Brock

Fame is a poison most would drink happily despite the warning of a slow and miserable death – Atticus

Des hired a private charter to carry Brock and Jay across state lines.  It took a little under three hours to fly from Los Angeles to a small municipal airport in a city that Brock had never heard of.  They called it Ardmore and supposedly it housed over twenty-four thousand people. 

            Brock didn't have the chance to see more than a handful of those people as he was ushered into a car that Des had arranged for him to rent while he was in Oklahoma. He and Jay had decided to go alone: no assistants or bodyguards. After all, neither of them thought that they were likely to get attacked by anything or anyone way out here, except perhaps by a cow or a horse.

The car Brock and Jay clambered into was tinted with black windows, making it impossible for passersby to see inside of the vehicle, but it didn't stop Brock from looking out as he and Jay pulled away from the airport and headed towards Tishomingo.  Brock didn't see much as they went – at least, not from the perspective of someone who'd lived in a major metropolitan area his entire life.

            Mostly, it was just a lot of rolling plains and farmland.  They passed through a few little towns but mostly Brock just followed the GPS instructions on his phone while Jay napped in the seat next to him. 

            They didn't go directly to Bailey's minuscule hometown.  Brock had looked for hotels there and though he didn't often pride himself on being a stuck-up egotistical celebrity, he found that he did have standards higher than what the small town offered.  The local bed and breakfasts and the sole motel weren't encouraging, so he'd booked two adjoining rooms under a fake name in nearby Madill, a municipality that offered a hotel with complimentary breakfast and more than one floor.

            It would be none of the five-star establishments that they were each used to staying in.  No valet parking or rooms that featured anything more than a bed, television, bureau, an uncomfortable chair, and an air conditioner that ticked incessantly. But it was a place that they were each fine staying for a few days until they could head back to L.A.

            Of the two of them, Jay was the more easily recognizable.  His was the face that was stamped on posters and movie trailers while Brock tended to fly further under the radar unless he had a tour approaching or his life was in shambles as it currently was.  Still, for the two of them to go relatively unnoticed, their best chance was for Brock to check them in and so that was what he did.  While Jay waited by the elevator with sunglasses on and his hood drawn up, Brock grabbed the room keys from a woman who looked old enough to be his grandmother at the front desk.

            By the time they collapsed in their rooms, Brock was exhausted.  He left the adjoining door open and could only see the edges of Jay's feet as the other man sprawled on the bed.  Brock was inclined to do the same – would have, actually had his stomach not grumbled louder than the sound of rolling thunder.

"I'm starving.  You want food?"

            Jay didn't even move.  "Sure."

            "Are you sticking to your movie-star diet?"

            "Not tonight."

            "Thank god."

            Because Brock wanted something greasy that would surely make him feel terrible later.  The thought didn't stop him from placing an order at some family-run burger joint down the block.  By the time their delivery driver arrived at the door, Brock and Jay had already tuned in to an L.A. Dodgers baseball game.  Brock lounged across the bed, Jay in an armchair with his feet propped up on the edge of the mattress.

            Brock grabbed the food from the delivery driver – some guy in his teens who clearly didn't have a clue about who waited in the room just beyond.  After sending the driver on his way with a generous tip, Brock tore into a bacon double-cheese burger with all the fixings and a carton of onion rings.  Jay did the same, though he'd swapped the onion rings for French fries and a chocolate milkshake.

            "I'm going to feel like shit in the morning," Jay mused as he downed the last of his fries. He upturned the carton into his mouth and mumbled, "But it'll have been worth it."

            "Speaking of the morning, what's your plan?  I've gotta be at Bailey's place for ten and we've only got the one car.  You hanging around here or coming with me?"

            Jay stared at the television a moment, watching as Donny Johnson of the Dodgers hit a triple out to right field.  "Why don't I drop you off?  Maybe I'll go for a drive.  Check out what Oklahoma has to offer."

            "Suit yourself but my guess is that there's not much around."

            Yet when the morning did come, Jay indeed woke up with Brock and got ready to drive him to his meeting with Bailey Grant. 

            The anticipation caused a faint sheen sweat to coat his palms as they drove towards Tishomingo.  He'd been nervous since his new label had proposed this collaboration two weeks ago but now he was outright terrified. 

Brock didn't know what to expect when he saw Bailey again.  Perhaps she'd only played nice with their shared label execs and was now planning to ream him out in person for Trace's misgivings.

He told himself that if she did, he wouldn't blame her.  Not one bit.

            They ended up on Oklahoma Highway Twenty-Two heading towards the outskirts of town where the small city gave way to sprawling fields aglow in the summer morning light.  It was easy enough to find the entrance to the property from the GPS directions but when they turned in, they were met by a wrought-iron gate.  An intercom was up on the left.

            Brock rolled down the window to the car as he rolled to a stop and pressed the button on the intercom.  "Uh, Brock Mason here for a meeting with Bailey Grant?"

            "Come on up," a lilting female voice replied. 

The gate swung open and Brock eased his foot off the brake pedal.  The drive was long and unpaved but in the distance a house appeared.  Two stories of brick exterior with a dark shingled roof, large windows, and a wraparound porch above manicured flowerbeds.  As they got closer, he saw a second building that looked to be a barn and a large vegetable garden that was set between it and the house.

Beautiful in its simplicity.  Inviting.

            "What time do you need me to pick you up?" Jay asked as Brock parked the car in front of the house. 

            "No idea.  I'll text you?"

            "Sure."

            Brock released his seatbelt and took a breath before sliding out of the car.  Jay exited with him but circled to climb into the front seat as Brock retrieved his guitar from the trunk.  He barely had time to wave before Jay was peeling down the drive.

            There was no point denying the inevitable, so even though his heart was hammering with anticipation in his chest, he forced himself to climb the stairs that led up to the wooden door and ring the doorbell.

As he waited, he surveyed the front of the house.  From the porch swing to the hanging flowerpots and the mats on the ground before the door.  He was just staring at the broad property visible off the edge of the porch when the door cracked open and one of the most handsome men that Brock had ever seen appeared.

He was tall – even taller than Brock who, at six-foot-one, couldn't be called short.  Yet this man had at least a few inches on Brock and hair that was light brown but with darker, warmer strands of chestnut interwoven in.  Accompanying that was a strong jaw and straight nose and eyes that were of the darkest blue.  Like the colour of the ocean or an inky midnight sky.

            Brock didn't realize that he was staring until the man raised an eyebrow.  He cleared his throat and said, "Um...I'm Brock.  Mason.  Brock Mason.  I'm here to see Bailey Grant?"

            Beneath his stubbled beard, the man's pink lips lifted in a crooked smile.  Over his shoulder into the house, he shouted, "Bailey!  Brock Mason is here to see you."  To Brock, he held out a hand.  "Hey.  I'm Noah Hartley."

            "Brock...But I already told you that."  He shook the hand that Noah extended to him, not surprised in the slightest to feel the strength in that grip or to see the muscle that rippled along Noah's arms.  Accompanying the muscle were ropes of scar tissue, some white and faded, others raised and pink.

            "Yeah—"

            Noah was cut-off by the arrival of a pretty young woman.  Her strawberry-blonde curls hung in ringlets around her shoulders.  She was a whole head shorter than Noah and though she was lean and strong, her body was softer – not the rigid planes that Noah had.  Curves on her hips and a gentler tapering to the jaw and cheekbones. 

            Bailey Grant smiled at him, exposing two rows of near-perfectly straight teeth.  The lateral incisor on the left was just slightly crooked.  Yet Brock's eyes were drawn to hers – hazel, and much warmer than he'd ever anticipated.

            "Hi, Brock."

            "Bailey."  He inclined his head and smiled back.  Not as open as hers had been.  He was too nervous for that.

            She nodded her chin towards the interior of the house and moved out of the way to create room for him to pass as she said, "Come on in."

            Noah stepped over the threshold, taking up Brock's vacated spot.  "I've gotta go," he said to Bailey.  "Dwayne called. He needs me at the grounds and then I told your dad that I'd stop by to help him finish the new porch.  I'll probably be gone all day.  Remember to baste the roast.  I set timers on your phone so you remember when to do it."

            "I swear I will remember to baste your precious roast."  Bailey patted Noah on the shoulder affectionately but from the glint in her eye, Brock had the feeling that it was something that would be easily forgotten, no matter the timers or her assurances.

            "I'm sure you will – but I'll be back in time to do everything else."

            "Go to work you mother hen," Bailey said.  "Your perfect dinner will not be ruined under my watchful eyes."

            Noah laughed and Brock felt as if he was invading a moment as Noah bent to peck her on the cheek.  "Love you."

            "Love you too."  Bailey grinned at him and stood on her toes to properly kiss him quickly before Noah was darting down the steps, whistling as he tossed a set of keys into the air and caught them as he crossed towards a blue truck parked fifty feet away.

            When Noah was gone, Bailey turned to Brock with a blush on her cheeks.  For the first time, he took her in.  She was dressed in a simple summer dress with alternating white and navy blue stripes. Her feet were bare.  "Sorry about that."

            "Your house,"  Brock said and he took his shoes off to place them on the rack that Bailey indicated.  "No need to limit the PDA for me."

            "Technically, it's Noah's house.  I tend to stay here most of the time, though I haven't officially moved in yet."

            Brock raised a brow but followed her into the house as she started to walk.  His eyes roamed – looking over the bright and open floorplan and accents of rich dark wood.  She led him into the airy kitchen with a large white marble island.  The appliances were stainless steel and just above the sink, there was a window that looked out into the front yard.

            "You don't live here but your recording studio is here?  Is Noah in the music business too?" Brock asked. What's his reason to have a gated fence with an intercom?

            Bailey laughed as if he'd said something truly hilarious.  "Not at all.  Noah can barely carry a tune.  His sister, Caroline, is another story though.  She and I work together often and she's the one who insisted on adding the recording studio after they rebuilt this place a year and a half ago."  She walked towards one of the cupboards in the kitchen and pulled out a coffee mug.  "Want coffee?  I just made a fresh pot."

            "Uh, sure.  That'd be great."

            "Cream and sugar?"

            "Black is fine."

            "A man after my own heart," she said with a grin as she reached for a second cup and strode for the coffee pot on the other side of the kitchen.  She jerked her chin towards the kitchen island where there were barstools tucked beneath.  "Feel free to take a seat."

            Brock tapped his fingers against the counter nervously.  "The house sounds like it was a big project.  Was it an old house?  Structural issues?"

            He couldn't see her face but he noticed as her neck and shoulders stiffened.  When she turned around, though, her face was calm and cool, even if the brightness in her eyes had dimmed a fraction.

            "There was a fire," Bailey told him simply.  "The old house went up in smoke. Caroline was just starting her songwriting career at the time and the home studio was her idea since it would make it easier for us to work together while staying close to family.  My parents' place neighbours Noah's so we're very close.  Makes it easy to move between houses, though."  Bailey set the mug of coffee down before him and leaned against the counter.

            "I bet."

            There was an amused little smile on her face as she regarded him.  This Bailey was nothing like the girl he'd known.  With Trace, she'd been more timid, overshadowed by his egotistical personality, and a tad reserved.  The woman before him was relaxed, comfortable in her skin, and undeniably content.  It oozed out of her, that confidence. 

            "How've you been?" Bailey asked.

            "Good, good."  Brock tried to sound as confident as she looked but it was clear from the raise of her slender brow that she wasn't buying it.  "That's a lie.  My life is a hot mess."

            "I saw the article with the interview that Trace put out.  He really didn't hold anything back about you, Jeremiah, or Grayson, did he?"

            Just one thing, Brock thought.  Because the only thing that Trace hadn't put in that article was the fact that Brock was gay.  Which meant his ex-friend was saving that particular bombshell for another occasion.

            But that was a secret and so Brock only grimaced.  "Not really."

            "I've heard the other unsavoury things about him too.  That court case..."

            Brock stared into his cup of coffee.  He'd known this was coming but it was still hard to look Bailey in the eye.  "Believe me, I'm as disgusted by it as you are.  I had no idea that he was doping those women."

            "I'm glad they came forward."  A hint of savagery in her tone.  "Couldn't have been easy to put themselves on the line like that."

            Bailey would know.  Not that she'd been victimized by Trace in the same way – but he'd defiled her too.  He'd stripped away her dignity, her credibility, in one fell swoop.  Bailey had been the one to pick herself back up after that. 

            "I didn't know," he continued, "about everything that went down between you and him either.  The whole cheating-baby-scandal scenario.  Greyson, Jeremiah, and I found out the truth after you went on that talk show.  Trace didn't even have the balls to tell us himself.  I just...I wanted to apologize for what you went through.  You'll never hear an apology from him but you deserve one."

            Bailey huffed a laugh and shook her head in grim amusement – her strawberry blonde curls swaying.  "God, he really is an ass, isn't he?"  She reached out and patted his hand.  "No apology needed from you though.  I never blamed you for anything.  That was all Trace – and my short-sightedness to not realize who I was dating."

            Brock sipped from his coffee as a weight in his chest began to lighten.  "And you've been good, then?  Since Chasing Mayflies split and you went solo?"

            "Better than good.  Coming home was what I needed.  I just didn't realize it before then.  I love working with Julio, David, and Cierra.  They're really open to artistic freedom and are good at helping guide you in the right direction without being overly pushy about it.  They were what I needed musically to make it on my own."  She cocked her head thoughtfully at him and added, "Though I bet it was a shock for you to move labels so abruptly."

            "You have no idea.  But they seem nice."  Brock hesitated and then added, "I'm not going to lie – I was a little worried about coming here.  They said that they wanted us to record a song together or something?"

            Bailey's eyes sparkled over the rim of her cup.  "Nervous?  Why?  Did you think I was going to yell at you for what happened years ago?"

            "Honestly, yes."

            "Trace made his own choices and now he's paying for them so I've got nothing to be angry about where you're concerned.  When Cierra called and asked how I felt about working with you, I was excited.  Still am, as a matter of fact.  So don't go spoiling it now because of Trace-freaking-Strickland."

            Brock crossed his heart and his next smile was a little easier.  "Scout's honour."

            "Good."  Bailey picked up her empty cup and carried it to the sink where she deposited it and turned back to look at him.  "Now, come on.  I'll give you the house tour on the way to our little recording studio.  I've been working on a new song for us that I started writing with Caroline.  She's on her way back from Nashville but she'll probably sit in on our writing and recording sessions.  When we're ready to record, I've got a house band that will come and play the backtrack for us."

            She started to walk out of the kitchen and so Brock stood, following her as she guided him through the house.  They reached the edge of the living room that was openly connected to the kitchen just as she mused, "Where are you staying anyway?  There aren't many options in town."

            "I got a hotel over in Madill."

            Bailey tsked as she padded down a hallway, indicating a bathroom and small home gym as she went.  "Should have called me before coming.  I could have fixed you up in Noah's guesthouse.  Still could, if you'd rather that than a hotel – but no pressure.  Think about it.  At the very least, you should stay for dinner tonight.  We're doing a proper sit-down for Caroline since it's been a month since we've had her home.  Hence the roast beef that Noah is so worried that I'll ruin."

            Brock hesitated.  "That'd be nice but—"

            "But?"

            "A friend of mine came to Oklahoma with me.  I don't want to intrude—"

            "The more the merrier," Bailey said with a wave of her hand.  "Send a text and invite him or her along.  Is it anyone I know?"

            "It's Jay Dawson."

            Bailey spun on her heel to gape at him.  "Really?"

            Brock held back a cringe.  "You're a fan?"

"Rethinking the invitation to dinner?" Bailey laughed as she resumed walking.  "I'm not a super-fan but I know of a few in this town who are.  Most people in the area turn a blind eye to my more famous friends when they come to visit, but I don't think Mr. Dawson will get off so easily if word gets out.  Seriously – consider the guest house.  We've got security cameras and the high-tech fence, plus my brothers on speed dial.  Nothing is scarier than the Grant boys, let me tell you that.  They'll keep the groupies out."