Lance woke up and the only thing he was sure of was that he needed to brush his teeth. His mouth was dry, and his breath--he cupped his hands over his mouth and breathed--whoa, tequilla and seven day old cat litter. Lacking the strength to remedy the one thing he was sure of, he tried to piece together his night.

Where was he? Boston, that's right. And there had been a party at the Middle East. Faces swam in his head as he struggled to remember one conversation, and cursed his own Mr. Hollywood attitude. Who was that guy--the ginger with the gravelly voice. Dick! Yes, Dick. Dick ....Cavett? No, wasn't he a game show chost? No. It was....Barrett. Dicky Barrett.

Lance chuckled as the conversation bega piecing itself together. Waxing poetic about selling out, and being "pop music giants" over shots of Cuervo. Lance's stomach lurched. His room was silent but through the paper thin walls of the Suisse Hotel, he could hear that Justin was awake and watching cartoons. The muffled, high-pitched squeals of Pikachu blended with Justin's soft laughter.

He lay still, as more and more of the night came together. He danced some, drank more, and shmoozed a lot. Lance wasn't able to walk, and he remembered someone walking him to his room.

Rolling over slowly, he became aware of his lips--raw and chapped, as if they had been kissed that way. Der god, don't let me have had some one night stand with a fan. That was Joey's bag. Lance pressed his face into the extra pillow and inhaled. It smelled clean, but there was a light scent of--oranges?--lingering on the blue cotton pillowcase.

"I've smelled that before," he though, "but where?" He continued to breathe in the citrus scent, and became frustrated at his inability to recall the ending of his night of imbibing.

A few minutes later, he reluctantly left the warm confines of his bed and padded to the shower.

He had dried off and dressed befor tackling his hair. Reaching into his toiletry bag, he pulled out an empty bottle of gel. "Shit," he thought. "I look like a skeleton with a bowl cut." He surveyed his bandmates, and left his room in search of The One With The Hair Stuff.

"Hey Lance," JC answered Lance's knock. "What's up?"

"I'm out of gel. You got any?" JC nodded and he handed Lance a bottle of Citre-Shine. He squeezed a dime sized drop into his palms, rubbed them together, and ran them through his hair.

Lance sniffed. "That smell," he thought, looking down at his hands. Slowly, he raised them to his nose and inhaled the orange-lemon scented gel. Lance looked up at JC--his own red lips matching Lance's--with a sheepish smile on his face.

"Guilty," JC said. Lance smiled.