Brando (4 page)

Jenna’s
face registers shock. “Wait
– Did you say
Lexi
Dark?
The singer? She
showed up at the open mic?”

“She
of the perfect boobs and come-hither looks, yes. I don’t
know if I should be glad she did, because it meant nobody could be
bothered to hear me play the worst set of my life, not least because
I broke a string halfway through.”

“Oh,
Haley…”

“Just
to top it all off, a guy who looked like someone breathed life into a
Greek statue and dressed it in Tom Ford tried to pick me up by
pretending to be interested in signing me.”

“Jesus…”

“After
all that, even the fact that my roommates were having a drunk kung-fu
movie marathon until five am wasn’t
enough to stop me from crashing out.”

Jenna
slams down the pitcher of hot milk she was carrying with a clang that
gets everyone’s
attention and grabs me in an embrace, clutching me so close I can
feel her heart beating.

“Oh,
Haley. I’m so sorry.
That sounds awful. I wish there was something I could do.”

“I
know. I’ve got
nobody to blame but myself, you know? It was my damned idea to come
to this city. My stupidity that made me think I could make it. My
decision to go to that open mic last night and stick it out, even
though all the signs were wrong.” I
allow myself a few self-indulgent sniffles and then rapidly blink
back the tears stinging my eyes until they go away. I refuse to cry
at work.

Jenna
steps back out of the hug, clutches my shoulders and forces me to
look into her aqua-blue eyes, full of seriousness and compassion.

“Listen
to me, Haley, you’re
following your dreams because you know you have to. I don’t
know anybody as talented as you. The problem isn’t
with you, it’s the
rest of the world. They don’t
see talent until it smacks them in the face. You’ve
just got to keep smacking them with it until they see it.”

I
let out a gentle laugh.

“That’s…a
hell of an analogy.”

Jenna
smirks as she takes her hands away from my shoulders.

“I’m
no songwriter, that’s
for sure!”

We
relax and smile, and at the same time realize there are about a dozen
pissed commuters sulking on the other side of the counter as they
watch us have a moment.

“I
guess we’d better
get back to ‘following
our dreams,’” I
say, before turning back to the espresso machine. Jenna flashes her
dimples sweetly and goes to deal with the angry mob of caffeine
addicts.

About
an hour of furious coffee-pressing and register-banging later the
rush ends and Jenna and I enjoy the lull. I sit on a stool behind the
counter lazily writing lyrics in my notepad while Jenna leans over
the counter and people watches.

“Yowzer,”
she whispers to herself.

“What?”
I say, without looking up.

“Crap,
he’s coming in!”

“Who?”

“I
don’t know. But he’s
beautiful.” Jenna
stands upright and smooths her apron. “Morning
sir, what can I get you?” she
says, with so much charm I almost fall under her spell myself.

“Does
a girl named Haley Grace Cooke work here?”

Every
cell in my body goes cold. My head jerks up from the notepad and
freezes. It’s him.
Unmistakably him. Voice like melted chocolate, the strong, bitter
kind. From where I’m
sitting, down low behind the cash register, he can’t
see me – and I’d
like to keep it that way.

“Um…”
Jenna starts. I reach over and
jab my pen into her calf. “Maybe…
Ow! I mean, no. No, I don’t
think so.”

“You
sure about that?” he
says, low and sensual, as if trying to hypnotize Jenna.

“Well…yeah,
sort of…I mean, if
there was a girl called that working here—ouch!—I
would probably tell you because…there’s,
like, no way I think she would
not
wanna see you?”

I
drop my head into my hands and groan deeply before standing upright.
Jenna shrugs and nods toward the guy as if looking at him explains
everything. She glances at him one last time, her tongue on her lips,
before stepping away into the back room, pointing at the clock as if
it’s actually time
for her break right now. Traitor.

“For
a singer you sure do hide yourself away a lot,” the
guy offers smoothly.

I’m
not to be smoothed. “How
did you find me?”

“It’s
kind of my job to find aspiring musicians.”

“By
stalking them?” I
blurt.

He
laughs. It’s so
charming my blood boils. “I
just visited your website to get more info and noticed your work
uniform in one of your Instagram photos.”

“Sounds
a lot like stalking,” I
say.

“It’s
not stalking if you agree to have coffee with me.”

“Look,
Brian.”

“Brando.”

“Whatever.
Last night I was tired, depressed, and lonely – and
I
still
didn’t fall for your
record label shtick. What makes you think I’m
going to fall for it now?”

“You
know what? You’re
right.” He leans
back and folds his arms.

I
shake my head in confusion.

“Forget
about record labels, music, all of that,” he
continues. “I’m
here talking to you simply as a guy who likes your music. A guy who
wants to take you out for coffee and talk about the Angela Carter
references in your lyrics.”

For
the first time I’m
stunned by something other than his eyes.

“Nobody
ever really picked up on that…”

“Really?
Seemed pretty obvious to me. That and the alternate tunings. You like
Nick Drake, right?”

I
open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

“I
don’t know why you
use a pick on that song
Forgotten
,
though – your
fingerstyle would go so much better with it.”

“I
burnt my finger on the coffee machine the day before I recorded that
on—” I stop
mid-sentence and snort a little laugh, shaking my head in disbelief.
“This is insane!”

“No
it’s not,”
he says, his New York drawl
slowing down into a hard, persuasive drumbeat. “What
would have been insane would be giving up on a girl who has the kind
of talent you have. Not just talent, but the passion and drive that
kept her singing til the end of the night, despite every reason not
to.”

I
shake my head and look at the floor, hoping he’s
not perceptive enough to see the redness in my cheeks.

“So
how ‘bout that
coffee?” he presses.
“Or a drink?
Whatever you want.”

“What
if I had a boyfriend?” I
say, folding my arms defensively. “He
would have something to say about me ‘having
coffee’ with
some…strange man
who seems way too into my music.”

“He
probably would. So it’s
a good thing you don’t
have one.”

I
narrow my eyes. “How
do you know?”

“If
you did, then he abandoned you last night. Either way, you don’t
have the kind of guy who would care about coffee with a ‘strange
man’ who is
deeply
interested in your music.”

I
grin and laugh. Whatever I think of this guy, he’s
definitely got some balls on him. I look to the side and see Jenna
way off in the back room, her face going through a million emotions.
She bites her fist to express how hot he is, drops her jaw wide open
to tell me she finds it incredible I’m
blowing him off, and settles on nodding vigorously to urge me on.

“So?”
he says, leaning forward, his
palms on the table, the muscles in his neck tense and irresistible.
“What do you say?”

I
suddenly feel more vulnerable than I’ve
ever felt before. But Jenna’s
words come back to me: this is my career, and I have to fight for it.

“Okay.”

Brando

It
takes years to find someone who’s
got that spark, that indestructible core that relentlessly drives
them mixed with solid talent and that indefinable X factor that sets
them miles apart from all the others. Years again to find the right
people to put around them, musicians, writers, studio crew. Months to
strategize and plan, to sculpt and mold the public perception through
blogs and marketing and word of mouth, to play that fine game of
giving just enough that they get it, but not too much that they don’t
beg for more. It takes power, connections, hard work, and experience.
Even after all that, you may as well buy a lottery ticket, because
the amount of luck you need to create a hit would bring Vegas to its
knees.

And
I’m trying to
achieve all of that in a month. With a girl who appears to hate me.

It
was a bad bet, and I was a dumbass for taking it. Davis played me for
a fool and I walked right into, thinking with my heart rather than my
head. Letting my hotheaded emotions make a decision before common
sense had the time to pull the handbrake. I want to blame it on the
tiredness, blame it on Davis doing the one thing he’s
good at – manipulating
people – but I
can’t. Because the
sad, pathetic truth is that I’d
make the same decision if you asked me all over again.

Only
for you, Lexi, only for you.

I
pull up to the street corner I agreed to meet Haley on in a Mercedes
SLR. I have a thing about cars; choosing the right one when you take
a girl out is as important as the right outfit. The Merc is sleek,
but not too flashy. Impressive, but not overbearing. Subdued, but you
can still tell it’ll
beat most cars.

I
almost miss seeing Haley walking toward me, she looks so different in
a jean skirt over tight black leggings. A loose grey tank under the
same leather jacket she wore at the club. Hair wild and free –
the way some girls pay their
stylists hundreds of dollars to achieve. I know for sure that Haley
didn’t get it that
way by paying – if
she could, she wouldn’t
be living in this part of town.

She’s
actually kinda cute, even with the crazy hair and that scowl on her
face. A world apart from the minidress-wearing bombshells I usually
take my pick from, but definitely hot enough to make me feel a
stirring. Which I quickly tamp down. This is a business meeting, I
remind myself.

Haley
looks a little nervous as she opens the car door and ducks inside. I
look over at her and try to catch her gaze, but she keeps her eyes
straight ahead through the windshield, as if she can’t
even stand to glance at me.

“So
where are we going?” she
asks, tension written all over her face.

“You
like The Triangles?”

Her
head snaps over to me, immediately dropping her guard, her brown eyes
lit up. She likes them alright.

“Do
you
like The Triangles?” she
asks, the implication clear. She doesn’t
think I’m cool
enough.

I
laugh and let the clutch out.

“I
manage them.”

“What?!”
she squeals.

I
let a grin spread across my face. My plan might just work after all.

I
go full-Brando throughout the concert, introducing Haley to the band
before they go on stage, pulling rank to get us through the line,
barely waiting for drinks, commandeering the seats with the best
view, and all the while focusing completely on her, making her feel
like the center of attention.

“If
I didn’t know any
better,” she says,
as I hand her another beer, “I’d
think you were trying to turn this into a date.”

I
laugh. “This is way
too tame to be a date, don’t
you think?”

“And
I’m way too drunk
for this to be a business meeting,” she
replies. “What
happened to the guy who wanted to talk about how much he liked my
music?”

“He’s
having a good time getting to know the girl who made the music he
liked.”

She
nods, and I see her tough exterior crack just a bit. I clink my
bottle against hers and swig.

It
happens slowly, piece by piece, but it happens. The sarcasm and the
ice melting away, the smiles getting bigger and longer. We dance
throughout the whole thing, alcohol and drums infusing our bodies,
the breaks between songs feeling like torture because we don’t
wanna stop. I hear her laugh for the first time and like it, long and
melodic – a singer’s
laugh.

“I
haven’t had this
much fun in a long time!” she
screams over the music.

“I
haven’t seen anyone
have this much fun in a long time either!” I
reply.

When
the final crescendo melts into the crowd’s
cheers and applause, I watch her scream along with them, a mixture of
climaxing happiness and disappointment that it’s
over written all over her face.

“That
was amazing,” she
says, her voice husky from all the yelling.

She
grabs at her hair woozily, a satisfied grin on her face. I watch her
bask in the afterglow of the high. Before I know what’s
happening, we lock eyes, and Haley falls into me, holding tight to my
biceps. Suddenly we’re
kissing. It’s not
lust, not affection, not desire. Her kiss is soft, innocent, deep.
Just a girl moved by the music, drunk on alcohol and life. A girl
whose inhibitions have been blown away by chords and dancing. A girl
who feels like the whole world is there for her to just grab. And I’m
here to oblige.

Then
she pulls away, smiling drunkenly. Her wide, round eyes look up at me
with tenderness and trust. For the first time I see the fragile hopes
and fears that she’s
buried under the wiseass remarks and attitude. I feel the pangs of
guilt start to clutch at my chest. Maybe I’m
going too far. Maybe this whole bet was a bad idea. Maybe the only
way this could end is badly.

For
a moment I lose myself in those eyes, out of my depth, swimming
frantically to find my way back, to remember why I’m
doing this, to remember what’s
at stake, to remember how much I want Lexi back.

Then
Haley presses her lips against mine again and I realize that it’s
too late. I’m
already in too deep.