Raymond snapped his finger. “I’ve got someone in mind.”
“Really? Who?”
“You ever heard of Julie Dominick?”
Dante ran through the females he may have heard about but came up empty. “Should I know her?”
“She’s the woman that handled the development of Masquerade.”
Dante’s brows rose. “Really?”
“That’s my girl, Julie. She negotiated the deal to land that prime location in Buckhead and kept other investors from snagging it up. She oversaw the entire operation, from acquisition to construction, and did a damn good job.”
Jacobe chuckled. “What, is she paying you to be her public relations person?”
Raymond shook his head. “Nah, I just wanted you to know the type of work she can do. We should consider her.”
“Working her magic in Atlanta isn’t the same as working her magic in California,” Dante said. “I’d rather go with someone who knows the ins and outs on this side of the country.”
“I know Julie—she can do it.” Confidence and affection filled Raymond’s voice.
Dante’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know her? This isn’t some old girlfriend you’re trying to give the hookup to?”
“Nah, not like that. Julie and I are cool. We met in college, and she’s been my homegirl ever since. She got me started in music actually, promoting my music and getting me gigs in and around Atlanta. Now she’s started her own development firm, and I want to help her out.”
“Is that all? No guy I know just helps out a female for no reason.”
Raymond rubbed his jaw and lifted a shoulder. “I wouldn’t mind if Julie and I became more than friends one day.”
“I figured.”
“But it’s not like that. Julie is the kind of woman you make your number one chick. We’ve talked about finally getting together if both of us were single when we turned thirty. That’s only a few years away. Who knows—this may bring us together.”
A sexy woman in a skimpy red dress walked past. Raymond and Jacobe both went slack jawed and watched her walk by with more than a little interest. Raymond, ever bold, reached out and took her hand, then pulled her against his side. The woman giggled, wrapping her arms around Raymond’s neck.
Dante chuckled and shook his head. “You’re ready to settle down, huh?”
Raymond wiggled his brows. “I said a few years off. Come on—look up Julie. She’s opened some other spots on the East Coast. We can at least meet with her and then decide.”
Dante’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out to find a picture of his father, in his best blue pinstripe suit sitting behind his desk at W. M. Records, on the screen. “I’ll think about meeting her. Excuse me, fellas.” He stood and punched the button to answer the call.
Dante put the phone to his ear. “Dad, hold on a minute.”
He walked away from the main area of the party and into the suite’s master bedroom, which was, thankfully, empty. “You still there?”
“Sounds like one hell of a party.” Otis Wilson’s deep baritone, which was the hallmark of his career, came through the phone.
“You know I like to celebrate the end of a tour in style.”
Otis laughed. “I don’t blame you. Man, if you could have seen the parties we had back in the day.”
“I heard the stories. You guys partied too hard for me.”
“That’s the truth,” Otis said, his voice laced with nostalgia. “What are you doing after you leave Vegas?”
Dante fought not to sigh. He’d told his dad during the entire concert tour what he planned to do. “I’m going to Malibu to look into opening my club.”
“You’re still on that? Come on, Dante—why are you wasting your time?”
“It’s not wasting time. I’ve spent seventeen years doing what the market told me to do. Now I want to pursue my own things.”
“Dante, you can dabble in that classical–hip-hop fusion mess on the side, but the money is in mainstream music. I just left a meeting with Antwan, and he’s interested in doing a joint album with you.” Antwan was the biggest name in hip-hop, and the fact that he was unhappy with his label was no secret. Ever since that news had gone public, Otis had let Dante know he would try to recruit Antwan to W. M. Records. Hard.
“Having Raymond on your concert tour gave you a boost with the younger generation. If you do an album with Antwan, then follow it with your own R&B, you’ll sell even more.”
The same song Otis had sung since Dante announced his tour. Otis always followed the money, which normally meant following the mainstream trends.
“I’ve sold enough that I trust being able to try something new. I’ll consider a collaboration with Antwan after the club is up and going.”
“You put out that crappy music and your name will be nothing. We can’t afford the hit. Not after what your sister pulled last year.”
Dante pinched the bridge of his nose. His sister had a strong pop music career, but, for some reason, she’d tried to go hard-core hip-hop the previous year. The only thing hard about her album was how hard it hit the bottom of the charts.
“What Star tried and what I’m trying are not the same.”
“Dante, I need you to do the album with Antwan.” The urgency of Otis’s tone was unexpected.
Dante frowned. “What’s going on?”
“The thing with your sister was just the icing on the cake. We’ve got artists that are considering not resigning, and sales are down. We need Antwan to breathe new life into W. M. Records and another set of hit albums to rebuild confidence with our current artists.”
“How bad are sales?”
“I didn’t want to get into this, but we’ve gone down about five percent the past two years. I wouldn’t worry, we’ve had down years before, but if we lose some artists and can’t sign a big name, then we may be talking double-digit losses. They haven’t crucified us in the business news yet. But another year with profit losses, and they will.”
“Damn,” Dante grunted and ran a hand over his forehead. He sat back on the bed while his dad’s revelation took root in his brain. The Wilson legacy, and the success of W. M. Records, was what he’d lived for and built his career on. If they had multiple years of losses, even small ones, pretty soon the speculators would begin to spread rumors that things weren’t going well at W. M. Records. Artists would jump ship. Sales would dwindle. Best case, they’d take several years to rebuild. Worst case, they would fold or have to consider a merger with another label just to stay afloat.
“Go ahead and open the club,” Otis said. “You mentioned that Raymond wants to put his name on it. Fine, that’ll help. But before you turn it into some hippie hangout, think about doing the album with Antwan, and maybe booking some of our commercial artists there instead.”
Dante hated the idea of his dream becoming something else, but he also hated the idea of his family’s legacy suffering. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good.”
They talked for a few more minutes. Afterward, Dante tossed his phone on the bed. The fate of W. M. Records and the good argument Otis had for Dante to continue making the music that sold swirled in his brain. He’d never considered that what happened to Star could happen to him, but with the state of affairs at W. M. Records, it was a real concern. As much as he wanted to try his hand at new, different music, he