by Jeff Mann
No fucking photographers, thank God, Brice thought, scanning the street. He loped down the sidewalk and slipped inside the building as fast as he could.
The hallway and flight of stairs leading to Steve’s second-story office were blessedly free of spectators. When Brice entered the office, Carolyn, Steve’s saggy-faced receptionist, was standing at a file cabinet, her back to him. She turned, regarding Brice over her spectacles. As he’d feared, the smile she had always given him in the past was not in evidence. Instead, her look was sour and accusatory.
Hardly a surprise, Brice thought, gazing at the devout Christian bric-a-brac displayed on her desk. Anybody real religious is bound to be my natural enemy now. He forced himself to meet her eyes and smile, determined to do his best to act as if nothing had changed. Maybe, if he put on the charm that had always swayed her in the past, her Southern politeness would conquer her judgmental piety.
“Howdy, Mizz Carolyn. That sure is a pretty blouse. How was your Thanksgiving? Lots of tasty turkey, I hope?”
“Mr. Brown,” Carolyn said, her tone leaden. Glaring, she pursed her lips and looked him up and down, as if he were a rare specimen of zoological horror foreign to these parts, then took a seat behind her desk. “Mr. Morgan is waiting for you. Go on in.”
“Mr. Brown?” It took me two years to convince her to call me “Brice.” Shit. Brice’s belly clenched up. This, he realized with a gray wash of despair, was the sort of reception he’d have to get used to in future, thanks to Zac, thanks to the secrets Brice had striven to keep since junior high school in his hometown of Hinton, West Virginia.
Brice muttered his thanks and hurried past her and into Steve’s inner office.
Steve stood by the window, fingers tented, gazing down into the street. A short, stocky man with wavy gray hair, he turned as Brice entered. The hopelessness in his sharp-featured face made Brice’s belly gripe him even more fiercely.
“Hey, Steve,” Brice said, unzipping his jacket, loosening his scarf, and pulling off his hat. Apprehension and shame coated the back of his tongue with a bitter taste. “Carolyn out there was downright rude to me.”
Steve sighed, ushering Brice to a seat before taking his own behind the desk. “You shouldn’t be surprised. She told me this morning that she doesn’t want to deal with you, that what you are is against her faith.”
“Yeah, I figured. Well, screw her,” Brice said, dropping his cap on a side table. “I don’t care what she thinks. What do you think?”
“Did you encounter any reporters outside? They’ve been swarming down there.”
“Not a one. Answer me, man. What do you think?”
“First of all, here’s the interview,” Steve said, handing Brice the previous day’s issue of The Nashville Banner. “Have you seen it?”
“Naw. Spent all day yesterday traveling.”
Steve cleared his throat. “Read it later. After a couple of stiff drinks. In any other context, the photos would be fairly innocuous, but combined with what Zac says in the interview, they’re pretty damning.” He shifted his gaze to the piles of papers on his desk and then to the bare branches trembling in November gusts beyond the window.
Reluctantly, Brice slipped the newspaper into his coat’s inner pocket. Feels like dropping a scorpion down my briefs. Bound to sting sooner or later. “Steve, you’re scaring me. So…how bad is it? What do we do now?”
“It’s as bad as it can be. Other papers are taking up the story. I’m surprised that you weren’t mobbed by reporters on the way here. Molasses Mount has canceled your contract. No new CD. No spring tour. You’re without a label.”
Brice cursed and moaned. He propped his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands. His throat grew tight with the threat of tears, but he forced the feelings back. I’m a country boy, goddamn it. My granddaddy fought in World War One, and his granddaddy fought for the Confederacy. No way I’m going to fucking cry in front of a witness.
Brice sat in silence for a moment, gathering his composure. Then he looked Steve in the face. “So I’m without a label. Am I without a manager? Are you gonna drop me?”
Steve looked as if he might be sick. “Brice, I just don’t think there’s any way to repair the damage. I don’t think there’s anything left I can do for you. If you were in pop music, it might be a different matter. But country music? You know how folks in this town are. How country music fans are. So many are pious, old-fashioned, blue-collar, rural, or judgmental. They will never forget this. Most people are going to treat you just like Carolyn did. All those macho country-boy lyrics of yours…those love songs everyone assumed were directed to women, to your wife…. No one’s going to take you or your music seriously. They’re going to see you and hear you and think….”
“That I’m not a real man. That I’m a sinner and a pervert and a pansy. Do you think that?”
Steve shook his head and his glare softened to a sad expression “No, I don’t. My nephew in New Jersey is gay. But it isn’t my opinion that sells music. I don’t think you and I….” Steve trailed off, gaze veering out the window again.
“Oh, God. Steve. Please. Don’t drop me. Writing songs and singing them is all I know how to do. How am I gonna give all that up? What else can I do? I was dreaming about being a Nashville singer since I was a brat weeding my daddy’s garden and plunking away at my grandmother’s piano. I have bills, man. Mortgages. What’ll I—”
Brice paused. The lump in his throat swelled. He choked up, again gulping back tears. He hung his head and managed to croak, “Please.”
“If only you’d told me before.” Steve shook his head. “Have you talked to Shelly since the article appeared? Is she freaking out?”
“Can’t get hold of her. Yesterday, I called her on and off, but she won’t pick up.” Brice rubbed at his receding hairline and sighed. “Shelly found out about me and Zac months ago. That’s why we separated. I find it kinda hard to believe that she’ll let me move back in now that the secret’s out.”
“She knew? Damn it. Who else knew? Other than Zac and whatever other guys you’ve…been intimate with.”
“Just my sister Leigh back home.”
“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me. I had to find out with the rest of the world,” Steve groused. “Keep trying to get hold of Shelly. Who knows? Maybe if she realizes that reconciliation could salvage your career, she’ll agree to it. Or what if you got into one of those therapy programs that folks claim can turn you straight? I’ve already done a little research, and there’s an organization like that here in Nashville. It’s called Exodus International, and they employ several therapists. If you agree to do that, I could call them and see if they’d be willing to treat you.”
“Oh, damn.” Brice wiped his eyes and coughed. “Really? That sounds horrible. I’ve been looking at guys since I was, hell, thirteen or so. I can’t believe that kinda evangelical shit would work.”
“Maybe not. But maybe so. Maybe they could change you. Who knows? Either way, maybe your fans would be convinced that you’re at least trying to change.”
“Can’t we just sue Zac for defamation of character or libel or slander or whatever the fuck it’s called?”
“We could. But that would just extend the bad publicity into weeks or months of legal wrangling and possibly a trial. And you just told me that you’re a homosexual. It’s not libel if it’s true. Zac’s lawyer would dig up all the other men you’ve slept with. Have there been a lot?”
Brice blushed. “Uh, yeah. I, uh, got a pretty vigorous sex drive. And, uh, since I knew I needed to keep my homosexuality a secret if I was gonna go anywhere in Nashville, a lot of ‘em were, uh, one-night stands. Hustlers, mainly.”
“Hustlers? Oh, God.” Steve rolled his eyes. “Are you a fool? It’s a miracle one of them didn’t blackmail you or expose you long ago.”
“Hey, look! I’m horny, well, just about all the time. I have my needs, y’know? I had to have some kind of release. It was always safe sex, I s
wear. I just figured a steady relationship with one guy would be a bad idea. That’s actually why I broke it off with Zac. I was afraid that us meeting one another on a regular basis would increase the possibility that we’d be found out.”
“So you broke it off with him? In the article, he says he broke up with you.”
“Naw, that’s not how it happened. He was getting really serious, and…I cared about him, and, to be honest, I was pretty close to falling for him hard, but I knew that getting in any deeper was a bad idea for both of us, so I broke it off. He was really upset.”
“Ironic. You broke up with Zac so as to reduce the risk of exposure, but that break-up seems to have embittered him so much that he was willing to expose both of you. What a massive mess. Does Zac have any other evidence he could use if we went to court?”
“Yeah.” Brice rubbed at his tight temples. His back was throbbing again. “More photos…some of ‘em pretty sexy. Quite a few letters, some of ‘em explicit.”
“Damn.” Steve rose and began to pace. “Look, Brice, if Carolyn weren’t holding my calls right now, this phone would be ringing off the hook. Reporters have been calling me constantly, asking for an interview with you. How about you and I handpick one who’s likely to be, well, less vicious than most? You could repent. You could say that Zac exaggerated or lied outright. You could play up the Jesus thing. Tell folks that you have faith that God can transform you. Will you at least think about it?”
“Yeah. I guess, though I’m pretty damned tired of lying. Been lying about myself since I was in junior high.”
“I hate to say this, but if you don’t keep lying, you’ll lose everything. And you’d better think about divesting yourself of some properties too. Your expenditures in the last few years have been pretty extreme. You’ve been spending as if you were still on top, and now…well, without the Molasses Mount deal…. I’ll ask around, but I’m pretty sure no label will touch you. Maybe, in a year or two….”
“Jesus, a year or two? What the hell am I gonna—”
Brice jolted up out of his seat. “Okay, I can’t stand any more of this. This is too hard. I’ll call you in a few days, okay?”
“All right, Brice.” Steve moved from around the desk and gave Brice a tentative squeeze of the shoulder. “I’d stay out of public spaces, if I were you. With a scandal like this, reporters are sure to be following you everywhere. And I know what a temper you have. For God’s sake, don’t punch any of them. You don’t need an assault charge to make the mess we’re in even bigger. Maybe you should get out of town for a while. Why don’t you visit your family for the winter holidays?”
“Yeah. Might be a good idea. But Steve, one thing. Do you know why Zac did it? Why he told them? I know it must have been money, whatever big sum the newspaper offered him, but…. Surely he knew it’d ruin me. I mean, I dicked him over, but I didn’t think he hated me so much that he’d do what he did.”
“Actually, Zac called me this morning to apologize, because he knew my business would be taking a big hit. As you recall, he and I always got along very well while he was in your band, and I was really surprised when he quit. Seemed at the time like he didn’t have a reason. Now I know he did.”
“So you have his number? I want it. I wanna call the bastard and tell him exactly what—”
Steve shook his head. “He made me swear not to give you the number. He specifically said that he didn’t want to talk to you, and he swore he’d get a restraining order against you if you start harassing him. You and I both know you don’t need that kind of publicity on top of what’s happened. ‘Disgraced country star pursues and torments gay lover’? No, just leave him alone.”
“Shit. Okay. So, did he tell you why? He’s gotta have known that the story might end my career.”
“Yes, he did.” Steve grimaced. “Since he quit your band, he’s been having problems getting work, and now his mother’s suffering with advanced Alzheimer’s, and he’s been diagnosed…I hate to tell you this.”
“What?” Brice grabbed Steve’s elbow. “Tell me.”
“Brice, he claimed that he ran sort of crazy after you two broke it off and he slept around a lot. Turns out he’s HIV positive now, and with little health insurance.”
“Oh, my God.” Brice dropped Steve’s arm and leaned back against the wall.
“Brice, I’m so sorry.”
“I gotta get out of here,” Brice gasped, snatching up his hat. “Gotta get some air, or I’m gonna puke.”
“Call me,” Steve urged. “Keep trying Shelly. And please consider doing an interview and visiting the Exodus International people.”
Brice nodded. He tore out of the office, past a smugly smiling Carolyn. He pounded down the stairs, along the hallway, and out into the street.
“Brice! Brice Brown!”
A gathering of nearly twenty people, male and female, crowded the sidewalk before Steve’s office building, shouting Brice’s name. Several bore microphones; several bore video cameras. All bore faces fixed with avid journalistic determination.
“Oh, well, hell,” Brice growled, scowling at them. “Get back, you fucking locusts. I ain’t talking to any of you.”
He tipped his cap over his eyes, turned up his coat collar, squared his shoulders, and began pushing through the noisy crowd and the click of cameras. Where’s a fucking cattle-catcher when I need it? he thought. Or a shit shovel like the one I used to muck out the horse stalls back home.
Questions assailed him, some polite, some pointedly offensive.
“Brice, how long have you been a homosexual? Were you and Zac in love?”
“Brice, tell us your side of the story. What does your wife think of this? We thought you were a Christian. Don’t you think homosexuality is a sin?”
“We hear your label’s dropping you. What are you going to do now?”
“Was your marriage all a lie?”
“So you’ve been deceiving all of us all these years! Aren’t you ashamed? Don’t you think you’ve let down your fans?”
“Zac says he dumped you, and you cried like a baby. Are you sleeping with any other guys these days? Are you a top or bottom?”
“Fuck you. Get fucked. Fuck off. Move outta my way, you fucker,” Brice snarled, deftly lobbing assorted versions of the F-word as he shouldered through the mob. He’d been a proud master of profanity ever since his high-school years hanging out with foul-mouthed hunting buddy Wayne Meador, an early role model with whom Brice had been futilely and furtively in love. He swatted away cameras, feinted left, then veered right, sprinting down a side street. A member of the track team at his high school, he was still fleet on his feet, despite midlife’s extra weight and his stiff back. He zigzagged through a series of alleys, outdistancing the crowd. He’d just reached his Ram 2500 and was fumbling in his jeans pocket for his keys when one of the younger reporters caught up with him.
“Hey, Brice! Ever dressed in drag?” The lean, goateed man gave him a smile gleaming with derision. In any other circumstance, Brice would have found him attractive. “Or are you one of those gay boys into leather, whips, and chains?”
“You dick,” Brice snarled. He shoved the reporter in the chest and threw him back against a brick wall. He had his fist cocked, preparing to punch the man in the face, when he remembered Steve’s warning of only minutes before. Brice looked around—no witnesses in sight. Making the man a punching bag on which to wreak his rage was tempting, but the legal consequences, he knew, would be far greater than the brief pleasure of pummeling the man into unconsciousness.
“Go to hell, you worm,” Brice spat, lowering his fist and stepping back. By now, a few of the other reporters had appeared at the end of the street and were once more shouting Brice’s name. “Get the fuck out of here, and take your swarm of horseflies with you.”
The man’s response was predictable. Eyes wide, he gasped, “You manhandled me! I’ll sue!”
“Right,” Brice drawled. “Because you want all the world to hear about how
scared you were that a burly faggot might kick your ass? Git!”
Brice stomped a foot and raised his fist again. The man yelped, jolted backward, spun around, and fled toward his compatriots. Brice leaped into the truck, started it up, and tire-squealed off, a waving middle finger in the Ram’s rear window his form of farewell.
THE GYM IN BRICE’S CONDOMINIUM BUILDING was empty, much to his relief. After being harassed by reporters in Music Row, he was in no mood to tolerate the curious or hostile stares his fellow condo-dwellers might inflict on him. Following an angry workout—bench presses, lat work, and some much-needed time punishing the punching bag—Brice fled to his top-floor condo for a long shower. Afterwards, he sprawled in his briefs on the couch, watching rain clouds creep in over Nashville’s skyline and getting up his courage to read Zac’s interview. Remembering Steve’s advice, he poured himself a tumbler of Glenlivet.
The article began on the front page, accompanied by a photo Zac had taken of Brice, despite his objections, after one of their last rough-sex sessions, an overnight rendezvous in a Knoxville motel. In the image, Brice lay in bed, grinning, hairy-chested, and sated. The sheet covered his legs and groin. His thick arms were folded behind his head, his furry armpits displayed, and a black Stetson that Zac had bought him was cocked over his forehead.
The photo made Brice anxious, ashamed, regretful, and nostalgic all at the same time. He well remembered that evening. He’d sucked Zac till he was close to climaxing, then ass-fucked him with his legs in the air. The feeling of having his cock buried deep inside Zac was pure rapture, so much better than the half-hearted, desultory sex Brice had shared with his wife during the first few years of their marriage, before their sex life had tapered off and faded entirely. Later, after Brice had come, he’d dragged Zac into the shower, dropped to his knees, and finger-fucked him while sucking him off. The sex between them had always been glorious, as had the affectionate post-coital cuddling, and the photo served as a sharp reminder of how much Brice missed both.