What You Don't Know (Sequel to "Secret Love")(Hunter Hayes/James Marsden)

Prologue - A Day's Work

Dean Mosby took a bow, picking up one of the flowers that had been thrown on the stage and holding it to his chest. The rest of the cast came back out from behind the curtain, and Dean struggled to keep his smile in place as both of his hands were captured by sweaty palms and the whole line bent in unison.

When the red folds of the thick screen rolled in to steal Dean's view of the audience, he let his smile fall and ripped the ridiculous Shakespearian wig from his throbbing head. His skull buzzed uncomfortably with an almost unbearable itch. The blasted thing had not been properly powdered...again!

He raged toward his dressing room, carrying on a stream of complaints and sending worker after worker scurrying to fulfill his orders. By the time his feet touched the floorboards of his lavishly decorated changing chamber, he had been stripped of his Renaissance-era costume and was down to his skivvies, his arms loaded down with three bottles of water (two of which he would pass up in favor of the hard liquor he kept in his makeup drawer), a large bouquet of roses (that the cast all speculated were bought by Dean himself, and simply addressed to appear as though they were from the many "admirers" he claimed), and a sundry collection of not-so healthy snacks.

He waved everyone away from the door. "I need my space. Go away! Leave me alone!" They did, all of them sighing in relief that he had no further demands for the moment.

Dean Mosby was the kind of diva that had no real place in the world of Broadway. He was the kind of man who was highly disliked, and for good reason. The actors hated him because he got every main role for which he auditioned, and even some that were written "specifically for him." The want-to-be male Broadway stars hated him because he had got his start due to a lucky encounter with one of Broadway's best and brightest, Trenton McDermott, who had happened to be playing golf with Mosby's big-shot corporate daddy the day Dean made a flash decision that he wanted to be an actor. He had no formal training, no prior experience, and nothing to recommend him besides his ridiculously handsome face and his ability to make any woman swoon with his finely spun - though horridly botched - lines. He never memorized his part correctly, refused to sing even the most complicated of arias in the key in which it was originally written, and had more "needs" than most of the cast combined. He was like the wrong end of the magnet: his presence was positively repelling.

He was also known to be a gambler. In fact, his father had made an appearance just last week to publicly scold his contemptible offspring for the exorbitant  mass of debt he had incurred playing craps with "his hard-earned income." As though the spectacle was not enough cause for hysteria in Dean's fellow cast members (They had all only dreamed that they would one day get to see the stupid look on his face; some had even dreamed of causing it!), the use of that particular phrase had half of them doubled over in laughter and the other half rolling their eyes in contempt. Corporate men like Frank Mosby did none of their own work, yet got all the credit and benefits of the company, a fact which made actual hard-working people - like those in the group who had given up meals, shelter, and years of their lives working as waitresses and gas station jockeys, growing their craft and clinging to every bit of notoriety they gained as though it was the last glass of water on earth - feel nothing but thinly-veiled rancor.

Just as Dean was throwing back three fingers of bourbon, the door opened with a barely audible squeak. Dean spewed his drink, fear coursing through him immediately. He had made many enemies in the last few weeks through his dreadful gaming practices, and the man who had just entered was tall, dark, and wore completely black clothing, giving off an aura of danger.

"Trent," Dean breathed irritably, wiping the alcohol from his chin and glaring at the man who had just entered. "You near scared me out of my skin! I had no idea who - oh, never mind, you wouldn't understand." He poured himself another drink, tossing it back and wincing as it burned his throat. "What do you want, McDermott?"

Trenton raised a black brow and moved a little further into the room. "Who were you expecting, Mosby?" he questioned, crossing his arms over his large gut and cocking his head to the side curiously.

Dean glared at Trenton, but answered, "You have no idea, do you, McDermott? I have enemies here. I owe everyone money!" He paused to run his hands through his hair, scratching the places that still itched from the wig. "I'm surprised nobody has tried to kill me yet!" He laughed uncomfortably, trying to diffuse the growing tension in the room.

Trenton McDermott chuckled, pulling a gun from the breast pocket of his jacket and screwing a silencer onto the end. Dean Mosby's eyes widened, and he stood from his vanity table to gawk at the small black pistol.

"There certainly are people who want you dead, though, aren't there, Mosby?" Trenton said, circling the vanity chair, staring Dean down with malicious boredom. "They would pay big money for your head, wouldn't they?"

Dean gulped, but forced himself to smile wryly. He raised an eyebrow challengingly at Trenton, but could not pry his eyes from the nose of the still, seemingly innocuous weapon for very long. "Oh, I get it. Is this the part where you tell me your whole evil plot and waste enough time that I get away? I told that red head to bring me shrimp, you know. She could walk in at any moment, and you'll be caught!" He smiled cockily, stupidly believing he had won the upper hand. "All right, then, go ahead. Tell me: who's behind all this? Why are you trying to kill me?"

Trenton laughed mirthlessly, clicking back the hammer and letting his eyes flash with irony.

"Oh, no, you've got me all wrong," Trenton declared, pressing forward. Dean took an involuntary step backwards, the fear in his eyes increasing as the cocked gun neared his forehead. "I don't believe in wasting time."

One click, one bullet, and one lifeless thud later, Trenton McDermott returned to the world, the cold gun pressed to his stony heart.

All in a day's work.