Page 4 of Wes

In fact, supporting that non-profit is the least I can do for Ana and Moira. Muse of Darkness and Knight’s Edge have a long history together, so we often hang out. Ana and Moira noticed the signs that my sister Pam was in a violent relationship before anyone else had a clue about what was going on. Through Hidden Scars she got mental health support, as well as legal counseling, to prepare herself to leave her low-life husband. She’s now married to a wonderful guy, and they have three kids.

“You usually donate an obscene amount of cash and wipe your hands. That’s not going to cut this time.”

I knit my eyebrows. “I’m not only giving out money. I’m doing that lame online celebrity auction thing this time.” I roll my eyes. “Although I still don’t understand how I let Izzie talk me into that.”

My band mates and I have a debt of gratitude to the chance Izzie Anderson gave us over a decade ago. Now married to Tristan, the guitarist and leader of Knight’s Edge, she used to be a huge star back then. She hired Muse of Darkness as the opening act of her sold-out tour and the rest is history. Maybe that’s why I have a terrible time saying no to her.

Kim holds my stare, sliding back and forth an index finger along the edge of the cushion. “About that auction.”

My stomach drops. “You never hesitate to speak your mind, Kim. What’s up now?” I squint my eyes at her blushing cheeks. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

She shakes her head. “Tarmac wants you to do the in-person version of it.”

“No fucking way.” I leap from the couch and pace along the same track she has carved on the rug. “We’re in the middle of shooting a fucking movie about the band while trying to finish up a very overdue album. Meanwhile, Erik’s muse is MIA and Logan’s head is stuck up his butt. Nick’s gone to Boston, who knows why.”

“Exactly. You guys are getting nowhere with the album. A couple of days won’t make a difference in the schedule.”

I whirl around to face her. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She shakes her head. “Not in the least.” She gestures for me to sit again beside her.

I plop myself on the soft couch with a huff. “What’s the point of going down there for this thing?”

“Publicity, optics, and image. Yours, the band’s, and the label’s.” She raises her hand, palm facing me, when I open my mouth to argue. I remain silent as she continues. “Regardless of the fact that those two women are adults and willing participants in a sex party, the media has been calling you out for exploiting and belittling women.”

“I would never do such a thing!” I blurt out.

She interrupts me, “I know that, but it doesn’t matter.”

My blood boils. “Truth doesn’t matter? Is that it?”

She heaves a sigh. “What I’m trying to say is that the label doesn’t care for the people who believe in you. They worry about those who don’t. Those are the ones we need to convince you respect women. What better way than to have you working your ass off for a foundation that empowers the ladies?”

I shake my head at a loss, rubbing my hands along my thighs. The rough material of the jeans warms up my palms. “And they think participating in a celebrity auction will do that?”

She winks. “Oh, but they want so much more from you.”

Fuck! I don’t like the sound of that.

“Like what?”

“You’ve got to get the highest bid in the proceedings. That’s the only way to ensure favorable publicity. Can you imagine the headlines if nobody bids on you? Or if you get a ridiculously low offer?”

“Fuck! I knew it I wouldn’t like what you were about to tell me.” A pang in my stomach like a jab from a world-champion steals my breath way. “The thing is tomorrow!”

She grins. “I’ve got the jet ready and waiting for you. The car will take you to the airfield.”

I glance down at the black T-shirt I’m wearing. “I need to make a quick stop at my apartment to pack a bag.”

She shakes her head. “No time for that. It’s a twelve-hour flight to São Paulo. You need to leave now to arrive in time for rehearsals. My assistant has done that for you. The suitcase is in the trunk of the town car.” She pats my thigh and pushes to her feet. “Good luck.”

* * *

After an uneventful flight, in which I slept like a baby, we arrive at the busiest Brazilian airport. It’s not my first time visiting, but I’m always taken aback by the size of the city that twelve million people call home.

“Good morning, sir,” a smiling immigration officer greets me as he sits on the overstuffed chair across from me.

“Hope it is,” I grin back at him, handing out my passport.

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