Page 5 of Uncharted Desires

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.