Broken Strings

One

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."