The break-up of the Backstreet Boys hit him the hardest of all. It was like taking away part of your heart. Music had been a big part of Howie's - as well as the others' - life.

A barely visible sign came closer to Howie. GAS - 1 MILE, he read. He took another sip of his cold coffee and turned his attention to the road again. Where were all the cars on the highway?

The abrupt purr of his cell phone went off. He searched for it and found it under his sweatshirt in the passenger's seat. "Hello?"

"D, this is Barry." Barry was his agent. "I got some good news for ya."

"Really?" Howie asked impartially and turned in the exit.

"Picture it," Barry said, stretching his arms in front of him, even though his client couldn't see, "you, Dorothy Lamb and a whopping movie deal!"

"I got the part!?" Howie half-asked, half-yelled.

"Congrats, bud. And right after that vacation of yours, we have a meeting with the director."

Howie said good-bye and parked next to a gas pump. He'd landed the leading role in the country's most anticipated movie. Now all he had to do was to pump some gas in the rain.

He sat down at the bar. His chest heaved in and out viciously, his lungs needing air.

This wicked girl had struck up some competition. She bluffed that she could beat anyone in the club at a dance contest. He was, of course, always the competitive one and dared her. But lost. He liked her fiesty attitude. Her style wasn't shabby either.

He searched for her again on the floor. There she was, dancing with some man. He took a good look at her. Her hair was obviously dyed at the tips a bright orange, and her red hair was still visible. Her blue eyes flashed electricity. Her body was sleak and petite. She wore a tight, black mini skirt with a sleeveless orange tank top. She locked eyes with him and a smile crept across her face. She continued dancing, but mouthed to him, "Stay put."

He nodded. When the song ended, she excused herself and jogged up to him. "Hey there. I'm Sophia."

"AJ McLean at your service," he bowed and kissed her hand.

Nick stepped into the conference room. There, a lot of people, mostly managers, sat at the long table. "Hello."

"Ah, Nick," his main manager, Tracee, walked up him, "glad you could make it. Come on, sit down."

She guided him into the seat next to her own. "Gentlemen, we can start now."

A gruff, middle-aged man stood up and cleared his throat. "First off, I speak for the whole group when I say that it's an honor to be working with you, Mr. Carter."

Nick looked down, shyly. He fiddled with his khakis. He did not like all this attention. Not so quickly, at least. But he really didn't have a choice. When the Boys broke up, everyone was after his talent.

But Nick trusted Tracee. He'd met her a year before and knew she could handle the responsibility. She had worked with other rising stars who went big.

"I really don't wanna be here, Trace," he whispered to her from the crack of his mouth.

"Patience is a virtue, now pay attention, man." She was stern when she had to be.

He looked her over out of habit. She had milky brown skin and her dark hair was in a tight bun. She wore a tannish business suit. She was the youngest in her league, at age 23.

"I'm serious, Nick," she swatted him beneath the table.

He smiled for the first time that day and finally tuned into the discussion. Going solo would be hard for him, he knew it. He missed being in a group. He missed being with his partners, causing chaos. Or making the whole lot laugh, even Kevin.