“As soon as possible.”
“I’ll be there by ten.”
The call ended. Travis leaned over in his balcony chair and stubbed his cigarette into the concrete with a bitter grin.
‘Bout damn time.
TRAVIS
Walking into the office of Diamond Nights used to be Travis’s greatest dream. At one point, he was honored to walk through the glass doors. Excited even.
Now, nothing but disdain coursed through him, leaving a taste in his mouth worse than the distant memory of tequila from the previous night.
Shame.
And the thing he hated most—hurt.
He’d given his entire life to the label, pumping out songs and pouring his heart and soul into his music. But when he’d needed their support most, just when he thought he was free, they’d tried to shove him and everything he was out of the public’s eye.
Travis had been in the closet the majority of his life, and he’d always assumed he’d be the one to announce to the world that women weren’t his cup of tea. When that hadn’t quite gone as he’d always imagined, he’d at least hoped they’d stand beside him. Too bad he was wrong.
Yeah, most of his songs were about men instead of women.
Seriously, did they think Jamie was a girl?
He scoffed, grimacing to himself as he recalled the lyrics, humming them as he walked through the cubicles to the back offices.
I’d drop to my knees for you, again and again, until the day you say I do.
Shaking his head free of the lyrics he probably would have no claim to soon, he stopped in front of Jessica’s desk, whose eyes had only grown wider the closer he’d come.
“Is he waiting?” he asked the receptionist.
She nodded mutely.
“It was good seeing you, Jess,” he told her forlornly, and strolled around her desk. She’d been the first face he’d seen upon entering the building for the first time, and it seemed she’d be the last too. Keeping a fake smile pasted onto his lips, he reached the big glass office door of the record label’s president and sucked in a breath. The label logo stared back at him mockingly, but he was the one laughing as he entered.
Internally, that was.
William was absolutely silent, seated behind his mahogany desk, and Travis’s eyes flitted to the lawyer-looking fellow behind him. They both had permanent grimaces on their faces.
“Travis, it’s… well, I’d say it’s good to see you, but we both know that’s not true.”
“Believe me, the feeling’s mutual,” he retorted with a smile on his face as they shook hands.
Politeness was pertinent, after all.
“We all know why we’re here today. Travis, we’re ending your contract.”
Travis didn’t let them see his heartbreak. It was what he wanted, after all. But he guessed some part of him, the teenager he used to be, had hoped they’d put aside their prejudice and stand beside him. Sure, he hadn’t made that easy, not with all the press. He steeled his expression and glanced down at the papers.
“What are the terms and where do I sign?” If his voice came out a little scratchy, they all pretended not to notice.
Truthfully, Travis didn’t care about the money. He didn’t care about the rights, though ideally he’d like to own his own fucking music. Royalties didn’t matter.
The terms were simple. Since the label were the ones breaching the contract, Travis didn’t owe them shit. Not that he imagined they’d want anything from him anyway. He also declined to collect the severance package.
Too nosey to help himself, he glanced over a few paragraphs. They couldn’t outright say it was because he was gay, so what reason had they legally stated for his termination?
Bad press, negative ratings, terrible image for the company, and a poor reflection on the other reputable artists.
Because apparently being gay wasn’t reputable. At least not to Diamond Nights.
Of course they’d never come outright and say that. That was a lawsuit waiting to happen.
But when their most successful artist was outed in the headlines, their first move was to strategize… Panicked, disgusted voices planning how to get out ahead of it, to erase it, to excuse it—to hide it.
To hide him.
It was smart, he had to give them that. But a small piece of him was proud that ultimately, he’d been the one to force their hand.
After the second week of his scandals, the label had given up trying to excuse it, all their plans laid to waste. He assumed that was the time they’d begun working on a loophole out of the contract.
But what they didn’t know was that the moment he’d decided not to hide, he’d felt freer than he had… ever.
No more lying. No more pretending to smile on the arms of pretty women at award shows. No more paying escort companies, who held confidentiality as their finest regard, to give him company for an evening when he got desperate.
For the first time in a long time, he’d taken a deep breath and it hadn’t hurt.
In the contract, it stated that because they were severing ties, they were forfeiting any and all rights to the last album Travis owed them. Thank God, or whoever was up there watching. He’d rather cut off his own hand before he let them make any more money off of his gay ass.
Fuck them, fuck their prejudices, and fuck their business.
He signed without hesitation. Signed thousands of dollars away. But he didn’t fucking care because at least he was… free.
It wasn’t until he walked outside into the afternoon sun that it hit him. With the sun glaring down at him, the pops and flashes of light from the paparazzi flaring, he realized the downside to his master plan.
“Travis Cherry—is it true your contract was terminated?” The question interrupted his spiral and he blinked, the woman shoving a mic into his face coming into focus.
“Do you think anyone else will sign L.A.’s wild party boy?”
“What do you have to say to Diamond Nights about your recent scandals?”
“No comment.”
He’d just destroyed his career, his reputation, and his music.
What did he do now?
“I don’t give a fuck,” he said out loud.
Okay, that was a lie. He gave a little bit of a fuck.
Okay, that was a lie too. He gave a lot of fucks.
“What am I going to do?” he moaned drunkenly to his best friend.
“Dude, shut up with your whining. You’re still rich.”
“No one’s going to sign me. They think I’m a worthless party boy.”
“Oh, and you’re not? Coulda fooled me,” Jake grumbled, kicking at the empty bottles Travis had piled on the floor by the couch.
The couch Travis hadn’t really left in like… a week.
But he wasn’t moping. Nope. Moping was for people who had something to regret, something to wish differently.
Travis didn’t regret anything.
Except maybe trashing his career. Maybe he should have just hired a lawyer to look over the contract, except—oh wait. He did that. Twice.
“Remember why you did it, man,” Jake insisted, grunting as he shoved Travis’s feet off the couch so he’d have a seat.
“There was no other way,” he repeated the mantra he basically recited in his sleep. Well, the few hours he managed every night. “I haven’t written since I left their offices,” Travis admitted.