Brock

Wanting fame is a disease and, one day, I will want to be free from this disease – Irrfan Khan

On the third Friday in May, in the corner office on the twenty-first floor in a high-rise in Los Angeles, Brock Mason's life turned into a steaming pile of shit.

He sat in a hard chair that was long past its shelf life. The leather was worn and cracking, bits of stuffing from the innards starting to pop through.

Across from him, in an immaculate gray pantsuit, was his manager Desirae Mendoza. She was a no-nonsense kind of person, which was one of the reasons Brock had gravitated towards her. Though short in stature, with sleek dark hair and brown eyes, Desirae was a force to be reckoned with, often fighting tooth and nail for her clients.

Except, it seemed, when it came to him.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he said.

"I'm sorry, Brock. But you are no longer an artist with Frontier Records effective midnight." Desirae shuffled some papers on her desk. Leaned onto her arms and stared at him hard with her stern eyes.

"How the hell did this happen, Des?"

She pursed her lips. "Frontier Records is downsizing, Brock. I'm sure you've heard the rumours. They're one bad year away from bankruptcy. They've had to sell the contracts to some of their artists just to stay afloat. Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately depending on how you look at it – you were one of the ones that was sold."

"To who?"

"Eclipse Records."

Brock scoffed. "They're little more than a startup. They haven't even been around a year yet. Didn't they just launch last September or something? Hardly any of their artists have done anything of value. My career is going to go down the drain with them."

Even off the top of his head, Brock couldn't think of one successful artist Eclipse had signed to their label. His mind was blank, throwing out names who either hadn't even dropped their first album yet or else had one that had tanked entirely.

Desirae tilted her head as she stared at him. Weighed her next words carefully but spoke without sugarcoating the truth. "It already has, Brock. If it hadn't, you would have been one of the select few artists that are staying with Frontier. Your record sales have been in decline, your fan base has shrunk, and you haven't had a top-ten single in two years. As it stands, Eclipse Records was the only label willing to purchase your contract and your entire collection of records. Before they offered, Frontier was considering a payout to get you out. They're that in the hole."

Brock stiffened. Sure, he'd had a rocky few years but it hadn't been that bad. He'd still been putting out new music and going on tours. Of course, the tours had been mostly opening or partner acts for other artists or the occasional festival, but he wasn't a has-been.

He wasn't.

"Why didn't you tell me that things were getting shaky? Aren't you supposed to be taking care of my interests? What the hell have you been doing aside from sitting on your ass here in your office?" he snapped. Brock raked his fingers across his scalp, blond strands of hair catching in his fingers.

"I've been doing damage control on you. Meeting with publicists, radio executives, television producers. Trying to get your music broadcast everywhere I can but it's time to face the truth, Brock. Ever since the Trace Strickland scandal came out two months ago, your career was officially over."

"I had nothing to do with that!"

"People are wondering if you helped to cover it up. You were his bandmate and his best friend from childhood. No one believes that you were oblivious to what was going on. And then with the release of that news article today—"

"Trace is just being a bastard for no reason. It's what he does. You know that better than anyone because you were his manager too," Brock said heatedly, not even wanting to think of the name Trace Strickland again for the rest of his life. "I didn't have a clue and all of that crap that he's spewing in the media is just to keep slandering my name since I'm still making music and he's not."

"You and I know that Brock but what the media knows is that you and Trace were roommates for a long time," Desirae replied, calm and cool. Everything Brock wasn't. "There are others who speculate that you, Grayson, and Jeremiah helped cover up everything that Trace is being accused of. Some are even saying that you, and the others, played a direct role in it."

Brock felt as if he was going to throw up. "You know I – that's not who I am, Des. I wouldn't – I couldn't."

"I know that."

He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest as he scowled. Not at Des but the situation.

Desirae sighed. "Listen, all I'm trying to say is that you're not exactly presenting a family-friendly image, Brock. You know what the country music crowd is like. They want a wholesome, simple, American-dream kind of life. And what you're giving them right now is rumours and scandal which means the only people you're attracting right now are paparazzi. I don't agree with what's happening to you, Brock, and you know that I've been busting my ass to do whatever I can to save your image and your career. At the end of the day, there's only so much I can do."

"This is bullshit," he snarled.

"Maybe," she countered. "But it's what you're facing and I'm not going to sugarcoat that for you."

Brock dropped his head into his hands, trying to figure out how this had all happened. Well, he knew how it had all happened. Only one thing had led him down this path.

Befriending Trace Strickland.

Brock swore. Then lifted his eyes. "What do you recommend I do, Des?"

"I've set up a meeting with your new studio execs on Sunday. Their names are Julio Alvarez and David Porter. They also happen to own Hype Records based here in L.A. They're planning on a press release Monday morning to announce you as one of their artists but they want to talk before that happens."

That made him feel a smidge better. Not much, but at least he knew some artists who were signed with Hype and they seemed to like their label and be doing okay. He didn't know if the same was true for Eclipse Records. It was too new in the industry and only a handful of artists had been signed. Most of them were young or fairly new to the scene. Brock didn't know anyone who had willingly jumped ship from a reputable label to sign with them.

"Okay," he said resignedly. "What else?"

"Take their advice. I'm sure they'll have lots of it so listen to them and apply it. Your name might be getting dragged through the mud right now, Brock, but at least you've still got your name out there. People have come back from worse, believe me."

Brock thought of the headline he'd seen that morning as he'd walked through the city on his way to Des' office. Splashed across the front cover of some trashy magazine were the words, 'No Place to Hide – Shocking Secrets from Tallahassee's Dark Past. Trace Strickland Tells All.'

He hadn't dared to pick up a copy. Couldn't imagine what would have happened if a paparazzo got a picture of that.

It didn't seem to matter to anyone that Tallahassee had split up over three years ago. Or that Brock hadn't spoken to Trace since the moment that he, Grayson, and Jeremiah had all departed the lawyer's office that day. Leaving the life Brock and Trace had been steadfastly building together since that first moment at five years old in the rearview mirror.

It was all ashes in the fire now. Nothing left but dust and cobwebs and lingering guilt.

"Anything else?" Brock asked with a sigh.

"Yeah. Try not to stress out about this, Brock. You look like shit."

"Fuck you, Des." But there was no fight behind his words. Just resignation.

Her lips twitched just slightly. "I'm serious. Call me after your meeting Sunday and if we need to discuss things with the new label, we'll figure it out then. Think of this as a good thing. It's a fresh start. So, go home, get some sleep, and we'll talk later."

In other words, stop wallowing and get out.

"Fine." Brock stood and strode for the door without saying goodbye.

It was a scorching day outside. Brock was sweating the second he left the sweet air conditioning of Des' office building.

He'd had to park his car a block away so he turned in that direction as he yanked a baseball cap down on his head and shoved a pair of sunglasses onto his face. It was a lucky walk for him, no paparazzi or fans noticing his presence in a way that alerted the rest of the world to where he was. Sometimes, it happened like that. People screaming as he walked by, others going so far as to chase him down the block.

Brock made it to his car unencumbered. He sat behind the wheel for a few minutes, breathing steadily. Trying to think.

All he wanted to do was go see Trace.

And throw the bastard off a bridge.

Instead, Brock slipped the key into the ignition and pulled out of the parking garage he'd deposited his car in before meeting with Des. He drove aimlessly for a while, the way he liked to do when he needed to think, and then he turned in the direction of home.

Home, for Brock, was an apartment in East Hollywood. It took up half of an entire floor of a luxury apartment building. Sure, it was expensive and bigger than he needed but it was safe, had in-unit laundry, and an underground parking garage connected to the building.

Brock parked his car – a nondescript black Honda. He knew plenty of people with flashy hotrods and muscle cars but this allowed him to travel around as he pleased without getting recognized. Just as he wanted.

He was exhausted by the time the elevator let him out on the twenty-seventh floor. Brock nearly stumbled down the hallway towards his front door, pausing only long enough to shove the key into the lock, turn the handle and –

"Woah!" Brock said, nearly colliding with a solid body as he shouldered the door open. On the other side of the threshold, Lewis Borland stumbled back a step. Brock stared at him, noting the duffle bag swinging from one hand, the semi-guilty expression on his face. "Hey. Heading somewhere?"

Lewis frowned unhappily, a sure sign that something was wrong. He rarely frowned. It was one of the reasons that Brock had been drawn to him in the first place. Lewis was a publicist and they'd met at some charity even a month-and-a-half earlier. They'd locked eyes across the room and Brock had been drawn in by Lewis' large smile.

There was no trace of it now. Clearly, he'd been hoping to avoid this meeting. "I left a note for you on the counter. I didn't expect you home until tonight. My mom is back in the hospital. It's not looking good."

"Oh."

"My flight to Philadelphia leaves in a few hours."

"Do you need a ride to the airport?"

Lewis shook his head. "I've got a car coming. One of those airport limos."

For a moment, they just stared at each other. Lewis sighed. "I'm sorry, Brock. Really, I am."

Brock waved it off, even as he felt a numbness spreading through him. This had to be the worst day he'd ever lived. The hits just wouldn't stop coming. "It's okay. You've gotta take care of your mom. I get it."

"Thanks." Lewis fidgeted for a second. Added, "I don't know how long I'll be gone. So..."

"It's okay," Brock said again.

"I guess what I'm saying is don't wait for me."

Brock stilled. Felt his chest constrict. Forced himself to nod. "Give me a call if you're ever back out here in L.A., Lew."

"I will."

Lewis paused only long enough to peck Brock on the cheek before he was gone disappearing out into the hallway. After a moment, Brock heard the ping! of the elevator and then the mechanical whir as the doors shut, carrying Lewis away.

Brock closed the front door and ran a hand over his face. "Fuck," he said and went to get a beer from his refrigerator.

Two hours later, his roommate found him. Three bottles of beer in, a half-eaten pizza sitting on the coffee table as Brock lounged on the couch, watching a movie.

"You're not watching this garbage, are you?" Jay Dawson said as he came to collapse on the other end of the couch, a bottle of Lite beer in his hand. He was dressed normally – a pair of jeans and a green t-shirt beneath a leather jacket, the latter of which he tossed onto a footstool – but his midnight dark hair was still styled. He'd probably come home straight from set.

On the screen, Brock and Jay watched as a fight scene between two mobsters unfolded. It was a poorly executed fight scene. Drastically unrealistic, the actors hardly looked as if they were throwing punches. Brock was sure that he could throw a better fake punch than what they were doing and his acting skills were abysmal at best.

Poor Jay was actually cringing. "Seriously," he said. His green eyes were the slightest bit pained as he watched what was unfolding on the screen. "Why this? The Escape was just a waste of money. I think it only got one star."

"I bet you would have made it better."

Jay only stared at him flatly. "Nothing could have made this better. Not even me."

Brock snorted and sipped from his beer. "So modest, Dawson."

"Where's Lewis?" Jay asked as he reached for a slice of pizza.

"He left."

"What?"

"He's gone. His mom is sick. She's got Parkinson's and it's not looking good. He's gone home to take care of her."

"When's he coming back?"

"I don't know if he is," Brock admitted. "He told me not to wait for him."

Jay nodded slowly. Swallowed the bite of pizza he'd been chewing. "Shit, man. I'm sorry."

Brock shrugged, trying to play it off even though he felt like crap. "It's fine. I mean, we weren't together that long and it wasn't serious."

It hadn't been. Not really. Brock hadn't had a serious relationship maybe ever, though not for lack of wanting. He'd always hoped that with fame and fortune would come freedom but ever since he'd gotten famous from his music, he'd felt more in chains than ever.

No one had told him that it was difficult to be gay in the country music industry. He should have expected it, really, since the whole genre was about homegrown, classic small towns with pie, trucks, and a pretty girl to bring home to your mama.

But Brock wasn't even from a small country town. He'd just been blessed to have a deep, rich voice that came out when he sang. Over the years, he'd tried other genres – alternative, pop, and rock – something that was more indicative of his L.A. roots. That was where he'd been raised by his divorced parents, Owen and Summer. Neither of them had cared when he'd come out – especially not his mom who, after separating from Brock's father, had announced she was bisexual and later remarried a lovely woman named Eloise.

The only ones who had seemingly cared were the record label he'd signed with when he'd been the frontman of Tallahassee. They'd sworn to drop the band from the label if the media ever caught wind of it. That was signal enough to Brock that being gay in country music was definitely the wrong thing to be.

So, he'd bottled it up. Kept it quiet. Only one of his bandmates had known – Trace Strickland. It was part of the reason that Trace was pulling Brock back into this media hellscape. He knew that Brock would never say the one thing that could clear his name because it would likely mean the death of his career as his fan-based jumped ship for more conforming artists who fit neatly into the homegrown box that country music was based in.

Brock hadn't told anyone famous about it. Hadn't spoken of it in interviews or on talk shows. In his eyes, he was out to the people who mattered – his family.

He hadn't even told Jay, though the bastard had guessed it within a few weeks of living with Brock. And then proceeded to try and set Brock up with a special effects guy on one of his movies for about three months. Jay had never breathed a word of it to anyone, a fact for which Brock was grateful. It meant that he didn't need to hide in his home. He could be whoever he wanted to be within the confines of the apartment's walls.

He'd figure out the rest one day.

He hoped.

"Anyways," Brock sighed. "Lewis leaving was just the icing on top of the cake today."

"What else happened?" Jay asked, clearly picking up on Brock's dark tone.

"Frontier sold my contract to Eclipse Records. Apparently, they're close to bankruptcy so they're offloading artists who aren't making them money. And that includes me."

Jay stared at him. Blinked twice. "I thought your last shows sold out completely?"

"Yes," Brock affirmed but he bit his tongue to keep from refraining on how small the venues had been compared to the large stadiums he used to perform in during his Tallahassee days. "They did. But that doesn't mean shit when you factor in everything I'm costing them because of this whole Trace Strickland scandal that I didn't even play a role in."

He drank deeply from his beer. Finished the bottle and reached for a new one. Brock twisted the cap off and chucked it onto the coffee table. For a second, he watched the screen where one of the mobsters was standing over the other one, a smoking gun in his hand as a pool of blood blossomed on the pavement around his dead adversary.

Jay was frowning. "I saw that your name was trending online today."

"Yup. Trace did an interview with a columnist at Euphoria. Basically says that Jeremiah, Grayson, and I are just as guilty as he is. Went into detail about other things that got covered up when we were a band and of course, they had to bring up the Bailey Grant scandal."

"Even I heard about that one and I was filming in London at the time."

Brock grimaced. "It wasn't good. I just about quit music for good after that one. It was the final straw. My band broke up a few weeks after she came out and told the world her side of the story. No one doubted that what she said was the truth. She was too innocent to lie."

"She's still making music, right?"

"Yeah," Brock affirmed. "She's kicking ass after going solo. She won a couple of awards last year and everything."

Jay offered a grim, satisfied smile. "Good for her."

Brock couldn't help but nod. Though he hadn't had any contact with Bailey since the whole scandal went down, he'd always been pleased that she'd been the one to come out stronger on the other side. Not Trace.

"So anyway," Jay continued, "what's the deal with this new label?"

"I don't know. Des set me up a meeting with the new label execs for Sunday but it's going to be a disaster, I think. They're a new label, so my career is bound to go down the drain with them." He sighed. "Anyways, enough about me. How's your life? Everything going okay at the shoot?"

Jay nodded. "Yeah. We're on schedule which is a miracle because Dawn showed up stoned out of her mind today so we had to re-schedule a bunch of her scenes to tomorrow. Marco is pissed. He wants to fire her but that would mean we'd have to reshoot over half the movie. She's the lead so she's not easy to replace."

"This is just an awful day, isn't it?"

"You can say that again."

"Do you have any other projects lined up?"

"I'm shooting this romance flick once The Scapegoat wraps."

Brock said, "Sounds interesting."

Jay sipped from his beer. "I guess. I signed on for it a while back but there's been a ton of delays. I didn't think it'd actually get made." He considered Brock seriously. "You ever ridden a horse? Apparently, I need to ride a horse in the movie."

"Dude, I grew up like three blocks from here, not the boondocks."

"I thought all country singers rode horses. Isn't it a rite of passage?"

Brock shoved Jay's shoulder, causing Jay to spill beer on the couch. "And I thought all movie stars were self-absorbed douchebags addicted to cocaine. I guess we both fell short of our rites."

Jay chuckled. "Well, if you think of anyone who can teach me to ride before that shoot starts, let me know. The studio is going to hire someone to teach me otherwise. They said that there are a few places not too far from here where I can learn but I'll probably get followed by the paparazzi if I go there. I'd rather the press not get photos of me falling off of a horse and onto my ass."

Probably a smart move. He'd never live that one down, especially when it came for the movie to be released.

"So, that's it? Just the romance movie and you're officially unemployed?"

"Well...No," Jay said. "I'm in talks for a new film but we're still working out logistics. It's based on a true story and takes place all across Europe so the studio is trying to figure out where they want to do location shoots and where they want to film on a built set here in L.A."

Brock asked, "What's the true story? Anything I'd know about?"

Jay shrugged. "I don't know. It was on the news a few years back. This college girl bought some used books at a sale and inside one of the books she found a journal belonging to this woman who went on a mega-vacation across Europe. Apparently, she almost died and she went to find the guy who saved her life. The college girl who found the journal replicated the same route that the other woman went on over a decade earlier. They want to film it with a dual-perspective thing. Past versus present."

It was interesting, Brock thought, and it sounded vaguely familiar but not enough that he remembered what happened. "So, who's your character? The guy who saved the woman's life?"

"No, it's this other guy who meets up with the college girl. His name is Neville."

Brock said, "Cool."

Jay ran a hand through his hair and took another swig from his beer. "They're still figuring out the casting too so I think we're about a year out. I'm supposed to have a month or two off between the shoot I'm on right now and the romance one."

"What's happening with that action one you filmed last year? Shouldn't it be released soon?"

"They're finishing up some post-production editing stuff and touching up the soundtrack from what I understand but the trailer has been set and the release date. It's scheduled to come out in three months or so."

"How's Julia?"

Julia Robbins had been Jay's costar during that action shoot – a film titled Built for Revenge. They had started dating after filming had ended but hadn't spent much time together recently. Last Brock had heard, Julia was heading to Iceland for a new shoot.

"Nah, we broke up," Jay said. He didn't sound particularly upset. His tone was matter-of-fact, no emotion.

Brock stared at him. "When?"

Jay considered. "Three weeks ago?"

"You seem really torn up about it," Brock commented dryly.

A one-armed shrug. "She wasn't the one. We'd only been together for a few months anyway. It was more of a publicity stunt. Our managers told us to start spending more time together so we did. I don't think we ever really made it past the 'being friends' stage."

Brock stared at the television screen without seeing it. "Dating sucks."

"You're telling me. None of the actresses in the business I know are down to earth but trying to meet a normal person is just...It doesn't always work out," Jay said. There was a hint of bitterness in his voice.

Brock knew why. A couple of years earlier, Jay had met and fallen in love with a non-celebrity woman named Claire. Brock had never met her but he knew that Claire not reciprocating Jay's feelings had torn him up. Jay had spiralled for a year, swearing off dating entirely and working on his image. He stopped partying, avoided most of the public except for anything that was required for work, and attended only the mandatory events, like red carpets and film premiers.

It had been during that period that Brock had really gotten to know Jay. Their paths had crossed before but never frequently. Then, Jay had moved from New York to L.A. and was looking for a place to stay. Brock happened to have an extra room and Jay had, quite simply, never left.

Though it wasn't as if Brock minded Jay's company. It was nice to have a friend who knew the pressures of the media and celebrity status. Someone who understood how hard it was to make friends and meet people and be normal, all while trying to pursue a career he was passionate about.

Jay looked at Brock and forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "We'll figure it one day, I'm sure."

"We have to. How the hell can L.A.'s two most eligible bachelors stay single forever? It'd be a disservice."

It did the trick. Jay grinned and took a swig of beer. "You're so right, my friend." Brock watched as Jay reached for the remote. "Now, I'm done watching this garbage. I'm going to find us something decent to watch."