I leaned forward, elbows on the table. "So what'd you mean by ‘post-boy band era'?"

"I said that, didn't I?" A.J. screwed up his lips a little nervously.

"Sure did."

We were still sitting in the green room, our empty plates still on the table and my recorder between us. The other three had taken off again. It was two hours to showtime for them, but I hoped we wouldn't be here longer than half an hour.

A.J. contemplated his remark for a long moment, twisting the cap of his water bottle back and forth. His fingernails were painted black, he had a bunch of tattoos, and he was wearing a ton of guyliner and jewelry. He looked like the kind of guy who might claim to have read a lot of Hunter S. Thompson.

Finally, he said, "I guess it was kind of a Freudian slip. Only kind of, though."

I raised an eyebrow, prompting him to go on.

"I say ‘kind of,'" he said slowly, "because I don't think the people who came long before you at the magazine could've imagined what we wrought 13 years ago."

"Even though long before you guys, there was the Beatles and David Cassidy? Even though Dr. Thompson lived to see your glory days?"

A.J. shrugged, smiling sheepishly. "Fair enough."

He fell silent again for a moment before venturing, "I guess...what I'm trying to say...is that I wonder if this is our world anymore?" He looked up at me as if even he wasn't sure what he was saying. "I dunno. You don't really hear about groups like us anymore. The last boy band I can remember is the Jonas Brothers, and for all I know, they could be dead or waiting tables in Indiana."

 "But do you feel like maybe that leaves a niche for you guys to fill?"

He shrugged again. "Maybe? Maybe not. The fans overseas are one thing. They're insane, and they're awesome. But people in this country? They don't get jacked about a bunch of singing, dancing pop guys in their 30s anymore, unless they're women your age or maybe a little younger." He took a drink of water. "People in the States didn't really get as excited about the last record as we were all hoping. We're not getting mobbed in restaurants anymore. You know Nick took the bus to lunch today?"

I raised an eyebrow. "I figured he caught up with another driver or a bodyguard."

"Nope. We just have the one bodyguard at any given time. They switch off 24-hour shifts, and he wasn't gonna wake up Jay to take him to lunch. We only had the one driver, too. We didn't think we were going to split up right away." Another drink of water. "So yeah, he hopped on a city bus. Skipped straight over calling a cab or something. We all thought he was insane, but he said it felt like a challenge, made him feel alive. He didn't get one sideways glance, as far as I know."

I paused a moment. It seemed like a stupid question, but I had to go with it. "You guys don't actually miss being mobbed, do you?"

"Hell, no," A.J. replied, his tone emphatic. "I forgot how awesome a little privacy is. It's nice not to have to wear a hat and dark glasses everywhere I go. I get a few double-takes, but the people coming up to me, that's stopped for the most part. Maybe it'll be different after the tour, but..." Another shrug. "Hard to say. I can't say I want it back. Actually, I don't. I look at all that, at not being able to so much as take a dump in peace, and I say, ‘Yeah, don't want you back.'"

"But do you miss the attention?"

He leaned forward, his eyes studying the floor. "I'll tell you what I miss. I miss people coming out and enjoying our music. We'd do it no matter what, until it stops being fun - and it is still fun, don't misunderstand me," he clarified quickly, looking up at me, but back down just as quickly. "But it hurts a little to feel like no one else cares anymore. People caring is pressure, but it also means we're sharing something good with the world, something we care about."

I smiled. "Well, you know, I wouldn't be out here if my boss thought no one cared."

A.J. blew out a long breath. His dark eyes turned playful as they met mine again. "Let me ask you a question, Miss Journalist."

I remembered what he'd said about gonzo journalism, about engaging with them like friends and not just sources, and I said the first thing that would have popped into my mind if I'd been with a friend like Alicia. "No, I don't know what that shit we ate for breakfast was actually made of."

He laughed, a deep chuckle that made my heart skip a beat in spite of itself. "Not quite. No, uh...were you a fan?"

Well, he had me there. I took a deep breath. "It was you who told me to think of myself as part of the story I'm trying to get..."

A.J. cackled triumphantly. "That's a yes." Just as quickly, he grew serious again. I had gotten the sense, but especially in this interview, that he had the most mercurial personality of the bunch. It wasn't unappealing. "What made it a ‘were'?"

I blew out a breath. "I dunno. College? Studying journalism. Hanging around cynical people. Living in a college town and listening to indie rock all the time. Reading a lot of old Dr. Thompson, frankly." His eyes made me feel like I could be honest. It was the most honest I‘d been the whole trip so far. Of course, it was also the first time any of them had asked me a real question about myself.

A.J. nodded knowingly. "That sort of thing's how we lost most of our fan base. I can't figure out why people won't listen to us now."

He seemed a little down all of a sudden. The journalist in me knew I was getting good stuff; the person in me, soul and all, hated to see a nice guy sad. So I did what came naturally: I cracked a joke.

"Well, maybe if Nick took some hormones and un-changed his voice, you guys could compete with Bieber fever," I said lightly.

Another sexy chuckle. "You know, Meg, this week might not be so bad."

**

As showtime drew closer, the buzz among the guys was palpable. It wasn't the first show of the tour, so it didn't look to me like nerves so much as pure excitement. I couldn't imagine being a musician and doing a hometown show.

Leaning against a wall across the cinder-blocked hall from the dressing rooms, I was flooded by a memory that felt relevant. It was a couple of days before Christmas two years ago. I'd been at Rolling Stone almost a year and a half, but it was my first Christmas home from New York, back in little old Quincy, Illinois. (My mother hadn't needed much convincing to fly out for the holidays the first year I was out there.) I'd found myself at a bar in what passed for downtown Quincy, catching up with some of the old gang from high school. It had been 11 years since graduation; I'd missed the 10-year reunion by a mile. Nearly all of them had kids, some of them well into grade school. And all of them were astonished at what I did for a living.

"Whoa! You write for Rolling Stone?! Like, the magazine?"

"So what do you write about? No, wait, who do you write about?"

"Like, have you met the Rolling Stones?" (That one had come from the former captain of the cheerleading squad, who had been diligently killing brain cells since the late ‘90s.)

It had been strange to share a little piece of my life in the place where my life had begun. I imagined that was how the guys felt right now.

That'd make a great analogy for the story, I thought, and pulled my notepad out of my pocket. By now I had it down to a system: messenger bag stowed safely in a closet, notepad and pen in one pocket, iPhone in the other, camera slung over my shoulder.

I had not, however, gotten used to the occasional person trying to surreptitiously sneak a peek at my notepad as I wrote.

"Keep my paychecks coming and buy a copy when it comes out," I teased Brian as he shuffled past, not-so-subtly eyeballing my notepad. I pulled it to my chest, feigning dismay.

He made a dismissive sound with his mouth. "You crazy journalists and your trade secrets."

Brian leaned his back against the wall next to me, crossing his legs like mine. A hint of spicy, linen-y cologne wafted over, inducing just the slightest wobble in my knees. I risked a glance over at him. His hair, just the dark side of sandy, too short to be as curly as it wanted to be, was a tad unruly, and I wanted to reach up and fix it. Part of me wanted an excuse to touch him. Part of me was sure I'd be electrocuted. God help me, my heart fluttered a little just thinking about it.

Snap out of it, Michaels. It's not 1998 anymore.

"Penny for your thoughts?" I somehow managed to get out, crossing my arms, notepad and pen safely separated.

He shook his head, mouth twisting idly. "Just wanna get out there. It's nice to see the hometown crowd."

Another memory flashed through my head, this one of a well-worn VHS tape of a Showtime concert film the guys had made here in Orlando. I had watched it mostly at home, mortified about bringing it to campus. Eventually, I'd thrown it away altogether.

"Have you looked to see how many people are out there?" I asked. "Sounds like a pretty enthused crowd out there for what's-her-bucket."

"The pop tart? Yeah, let's hope the teenyboppers stick around for us." Brian smiled a little nervously. A pause. "Hey, listen, Meg..."

I looked over at him curiously, trying to ignore how nice my name sounded coming from his lips.

"I was a total jackass to you yesterday, wasn't I?" His tone sounded a little bit grudging, and I knew Nick had told him to apologize. Well, nothing like being blunt.

I decided it was worth being equally honest. "Kinda, yeah."

He took a deep breath, not looking at me. "I'm trying really hard not to be a jerk, but I've been burned to hell and back by the media."

I wasn't sure if I considered TMZ or Perez Hilton "the media" per se, but they'd taken him out to the woodshed when he and his wife split up a couple years ago, casting some very nasty aspersions on his fidelity. I couldn't imagine what else he meant.

"I mean, we've all made some mistakes," he continued, "and yeah, I get that we're public figures, but that doesn't make it hurt any less to read that kinda crap about myself or my brothers." He looked at me now, and his beautiful eyes were a little sad, a lot apprehensive. "Don't take this personally, but I don't really like you people."

My lips curved in a sad smile. I almost wasn't sure whom I felt worse for, him or myself. I'd had a lot of people tell me they didn't like me, but this was almost worse than that time the bassist from Nickelback had called me the c-word.

You're used to this. Just not from someone you've ever been emotionally invested in.

"Mine's not exactly a well-liked profession," I said slowly, with a little shrug. "Admitting it doesn't make you a jerk. The truth is, you've all been a lot nicer than you have a right to be."

Brian smiled, and my knees went a little weak again. "Well, you seem like a nice girl." He winced. "Lady! Sorry. Lady."

A nervous chuckle escaped me, and then, out of nowhere, came the word vomit. "Oh, trust me, I get ‘girl' all the time. Girl, hon, sweetie. It comes with looking like a college kid. It helps, actually. People who don't take me seriously because they can't get past thinking I'm actually a teenager are at least as likely to slip up and tell me something juicy as they are to call security on me."

Shut your mouth, Michaels.

He leaned his head back and laughed. "Nice. I'll remember that next time I need to hire a spy." He blew out a breath, suddenly serious again. "Look, we've all known for weeks you'd be here for a reason, and here you are. And I really want to trust you."

My heart slammed against my ribs, but I did my best to hold his still-apprehensive gaze. "You can," I practically croaked, then cleared my throat. "Look, I don't expect to be your best friend when I leave here, but I don't thinkI'm a raging bitch, and I'm certainly not out to ‘gotcha' you or any of the others. It's not my style."

Where did that come from? To leaven it, I smiled again, more playfully now. "At least, I like to think I'm not so bad, anyway. You said so yourself," I joked.

"I did, didn't I?" Brian's tone was teasing, but his smile was a little sheepish. "Then I guess it must be sort of true."

He held out a hand. "I don't expect you to rip up your notes about what a terrible guy I am, but...start over?"

I couldn't help but smile and return his handshake, which was firm and reassuring. "OK. Start over."

"Hi, I'm Brian Littrell." He grinned, still gripping my hand.

Suddenly, I felt lighter, more confident. I held his teasing gaze, echoed his friendly tone. "Meg Michaels, Rolling Stone."

He released my hand. "Y'know, I might have to make an exception for you," he said.

"An exception to what?"

"Not liking journalists." He winked at me. "Girl."

As he straightened up and walked back to his dressing room, I actually had to push back harder against the wall to keep from sliding to the floor in a puddle of overgrown teenybopper.

**

Even through my earplugs, every music writer's best friend, the buzz of the crowd pressed in insistently around me. In a moment, it would turn to screams.

I was settled into my front-row seat, had been for about 10 minutes. As much as I wanted to be backstage in the final moments before they went on, like I had been last night, I wanted much more to see how this crowd reacted to them. I had my camera stowed safely - damn you, Christine - and my notepad out.

A huge screen covered the stage, so nobody would know when the band was setting up, when the guys walked out, nothing. The unknown seemed to have everyone restless, as it had last night. I glanced around me. A surprising number of young teenagers. A much larger and much less surprising number of people my age or a little younger. I was still probably the oldest person here without a kid in tow.

And now the lights went down, producing another screech from the crowd, and the screen came to life. It was a shot of two ominous, old-fashioned wooden doors, which were thrown open to reveal a lanky, middle-aged bus driver and the guys, all five of them, in what felt like another lifetime.

The camera panned around an awfully nice-looking haunted castle, then cut back to Nick, who in a squeaky voice complained, "This is the second time the bus broke down!"

"That ain't my fault," drawled the bus driver, cigarette hanging from his lips.

I tried to muffle a giggle that turned into a snort, earning a glare from the twentysomething woman next to me. The use of "Backstreet's Back" for the opener was apropos, sure, but the music video intro was just goofy.

That or it just reminded me too much of being on the threshold of 18.

As Brian, looking stunningly young compared to the handsome devil who had shaken my hand backstage, shrieked at the possum in his bed, the music swelled, the video blinked out, and the screen rose to reveal the guys and their dancers, who started in on a scaled-down version of the "Thriller"-inspired ballroom dance scene.

The crowd went nuts, so nuts I winced at the noise even through my earplugs. I wouldn't cheer, but I couldn't stifle a smile. Part of me had always found the "Thriller" homage incredibly obvious; I had been a really little kid when that music video dropped, and I still remembered the first time I'd seen it.

But as the song continued, I knew a much bigger part of me appreciated the flashback. I often tried to forget about my teen years, which hadn't been fun. Being short, nerdy and a gifted student with a massive white-girl ‘fro had done me no favors in a small town, and college had been a welcome respite. But every once in a while, something would catch me off-guard, usually a song, and remind me in a powerful way of the best moments of a time long gone by. Grunge had been king for about half my high school years, and that was what I remembered best. But discovering the Backstreet Boys just before I left for college had, in a way, bridged me to that different phase in life, even if they didn't stay with me throughout that phase.

I watched the guys onstage, my arms folded, biting my lip to keep from smiling too obviously big. They'd filled the Amway Center, that was for sure, but I knew I was sitting right where they could see me, and I knew they'd bust my butt if they saw me having too much fun.

They'd bust my butt... It was amazing to think that I was actually traveling with these guys I'd idolized in the twilight of my teen years, that I was starting to form something like a friendship with them. With the Backstreet Boys. You couldn't make it up.

Onstage, the end of the song broke my reverie.

"What's up, O-Town?" Howie screamed into his headset, to raucous cheers.