Broken Strings

One

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.