Twisting the thick bloodstone on my thumb, I stare at the red oval until bright splotches form at the edges of my vision. I curl the digit inward, hiding the face of the jewel, and reach forward with my left hand for the glass tumbler of Jack and Coke in front of me.
Music industry royalty, Forbes once called the James family—technically, the James-Santiago family, given that my parents never married and the latter is my official last name. With a washed-up Colombian pop star sensation as a mother, and a composer turned label owner as a father, the world supposes I have more talent in my pinkie finger than most people can fathom.
More problems, too.
My stomach pinches as I think about the state of the walk-in closet off my bedroom. Hidden behind a pocket door, the mess inside is something the gossip rags would love to get their grubby hands on.
Piles and piles of clothing, some mine and some from my parents, my ex, and my best friend. Some that don’t fit, and some that never belonged to anyone in the family—just items I’ve picked up from various events and hotel rooms over the years.
Things I simply can’t part with.
Just in case.
Bringing the glass to my lips, I toss a drink back, reveling in the way the burn soothes my worries, quelling the obsessive thoughts before they can cement in place.
“Callie doesn’t tell me anything until the moment before it’s supposed to happen.” I pause, daring my father to disagree about my mother’s reliability.
He won’t, of course. Her poor time management skills are only one of the reasons he strayed from their relationship.
The promise of fresh, young pussy was the other.
“Remind me why you made her your manager over me,” my father says, swiping the other glass from the middle of the table. He mimics me, taking a sip without breaking eye contact, the sleeve of his navy Brioni suit riding up as he lifts his hand.
I run my tongue over the front of my teeth. “Well, for starters, I don’t have to worry about her fucking my girlfriend.”
He blinks, and the large vein in his forehead throbs, the way it always does when he’s annoyed.
Well, join the club. Finding you with your dick inside the only girl I’ve ever been with wasn’t exactly a walk in the park for me.
“I see we’re still holding grudges.”
Lifting one shoulder, I point my tumbler at him. “Are you still fucking her?”
“Aiden.”
One of my eyebrows cocks.
Reaching up, he rubs at his temple with his thumb. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”
I can’t deny that the betrayal stings, but it’s been long enough at this point that Sylvie Michaels is practically a fever dream to me now.
A painful one that left scars, but distant nonetheless.
“Then I’ll say the same thing about why Mom is my manager.” Crossing my arms, I shrug. “Besides, she knows what she’s doing.”
If nothing else, the woman is dedicated to her job.
Being a mom, not so much.
Grunting, he sets his glass down and leans back in his seat. “And I don’t? Son, I think you’re forgetting who taught her what she knows.”
My grip on the tumbler tightens, rage scratching at my throat with his use of the word son, as if that’s not a privilege he lost.
Placing my glass on the table, I straighten my spine and check the bulky Chanel watch on my wrist.
Part of me wants to drag this out. Make him squirm. But I know Callie will be pissed if I’m late for the gala, since I’m supposed to be the headliner of the event, and I don’t feel like dealing with her right now.
“I want to talk about my contract.”
He freezes, the oxygen around us evaporating with his stillness. “Why?”
My expression flattens, and he shifts in his chair, pulling at the knot in his tie.
Buying time.
Finally, my father sighs. “Aiden, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
Slipping my thumb beneath the band of my watch, I smooth the calloused pad over the corrugated flesh there, grounding myself in the sting of new ink. The latest reminder.
“Why not?” I prod, poking my nail into the linework; a simple pair of wings, something random I got before last night’s show in Detroit.
“Because…” He drags a hand over his mouth. “There’s a lot of money on the line.”
My index finger taps on the tabletop, the ring at the base clinking with each downward pump. “I’m aware of that fact. It’s my contract, after all.”
The switch to his label, Symposium Records, was not one made lightly; however, after being dropped from the previous one due to some hits my reputation took, I didn’t have much of a choice.
And while a typical contract spans a single year, with the potential to renew for future releases, the contract I’d been asked to sign roped me in for three years and as many albums, minimum.
Not necessarily unheard of for a firm as large as Symposium, but still. It’s the principle; being stuck living under my father’s thumb, the way I have my entire life, becomes less appealing every day.
His mouth twists. “I get it. You’re tired, we just finished the Argonautica tour, and you’re feeling flighty. Every performer gets that way. Once you see the eight-figure projections, you’ll feel differently.”
I grit my teeth. “It’s not the money. I’m not jonesing for cash. I’m just not sure I want to work with your label.”
The penthouse apartment gets extremely quiet, the only sound that of the busy East Fifty-Seventh Street below.
Gripping the armrests of his seat, my father swallows audibly. The unspoken words hang in the air between us, the implication heavy: I don’t want to work with him.
But because this is the music industry, and I’m legally bound in more ways than just one, I don’t get a fucking say. Before he speaks, I can feel his words in the pit of my stomach, like a large stone disrupting a shallow pond.
“Guess you’ll just have to learn to live with it.”
Callie’s voice is barely discernible through the din of the gala, even though she’s got her mouth pressed against my ear.