--the ones that were really tight in the seat?" She tartly winked at him, making sure he knew she'd noticed.
"Um . . . yeah. You know, I didn't think they were that tight, though," his voice a few octaves higher than usual. "Did they look--?" he asked, suddenly concerned.
"Oh, you looked great. You don't have to worry, Timberlake; you have a fabulous ass." And with that, she took her basket of miscellaneous wife beaters and socks on out of the tour bus, leaving Justin alone, suddenly self conscious about his rear-end. Returning to the living area of the bus, Justin stopped, glancing sideways at the full-length mirror on the closet door. Peering at his reflection, he examined his posterior closely, before determining that it was, in fact, a fabulous one. Turning around, he checked for symmetry and overall good show by shaking it as if he were on the dance floor. "Not bad," he quietly concluded. It was when he smacked it, however, observing any flabbiness in sight, that Chris had had just about enough.
"Will you please stop doing that?!"
"What?!" Justin jumped at the sound of his bandmate's voice. He'd forgotten he wasn't alone. Little to no privacy on tour meant few occasions where Timberlake could really and truly examine his buttocks without being called on it.
"You keep looking at your ass! It looks the same as it always has; it didn't change, overnight!"
"Well excuse me! I was just curious as to--"
"It's distracting! Juliana and Lorenzo are about to make passionate love for the first time, and I can't even enjoy it, because you're over there looking at your bum like it suddenly grew a third cheek! And I'm sick of it, Jus--"
"OKAY!" Justin shouted, knowng Chris would not stop his angry spiel until he was out of the bus and Kirkpatrick could read about some Juliana chick gettin' it on in a stupid book. A really stupid book and Justin knew, because he'd gone through it to find all of the dirty parts with Joey. Not being able to resist getting the last word, Justin opened the door to the bus again, getting Chris' attention to yell, "OH, AND I'VE ALREADY READ THAT PART! She doesn't even do him then, anyway! Stupid virgin wuss crap."
"OUT!" Chris yelled, hurling an empty Coke can out the door in Justin's direction. Timberlake was already running, though, having anticipated the next move, and the door slammed back leaving Chris to collect his thoughts and miserably wonder why Juliana just couldn't have given her love to Lorenzo, in the manly ways he desired.
Lance stared, eyes glazed over at his laptop and checked the time. He'd been on much too long, but he hadn't really felt up to doing anything after rehearsal. Darren's injury frustrated him and he didn't really have faith that Morgan would really be able to handle the demands that were required with a production like their's. Lately, a lot of changes and problems were getting to him.
"People don't understand that I'm a busy guy. With the new artists I'm trying to produce and this tour, I am drained out," he typed an email to his best friend, Adam Blackwell. He usually ended up using Adam's inbox for a journal, but Adam never complained, so he rolled with it. "We should be in Mississippi within a month, so I'll make sure to meet up with you. How are things with you and Rhonda? Still engaged? :) I admire your commitment; I really do, Adam. We'll be in Hershey Park for a performance Friday. I'll get you some chocolate."
After clicking send, Lance, signed off and got up to sprawl out on his bunk. He yawned, deciding it was probably best to get some rest for now. Joey and Justin were out and once they got back, he knew they'd have him up with their talk. "I just need a break to get away for a while," he mumbled, eyes burning from being open for so long and muscles so heavy from the long rehearsal. A few slow, heavy breaths ensued and then Lance fell into a heavy slumber.
Clutching the worn paperback to his heart, Chris sniffled and let the tears roll. "She just couldn't tell him," he whimpered. "She just couldn't let Lorenzo know she loved him." Opening the book again, he read his favorite passage, one he'd dog-marked for further reading.
"Oh Lorenzo," she spoke, passionately.
"Hush, Juliana. Without you, I'm nothing. You never need to say any words, because our
hearts are one in the same. I know you, Juliana, and I always will." Her lips found his in a
rush of emotion and he held her to him, tightly, knowing that even if she couldn't find the
words, their love fires would remain burning many years to come.
Reading the prose broke Chris' heart again and he closed the novel, fresh tears gleaming in his eyes as he stared at the picture of Fabio, carrying an auburn-haired beauty in his arms, decoratively setting off the cover. Her Words Unspoken and His Sights Unseen, he read the title, sighing, running his fingers over the raised gold lettering. The bus door abruptly swung open and Joey appeared from behind it, getting a load of the used tissues that surrounded Chris' sulking form on the couch. Liquid glistened in pools from his eyes, spilling out across his cheeks. Not again.
"You still reading that shit?" he huffed before grabbing a basketball that Justin had left under the table.
An offended Chris blew his nose, roughly into a tissue. "It is not shit. Cassandra Tate is genius and everything she writes is pure poetry. You don't know about these things, Joey, because you just don't . . . have any mind for romance."
"Bullshit," Joey cracked a smile at his friend, before picking up the novel to brandish it and make his point. "I know romance and Fabio ain't comin' close."
"Go on," Chris fussed. "Get out of here. I've gotta' get myself cleaned up." Joey quietly nodded, putting the book down, knowing that when Chris got emotional over his novels, it wasn't pretty.
"Sorry, man . . . do you need me to get you anything?" Chris paused a moment before answering him.
"Yes, actually," he replied through his stuffy nose. "Could you get me some cookies and cream ice cream? Please? And not the low-fat stuff, this time . . ." Joey couldn't say no to Chris' pout and left the bus on new mission.
Cruising the frozen foods aisle, Joey pulled his baseball cap down, lower. He'd seen several suspicious teenage cashiers eye him from his point by the Ben and Jerry's ice cream. He hated this part of fame, the most. He jumped when he heard giggling from behind. Looking around, there was no where in sight, so who was laughing? Paranoia crept into his hunched form and he looked both directions behind his dark shades. He pulled his basket closer to him, and sneakily eyed the containers of dessert.
Again the giggling. Quiet. Feeling the coast was clear, he went back to his search for cookies and cream. After choosing a carton, he stepped back to see if anyone was around. No one around, no sounds coming from anywhere, in fact he was perfectly alone. "All the worry for nothing," he thought. "Joey, you just get paranoid sometimes." With a smile, he realized that he had complete privacy on this dairy aisle, and he could do whatever he wanted and no one would ever know.
Testing his theory, he pulled the wedgie that had been bothering him since he made his way past the pet food and feminine hydgiene products. A sudden sounding of distant laughter erupted and Joey jumped at the sound. "Oh God. No," he whispered to himself. He looked all around and the laughter continued, bouncing off the walls, becoming louder and louder. How could anyone have seen him? Everything was golden! And then he saw it . . . out of the corner of his eye, a tiny store camera caught Joey Fatone's every move as he shopped for groceries. He sucked in his breath as his thoughts became clear and imagined the headlines.
"Former Boyband Pop Star Loses Job After Alleged Public Wedgie Picking."
"Why me?" he moaned, wondering where the footage would end up. The world would know exactly what he was doing and the tape would probably end up on the internet for thousands to see! He had to take action. He had to do everything in his power to keep his fans from seeing the monstrosity that should've never happened, especially in public, at Pick and Go Supermarket.
Oh God. Pick and Go. What a cruel world.
His anger built in the pit of his stomach as he began stomping his way to the front, where the suspicious teenagers had retreated from their posts and were gathered around a counter, where a small TV was stationed. His face reddened as he heard the giggling, laughing, snorting increasing and then subsiding, and then starting all over again!
"Give me the tape," he demanded, lowering his voice and letting his Brooklyn accent creep into the tone. The four girls jumped, wide eyed, and fearful of a man who had gone from their favorite teen idol to an evil, dirty man with a wedgie problem. Wait until the girls heard this!
"We can't do that!" The bravest of the group announced, snottily disagreeing with Joey.
"Yeah," another chimed in. "Only our manager has control of the tapes."
"I think you misunderstood what I said," Joey continued. "I want the tape and I want it, now."
"But . . ." The youngest stammered. "We can't . . ."
"Sure you can! The tape is right there. Give it to me."
"Not without a deal!" The first girl, smarted off again. "A fair trade." She secretly grinned at the other girls and they got excited, wondering what demand she'd make.
"All right, what do you want?"
"A sock from the foot of Justin Timberlake," she suggested after a moment of thought. The girls gasped.
"WHAT?! Do you think I just carry Justin's socks around in my jacket pockets?" Joey fussed.
"Then what do you have?" She agreed to bargain. Joey began emptying his pockets. A used tissue. A half-empty pack of Wrigley's gum. A wallet. Pocket lint. "We'll take . . . we'll take the tissue."
"You want a used tissue? And you think the wedgie is disgusting?" Joey snickered.
"Please! I'm not keeping your nasty used tissue. I'm going to get you to autograph and me and the girls are gonna' sell it on ebay."
Joey nodded. "A girl could make a fortune . . ." He scribbled his name onto the tissue and the youngest girl set to removing the small tape from the TV's recorder.
"Here you go," she quietly handed the tape over. "A fair trade."
"Nice doing business with you, girls. Now . . . the ice cream . . . it's going to melt if I don't hurry home soon."
"It's on us, Fatone," The loudest took her tissue and placed it in a plastic bag, wrapping it up and hiding it under her counter. "And have a nice day."
"You too," he laughed, shaking his head, and stuck the tape in a pocket, taking the carton on out of the supermarket.
"I can't believe you let him get away with the tape," the youngest exclaimed, smiling at her co-worker, after she was sure the pop star was out of hearing.
"Are you kidding? The cameras record doubles of everything in the back. I'm not an idiot, Shirley."
"Oh!" And the girls again erupted into giggles, wondering who they'd show the footage to first.
Quickly jogging down the sidewalk to get to the bus station, Joey shook his head, wondering if Chris would mind soggy ice cream or not. He whizzed past several older ladies and weaved in out from the little crowd forming outside a local bookshop. "It's almost midnight. Why on Earth would anyone be out this late . . . at a bookstore?" he mumbled, annoyed with his situation.
Peaking up to see what the fuss was about, he saw a sign posted by the window. "Until Midnight! Book Signing with Cassandra Tate, This Year's Most Talked About Romance Author." Wait until Chris found out about this . . .
Until midnight? Joey smiled, knowing how much Chris would owe him if he was able to get home to notify him of the news. That was less than thirty minutes. Shaking his head, he took off for the bus station, knowing he would shoot through the roof on Chris' favorite *N Sync member list.
Oh, to finally be better than JC in Chris' eyes. Chris would be owing him favors for months. Getting giddy, he hopped onto his bus and took off back to the venue stop to meet up with the bodyguards and get back in.
"Cassandra Tate, Meet Chris Kirkpatrick." What wonderful luck . . .