Page 3 of Uncharted Desires

“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.

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.