Page 41 of Uncharted Desires
“My numbers aren’t what they used to be, my style isn’t hip anymore, Zoomers don’t buy records anymore, and whatever other excuses they wanted to make. They said they wouldn’t record any more of my music if I didn’t change my sound to what they wanted.”
He gave a slight laugh devoid of humor. “Record sales have been down for a while. I suggested going back to my old stripped-down sound. They didn’t like that idea, said I’m old, washed-up—whatever term you want to use. The label was done. So, they said to do it their way or walk. I walked.”
Her hand found his, and she squeezed. The comforting gesture almost undid him.
“I’m sorry, West, I had no idea. I mean, this tour was a lot smaller, and I guess that should have clued me in, but I didn’t think they would ever drop you.”
“No one else knows, not even my dad. The label let me have the out.”
“Did they think they were being generous?”
He gave a cynical laugh. “No, there was a catch. I can’t sign with any other label for at least two years.”
She shook her head, her thumb stroking his finger of its own volition, and West realized how much he enjoyed having someone just sitting there holding his hand, stroking him, comforting him. “Why can’t you go to a new label if they say your music isn’t worth it anymore?”
“Control. I keep control of my public image, and yet they keep control of my career. That’s why Declan worked to find me the acting gig. It was something I could try and still make money. So now you see why I’m considering acting. What else am I going to do?”
“What worries you more? The world finding out you’re not so perfect after all, or your father finding out?”
West tried not to flinch at the mention of his father; it was a question he had pondered more than he should have. Why did he care so much? His father’s band only had four studio albums; West had seven. He’d been on far more world tours than his father ever had, and yet it still drove him mad he had failed.
“You know this business: one day you’re in, the next you’re out,” he said, trying to brush off her question.
She placed her hand on his arm, her fingers long and firm, burning through his skin. “West.” His name on her lips gave him pause as he saw the depth of emotion within her eyes. It almost did him in. That emotion was for him. “Tell me the truth. It annoys you that you didn’t stay on top forever, doesn’t it? That you couldn’t beat your father.”
He sighed, annoyed she understood him better than he understood himself. “Growing up, he always pushed me to be the best,” West started, surprised he was willing to open himself to Kat like this, but he wanted to tell her.
He swallowed audibly. “He said I could be the best out there, that I had a legacy to continue, but then I made my type of music. I didn’t want to make the harder rock like him, and he hated it. It was his fault for taking me to a Prince concert at such a young age. He said I would go nowhere, that no one would buy it, that I would be a failure.
“As my popularity grew, he eventually caved, but he still says I’ll never have the lasting impact of his band, that they won’t make documentaries and movies about me like they do him. But the funny thing is I never wanted any of that. Through all his pushing I found that I just wanted to play my music, and maybe a piece of me still does, but the joy of it is gone.”
“Your dad was wrong,” she said softly. “They’ll make documentaries about you plenty, and who cares if they don’t? You blended genres and experimented with sounds. There are people out there now who try to emulate you. So what if the new generation isn’t on board?”
“Well, the label seems to care. They asked me to add a synth to my new album. A fucking synthesizer, Kat.”
“So, what did you do?”
West gave a humorless laugh. “I’m done changing who I am for those guys. I told them to go fuck themselves.”
She sat up and looked straight at him, a smile on her face. “They said you couldn’t go to a different label, but they didn’t say anything about starting your own.”
“What?” He furrowed his brow, confused.
“Your own label!” She was getting excited as she moved to sit on her feet, her breasts bouncing in front of his face, and West decided he should be anointed as a saint for not grabbing her that second.
“My own label. Why would I do that? I don’t know anything about production. I write the music, play the instruments.”
She stared at him as if he was truly a dimwit. “Okay . . . you learn, hire people who do know what they’re doing, learn from them. You’d get to make the music you want because it’s your label. You’re a millionaire. If I had your kind of money, I would do whatever the hell I wanted.”
He scratched at his chin, his week-long beard growth beginning to annoy him as he thought about her idea. It wasn’t a bad one. He could go back to making music the way he liked, without all the over-the-top production. Just guitars and drums and his voice—not that he hadn’t enjoyed having her and the other girls on his tracks, he just enjoyed his stripped-down sound more.
He could sign acts that were overlooked; musicians like Kat, who probably wouldn’t make a ton of money but had talent. “I’ll think about it . . . What would you do?” he asked her.
“What would I do?”
“If you had my money,” he clarified. “You said you’d do whatever the hell you wanted, so what would you do?”
She pursed her lips, and it immediately drew West’s eyes to them. Her eyes sparkled as she thought about her answer. “You know how you always think about what you’d do if you won the lottery?”