2. Two
West saw the flying projectile just in time. His reflexes were perhaps slower than usual thanks to his day drinking, but thankfully he noticed, or a certain part of his anatomy that he happened to love very much would have been wounded.
As he entered the dining room, he saw the culprit and wasn’t surprised by the knife-wielding crotch assassin.
“If you were trying to damage me permanently, sweetheart, you’re a bit too early.”
“I would have chosen a sharper knife if I’d known you were coming,” she said tartly.
He bent down to pick up the knife, catching a hint of her scent. Vanilla, jasmine, and fresh flowers straight from Bali. As he walked closer to her, she retreated until she bumped into the dining room table, trapped with nowhere to go.
Normally she would have averted her gaze, unable to look him in the eyes. He made her nervous, and she always avoided any situation that put the two of them alone together. And yet, West still enjoyed riling her. But today she was staring right at him.
Her dark brown, almost black hair curled slightly around her shoulders and down her back, and West itched to touch it, the silky strands calling to him like a siren’s song across the ocean. Her skin was a shade darker than normal, bronzed by the sun to a deep honey color that made her almost glow.
Something was different about her. Maybe it was the sun and sea air? Or maybe it was the way she was looking at him, her eyes brighter than he remembered, with a hint of something that reminded him of the woman she was long ago.
Before he had gone and ruined everything.
“Now,” he started, “want to explain why you’re throwing knives across the dining room?”
“It’s just a butter knife,” she murmured.
“You know, all these years, playing such loud music has made me a little hard of hearing.” He leaned over, putting his face directly in front of hers. Her breath hitched, and he enjoyed making her nervous. He quirked up an eyebrow in question.
He could feel the magnetic pull of her presence as he reached out to touch her. But as his fingers brushed her arm, her demeanor changed suddenly, and she pushed hard on his chest with both hands. He felt a spark of electricity between them as her fingers swept across his chest, and he stumbled backward, almost losing his balance.
“Do you want to know why I’m throwing knives, you absolute blowhard?” She shifted her stance. “I was practicing for you.”
She continued in an exaggerated masculine voice, mocking him. “Mister ‘I’m gonna quit singing with no warning, or even telling the people who have been with me for ten whole years because I’m utterly devoid of any kind of fucking loyalty.’ But since you’ve ruined my plan, I will have to generate a new one.”
She was breathing heavily, and it surprised West to see his ice queen so affected. Maybe he was wrong not to have given his singers a warning about his decision ahead of time, but ever since the incident, as he called it, he’d learned to keep his relationships with his singers platonic or it would hinder their work. His music was important to him, and the whole band knew that, including the girls. He was friendly with Lydia and Cher; it was just Kat who’d always had a layer of ice around her, and West hadn’t bothered to chip into it.
His plan had been to tell them with the rest of the band this morning—or so he’d told himself—but they hadn’t been there, and time got away from him to find them.
He examined her flushed face, slightly red from the sun, and her beautiful, amber-colored eyes. He saw genuine hurt in them, and he felt bad for being the one who’d put it there.
“The record label said they would take care of you,” he said to relieve his guilt.
Her eyes burned with rage and her mouth quivered as she opened and shut it, trying to form the right words. She spun around.
Is she leaving?
To West’s surprise, she marched to the dining room bar and poured two glasses of wine, strolling back to him, her gaze never leaving his.
Silently, she offered him a glass, and he reached out with hesitation. She paused for a moment and did something unexpected—she smiled. A beautiful, dazzling smile that took him aback. It was like being struck by lightning, the way it overtook all his senses.
“Well, I guess I should be thanking you,” she said, her eyes shining brightly. “Cheers to the mighty Weston Monroe for giving me such a prominent music career, and for all that shall come.” Her voice was an octave too high as she lifted her glass as if to toast him and took a drink.
Shifting under her scrutiny, he furrowed his brow. “Er . . . you’re welcome.”
She lowered the glass from her mouth, her tongue darting out to lick the wine from her lips, and West’s eyes tracked the trail it made.
“Dear god, Weston, you have done jack shit for my career. Can you really be that clueless?”
West took a step back; he had severely miscalculated her motives.
Had she just poisoned his drink?
“You never let us work on any of the music with you,” she continued, her frustration palpable. “Every time we tried to move on to new projects, you’d have a new album or a new tour. Why? Do you not know what a break is? We have no real music credits, we have no writing credits, we have no actual careers, we have no families, we have no lives, we have nothing, and it’s all thanks to you, so yes . . .” She paused, taking a breath. “Thank you very much for my illustrious music career, and especially the heads-up that you were done with us.”
With a swift fling of her arm, she threw the remaining contents of her wineglass into his face. The table shook as she slammed it down, then she leaned forward, grabbed the glass he was holding, turned and walked away.
“You don’t deserve this,” she shot over her shoulder as she disappeared up the stairs, not waiting for his response.
West gaped at her disappearing figure.
What was that?
Dripping with red wine, he made his way to the bar. Other than Gia, who would frequently throw fits, women rarely spoke to him like that. Kat’s unexpected fiery attitude was a pleasant surprise. It reminded him of how she used to be before their relationship was shattered by the incident.
He could have done without the red wine to the face, though.
Maybe he’d been a little heavy-handed in his approach to making his music, but it was his music, not hers. He had written an overly ambitious album years ago, and when he had gone searching for touring musicians, the label had suggested Kat, Lydia, and Cher. Women hadn’t been his first choice, but he hadn’t hated it. Kat playing piano had been a two-for-one, saving them a tour instrumentalist.
Over the years, they’d worked so well together that he figured why break up the band? They never mentioned being unhappy or unfulfilled with him. He had never thought they might have their own projects or careers they would want to pursue. West was starting to wonder if his name belonged next to “asshole” in the dictionary, but that was another thought for another day.
Wiping off more of the wine, he went to his quarters to shower.
Twenty minutes later, he still smelled of booze, but that was probably because of the copious amounts he had been drinking since boarding the vessel.
The hardest part of his journey was over. His retirement was public, and the entire world knew it. Relief should have come. Except he felt only numbness. Sinking onto the bed, he put his head in his hands and took a deep breath, preparing himself to go back out into the fray of his boisterous friends and the party Unwilling to admit his exhaustion, he steeled himself for another night of forced smiles and hollow laughter.
West’s phone vibrated on the bed, but he ignored the message. They had all been the same. Friends and acquaintances all wondering what the hell he was doing. West couldn’t wait until they pulled away from the port and his phone became useless.
Another buzz sounded. “Christ!” he cursed, reading the message that popped up.
Gia:Call me back, baby.
Hard pass.
For months, he had been wrestling with an inexplicable emptiness. It shadowed him like a dark cloud, and no matter how hard he tried to shake it off, it lingered. Breaking it off with his ex-girlfriend had been the first smart thing he’d done all year.
He clutched his phone, tempted to chuck it against the wall, when it buzzed again, eliciting a low groan from him. With a sinking feeling, he raised the device to his ear.
“What?”
“Really? That’s how you greet your dear old dad?”
West’s knuckles turned white as he bit back a groan of frustration. Releasing a long sigh, he held the phone back up to his face. “Hello, dear old dad,” he said, sarcasm lacing his tone.
“I take it you’re proud of yourself,” his dad said, never one to mince words.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” West lied, punching at the air with his free hand. That’s what his dad made him want to do.
Punch things.
“You know very well what I’m talking about. What the hell, retiring from music? You just couldn’t handle staying in my shadow. You went and threw away a perfectly good music career, and to do what? Devote more time to your parties and women?”
“Tell me how you really feel, Dad?” West murmured.
“All the lessons, tutors, and connections, and you’re just going to throw it all away, give up on your dreams? People would kill to be in your shoes. What are you doing, son?”
A group of his sound engineers walked by his cabin on the way to their own and West pasted on a smile, shutting his door. He was never one to let anyone see him angry or frustrated. To the world, West lived a carefree life of fun and frivolity. Whiskey, women, and his music. That was all Weston Monroe cared about.
“What does it matter? I’m never going to reach the levels of the great Tommy Monroe. You just said so. Might as well quit while I’m ahead, don’t you think?”
His dad grunted in frustration. “West, it’s your life. When you wanted your softer girly rock instead of manly rock and roll, I didn’t stop you.”
Like he hadn’t heard that one a thousand times. His dad was a typical eighties rock star, with loud guitars, big hair, and tight pants, but West enjoyed sexier guitar riffs and more romantic lyrics. It drove his father crazy, and West relished disappointing him.
“But just quitting? What’s your plan?” his father finished.
West had options, but no plan; he would not tell his father that though. Ever the micromanager, he would lose it.
West had never known his mom; she’d left when he was a baby. He assumed it had something to do with his father’s strict nature and high expectations. Though his dad loved him, he was also constantly disappointed. He had no tolerance for those who didn’t meet his lofty standards.
As a kid, West had learned guitar, drums, music theory, and everything in between at the dictates of his father. He often imagined what his life would have been like with a mother in it—would she have stood up for him against his father’s expectations? Years of experience taught him that any attempt to argue with him was fruitless, so he simply listened, deflecting with jokes and sarcasm.
“Can we talk about this when I get home?” West asked, exasperated. His stomach ached from hunger, and he needed another stiff drink. Luke had invited models from France or Spain or some other European country to join them on the yacht, but not even that appealed to him right now. Just a bottle of the boat’s best whiskey and some food would do him good.
“This conversation isn’t over, Weston . . .”
“Bye, Dad.” West hung up before his dad could finish his sentence, dropping his phone on his bed.
He heard the strains of music coming from the deck above his cabin and debated the merits of his next call. To just go upstairs, have a good time, and forget the world existed beyond this boat. He excelled at that.
But he needed to make some decisions, and that required all the facts. Rubbing the back of his neck, he dialed, making the call he had been dreading since they’d arrived in Bali.
“Hey man, how’s it lookin’?” he asked.
“Not so good,” the other voice said.