Vipers and Virtuosos (Monsters & Muses, #2)(5)
“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.
I can feel her pink lipstick staining my skin as she informs me of my role tonight for the millionth time; the show’s over now, a stagehand having already taken my acoustic guitar up to the penthouse, leaving my hands feeling very empty.
Autographs have been signed, and I’m supposed to sit on stage and look pretty for the rest of the night.
Until the auction, that is. Then, I’m supposed to be attentive and friendly to entice the crowd—as if any woman here wouldn’t crawl on her fucking knees for a chance to breathe the same air as Aiden fucking James.
That’s not even ego talking; it’s just how it is. Rabid fans flashing their tits in the hopes that I’ll see and want to take them home with me. It’s the main reason I stopped doing VIP events after concerts.
“Think you can handle sitting here and not causing a commotion?” Callie asks, pushing some of her dark coppery hair off her shoulder.
“Do I think I can handle something you can teach a dog to do?” I hook one ankle over the opposite knee, resting my hands on my lap. “Yes, you’ve trained me well.”
She rolls her eyes, reaching to adjust the collar of her red blazer. “Ay, such a smart-ass. I can tell your father is around.”
Her accent peeks through her irritation, so I don’t bother correcting her; he left right after telling me to nut up and get over my reservations with the label, presumably to rejoin my ex-girlfriend in whatever luxury hotel they’re at for the weekend.
Since I had this event scheduled, there was no time to press him on it.
“See any causes you might wanna bid on?” Liam, my best friend and publicist, asks as Callie walks away to bother some of the catering staff. He pulls a hand through his dirty-blond hair, tossing a quick look around the room, as if we haven’t been through the prospects twice since arriving.
I shake my head, glancing around quickly for the millionth time; black satin cloths mask each round table lining the ballroom, and candles sit at their centers, drowning the partygoers in darkness.
They all look the fucking same at these events; the men in their expensive three-piece suits, eyes roaming no matter their attachments. There’s always someone willing to put themselves up for sale, if only for the night.
Far be it from any of these men to deny themselves temporary carnal pleasure.
The women are all dressed in similar black gowns, unable to deviate from the status quo for even a second.
It’s positively fucking boring.
A flash of green catches my eye, and I squint into the shadows, trying to make out more than just a silhouette.
I spotted her the second we walked in, my eyes drawn to her like moths to a flame. She’d been flocked by two giggling girls and dragged around the room countless times, so I hadn’t had a chance to fully soak her in; the girls have since gone, and now that I’m looking, I don’t ever want to stop.