She’s gorgeous. Just gorgeous. There’s just something about her that you can’t quite put your finger on, but you know it’s there. Her physical beauty doesn’t matter, because inside, she’s radiant. You know that when she laughs, you want to laugh too. You know that when she cries, you want to beat up the world so that it can never make her cry again. You know that when she smiles, it makes you want to be a better man.

But then you realize that what you’re doing to her is nothing to laugh about. You see that you’re the one that deserves to get beat up, because when she finds out, she’ll cry a river. And you don’t expect to see that smile for a long time – not unless it’s on TV anyway.

So much for being a better man.

With a heavy heart, you trudge into your room, where she lay in your bed, fast asleep. As you get dressed, you watch her. She’s so peaceful in her slumber. She really does look like an Angel.

As you finish dressing, and are just getting ready to walk out the door, she smells your cologne and calls out to you. “Where are you off to,” she asks, just barely out of twilight.

“I have to work,” you lie.

“I’ll call you when I wake up,” she replies.

“Okay,” you say nervously. “Now go back to sleep, baby.”

She moans in fatigue and just when you think she’s knocked out again, she calls your name. “Justin?”

You turn around, praying that she doesn’t say what you think she’s going to say. “Yeah?”

“I love you.”

You wince, knowing that was the one thing you didn’t want her to say. Not because you don’t love her, but because you’re not worthy of those words escaping her lips and finding your ears. “I love you too.”

You quietly close the door and head towards the garage where all your cars sit, neatly aligned, waiting to be driven. You subconsciously choose the Viper and get on your way.

As you drive down Sunset Blvd. to “work,” you wonder what she’s dreaming of. You wonder if her slumber is filled with thoughts of the two of you. Is she planning a future? She’s says she’s not one to marry, but that doesn’t mean she’s not in it for the long-term.

But when you arrive at The Standard Hotel, all thoughts of her come to a cease and you’re left with the guilt of actually being at The Standard. Nonetheless, you leave your Viper with the valet, and your conscience as well, and you walk through the lobby as if you were walking onto a yacht. To the elevators, you go up to room 808.

You knock on the door and wait. You know someone’s in there because you already smell the cigarette smoke flowing through the cracks in the door. You finally hear someone stir and their movements are reflected in the light under the door.

The door swings open, and this girl stands before you, puffing on her cancer stick as if she doesn’t have a care in the world.

Laura is beautiful and you know it. She knows it. Everybody knows it. She has a vanilla complexion, but she’s dark enough for anyone to see that she’s biracial. She has ice blue eyes that bore into you, and long brown and blonde locks that she isn’t afraid to toss. She’s got long, thick legs – dancer’s legs, though she only stands a 5’4.”

The most alluring thing about Laura is her smile. Sadly, she doesn’t do it often, and when she does, it tends to have a sarcastic undertone. She has one dimple that melts your heart and makes you laugh whenever you notice it. It’s not hard to figure out why you’re attracted to her.

Not only that, but her confidence is certainly not lacking. Her swagger when she turns and walks back into the room, leaving you to watch, is enough to drive you insane.

She seductively sits at the desk in the room, making sure to cross her legs so that you notice. She wants to leave you wondering if she’s got any panties on under that little skirt.

She stares at you, still devouring her cigarette. “What took you so long,” she finally utters, full of attitude.

“I’m on time,” you reply. “It’s exactly 9:00AM.”

“You’re usually early.”

“I overslept.”

“Don’t lie to me, Justin.” She stands up and walks to where you stand, near the bed. “You’ve never been good at it.”

You look her up and down, from her petite bare feet, up her thighs, over her light pink miniskirt, to her half open white blouse. You can easily tell that she’s not wearing anything underneath and it turns you on. Your eyes trace over her collarbone, up to her barely-made up face. Her full lips make you want to lick your own, and you do. She has some crazy control over you.

Just when you’re ready to jump her bones, she turns around, flipping her hair all over your face. After putting out her cigarette, she goes into the bathroom. You wonder whether you were supposed to follow her, but you’re glad you didn’t when you hear her brushing her teeth.

She reemerges bearing nothing but those crazy blue eyes, and she pushes you to the bed. You don’t do anything but stare when she climbs on top of you. She makes you kiss her, but at the same time, you want to. You have to.

You know what her lips feel like. You know what she tastes like, but the shit is addictive. She’s like a fucking drug. You’ve been here before, and you’ll probably be here again. You want to stop it, but you can’t.

“Laura,” you groan from the pleasure, “Can you slow down for a second?”

She looks at you, and seems confused amid her frantic breathing. You can tell that she wants you just as much as you want her. “Slow down for what,” she manages to retaliate.

You want to tell her to let you catch your breath, but you don’t want her to know that you can’t keep up, so you pull off your shirt, and let her do the rest.

She knows what she’s doing, and how to do it well, so there’s no question as to whether or not it’s worth it. It’s always worth it.

- - - - - - -

After you finish your “jobs,” she climbs off of you and goes back into the bathroom, probably to replace her clothing. You’d do the same, but you’re too spent to even move.

Five minutes later, when she comes out of the bathroom, she looks fully refreshed, and no one would ever think that you two just spent the last three hours fucking. And that shit was hardcore, leg-over-shoulder, bed-to-the-floor-to-the-wall fucking. Now, she looks like she just woke up on a bed of roses. Go figure. She’s still beautiful – breathtaking, even. But you can see the evilness written all over her face.

“Justin,” you hear her say, “Get up.”

You look at her, strutting around the room in those tight ass jeans, and you want to reenact everything that just happened ten minutes ago, but you don’t. You just move from the bed, pick your clothes up off of the floor, and get ready to go. That’s the routine.

You go into the bathroom, place your clothes on the counter, and there it is, plain as day. All of your senses stop functioning, your mind goes blank, and you freeze. For a few minutes, you just stand there, staring. But you finally regain enough consciousness to get dressed and head straight for the door.

“Where are you going,” she demands, as you motion to leave the room.

“Work. Home. McDonalds,” you reply sarcastically. “Does it matter?”

“Why are you leaving so soon?”

You get nervous when she tries to play coy. She’s too malicious for it not to be an act. “Because I always do.”

You watch as she sits down and plays with the desk drawer, before pulling out a cigar. She lights it and pops it in her mouth like a pro. You think to yourself that the half of her that’s Italian has brought out the gangster in her.

“You’re pregnant,” you announce. You saw the pregnancy test in the bathroom as firsthand evidence.

“And,” she states, taking a puff.

“Whose is it,” you question, praying that it’s anyone’s but yours.

She rolls her almost-white eyes at you. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not keeping it.”

“Whose is it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she repeats sternly.

“Laura.” You’re getting more angry with every second that’s passing, so you walk to her seat and push her chair against the wall so that she’s leaned back and out of control for once. She’s shocked, but not scared. Laura doesn’t get scared. “Whose baby is it?”

She tries to muscle her way out of the position, but you don’t let her budge. She looks at you as if she’s about to bite you, but instead, she smirks and blows smoke in your face. “It’s yours.”

You let her up from the chair and walk in circles around the room. You recognize her game. If she doesn’t want you to know the truth, then you won’t. “Fuck you Laura.”

“Yeah, fuck me Justin.” You look at her with all the angst in the world. “Boy, if looks could kill,” she taunts. “What’s wrong Justin? Hot shit Timberlake can’t stand the heat? Can’t handle not being in control? Can’t bear not to know the truth, huh?” She watches you watch her, and you hear her hurt. “Yeah, I’m a heartless bitch.”

“Laura.”

“Excuse you. I’m talking.”

“Can you just tell me whose baby you’re having,” you plead.

“No Justin. You tell me how it feels to want the one fucking thing you can’t ever have.”

“What are you talking about?” You’re confused and frustrated, but more than anything, you’re intrigued. “You can have the baby.”

“Fucking idiot,” she mumbles.

“What?”

“I’m talking about your heart Justin.” You furrow your brow in perplexity. “Justin, every week, you sail through here, we fuck till we pass out, and then you go back home – to her.”

“And that’s not what you want?”

“I want you – body, mind, and soul. But the most important belongs to her.”

“Where is this coming from?”

“From the fact that I can’t take it anymore. I can’t watch you walk through that door again, knowing that the only feeling you’ll ever have towards me is pure lust.”

You can’t believe your ears. Laura doesn’t care. She doesn’t know how.

“So I’ll make a trade,” she adds. “I’ll give you your baby if you give me your heart.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” you reply softly. “You can’t bargain for someone’s emotions.”

“I can try.”

“But I love Cameron. She’s –“

“Yes Justin, I know! Cameron, Cameron, Cameron! Two years, all I’ve heard is Justin Timberlake and Cameron fucking Diaz!” She drops the cigar. “If she means so goddamn much to you, then why are you here?”

“Because,” you start to answer, but nothing comes out.

“Because you don’t love her.”

“I do,” you counter.

“Justin, you and I are two of a kind. We use people to get what we want, and we move on. So what is it that you’re using her for?”

“Love.”

“That’s bullshit,” she retorts.

“Well if that’s the case,” you say, “Then how do I know you’re not using me now?”

“Because,” she begins. She pauses and looks towards the window. “Because when people like us finally let our guard down, you know that this shit is real.”

You stare into her eyes, which are usually ice cold, and you feel warmth in looking at them. Then you wonder what compelled her to let this all out now.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t in love with her from the moment you laid eyes on her. It was at a dance audition for your tour. You knew you’d pick her before you even saw her dance. Everything she was made you want her – even if you could only have her in your mind.

Even after the tour ended, and you two started hooking up, you knew there was more than just physical attraction. But you continued to tell yourself that Cameron was your one true love. You continued to lead them both on your rollercoaster of emote bullshit. Not only did Laura’s confidence scare you away, but Cameron’s vulnerability kept you at her side.

Laura is the lure. Cameron is the cure. And you know that Laura is right. You’re just like her – manipulative, addictive, enticing, dangerous. You’re toxic. Cameron is what you want to be. Laura is what you are. So how do you choose? How do you walk away from what’s wrong if you don’t know what’s right? Do you go home to what you know is beautiful, or do you stay with what you think is a pure disaster waiting to happen?