The Masked Crooner: Masked Crooner

By Julianna Thorn

All a washed-up rock star needs is a manager who believes in him...

 

Russell McGinty is overworked and underslept, but that's the cost of living the dream: working in theater management while finishing his MBA. The hustle is worth it, even if it means he has to work the night shift in adult-entertainment customer service to make ends meet. All Russ has to do is get through the next year without collapsing from exhaustion and he'll finally be managing Vancouver's finest talent. 

 

Then his usually subdued colleague Gideon comes to work more glittery than usual, and Russ's plans take a hard right turn.

 

*

 

Gideon Brallaghan shows up to his godawful night job a little debauched one time—and suffers the consequences. Eagle-eyed, straight-laced Russell McGinty keeps asking personal questions, and the next thing Gideon knows, he and his lowered inhibitions have invited McGinty to see his one-man rock show. 

 

Not only does Russ actually show up, but it turns out he likes the show… a lot. Just when Gideon starts to like having him around, Russ offers to become Gideon's manager. 

 

Russ could grow Gideon's career, help him quit his horrible job... and it's not like Gideon has anything better going on. Sure, they slept together a couple times, but sex is just sex. What's the worst that could happen?

 

The Masked Crooner is a steamy 93k standalone M/M Contemporary romance. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julianna Thorn
• Release date: Jun 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201813802

Book preview

Chapter 1

As Russ cradled his coffee in the GoodVid break room at 3:46am, Gideon Brallaghan walked in covered in glitter.

There was an outside chance, Russ considered, that he had become so sleep-deprived he'd started hallucinating. Russ became corvidlike in exhaustion: week one of festival season and he was already scavenging for food, offended by anything with more presence than him, and attracted to anything that caught the light. He was used to working nights—the 6:00pm to 6:00am shift at GoodVid had been his bedrock for the last three years, but midnight to noon was a whole new beast. His 7:00am bed time had been pushed back, and his body was feeling the strain.

Russ hadn't, in other words, slept longer than three hours at a time since Thursday. Thursday was many days ago now. He was currently staring down the barrel of Monday morning trying to think how he was going to stay awake until noon, gripping his coffee mug like his life depended on it.

The glitter didn't go away when Russ shut his eyes and reopened them. He knew what he'd signed up for when he applied to the three-year MBA-MFA program he couldn't afford. It meant working full-time and fitting his coursework in where he could for eight months of the year. Hard, but doable.

Right now, it also meant working full-time and fitting another full-time internship around it.

Less doable. Just hard.

Russ had gone into the program vowing to turn every challenge into an opportunity, and he was proud to say he'd made the best of it. It was hard work—but hard work paid off. People often called him single-minded, though usually in ruder terms. He'd made a point of turning his single-mindedness into a workplace advantage.

So far, that mostly looked like 100-hour work weeks and not eating very well. But it was also resulting in a pretty stellar resume and strong opinions about coffee, so not all was lost.

This summer he'd been hired by a local Shakespeare company to manage their annual festival. Russ's post-grad degree in theater management was coming in handy. Ostensibly he'd been hired as stage manager, but it quickly became clear that he was actually the company's crisis manager. Russ's foremost task was cleaning up the mess of the egomaniac he'd replaced, all while filling in the gaps left by the show's scattered director.

He was junior enough to take the extra work for a lesser wage and just experienced enough to know how to fix it. Russ loved the work. Fixing other people's messes turned out to be his bread and butter. Coming up with creative solutions to complex problems was exactly why he aspired to go into management. He envisioned his career trajectory toward becoming a fixer, a solver of puzzles. The festival's summer shows were shaping up thanks to Russ's superhuman script bibling and personnel adjustments. He slept easy—when he slept—knowing he was putting his all into a good show.

The trade-off of a day job well done, though, was that his night job work was going down the tubes.

Eight hours left to go in his shift and he'd already nodded off twice. This was the worst kind of problem: one without an obvious solution.

Only one more year of this, and his program would be done. Hopefully his credentials would be strong enough that he could bump down to one job, or at least one and a half.

In the meantime, exhaustion turned the fluorescent lights to bees. They buzzed above his head, stung at his eyes. Gideon's neck, covered in glitter, caught every artificial ray of the—

Oh! Right. The glitter.

Gideon Brallaghan didn't seem the type to put glitter on his neck. GoodVid's employee roster wasn't exactly rife with fascinating individuals, but Gideon was arguably the blandest of the bunch. He was handsome enough, with high cheekbones and dark slicked-back hair. But there was a deadness around his eyes, an air of detachment, that made Russ wonder if he was part automaton.

It generally took a certain freedom of spirit to work customer service at a porn company, a certain sense of humor. Gideon possessed neither. Processing refunds for patrons with wilted boners wasn't anyone's ideal career, but since he was the only one here within striking distance of Russ's age, it seemed like a shame they didn't get along. Every attempt at 3:00am conversation had fizzled into awkward silence. Russ didn't come to GoodVid to make friends, and Gideon's aloofness suggested he felt the same. Until today, Gideon looked exactly the same every time Russ saw him: grey eyes scanning the room, pastel button-downs tucked into casual slacks.

Not that Russ could judge him for the uniform. Every article of clothing Russ wore had a handful of clones in different colors. Complementary neutrals meant he could swap any one item out for another and look exquisitely professional, no matter how long it'd been since he'd done laundry.

The thing about a uniform, though, was that it made deviations noticeable.

Glitter was decidedly off-script. It also wasn't the only thing out of place. Gideon's pale button-down had been replaced by short sleeves in a horrible yellow-and-brown plaid. The shirt was ill-fitting, too big for him—not his, most likely. Gideon's hair, usually so carefully tamed, was downright unkempt, as though he'd pulled fingers through it a few dozen times. Or someone else had.

He was also wearing jeans for the first time in Russ's memory: black, tight, leaving little to the imagination.

Not that Russ was awake enough for much imagination.

Maybe some horrible glitter accident happened on Gideon's way to work.

Hm? said Gideon, glancing over unexpectedly. What's that?

Russ stared in horror.

It seemed possible he'd said that last part out loud.

Oh, no, said Russ.

What kind of accident? said Gideon.

Oh, God, I'm really sorry. Please ignore me, I'm… He waved a hand. My filters are off.

There was something stuck in the corner of Gideon's mouth—not food. A bit of dark wax, pressed in the crease.

Slept this century? Gideon asked. As Russ watched, he closed his hand around the cupboard handle—and missed.

Russ watched Gideon closely, unsure if he was hallucinating again. Gideon frowned in consternation. He reached out again, this time deliberately wrapping his fingers around the handle.

Then Russ understood. You're drunk, he said.

Gideon spun fast, eyes flitting around the room. Sheepish, Russ joined him in looking for witnesses. On the other side of the break room, Sylvia was loudly explaining something to Andres, who was semi-asleep. It was clear neither had heard what Russ said.

Show some discretion, would you? Gideon hissed. He returned to staring at the coffee pot, as though willing it to co-operate. Last thing I need is Trevor breathing down my—

You want help with that?

Gideon shot him a dry look. It's not as bad as it looks. I'm nearsighted, that's all. Don't have my contacts in. There was effort in his speech, his Irish brogue oddly crisp.

There was a smudge under his eyes. Eyeliner, probably.

Russ leaned on one elbow, fighting a grin. Uh-huh.

Gideon wrapped his fingers carefully around the handle of the coffee pot, uttering a quiet noise of triumph. You're not looking all that much more put together, he told Russ, pouring himself a cup of coffee over the sink.

Hey, no judgment, said Russ. Just relieved to learn you're human.

Gideon turned to surveil him. Still looking for the same signs from you. Really, have you slept at all? In life?

No.

I can tell.

Russ hid his smile behind a palm. God only knew why he was finding this so funny. You always lash out at people when you're drunk?

Gideon's eyes flew around the room again. I promise he's not here, Russ added, before Gideon could curse him out. 'He' was Trevor, the joyless night manager whose goal in life was to make everyone at GoodVid as miserable as him.

I sound perfectly fine, said Gideon, more hopeful than sure.

Russ took pity on him. Yeah, you do. It's really the whole—he gestured to Gideon—ensemble. You've got a look going.

Yes. A normie one.

Not even close.

Gideon gave a noise of complaint. You're killing me, McGinty.

Forgot you worked, huh?

Gideon nodded with a sour smile. Russ was getting all kinds of personality from him tonight. Imbibed a bit more than I should've done, but there is a thick and lively line between here and properly drunk. I really am nearsighted.

So Russ wasn't the only one at GoodVid with a parallel life.

The mess of Gideon's hair; his nail polish, a fresh and verdant green; what was left of the eyeshadow in the crease of his eye—it painted a picture. Happens to the best of us, Russ said happily.

Really? Sort of assumed you're one of those people aware of individual sands passing through the hourglass.

That's a poetic way of calling me a workaholic, said Russ.

I meant that you seem very mentally organized, but don't let me stop an epiphany.

I'm very busy.

Mm, Gideon said. Seems to be your defining trait.

Gideon had evidently concluded Russ was boring as well. Ouch, said Russ.

Gideon frowned. Sorry.

No, Russ answered. It's valuable feedback.

It's not a performance review. Business school aims to create busywork, it's not your doing.

Now Russ understood why they'd never had a real conversation beyond the basics before. Does it redeem me if it's business for theater management?

Gideon paused, then said smoothly, Of course it does. He flashed Russ the smile of a snake oil salesman. It was very hard for Russ to feel angry with him. I wish you and your four planners the utmost happiness.

Russ pulled his planner from his inside pocket. Just the one.

Dear God. You just carry that thing around?

Never know when you might need it.

Gideon looked pointedly around the empty room. Never-ending excitement around these parts. Loads of plans to make.

The stage never sleeps. Or the— Russ paused. Is that New York?

Gideon leaned his back against the counter, looking at Russ with barely concealed amusement. If all the world's a stage, then New York is part of the stage; ergo, the stage never sleeps. Right?

Yeah, Russ said. That's exactly what I meant.

I figured as much.

It might've been the first silence between them that managed not to be awkward.

I'm on your shift now, Russ said, trying to maintain conversation.

"You're telling me you're here for more hours after this? Gideon said with real concern. Take a day off, I'm begging you."

Too many festivals this summer. I need the leave for when school starts up.

"Ahh, so festival season's the problem."

It's not a problem. Technically, it's a solution.

Solution to what? The problem of downtime? Relaxation?

Russ's catastrophic finances seemed too dense a topic to summarize in the GoodVid break room. Working here forever.

Right. And how many hours did you work this week?

Here?

Altogether.

Ninety-four.

For a moment, Gideon seemed unsure whether to believe his answer. Really?

Since Wednesday, Russ said tiredly. Well... eighty-six now. It'll be ninety-four when I get off shift.

It took Russ a second to register the look on Gideon's face as concern. Jesus Christ.

I'm not trying to brag.

I don't interpret this as bragging. A cry for help, sure. Do you need someone to knock you unconscious? Gideon asked. Not me, obviously; I can't see two feet in front of me. I might hit you in the place that kills you. Bet Sylvia could deliver a suitable blow to the head if asked. Trevor might do it just to feel alive. You want me to ask? I can—

You have glitter, Russ said, gesturing to his throat. On your neck. Just in case you do talk to Trevor. Though I don't think I want him to hit me anyway.

Gideon turned swiftly and grabbed the toaster, using it as a reflective surface. He reached for the paper towel—twice, since his first grasp missed by a country mile—while swearing a blue streak under his breath. "Horrible glitter accident, is that what you said?"

Oh, God. Sorry.

No, you're right. Thanks for the… He gestured at himself and tried to rub the glitter off his throat. Got as much as I could off on the SkyTrain; bit hasty. Almost missed my stop. I was already late.

You come from downtown? Russ asked. They worked in Burnaby, which, though the closest suburb to downtown, still wasn't strictly close. Russ took the train in from downtown himself, but he'd seen Gideon disembark from an east-end bus just last night.

For better or worse, Gideon said.

What do you do?

Still hunched over the toaster, Gideon shot him a strange look. I work at a porn company, same as you.

I meant—it's show makeup, right?

Gideon grimaced, turning away. That obvious?

Only to a theater rat.

Gideon's expression shifted inscrutably. He glanced over his shoulder for eavesdroppers, but seeing Sylvia still going tirelessly on, he shrugged, self-effacing. I sing, among other things.

What kind of singing?

His face displayed his discomfort with the subject. Put a bit of indie post-rock into classical training and a stubbornness against bandmates, and you've got my one-man catastrophe.

There went Russ's drag queen theory. Huh.

It's hard to explain. It's not glam rock, but it's glam aesthetic. Rely on showmanship to trick the audience into forgetting that I'm not very good.

Russ felt himself grinning. Gideon was full of surprises. I thought glam sort of died.

It did. That's why I don't do it. Gideon adjusted the toaster's position and squinted into it. You know much about music?

Not really. Ambient knowledge picked up from my job. My other job, he amended.

I never really know how to talk about it. If Alice Cooper was a millennial… Well, that's arrogant.

That's so interesting, Russ said absently, watching Gideon dab despairingly at his eyelid.

It's not, Gideon assured him.

Just hadn't pegged you for the type.

Gideon glanced at him. There was a gleam in his eye Russ had never seen before.

Well, McGinty, he said evasively, that's the idea.

Gideon's tone shifted between antagonistic, self-deprecating, and charming. Russ had no idea what to think of the man, but it wasn't what he'd thought of him an hour ago.

I can deal with being a white-collar stooge forty hours a week, Gideon said, as though reading Russ's mind. But it can't touch the rest.

Why?

"What d'you mean, why?"

Isn't it stressful, trying to contain...? I mean, it just seems… Russ laughed weakly. I just can't imagine juggling that many masks.

Now it was Gideon's turn to look puzzled. Don't you?

No.

Gideon frowned, turning back to his reflection. Look, it's a sin to talk about the arts in an institution of capitalism.

Is it? Why?

Gideon rolled his eyes. "Business school's got its claws in you good and proper, eh, McGinty?

It's not a business school question! I'm just… But what was he doing? Russ's mind went oddly blank. Look, let's just get a coffee after work. We'll discuss this free from the confines of whatever eldritch monster you think is roaming these halls.

Be nice to Trevor, Gideon muttered. Russ found himself grinning again. Listen, if you're not unconscious within thirty minutes of the end of your shift, I'm borrowing someone's glasses and making good on my promise to knock you out.

I don't have anything for two days after this. I'll nap and meet you tonight.

You're completely mad, you know that? Gideon snapped, but Russ saw the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. Catch me sometime when you haven't worked—what, 80 percent of the last four days?

Russ did the math. It was actually worse than that. Oh… God.

You're barely upright, mate. Take a break.

Okay. Russ held up a finger. But I'm still interested in this conversation.

Not in question. Gideon turned and presented himself to Russ, stained paper towel in hand. Better?

Gideon had the scrubbed look of someone who'd been cornered into taking off makeup without remover: patches of pink shone around his eyes, the echo of forgotten stain lingering on his lips. Given that Gideon seemed morally opposed to making use of an actual mirror, though, it probably wasn't going to get much better than this.

There's still some glitter on your neck, Russ said.

Gideon threw the paper towel in the trash, looking exhausted with himself. Bit of glitter never did any damage.

Only to lighting cues.

Oh. Really?

Glitter's like a disassembled disco ball, Russ confirmed. Light hits it, same effect.

Gideon took this information stoically. Well, I was definitely going for disco ball.

Then I've got great news.

Gideon's smile—his real smile—landed with warmth. Russ wasn't sure he'd ever seen it before.

Well, I'd love to see your show sometime, Russ said casually.

The sardonic tilt returned to Gideon's brow. Really.

Gotta get in at the ground floor of watching you bring back glam.

It's not glam.

Says you. Where do you play?

Gideon hesitated only a moment before answering. Shoulder to Heel.

Where? Downtown? Never heard of it.

Exactly. It's on Seymour, off Davie. Bit of a dive.

You play Sundays?

Every other week. But, McGinty—promise me you won't come unless you've had a day off beforehand.

Russ pulled a face. That probably won't be until October.

Then I'll see you in October. Gideon raised his mug in cheers and tried to leave the room.

No, c'mon, Russ said, reaching for his arm too slow. I can come… June 21?

Gideon turned, one brow arched. Is that the next Sunday we don't work?

Yeah.

You just came up with that off the top of your head?

Yeah.

You're not especially prone to having your mind changed, are you?

You just haven't pitched me a strong enough argument yet.

Gideon looked briefly like he wanted to box Russ upside the head again, but finally put his mug down on the table and leaned forward on both hands. Alright, he said, low. It's a waste of your precious time.

Is this how you always pitch your shows?

I don't pitch my shows.

Why not? That's terrible business.

Gideon let out a low whistle. You don't quit, do you?

I'm just saying, if you want to grow your audience—

I don't.

Then why do the show at all?

Sylvia and Andres had left the room; they were alone here now, apart from the buzzing lights. Computer keys clattered in distant cubicles, their staccato rhythm penetrating the night air.

"Do you do theater for the audience, McGinty?"

No. I do it for satisfaction.

By God, said Gideon, pushing himself to standing again. Proof of humanity! Listen—if you need help meeting your quotas tonight, send me some queries. I never work much at this job.

You don't?

Call it returns for alerting me to the debauchery of my condition. He nudged Russ's shoulder gamefully and slouched from the room, resuming his usual wallflower stature. Don't come until you've slept, I mean it.

I swear nothing, Russ said, craning to watch him go.

It'd been the strangest interaction he could've had at work—strange enough that he still wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it. Russ sat alone in the room. His watch ticked distantly, murmured conversations floating in from the hall.

The hours left in Russ's shift suddenly felt like a breeze. His eager eye had found him a friend. Eight more hours of email template regurgitation were nothing in the face of that success. By the end of his shift, there was nothing in Russ's mind except the pillow against his cheek and the sweet emptiness of his calendar for the next 36 hours.

Lost in the sleep-deprived haze, of course, was Russ's wherewithal to put Gideon's show into his planner.

Chapter 2

Gideon looked surprised when Russ brought it up a few days later. I never expected you.

I should have written it down, Russ admitted. Gideon was back to his work uniform; glitter had made no second appearance. Russ could now tell he wore contacts and tried not to shrivel with envy. His own glasses sat heavy on his face, astigmatism forcing the necessity. It's the only way I remember anything, Russ said. See? Planners are good for something.

I'd be embarrassed if you wrote down anything so trivial. Don't give it another thought.

I said I'd be there. I'm usually more reliable. I hate that I didn't make it.

You have the least free time of anyone on Earth. Russ was starting to see more ranged reactions out of Gideon since the glitter incident. Maybe he just knew how to evoke them now that he knew something about the guy. How many hours did you work this week? Actually, don't tell me, it gives me a rash.

Truthfully, Russ's workload had been better distributed since the GoodVid week drifted away from traditional weekends. He was about to re-enter hell; next week he worked his usual Wednesday-Sunday festival schedule, then Tuesday through Friday overnight. He'd get a good sleep on Tuesday afternoon, then drift along on naps until late Saturday night.

But he'd already saved up tuition for a semester and a half, and it was only July. A success, all told.

I just didn't want you to feel snubbed, Russ said.

I shouldn't have even told you about it.

Why not?

But Gideon changed the subject, waving a hand.

It became a pattern: Russ would open a conversation, and Gideon would drop a few half-eaten breadcrumbs before steering them somewhere else. This sort of mystique set off the parts of Russ's brain that tended to get him into trouble. Nothing drove him harder than knowing there were answers just out of his reach. He'd always been an intense person. Most of his adult life was an exercise in playing it down. Since he was a kid, he'd felt a compulsion to study the world. He wanted to understand its components, learn where it all came from, how it all worked, how people behaved.

These fascinated pursuits didn't always sit well with others. When Russ was focused on something, he tended to shut out everything else. Jennifer, his last girlfriend, had broken up with him for familiar reasons: he worked too hard, he was too distracted, and he fell asleep every time he carved out enough time to take her to the movies.

It wasn't that Russ was disinterested—just the opposite. It was that work came first out of necessity. He had to make a living, and his intensity helped to build his career. Fixating on problems until he found a solution made him a legendary problem-solver in the arts.

Russ didn't understand Gideon, but he wanted to. At work, Gideon still wore that odd blank expression. He wore his hair in defiance of the natural cowlicks Russ had seen the other week. He never involved himself in anything at work, never took center-stage. It was hard to imagine the same man on the stage. He was attractive by any metric—coupled with on-stage charisma, that could carry a lot.

Now that Russ had seen a glimpse of the other side of the man, he wanted to know more. But Russ was used to forcing his passions into smaller shapes until others could tolerate them—and Russ—a little more easily. He kept his questions barely prying, and lay off when he had the sense he was pushing too hard.

As a consequence, he felt like he barely knew more about Gideon than when he started.

They don't have music in Ireland? Russ asked, trying to discern what had brought him to Vancouver.

They have music in Ireland, Gideon said, offended. Quite a lot of it, actually. Some say we're known for it.

Russ took his embarrassment in stride. Just not enough glam.

The glam came later, Gideon said in a stage-whisper, then knocked Russ's shoulder on his way out of the room.

This was the pattern: Russ pushed, Gideon gave. Conversation felt like stretching an elastic—Russ kept waiting for the snap. He never found out why Gideon was in Vancouver, or how he learned to play, or why he was working the night shift at GoodVid—but he did find out what instruments Gideon played.

Oh, you know, Gideon said airily. This and that.

Russ's incredulity must have showed on his face, because Gideon added, I'm trained as a pianist. I prefer guitar. I'll kick a drum now and then.

You're saying you play everything.

Far from everything.

Piano, guitar, drums, vocals… You're a band all by yourself.

Well, said Gideon, and—looking away—he managed to avoid elaboration.

When Russ realized he'd embarrassed him, Gideon's evasiveness began to make sense. Gideon wasn't trying to uphold some sheen of inscrutability; he just didn't like talking about himself. Russ understood that much. It didn't mesh; someone who didn't like attention didn't generally apply glitter to his neck. But—

Intention, Russ's brain supplied.

Gideon liked attention when it was on his terms.

You really don't play for connection? Russ finally asked, during their next five-minute conversation at the coffee machine.

I didn't say that.

You didn't say anything. You called me boring for asking about audience and made me answer for you.

I didn't call you boring, Gideon said mildly. He sipped his coffee. I'm surprised you remember that conversation, to be honest.

Russ was surprised either of them remembered it. You implied you play for satisfaction, but I don't think that's everything. Audience matters to you. You just don't want to admit it.

Gideon gave a whimsical smile, leaning back against the counter. Music's a bit of pedestrian magic, he said, after a moment. No matter who you are or what you're doing in life, few are immune to the experience of a good show. There's energy in it you won't find anywhere else.

Russ's sleep-deprived brain processed this gradually. But the energy depends on an audience to play to. Doesn't it?

Gideon considered this with a hum. I can't tell you how connected we are, he admitted. Just like that, the spell was lifted: Gideon stood up straight, the gesture a transition between states. But I know we're all breathing in and out on the same beats. Catharsis, more than connection.

Huh, Russ said as Gideon refilled his coffee, watching him leave without another word.

*

Catharsis. Russ understood it—catharsis ruled the theater world. It put asses in seats; it was why actors showed up every night to the stage, why they recited their scripts, investing their souls into every word. Even putting a show together was a long road to catharsis for Russ: after hours and weeks and months of work, setting individual parts in motion—yeah, that pedestrian magic hit.

As the Shakespeare festival launched in earnest and transitions ran from 'punctual' to 'smooth', there were moments where Russ closed his eyes and felt Rosalind-as-Ganymede's appeal to Orlando. There were moments, seconds where the to-do list slipped from Russ's mind; he breathed in and out with the actors, the audience, listening to the birds chirping from just beyond the clapboard set.

But was it catharsis? Maybe not. That seemed out of Russ's grasp. He was too involved in the show, too aware of its workings to stay out of his head. It was less a shared experience than a private appreciation for a well oiled machine. He found satisfaction in creating the conditions for the audience to breathe, but that didn't put him among them.

He was of the show, not a witness to it. At the end of the night, there was another performance to prepare.

Russ couldn't remember the last time he really felt magic with respect to theater. The only time release really