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

In Which the Phone Rings

Trenton McDermott slicked his already greasy hair over his balding head. His thick-rimmed, golden tinted glasses slipped down his nose as he concentrated on the difficult task, and he pushed them up with a frustrated sigh. When he finished with his hair, he bent backwards to pop his spine, and shoved another handful of peanuts into his mouth.

A knock came at the door, and Trent grumbled.

"What?" he called reluctantly over the mouthful of salted nuts.

A squirrely man entered the room, tall and lanky like an under-grown tree. His headset was hanging around his neck, and his clipboard was in his scrawny hands, covered with papers and a manila folder, which he promptly passed to Trenton. This boy, Rory Stephens, was Trenton's current apprentice. Trent had been charged with teaching the man everything he could about the workings of the Broadway backstage, as well as showing him the inner workings of the illustrious business itself. It was a tiring process, and not one that he had ever particularly enjoyed. The exception being once, when he had a lovely, vibrant, young woman in his charge, in place of the wiry young men with whom he was usually stuck.

"You have a phone call," the man said, never one to mince words. Trenton appreciated that about Rory: he got straight to the point, and did not waste his precious time with unnecessary syllables.

"Take a message," he ordered, but Rory shook his head.

"A call on your private line, sir."

Trenton looked back at the young man, a malicious smile growing on his face. It had been months since his last call. With a newfound excitement, he rolled his over-large body out the door and into his private office in the main building.

"Speak," he ordered, keeping his voice schooled into the menacing mask he reserved only for such encounters as these.

"I have a job for you," a voice answered, obviously altered by some mechanical device. Static rang irritatingly from the receiver, and the voice switched between low and high in an instant, bewildering and irking Trenton.

"Yes, I understand that," he replied petulantly, holding the phone further from his face as an oppressively loud, synthetic breathing device blew air through the microphone on the other side. "What is it?" he demanded impatiently, more than ready to hang up on his anonymous caller.

"I want her dead. How much do you charge?"

Trenton rubbed his eyes as the electronic tone grated on his nerves. "Five grand's the standard. Torture and personal participation are extra. Ten thousand if you're going to demand a deadline."

"I will send an associate of mine to your place of work to discuss the details further. Sometime next week," the voice ground out, standing the hairs on Trenton's arm at attention like a line of soldiers.

"Wait!" Trenton commanded, hearing the static increase as though the other person were about to end the call. "At least give me a name. Give me a chance to ascertain the difficulty of the job."

Two words were uttered, a name with which Trenton was already well acquainted, and a wicked smile spread across his cheeks. The line went dead, and Trenton tossed the device on the desk, his laughter filling the room like the echoes of a thunderstorm.

A few hours later, his feet echoed softly on the carpet; his footsteps echoed the path he was etching in the shag. Back and forth he paced, mind reeling like an old movie. Plot after plot appeared in his thoughts, each eagerly begging to be employed. He rejected them all, finding in each some flaw or spot that made it impractical or infeasible.

He stopped, staring up at the wall of his apartment, where tens of pictures were plastered or hung from strings. Old foes, new foes, past conquests, newspaper clippings: all had their place in this windowless room. Trenton glared unhappily at the cluster of pictures directly in front of him, frowning as he tried to create the perfect scheme.