Fandom (Famous Book 3), page 1
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FAMOUS BOOK 3
EDEN FINLEY
FANDOM
Copyright © 2020 by Eden Finley
Cover Illustration Copyright ©
Eden Finley
Professional beta read by Les Court Services.
https://www.lescourtauthorservices.com
Proofread by One Love Editing
http://oneloveediting.com/
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.
For information regarding permission, write to:
Eden Finley - permissions - edenfinley@gmail.com
Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
DISCLAIMERS & TRIGGERS
Mason and Denver ended up being heavier than anticipated. They very much still align with Eden Finley’s brand of snark and light heartedness but do deal with/address/or mention the following heavy topics:
Addiction
Death
Suicidal thoughts
If any of these are likely to trigger a negative response, it might be best to skip this one.
CONTENTS
1. Denver
2. Mason
3. Denver
4. Mason
5. Denver
6. Mason
7. Denver
8. Mason
9. Denver
10. Mason
11. Denver
12. Mason
13. Denver
14. Mason
15. Denver
16. Mason
17. Denver
18. Mason
19. Denver
20. Mason
21. Denver
22. Mason
23. Denver
24. Mason
25. Denver
26. Mason
27. Denver
28. Mason
29. Denver
30. Mason
Thank you
Also by Eden Finley
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER 1
DENVER
There are eyes on me. I can sense it.
I mean, it’s understandable. This is my house, my party, and I have one of the most recognizable faces in LA, if not the world. Conceited as it sounds, I always have eyes on me, so it’s nothing new.
But this is different.
I’m standing on the balcony of my Malibu mansion, overlooking my brightly lit pool, sipping scotch, chatting with people I’m supposed to know but honestly don’t, and I hate myself.
Not in the oh, I’m so depressed, I hate my life kind of way.
But here’s my deal. I know I’m privileged. I know I’m fortunate. Yet, everything is being held together with sticky tape. Not even the good duct tape serial killers use. No, mine is covered in fingerprints and fur, rapidly losing its adhesive.
Dating celebrities for publicity feels pointless, but it buys me time. Actresses are batshit crazy. Who knew?
These stupid “networking” parties I throw are empty gestures for a tabloid story so I can stay relevant in this industry. My albums sell, but I’m no Harley Valentine with his Grammys and number ones.
I’ve signed on to be a judge for a reality talent show, but after months of off-camera auditions and legal crap production has been dealing with, it might not even get off the ground. Filming has been postponed twice now.
Hence throwing myself another party for attention. Because I know what’s coming. If this show goes under, it’s going to take me with it. I only agreed to do it because it was my manager’s latest effort to keep my career alive.
Next thing will probably be selling vitamins on infomercials.
My career is on life support, and my fate lies in the hands of network execs. I’m learning they’re very similar to executives at a record label. Any title with the word executive in it can’t be trusted.
I need another drink, but my feet are glued to the ground. I can’t find an opening to slip it into the conversation that I’m leaving. I don’t even know what these people are talking about.
“So then the woman said, ‘Where I come from, I’m treated like a princess.’ And the guy replied, ‘Well, in West Hollywood, I’m a queen, so I outrank you.’”
Oh, yay, unfunny jokes with homophobic undertones. I force a laugh. Ha, ha, ha, fuck my life.
“Excuse me, guys.” I finally break away from them and head inside.
That’s when I notice someone standing in the corner of my formal living room. The guy looks out of place in amongst all my expensive, asymmetrical furniture. According to my interior designer, it’s modern. All I’ve ever thought is it’s uncomfortable. It’s why I only ever use this room for parties. I have an actual, usable living room that has my big-ass comfy couch. I’m tempted to go there now and shut out the rest of the party.
But there’s something about Mr. Hazel Eyes, who’s in tight jeans, a white T-shirt, and an undone vest. He’s got a blond man bun, and I have no idea who he is. Then again, I don’t know a hell of a lot of these people, but I at least know I should recognize the others. This guy doesn’t look like the usual crowd who show up to these things. My defenses go up because if he’s a reporter or is about to pull out a camera from behind his back, I’ll be pissed.
I want the media to know about the parties, but they’re not invited to the intimate details.
I down the rest of my drink and then head in his direction. “Hey, man.” I hold my hand out for him to shake.
“Hey.” He smiles easily.
“Uh, I don’t mean to be rude, but have we met?”
His smile widens. “No, we haven’t, but, uh, I feel like I know you … Denny.”
There are only a handful of people in this world who would use that name. My eyes narrow. “Who in Eleven do you know?”
The presence of someone appears at my back. No, not someone: multiple someones.
I turn and come face-to-face with Harley Valentine himself and Ryder Kennedy. Behind them is Harley’s wall of a bodyguard.
“What’s happening? Did someone die?” I ask.
They grin.
I hope no one’s dead if they look so happy about it.
“We have a proposition for you,” Harley says. “But we might want to take this somewhere else.” He glances around the busy space where more than one person’s attention is on us.
Three of the five ex-boy band members together? It’s practically a reunion.
I usher them into my casual living room and gesture for them to take a seat on the oversized couches. Harley’s bodyguard closes the sliding doors behind us and stands guard.
“What’s up?” I take a seat on an armrest on the end. “It has to be serious if you’re both here.” I glance at the guy they used as bait. “And … whoever you are.”
He and Ryder share a look.
“Ah.” I nod. “Got it.”
Ryder’s a weird closet case. He kept it a secret from us and the rest of the guys a long while, but it was never from self-hatred or shame. More self-preservation. He’s always been comfortable with who he is but has trouble labeling it.
And don’t I know what that’s like.
“I’m starting my own record label,” Harley says.
My head swivels in his direction so fast the room spins. “Really?”
On one hand, good for him. On the other … jealousy tries to make an appearance.
I love Harley like a brother. But brothers can get competitive. I always knew he’d succeed when Eleven broke up, but I also thought the rest of us would be there with him. Except for Ryder, who wanted out completely.
Harley nods toward Ryder’s partner. “Lyric is the first act I’ve signed. He’s amazing.”
I’m … confused. “Okay.” I drag out the word. “What does that have to do with me?”
“Well, the second act I’m hoping to have on my label is Eleven.”
That clarifies absolutely nothing. “That will never happen.”
“Come on,” Harley says. “If I can get Ryder to agree, I have to at least hope the rest of you will jump at the chance.”
“Why? Because we’re so much crappier than you? Because we need you to succeed? Fuck you.”
“Denny.” Harley sighs. “You know that’s not what I mean.”
I stare down at my empty hand, wishing another drink would magically appear. “Then what do you mean?”
Harley and Ryder look at each other and say at the same time, “We miss it.”
“We miss being part of a group,” Harley adds.
“I just miss recording,” Ryder says.
I frown. “Are you guys high? You want to go back to living on top of each other, fighting, bickering …” Accidentally falling for your bandmate and making a fool of yourself in front of him …
“Yep. We miss it all,” Ryder says.
“But your daughter.”
Ryder shrugs. “Her mom’s back in the picture, and Harley’s agreed to touring over summers where they can come with us.”
I turn to Harley. “You’re a Grammy Award–winning solo artist.”
“Shit, am I?”
“I have my talent show and another album to cut.” If my label gives me a new contract, that is. “So, thanks, but no thanks.” I can’t go back.
Going back to that could be the resurrection of my career that I desperately need, but it will come at a cost.
I’d have to swallow my pride, and that’s something I’ve never been good at doing.
Look at the smoke-and-mirrors show I’m putting on out there for everyone to see.
My career is going down in flames, and I’m sitting and watching, telling myself everything is fine.
“Come on,” Harley says. “You were supposed to be the easy sell.”
“Why do you want to go back? It doesn’t make any sense to me. We’ve all moved on.” I stand. “Besides, you think Blake is going to give up the silver screen? Hell no. You think Mason is going to come out of hiding?”
Ugh, just saying his name sends a twinge through my chest.
Mason and I were best friends once upon a time. We were closer than Harley and Ryder, even.
I must’ve said the wrong thing because Harley’s face lights up.
“You know where Mason is?”
“No.” Yes. Well, I have a fairly good idea.
His family owns land in the middle of nowhere Montana. After Eleven hit it big, he built a “cabin” out there. And by cabin, I mean a mansion. I’m not certain if he’s there, but I’m assuming he is. He took me there whenever Eleven was on break because I had no one to go home to.
With a drug addict for a mom, I was raised by my grandmother when the state took me away from Mom’s toxic behavior. I’m pretty sure I’m the result of her making a deal with either her pimp or her dealer, so yeah, the first few years of my life were delightful. Luckily, I was too young to really remember much before my grandmother reluctantly took me in.
She raised me and cared for me right up until she passed away when I was sixteen.
By that point, I was in a famous boy band and could prove to the courts I was able to provide for myself.
Pro tip: don’t let sixteen-year-olds dictate their own lives.
When I was eighteen, I needed a financial advisor to keep my spending under control.
I had the habit of shopping for expensive and meaningless things to fill my house. Because when you grow up with nothing, the constant reminder you can afford a twenty-thousand-dollar duck statue fills that void. His name is Bill, and he’s essential to my mental well-being.
Harley says the one thing that could tempt me into caving to this stupid idea. “We were like family. Even families have reunions.”
All I ever wanted was a proper family. When I did visit with Mason, his life was so … normal. He might have lost his dad at a young age, but his mom, sister, and he are the definition of close family.
I’ve told myself for years that the bond I had with Mason was pure envy over what he had. That I was somehow confusing admiration for attraction. But I can’t help acknowledging the hole his absence has left in my life and in my chest.
I long for someone who was my best friend even though I haven’t had the balls to contact him since Eleven broke up.
I can’t face him after what I did.
I turn to Harley. “I can’t. I’m sorry, but I’m out. I guarantee the others will say the same.” Especially Mason.
CHAPTER 2
MASON
The deep voice on the other end of the line is soothing yet authoritative, and I find it hard to say no to the man who had been like a father to me for seven years. Cameron Verikas, Eleven’s manager, was the replacement dad for me after having lost mine at ten years old. It was nice having that fatherly figure in my life again after going through my teen years without one, but right now I’m remembering why overbearing parental figures can be annoying.
“Just take a meeting with Harley. It’s one meeting. What have you got to lose?”
My dignity, for one. “I don’t think you can hear me, old man. Have you got your hearing aids in?” I bite my lip to stop from laughing because I know what’s coming.
“I’m fifty-two. I don’t need no damn hearing aids.”
I’d believe his anger more if he wasn’t laughing with me. “I think you do because you clearly can’t hear when I say I’m not going back.”
I breathe in the Montana mountain air and stare out at the vast land before me. There’s a comfort in knowing that while it’s isolating and lonely out here, it’s consistent. Unlike Hollywood and everyone in it.
I remember back to when Eleven broke up, when I couldn’t wait for creative freedom and to take responsibility over my own career. I was a naïve motherfucker.
Apparently, when trying a new sound, surrounding yourself with yes people is a bad idea. Everyone on my team showered me with praise to the point I thought I was doing amazing things, and while I love the album I ended up cutting, seeing it from an industry perspective, it wasn’t a sellable record. It was all over the place with no real theme or genre.
It’s great to have a creative outlet, but I wish I’d hired a manager who could rein me in when I went too far out of the mainstream box. I wish I still had Cameron, but he made it clear when the boy band broke up that he wouldn’t pick sides.
The only person I have to blame for choosing the wrong team of people is myself, but I’m still salty about it anyway.
When everything fell to pieces, it was the first time I realized I was truly alone in the industry, which is why I came running back to Montana with my tail between my legs and why I have absolutely no interest in what Harley has to say to me now that it’s convenient for him.
“Are you going to make me shlep all the way out there again?” Cameron asks.
“Hey, you’re always welcome to visit.”
Cameron’s the only one from my old life I’ve kept in contact with over these last eighteen months since being home, and that’s only because I respect him too much not to return his calls.
He’s come out here twice already trying to convince me to come back—he even offered to be my manager again—but I can’t bring myself to make him break his promise that he wouldn’t choose between us. Why I still have that loyalty, I’m not sure, because the rest of Eleven can go fuck themselves for all I care.
Wow, maybe I’m even more bitter than I realized.
“I’m sure you’ve heard Harley is trying to get Eleven together again. I think it could be the right move for all of you.”
I’ve had a million missed calls from Harley, and all the voicemails about getting back together were deleted immediately. “I can’t go back.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Cameron says.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m done with Hollywood and music. That’s all.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Oh really. I’m not, am I?”
“Nope. Because I know you loved those guys like brothers, so to go from being that close to nothing, something happened, and I want to know what it is. Because if that’s your only roadblock, I’m going to find a way to fix it.”
Of course he is.
“I … can’t. I’m really sorry, but I can’t go into it.” Because it would involve outing someone I used to care about. Still care about. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m still too angry to work out my emotions when it comes to Denver Smith.
And out here, in the middle of nowhere, I don’t have to deal with it at all. That’s how I like it, and that’s the way it’ll stay.
But talking to Cameron about it does make me flash back to that night, the last night Eleven was on tour, just hours before the announcement that we were breaking up.
The screams were deafening, and the crowd was going insane for us like they always did, but it was as if they all knew that it was our last show ever. Or maybe I knew that it was the last show we’d ever play together, so I was focusing on it more.
The last few years had felt a little lackluster when it came to performing. We were all burned out. We were ready for a break, and we wanted to do our own things.
It was our last encore. The last song.
All five of us on stage breathed heavily as the song finished and we stared out at our adoring fans.
