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I stare at her. “Not fucking helpful, sweetheart,” I mutter, doing my best to stop fucking thinking about her pussy.
Fuck.
My phone goes off twice more with texts and I check it to see who the hell is bombarding me with messages. They’re from Tom and as I read them, I let out a loud, “Fuck me!”
“What?” Presley looks at me in alarm. She’s obviously picked up that my stress levels are now through the roof.
After I finish scrolling through the messages, I dial Tom and place my phone to my ear. Eyeing Presley, I fill her in. “West has been accused of rape. It’s all over the news.”
She stares at me in shock and I nod in agreement. This is fucking ludicrous.
Tom snaps into my phone, “Where the hell have you been? This shit is hitting from all angles and you need to get down to the studio now.”
“I’m on my way.” I shove the phone in my pocket and start to make my way out to my car. “I’ve gotta go, but I’ll call you later,” I yell out to Presley right before I leave her apartment. Getting to the studio is the only thing on my mind now; there’s no fucking way West raped a woman, and I need to get to the band fast so we can work out how the fuck we’re going to deal with this.
The traffic is a bitch, and it takes me a good forty minutes to get to the studio, during which time I’ve listened to the breakfast radio announcers trash talk rock stars for sleeping with anyone and everyone. And that was right after they discussed the possibility of the rape allegation against West being true. I had to restrain myself from calling them and giving them a piece of my mind. They never stop and think about the fact the person they are talking about is a real person, and that a lot of their audience takes what they say as gospel.
By the time I finally walk into the studio, I’ve got a massive headache and I feel like the world is conspiring against me this morning after the traffic and then no car park being available, resulting in me having to park a couple of blocks away.
Van scowls at me the minute I enter. “It’s a good fucking thing no one was dying here, Jett. You took your time.”
I hold my hand up at him and return his scowl. “Don’t fucking start on me today; I don’t have the patience for your shit.” Turning my attention to West, I take in his appearance. He looks a mess, and I can’t blame him; if I’d been accused of rape, I’d look the same. “Tell me what happened.”
He stares at me for a moment, not saying a word. The exhaustion has taken over his face and I can only imagine how tired his mind is, and how hard he’s finding it to form words. Fuck, this side of the business is bullshit, and I hope to God I never run into the woman who’s put him in this position. Our band has had a clear run with scandals so far but I’ve seen other bands and other men broken by this kind of shit. When he speaks, his voice gives away the shock he must still be in. “She’s told her story to one of the magazines, said I raped her when we were in Sydney last time.”
I frown. “Have the police contacted you?”
Shaking his head, he says, “No . . . fuck, Jett, I didn’t do this. Sure, I slept with her, but she was the one begging for it, not me.” He rakes his fingers through his hair and begins pacing the room.
“I believe you, man.” I look at Tom and tell him my thoughts. “She obviously wants cash if she’s gone to a magazine - ”
West cuts me off. “I’m not fucking giving that bitch a cent!” he roars.
“That wasn’t what I was going to suggest. I’m just thinking out loud here, and what I’m thinking is the likelihood of her going to the police over this is slim, which is good for you.”
“We’re on the same page here,” Tom agrees, “so I think the first thing we need to do is either make a statement or do an interview while at the same time do some digging on this woman and find out who she is and what shit she’s into. I bet she’s covered in dirt herself.”
“I don’t think West is up to an interview just yet so we’ll put out a statement and go from there. If we need to do an interview later, we’ll do it,” I reply. Looking at West, I add, “And when I say we, I mean all of us. We’ve got your back, man.”
“This is fucking bullshit!” Van thunders, his eyes blazing. Glaring at West, he says, “If you could keep your dick in your pants for longer than a minute, this kind of shit wouldn’t happen. We’re just about to launch a new album and we need all the fans we can get to support that album. This kind of shit won’t support it.”
My gaze snaps to Van and I look at him with disgust. “I can’t fucking believe you just said that.”
“It’s the truth, Jett, and you know it. You’re the one concerned about changing our sound so I would think you’d agree with me on this.”
“Yeah, I’m worried about that, but fuck, West is our family, and I’m more concerned about him at the moment, and you should be, too. Jesus, Van, if this kind of shit happened to you, you’d want all of us to have your back.”
West butts in, “Fuck you, Van. I might think you’re an asshole but I’ve always been behind you when you’re going through shit. That bitch begged me to fuck her, and I sure as hell know that if it’d been you she was begging, you’d have fucked her too, so don’t give me this bullshit about me keeping my dick in my pants, ‘cause yours is never in your pants, either.” West is wound tight and looks like he’s just holding it together. One more word out of Van and I’m sure West will punch him.
Just as I’m about to call for a time out, Hunter steps into the conversation. Pointing at Van, he says, “You, shut up; nothing productive is coming out of your mouth so until you have something useful to say, don’t say another fucking word.” Then he points at West. “You, go home, shower and have something to eat and then either come back or have a sleep, ‘cause you look like you’re three days into an apocalypse, and I’m pretty sure you need a minute to yourself to sort through the shit running through your mind.” And finally, he looks at me. “And you and I are going to regroup and form a plan to deal with this, ‘cause I don’t think sitting back, making a statement and waiting to see what we can dig up on that bitch will cut it. Van might be an asshole but he’s right, we need to do everything we can to make sure this album sells, and while I’m not saying West is at fault here, we’re in this shit now, and we’ve gotta work with what we have.”
When Hunter speaks, we all listen. He’s a man of few words but he’s the smartest one in our group, and, usually, when he speaks like this, he’s right. I nod at him and then ask West, “Do you want me to drive you home?”
Grabbing his keys, he shakes his head. “No.” And with that, he leaves.
As soon as he’s out the door, I slump into the couch and drop my head into my hands. No one says a word; we’re all lost in our own thoughts. Eventually, I look back up at them and say, “This shit is so unfair. West is a good guy and he gets this?” In this moment, I truly despise the dark side of this business. The lies they tell to sell magazines, the stalking they do to get a photo, the smack they talk to try and get money out of you. I just want to write songs that mean something and sing them to people who want to hear them. Why the fuck should we have to go through all that other bullshit to be able to do what we love?
Van has kept quiet since Hunter told him to but he stands and mutters, “I’m out for today. If I sit here another minute, I’m gonna punch something. You two figure out whatever you want; I’ll be back tomorrow.”
