Chapter Text
Trevor’s eyes snapped open as he was pulled from his nightmare and back to reality. It was the Grammy nightmare again, where he went up to give his speech but the only person in the audience was Luke. Everything was still, completely quiet, as he simply tried to breathe, overcoming the shock of being awake again.
Until the meowing began, and the tabby cat poking at his shoulder told him he had overslept even before he saw the alarm clock read 8AM. A full hour after he normally got started with his days during non-touring weeks.
“Okay Lexi, I get it,” Trevor mumbled to the cat, affording her a scratch behind the ears before he climbed out of bed.
With Lexi in his arms, Trevor pulled back the blackout curtains and breathed out a long sigh as the mountains came into view. Buying the house in Tahoe had been the best decision he had made in years. He knew he was procrastinating starting the day, but he couldn’t help but to open the patio and step outside, letting the crisp smell of pine sooth his lungs. His house was buried deep in the mountains, no one else was around for miles.
Rose had called it “a good place to get murdered” but for Trevor, it was paradise.
It was the perfect place to hide from the world while he worked on the fourth and final album of the infamously bad record deal that he signed back in 1998. His hope had been to get the guys’ music out there, keep their voices alive and connect Luke’s music with the world, like he had always dreamed. Instead, he ended up screwing his dead friends and himself over worse than he could have ever imagined. As it turned out, you couldn’t give credit to dead kids who never got their music copywritten. The only songs Sunset Curve had the legal rights to were the ones on the demo. Luke’s poor man copyrights for the others they liked to perform meant nothing to his record label and the remaining songs were just illegible scribbles in his songbook, with no name showing that he even wrote it. It was Trevor Wilson’s record deal that he signed, he was the new artist the label was putting money into, and no amount of fighting with the label would give the guys’ credit.
He had screwed up, big time, and soon performing his old band’s music became a curse, not a connection. He was singing Luke’s lyrics but they were mixed with Trevor’s own memories, which were still so raw in his head that he struggled to do takes without legitimate flashbacks plaguing him. Maybe it was that raw emotion that people ended up connecting with so well, but having to perform those songs, night after night, being forced to put his heart and soul and pain out there for the world to see…it was hell. It didn’t help that the deal was shady overall, with impossible demands and a royalty share that wasn’t in reality as big as it seemed when he was brand new and wide-eyed. It didn’t help that after Universal and Polygram merged that year and hundreds of rock acts were being dropped from labels left and right that he kept being told just be happy you still have a deal.
So, he kept his head down from the press, poured his heart and what was left of his soul into touring and connecting with the fans. He hoped that somehow, it would be enough, to keep Luke's music alive. Even if the guilt ate him alive every day.
When he made the mistake of trying to share covers of the Sunset Curve songs closest to his heart, hoping an obscure performance in a small stadium in Little Rock would go unnoticed, his cover of “In Your Starlight” ended up being dropped onto a live album and became one of his biggest hits. His label owned the copyright of the performance itself, crediting him for the recording copyright, and suddenly he was singing the love song Luke helped Reggie write to sing to his crush on a nightly basis.
Thank God, back in the day Reggie had chickened out and the girl wasn’t out there somewhere wondering why Trevor Wilson was performing her love song.
Even more awkward? At the time, he had really thought that Luke had a crush on Reggie.
Playing that song brought out all the feelings, to say the least.
He was freaking cursed, but he was alive and was living the rocker life millions dreamed of so he felt like he had to take the cruelness of the industry and deal with it. In retrospect, that’s where it all began- his slow downward spiral into complete self-destruct mode.
The third album was the post-breakup album. Breakup referring to, of course, his very private relationship that the public had managed to never find out about. All the public knew was that he was bisexual (and didn’t the death threats he received from that bombshell mess with his head?) After Trevor broke things off romantically from Rose and Ray, to say he was a wreck was putting it lightly. More accurately, it was a miracle he survived it- and none of it was nothing that he didn’t put it on himself. He was the coward who couldn’t commit. He was the one who ran as far away as he could from L.A. afterward, cutting himself off from everyone, and giving into whatever temptations he could just to get through day-to-day life on tour. Feeling like he was drowning in regret and guilt, becoming very personal with what imposter syndrome truly meant, Trevor punished himself that year more than the press or the ghosts from his past ever could. He was a complete train wreck working on that third album; Trevor hardly had any tangible memories of writing it, let alone recording it. He was told he wrote “White Coats” during a particularly bad withdrawal, but he didn’t remember it. Oddly enough, touring that record had felt cathartic. The music was dark and angry and bitter and it hurt; it was a far cry from the anthems and romantic prose he had become known for. But it felt more real and personal than anything Sunset Curve at that point, even though it had more of a cult following and the album was mostly a flop.
His wakeup call (literally) was the Christmas he spent alone in 2003, not receiving a single personal call…except from Rose. She and Ray were expecting a baby girl. And Trevor was happy for them, he really was. She really wanted Trevor to be apart of Julie's life (she promised Ray did too, they both missed him), but he couldn't be around the baby unless he got clean and sober.
“You deserve better, Bobby, than what you’ve been doing to yourself,” she had pleaded.
It wasn’t the first time in his life he had heard that from her and it wouldn’t be the last. He let Rose and Ray drop him off to a rehab facility where he only just began to realize how hard it would be to even reach rock bottom again from how far he had fallen, even if his addictions were years younger than many of the residents. It felt like reliving the fresh, raw pain of the late 90s all over again, but he made it through.
This year, with a year of being clean under his belt and with the end of his awful contract and the promise of a fresh start, Trevor had hope for his future for the first time in a very long time. It was a tiny, vulnerable, ounce of hope. But it was something. All he wanted to do was hide away from the world, be himself for a change, and write this album as quickly as he could and take his blank slate.
Only…
He was completely stuck with his writing, and the clock was ticking- the album was due out in December.
Nothing felt good enough with this album. He’d spend days re-writing choruses and bridges only to wake up at 3am in a cold sweat, convinced the entire song would get him laughed out of the music industry. While he was tempted to half-ass the album just to spite the record label and purposefully let it be another flop, who knew what kind of success he’d have with any future deals. His reputation was on the line, at the least he didn’t want to completely disappoint his fans- both his music fans and his few personal fans that cared about him.
Placing Lexi on the floor, he let her chase her downstairs to the kitchen to start his strict morning routine and get to work. Today, Trevor told himself, he wouldn’t get trapped in re-watching the first season of Lost or distracted with re-organizing his record collection. Or the closets. Or the pantry. Or speed-read through more chapters of the new Harry Potter that had dropped the day before. He’d been stuck on the same bridge for a potential new single for weeks, and he was determined to either figure it out today or trash it.
But before he started breakfast, before he went on his morning run, tried any new yoga poses, journaled or got sucked into more Harry Potter, he got to complete his favorite task of every morning. Trevor grabbed a Sharpie, turned to the calendar on the fridge, and his lips turned up into a firm smile he crossed off yesterday's date of July 16.
“Go me,” he muttered to himself, picking up Lexi to give her a kiss to the top of her head.
It was July, 2005 and Trevor was twenty-eight years old, eighteen months clean, living in a secluded cabin deep in the mountains, hadn’t talked to anyone in four days and had a cat named after his dead best friend.
2005 was going great.
(That wasn’t sarcasm, it was really going great!)
Purposefully, Trevor shifted his eyes from the calendar before they could fall on the upcoming date at the end of the week, the anniversary that loomed over him; a shadow that haunted him every July. This year marked ten years since he lost his three best friends, his band- his family- in the timespan of a couple of hours on what should have been the biggest night of their lives. If he thought about how much his life had changed in those ten years, how horrible he had been to himself and others, after being the sole survivor of Sunset Curve…he physically couldn’t stomach it. He was determined to do better, he really was, but he knew this anniversary would hit hard. Isolating himself from the world, from his own reality, from the temptation of losing himself to things that could distract his head absolutely felt like the safest bet to make it through the anniversary.
His mountain home was exactly 501 miles from the Orpheum, which felt a safe enough distance away.
With another day checked off, Trevor reached into the fridge for some fruit and spinach for his daily smoothie and grabbed a couple of eggs to boil. Trevor was just about to crack open the next chapter of the Half-Blood Prince to read while the water boiled when the landline rang, and his heart stopped.
Only five people in the world knew the number to his cabin. Any call was either an emergency or Rose, and he knew Rose was working today. Forcing himself to breathe, Trevor dared to look over to the caller ID, and his stomach sank when he saw the name: Clint Donavan.
Clint was his personal lawyer. Not even his entertainment lawyer- his personal lawyer. Meetings with Clint were never good, and not just because he was the scariest person Trevor had ever met in his life.
He knew his hopes of having a productive, creative day would be ruined as soon as he turned off the oven and answered solemnly:
“Hey Clint.”
It was like answering a call from the grim reaper.
“Mr. Wilson…” Clint hesitated, which only made Trevor more nervous. “Trevor…”
He had never heard this man call someone by their first name; a cold wave of anxiety washed over him as there was more hesitation on the other end of the line.
“What now?” Trevor sighed. “Please, just tell me.”
“You better to get to L.A. as soon as you can,” was all Clint could manage. He sounded nervous, and Trevor was pretty sure if your lawyer was nervous, you were doomed. “Something’s come up.”
As though Trevor could ever casually hit the road, navigate the 395 traffic, and make it to L.A. in one, not a nervous wreck, piece after an ominous message like that.
“I’m in Tahoe, Clint,” he complained, “just tell me whatever it is, and I’ll find someone who can help you take care of it.”
“You’re going to want to deal with this personally,” Clint insisted. “You won’t want to tell anyone you’re coming.”
Trevor blinked, staring down at Lexi, who innocently bopped her head against his leg for attention. His initial fear had been that someone had died, but this sounded bigger than that, somehow. It had been a good year for him so far- no major press scandals, mostly decent album and concert reviews, no threats or crazy fan instances that were out of the ordinary. There wasn’t anything big for anyone to find out…
He froze as his eyes gravitated back toward the calendar, to the looming date of July 22.
Obviously, there was something that could have been found out.
The world went a little fuzzy at the very thought that this was it; he could practically hear his heart pounding in his ears.
“What is it?” Trevor demanded, closing his eyes tight as he prepared for the worst.
“This is about your relationship with Lucy Ellwood.”
Trevor’s eyes snapped open. A mixture of relief, that no one was dead, that Sunset Curve wasn’t involved, and confusion came over him. Maybe this was all somehow a misunderstanding.
“I don’t know anyone of that name,” he stated.
“You didn’t have a relationship with a Lucy Ellwood in 2004?”
Somewhere amongst a thousand blurred memories from the 2003-2004 tour, he vaguely remembered flirting with one of the stage directors during the tail end of the tour. It was nothing serious, they only went out a couple of times. It was barely a few weeks after leaving his month long rehab stay- his agent had bullied him into going back on tour right away, as to not lose any more money. He remembered being fascinated with how kind Lucy was and how she treated him like just a normal person.
“What happened with Lucy?” Trevor demanded.
The hot, anxious, feeling was growing worse, like the whole world was closing in on him.
“She died. She was in a car crash last week.”
Oh.
Maybe that was just it.
He winced at his own selfishness.
“Oh…that’s…that sucks,” he offered, “why are you telling me this?”
“A social worker contacted our office to see how they can reach you. Well, they called your agent first, and he sent them straight to us. Lucy had a child, Trevor, a baby…about nine months old.”
Trevor knew it was coming but the words still stabbed straight into his chest as he sank down against the kitchen wall, joining Lexi on the floor. The phone hung numbly between his ear and shoulder as his breathing doubled, his chest felt like an elephant was sitting on it…
“There’ll be a private plane waiting for you at the Tahoe airport in three hours,” Clint stated, his voice uncharacteristically soft, almost fatherly way. “Get yourself there, come back to L.A. and we’ll figure this out. And Trevor- I would highly recommend that you not tell anyone about this, this is a story we’ve got to control, okay? You do not want the press to find out about this before you’re ready.”
His heart raced so fast it was like it physically closed his chest up, his throat up, he couldn’t speak or form cohesive thoughts.
He had a child.
Someone had his child, without ever telling him, and died.
“Just get to my office, I’ll help you through this,” Clint promised. “The social worker will meet us here, okay? You got all that? Trevor?”
Letting out a sharp breath, feeling dizzy at the oxygen plummeting through his lungs, Trevor felt the world come back into focus. Lexi was trying to climb into his lap, as she did whenever she saw he was upset or stressed. He stroked her fur, trying to find some way, anyway, to keep grounded to reality long enough to do this.
“Yeah,” he finally breathed, “yeah…Tahoe airport, three hours. I’ll be there. I won’t tell anyone.”
Who do I have to tell?
Rose’s number was just a speed dial button away, but he couldn’t bring himself to send out yet another SOS to her and Ray. Not yet.
Trevor wasn’t sure how long he sat there, gripped with shock, trying to wrap his head around Lucy and baby and fatherhood and…
He was a twenty-eight year old recovering addict with barely any family of his own. Every year that Trevor made it through alive was a miracle. He wasn’t even man enough to go by his real name- he had done things no child would be proud of.
He was the last thing this kid deserved.
“There’s got to be someone else,” Trevor stammered, “anyone else. A grandmother or a best friend or a weird cousin or anyone.”
Anyone that’s not me.
“Lucy was an only child,” Clint explained. “Her mother is dead and her biological father wasn’t in the picture. Before she died…she asked for you to be contacted.”
Now that was a stab to the heart, but it confused him even more. Lucy had no one, her baby’s father was a multi-millionaire and she still hadn’t tried to contact him. And who would have, if they had seen his headlines over the past two years? Yet he was the best person to take her baby in?
“Come home, Trevor,” Clint spoke up gently, “get back to L.A., and we’ll figure this out.”
July 22 still glared at him from the calendar straight ahead of him, and Trevor swallowed nervously. He knew how hard it would be, as soon as he crossed the Los Angeles city limit; he knew how vulnerable he would be back in L.A. How easy it would be for him to screw up, in so many ways.
How selfish are you? Luke’s voice spat in his mind.
I know you’re used to only thinking about yourself, Alex chimed in cruelly, yet oddly calmly, but there’s a kid out there who needs you right now. Like we needed our parents, who were never there for us. The least you can do is go.
Babies having babies, he heard Reggie quip, hey, you have experience with babies though. You took care of Luke in your garage for seven months! Is it a boy or a girl?
It was definitely not a good sign that the hallucinations were back and felt so real.
But…they were right.
Clint was still speaking in his ear, trying to make sure he was okay, bringing him back to reality.
“Hey,” Trevor spoke up suddenly, his voice tight and small, sounding nothing like himself. “What…what is, it the baby? Is it a boy or girl?”
“Girl…her name is Carrie.”