Chapter Text
Chapter 1
“You have to be kidding me.”
Jake doesn’t move except to raise an arm to drape over his eyes as light shines in through the open door. His head pounds furiously and his body aches. He can’t remember exactly what happened last night - all his memories are fuzzy, and he’s sure there are plenty of gaps. There always are.
“You have a TV interview in an hour.” His agent, a balding, heavyset man named Tony, flicks on the light. “And you look like absolute shit.”
“You always say that,” Jake mumbles. He doesn’t have to look to know Tony is standing with his feet spread apart, his arms crossed over his chest indignantly. Indignant. That’s a good way to describe his latest agent. It’s worked well; he’s lasted twice as long as the last one, a thin, anxious guy by the name of Dan. Dan had quit after a month, citing stress-related cardiac issues. Was that before or after his public nervous breakdown?
“And I really mean it this time. Have you looked in a mirror?”
“I haven’t looked at anything except the inside of my eyelids and the bottom of a bottle since last night.”
“We’re going to have to leave twenty minutes early so the make-up team can work a miracle. That’s if reports haven’t already started circulating.”
Jake doesn’t respond. Of course the rumors have already started. They never stop. Not about him. He can’t take a piss without some shock journalist or pap or crazy fan snapping a picture and spinning a wild story or asking a question and completely misquoting him or taking his words out of context.
He gave up trying to have any agency over his image a long time ago. They always report the worst; so why not give them it? Why bother trying to act any different?
“Oh, this is not good.” Tony’s voice begins to shake. “Not good at all.”
Jake moves his arm slightly, peeking at his agent as he scrolls through his phone. His face is pale.
“You got in a fight. With a biker.”
“Huh.” Jake vaguely recalls getting punched. It explains why his face and not just his head is throbbing. And other parts of him.
“There’s video of it all over the internet. And - shit.” Tony shakes his head. “Your interview for this morning was canceled because of it.”
“What a shame.” Jake grabs his sheet and pulls it over his head, turning on his side. “Guess I’ll just go back to sleep.”
“Are you kidding me? That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
What do you want me to say? Jake got drunk, he got in trouble, and now he’s in all the tabloids and probably about to trend on the internet. It happens at least once a month. Dan had quit after a similar incident. Well, that was a particularly bad month. There were three incidents in the four weeks he worked for Jake. Maybe Jake should send him a blank check for health-related costs. The poor man’s face was red as a tomato and he wasn’t breathing right when he fled.
Tony’s phone buzzes. He doesn’t bother leaving the room as he answers. “Tony Richards here…Yeah, I do…Oh. You’re sure there’s nothing we can do?...No, we signed a contract. You can’t just - No of course I didn’t read the whole thing. I’m a busy man, you think I have time for that?...Oh, that’s rich. Real funny. Real professional. You know what I have to say about that -”
Jake stops listening as Tony goes off, cursing and shouting insults louder and louder until he abruptly cuts off.
“Bastards hung up on me,” he fumes.
Jake says nothing. His head is pounding and all he wants is some peace and quiet to nurse his misery. Maybe later he’ll grab some coffee and try to find the video of his fight. He hopes he at least gave the biker a run for his money, but his drunk self isn’t exactly known for being big on anything aside from talking smack and getting himself into trouble.
“Are you asleep? Or just ignoring me?” Tony is still talking. “That was the venue calling. They’ve canceled your show for tonight on account of your behavior. Apparently they don’t want your name associated with theirs.”
“Their loss,” Jake murmurs. It was a sold-out show. They all are. He’s at the peak of his career, or whatever. That’s what the record company keeps telling him, at least. Right before they squeeze him dry of everything.
“Your name is your brand,” Tony says slowly, in a voice that barely hides his rage. “Your brand is your career. You keep this up, you’re going to wash out in just a few months.”
“That’s what I have you for, isn’t it?” Jake replies, stifling a yawn. “To make me look better. Keep me playing. Hire a PR person if you need to.”
“With what money? The revenue from the show that just got canceled?”
“There have been other shows.”
“And you washed that money down the drain with bourbon and whiskey. Along with every dinner you’ve eaten for the past two months. You’re a mess, Jake. A hot, unsalvageable mess. A waste of space and time.”
“Tell me something I haven’t heard before.”
“I quit.”
“I’ve heard that one. Six times in the past year, in fact. Or is it seven?”
Tony makes a disgusted sound. “You’re a piece of shit with a mediocre voice and a face women could forgive anything for. But at least you’re not as stupid as I am. Everyone warned me about you. I thought I could be the one to fix your brand. But there’s nothing left to fix. You’re just a piece of junk metal not even worth your weight in pennies.”
“That is a new one.”
“I hope you’re happy with yourself,” Tony snaps, then slams the door behind him.
Of course I’m not happy. Jake could laugh. What kind of happy person tries to drink themselves to death every night? What kind of happy person sets themselves on a collision course to absolute ruin and does nothing to stop the inevitable crash?
But he doesn’t expect Tony to understand. Just like he didn’t expect Dan, or whoever the agent before him was or the one before that. No one understands, and they don’t care. Everyone in the entire world sees Jake Seresin as a brand, a cash cow. An easy way to get rich. And when he doesn’t magically fill their pockets, they get angry and leave. Or they get desperate and try to steal what he won’t give them.
What he can’t give them.
His own cell rings, and he’s tempted to ignore it. But he knows exactly who it is. There are only three contacts in his phone - soon to be two, once he deletes Tony’s number - and all other calls go straight to voicemail or spam. Of the two remaining, one never calls. Will never call.
Which leaves just one option.
Will a massive sigh, he throws off his sheets and fumbles for it. “Yeah?”
“Tony just called to tell me he quit.” George Findlay’s voice is surprisingly calm, all things considered.
“A little late to the punch. I heard it first.”
“I’m sure you did. As well as the rant he gave after.”
“Something something I’m not fixable, something something he hopes I’m happy?”
“For the love of all that is holy, Jake, can’t you ever take anything seriously?” And there it is.
“I could, if I wanted to, but I find it ruins the vibe.”
“This isn’t a joke.” George’s voice turns sharp. “You know Blue Line has kept you this long because of how successful you are. Two top ten albums in the past four years. Sold out shows across the country. Millions of dollars worth of merch sold, not to mention billions of streams.”
“I like it when you sing my praises.”
“We’re not going to keep playing this game.” George’s voice softens. “You know, Jake, that I do actually like you. In spite of everything you have going on. Your music is genius. You have the looks, the voice, the charm - when you’re sober. But all that’s not enough to keep you afloat if you sabotage yourself.”
As if Jake hasn’t heard this exact speech a thousand times before. Everyone always tells him the same thing, as if one day he’s going to wake up and suddenly have an epiphany and clean himself up. As if all his problems are just going to vanish and he can be the perfect little rock star everyone wants him to be.
“This is your last chance, Jake. Blue Line put me directly in charge of finding a new agent for you. If this falls through…” He lets the threat hang in the silence. “I want this to work. I really do.”
You want my money, Jake corrects. But all he says is, “I’m excited to meet this new agent. Maybe you could send a hot chick my way this time. I’m sick of getting pudgy middle-aged dudes.”
George hangs up without another word. Jake pulls his sheets up, but he’s wide awake now. He turns his phone back on, deletes Tony’s contact, then rolls out of the hotel bed.
His body aches even more as he stands and stretches. There’s a half-empty water bottle by his bedside table and he chugs it, chasing away the desert in his mouth. Then he staggers into the bathroom, not bothering to shut the door.
“Holy shit,” he murmurs as he sees his reflection in the mirror. That biker had really done a number on him. One black eye, a red scratch across his cheekbone, dried blood leaking out of his nose, lip split in a few places, and a dark purple bruise along his bottom jaw. There’s scrapes and bruises along his bare arms, chest, and ribs. Half the bar must have gotten involved in beating him up.
Whatever he’s said to provoke their rage must have been good. He wishes he remembered it - then he’s glad he didn’t remember the rest of it. He doesn’t even remember how he got back here. It seems more and more of his life is blacked out these days.
He clumsily turns on the shower, hot enough that steam rises and fills the room, blurring the mirror. He crawls in, sitting on the floor, not having the energy to even stand as the water beats down. At least this place has strong water pressure. It massages the muscles on his back.
He remains under the stream until his fingers start to prune. Then he shuts off the water and sits for another few minutes, gathering the strength and will to stand.
It’s a little harder every day. He tries not to think about what his future looks like. If he has a future. This kind of lifestyle isn’t sustainable.
But he was never meant to live long. Like a fire that burns bright and short, he’s just here to make his mark and disappear. Blue Line would probably throw a party if he died. They’d make major cash on everyone suddenly rushing to download his music, cover artists making tributes, filmmakers rushing to create a documentary or Hollywood musical biopic.
It sounds like a win-win for everyone involved.
Jake towels off, then heads back into the hotel room. At least he doesn’t trash his rooms. He only ever makes a mess in public - and even then most of the mess isn’t of his making. The people around him make the mess in reaction to him. He doesn’t stay long enough in hotel rooms to trash them anyways. Just empties the fridge of all the alcohol and uses the bedding and towels. Nothing a normal person wouldn’t do.
A singular suitcase sits open on the desk. He rummages through the maybe ten outfits he brings with him on tour, pulling out his gym shorts and cut-off tank. The last thing he wants to do is a workout, but aside from drinking, hitting the weights is the only outlet he has. Music used to be enough. Now it does nothing for him.
He blames it on the tours. The songs that were once written from the heart, that he once sang from the heart, have been repeated and rehashed and remixed so many times over the past five years that they cease to have any meaning. He completely zones out when he plays; it’s like his soul leaves his body and it’s just muscle memory powering him through.
Or maybe he’s just become soulless in general. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t been able to write a new song in almost two years.
Yet another reason why Blue Line is ready to drop him. They know he’s running out of funds to squeeze out. The popularity of his last album might book him concerts for another year or two, but if he doesn’t come out with any new music soon, he’ll be forgotten before he turns thirty.
Old news and washed out.
It’s hard for him to care.
He grabs the water bottle, his room key, his cell phone and his headphones and heads down to the hotel fitness center. It’s small, just a pair of treadmills, a small rack of weights, and one multi-purpose frame with a bar and weight disks. There’s one young woman jogging on one of the treadmills.
Jake flashes her a polite smile as he steps on the one beside her, settling into a warm-up run. Two miles later, he hops off, refills his water bottle, and starts racking weights.
The woman is walking now, a cooldown, and he can see her looking at him through the mirror. He wonders how long it will take for her to realize who he is.
One set of squats, apparently. As he straightens up and sets the bar back, she approaches him carefully.
“You’re Jake Seresin, right?” she says.
“That’s me.”
“I saw you play at a bar a few years ago. Before you got famous.”
That’s not something he hears often. “Thanks for the support.”
She glances over his face - over his bruised and scraped face - and shakes her head. “You were different then.”
Nothing Tony or George had said this morning hurt. This quiet comment is like a slap across the face. “Well, I was younger and hungrier,” he manages, trying to play it off.
“You looked like you meant what you sang. And like you were enjoying yourself. And after the show, you came out and talked to everyone. Took pictures and signed napkins and shook our hands.”
He’d forgotten that part of his career. When he was first starting out, before his album got professionally recorded and picked up by Blue Line, he’d played bars and parties and small festivals - anyone that would have him. And, like politicians, grassroots is a major part of garnering a fanbase. He used to spend more time schmoozing up people than actually playing.
“Well, it’s harder to do that with tens of thousands of fans in a crowded arena.” He forces out a smile and points to his face. “And sometimes people really don’t like my music.”
The woman just looks sad. “I hope you figure it out,” she says. “Maybe I’ll come to another concert then.”
Maybe he’s a masochist. Maybe he’s just shocked that someone made him feel something for once - even if it is akin to being sucker-punched in the gut. But he reaches out and takes her arm as she walks past him.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Callie.” She gently slides her arm out of his grip. Her eyes catch his once more. “Put some ice on your face,” she says, then leaves.
Jake stares after her for a long minute. Then he turns back to the weights and hits them hard, pushing himself more than he should. His head is still pounding, but this time it’s her words hitting him repeatedly, not the hangover.
You were different then. I hope you figure it out.
-
“Number one trending!” Natasha jumps off the couch, the tablet slipping off her leg and falling to the floor. Beside her, Bradley also leaps up, his arms in the air. He grabs her and pulls her into a tight hug. They’re both laughing and crying at the same time.
“I can’t believe we did it. We actually pulled it off.” Bradley’s smile is incredulous. “Number one,” he repeats.
“You did it,” she corrects. “I can already see the headlines: Bradley Bradshaw, number one rising star in rock to watch. Bradley Bradshaw makes waves in the music industry with his hit sequel album. Bradley Bradshaw, Grammy nominated.”
“Grammy nominated? You’re crazy. And you’re also crazy to think I could have pulled this off without you.”
She waves him off. “I didn’t play the piano or guitar. You know I can’t sing for shit. And I definitely can’t write or arrange music. I can’t even play hot cross buns on a recorder without sounding like a dying cat.”
“That is true, unfortunately,” he agrees, laughing. “There’s not as single musical gene inside of you.”
“This was all you,” she repeats, then dances into the kitchen. “But I’ll happily partake in the celebration.”
She pulls out a bottle of champagne and hands it to him, then digs around for a bottle opener. Bradley pops the top and she shrieks as foam sprays on her, soaking her shirt. Bradley holds up the bottle in the air.
“Number one,” he repeats. Then he takes a long swig straight out of the bottle. She grabs it from him and does the same, and she swears champagne has never tasted so good.
Bradley’s cell phone rings and he chokes down another swallow before answering it. “Hello?.. Yes, it is…Thank you! Yeah, I definitely - Wait, can you give me a second? I’m getting another call. Hello?...Yes, I did see!”
Natasha leans back against the counter, holding the champagne bottle and watching with a smile as her best friend gets bombarded with phone calls from old friends and family, all congratulating him on his recent success.
It was a long time coming. A hard road traveled. He didn’t have any help from inside the industry - no label was willing to sign an unknown artist with one, relatively unknown album. Bradley only had about ten thousand followers. But they were a loyal fanbase and knew how to get him on the radio and helped crowdfund ads on social media. The singles he’d released in advance alone began to rack up thousands, then tens of thousands, then hundreds of thousands of streams. His follower count doubled, tripled, quadrupled. By the time the album came out, he had a decent base that was prepared to help him push to that trending spot.
Natasha and Bradley aren’t foolish. They know they won’t last long at the top. But for a few hours, they’ve accomplished something amazing.
So maybe she did play a significant part. She’ll allow herself that much credit. Though she had no success in getting a record label to pick him up, she had used her communications and marketing degrees to get the word out. She’d handled communications with the fans, booking concerts and venues private and public alike, consolidating the messaging into quick and catchy ads, and she’d seamlessly addressed any skeletons that had crawled out of his closet - and there had been a few. Mostly the way he came across to people.
Natasha had met Bradley their first year of college in Los Angeles, and he was…going through it, to say the least. His mother hadn’t been dead a year, he’d lost his father when he was a child, and he was estranged from his uncle, the only remaining member of his family. He got into the wrong crowd, went to some unsavory places and even got into the drug scene. She’d dragged him out kicking and screaming and gave him no choice but to focus on his music. He’d put out an angsty first album that was a little messy but showed enough potential to get some attention. She was excited to put what she was learning from her classes to work and became his unofficial manager, calling bars and setting up social media pages and moderating everything.
More than that, she was his friend. She pulled him out of the darkness he’d fallen into. She stood by him every step of the way, from attending every performance and hyping up the audience to going with him when he finally decided to make amends with uncle and close that rift.
And now he’s trending. It’s only a matter of time before the record labels that had wanted nothing to do with him come begging. He’ll get a real agent and manager. And she can find an actual job in her career field that pays.
Natasha continues to sip at the champagne as Bradley answers the seemingly endless calls. She picks up her phone and scrolls through their social media. Dozens of new followers every minute. Old videos explode in views and comments and shares. Their fan website is full of everyone praising the new album and thanking each other for all their hard work to make this release as big as it is.
She pulls up a chat tab with the moderator of the page. For now it’s closed, capped at about two hundred of their most loyal supporters. She’ll have to book one last concert - a celebratory one specifically for those fans who have been with them since day one and worked hard promoting his work during the critical time leading up to the album’s release.
It might be her last act as his manager.
The thought is bittersweet. She hasn’t regretted a single second of this journey. The experience she’s gained, the incredible people she’s met, and all the quality time she’s gotten to spend with her best friend are things she wouldn’t trade for the world. Part of her is going to miss constantly taking road trips in his beat-up van across the state, sometimes even across state lines on the weekends to play shows. She’s going to miss sleeping on kind strangers’ couches and eating cheap fast food on the way from one place to the next, hurriedly working on her homework during any quiet moment. It really stretched her abilities and made her grow as a person.
But she’s also ready to get out of this life. This was never the career she wanted. It was well worth her time to help her best friend who she knew had potential and who she knew was a great person under all his gruff. Helping him become his best self and achieve his dreams is something no words could ever express. But now that he’s reached the point where he doesn’t need her, she’s more than happy to let go and pursue her dream.
Her cell phone buzzes. A call from an unknown number. Normally she wouldn’t answer it and let it go straight to voicemail, but she did circulate her number to several important people in the music industry. If this is a call about Bradley’s music, she can’t miss it.
She ducks back into the living room and swipes to answer. “Hello?”
“Is this Natasha Trace?”
A man’s voice. Not one she recognizes. “Uh, yes. Who is this?”
“My name is George Findlay. I’m with Blue Line Records.”
Her jaw drops. She has to restrain herself from jumping with excitement. Instead she plasters on her professional air. “Hey, George. Nice to hear from you. What can I help you with?”
“I want to hire you.”
Maybe it’s the champagne, but she can’t help the burst of laughter that escapes her lips. “I’m sorry? You want to hire me?”
“You are Bradley Bradshaw’s agent, correct?”
“Uh, I guess.”
“I’ve seen what you’ve done with him and I want to hire you to fix another musician.”
Natasha’s brow creases. “What do you mean, you’ve seen what I’ve done with him?”
George’s voice grows impatient. “There was an article in the San Diego Sun a few weeks ago where you sat down with the journalist and she wrote out a nice little history of his troubled past and you talked about working with him and rehabilitating him.”
He makes it sound so harsh, but Natasha does remember that interview now. It was one of her many promos leading up to the album release. Most of them revolved entirely around Bradley, but that one journalist had asked a lot of questions about her and her involvement with his career.
“I didn’t ‘fix’ him,” she says, that particular wording getting on her nerves. “I helped him realize his full potential and gave him the space he needed to focus on his music.”
“Exactly! I need you to do that for one of my clients.”
Someone at Blue Line Records wants to hire her to help a troubled rockstar reignite their career? Natasha can hardly believe what she’s hearing.
“I’m not - this isn’t my job. Not my career, I mean.”
“How much do you want?” George’s voice sounds pathetically desperate. “One-twenty? One-fifty?”
One-twenty… “You don’t mean…thousand.” Her voice comes out as a gasp.
“I’ll give you a twenty-grand signing bonus on a six-month contract. Another twenty-grand at the completion if you re-up. In addition to a one-fifty salary.”
Natasha’s knees grow weak. Twenty thousand dollars signing bonus. For six months of work. That alone could pay off half her student loans, not to mention one hundred and fifty thousand dollars salary…
She’s been working with Bradley for the better part of the last five years and earned maybe ten thousand in all that time, mostly from merch sales and a tiny gratuity charge from his venue pay-outs. She had to supplement that work with on-campus jobs just to get through her master’s degree. With Blue Line’s offer, she could pay everything she owes off in a year, plus have a very comfortable cushion for when she leaves and does finally go after her intended career path.
“What’s the catch?” she asks, realizing that this is too good to be true.
“There is no catch. We’ll sign your contract at six month intervals. No penalty for terminating except we’ll deduct the signing bonus from your gross pay if you leave early.”
“If there’s no catch, then why are you hiring an unknown college graduate for that much money?”
George is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is tentative. “This client…is particularly difficult,” he admits. “The work won’t be easy. We have tried agents with decades of experience and it didn’t work out. I believe you do have what it takes, based on what I read of that interview and the research I’ve done on Bradley Bradshaw’s career. You have done an absolute bang-up job.”
“Who is this client?”
Another pause. “Jake Seresin.”
Natasha frowns. “Who?”
“You’ve…you’ve never heard of Jake Seresin?”
The name sounds vaguely familiar - she’s probably heard a song on the radio or had it come up in her Spotify recommended. Or maybe an ad.
“Not really.”
George sounds immensely relieved. Too relieved. It’s suspicious. “Well, he’s pretty famous, but he’s hit a bit of a road block. Got into a little bit of trouble. As I mentioned, he hasn’t gotten along with the agents we’ve tried. Quite frankly, I’m getting a little desperate. Trying the same thing over and over again hasn’t worked, and I believe your success with Bradley Bradshaw is the most promising option available.”
Getting a little desperate…Natasha smiles. She can work with this.
“Well, if he really is as difficult to work with as you say he is, I might need a little more incentive, then.”
“You’ll consider it?”
“I’ll do it.” Maybe a bad idea to agree to something without knowing who she’ll be working with, but this is an opportunity she can’t pass up. “On one condition.”
“Anything. Name it.”
“If I’m going to be switching clients, I need to know my current client will be left in good hands.” She pauses for effect. “I want Bradley to get a signed record deal.”
“Done.”
His instant agreement stuns her - and unnerves her. Either Blue Line Records was already considering offering Bradley a deal, or they’re truly, terrifyingly, desperate to hire her.
Jake Seresin. She repeats the name, and it does sound more familiar this time. She’s certain she’s heard it before, just can’t associate anything with it.
“I’ll email you the contracts for both your employment and Mr. Bradshaw’s offer tonight,” George says. “Thank you very much, Ms. Trace. You have no idea how happy you’ve made me.”
And then he’s gone. Natasha slowly lowers her phone, still shocked at the recent chain of events.
Bradley appears in the doorway. “You okay?” he asks. “You have a funny look on your face.”
“You…You have an offer,” she manages. “For a record deal. With Blue Line.”
Bradley’s face erupts in a smile even bigger than earlier. He rushes over and picks her up, swinging her around and kissing her cheeks.
“I can’t believe it! You are amazing, truly.” He wraps his arms around her, buries his face in her neck. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”
Natasha is glad that he’s happy. She’s glad that he’s finally getting to act on his dreams in a real way.
She’s just starting to wonder at what cost she just sold herself.