Behind the Silver Curtain

A pop star and his manager get personal

Behind the Silver Curtain

---

“Where is he,” the producer hissed. Her red hair was pulled back taut and perfectly with what seemed like some kind of super hairspray. Her expression was the pure ruthlessness you only found in TV executives.

“He’s on his way,” I lied smoothly, though I was already drafting excuses for Ryan not showing up in my head: Traffic. A fan mob. Some vague medical issue. I’d spin it like I always did.

The producer just rolled her eyes and stormed off to some other task. Thank god. I paced the green room of the tv studio, and checked my watch for the millionth time. It was the little silver one my mother gave me for graduation. Ten minutes until airtime. The coffee and bagel I’d had this morning were suddenly trying to make their way back up my throat when the door to the green room slammed open.

Ryan, fucking finally.

He stumbled in, still wearing sunglasses, shirt half unbuttoned, and reeking of weed. I took in a deep sniff—yep, he definitely smoked a blunt. He couldn’t just take edibles today or something?

Still, he was gorgeous, radiant even. There was a reason why he was huge with women between 12-32. And some gays too. But he was so fucking late. I tried to shove down my surge of irritation. It would be a waste of time.

“Heyyy Adrian! How’s it hanging my man?” Ryan’s voice was way too chill for the fact he was about to talk to millions of people.

I grabbed him by the shoulders, and steered him toward the mirror. “You’re live in eight minutes,” I said tightly. “Sit. Don’t talk.”

Ryan just grinned, a lazy and spoiled grin, radiating with that obnoxiously endearing golden retriever energy. It got him everything he wanted, and it was so … obnoxious.

“Miss me?” He asked.

I didn’t answer, just shoved Ryan’s head back and splashed eyedrops in his eyes before he could complain. I dabbed on concealer with my fingers furiously, ripped his shirt off and replaced it with an oversized graphic T that had tested well. Lathered product through his hair until it was crafted in his signature perfectly sexy messy look.

“Smile. Nod. Laugh when they make a joke. Remember what we’ve rehearsed. And for fucks sake don’t go off script this time.”

Ryan gave a sarcastic salute. “Aye, aye, captain!”

Minutes later, I’m crouching offstage in between two sweaty crew members, headset on, glued to the monitor.

The host was standing in an expensive fashionable suit with manufactured warmth. “Please welcome the pop prince who’s stolen all of our hearts. The one, the only, Ryan Cross!”

The crowed screamed as Ryan walked on the sound stage. He waved, perfect teeth flashing, every trace of the earlier chaos in his demeanor ironed out smooth by my hand. He sat on the couch next to the host’s desk with his arms and legs sprawled like he lived there.

The first few questions were easy: tour dates, his favorite cities, workout routines. Ryan repeated his script word for word, and the host ate it up.

I let myself finally exhale a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. That always happens.

“So, Ryan, your new single ‘Stay’ is climbing the charts like absolutely crazy. Tell us, what inspired you to write such a heartfelt love song?”

I started to mouth the words I knew were about to come out of Ryans mouth. What we rehearsed. But it didn’t come …

There was an awkward pause. Ryan just looked to the side like he was suddenly lost in thought, transported far away, and then—burst out laughing.

The host, and then the crowd, laughed awkwardly in response.

“What’s so funny?” The host asked.

“It’s just—I really have no idea what the song is about. I don’t even know. It’s almost like … I didn’t even write it, I guess.”

The host seemed to freeze in an unblinking half-smile for too long. An awkward silence stretched across the studio. Heat rushed up my neck until it consumed my face entirely. Why the fuck would he go off script like that? “Heartbreak, but I wanted to turn that into something hopeful.” That was all he had to say.

“Okay,” the host chuckled lightly, shifting the mood. “What’s your favorite pizza toppings?”

By the time the interview wrapped, my jaw ached from clenching for so long.

Backstage, Ryan tore off his shirt and sprawled on a couch, seemingly please with himself, already hitting the vape that was in his pocket.

“Slayed that.” He said as he exhaled.

I shut the door behind me slowly, even though I wanted to slam it. “Slayed? You tanked the most important question. What the hell was that? Every song has a story. Every song. That sells.”

“It’s not my story,” Ryan said, exhaling another cloud of smoke. “Why pretend? It’s not like I actually wrote it.”

“Shhhh. Don’t say shit like that here!” I sat by him on the couch to cover his mouth. “People don’t want the story of a homosexual whore. They want the straight Prince Charming. That’s why you’re a goddamn millionaire. The story we’ve crafted for you.”

“Fuck that shit,” Ryan spat back, shoving me away. “Why? So some girls can pretend I’m spilling my soul out to them? I’m almost thirty. The bullshitting is getting tired.”

My brows furrowed. A brief wave of guilt I’d learned to shove away long ago, after the first few paychecks, started to rear its head.

As a gay man, I did want to see myself reflected in music. But as a business man, I knew it was too niche. I got paid for my skills as a business man, not as a gay man.

“I built this character of Ryan for you.” My voice came out low. “Every hit, every headline, I crafted for you to thrive. If that’s not what happening anymore, why didn’t you say something?”

“This is me saying something,” Ryan sat up, looking me in the eye.

“You know you’d still be croning in dive bars if it weren’t for this straight persona.”

Ryan’s laugh was hollow. “But maybe I’d actually be happy.”

He was maddeningly beautiful, cheekbones catching the dressing room light. Even though his eyes grew sharp, like they were ready to slice me.

“The problem is … I don’t feel any of it anymore. Not the songs. Not the fans. Not the hookups you plan out. It’s all a script. I’m just emotionlessly moving through my fucking life at this point.”

“I think that’s called depression … we can up your sertraline dosage?”

“That shit just makes it worse.”

I wasn’t the one that had to live out the life I wrote for him, but part of me envied the opportunity. Not to worry about the details, just go from one fancy penthouse to the other, served whatever I wanted, and just saying a few rehearsed lines here and there.

“Do you like being famous? Do you like private jets and mansions and selling out stadiums?“

I got into this business because I wanted to be a musician … but I always always too nerdy, too fat, or too gay. I made sure my clients didn’t get the same criticism. I became a behind-the-scenes master, doomed to never step into the spotlight. I’d kill for the opportunities I’d brought him.

“You’re just so willing to sell my soul.”

My jaw clenched. I hated that voice, the one Ryan only used when the mask slipped. Too raw, too close to something that made myself feel for the fist time in months. Maybe I was becoming empty too ... “Don’t put this all on me. You chose this. You wanted more, and I gave it to you.”

Ryan leaning closer, facade gone. “Maybe I just … couldn’t imagine any better.” His voice caught or a moment.

The words hit my like a punch. For a moment I saw him. The boy who had shown up to the agency with a battered guitar and a wide-eyed innocent gaze. Before the arenas and the screaming girls. Adolf Horowitz.

Unfortunate, I know. The name was the first thing that had to go.

Ryans practiced smirk made the softness vanish. “You’re so good at building an inviting cage.”

I stood, suddenly feeling too close to him. “Don’t make this another disaster you change your mind about later that I have to save you from.”

I felt his hand on my arm. He was much too close now. “Saved me? Or save your investment?”

The words cracked something open in my heart. I turned to face him. “You aren’t just an investment to me.”

Ryan squinted, uncertain. “Then what am I?”

I couldn’t form any words that could incapsulate it. The silence stretched around us. My breath was too sharp. Too quick. I hated the way my gaze lingered on the curve of his lips, I let it slide down to his throat, then his bare chest.

Ryan grinned.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. He had a superpower for sniffing out all of the famous “straight” men who wanted to fuck him.

Didn’t know it would work so well on me.

“You’re usually so good with words.” He placed a thumb on my chin, just barely, but it was enough to make my knees buckle. “Or does that just work when it’s meant to come from my mouth?” I could feel his breath mix with mine as he crept closer. “Go on, Adrian, tell me.”

My hands twitched at my sides. Grabbing his face and pulling him closer was my natural instinct. After all this tension, wouldn’t that feel … so good?

What the hell was wrong with me? Why wasn’t I darting away and booking him another hookup with Ben Affleck. I was usually ruthless with myself when drawing lines between professional and personal life. An expert at compartmentalization.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with the truth if I gave it to you.” I let out before I could think it through. A confession that felt like it landed between us like a cartoon anvil.

Ryan came even closer … and rested both hands on my shoulders. A genuine smile relieved his face. It was the type of smile that started to make me forget all the business bullshit screaming in my mind telling me it needed to be handled right now.

“Try me.” He almost whispered. His hands were warm through the fabric of my shirt. The gucci cologne I picked out for him cut through the air. I knew what he was hinting at. Or maybe I was imagining it?

After all this time strictly working together, I never felt remotely like his type. He loved getting railed by manly “straight” guys. Dated pretty blonde girls, the latest being Sabrina Carpenter, just for publicity of course. I was nothing like either … I tried to work out consistently but I couldn’t get under chubby. I loved tacos too much. I was clearly gay as fuck.

Him, on the other hand, was everyone’s goddamn type. Even some lesbians fawned over him.

So why in the hell would he be getting all close to me, the guy behind the scenes—who looked like he was meant to stay there. He was so close, and smirking like he was asking for something.

I looked up into his gaze towering over me now, his chest almost on my chin. He had over a foot on me, but I tried to make myself as big as possible. “You don’t want this,” I could barely get the words out, because I did.

His eyes didn’t leave mine. The steady eye contact seared into me. This was no act. There were no stage lights. He was serious. “Maybe I do.”

He removed the distance between us entirely.

Both his hands were on either side of my head and …

His mouth pressed against mine.

I kissed him back. And I felt clumsy at first—a beat too fast. But it was hot, insistent … it was real.

The businessman in me screamed to shove him away. He told me to remind him that I was his manager, handler, fixer, and that this would cause hundreds of complications, legal and personal, if found out by the public.

I told the businessman to shut the fuck up.

My hands slid up his arms, I pulled him closer. His hard muscle felt unreal under my hands. I had never felt him like this.

I deepened the kiss, slipping my tongue through his parted lips, feeling like I’d been wanting for this for centuries.

Ryan groaned into my mouth. The sound vibrated through our dancing tongues and straight down my spine. It was so different from the polish sounds that sold out concerts.

His vape clattered to the tile floor. The sound made me jump back.

And that’s when we saw her.

She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, that lacquered red hair shining like a helmet, not a strand out of place. Her lips circled into something between a smirk and snarl.

Neither of us moved.

Our hands still lingered on each other.

Her eyes took in every damning detail.

“Well,” she said finally, in a sinister voice that could rival a Disney villain, “that was unexpected.”

Ryan stepped back, and straightened, like a kid caught sneaking out past his curfew.

I tried to form a word, any fucking word.

The producer was already strutting inside, the clack of her heels echoing as she shut the door behind her with a soft click.

“Relax,” she let out, a New York accent seemed to slip out that wasn’t there before. Like she was letting a mask down too. “I’m not about to the blow the whistle.” She circled us like a wolf. “You have just handed me the best material of the season.” She leaned in, eyes glittering. “I’ll keep your little secret, and you’ll give me exclusive rights to covering Ryan. We’ll do a sit-down next week. More vulnerable, raw, and all on my terms.”

Neither of us responded, still in shock I guess.

She just rolled her eyes, and turned toward the door.

She tapped the frame on her way out with long fake red nails, satisfaction radiating even more than her chokingly floral perfume.

“Consider this your cliffhanger,” she tossed over her shoulder. A quiet laugh echoing as she clacked down the hall.

---

Want more stories like this? Please comment and tell me below, like, and share!

Make sure to subscribe, if you haven’t already, to be the first to know when a new chapter releases.

Become a paid subscriber for access to this full story forever (before it goes in the vault) and so much more exclusive content already available … and even more to come! (Subscribe from josiahbvale.com instead of the App Store for the best price)

Like what you just read? Try this: