Uncharted Desires: A forced proximity, Rockstar Romance.

1. One

If the boat sank with her on it, Katrina Brooks was completely fine with that, her life was over anyway. He had shared the video on his social media pages. No formal press conferences, no build up, nothing. The press had scooped it up in an instant, sharing it everywhere. The headline repeated itself as Kat scrolled through her phone, the words on the screen blurring together.

“He wouldn’t . . . he didn’t . . .” she said to no one in particular, her voice trembling.

NPR, TMZ, ABC; the initialed media of the world all heralded the end of her existence as she knew it. Not only would Kat be out of a job, but she would be out of the industry.

And then it started. The text messages, one after another.

What’s going on?

What do you know?

Why would he do this?

None of her supposed friends asked how she was doing. Kat closed her eyes, letting out a steady stream of air as she swiped left on every message, ignoring their demands.

Her phone vibrated again in her hand, and she cursed as she saw the screen.

Mother Dearest.

She wouldn’t be answering that one.

Call me back, Katy.

Can’t. On the yacht. Poor service. I’ll call when we get to Jakarta.

Then how can you text me?

I’m not going to explain Wi-Fi vs cell service to you. I promise I’m fine and will call you in a couple of days.

The telltale three dots appeared and disappeared. Kat didn’t wait to see if her mother would respond, stashing the phone in her pocket. She wasn’t lying to her mother. Service was spotty on the yacht, and her phone would soon be nothing more than a fancy camera for the last leg of their trip.

“Did you see the news?” Lydia, one of Kat’s best friends and fellow backing singer, said, plopping down next to her on the yacht’s fluffy couch.

“How could I miss it? It’s the only thing anyone has posted,” Kat said, exasperated, as she looked out at the ocean.

“Have you watched the video yet?”

Kat turned to her other friend and fellow singer, Cher, an effervescent blonde who had flung herself down on her other side. “No, why would I? I have no urge to give that man more views.”

Cher handed her the phone. “Because it’s our jobs on the line.”

Kat scrunched up her nose, holding the phone at arm’s length, glaring at the video in question. She didn’t want to see this. The headlines all said he’d retired, but they hadn’t said why. Once she watched the video and heard it from his mouth, it would be real; it would be over for her.

After a decade of being the tour pianist and backing singer for Weston Monroe, the king of romantic rock songs, Kat didn’t want to see her life falling apart. She barely made ends meet as it was. Now what would she do? A wave of nausea overcame her as she envisioned singing backing vocals for someone else, or worse, playing piano at a dueling piano bar for the rest of her days.

Lydia leaned over and hit play. Kat’s stomach did a slight flip at the sight of him. Weston was on the beach not more than a few hundred feet away from where Kat sat on the yacht. A pink and yellow Hawaiian-style shirt hung loose and unbuttoned on his muscled frame—a physique he had toned to perfection over the past year—and after their week-long vacation, his tan skin glowed in the Indonesian sun and his shaggy, dark blond hair glistened as it curled at his nape. A golden Adonis among men, according to GQ, and Kat hated to admit they weren’t far off.

His swim trunks outlined his toned legs, ending mid-thigh. She found herself drawn to his long, six-four frame, even though she knew she shouldn’t be. After spending a decade on stage with him, she’d learned to ignore the attraction that bubbled up inside her whenever he stood too close or bothered to acknowledge her existence. She simply needed to remind herself of his condescending, womanizing personality, and the butterflies disappeared.

The ocean lapped behind him as the sun began its ascent into the sky. The pinks and reds cast an ethereal light around him, only adding to his god-like qualities.

“My friends,”he began, giving the camera a deep smolder. The creases at his deep blue eyes only made him appear more handsome, rather than old, as they did her.

“Oh please . . .” Kat snorted.

Cher smiled. “If one thing can be said about West Monroe, it’s that he knows how to turn on the charm.”

“I don’t know how that works on anybody.”

“Worked on you once,” Lydia quipped.

“Oh my god, Lyd! That was almost a decade ago, and we do not bring it up!” Kat said, turning her attention back to the video.

“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just get to the point. I am retiring as a musician and performer. The world tour I have completed was my farewell tour, and I want to thank every one of you who was a part of it; you all made it that much more special to me. But there comes a time in our lives when we realize we are ready for something else, something different, and that is where I am. I don’t know what the future holds, but for now, I will be taking an indefinite break from music. Thanks, everyone.”

“That’s it? He’s just done?” She looked up at her friends, who both looked as stunned as she felt. “Is he serious with this shit?”

Cher nodded as she chewed on her thumbnail, a nervous habit that drove Kat nuts.

Kat walked across the deck, her long brown hair whipping in the salty sea breeze. She leaned against the bar and smiled at the bartender. “A mai tai, please,” she said. Despite the beautiful surroundings of their trip, her mood was soured by the arrogant jerk who happened to be footing the bill for their lavish vacation.

She gritted her teeth and took a sip of her drink, pretending everything was fine. She was too old to start over—thirty-two-year-old women didn’t just magically begin music careers out of nowhere—ten years in the industry had taught her that.

Almost a year on the road and Weston hadn’t seen fit to mention the tiny detail of his retirement. It hurt more than she cared to admit.

Cher and Lydia joined her, each ordering their own drink.

“We’ll find a new project,” Cher said, always the optimist.

“Damn straight,” Lydia piped in. “We are nothing if not resourceful. We’ll ask Declan for our next gig.”

Kat stared into her drink. “Declan’s a useless prick.”

“You always know the best new musicians,” Lydia said to Kat. “Whose album should we be on next?”

“Forget that. Let’s start our own girl group,” Cher joked.

“Yes, because the world is really clamoring for a middle-aged thirty-something girl group,” Kat grumbled, downing the rest of her drink and signaling the bartender for another.

“Bitch, please. I think it’s just what the world needs,” Lydia laughed. “Besides, don’t you think society is sick of watching a bunch of skinny children bouncing around singing pop songs?”

“No.” Kat dropped her head on the bar. “It reminds them of the good old days. We just remind them of reality, and nobody wants that.”

“Damn, Kat, we’re trying to lighten the mood,” Cher said. “Although thinking about it, I’m not surprised. Didn’t you notice how we were in smaller venues this entire tour? I think he wanted out before he became obsolete.”

Kat lifted her head. “I know, I’m sorry. I’m just trying to process all this.”

“Kat, we will be fine.” Cher placed her hand on Kat’s shoulder. “West is not going to throw us to the wolves.”

Kat wasn’t convinced that wasn’t exactly what he was going to do.

Lydia nodded, pointing toward the bow of the ship. “There’s the man of the hour now.”

Weston walked aboard, his chin held high, broad chest pulling his shirt taut, surrounded by his usual group of adoring acolytes. His dark golden hair shimmered in the bright afternoon sunlight. His best friend Luke was laughing like a hyena at something Weston had said—typical of him. Luke’s father was some kind of oil baron, and he was wealthier than Weston, but here, fame outranked everything else.

Conspicuously missing this trip had been Weston’s on-again, off-again, supermodel girlfriend Gia Patrizia. But unlike all the other times they had broken up, there had been no social media buzz.

The rest of the crew joined them, mingling around the deck, chatting and laughing without a care in the world. Clearly, they weren’t worried about Weston’s retirement. A light breeze carried the scent of salt in the air while laughter punctuated the surrounding conversations. The guys would be fine. Everything was easier for men in the music world.

Out of the corner of her eye, Kat caught sight of Declan walking down the stairs at the center of the yacht toward the dining room. Maybe, just maybe, he would help her out. He was a manager after all. Lydia and Cher were deep in conversation with the tour guitarist and bassist, so Kat slipped away and followed him.

Finally catching up to Declan in the dining room, she called out his name.

“What, Katy? I’m due on a call,” he said, looking at his cell phone.

Kat bit the side of her cheek, annoyed that after ten years he still couldn’t get her name right. Declan had always been a domineering presence on tour. Tall and looming, he had big meaty hands that looked like they could snap her neck in two, and being alone with him always made her uneasy, especially when he was high. Forcing herself not to fidget, she pulled her shoulders back, looking him in the eye. “Now that Weston’s retiring, would the label be willing to listen if I record some new stuff?”

“New stuff? You? Like what?” he asked, pointing at her, confused she would even have anything to record. She didn’t, but that wasn’t the point.

“Yeah, that was the whole reason I ended up on Weston’s album. You played my demo and said if I sang and played on Weston’s record, you’d consider my stuff. Well, it’s been ten years.” She held up her hands, showing the enormity of ten.

Declan’s eyes narrowed to slits and his lips turned upward in an evil grin. He threw his head back and laughed. He kept laughing as Kat stood by awkwardly waiting for him to finish. “It’s not that funny,” she said to herself.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “It’s just . . .” He took a deep breath, then chuckled.

“Dammit, Dec!” she snapped.

“You’re right, sorry,” he said, stifling another laugh. “Listen, Katy, fifteen years ago they could have sold your music. People would have been into whatever Vanessa Carlton piano-rock crap you had going on. But, sweetie, unless you update your whole aesthetic, you will be seen as dated: too old, too . . . I don’t know . . . Latina? Your vibe doesn’t match alternative rock, and it just ain’t happening. I mean, shit, even Monroe’s a relic at this point.”

Ah yes, Latina . . . Racial ambiguity wins again.

Kat stood motionless, tears gathering in the backs of her eyes. The weight of his words hit her like a sledgehammer to her chest—trends were not in her favor, ever. She knew that piano rock was out; her hopes of it making a comeback, like all things early-2000s, squashed. If emo could come back, why couldn’t piano rock?

Kat already knew the answer. The world was angsty, it needed angsty music. Kat was a woman, and an Indigenous woman at that. She could pass for White in some spaces, but people looked at her and always wondered just what she was. It made record label execs a little iffy about whether she’d sell in the alternative market space.

Her age, gender, and race were all against her, and as much as she wished she could escape it, she was all too aware of her reality. The finality of his words settled deep within her. Her dream of ever being a musical artist in her own right had never seemed so far away or unattainable. It was over before it had even started.

She’d never deceived herself with thoughts of becoming as famous as Weston Monroe; all she wanted was a career where she could use her voice. There were people out there who would have given anything to perform on the stages she did, but it wasn’t about that for her. She wanted to write her music to make a difference and to be a voice for others. For those like her who were different and unheard, forgotten, stuck between worlds. That’s why she loved music. It gave voice to the voiceless.

While it didn’t always bother her, she saw how homogenous alternative rock shows were. Kat and her best friend from high school, who was Black, always stood out in the crowd. The last Indigenous band to make it big had been Red Bone in the seventies. Why couldn’t it be her turn to butt into the alternative rock sector? But Declan had put it in no uncertain terms. That would not happen.

“Sorry, Katy, you got a great voice and a talent on the keys. I’m sure we can put you on an old crooner’s next album. I think Beckett Moss has a residency in Vegas and needs performers. Don’t worry, we’ll keep you working,” he said as he turned and walked away.

Kat watched Dec lumbering away, trying to ignore the overwhelming sense of frustration and failure that was engulfing her. This was why she never tried. Because every time she did, she was knocked back. It was better to play it safe. Playing for Weston all these years had insulated her from these soul-crushing disappointments, but now she was exposed again. Rejected again.

Swallowing back the tears of self-pity, her anger reignited. She wasn’t sure if she was angrier at Weston for not telling her about his retirement, for wasting her youth and talent, or for quitting and uprooting her safe, predictable world.

Looking down at one of the dining room tables she picked up a knife. The metal was cold in her hand. “Ugh. That’s such bullshit,” she said, throwing the knife at the stairs leading back up to the deck, the metallic sound reverberating through the empty room.

“Whoa, what’s bullshit?” A deep male voice floated down the stairs.

Well, she’d thought the room was empty.