The Bet - J.D. Hawkins

THE BET

J.D. HAWKINS

Contents Copyright Also by J.D. Hawkins Prologue 1. Brando 2. Haley 3. Brando 4. Haley 5. Brando 6. Haley 7. Brando 8. Haley 9. Brando 10. Haley 11. Brando 12. Haley 13. Brando 14. Haley 15. Brando 16. Haley 17. Brando 18. Brando 19. Haley 20. Brando 21. Haley 22. Brando 23. Haley 24. Brando 25. Haley 26. Brando 27. Haley 28. Brando 29. Haley 30. Brando 31. Haley 32. Brando 33. Haley 34. Brando 35. Haley Epilogue Sneak Peek of Confessions of a Bad Boy About the Author Also by J.D. Hawkins Acknowledgments

Copyright 2015 © JD Hawkins Cover Design: Jennifer Watson, Social Butterfly PR All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Also by J.D. Hawkins Insatiable Part 1 Insatiable Part 2 Bootycall Part 1 Bootycall Part 2 The Bet Coming Soon Confessions of a Bad Boy

Prologue My muscles scream, chest on fire, nerve endings twitching like a million thunderbolts across my torso. I can feel the beads of sweat on my forehead running down my tensed neck. I glare at the fluorescent light on the gym ceiling, feel the cold metal of the bar against my chest. That twinge in my triceps should worry me. Gotta meet Jax at the club for drinks in a couple hours. Maybe it was a bad idea to do this big a lift at the end of a workout. Last time a lift went wrong I messed up my thigh so bad I was finger-fucking girls for a month. Thoughts bear down on me like a load of bricks, pressing down on the ends of the bar, making it even heavier than it really is. Don’t think, Brando. Just fucking lift. I repeat the words like a mantra. A rhythmic drumbeat that focuses my mind. I exhale as I push, the rush of adrenaline leaving no room for thoughts, the heat burning all doubt out of me. Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think. As I pump the bar up and down it feels like I’m lifting the entire building, like I’m trying to push a planet away from my chest. I feel like I’m calling on strength that doesn’t belong to me, strength that comes from the same deep pit of hell the pain in my muscles comes from. I exhale and my breath comes out with a long, low grunt. The pain and the heat and the testosterone and the adrenaline swirl inside of me, and I direct it all against this fucking barbell. When my set is finished I have just enough energy to bring the barbell back onto the claws. My fists sting as they let go of it, palms almost melded to the metal. I drop my arms and breathe deeply for a few seconds before sitting upright. My blood pumps, veins throb, and I feel the satisfied ache of a postworkout high seep into my skin. “Pretty dangerous, benching that much without anyone spotting you,” a throaty female voice says from behind me. I look up. The gym is almost empty except for a guy listening to his headphones as he runs on a treadmill in the corner. I save myself the trouble of turning around to see her and just look at the reflection in the wall-sized mirror in front of me. “Looks like you spotted me just fine,” I drawl, eyeing her in the glass. Even by gym standards, she’s unbelievable. She’s in tight black spandex pants, with nutcracker thighs and hips that seem custom-made for my hands. Her sports bra is so tight she may as well be naked, and the thought instantaneously sends about a million X-rated images through my mind. Judging by the hungry look in her eyes, I know exactly where this is going—but I’m enjoying the foreplay, so instead of just cutting to the chase and inviting her to suck my dick in the locker room, I grab the barbell and force myself through one more punishing set of reps. It takes everything I have to keep my arms steady, my muscles screaming all the while, before slamming the bar back onto the rack and sitting up. “Impressive,” she says, eyeing me up and down in the mirror. “You certainly don’t do things the easy way.” “I prefer the hard way,” I tell her, checking out the curve of her breasts like I’m about to paint a portrait of them. It’s all I can do to keep myself from just grabbing her and sitting her down in my lap. “So do I,” she purrs, running a hand across my back. She steps closer, standing behind me with the bench between her legs. Then she puts both hands on my shoulders and starts pressing and rubbing. “Shit that’s good,” I say, closing my eyes at the deeply sweet touch of her hands – the only thing that could stop me from enjoying the ravenous eye-fucking she’s been giving me in the mirror. “It should be,” she says, a tinge of amusement in her voice. “I’m a massage therapist here. With all

the time you spend working out, I’m surprised you haven’t stopped in for a session by now.” “So you’ve seen me around,” I growl. She rubs harder, massaging a knot next to my shoulder blade until it loosens, and I groan out loud. “Damn. Maybe it is time to see about that session.” “Good, because you’re way past due. And I’m not gonna wait any longer.” She leans down toward my ear, her long blonde hair brushing my shoulder, and says in a low whisper, “I teach a yoga class, too.” Her words hit me like a shot of adrenaline to the cock. I close my eyes and let her work me some more, lust building with the sensation of her palms kneading the base of my neck and the scent of her as she leans over me. I let out another low moan. Looks like Jax might be drinking by himself for a little while tonight. But I’m sure he’ll understand. My eyes flicker toward the guy in the corner, still running on the treadmill. The yoga teacher/massage therapist/sportswear siren reads my thoughts as easily as she reads the tension in my back and nods toward a side door. “It’s your lucky day,” she smiles. “I’m giving a free massage to the man who can handle it.” I stand up, grab my towel and run it over my face. “Always good to have a massage after a workout,” I reply. “Keeps the blood flowing.” She nods and turns, her body even more erotic in movement. The sway of her ass makes me grit my teeth. My heart thumps like a revved engine, her silhouette magnetizing every muscle in my body. This time I don’t need to push the thoughts away – I couldn’t think straight if I tried. I follow her toward the massage room, swaggering with the loose power of muscles after a workout. She looks back over her shoulder just before opening the door, her blonde ponytail flicking over her shoulder, and winks before sliding inside. “Close the do—” she starts, but I pounce like a predator spotting its window of attack, nothing but lust, impulse, and nature controlling me now. In a single motion I slam the door shut with one hand, push her up against it front-first, and press my groin hard against her ass. Her surprised gasp turns into a throaty giggle. Now that I’ve got her where I want her, I’m as slow as I was quick. I wrap my hands around her waist, brushing my fingers lightly against her exposed midriff. I close my eyes, let the electricity between our skin guide me. I press my face against the side of her head, letting the scent of her drive my body wild, pulling away teasingly after every touch. “I like your style, Brando,” she says, turning her head to shoot me a sultry stare. “How do you know my name?” I hum into her ear as I slide my hands slowly up her stomach, under her top and between her heaving breasts. She puts her palms higher on the door, steadying herself and pressing back into my body. “You’ve got a reputation.” I taste the nape of her neck, eliciting a deep moan from her that tugs at my balls harder than a magnet. “What reputation?” She laughs lightly, in between the stuttered sighs and gasps that she responds to my every touch with. “Big…bold…brash…Brando.” As I lift her tight top up over her breasts with one hand, my other snakes down her pants to find the wet line of her pussy. “Half the girls in my yoga class want to fuck you…and the other half claim they already have.” I run my tongue down her neck, tasting the tender, pale skin. Her nipple hardens under the gentle touch of my fingers, pinching lightly, palm tracing the flawless shape of her breast. “You girls really like to talk,” I say, before taking her earlobe between my teeth. “I had to see for myself if the rumors are true. This is just research,” she says. I feel a tremble between her thighs as my finger moves slowly over her clit, brushing it until I feel her backing into me with a sharp intake of breath. “Then I’ll assist any way I can,” I tell her, giving her clit a firm, steady press with my palm as I slide

a thick finger deep into her slick pussy. “Fuck,” she moans, leaning into it. I work my finger back and forth inside her, agonizingly slow, until she’s panting heavily and writhing against me. “More,” she begs. I spin her around to face me. She tears her top off the rest of the way, breasts bouncing back into firm shape, and eyes me like I’m a three-course meal and she’s fresh off a hunger strike. Then she pulls my mouth onto hers and swirls her tongue aggressively around mine. It’s more like martial arts than making out, but I’m not complaining. I run my hands down the taut skin of her sides, grab her breasts, feeling every curve so thoroughly I could sculpt her. We back and forth with our tongues, pushing and pulling, lashing and biting. Striking the sparks of the oncoming flames. “It’s no secret,” I say, pulling her toward me as I back off and sit on the massage table, “that I love women. What else do you need to know?” I pull off my shirt, and she spends a full five seconds staring at my chest with her mouth open. I slide my shorts down while she watches, her eyes glazing with lust. “I think I have everything I need right here,” she finally manages. “All that’s left is a little field work.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a condom. I put it on while she peels off the second skin of her spandex pants. “Welcome to the field,” I say, as she straddles me on the massage table. She cups my face in her hands and thrusts her tongue into my mouth, pulling away only to bury her teeth into my neck. I let out a hiss and wrap my lips around her nipple, rolling my tongue around it like it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted, teeth biting just enough to make her shake. She moans as she hugs me tight to her chest, rolling her clit up and down the shaft of my cock. I lose myself in her curves, hands tracing the arch of her back as her pussy winds up against my cock harder and faster as she starts losing all restraint. She moans in short, sharp bursts, and I feel the hum of her voice as I move my mouth from one breast to another. “Slow down, baby,” I tell her. “You gotta let yourself enjoy it.” She laughs wildly, looking down at me as I grip her ass tightly and maneuver her over my cock. Her pussy is ready and wet as it presses against me, and I read the expression on her face like a dirty novel, all drugged eyes and strained pleasure. She squeezes the head of my cock between her lips, pulling me into her, but I hold her off, tantalizingly close, but not there yet. “Tell me what you want,” I say, when her eyes go pleading. “I want—” She gulps deeply, all the playfulness gone out of her now, replaced with fierce need, and speaks between pants. “I want you. Inside me.” I let her take a little more, and she releases another low, vibrating moan. “Tell me,” I command. Her eyes narrow, the pupils dilated. “I want your dick.” “Again.” “I want your big, hard dick. All of it. Right now.” I adjust my grip on her ass to let her take my full length and she slides down onto it, her moans turning into squeals of helpless delight. She bounces like she’s riding a horse, her body taking over, moving up and down on my cock according to the thousands of sweet sensations that emanate from our connection. I let her get her fill for a few minutes and then take charge, grabbing her ponytail in my fist and pulling her head back. “Don’t move,” I say. I ease out of her slowly and she whimpers in protest. “Wh—” With no warning I slam back into her, both of us groaning as I plunge into the depths of her tight, hot sweetness. Then I hold her steady and fuck her with everything I’ve got, turning in a performance worthy of a major award. As we find our rhythm she convulses and sways like a girl possessed, whispering

obscenities and encouragement in between her moans. I run my tongue up the tender spots between her breasts, pumping with all the determination of a champion racehorse. I focus on the sensations radiating from my dick, finding a oneness with the zen of the energy building between us. My hands stroke the curve of her thighs as she bucks wildly on me, matching my power with every harder, deeper thrust. When she comes there’s no missing it. She throws her body forward onto me with a desperate cry, head over my shoulder, hands clawing against my back as I keep on gliding in and out, relentless, relishing the convulsions shuddering around my cock. Her stomach curves in and out like a booming subwoofer, the orgasm washing over her like sea waves. I let myself feel the pressure of her pussy, the softness of her breasts, the tightness of her thighs around my waist, and let go of the tension I’ve been clutching since she first touched me. I cum in a hard, pounding rush as she’s letting out the last, gentle moans of a hard fuck. The long breaths of someone returning to their senses. “Did your research find I’m worthy of my reputation?” I ask after a few moments, blinking myself back to reality as the blood returns to my head. “That and more.” A minute later I’m helping her pull those tight pants up the last few inches of her gut-punchingly good ass. I take my time – it’s good enough to make me consider another round already. She turns around and puts a hand against my cheek. “How about coming back to mine?” I glance at her with an apologetic shake of the head as I lace up my shoes. “Sorry. I’m heading out to meet a friend tonight.” She leans up against the door. “Aren’t you tired? All that bench-pressing...I could give you that massage I promised.” “I tend to make bad decisions when I’m tired.” “Not going home with me is a very bad decision,” she says, her voice loaded with promises. “I’m sure it is,” I say, drawing close to her and opening the door a little. She steps aside, an expression that says ‘your loss’ written all over her face. “You know…” I pause and turn back toward her. “Yeah?” “You might want to consider fucking the other half of my class.” “Why’s that?” “I really think it’d help them, you know, balance their chi. Give them a better feel for that whole mind-body connection.” “I’ll take it under consideration,” I grin, breezing out the door. Like I need any encouragement.

Brando “OK. Here it is: ‘Don’t think.’” “What?” “Don’t. Think.” “That’s it?” “That is it.” “That’s your entire philosophy, the guiding principle for your entire life, summed up?” “I’m telling you Jax, thinking is the root of all evil. In the gym, in business, in the bar,” I say, spinning around to face the crowd of people gathered around the stage, where various musical acts have been performing all night, “thinking just holds you back. Keeps you from doing things. Think too much, and all you’ll end up with is a beer gut and a dating profile, bro.” Jax smirks and chuckles the way I’ve seen him do a million times. In the city of LA, where you don’t see the sharks for the suits, and where everyone knows how to play a role, you need two things: A friend you can trust, and a rival to keep you on your toes. Jax is both. “I know I’ve been drinking with you for way too long,” he says, as he raises his whiskey glass from the bar top, “because I’m beginning to agree with you.” “You leaving?” “Lizzie should be getting back around now. I told her we’d watch a movie together.” Correction: Jax was both. Now that he’s done the one thing nobody expected him to— settled down — he’s no longer a rival; just a friend. “The tiger has been tamed,” I say, shaking my head as I raise my beer bottle level with his glass. “Here’s to your legacy.” “I’m sure you’ll pick up the slack,” he smiles. When I bring my beer bottle into contact with his glass, I move my whole body toward him, shoulder-barging him backwards. He knocks into the person behind him as he steps out of the way of spilt whiskey. “Brando! What the—” I see his face relax into an expression of humorous understanding when he turns around to apologize and finds two gorgeous brunettes, fantastically balanced on their high heels by ample asses and firm tits. “I’m sorry,” I say, shifting past Jax and in between them like a boxer setting his feet, “my friend’s a real klutz.” Their expressions settle into coy smiles as they check us out. Jax shrugs and smiles like he’s been caught with his hands in the candy jar. He might not be available anymore, but he still knows how to play the wingman. “Come on, Jax!” I say, mockingly. “Get these dancers another drink.” “Dancers?” says the one with the lips that look like they’re about to burst they’re so juicy. “We’re not dancers.” “No?” I say, putting a little growl into my voice. “You fooled me with those incredible bodies.” It’s a blunt line, direct and true. I’ve never had a good poker face, I like things out in the open, cards on the table. And why not? I’ve been dealt a good hand. I’m six feet of gym-sculpted muscle, a strong jawline courtesy of Italian ancestry (via Brooklyn, New York), and I’ve got my dream job of being an A&R man at one of LA’s hippest labels. I’ve come a hell of a long way, and there’s a hell of a lot to forget before I start taking it for granted. The girls giggle as they roll their eyes at each other, but the pout on their lips and the way they shift their shoulders toward me tells me it’s on.

I throw out a laugh as I remember Jax is heading back to his girl and consider how the two beautiful creatures in front of me would look silhouetted against the moonlight in my loft apartment, and then I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn to face Jax. “Maybe we’ll make a movie while you’re watching one,” I smile, before I see the sharp lines of his face arranged way too severely. He nods, and I follow his eye line to the entrance of the bar. I know it’s her before I even set eyes on the skin-tight pvc dress – always performing, even off-stage. I can sense her presence, the glow she gives off, the magnetism that compels everyone in the area to direct their attention her way. It’s magic, unreal, the same spellcraft that compels millions to adore her through TV screens and magazines. The perfect pop idol. A modern goddess that the world learned to worship. There are guys in deep Amazonian tribes who have probably jerked off thinking about her. Eskimo teenage girls who wish they had her red, wavy hair. They call her fans ‘Lexians,’ a goofy tribute to the sexual exploration she pushes in her music videos, composed of split-second odes to the perfection of her body. A flash of tender thigh, delicious ass, quivering tits. To the world, she’s a symbol of freedom, feminine power, independence, fantasy, sex, a symbol of everything wrong with America, of everything anyone could ever want. To me, she’s a sucker punch, a thorn I’ve never been able to remove, a pain in the emptiness of my chest, a phantom limb where my heart should be. Lexi Dark. And standing right beside her, his hand on the small of her back, is the man who took her away from me: Davis Crawford. The crowd starts to roar, drowning out the gently-strummed guitar chords of the poor rocker girl on stage, who can’t hold a candle to Lexi’s flame. Lexi raises her arms, making herself as big as can be, as if drawing power from the sycophants in the room. Even the two girls standing in front of us leave, phones in hand, to get a better look and probably take some selfies. “Come on, bro,” Jax says, as he takes the beer bottle from my loose grip, almost as if he realizes I’m about to drop it. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll get you a slice of pizza.” I let Jax gently guide me along the bar like the saddest patient on the ward, my head spinning, and then I hear it. “Brando!” The voice loved by millions. Distinctly sweet, but with a dark tone of huskiness that pulls at your sexuality the way a lifetime of therapy never could. A voice I believed in so much I staked my life on it. I’ve heard my name sung by that voice a thousand times, but it’s not singing the same song anymore; the notes are different now. Not the breezy melody of a girl who doesn’t know what she has, not the delighted wail of a woman discovering her body, not the sultry sonata of intimate promises. Now she squeals my name like a war cry. “I thought I’d find you here,” she says when she draws close enough, though for me being in the same city is too close, “slumming it with the nobodies.” I press a finger on Jax’s arm to signal for him to hold back. He knows I like to fight my own battles, but I also know he can’t stand seeing his friends get put down. “It’s not so bad,” he says breezily anyway, impervious to her wiles, “I’ve only noticed a couple of nobodies so far.” “What are you doing here, Lexi?” I say, wishing I had listened to the advice the yoga teacher gave me and taken that massage back at her place. “We just wanted to show our appreciation,” Davis says, his croaky voice oozing out with so much slime I start to crave a shower. He’s a foot shorter than Lexi, perma-tanned the color of a ripe orange – but with only half the personality. “Her album’s just become one of the best-selling records of the internet era. Nearly a billion hits online for two of her singles. And it only released last week! If you hadn’t found

her, I’d never have been able to come along and take her to the next level.” “Stolen her, you mean.” Davis emits a disgusting sound that I assume is supposed to be a laugh. “This is LA! There’s no such thing as stealing here! It’s all just part of the process, and you did your part very well.” I glance at Lexi – and immediately regret it. She’s smiling at me. Enjoying the sight of her little imp twisting the knife. I want her smile to make me angry, to make me hate her as much as she hates me, but it’s too fucking beautiful, too loaded with memories. She’s amazing, and I lost her. “Yeah, I did my part well,” I say, sneering, every muscle in my body spoiling for a fight, “took her from nothing, built her up piece by piece, taught her what real music’s about, broke my back making her into what she is, before you came along and threw a tight dress and a few trendy producers at her, turned her from a musician into a pop product and reaped all the rewards.” I notice the three big guys standing around us, dressed in black, shades and everything. My mind starts doing the math regarding how many times I could pummel Davis’ face before they peel me off. Then again, maybe they’re only here to protect Lexi. Maybe Davis isn’t part of their job. Lexi laughs. “‘Real music’? You still talking about that, Brando baby? Is that why you’re here?” she says. “Listening to scruffy teenagers with bad hair trying to play guitar? Because it’s ‘real’?” She turns around and waves toward the crowd, who are almost entirely facing her, away from the stage. They shout and raise their drinks, hold up their phones quickly to take pictures, as if confirming her point. She turns back to me with a red-lipped smile that’s even deadlier than it was seconds ago. I open my mouth to say something, and in the split second before my voice comes out, Lexi’s spun on her heels and walked away, her elegant, tall body painful to watch as it gets smothered by her bodyguards. “Good luck with the talent spotting…Brando baby,” Davis smirks, as he follows her like a designer dog. I zone out, my vision blurry with anger, fists clenching. I’m about to stride outside and land some sweet fucking hits on Davis’ face when I see fingers snapping in front of me. “Dude? You okay?” I look to the side, the world coming back into focus. It’s Jax. He never left. “Yeah,” I say, lying. “I’m good.” “I guess some girls are so good at fucking they’ll fuck up your life too. You’re lucky she’s gone.” The words are true, but I can’t force myself to believe them. Nothing makes me feel better about losing her. “Then why do I feel like someone just scooped out my insides?” Jax shrugs. “You’re probably just hungry.” I look at him and laugh. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, pointing at his watch. “Lizzie’s gonna start calling you a bad influence.” “You go,” I say. “I need another drink. And another girl. Then another drink, probably.” We clasp hands and Jax strides out. I turn back to the bar and order another beer. When it comes, I take it straight from the bartender, before it hits the bar, and gulp long and deep. I close my eyes, relishing the coldness, feeling it settle inside of me, reminding myself I’m not empty. I listen to the sound of the bar, the heightened voices, energized by the presence of a star. Somewhere in between the giddy laughter and shouted jokes I hear a nice minor chord change. I slam the bottle down and open my eyes. “Oh fuck. You again? Seriously?” Davis is standing beside me. “A glass of white wine,” he says to the bartender without taking his eyes off me.

The bartender nods his acknowledgement, and slams down another beer for me – good guy. I grab it and swig deeply. “Did you forget something, Davis?” I say, keeping my eyes on the bottle. “Your hairpiece, perhaps?” Davis cackle-wheezes before speaking. “I just couldn’t resist seeing you squirm a little more, Brando.” I clutch the beer bottle as if it’ll hold me back. “Davis, I’d punch you in the face right now if I didn’t think the plastic surgery would protect you better than a hockey mask.” Davis keeps the grin on his face but I notice him edging back a little. “You know what I love about you, Brando, you’re deluded. It’s almost as if you genuinely think you’ve got some talent. That you’ve actually got something to offer this city. I think that’s what makes it so entertaining. The sheer gulf between what you think you are, and what you actually are.” “Go pick on someone your own size. I’m sure there are some rats by the garbage cans out back.” He goes on, as if I never spoke. “I mean, you made all the rookie mistakes. You fell in love with your own talent for Christ’s sake! You made the business personal. You can’t make someone a star when you care about them. That’s just ridiculous.” “This the kind of crap you filled her head with when you stole her from me?” “Lexi’s a smart cookie. She knew what needed to be done, and she did it. No second thoughts, no emotions, no doubts. I never stole her. She came to me.” He sips his wine smugly. My eyes slip out of focus and my body tightens. Enough. I spin toward him and grab Davis by the scruff of his shirt, feeling disgust as I pull his irradiated face toward mine. “You’re a fucking fraud, Davis. A vulture. A stinking bag of empty words that you spray around and hope will land somewhere to fester. You did nothing. You are nothing.” “And what are you? What exactly do you do, Brando?” I shake him in my grip, so tight that I have him lifted almost completely off the floor. “I’m a manager. I let musicians make their music, help them get their work out there, realize their potential. And I’m fucking good at it. I nurture talent, bring it out of people. I take talent and I make it shine. Because I care – not in spite of it.” Davis’s lips extend slowly into a smile like some sea creature bloating itself up. A horror movie scene played out upon his face. “Prove it,” he hisses. “I already did.” I release my grip and he drops to his feet, jerking his blazer straight and smoothing his shirt without taking his eyes away from mine. He’s still got that shit-eating grin on his face. “You think you’ve got the ‘magic touch’? Enough intelligence, drive, and passion to turn somebody into a star?” “I know it.” Davis sips his wine slowly, letting my words hang in the air. I grab my beer and glare at him as I swig from it. “Care to stake something on it? Or are you happy to just scream in my face about it?” he says snidely as he smooths his disgustingly shiny shirt. “Gladly,” I say defiantly. I suppress the nauseating feeling that I’m about to do something stupid – I’m too far gone for that. Right now all I can think about is wiping Davis’ slug-grin away from his face without copping a violent misconduct charge. “A bet then, if you wanna call it that. Winner gets ten grand…” “Pfft…” I say, turning to my beer. “And the pick of the other person’s acts.”

My arm freezes halfway toward bringing my beer to my mouth. I turn slowly to face him. “What?” “If you win the bet,” Davis says, relishing the words so much he’s making smacking noises as he speaks, “you get to take one of my acts for yourself. I’ll cancel all my contracts and ties with them, and hand them over to you completely. If you win, of course.” I clutch my beer tight, hoping Davis doesn’t see my hands shaking. A slow tremor building in the pit of my chest. I know this is bad. I know this is too good to be true. But Davis has just kicked the door down on a whole lot of emotions I thought I’d packed away for good. I’ve spent the past few years wanting to turn the clock back – and he’s just offered me the next best thing. Lexi. I’d get Lexi back. The one woman I’d give everything up for. Just like it was. I’d probably have to drag her back kicking and screaming. She’d probably never sing my name the way she used to ever again. But I don’t care. I could take her to new heights. Or I could break her career, or make her sorry she ever left me. It doesn’t matter. She’d be mine. “What’s the bet?” I say, knowing damn well I’ll accept anything the cockroach offers, however dumb it is, however smug it’ll make him. Hell, I’d give him my entire roster of acts for Lexi right now without blinking. “Get somebody into the charts, in just one month. Someone without a record deal already, without any pre-existing label interest. You do this from scratch. With a nobody.” “Deal,” I say, slamming my bottle down and offering my hand the split second he finishes the sentence. Davis’ creepy smile remains on his face as he takes my hand. “But I choose the act. You still want to put your money where your mouth is?” I don’t hesitate as I shake his hand in a bruising grip that leaves him wincing. “Who?” I ask, when I take my hand away and wipe it on my jeans. Davis purses his lips with delighted thoughtfulness, then looks toward the stage. His beady eyes roll like marbles in their sockets toward me, and he nods almost imperceptibly toward the singer on stage. “See you in a month,” Davis murmurs as he drains his wine and turns around, “Brando baby.” I look toward the stage. All I see are a bunch of messy brown curls hunched over a beat-up old acoustic guitar. She’s meek. Soft. Her voice barely cuts through the noise of the club. I step forward, straining to hear above the chatter of people ignoring her. Gently plucked guitar strings, a delicate low voice that she seems almost shy of, burying it in the chords. I catch a glimpse of her face between the riotous strands of hair. Pearly skin, smooth and light, and she’s so nervous that she can’t lift her eyes up from her strumming fingers for more than a moment at a time. Everything about her seems fragile. Too subtle to be heard in a bar. So reserved it’s like she wants to blend into the background. A snowflake in LA. The complete opposite of what I need to break into the charts. “I’m gonna make you a star,” I say, as softly as she sings, “whoever you are.”

Haley WHEN I LAY my old guitar into its battered case these days it feels like putting my dreams in a coffin. I latch it closed and throw on a leather jacket that looks expensive only because it’s worn out from being the only one I have. Through the doors of the hallway I can hear the people outside. People who came to drink, to talk, to find somebody to fuck, and just happened to be where I was playing my set. “Wow,” comes a low, strong voice behind me. A deep New York drawl obvious even in the single syllable. “That was a great set.” “I’m surprised you could hear it,” I say, not even turning around as I fiddle with the stuck zipper on my jacket. “I’ve got a good ear.” Frustrated with it, I give up on the zipper, pick up my guitar case, and turn around to face the growling voice. From its bass I’d have guessed its owner was big, but I’m still surprised – he’s a mountain of muscle, filling up almost the entire doorway, granite pecs and biceps obvious even through the thick fabric of his expensive suit. Between shoulders the size of a bridge his face looks like it was carved out of marble, brutal and beautiful. All jawline and sandpaper stubble, the face of a comic book superhero brought to life, topped with black swirls of thick, soft hair. “My name’s Brando Nash,” he says, taking a card out of his inside pocket and handing it to me, “and I’m about to make your dreams come true.” I hold his satisfied gaze as I take the card. Eventually I peel my eyes from his oak-colored irises and study it. BRANDO NASH A & R, Majestic Records 155055 Wilshire Blvd. Los Angeles [email protected] I look back at him and flash a cynical smile. Clearly this guy thinks it’s my first rodeo. And guess what? It ain’t. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to cry and get all excited?” I ask. “Jump up and down as if you’re the star quarterback who just asked me to prom?” He frowns and turns his head slightly, sizing me up through squinting eyes. A look that would have knocked me dead before I came to LA – now it just makes me roll my eyes. “Yeah,” he says, slowly nodding, “this is something you should be very excited about. I’m a talent spotter, a record label’s agent. I can get you studio time, a deal. Put your music out there. Unless playing grungy open mic nights for no pay is the height of your ambitions?” “Great. That sounds fantastic,” I say, too tired to try and hide the sarcasm. “Should I fling my panties off right here, or do you want to string me along for a little while, you know, really get your fill?” He sighs deeply, smiling, and if I wasn’t in the city of Hollywood, I’d almost believe he was genuine. “This isn’t like that. Maybe you need to read my card again.” I glance down at the card, the embossed letters, the matte cream cardstock. Expensive. So sure, he’s legit. But that doesn’t mean a damn thing in this town. I glare at him. “If having a card proved anything, I wouldn’t still be playing grungy open mic nights. So thanks, but no thanks. I know your type.” I rip the card in half, let the pieces flutter to the floor, and step forward to go past him. But instead of letting me pass, he steps back, filling up the hallway and opening his palms out as if he’s the one scared of me.

“Whoa there! Look, I’m not trying to pull anything here. I genuinely think you’ve got something going on, and I want to be a part—” “Bullshit!” I yell, pushing him away from me, my palms pressed for one hot instant against his rockhard chest. His eyes widen, and I have to admit my outburst is a surprise even to myself. Weeks of frustration I’ve kept boiling inside of me burst out like a volcano. I glance down at the torn business card on the floor, my fury still raging. “Bullshit, Brando Nash! You’re very recognizable, you know, with your Easter Island head face and your Gladiator body. You think I didn’t notice you out there? You say you enjoyed my set, was that while you were picking up women, or when Lexi Dark showed up in a dress too small for my nine year old niece? Maybe you caught the chorus as you were bullying that short guy with bad shoes?” “I…look, it…okay. Just…” “You didn’t hear a damned note I played. I bet you can’t even remember one of my lyrics, can you?” He stares at me, mouth open, before his eyes drop to the floor. “I thought not,” I say, breathing deeply to regain some calm. “Look, I’m tired, and I have work in the morning. So nice try, but we’re done here.” His hands go to his hips as he steps aside, and I push past, out through the crowd of strangers, and into the city that keeps on disappointing me. “Another late night?” Jenna asks over the sound of the cash register as I tie my apron on hurriedly, join her behind the counter, and slip into my role as underpaid coffee dispenser for the morning rush. “Late nights are fine,” I reply in between the hiss of the coffee foamer, “it’s the early mornings that get me.” Jenna and I shouldn’t be friends. She’s a morning person, I like the night. She ties her pretty blonde hair in a ponytail that swishes around as she moves with all the grace of a ribbon, while taming my thick brown curls feels like putting out a fire every second of every day. Her wardrobe consists mainly of skin tight designer gym clothes and colorful classics, mine is a funky combination of ripped jeans and faded vintage t-shirts. She’s the prom queen, I’m the rock chick. When you spend eight hours working in a shitty coffee shop, though, all of that fades, and all you’re left with is the stuff that matters. And what matters is that we get each other. I pour the coffees, glide toward the counter with them, and hand them over to my customers with a big white smile and a nod. Coffee machines and cash registers you can learn in a day, the smile and the nod, however, that takes weeks. I can only just hold it for a full three seconds, just enough time to send the customer on their way before turning around and settling into a more comfortable bleary-eyed scowl. Jenna moves to the machine as I step toward the cash register and take another order. “Well,” she calls over her shoulder as she pours out some coffee beans, “how did the open mic gig go last night? I’m still bummed I couldn’t make it to see you kill it, but someone had to cover your shift so you could go,” she winked. Taking orders while holding conversations is another useless skill I’ve picked up since working here. I sidle up beside Jenna and pretend to do something practical, like rinse the frothing pitchers, while I talk to her. “Well, you didn’t miss much. I was pretty much last on a bill that included a guy singing songs in what I think was German, and a comedian who – if anyone could hear him – would have probably offended every minority in the crowd. And then Lexi Dark decided to show up just before I started my set and get everybody’s attention. I played to the back of about fifty heads, so all in all I guess it wasn’t a total bust. I mean, nobody booed me, right?” 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.

Haley “WHY THE HELL NOT?” I say with a smile when Brando asks me if I wanna go back to his place. If I was just a little more sober, I’d probably find a lot of reasons not to. I’d be able to think up a lame excuse and go running back to my shitty apartment, quit while I’m ahead. Maybe I’d be better at convincing myself I’m not impossibly attracted to him, and better at keeping the question of how good he must be in bed out of my mind. But then again, it’s not like I make that many great decisions when I’m sober either. We step outside and he hails a taxi within seconds in the effortlessly powerful way he does everything, as if the whole world is just laid out for him, and all he has to do is pass through it. “What about your car?” I ask. “I’ll grab it tomorrow. Not really into the whole DUI thing,” he shrugs. Sexy as fuck and responsible to boot? I must be dreaming. He holds open the door for me and I let myself smile back at him. It’s infectious, that style of his. The way he seems to have it all figured out. If you spend enough time around it, you can almost start believing that life is really that easy. That’s probably just the alcohol talking, but I’m in the mood to listen to it. “I can’t believe I actually had a good time,” I say, as I get in the cab. “You know what,” Brando says, looking at me, “I’m kinda surprised you had a good time myself.” “What do you mean?” “Well,” he shrugs his shoulders, “you’re a bit of a hard-ass.” “I am not!” “Yeah, you kind of are.” “There’s still time for me to decide to go home, you know,” I tease, half-serious. “See what I mean?” I laugh and slap his shoulder, then turn to gaze out at the multi-colored lights of LA speeding by. “Anyway, there’s not much going on for me at home either,” I admit. “Oh yeah?” I turn to face him. “I’m crashing with some roommates. My room is more of a closet. PETA would go crazy if someone kept a dog in there – a struggling musician, however, is just fine.” He lets out a deep, two-tone laugh. “That bad, huh?” I nod a little, then laugh a little. “Shit. All I seem to do these days is complain,” I say. “I’m getting tired of myself. What about you? I still have no idea who you are, or where you’re from.” “I hate life stories,” he tells me. “I prefer living in the present.” I turn to him and see that he’s watching me intently as he says it. Suddenly I feel like a rabbit in the headlights of his piercing brown eyes. He reaches over and strokes my hair lightly away from my face, rough fingers tickling my tense neck slightly. My body – and it’s my body that decides, not me – reacts by pressing my cheek against the back of his hand, nuzzling the tough skin. The cab seems to rev up to lightspeed when he leans in, the city streets turning into a blur of stars, the feeling of being pinned back into the seat by acceleration hitting my gut. I close my eyes and feel full lips kiss my neck delicately, from the nape to the back of my ear, a trace of desiring tongue. I tilt my head back, inviting him to do more of whatever he’s doing, and melt into the seat. He blows softly against the sweat on my neck, and the butterflies in my stomach go crazy, his cool breath giving me goosebumps. I part my lips, breath short, and wait for what comes next. “We’re here,” he says. I open my eyes and turn slowly, like I’m waking up from a deep sleep. The cab smoothly stops and Brando smiles as he puts his hand on the door handle.

I feel like someone just cancelled my birthday. Brando pays the driver, steps out, and has my door open before I can even find the door handle. All swagger and grace, despite his size. I step out and before I even stumble his hand is pressing against my side, holding me up. “Careful,” he winks, when I look up at him. He keeps his hand pressed against my waist all the way through the large entrance of the red-brick apartment block and into the elevator. He pushes the top button, and we look at each other as the doors shut. The second they draw close, it’s like a starting gun. Without a word we leap into each other, Brando pulling my tense body against his hard chest. His hands instinctively go to the back of my thighs, lifting me off the floor with ease and wrapping my legs around him. Our tongues crash together, and I get a full hit of Brando’s dark, powerful aroma. I put my hands on his cheeks, guiding my lips into his, the tough, sandpaper-stubble scratching at my palms. The doors open and the next thing I know, he’s carrying me into a gigantic loft apartment. I can tell he’s craving me, I can smell the animal nitrate coming off of him, feel the way his body is starting to take over his mind. For a few seconds it feels like I’m lashed to a boat in the storm, about to be carried away by this beast of a man. My heart starts to race, my breath shortening. “Wait,” I say, pushing myself away from his lips with what little willpower I have left. He releases me, placing me gently on the floor. I shyly look away. “This is…really new for me.” Brando’s lips curve into a broad smile. He laughs a little as he wipes my lipgloss from his lips, his stubble sounding like a brush as he wipes his fingers across it. “Things never stay new for long.” I smile meekly and fold my arms across my chest. “Make yourself comfortable,” he says, taking off his coat to reveal a tight-fitting shirt that hugs all the deep grooves of his torso. “I’ll go get us a couple of drinks. Then we can talk more.” I watch Brando swagger off through a side door. The second he disappears, being here in this huge, strange loft with a guy I barely know feels even more crazy. It’s only when I turn around nervously, scanning my surroundings, that it starts making sense. One length of the loft is a floor to ceiling window, with a view that seems to pan over the busiest, most picturesque part of LA. A silhouette of glass towers against a star-filled sky. It’s remarkable, and yet I barely give it a second glance. The real focus for me is the rest of the room. It’s a musician’s paradise. It’s as if Brando reached into my subconscious, discovered what my ideal apartment would look like, and then came up with a place twice as impressive. I step forward slowly, like Alice through the looking glass, eyes popping out of my head, dizzy from noticing so many beautiful things. A butterscotch ’66 Telecaster lies on the couch in the middle of the room as if it was just another guitar. A vintage Steinway upright piano sits casually against the wall, sheet music messily spread across the keys. A rare Linn drum machine leans against another wall, cables squirreling out of it in all directions. And vinyl. Lots and lots of vinyl. On giant partitions that I would need a step-ladder to reach the top of. Piled high in every corner of the room. Decorating the walls and most of the furniture. I can smell it, and it’s intoxicating. I grab an album that I’ve never heard of, its colorful cover compelling me to read a few of the song titles, and put it back, continuing to step slowly through Brando’s musical grove. If I’d known he had a collection like this, I would have never abandoned him that first night in the club. “Whoa!” The word comes out of my mouth in a shocked gasp. Without even thinking about asking, I grab a beautiful mahogany acoustic guitar from an antique chair and hold it in my arms like a newborn. I strum a few chords and it hums and purrs perfectly, the sound from it almost magical. After way too long with my

broken pawn shop guitar, holding this feels like a revelation from God. I play a little more, basking in the velvety richness of the sound, singing a little softly. When I open my eyes, Brando’s in front of me, a drink in each hand. I freeze, hand firmly caught in the cookie jar. “Shit. I—” “No. Don’t stop.” “I’m sorry. I just…it’s so beautiful.” I lean over to put the guitar down. “Don’t apologize,” Brando says. “Come over here. Bring the guitar with you.” He leads me over to the sunken area in one part of the loft, a low, soft couch lining it, and sets my drink down on the table. He pats the spot next to him, a mischievous smirk on his face, and I oblige. “Play for me,” he says, gently. My heart flutters for a second as I realize what I’m doing, sitting in a loft filled with beautiful things, holding a guitar I’d give my left leg to own, and about to play to a handsome man – still pretty much a stranger – who seems to genuinely want to hear me. It’s almost too much, but before my flight response has a chance to kick in, I catch Brando’s eye, and something in it plucks my heart like a low E string and soothes my nerves. I settle the guitar on my lap, half-facing him on the couch, and start playing. I close my eyes, not even needing to look at the fretboard, it fits my hand so perfectly. The words pour out of me like birds taking flight. It’s the easiest song I’ll ever play. The acoustics of the loft, the feel of the mahogany guitar, the gentle looseness that’s still permeating through my body. The man I’m playing for. It’s too perfect. When I finish, I wonder if I’ll ever play like that again. I open my eyes and look at Brando. His lips are parted, his eyes dreamy and lidded, as if drugged by the sound. He gazes at me for what feels like an eternity, then shakes his head slightly before speaking. “I haven’t heard a song that moved me like that in a very long time.” “Ah…” I smile, hoping the delight at hearing he liked it isn’t obvious, “it’s just a work in progress. I need to change the middle eight and—” “It’s perfect,” Brando says, “you’re perfect.” I try to speak and fail. “Sign with me,” he continues. “Let me manage you, book you for gigs, get you into a studio with some great producers who know how to work with real artists, and I can promise you that you’ll get the acclaim you deserve. You owe it to the world to put your music out there.” My heart is pounding in my chest, my cheeks burning with a spreading blush, but instead of jumping up and down and throwing my arms around this man who claims he can make all my dreams come true, I shake my head and push the guitar to the side. “I…I don’t know… This all seems really fast. I need time…I need to think about it.” “Time?” Brando says, the largeness of his voice filling the room. “There’s no ‘time’ in this business. Take your time and you’ll find yourself in the same place years later – only a little older, and a lot worse for wear. You’ve got something, here, now. If you wait even a second too long you’ll waste it.” He stands up and paces over to the other side of the coffee table. “You’ve only heard one song. How can you be so sure?” I say. “What if I’m not ready?” “Is that it?” he says, stopping mid-pace. “You don’t trust my judgment?” “I…I do. You know, it’s just…you’ve only heard a few songs, most of them in pieces.” Brando laughs and buries a hand in his thick black hair. “Haley, throughout that whole song I was asking myself ‘How is this girl singing at open mic nights?’ And now I remember. You can’t see an opportunity when it’s staring you in the face. You’re ready. Believe it.” I squirm a little, looking down at the guitar and picking a few notes to avoid his eyes. “A deal is big commitment,” I mumble, looking up at him almost apologetically. Brando crouches in front of me, his hands on my knees. I look at him, attracted to his broad

shoulders, afraid of what he’s offering, confused by the speed of it all. I feel like I’m being pulled in seventeen different directions. “It is,” he implores, “but music’s a big commitment – life’s a big commitment. If you don’t commit, you don’t get anywhere. I see something amazing in you Haley, something very few people have. Even if it wasn’t my job, I’d have noticed it.” I take my eyes off him – a face like his could convince anyone of anything. “It’s just…you know… This is amazing,” I say, gesturing around me at the music-filled apartment. “Tonight was amazing. That you manage the Triangles, that I… had way too much of a good time. But…” “The Triangles. Neon Fur. Broken Windows. The Red Leaves – I signed them all – Majestic signed them all. Any band with an ounce of real talent on the West Coast, I’ve worked with.” “Broken Windows? They’re yours?” “And they’re still together because of me too. You wanna know something else? I think you’ve got the potential to be bigger than any of them.” I laugh and look into his eyes for acknowledgment of how ridiculous it sounds, but he just gazes back with disarming calm. “I don’t know…I’ve heard a lot of stories about people who sign these ‘big’ deals who end up getting screwed. I wanna take my time.” “So don’t sign a ‘big’ deal. Forget Majestic. I’m the one who believes in you. Sign with me. Let me manage you, get things moving. You can make up your mind about Majestic later on. If you don’t like them, we’ll get a deal somewhere else.” I purse my lips, wishing he wasn’t so beautiful so that I could think straight. “I…” I shake my head in confusion. “What have you got to lose, Haley? Your job at the coffee shop? The prospect of playing to people who don’t listen at open mics? Do you feel comfortable there?” “Of course not. It’s the most depressing, deflating, soul-draining thing I’ve ever done.” “Because you don’t belong there,” he says, lifting up my chin so I’m forced to stare into his eyes. “You belong in front of fans who appreciate you. You belong in studios where you can express yourself fully. You know that, deep down, and that’s why you hate where you are now so much.” I try to speak, but my mouth’s too dry. Brando goes on, “I don’t need to spend more time with you to know that – I didn’t even need you to play me that song right now. It’s obvious in everything you do. The way you talk, the way you look, the way you dance. You’ve got something that makes you unique, special. Maybe you’re too modest, too shy, too afraid to let it out – but I’m not.” He’s right. It’s the reason I left Santa Cruz and came to LA. It’s the reason I keep playing open mics despite each one being worse than the one before. Because this is what I was meant to do. But something just doesn’t feel right. Everything’s exactly how I imagined it. The slick manager, the expensive lofts filled with music and instruments, the promise of support. But something just feels wrong. Off-center. I wait a few moments, for the whole thing to fall into pieces, for the whole scene to go away in a puff of smoke. When it doesn’t, I realize that this is a chance I may never get again. Brando looks into my eyes, all in, still waiting. He flashes that infectious grin and I find myself grinning back. “Okay,” I finally say. “I’ll sign a deal.”

Brando I’M A MAN ON A MISSION. A man with a goal. And I’m coming for you, Lexi. Whether you want me to or not, I’m going to make that slimy shortass hand you back to me. And on that day you’ll learn that I never lose a fight, even if I look like I’m down for the count. I waste no time making the arrangements for Haley, pulling as many strings as I can to get everything in motion as quickly as possible. I book studio time, call in a favor with a producer friend of mine who’s worked with tons of Top 40 artists, email some studio musicians to play back up. I’ve spent years buying these people drinks, congratulating them after shows, and hooking them up with gigs (and each other), and everyone is more than happy to step in and help. Somewhere around the time I was trying to convince Haley to take the deal it dawned on me how much of a raw deal Davis gave me with the bet. He played me for a dope, drawing me in with the one thing he could: Lexi. And like the big dumb wrecking ball that I am I walked straight into it. The one thing Davis didn’t consider, though, is that I’m also damned good at what I do. If I pull this off, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d achieved something nobody thought I could. One month to get a single into the charts sounds impossible, but taking it one step at a time isn’t. That’s where I come into my own; getting my hands dirty, making things happen, dragging myself and everyone around me up the mountain, inch by inch. I pace up and down outside the best recording studio in Hollywood, punching my fist into my hand, my body tense, spoiling for a fight. I feel like I’ve got a bucket of adrenaline whizzing around inside of me. I roll my shoulders and wind my neck, trying to loosen myself up. Eventually, Haley arrives. I hear her car before I see it, a sputtering, clattering Datsun with three differently-colored body panels on it. It jerks and rolls into the parking lot before stopping and farting out a thick puff of black smoke. Haley steps out with a smile and a kind of laid-back beauty that deserves way more than that Datsun. “You made it,” I smile. I walk over to her and give her a quick hug before placing a hand softly on her back and starting to guide her toward the studio. “Wait. My guitar’s in the back seat,” Haley starts, pulling away from me. “Shh, you won’t need that. We’ve got everything you need inside.” “Okay,” she says, casting a backward glance at the guitar case in her car. “You’re gonna love it. Trust me. I’ve got a great set-up for you,” I say, opening the big glass door for her and ushering her down the corridor. “It doesn’t get much better than this. Twelve of the top fifteen number one singles this year were recorded here.” “Wow.” Her breath rushes out in an awed gasp as she eyes the gold records lining the walls. I stop and turn to face her. “It doesn’t get much better than this. There’s a six-month waiting list to get just half an hour in here.” She smiles nervously. “How did you book it so soon?” “A combination of persuasiveness, old favors owed, and threats. Not necessarily in that order.” I continue walking and push through the control room door, holding it open for her as she steps inside slowly. “Haley,” I say, as the three men milling in front of the mixing board stand up and come forward. “This is Baptiste,” I say, and the crisply-dressed, boyishly-handsome man swaggers forward and tips his baseball cap in a gesture that would look ridiculous if he wasn’t so naturally cool. “You probably know him already.” “Of course,” she says, as if dazed, “you’re like on every record on the radio right now.” “Business is branding,” he says, with a half-smile.

“This is Duke, a guy you definitely won’t have heard of,” I say, nodding toward the tall, skinny hipster with shoulder-length, lank blonde hair. “But he’s had a part to play in more than a few songs in the top ten for the past five years.” “Pleased to meet you,” he says, shyly. Haley nods in reply. “And Dennis, the best engineer since Geoff Emerick.” Haley’s mouth falls open as I invoke the name of the engineer who worked with The Beatles. “Hey,” the short, grumpy-looking guy in plaid says nonchalantly. “Hi,” Haley says, meekly, her eyes big as saucers. “What do you think of the studio?” Baptiste asks, eyeing Haley with curious interest. “It’s…” Haley looks around at the stylishly-designed equipment and trendy seating that fills the room, then glances through the glass toward the gigantic recording booth’s array of neatly-arranged instruments, pedals, and microphones. “It’s really…high-tech.” “Wait til you hear the song,” I say, after the guys take their seats again. “It’s a guaranteed hit. It’s been knocking around for months, and the only reason it isn’t out already is the gigantic bidding war going on over it.” “Um…thanks?” Her expression is slightly confused, but I figure it’s probably just that she’s overwhelmed. I grin. “I did everything I could to get this song for you, Haley. It’s perfect. Dennis, cue it up.” I watch Haley’s face as the music starts, a winding electronic melody that you can’t get out of your head if you hear it just once, a beat that drops with enough oomph to keep every club goer moving from here to Berlin, then a hook – sung by Baptiste on the demo – that no teenage girl on the planet could resist. Baptiste, Duke, and I rock our heads to the impulsive, driving rhythm. Haley’s face barely moves. I gesture for Dennis to cut the music and put my hand on her shoulder. “Haley…you okay?” “Um…sure. It’s…catchy.” I’m not seeing excitement register on her face. She must still think she’s dreaming. “Look, I know this is overwhelming right now,” I soothe her. “The studio, the song. It’s a lot to take in. Maybe you think this is like ‘the moment of truth.’ It’s okay to not feel up to it, but you’re in good hands here. These guys know what they’re doing, we’ve got autotune, we can alter some parts of the song if they don’t work with your vocal range.” Haley covers her eyes with her hand. I lean in closer. “It’s okay,” I continue, “really. Everything’s going to be taken care of. I’ve got the best stylist in Europe flying over tomorrow, and a handful of video directors throwing ideas at me. Maybe you can even help me pick out the best.” Suddenly, Haley whacks my arm away from her shoulder with the speed and venom of a kung fu master, yanks the studio door open, and runs through it. I stand there for a second, processing what just happened, then turn to the guys, who give me nothing but shrugs. “Give us a minute,” I say, then grab the door and go after her. By the time I get outside she’s already wrestling with the rusted door of her Datsun. “Haley!” I call out as I move towards her. “You getting cold feet already? I’m telling you, I’ll hold your hand every step of the way.” “That’s exactly the problem,” she yells. I’m confused. Maybe it’s just her nerves. “What do you mean? Haley, those guys in there are the best in the game, like you could practically sleepwalk through this recording session. What the hell’s wrong with you?” “Just stop talking!” She smacks the door and marches toward me menacingly. “What the hell’s wrong with you?!”

She shoves me right in the chest with all her strength. It doesn’t do much, but I step back out of surprise anyway. “I actually believed you when you said you liked my music,” she screams, incredulous. “How fucking stupid is that?” For a moment, I’m stunned. “I did like your playing. Why do you think I’m doing all this?” She presses her hands to her temples and looks at me like I just tried to explain quantum physics in a single sentence. “If you like my playing so much, then why are you doing everything you can to turn me into something I’m not?” “Haley, it’s not like that.” I let loose with a winning grin that tends to get me where I wanna go. “I’m just trying to make everything as good as it can be. I mean, do you wanna make music or not? We’ve got an insta-hit in the making in there. This is gonna launch your entire career. I don’t see the problem.” She gives me a cold stare, starts to speak a few times before shaking her head and taking a deep breath. “I do want to make music,” Haley finally says, sighing away her anger and replacing it with disappointment, “but not like that. If you can even call that making music.” I stare at her, feeling all my work and effort slipping through my fingers. “Look, Brando, you don’t need me. You just need a pretty face to go along with everything you’ve got going on back there, the pre-written songs and the electronics and the machines. I’m sorry, but that’s just not me.” The rusted door opens this time, and she steps inside, revving and jerking the car out of the parking lot and down the road, taking everything I want with her. Damn.

Haley “… AND THAT’S when I ran out.” “Oh God, Haley,” Jenna says, still holding a bemused customer’s change. I look back at her and shrug, but I notice her tell. Jenna’s a good girl, and like all good girls she isn’t very good at hiding her feelings. She’s biting the inside of her lip. “You don’t think I should have run out on him, right? You think I should have stayed, sucked it up, let those guys turn me into another radio-friendly clone?” Jenna hands the guy’s change to him with a smile, checks that no other customers are coming, and turns to me with the same look my mother gave me when I found out she was the tooth fairy. “Sit down,” she says, nodding to the stool behind the counter. I do as she says, and she leans back on the counter in front of me. “Look. When I was trying to make it as an actress – I mean a big Hollywood star, not the local theater plays and cheesy commercials and non-speaking background work I’m doing now – I was going through a lot of the same things you’re going through now. The pointless running around and grabbing at hopeless causes. The long, grinding anticipation and hard work leading up to a big audition, only to find there’s nothing on the other side. But I was nineteen; just smart enough to realize I had to work for it, and just dumb enough to have hope. Every day – every second – that passed without me doing something to try and make it felt like wasted time. Making it was all I thought about, morning to night, even in my dreams – especially in my dreams.” I nod. “I remember you telling me all this. That’s exactly how I feel.” “I know,” she sighs. “But I never told you this: I had my chance. One chance. And I blew it. And that’s all. I never got another one. Not like that one.” I look at Jenna wide-eyed. She’s never sounded like this before, and I can hear how naked she feels in her tone. “What happened?” She scans the coffee shop again to make sure she won’t be interrupted, then drops her eyes to the floor and starts talking, slowly. “I met this producer. A big deal. The kind that never goes a day without speaking to at least one star or hot-shot director. He was nice to me, I guess he liked something about me. Anyway, he sends me a script to read, and it’s amazing. I fall in love with it right away. I think ‘if I can get a role in this, I know I can knock it out of the park.’ We meet up a couple of days later and he asks me what I think. I say it’s fantastic. That I’d kill someone to be in it. He says the part is mine,” Jenna pauses and looks at me before saying the next three words ominously, “with one condition.” The way she says it makes me tense my muscles. “What condition?” Jenna takes a while to gather herself. She fiddles with her fingers, scans the shop again, looks down at the floor, and shuffles her feet before saying, “He wanted me to go down on him.” “Oh, Jenna…” It’s exactly the kind of stereotypical story that’s a dime a dozen in this town, but all the same it’s the worst thing you can imagine happening to someone like Jenna—someone hardworking, genuinely talented, and fierce. “What did you say?” Jenna shrugs. “I said no. Straight away. Obviously.” “So then what happened?” I ask, although I’m dreading the answer. “He looked at me like I was a waitress who didn’t hear his order correctly. I’ll never forget the way his eyes looked. Not quite evil, not quite aggressive, just…pitying. Like I was the one who didn’t get it. He said, real slow so I’d understand this time, ‘the girl who sucks my dick is the girl who gets this part. You do want this part, don’t you?’ And then he unzipped.” My mouth drops open. “That’s when I ran out.”

“That’s crazy! I mean, I know it happens, but I had no idea that it happened to you.” “That’s not the crazy part,” Jenna continues, smiling with black humor. “A girl did do what he wanted, and she did get the part. And you’ll never guess who it was.” I can’t help my curiosity. “Who?” “Julia Lorde.” I gasp. “No! The girl who just got nominated for an Oscar?” Jenna just shrugs. “It’s actually her second nomination. She deserves it. Everything she’s done has been great. She’s even engaged to that hot guy from the spy movies now. While I get to wake up at six every morning and spend eight hours a day pouring coffee just so I can perform a small role in an unknown play to a crowd of ten every weekend. “Every time I see her now on TV, talking about how she’s living the dream, doing the thing she loves, or on the red carpet meeting thousands of people who appreciate her, acting alongside all the people I idolize – all I can think about is how it should be me, how it could so easily have been the other way around.” “Come on Jenna,” I say, standing up and putting an arm around her. “You’re not really saying you would do anything differently, would you?” “Honestly, I don’t even know anymore. I want to tell you to just follow your heart, stick to your guns, keep your art sacred, but all I know for sure is that chances like that can change your entire life, and that you only get one.” I notice her eyes move to the door and widen. “Although maybe you just got a second one.” I turn around to see the unmistakable silhouette of Brando, so big and powerful that he makes the coffee shop look like a playpen. Jenna gives my arm a stroke and sidles off to the back room. As Brando draws near I notice something different in his hard-edged face – the persistent, knowing dimples aren’t there anymore. He looks almost embarrassed. “I really hope you’re just here to buy coffee,” I say, trying to ignore how hair-pullingly handsome he is when he’s trying to be serious. “I would be if I didn’t think you’d do something bad to it.” I scowl at him. “I probably would.” Brando laughs and I find myself smiling, despite not wanting to. “Look,” Brando says. “You’re right. I got it all wrong. The song, the studio, you.” “You did.” I fold my arms. He’s not off the hook. And God am I glad I never signed on the dotted line, otherwise I’d probably be legally obligated to have gone along with his original scheme. Brando looks at me like a lost puppy and, as I ignore the inconvenient rush of heat between my legs, I wonder how many women have tried to take him home. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry – but since I’m better at actions than words, I thought I’d show you instead.” He slides something off his shoulder, a case that was obscured by his broad shoulders, and places it gently on the coffee counter. I know what it is, but I don’t let myself admit it until he flips the latches and gently opens the case. The mahogany guitar. My breath stops in my throat. I study the elegant wood grain, running my finger down the fretboard, before looking up at Brando, who’s just as beautifully constructed. “I can tell when a woman wants something,” he purrs, “and if they stick with me, they usually get it.” I shoot him a suspicious glance. “You’re giving this to me?” “A nineteen-forty Martin 0-17. I’d tell you how much it’s worth, but you’d probably never play it if you knew.”

“What’s the catch?” He spreads his hands. “No catch. Just a promise that if you give this relationship—this business relationship—another chance, we’ll do things your way. A fresh start. No autotune, no hi-tech studios, no pre-packaged songs—” I cross my arms and study his face. He seems sincere. “No stylist, either.” Brando shuffles his feet. “What?” I demand. “It’s just…you’ve worn the same leather jacket each time I’ve met you. Frankly I think the stylist is non-negotiable.” I keep my arms folded and shoot a fierce glare at his glinting eyes. “But we’ll let you choose which one,” he says, laughing it off. I smile and duck my head, letting my hair fall in front of my face – a technique I use to give me a few moments when considering something. This decision doesn’t take more than a second to make, though. I flip my head up and brush back my hair. “Okay. Deal.” Brando offers his hand and I shake it, surprised by how gentle his large hands can be. He holds my hand a second too long, sending heat radiating through my palm, up my arm, and spreading into my chest. I pull away before he can notice the blush that I’m sure is turning my cheeks pink. This is business, I remind myself. Strictly. “Done and done then,” Brando says. He turns sideways, about to leave, but before he does, he casts one last longing glance down at the guitar. “Treat that thing well; there’s a hell of a story behind it.” His eyes flick upward to meet mine. “Maybe one day I’ll tell it to you.” I stand there in a semi-daze, watching him leave. I’ve known Brando for half a week, and in that time we’ve argued, kissed, danced together, and become business partners twice over. But he still seems like a complete stranger, with hidden depths that I’ve barely even scratched. “Well, at the very least,” Jenna mutters from behind me as I reluctantly tear my eyes away from the perfection that is Brando’s ass, “this’ll make for some good songwriting material.”

Brando I LIKE THINGS hard and fast, competitive and challenging. I play games of pick-up like it’s my last shot at the play-offs, slam weights at the gym like my life depends on it, fuck every woman like a man on death row. I hate the phrase ‘push it to the limit’ – because for me there are none. I see life as a series of barriers, and behind each one is the thing you want. Some people use their brains to get past, some people bang their heads against them until they break, most people tend to give up and just head in another direction entirely – me, I pick up speed and try to break through the first time. No second thoughts, no doubts, and no slowing down. The problem is that when you live like that, you tend to make a mess. So it’s a fresh start for me and Haley. I’ve tried the hard and fast approach, and gotten nowhere; now it’s time for me to support her. Which fucking terrifies me. I’ve got a bet to win. A red-headed bitch to win back. But to do it I’m going to have to trust Haley, which is hard, because I don’t even trust myself most of the time. I start thinking about what would happen if I lost the bet. The ten grand I can handle. Losing an act will be tougher though, because my other acts – and anyone else who might ever work with me – might start to get scared. And my humiliation would be worse. But it’s missing my chance to get Lexi back that will kill me. Every time the thought enters my head I have to drop to the floor and do push-ups, or grab the nearest doorway and perform chin pulls to beat it back out again. Then something I didn’t expect starts to happen. Haley and I talk on the phone and send messages back and forth for a few days. She sends me some more of her songs, I press her on how she imagines them getting recorded, the kind of production she wants. She references albums that are way beyond her years, cult classics and forgotten masterpieces that I thought only music buffs and old guys knew about. “What’s Going On, Marvin Gaye.” “You sure?” she says on the other end of the line, and I can hear her smile. “I’m sure. If I was on a desert island, with just one record, that’s what I’d pick.” “Wrong choice,” she says, laughing. “How can it be a wrong choice? Greatest rhythm section of all time. The most soulful singer ever. Every theme you can imagine, sex, love, depression, society, life.” She giggles, enjoying the sound of me trying to convince her. “But it’s a desert island.” “So?” “You’re on the beach, in the beating sun, the big wide ocean all around you – you telling me you want to hear songs about ‘society’ and ‘depression’ out there?” I chuckle. “What would you choose then?” I ask, with a smile I’m sure she can hear this time. “Bob Marley. Kaya.” “Of course.” “Sitting on the beach, sipping juice from a coconut, watching the waves roll back and forth, singing along to sun is shining… Paradise.” “Would you be wearing a bikini in this scenario?” “Brando…” she says disappointedly, but with more than a trace of sex in the way she draws my name out. “Sorry,” I say, “I can’t help it.” We talk about how weirdly beautiful Nico’s solo albums were, how underappreciated Laura Nyro is, argue whether Johnny Marr or Jimi Hendrix is the greatest guitarist of all time (I say Hendrix but she almost convinces me otherwise).

I listen past the poor audio quality and shy modesty of her songs and start hearing things that draw me in. Quirky melodies, interesting chord changes, powerful lyrics that swim around in my head when I’m not thinking. She starts talking about music production the way I’ve only heard grumpy engineers and brilliant geniuses do, picking up on details that only perfectionists – the kinds of people who make classic albums – care about. I start to think that this might just work after all. I start acting on Haley’s suggestions, booking a studio in a house in Laurel Canyon. It’s no hit factory, but it’s intimate, peaceful, and full of vintage equipment – a perfect fit for Haley. Next, I bring in Josh Chambers, an old singer-songwriter that Haley’s talked about adoringly. He hasn’t released a record in over thirty years, and he definitely doesn’t dress as sharply as Baptiste, but you’d struggle to find a guitar player who hasn’t stolen at least one of his licks, or a producer who doesn’t use a bag of tricks that Josh invented before they were even born. This time Haley’s already there when I pull up at the wood and glass house built on a hillside. She’s sitting on the porch, smile as big as the coffee cup she’s clutching between her two hands as she talks casually with Josh. They stand up and walk toward me as I get out of the car. “Brando.” “Josh.” We clasp hands, and after a split second end up hugging warmly. Josh is still good looking, despite his slim face bearing all the lines and toughness of a life well-lived. He’s in faded jeans and a well-worn plaid shirt. Nobody would guess that he’s in his late fifties, least of all because he’s more comfortable in his skin than anyone I’ve ever known. “It’s been a long time, man,” he says in his gravelly, but still tuneful, voice. “Doesn’t feel like it,” I say, nodding toward the sun-bleached Ford pick-up in front of the house, “you’re still driving that thing.” “It’ll outlive us all. Especially you, if you keep driving junkers like that.” He looks over at the Porsche 911 Turbo I pulled up in and we laugh. “How you feeling?” I say to Haley, who I notice looks a little shy, even though she’s smiling. “I dunno…” she says, her smile getting a little shaky. “Nervous?” I swap a glance with Josh. “That’s good,” he says, putting a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “Means you care. Come on.” If the last studio felt like the sterile interior of a spaceship, this one feels like a seventies garage that a hoarder left in a hurry. We step into a shag-carpeted room with a suede couch and mini fridge on one side, a giant, wood-paneled mixing desk on the other. Beyond the glass partition that sits behind the mixing desk there’s the recording area, big valve amps dotted around the floor, pedals and cables tangled up in the corners like strange sea monsters. There’s a grand piano in the corner, and guitars lying around like used towels. Rugs with psychedelic patterns hang on the smoke-discolored walls, and I can almost smell the rock and roll history of the place. A mixture of alcohol, drugs, sex, and emotion. “So,” Josh says, putting his cup down on a speaker, “how do you guys see this going?” Haley looks up at me and I take the lead. “I’m thinking we start simple. Nothing too complicated. Let’s do one of your songs – ‘Leaving Home’ or ‘Not Easy to Love,’ maybe – acoustic. Just run through it from start to finish, no pressure, and see what we get.” Haley takes a second to think about it and then nods slowly. “Sounds good,” she says. “Great,” Josh says, “I’ll get us set up.” “Shouldn’t we take those rugs off the wall?” I say, pointing at the hippie accoutrements.

“No,” Haley says, sounding sure for the first time since I’ve seen her today, “leave them. They’ll make it sound warmer.” At my lifted brow she adds, “Helps the acoustics.” I look at Josh, who gives me a look that says ‘the girl knows what she’s talking about,’ and settles into a seat as they both start preparing. It takes Josh only a few minutes to get everything ready, sorting cables and arranging the studio with deft expertise. Once he’s done, and Haley is sitting on a stool in the recording booth, all mic’d up with the mahogany guitar in her lap and a big pair of headphones buried in her hair, Josh joins me on the other side of the glass partition. “Haley,” Josh says, holding down a button, “can you hear me okay?” Haley returns a thumbs up. “Say something Haley, so I can check the levels.” “Oh, um…hi? Uhh…” The tremble in her voice doesn’t need the amplification of a studio to be noticeable. Josh just nods before pushing the button again to speak. He’s seen it all before, and I’m hoping his laid-back demeanor will help calm Haley down fast, because right now she can barely get a single word out, much less a whole song. “That’s great, thanks,” Josh soothes. “Just strum a few chords now.” Haley obliges keenly, her neck and shoulders looking tense. As she pauses to make some minor adjustments to the strings, the expression on her face tells me she’s frustrated. Even through the glass, I can feel the anxiety radiating off her. “Okay, we’re golden,” Josh says. “When you’re ready to go, just start. We’re rolling.” I watch intently as Haley breathes so deeply her shoulders rise and fall a full few inches. She grips the guitar carefully, straightens her back, and starts playing. The second note she plays is an entire key out. “Wait. I’m sorry,” Haley says, her shoulders immediately slumping. “Can I go again?” This time I’m the one who pushes the button to talk. “It’s fine, Haley. Make as many mistakes as you want. Take your time. Work out those kinks.” After a few more failed attempts, her deep breaths getting deeper between each take, she eventually makes it through the intro, and starts singing. Haley hits a bum note on the first word. She freezes mid-lyric and looks over at us guiltily. “Sorry. I need to start over,” she says. “This her first time in a studio?” Josh asks me as we watch her go again. “Second,” I say, as her voice falls flat again. “The first time she ran right back out of it.” On her eleventh attempt Haley almost makes it to the second line of the song, but she plays the wrong chord and immediately drops her head. “That’s fine, Haley,” Josh says. “Come on back here.” “I’m really, really sorry,” Haley says the second she enters the room. “I don’t know what’s—” “It’s fine,” I say, trying to smile, struggling to believe it. “We’ve got all the time in the world.” Josh stands up. “How about we take fifteen? Try and get our heads straight?” He pulls out a joint from his shirt pocket. “I’m gonna go outside and relax a little. Haley?” Haley shakes her curls. “No thanks. I don’t.” Josh nods at me – he knows I’ve always been clean – then leaves the studio. I spin in my chair, following Haley with my eyes as she walks across the room and slumps on the couch as if it’s a lifeboat. “Jesus. I can’t believe this is happening,” she says, tapping her knee rapidly. “My one chance…” “Hey,” I say, supportively, as I get out of my chair and settle beside her on the couch. “Just try to relax.”

“I am trying to relax. And it’s not working. Which is making me even more nervous.” “Your hands are shaking,” I say, putting my palm over the hand she’s using to drum on her knee with. “You should feel what my stomach’s doing,” she replies, continuing to drum with her other hand. “I need a drink. A sniff of whatever’s Josh is smoking. Or…” She turns to face me, but her eyes scan my body like it’s the antidote to her nerves. Maybe it is. Nobody knows more than I do how much sex can cure a restless mind. She shakes her head, as if shooing off a daze, and looks down, avoiding my gaze. I cup her chin and turn her to face me slowly. “You’re thinking too much. Don’t think.” A blush creeps across her cheeks and she drops her eyes again. I brush her hair away from her face and let my hand rest on her neck as I slowly move in closer. Her trembling lips steady themselves on mine, softly settling against my mouth. Our breaths mingle, tongues gently tickling at the insides of each other’s lips. I press further, wanting to kiss away all the shakes in her body, to let her thoughts disappear in the heat of our mouths. Her hand presses against my shirt, splayed fingers tentatively tracing the hardness of my chest, before pushing me away from her. “Brando…” she whispers, her eyes still closed, her mouth still wet. “I think I just need…” “Tell me what you need,” I coax her. “I need…” She opens her eyes, and I already know what she’s about to say. “You.” This is the most restrained I’ve ever been. Every muscle memory in my body wants to tear her clothes off, the look in her lidded eyes all I need to know she wants this – even more than I do. Hours spent around her blossomed lips, her hidden breasts, her slender thighs, hours of caging up my lust for her in pursuit of another goal has made it grow, big and fearsome. Now that the cage is open, it’s taking all of my reserve to stop it from taking me over. I need this to be slow – this is for her. “I know how to make you sing, Haley,” I growl in short breaths. My hand goes to the inside of her thigh, pressing itself against the front of her jeans. “I can make you sing better than you’ve ever sung before.” I have the buttons undone in seconds. Warm, strong, fingers teasingly reaching into the lip of her panties. Her head goes back, eyes closed as she starts panting at the ceiling. “Wait!” she says, snapping back, her hand on my wrist. “I don’t understand what’s happening between us, Brando. Is this about me? Or is this about music?” I kneel in front of her, slowly pulling down her jeans. “It’s about music,” I say, kissing her moistening pussy through the soft cotton of her panties. “It’s always about music.” She replies by moaning softly and grabbing the back of my head as I run my tongue down the inside of her thigh, letting my stubble softly tickle her pale, sensitive skin. I get her panties off quickly, and run my hands around the back of her waist, holding her still while I explore her pussy with my tongue. The smell drives me wild, stirring the animal in me like a dormant beast. It’s all I can do to stop myself from sprouting fangs and roaring – I wanna take it slow, learn everything I can about what makes her tick. I trace the tip of my tongue up each of her lips to her clit, rolling it between my lips and sucking on it, listening to her moans and sighs like cues from a band, playing her pussy like a classic melody on a new instrument. I reach a hand out and press it against her shirt, kneading her tit, her nipple hard against my palm. She grabs my hand and holds it against her, scratching at my fingers with her guitar-player’s nails. Her moans get higher and her scent hotter when I start to tongue-fuck her, her thigh muscles tightening around my stubble in rhythm with the licks. I hold off, always a little less than she feels she needs, keeping her on the edge, stoking up the heat before the release. “Fuck,” she gasps. That’s the only word she’s able to get out, and when she clenches my hair in her

fist I know it’s time. I work two fingers between her wet lips, two fingers longer and harder than most men’s cocks, two fingers that always find the right button. Hitting the perfect spot is easy, and Haley’s body throbs and hums under my hands like an orchestra, a musician in everything she does. Moans and purrs from the depth of her soul guide me there, the song reaching its high-pitched crescendo when she starts moaning ‘Yes’ at the ceiling. Again and again, drawing out the word until it becomes a sigh, a fade-out. My work here is done. I stand up in front of her as she struggles to get her breath back. She watches with a knowing smile as I lick the taste of her off my lower lip, and then smooth out my shirt. The post-glow lightness is broken by the sound of a door shutting in the house. Haley roughly pulls her panties and jeans up before smoothing out her hair in the vague reflection of the partition glass. “I was thinking,” Josh starts saying, before he’s even entered the studio, “maybe we should try another song?” Haley and I turn and look at Josh, wondering if we left any evidence. I notice Josh’s eyes dart quickly to my hair, and I run my hand through it casually. “No,” I say, glancing at Haley and realizing just how big and round and beautiful her eyes are when she’s scared, “I’ve got a feeling things will go a little better this time.” “Okay,” Josh shrugs as he takes his seat again. I smile at Haley as she leaves to go back to the studio, then sit beside Josh again. “I’ve known a lot of musicians who couldn’t hack it in a studio,” Josh says, once she leaves the room. “Good ones. Great ones. But they just couldn’t play without the right audience, feeding off the energy of a crowd.” Through the glass I watch Haley sit on the stool again, put on the headphones, and pick up her guitar. Just as I’d hoped, something is different now. The smart, sarcastic shine in her eye, the calm earthiness of her movements. She looks like a girl who can take on the world again. “Can you hear me over there?” she asks. Josh pushes the button. “Perfectly. Ready when you are. I got a good feeling about this one.” “Me too,” Haley says, and I can tell she means it. This time Haley doesn’t need deep breathing. She takes a second to clear her throat, and starts. Her fingers move over the guitar strings skillfully, and it responds with a bed of beautiful, dynamic notes that cascade gently throughout the studio. When she opens her mouth her voice soars. Innocent as a girl, confident as a woman. Pure emotion, the sound of someone letting go. “Holy shit,” Josh drawls, before she’s even at the chorus, “this is fantastic. What the hell did you say to her?” Haley looks right at me as she sings. A smile in her eyes that seems to help her get the words out. “It wasn’t what I said that helped her.”

Haley “IT’S CATCHY, it’s got great lyrics, a good groove – it’s got hit written all over it,” Brando says, gulping the last of his beer down, slamming it on the bar, and ordering another with ease. It’s the kind of club I’d never go to in a million years. Tables and booths that look way cleaner and more expensive than the usual dive bars I usually drink – and play – in, surround a central dance floor, where you can barely see the people with all the expensive suits and jewelry flashing all over the place. Ordinarily, I’d feel like a nun at an orgy entering a place like this, but being around Brando is like being in a bubble, where nothing can touch you, and everywhere is home. “I know, but it’s acoustic,” I remind him. “So?” “So acoustic songs never get into the charts.” Brando laughs and leans in slightly. Any other guy as big as him and it would feel intimidating, but with Brando it feels protective, warm, enticing. “Quite a role reversal,” he smirks. “You telling me that I’m not being commercially-minded enough.” I look down for a second and giggle a little, before looking back at him. When he’s in this kind of mood it’s next to impossible to keep my eyes away from his. “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me,” I say. “Well you’re definitely having an effect on me.” “Who do you think’s getting the worse deal?” Brando laughs breezily. “Well, if I become an A & R guy with some integrity, I’m pretty much finished. And if you end up as a sell-out, you’ll end up as soulless as—” his face drops as he notices something in the corner of the club, a cloud passing over his face and wiping away the spark in his eyes, “her.” I search for a clue in his eyes before turning around to see where they lead. Somewhere between a sea of black-suited bodyguards and a crowd of people who seem to fade to grey in her presence, I see her. Lexi Dark. Her pink, latex dress standing out from everyone and everything around her, as if she’s somehow more solid, more real. A Technicolor girl in life’s black and white film. Always the radiant smile, the demure pose; so brilliant that it frustrates you to only be able to see one side of her at a time. I spin back around to Brando, who’s gazing at her like a widow at a gravestone. “What’s the deal with you and her?” “I made her.” Brando looks like he’s in pain as he turns around to face the bar, staring at his beer as he talks quietly. “She was mine. My singer. My girl. My everything. Then she burnt it all down and left.” It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Brando look anything less than supremely confident. Something about the brief glimpse of vulnerability makes me want to do something, anything, to soothe the hurt written in his expression. It’s so strange that I’m almost afraid to ask, “What happened?” Brando takes a long, slow sip of beer. “I’m still trying to figure that out myself.” I place a hand on his broad shoulder, rubbing softly. I can almost feel the heat of the pain inside him. I think about saying something soothing, changing the subject to something lighter, maybe even flirting with him a little more to distract him – but if there’s one thing I know about men, it’s that sometimes they just need a moment alone. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” I say. “Be right back.” “Sure.” I take a little longer in the bathroom than I need to, standing in front of the mirror, teasing out my curls and checking my teeth for remnants of the pasta Brando and I shared before coming to the club.

I hear a latch close, except it doesn’t come from the cubicles, it comes from the entrance. I feel a cold chill down my spine, as if something – or someone – just sucked out all of the atmosphere from the room. I know it’s her before I even turn my head. Lexi Dark. She stands in front of the door, one hand on her hip. Her red lips projecting a dark control. She looks like a moving magazine cover, every inch of her body always in perfect alignment. I stare at her and wonder why people bother traveling halfway around the world to see breathtaking sights. Frozen solid, all I can do is watch her. She steps forward, slow but confident, a supermodel sashay to a beat of heels on tile. I’ve bitched about singers like Lexi a million times. About their fake appearance, plastic assemblyline songs, meaningless lyrics. But standing here, in her presence, her intensity has never seemed realer. “Well well well, aren’t you a cute little thing?” she says, reaching out elegant fingers, tipped with multi-colored nails, toward my shoulder. She trails her hand across my back to the other shoulder as she steps around me, sending lightning bolts of tension throughout my body. “Brando’s new toy.” The words are out of my mouth before I have time to think about what I’m saying. “Maybe he got tired of playing with dolls.” Lexi opens her mouth in excited pleasure. She leans back on the sink, the arch of her back pornographic. “Good. There’s some fight in you. Brando likes that. Not too much, though,” she leans in toward my ear, so close her cherry breath tickles the hairs on my neck, “he’s a big guy, but he breaks easy.” She keeps her face close to mine, close and dangerous. I glare at her in the mirror, her lips glistening in the bright fluorescent lights. “Has he fucked you yet?” Lexi says, pulling her head back and stretching out her slender neck. “What am I saying? Of course he has; a pretty thing like you. I’ll bet he can’t keep his hands off you.” Lexi brushes the back of her hand against my cheek. My brain screams for my body to move, but I just watch her in the mirror, encased in the iciness of her touch, trapped in her aura. “I’ll bet he has you right where he wants you: not sure if it’s your body or your career that he really wants.” Something snaps me out of my cage and I grab her wrist. “Maybe that dress is too tight,” I say, looking right into her emerald eyes, “your bitterness is showing.” Lexi jerks her hand away and twists her lips into a semi-menacing, semi-sweet smile. She turns to face the mirror, gently touching the already-immaculate strands of hair that fall lovingly around her striking face. Rolling her hands down from tiny waist to lurid hips. She does it all as if I’ve disappeared, and she’s on her own. “Just a little friendly advice from someone who knows.” I watch her study herself intently, like an engineer ensuring her well-oiled machine is tuned to perfection, before turning to leave. She glances at me for a second as she turns, a dark flash in her eyes, then strides toward the door, animal grace and clicking heels. She grabs the handle before pausing. “Try saying his name when you come,” she says, looking back at me over her shoulder, another cover girl pose, “he really loves that.” I hear her laughing even after the door closes.

Brando “SETTLING down has made you soft, Jax,” I say, as we carry our boards from the ocean to our towels, panting with the exertion of another ultra-competitive surf. “What’s your excuse then?” We dig our boards into the sand and stand for a while to catch our breaths, the glorious LA sun glistening off our wet bodies. I flip open the cooler and pull out two beers, popping the tops with my fingers and handing one to Jax. “How’s Lizzie?” I ask, as we sit on the towels and gaze out at the rolling sea. “Excited; I’m taking her to Paris this weekend.” “What is it with chicks and Paris? I never got it. I mean, what’s Paris got that LA doesn’t?” Jax gives me a sideways glance and smiles. “Centuries of complex history and culture? Fantastic cuisine? The biggest art collections in the world? The most sophisticated fashion labels? A beautiful language?” “Shit,” I say, swigging greedily from the cold bottle. “I’d take a girl with a Bronx accent and a good slice of pizza over that any day.” Jax laughs and takes a sip. After a few moments he asks, “How are things going with your new protégé?” “Haley?” I say, trying to suppress the smile I get from saying her name. “Pretty good. Yeah.” But Jax has been my friend for way too long not to notice. He grins widely when he sees it. “Damn, Brando. You’re really full of surprises.” “What?” Jax shrugs his shoulders, his smile widening a good half-inch. “You think I’m falling for her?” I boom. “Bro, that’s projection. I mean, it’s good that you settled down, but that shit ain’t ever happening to me. I was born wild and I’ll stay that way.” “Right,” Jax says, giving me the most unconvinced nod he’s ever managed. “You don’t believe me? You don’t believe me! Look, she’s great. Talented, sexy, sarcastic as fuck, and she’s definitely a change from the cuties we usually pick up, but bro… Come on! This is me we’re talking about. Brando. Think about it. Brando. Relationship. You can’t even use the two words in the same sentence – they’re like from different languages.” Jax laughs as he stands up. “Are you trying to convince me,” he says, as he throws his towel around his shoulders and picks up his board, “or yourself?” Jax salutes a goodbye and starts walking off, the question hanging in the air like an unconnected cable. Truth is, I don’t have an answer. After a couple more waves I decide to leave. The sun glints off the chassis of my jeep, obscuring the tall figure leaning up against it, waiting for me. I recognize her instantly, despite the disguise of a wide straw hat and big, Audrey Hepburn-style sunglasses. She’s wearing a black bikini, teasingly revealed by a lace sarong, and there’s only one girl with a body as poised and as slamming as that. Lexi. “I always thought you were hottest when you were surfing. Water dripping between all those muscles.” I frown at her, wishing I was more annoyed by her presence. “Where’s Davis? Did they not let him out of the wax museum today?” “I came alone. I was watching you,” she says, pulling off her glasses to flash me an earnest look. “I

wanted to come over and talk…but I hate breaking up a happy couple.” “You and me were a happy couple,” I say, before my brain can stop the weak, regretful words from falling out of my mouth. “Were we?” Lexi says. I look away, trying to ignore the deep thud of pain I get from even seeing her too much. I let the sound of the waves fill my ears, as if it’ll wash away the memories. “If you came to ask something,” I say, loading the cooler and my board into the back of the jeep, “just come out and ask it.” She pouts, the way I could never resist. “Can we just sit somewhere and talk?” I know there are a lot of answers to that question. No. Fuck you. Maybe later. How about next Tuesday? But there’s only one my brain seems capable of giving. “Sure.” I take Lexi to a pierside café; it’s got one of the best views in the city, and since I’m good with the owner I know he’ll keep the tables around us empty. Lexi looks out into the ocean as if she’s seeing it for the first time, or maybe she knows I’ve never been able to resist the taut curve of her neck when her head’s turned. We don’t speak until the cappuccinos are in front of us, as if we both need time to adjust to the other’s presence again. When Lexi takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights one, I know shit’s serious. International pop stars don’t smoke in public. I always thought it was a disgusting habit, but I’d forgive Lexi anything. Almost anything. “Things aren’t going well,” she says, before blowing out a long plume of smoke. “Funny,” I say, “’cause the last time I saw you and leatherface you seemed pretty pleased with yourselves.” “That was nearly a week ago. This is now. A week’s a long time in music – you know that.” “Your album is at number one in the charts. I don’t see the problem.” “Was number one. Now it’s dropping like a stone.” She holds the cigarette in her fingertips and leans over her coffee cup. Something about the gesture makes me shake inside, like a hammer hitting a bass piano note. Suddenly I’m not here anymore, not in a fancy beachside LA café, drinking ten-dollar cappuccinos out of oversized cups. I’m right back at the start, sitting with Lexi in a run-down twenty-four hour Brooklyn diner, drinking bitter black coffee from styrofoam cups, planning how I’m going to take her to the top. “How the hell does that happen?” Lexi laughs sadly before taking another deep drag, her pink lipstick leaving elegant marks on the cigarette butt. “Because it’s not about the music to Davis. The music’s just a tool; I’m the real commodity. Everything was about getting a number one album. He had this big plan for it. Big launch events all over the US. Social media campaigns. Made-up controversies to keep it on the news sites. I think he even hired a company to boost the online hits, leave fake comments, that kind of thing. It was all planned out. Like a military operation. Propaganda.” Lexi pauses to take another deep drag and gaze at the foam in her cup. “But the music sucked. The music always sucked. With the singles it was fine. All he had to do was put me in the video doing something hot. Or release a song with a controversial lyric that went just a little bit further than what the last empty pop star had done. You hear anything enough times – even by accident – and you’ll start humming it. But now that it’s all out there—now that people can hear the album and judge it for themselves…I guess there’s nowhere to hide.” I slowly sip my coffee, eyes fixed on her, anger rolling inside of me like a gathering storm. “So what do you want from me?” I say. “A friend who might understand? Advice? I don’t know.”

I continue to stare at her as I take another sip. “Believe it or not, I don’t want us to be strangers, Brando. I heard you’ve got a new project – I’m really happy for you. Honestly. I want to see you do well. Seriously, your latest fuck-buddy is cute enough, and I’m sure with enough work you can fluff her up into something half-decent, right?” For a moment I say nothing. You know what the worst part is? It’s that Lexi isn’t even being malicious. This is just the way she thinks. In her mind, she just gave me a compliment. I drain the last of my coffee and pull my wallet out of my pocket. “What are you doing?” Lexi asks, surprised at my gesture. “I’m gonna pay for the coffee.” “Where are you going? We haven’t even spoken properly—” “I used to think you were perfect,” I interrupt, putting the money on the table and looking straight at her, “so when you left all that time ago, I thought it had to be me that was the problem. I thought Davis knew something I didn’t. That maybe I couldn’t make you a star like he could. But now I know I was right all along.” “It’s not like that—” “You wanted this, Lexi. You wanted to be bigger than the music,” I growl, all New York City reserved anger, “well now you are.” “Brando,” Lexi pleads, putting a hand on mine as I stand up, “don’t go. Please. I don’t have anyone else right now.” “Then it’s too late,” I say, pulling my arm away, “because I do.” It’s just a hunch. She’s not supposed to be at the studio for another couple of hours, and she has coffee shifts pretty much every day. Still, Josh is staying at the studio, and at the very least I figure we can share a beer until she arrives. When I pull up on the path outside the studio, however, I can hear my hunch is right. It’s loud and raucous. Fast and vibrant. The muffled sound of guitars and drums emanating from deep within the house. I step out of the car and make my way inside, the sound getting clearer and louder like a fog dissipating, dirt being cleaned away. She’s the first thing I notice when I step inside the studio, and she’s the first to notice me, even though she’s singing into the mic with every breath in her body, stamping her feet, playing the hell out of her guitar. Her tight tank top squeezes her breasts, ripped jeans show the firm flesh of her thighs. I watch the way she winds her curves, and can almost feel them squeezing against my hardening cock. She winks at me and smiles, and I can hear her smile in the words. I walk up beside Josh, who’s rocking his head and watching so energetically from behind the partition he doesn’t notice me until I’m right beside him. When he does he looks at me, he gives a thumbs up. I nod a reply. We both understand. This is not just good. This is fucking amazing. There are three other musicians in the studio playing, and all of them seem energized by Haley in the middle, a dancing, powerful, beautiful presence. Our eyes stay locked together and I begin to realize I’ve never seen anyone so alive, so sexy, so talented. Something falls into place deep inside of me. I’m going to make Haley a star. Not for a bet. Not for Lexi. Not even for myself. I’m going to do it because she deserves it.

10

Haley COFFEE BEANS BEING GRINDED. Radio blaring another bland pop tune. The cash register that sounds like it’s from the forties. The same customers having the same conversations about morning traffic and work. The rush hour shift is nothing if not consistent. “What can I get you ma’am?” “…he keeps changing the set. We’re nearly at the end of the run, and he’s still moving the walls a little bit to the left, shove the table over there, put the drawers a little closer…” “Would you like cream?” “It’s Death of a Salesman for God’s sake! It’s not like it hasn’t been done a million times before! But every night it’s ‘Whoops! Stubbed my toe again!’ or ‘Whoops! I’m exiting the stage on the wrong side again!’” “Will that be tall, medio, or venti?” “I think the only reason people are still coming is to see what new, weird arrangement the set’s going to be in rather than the actual play.” And that’s when it happens. Just as I’m taking a ten dollar bill for a customer’s medio caramel frappucino with cream. In the middle of Jenna’s rant about her current play. That’s when my song comes on the radio. That’s when my life changes. My mouth drops open, my body freezes, and then I stiffly turn around to see that Jenna has done exactly the same. I drop the bill, Jenna drops the cup she’s holding, and we scream. Suddenly we’re in each other’s arms, jumping to the beat, half-dancing, half-hugging. I gasp over and over again, as if I’m flying too high to breathe while Jenna shouts across the coffee shop. “This is my friend’s song! This is her song playing on the radio!” I freeze again, listening once more to make doubly sure, positive that it must be a mistake. Another similar-sounding song, a mistake by the radio DJ, my cd finding its way into the coffee shop stereo. The song ends. “…and that last song you heard was Chasing Ghosts by Haley Grace Cooke. Great song there. Hopefully we’ll see a lot more of this talented singer-songwriter in the coming months.” Jenna and I turn to each other and scream again. I try to stick out the rest of my shift but my head feels like a swarm of bees are trapped inside it. Eventually, Jenna convinces me to leave early so that I can see Brando. She knows how much I want to. I’m no calmer when I walk into Brando’s apartment. “I can’t believe it! They played it twice! I was searching online and I’m in the rotation! Not just that station, but a bunch of them! There must be some mistake. I don’t even know how they got ahold of the song!” “I leaked it online,” Brando says, stretching out on the sofa. “Just like that?” I say, pacing around in front of him. “You don’t need tricks. The song speaks for itself. I just put it online, asked a few friends at stations to listen and make up their own minds, and there it is.” I stop to look at him – really look at him. Maybe something’s changed in one of us, maybe both, but I see someone different. He’s not the loud-mouthed New Yorker disrupting my open mic set; not the slick, indifferent manager who promised me the world and tried to turn me into a pop idol; he’s not even the impossibly hot, fuckable stranger who made me orgasm my nerves away; he’s Brando. “You really believe in me, don’t you?” I say, stepping towards him slowly. “More than anyone,” he says, low and steady, his eyes not moving an inch from mine.

Suddenly it all makes sense. The fucking, the music, the airplay. Everything I ever wanted, all at the same time, all made possible by the man sitting slouched on the sofa in front of me. All because he didn’t give up on me. I throw myself on him, wrapping my legs around his hard hips, shoving my tongue between those flawless lips. It’s the first time I’ve ever kissed him without hesitating; the first time I haven’t held back. But it’s bigger than me, the force that makes my body press against him, makes my hands explore the muscles in his neck, squeeze his hips between my thighs. Big, powerful hands grab at my ass cheeks as I grind myself against the front of his jeans, slowly at first, his bulge hardening quickly, then faster, rougher. Our lips stay locked while I work his shirt buttons, tongues knotting in a fury of wet lust. He bites and bucks ferociously under my hands, an animal I’m keeping under control with the movement of my hips. I unbutton his shirt and pull back, devouring the view of his torso. His chest is fucking glorious. Hard, taut muscles perfectly arranged in front of me like a landscape. Time seems to stop for a second while I contemplate it, running my fingers down the groove between his pecs, delicately fingering his sixpack, a million ideas flowing through my mind. “You look like you’ve never seen a man before,” Brando says, a slow smile playing out on his lips. “Not like you.” Brando laughs just before I feel his hands around my waist. Suddenly he throws me down to the floor, just gentle enough, just hard enough. He holds himself over me, triceps tightening as he crawls upward, burying the masculine grate of his stubble into the nape of my neck. I push and pull against his immovable body, scrambling to pull off my clothes while he feasts on my neck. I press my face into his shoulder, his shirt hanging off it loosely, the smell of his testosterone driving me wild. It’s scruffy, messy, something we’ve both been wanting to do for a long time, something we’ve been holding back from. Now that we’re letting it out, it’s got a mind of its own. I manage to throw my jacket off, but it’s Brando who undresses the rest of me, so quick it’s either magic or a hell of a lot of experience. When he gets to his own, however, he slows down. He’s on his knees in front of me, his shirt hanging on one shoulder. I hold myself up slightly on my elbows in order to take in the full magnificence of his broad chest as he peels off his shirt and then unbuckles his belt slowly, enjoying the sight of my chest heaving, my breath getting heavier. “I’ve been waiting for this since you told me to get out of your way at the open mic,” he says, as he unzips his fly, the deep hunger he looks at my body with backing up his words. “Holy shit,” I say, as the biggest and most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen emerges from his designer denim. “That looks…illegal.” Brando’s smile is hard and foreboding as he pulls a condom out and puts it on with one hand, his other too busy exploring my breasts to help. “It’s okay,” he rumbles, “I know how to use it.” “So do I,” I murmur, not breaking eye contact for a second. A bubble of anticipation and lust starts growing in the pit of my stomach, a tangled mass of heat and intensity waiting to explode as soon as he hits it. He presses the end softly against my pussy lips and I drop my shoulders to the floor, arms grabbing and scratching at the rug, eyes closed. He’s slow at first, his cock teasing at my pussy with aching restraint, rough fingers stroking all the right spots on my body. His lips cover my nipple, tongue rolling it slowly, everything in perfect synchronicity. But it’s just a prelude, a slow-building overture. I lose myself in a flurry of sensations, so many it’s like there are a dozen of him, kissing and touching and biting at my body with beautiful timing. His stubble against my breast, his breath on my navel, hand on my neck, teeth on my ear. I lose sense of where one sensation ends and another begins. As he spears into me, steady and perfect, I pant and moan, barely able

to hear myself through the sound of my body’s ecstasy. A virtuoso performance, and in the center of it all is the drumbeat of his cock, getting harder and faster. From rhythmic ballad to driving groove to slamming beat, until it turns in a jungle rhythm, a primal thump that feels like thunder striking deep, to the depths of my soul. A jackhammer booming inside of me, sending me higher into the stratosphere with each thrust. For a few moments I lose all sense of time and space. Forget who I am, what I’m doing. Get scared at the idea I may never come back down again, may never be able to function after experiencing this, after so much pleasure. Every heartbeat, pulse, and nerve in my body reaches its peak, humming in unison as I hover for a few beautiful seconds on the edge. I let myself feel it, let it engulf me, let him push me over the brink, harder and faster, until there’s nothing else left. “Come for me,” he demands, tilting my chin up so we’re staring into each other’s eyes. Suddenly I’m falling. Back down to earth, back into Brando’s apartment, back to his floor, over his cock, coming in unstoppable waves of fluid release. I grab his shoulders to steady my arching, writhing body. The feeling of his flexing, sculpted muscles under my hands only urges me further. I realize I’m screaming like I’ve never screamed before, a sound that seems to come from every pore of my body. Through misted eyes I see him, groaning with satisfaction as he reaches his own shuddering climax inside of me. Spent and satisfied, I collapse back onto the floor, my muscles feeling like they’re melting downward. A relaxing coolness filling the empty spaces in my body. I feel tender fingers brush hair from my face, stroking it into place, and open my eyes. “You scream beautifully,” Brando says, grinning. I put a hand to his face and pull him toward me for a slow kiss. “It’s always about the music, right?”

11

Brando SHOWCASES ARE the end of the road for most indie acts. The closest they ever get to breaking big. It’s where most indie performers put everything on the line, one shot, a double or nothing bet, in front of a brick wall of impossible-to-impress label men. Nine out of ten times none of the acts get picked up. One out of every hundred – maybe thousand – acts hears from a label afterwards. Big shots go to the events more to convince themselves that they’re not missing out, or to convince themselves that they’ve still got an ear on the ground, than to actually find talent. I don’t tell Haley any of that. The show I’ve booked Haley for is the most high-profile showcase event of the year. One of the biggest and best clubs in LA, booked for an entire evening by some of the biggest and best labels in LA. Every act on the bill has some heavy hitter already pushing them; managers with good connections and a reputation, A&R guys trying to prove something to their bosses. And though it looks like any other gig, everyone dressed down and drinking as if it was just another open mic, it’s exclusive too. Almost everyone in the room has the power to make or break an artist; almost everyone in the room has done it before. I don’t tell Haley any of that, either. Because there’s already a buzz around Haley – more than there should be for someone who barely has an online presence. It’s still just the hip stations – the ones that still choose for themselves what they put on the air – that are playing her song, but they’re playing it a lot. A fan-made video of her song with just a blank background and the lyrics flashing across the screen is already stacking up views on ViewTube. Everyone wants to see what she’s all about now. Whether she’s the real deal, or just some girl who accidentally wrote a good song. The few, low-res, unrevealing pics that come up when you search her name online only stoked their interest further. They’ve got a lot of questions that need answers. I definitely don’t tell Haley about any of this. To Haley – and the three people who make up her band – this is just another gig. Another easy-tobook guest spot in a venue that may or may not have a few influential label guys in the audience. That’s still enough to get her nervous. “Did you see how many people are out there?” she says, as she rushes back to the green room. She finally let a stylist trim her hair for the occasion, and the feather-cut dances around her face as she shakes her head with exasperation. It almost distracts me from the tight leggings she’s wearing under a denim skirt, her slender thighs even more darkly arousing in black silhouette. The tight tank top she’s wearing hugs all the right places, giving you just enough to know she’s hiding something special, but only when she moves the right way. The audience is going to love how she looks, at the very least. The green room itself is packed. The air is tense and humid. Even the air of chatter and breaks of laughter amongst the artists sounds distant and edgy. About a dozen skinny guys who all look like they’re from the same band shuffle their feet, some of them doing better than others as they try to act cool and unconcerned. In the middle, five girls in tight outfits stretch and shake off their nerves – a sight that would steal most of my attention were it not for Haley. I watch her pace between the band members. Brian, the lank-haired guitarist, sits on a table and tunes his guitar over and over; Aaron, the tall, wiry bassist, stares at his tapping toes, while Paula, the drummer, bites her nails and gazes into space like she’s waiting for test results. This isn’t good. Haley’s band marches to her beat, and right now it’s all over the place. “Haley,” I say, grabbing her arm to stop her pacing and bringing her in close, “you’re the most talented musician I’ve ever worked with. Even if you go out there and play the worst set you’ve ever played, it would still be a thousand times better than what any other act in this green room could hope to achieve.”

Haley’s eyes go big and round. “I don’t know if you’re right…” “I know I’m right. Trust me, Haley. I wouldn’t bring you here if I thought you couldn’t cakewalk it.” “I know, but—” There’s a rise in the level of chatter and I look around. The dancers are being called out. “You’re on soon,” I say, noticing the rush of red that appears in Haley’s cheeks. “When you get out there, you’re gonna see a sea of faces. A hell of a lot more people than you’ve ever played in front of before. Look for me. I’ll stand at the back, by the entrance, and when you see me, don’t take your eyes away from me. Forget everything else: The lights, the crowd, the noise. Just me. Play for me and no one else. Can you do that for me?” Haley smiles and nods. “Yeah. Okay.” “Good.” I put a hand on her shoulder and squeeze, startled at the jolt I get from the contact of my palm against her warm skin. “Haley Grace Cooke?” comes a loud, nasal voice from the doorway. We both turn to see the mic’d up runner. He points a thumb back over his shoulder. It’s time. I look back toward Haley, who smiles anxiously as her band gets up and walks after the runner. She takes a few steps to follow them, before suddenly stopping. I panic for a second before she turns, but when she does, it’s only to throw her lips against mine. A deep, desperate, stolen kiss, before she spins back and hurries after the rest of her band. I can still taste her glossy lips as she walks away, like an expensive drink, only a little more intoxicating. “Break a leg,” I shout after her. Minutes later and I’m standing where I said I would be, right by the exit, waiting for her to come out on stage. I stand up tall, but the crowd’s thick and moving constantly. They push and jostle for a good view of the stage as soon as they know Haley’s on next. When she does walk out, it’s obvious something is wrong. She walks with her head down, hair covering her face. She fumbles for way too long to strap on her guitar, and walks with painfully slow steps up to the mic. I can see the band members exchanging glances, wondering how they’ll cope without Haley’s cues. I raise my arm higher in the hope that Haley will notice it. She’s gazing out at the audience, which has gone embarrassingly quiet now, between the strands of hair that hang lazily over her face. I wait for the look of recognition, for any movement. She can’t see me, and now she’s locked up. The only movement she’s making is the visible rise and fall of her chest as she pants tensely. I push forward, shoving aside people I know I should really be more polite to. But right now none of them matter. I move indiscriminately through the crowd, toward the center, a spot where there’s nothing between us, impossible to miss. I raise my hand and stand tall, praying that Haley sees me. There in the center of the audience I hear the judgmental comments, the random giggles at the bizarre turn of events. A couple of women in front of me even turn away and start making their way toward the bar. But then Haley smiles. And it lights up the stage more than the thousand dollar equipment could ever hope to. With a hair flick sexier than a shampoo billboard on Hollywood and Vine, she moves the curls away from her face and stands up to the mic, her eyes settling on mine. She glances away only to cue up her band, before turning back toward me. Paula smacks her sticks together four times and then it’s on. I forget the audience around me, the lights, the noise. It’s just me and Haley. I can’t keep my attention away from her as the showcase finishes and morphs into a loose and loud after

party – and apparently neither can anyone else. “That was sensational!” another schmoozing executive says, handing us another card to add to the stack already filling my pocket. “Ben Livingstone, Jupiter Records. I want to have first dibs on you, young lady.” Haley giggles breathlessly, finding it hard to keep up. “First is taken,” I say, with a smile, “so is second. I can give you fifth. Maybe.” Ben laughs, but there’s a note of disappointment in it. “Well if I can’t have dibs,” he says, raising his glass, “I can sure offer the best deal.” “Now that’s more like it,” I say. Ben laughs again before leaning in to whisper something in my ear. “You really lucked out here, Brando. I don’t know how, but you really did.” Ben leaves and I turn my attention to Haley. “Another drink?” “No,” she says, the smile that’s been plastered onto her face since she came off the stage to rapturous applause still there, “I think I’m drinking too much.” “If ever there was a night to drink too much, it’s this one. Most of these schmucks usually leave halfway through. They’re only here to get an audience with the future star.” “You were the only audience I needed,” Haley says, squeezing my bicep before turning away to gaze at the crowd, which has now morphed into a rush of celebrity musicians. “I can’t believe how many famous people are here. I thought it was only record execs.” “Musicians tend to like talking business over a loud song and some alcohol. Executives, on the other hand, tend to start living like musicians when they spend so much time around them.” “Is that…Annabelle Church?” Haley says, gawking at the girl in a see-through dress that seems to glide through the entrance. “Yeah. Probably here in the hope that dress will get her some funds for her next record.” Haley turns to me suddenly, eyes filled with surprise. “But…she’s huge.” “And has an ego to match. Not many people want to touch her since she created her own Twitter account. Forget her, anyway, you should be mixing with people who’ve got real talent. Someone like Rex Bentley over there. Now that’s a genius.” I raise a glass in his direction, and Rex obligingly returns the gesture. “Guy’s a legend. Made some of the greatest records you’ll ever hear and he still looks better than —” I stop when I notice Haley’s face. The color drains from it like a reverse painting. Even her lips turn a chilling shade of white. “Let’s go.” “What?” “Please, Brando. Let’s leave.” “But everyone here wants to speak to you! You’ve already made more connections than most musicians make in their careers, and you’ve barely spoken to half the record chiefs here. Besides, you haven’t even finished your dri—” “I have to go. You can come with me or stay. Don’t make me ask you again. Please.” “Haley,” I say, bending down to get a better look at her ghostly face, eyes limpid and dilated, as if she’s been drugged. “What’s the matter? Are you sick? Do you want to—” She doesn’t even let me finish the sentence before dashing away into the crowd, shoving through confused strangers like she’s being chased. I watch her for a second, trying to think of a logical reason for the change in her, before giving up, slamming my drink down on a table nearby, and following her toward the back exit.

12

Haley BRANDO BRINGS a thick blanket out from his loft onto the wide balcony of his apartment and wraps it around my shoulders. “Thanks,” I say, my voice trembling, only slightly caused by the cold. It’s the first word I’ve said since Brando caught me outside, embraced me tightly, and ushered me into the back of a cab to his apartment. “You sure you don’t want to go back inside? I can make you something hot to drink. Get you something to eat, maybe?” “No,” I say, eyes unfocused as I watch the red and white lights of LA cars snake through the trafficjammed streets. “I need the fresh air.” Brando smooths a part of the blanket over my shoulder, making it a little more snug. A gesture I can’t resist smiling at him for. He leans up against the balcony railing beside me, his bicep against my arm. “So,” he says, setting the tempo to a slow one with the patient, neutral way he says it, “you mind telling me what that was all about?” I stiffen again as I recall the moment. “He looked at me,” I mutter, clenching my jaw. “Who? Rex? Well yeah. He looked at us. Is that what this is about?” “He looked at me,” I say, the exact same way, “and he didn’t recognize me.” Brando pauses before speaking. “Haley, don’t get ahead of yourself. Tonight was great, but it’s just a first step. It’ll take time before people recognize you. You’ve got to be pa—” “You don’t understand,” I say, turning toward Brando with a fierce gaze. “Rex Bentley is my father.” Brando’s chiseled jaw drops so heavily it looks like it’ll smash through the floor. “What? Wait…I don’t understand. Are you sure?” I nod slowly, before turning back to lean on the railing and gaze into the night. “It was right after his ‘blue’ period, when he made those albums in Europe. He came to LA, bought a big mansion, mountains of cocaine, and started making hits again. My mom was a musician too. She’d tried to get an album together, but ended up as a back-up singer. He liked her, used her on some of the records, and eventually, used her for some other things as well. That’s when she became his ‘assistant.’” Brando still looks confused. “But he was married then…” “Yeah,” I shoot back with a bitter laugh. “He was. Which is why when she told him she was pregnant he fired her, gave her a thousand dollars, and sent her on her way to ‘take care of it.’” “Fuck,” Brando says, drawing out the word until it becomes a long sigh of anger and disbelief. “When I was born,” I continue, feeling the heat build up behind my eyes, sniffing back the fogginess in my throat, “my mom sent him a picture of me. A letter telling him where we were, how he could get in touch. He never responded.” Brando’s arm wraps around me tightly, but even the feeling of protection, of being cared for, can’t remove the pain that’s stabbing at me inside. He brushes tears from my cheeks softly. “When I was twelve, my mother decided to tell me. I was already—” I pause to swallow down the hurt, “I was already in love with music. Already sure of what I wanted to do with my life. I thought it was amazing—” I can barely get the word out, stutters and sobs interrupting me, “…amazing that it was him. I had this big hole in my life where a father should have been, and I would have settled for anyone. Any drunk, or loser. But instead it was him. It made me so h… ha… happy.” It takes a full minute of Brando rubbing my back before I can stop the quivering in my lips and the sobbing in my throat enough to continue. “My mom still had his address – the one he used for personal letters. I knew he checked them

himself, rather than through a secretary. I started sending him letters, photos, cassette tapes of me talking mixed with the songs I was making. I don’t know what I thought would happen. Maybe that he would accept me back into his life. Maybe he’d see that I had his blood, musician’s blood, and realize he’d made a mistake.” I shake my head at my own teenage stupidity. “Yeah. I actually thought he’d realize he’d made a mistake. Maybe it was the drugs, the lifestyle, the career that got in the way. I sent him letters for five years. Five fucking years! Half a decade, hundreds of letters with my whole life in them. My deepest thoughts, my hopes and dreams. One hope and one dream most of all – to have a fucking father.” I break down fully. The cracks too wide to close up. Pain and heartbreak flowing through every vein in my body. Brando pulls me toward him tightly, squeezing me as if he can push it all back out. “Haley,” he says, as I weep into his chest, “I’m sorry.” I gather the pieces of me that remain and stand back upright to breathe in the cool night air. “Maybe,” Brando says, his hand still brushing my wet cheek, “he didn’t get the letters? Perhaps he had a different address? Or it just got stuck with all the other fan mail?” “All he had to do was look, you know?!” I scream, loudly and angrily, as if it’s him standing in front of me rather than Brando. “All he had to do was look! We weren’t on fucking Mars; we were six hours away in Santa Cruz! Twenty-four fucking years and nothing. Not one fucking word! I thought maybe he was staying away, scared to come back after all this time. He had to know. Who could spend twenty-four years without checking once – just once – to see what his daughter looked like? And then tonight… He just looked right through me, like I was anybody, and I knew. I knew I was lying to myself.” Brando says nothing, but his eyes show it. He wishes he could take this pain away, wishes he could do something, but he can’t. Instead, he reaches down to the six pack of beers he brought out onto the balcony, cracks two open, and hands me one. I gulp almost half of it, hoping the cold fizz and the alcohol will help clear away the bad taste that all the memories left behind. “Thanks,” I say, drying the last of my tears with the edge of the blanket. Brando nods and leans back against the balcony, twisting the bottle in his hands as he searches for something to say. “You know, I can’t tell you how to feel, or how to think about any of that. I can’t tell you how to stop hurting – I’d be a therapist if I could. But the one thing I do know, for sure, is that it’s the shit that hurts the most, which hurts the longest and the deepest, that makes you tougher.” I lean over the railing, dangling my beer above the empty street below, watching the shadows of strays slide around the garbage cans of the alleyway. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve just never really spoken about this before.” “It’s okay,” Brando replies softly. “Let’s talk about something else. Please. I don’t want to think about this anymore.” “Okay, let’s see…” he says, moving closer and leaning in. I look up at him, searching his gaze. “Tell me about you.” “Me?” “Yeah. What’s your story? We spend so much time together, and I still have no idea where you’re from.” I snort a little laugh. “Did you just emerge out of thin air as the very charming, incredibly handsome ‘Brando Nash’?” “Yes?” I laugh. “Funnily enough, I’d believe that.” “Actually,” Brando says with a sigh, “the truth is a bit messier.” “Oh?” He turns his face back toward the skyline, as if he can almost see his past still happening way off beyond the city’s lights. “I don’t really know where I was born, or who my parents were. They gave me up for adoption when

I was two.” “Jesus.” For some reason, this was the last thing I expected to hear. I turn to look at Brando. “You didn’t try to find out?” “I didn’t have time to try. The first ten years of my life are just a blur. One group home to another, friends you make and lose in a single day, foster parents I eventually gave up on hoping would be longterm. I was always the new boy, always the stranger. I got bullied pretty bad. I learned pretty quickly to just keep my mouth shut and get through the days.” I study Brando’s face. He stares outward, his expression stony, as if reciting a history textbook in his deep monotone. “I had nothing. Owned nothing. Even my clothes were ‘borrowed’ from other kids in the homes. Except music. That was free. You couldn’t steal airwaves.” He takes a long draught of beer. “True,” I say, starting to see the pieces of Brando come together. “You can’t.” He shrugs. “I started hanging out in places I could hear music. Snuck into clubs, sat outside bars. Sometimes I’d just stop outside someone’s house if they had the radio on loud enough.” Brando laughs at the recollection. “Then something clicked. I realized that these songs weren’t just some alien thing that came from another planet, but that you could actually make music. Kids rapping on street corners, dreadlocked guys on the subway banging on drums. It was expressive, moving, powerful. And it made me feel powerful.” Brando looks at me, a little embarrassed. “I loved music, but I knew I couldn’t make it. That wasn’t where my strengths were. I was a smarttalker, a connection-maker – a hustler. I could see things. Make things happen. That’s what I was good at. I put on some showcases, networked like hell, and then started a small label, got a few local acts together. Persuaded people to give us some studio time, brought people together I thought would work. It was good. Underground, nothing major – but good.” He drops his gaze to the alleyway a hundred feet below us. “Then I met Lexi, and I knew it could be something huge. She used to make these tapes of her just humming melodies, and you’d have sworn they were classics. She wrote songs like that, just singing them into a cheap tape deck. And her voice was…mind-blowing. She was working in a fast food joint at the time, just doing the music for fun, for the love of it. It was me who convinced her it could be something more. “I dropped everything. Gave the label over to some associates to handle, forgot all about the hustling, and from then on, it was all Lexi. I did everything for her.” “You fell in love with her?” I ask, gently. Brando nods. “How could I not? She was amazing. We moved into some shitty apartment in the Bronx. I started doing everything I could to get her demos together, get her in front of the people who mattered. But I was jealous, possessive, a control freak. Lexi, on the other hand, liked to party. We argued about everything, money, the music, us. But we knew we needed each other. “Things started moving, and we both came to LA. I didn’t know anybody here, but I knew how to make friends fast, how to move in the right circles. It was coming together. I had the songs, had the connections. I got a job at Majestic Records. Everything was lined up.” Brando smiles widely, but it’s a macabre smile, a smile that he’s putting on to stop the other emotions from coming out. “And just when we were about to do it, about to make it big, the labels already making offers, the studio time already starting, the songs already there - Lexi left.” He turns to me and stares, as if I might have an answer, might be able to explain why, or how. I shake my head slowly, in disbelief and sympathy. “How? Why?”

“I asked myself that same question every day for the past three years,” he says. “Maybe I’d been so focused on her career, I forgot about her. Maybe I underestimated how much I hurt her; how much she hated me. Maybe we never had the same ambition all along. She disappeared for a week. I found out through somebody at the label that she’d signed with Davis. He’d promised her a number one record, mega-star status. She even cheated on me just to make sure I got the message – some pretty-boy from Davis’ label who I know she never even liked.” “Brando…” “It’s alright. I fucked the pain away, pretty much. Went out every night, making up for lost time. Became somebody else, in order to survive. Still a hustler, but even more so. If I stopped to think it would only hurt, so I kept moving – only faster. I started to treat women the way I treated my acts. I cared for them, had fun with them, gave them what they wanted, and took my share of that. But I didn’t get attached. Didn’t get emotionally involved. In that sense, I moved on. Or at least, I thought I had, until she showed up again.” It takes a second for me to piece it all together. “So that’s what you guys were doing at the open mic I played?” “Yeah.” We turn toward LA, the city that gave us our dreams, and then took them away. I start laughing. It’s slow at first, but it gets crazier and crazier. I try to stop, covering my mouth, but the more I do, the more maniacal it gets. Brando watches me with confusion, until he starts breaking out himself. For a full minute, we howl like schoolkids, doubled over and clutching our stomachs. “We are quite a pair!” I say, laughing harder. “Two abandoned strays!” Brando shouts into the night. “Coming for revenge!” “You hear that, LA?!” “We’re coming!”

13

Brando THOUGH MY CARD still says I work for them, Majestic Records and I have a somewhat complicated relationship. Not least involving their CEO: Jason Rowland. When they offered me a job, it was based on my success with my own NYC-based label. But it was also assumed Lexi and I came as a package deal. Majestic would get an A & R guy who had his ear to the streets, and also his hottest prospect. When the hot prospect decided to go with their biggest rival, Davis Crawford’s Hypersonic, and when I turned out to be more interested in partying than finding them someone to replace her, the tension didn’t take long to creep in. Still, I managed to hand them a couple of good acts, a few indie rock bands whose sales are slow but steady, a hot girl group with an urban sound, and most recently an R ‘n B singer who has a small, but creepily-obsessive fan following. So they let me keep the office and the cards, but in truth, most of what I’ve been doing over the past few years has been the same as ever. Hustling to get small bands signed to other labels when Majestic – specifically Jason Rowland – rejects them. Not this time. Only a fool would pass up someone as hot as Haley. This time I’m the one who’s going to be setting the terms. I roll up to the skyscraper that houses the Majestic Records offices and wink to the always-smiling receptionist. A long elevator ride later and I step out onto one of the highest floors. “Here for your ten-thirty, Brando?” “Early as always, Siobhan.” “Not always,” the beautiful blonde says, knowingly. We have history. I take a seat on the leather couch outside Rowland’s office and settle in for the inevitable waiting period. Rowland always makes people wait; he thinks it makes him seem more important. I guess he read it in a book. My phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, but I pick up anyway. You never know when opportunity’s gonna give you a call. “Well hello, Brando.” Shit. “Davis? How the fuck did you get my number?” “I’ve always had your number, Brando. You know that.” “Well do me a favor and delete it.” “Come on now, why so prickly? Getting a little jittery about our little bet, now that there are only two weeks left?” I can’t help the smirk that creeps into my voice. “Actually things are going pretty well. I’m guessing you know that already, though.” “Ah yes. Everyone’s talking about Brando’s new girl. If I hear that damned song one more time I’ll be tempted to steal her off you, too.” He snickers at his own joke and I swallow the flush of anger that rises in me. “We done?” I say, curtly. “With a little bit of the right guidance, and a big push behind her, she could be quite the little star in a year or so.” “She’ll be a star. In two weeks.” Davis’ croaky laugh sounds even worse over a phone line. “Come on Brando, you know that’s impossible. It took you this long just to get some songs together. Nobody outside of the LA has any idea who she is. Look, I thought I’d be my typically gentlemanly self and offer you an out. I made the bet just to see you squirm, but you’ve done admirably. So in a way, you’ve won already. Frankly, I wouldn’t want one of your acts even if you did decide to go ahead and lose it. I wouldn’t know what to do with them.”

I chuckle. “Davis, I don’t back out of bets, but even if I did, Haley would still be a star by the end of the month – and you know it. Seeing the look on your silicone-stuffed face when you have to pay me ten grand is just the very sweet cherry on top of an incredibly satisfying cake.” Siobhan raises her eyes to meet mine and nods toward Rowland’s door. “Now Brando, you’ve always been a wonderfully confi—” “Bye Davis. Gotta run. See you at the end of the month.” I hang up and smile. I stand up, send another memory-inducing wink toward Siobhan, and push through the pretentiously large double doors that lead into Jason Rowland’s office. In case it wasn’t obvious, Rowland and I have never seen eye-to-eye. He’s a young guy, tall and slim. He dresses sharp, but he has the cold, clinical manner, and the doll-like hair, of a serial killer. To me, he always looked like the kind of guy who owns a dungeon and gets off on making sex-contracts with women. We come from completely different worlds. Though he likes to tell people he had a tough childhood, anyone can see he was born rich, and never worked a day in his life. He started Majestic himself, but it’s still a subsidiary of ‘Rowland Enterprises’ – his father’s company. Nobody knows much about his private life, but I met a girl once who swore she saw him watching her from across the street almost every day for three weeks after she slept with him. He’s standing in the typical pose he assumes when people get sent to his office: legs akimbo at the glass wall, arms crossed to puff up his puny chest, looking out over the city. I try not to roll my eyes as I walk up to his desk. “I like you Brando,” he says as he turns around, and I brace myself for the performance of an asshole who thinks he’s an alpha male. “I see some of myself in you. You came up from the bottom. Fought your way here. And now look at you.” Rowland spreads his arms wide, as if to say ‘Is there anything better on planet Earth than my office?’ I nod politely, then take a seat without asking. This is going to take longer than I’d hoped. “But it still bugs me that we lost Lexi. I still don’t know why. Why, Brando?” I shrug. It’s too early in the morning for this shit. Ten pm would be too early in the morning for this shit. I clear my throat and hope the discussion can move on from this topic ASAP. “I don’t know what to tell you, Rowland. I guess she just felt this place wasn’t a good fit for her.” He shows his whitened, tiny teeth in a nasty smile. “You weren’t a good fit for her, Brando. You lack that killer instinct. You couldn’t close the deal.” Hearing this shit from Davis is one thing – at least I can hang up on Davis. But here on my own turf? My fist clenches at my side. “I’m here to talk about Haley Grace Cooke,” I say, putting a little steel in my voice, enough to let Rowland know where this conversation is going. “Who?” “Haley Grace Cooke. The girl everybody went crazy over at the showcase a couple nights ago. Everyone’s talking about her.” He shrugs, unimpressed. “I don’t speak to ‘everyone.’” “Of course. Look,” I say, pulling out my phone, “she’s got a song they’re playing on regular rotation on every college station in California. She’s already getting a lot of momentum online. Listen.” I play the song on my phone and watch Rowland’s reaction. He leans back in his chair, fingers arched in front of him, and pouts as if he’s contemplating the meaning of life. “Nothing’s official yet,” I say, taking advantage of Rowland’s rare silence, “but she’s a lock. We can pick her up when we want. For now, though, we need to take advantage of this buzz. She’s got a demo for now, five songs – all of them potential hits. I’ve been circulating the tape and it’s already getting good

feedback. Right now, though, she needs a video, and for that I need a budget.” “Stop the song.” I oblige, leaning forward to turn it off, and put the phone back into my pocket. “You want a budget,” Rowland says, leaning back in his chair even further with an expression of disapproval as if I just asked for his only daughter’s hand in marriage, “for an unsigned artist, who may not even go with us—” “I told you, she’ll sign with us when I tell her to. I can call her in right now. But this video will be an act of good faith. Trust me, she’s worth it. You already have proof,” I say, leaning forward in my chair as I try to convince him. “Based on what?” Rowland says, a smile on his face. He can’t hide how much he enjoys playing his power games. He puts his feet up on the floor and his hands behind his head. “A few college DJs? A few industry types who wouldn’t know the street if it smacked them in the face?” “It doesn’t have to be a big budget. She’s talented. We should make the investment while we can.” “You mean take the risk. Then it’s my ass on the line instead of yours.” “It’s no risk. It’s just a small amount of money that we’re sure to get back. If we capitalize on this.” “Excuse me? Last I checked I’m the one who decides what to do with this company’s finances – my finances. And given your track record, I can’t say I have much faith in this girl. Does she even have any talent, or are you just blowing smoke up my ass for your latest flavor of the week?” Something inside me sparks up, the thing that I suppress every time I walk into Rowland’s office. I lean forward slowly, my face blank, and say the next two words slowly. “Fuck you.” They taste delicious. Every part of Rowland’s face drops. He drops his feet off the desk, puts his palms on it, and leans forward. “I’m sorry? Did you just—” “You heard me. You’re not deaf – although that would explain a lot of things.” I stand up, and Rowland instinctively backs up a little. “Who do you think you are?” he manages to say, though his voice is weak and nasal. “Have you forgotten that I’m your boss?! I pay you!” “I know what I am. It might have taken me a while to figure it out, but I know. I also know what I’m not. I’m not a cowardly parasite that doesn’t believe in anything, or anyone. I’m not a jumped-up rich kid with an inferiority complex he has to keep hidden behind a big office and lousy power-plays.” I turn around and start walking for the door. “You’re fired, Brando!” Rowland calls behind me. “You’ve just made a big mistake!” This time it’s me who raises my arms out wide as I step toward the door. “So why do I feel fucking great?” It’s a hell of a rush telling your boss to go screw himself. To be yourself, to listen to your heart, and to tell the truth. To tell the people who think they’re better than you what they really are. To give the doubters the finger and go it alone. To throw away years of hard work in a split second. To give up on the paycheck that’s paying your bills. To force yourself to do everything yourself, alone, with nobody to help you...wait. Fuck. What have I just done? I step out of Rowland’s office feeling invincible, but it only takes the elevator ride down to the ground floor before the doubt starts creeping in. By the time I’m in my car it feels like Rowland might be right: This could be a huge mistake. “Fuck it,” I say, turning the key, “add it to the list.” It was a dumb move. Reckless, impulsive, and only momentarily satisfying. The kind of move I

usually reserve for my personal life. Right about now, though, I’m losing track of where my personal life ends and my business life begins. Yet as stupid as it was, as much as I might have fucked up my career, it feels right. I guess even big, stupid mistakes make sense when you truly believe in something – and the one thing I believe in right now is Haley. Before I know it, I find myself driving over to her place. I’ve never been there before, and I’m not even sure she’ll be there, but it feels like the only place left to go. I bring it up on my phone and the gps leads me down streets lined with dingy low-income apartments, where the air seems infused with the familiar, desperate, uniquely Los Angelan scent of crushed dreams. I park and take the stairs up to the third floor (the elevator’s broken, and looks like it has been for a while) and stand in front of a door hanging slightly off center. I knock with a few fist-thumps, loud enough to be heard over the TV inside. Half a minute later the door swings open and a pretty face greets me – but it’s not Haley’s. “Brando?” she asks. I realize I recognize her from the coffee shop. “Jenna? You live here too?” “God, no!” the blonde says, screwing up her face like I just asked her if she tortures cats. “I’m just hanging out with Haley.” “Can I see her?” “She’s in the shower now.” Jenna folds her arms. “Okay...?” We stand there for a few moments while I wait for her to invite me inside. Instead, she steps out into the hallway and brings the door not-quite-closed behind her. Then she puts her hands on her hips and stiffens her brow. She’s five-five but I still feel like I’m about to be talked down to. “Look. Just be straight with me, alright? What do you want with Haley?” I shrug. “I need to speak with her. I’ve got some news—” “No,” she interrupts, “I mean what do you want with her, from all of this? You’re not the first person to promise Haley the world, you know. And as hot as you might be, I’ve seen her go through too much crap with guys to give you a pass.” She narrows her eyes at me, judging. Waiting. I’m touched she cares so much, and I’m glad Haley has a friend like Jenna. “Listen.” I gently place my hands on Jenna’s shoulders and look her in the eyes, so she can see how serious I am. “I know I’m not the first person to make Haley promises, but I’m sure as hell planning to be the last. I’m not going to disappear if that’s what you think.” Jenna’s unmoved. “It’s easy to talk the talk, but I don’t know anything about you.” I sigh, step back, and run a hand through my hair. “If you knew what I’d just done for her, you wouldn’t be saying any of this.” Jenna tilts her head and studies me intensely, as if squinting hard enough will allow her to read my thoughts. “I’ve known Haley for a long time now,” she says, slowly, “I’ve seen the cracks in her smile every time she comes back from another disappointing open mic. I’ve seen how much of herself she gives to her music. I’ve watched her go to hell and back for the tiniest chance at making it, and then barely keep it together when it all falls down. She might act tough, and sarcastic, and like she’s got it all under control, but that’s just how she copes. The reality is a lot more complicated.” “You think I don’t see that?” I ask, exasperated. “Oh I’m sure you see that,” Jenna says, leaning back against the wall, “the question is whether you care. Because if you don’t, I don’t want her seeing you. And she’ll listen to me.” I might normally laugh this off, but I know Jenna means it. And I won’t lose Haley over this. I’m the real deal. I look over at the door, slightly ajar, as if I’ll see Haley through it. “Jenna,” I finally say, meeting her fierce gaze, “you’re her best friend, and you’re looking out for her,

and I get it. And we both know that nothing I say will convince you that I’m for real, but that’s okay, ‘cause I prefer actions to words as well. So I’m not going to try and convince you that I’m perfect, because I’m not. I’m not even going to try and persuade you that I’m a nice guy. But I’ll tell you this: I don’t do anything unless I believe in it – and I believe in Haley and her music more than anything right now.” Jenna’s nodding. “I believe you’ll do that for her music, but what about—” “I’ll do it for Haley, too,” I cut her off. “I’m not stupid. I can see how Haley and her music come as a package deal. I’ll support her with everything I’ve got, break down walls for her, give her anything she needs. She’ll be protected with me. I won’t let her down.” I make a crossing motion over my heart, and give Jenna a nod. She watches me, eyes me with a slightly softer gaze. The second I finish the apartment door swings open. “Hey, Jenna! What are you doing—” Haley cuts herself off as soon as she notices me. “Brando?” “Hey. We were just talking about you.” Haley glances from me to Jenna, amused confusion all over her sweet face. “In the hallway?” “I was just about to go,” Jenna says before looking at me. The look she gives me is brief, but it conveys plenty: she’s not totally convinced yet, but she’s willing to give me a chance. “I got a call from a casting agent, I’ve got to run.” “Okay,” Haley nods. “Good luck! I’ll see you at work.” “Of course,” Jenna says, giving Haley a quick hug before leaving. Haley turns to me and I experience the short rush of blood I always get when I see her. “Isn’t she great?” Haley beams. “She’s something, alright,” I reply, watching Jenna disappear down the staircase. “So what’s up? Why’d you come all the way out here?” “I’ve got some news and I wanted to tell you in person.” Haley waits for more, then reads my expression and drops her smile. “Good or bad?” I hesitate. “It’s…dramatic.” Haley nods, setting her jaw. “Alright. I’ll get my jacket.”

14

Haley “YOU REALLY SAID all that to his face? And then he fired you?” I’m still in shock. Brando just nods and takes another lick of his ice cream cone, totally relaxed, his smile framed against the endless ocean. The dusty-orange light of the setting sun carves out his perfectly-proportioned face so sublimely I feel like I’m living in an Instagram photo. And suddenly, I relax too. We carry on down the boardwalk, working on our ice cream cones, feeling light and happy. Every second a perfect moment that seems to linger before it gives way to another. “So what are you now? Are you still my manager?” I say as we start walking up the pier, almost reluctant to break the comfortable silence between us. “I guess,” Brando says, sucking the end of his finger in a way that makes me wish he’d asked me first. “I was never that good of an A & R guy anyway. I like artists too much to exploit them.” I laugh a little. “’Too much’ is one way of putting it… Thanks, though. I appreciate you sticking up for me.” “I did it just as much for myself as for you. If I was really smart I’d have kissed his ass until he handed me the budget. But…” “But that doesn’t exactly come easy to you, right?” Brando sits on the bench at the end of the pier and looks up at me, smiling. “I guess we’re both discovering what our limits are.” Brando points his dark-brown eyes at me in a way I haven’t seen yet. I stand a few feet in front of him, feeling the salt air fill my lungs, enjoying his devoted attention, wondering how bad news can feel like good news when you’ve got the simple things right. “So it’s just you and me now? We’re going it alone?” I say, having to look at him through my windblown hair. “In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s been that way from the start.” I smile shyly and put a hand on my beach skirt as it blows against my skin. I didn’t feel like my regulation jeans and dark t-shirt today. It was a snap decision to wear this light-blue, almost see-through skirt, and a tight white tank top with a denim jacket over it. The kind of decision a girl makes much more easily when she’s getting some. “What’s the next step then?” “We still need a video,” Brando says, still studying me like I’m the Sistine chapel. His look makes me feel naked, but the stranger thing is that I don’t mind. I squinch up my face. “How? You said it yourself, we have no budget. Nothing. Maybe we can borrow some equipment, but don’t we need a director? Lighting guys? A studio? I don’t know, videos seem like—” “You look so beautiful right now,” Brando says, his voice cutting through mine like a soft punch. I look down at my feet, wondering if it’s normal for an adult woman to blush this much. “The way your hair falls over your face,” he continues, as if in a trance, “the way your eyes catch the light and hold it. You always look amazing, but right now, right here, out in the light, I can see the magic around you.” I look around to see if anyone else is nearby, embarrassed but smiling like I’m guilty of getting away with something. “Anyway…we were talking about the video?” I say, looking back at Brando. He’s holding his phone out in front of him. Filming me. “Oh no! No no no!” “Yeah,” Brando says, standing up, his face expressing pure, mischievous glee. “About that video…” I hide my face behind my hands, turning away and taking a few steps back down the pier. Brando follows, his hand still holding the phone steady.

“Brando! Put the phone away!” I say, but I’m laughing as I say it, and the way his eyes narrow as they flick between the screen and mine lets me know how much he’s enjoying this. “If you look one tenth as good on film as you do in real life, this is gonna be amazing.” “Come on!” I say, pleading as I twirl around to face him, walking backwards away from the camera, before turning back around to walk down the pier. Brando steps in front of me, so now he’s walking backwards, and I’m walking towards the camera. He winks, and I try not to smile, try not to laugh. Try not to let Brando make me feel so playful and happy, as if this could actually happen. “How about a little dance?” Brando says from behind the lens. I stop and give him a look that says ‘no,’ before covering my face with my hands again, hiding behind my hair. “Or act shy,” he says. “That works too.” I continue to walk, Brando still filming me head-on as he steps backwards carefully. “Okay,” I say, talking to the camera lens, “you win. We’ll do the video like this.” I get just close enough, and then snatch the phone away from him. He freezes on the spot, his hands still out in front of him, holding a phone that isn’t there anymore. “On one condition,” I say, raising the phone and pointing the lens at him, “you’re gonna be in it too.” I watch him on the phone screen as he drops his hands to his side, and gives me a picture-perfect, cover-shoot sexy, incredibly photogenic smile. “Deal.” The rest of the evening is a heady blur of laughter and randomness. We go to a sushi place and we film each other acting goofy with our chopsticks. Brando gets sake on his shirt and we go to a clothes store to buy a new one. I force him to change in the middle of the store, on camera, making sure I catch the looks of the female onlookers, eyes wide as they bite their lips. Brando gets someone to film him surprising me by picking me up on his shoulders and running down the boardwalk. I do cartwheels on the beach, Brando takes off his clothes and emerges from the water, we film ourselves kissing against the changing colors of the sky as the sun sets. “This…could actually turn out pretty awesome!” I say, checking the footage as we enter Brando’s apartment. “It’s no blockbuster, but it’s real. It kinda makes sense. Intimate, kinda silly, genuine. It’s perfect for the song.” Brando walks up to me and pulls the phone from my hand. “I agree.” “Do you think we got enough?” I say, looking up at him. “For the whole song?” “No." Brando’s face is sultry as he raises the camera and points it at me. I look sideways at him, confused, but still playfully curious. “What are you doing?” “Filming you.” “I can see that,” I say, laughing gently. “But is this for the song? Or for yourself?” “That depends,” he says, voice thick and full, “on how hot it gets.” “Hot?” I say, the wetness of my lips audible in my voice. “You mean, like this?” I ease off my denim jacket, body sideways, looking over my shoulder at the camera – at Brando. I drop the jacket to the floor and press myself back up against the wall. “Like this?” I say, arching my back, breasts pushing out against the white tank, skirt swishing from the curve my ass. Brando stalks around me with the camera like an animal, moving the lens the way his eye would across my body, lips parted like he can already taste me. I spin around and walk away from the camera toward the couch. “What about this?” I move the skirt slowly down over my ass before letting it drop. I look back over my shoulder and see Brando on his knees, camera in one hand, pulling his shirt off with another, breathing so heavy it’s as if it doesn’t fit, the

lens and his eyes worshipping my ass. Facing the window, Brando behind me, I take my tank top off, slowly teasing it up over my belly and over my head before tossing it aside. Then I do the same with my bra, folding my arms, hands over my breasts, before turning around. Brando’s shirt is off, and though he’s still holding the camera up to face me, he’s not looking at the screen anymore. “This?” I say, lips pouting. Brando steps toward me slowly, shoulders rolling like a jungle cat. My heart beats faster with every inch of space that disappears between us. I drop my hands from my breasts and push my palms against the phone screen. He’s close enough that I can see the tension in his neck muscles, taste the testosterone on his skin. He stretches his arm out, camera pointing back at both of us. “This,” he says like a low, dangerous hiss, before forcing his lips on mine. I grab the back of his neck, fingers digging into his unyielding, taut skin, urging his delicious tongue into me. I let another hand venture around the ripples of his torso, exploring the irresistible curve of his muscles. He continues to film as we fuck each other’s mouths harder and faster with our ferocious tongues. His other hand presses against the small of my back on its way down to my ass, where it grabs and smacks me harder against him. I gasp at the delicious sting and wrap my arms around his neck, legs around his waist, and he lifts me up as easily as another part of his body. I close my eyes, feeling light-headed from his smell, from the rhythm of his heartbeat; so hard against my chest it makes my tits move, pressed up against his pecs. I struggle for breath, his tongue probing me hungrily, but I can’t let him go, won’t let him go. He gives my ass another firm slap and I moan, tilting my head back. “Brando.” He carries me to the bedroom, while I concentrate on tasting his shoulder. He throws me back onto the soft sheets of his bed, his giant frame towering above me. He tosses the phone aside. As he looks down at me, spread out on my back in just my panties, I leap towards his jeans like a woman possessed, hands tearing at his fly like it’ll save my life. He buries his hands in my hair and I look up at him, his face hard and commanding. I pull his jeans apart, popping a button in the process, and pull them down. His cock looks even bigger and more beautiful than the last time. I stare at it, half-scared, halfdelighted. He puts a hand around my chin, framing my face, lifting my eyes to meet his. “You want that?” he asks. I nod. “Take it,” he orders. I wrap a hand around the shaft, feeling the power and weight, another hand pressed against the lines of his waist. I watch his face twist and relax as I brush my tongue around the head. He breathes in sharply through his teeth as pleasure shivers through him. I take it slow as I work my tongue along the hardened curves, running it down the endless length, taking his balls in my mouth softly, then working back up the shaft. He groans and pants, and I feel my own center getting wetter with the thrill of shifting control. I take the head in my mouth, sucking long and hard as I draw back, his cock popping out from between my lips. I do it again, deeper and harder. He grabs fistfuls of my hair, pulling me deeper. I go again and again, holding his cock in my mouth, sucking and winding my tongue against his flesh. “Fuck,” he grunts, “that’s so good.” Brando’s grunts get more and more primal, his grip on my hair tighter and the thrust of his hips faster, until he’s fully face-fucking me. The length of his cock choking me, pulsating like a battering ram in my throat. I grab his ass cheeks with both hands, hard as steel, and dig my nails into his skin, telling him to fuck me like this, telling him that as big as he is, I can handle it. That yes, I do want it. Bad. As if in response, he fucks my mouth even harder, his breaths coming in shorter, deeper gasps. I drop

onto the bed on my back, keeping him with me, neck craned forward with my mouth still full of him, as he kneels over my chest, my breasts between the defined muscles of his thighs, his hand buried in my hair, keeping my tongue steady on his magnificent, wonderful, God-like dick. My head held in his powerful grip, mouth speared by his cock, I have nothing to do but gaze up at him, a mountain of flexing, machine-like muscle. His face a picture of determined, unstoppable potency. A skyscraper of a man, dominating everyone and everything around him. He pulls out, rolling quickly off to the side to grab a condom. I take a second to gasp for breath, feeling like a stranded shipwreck survivor, before glancing over at him, easing the condom on as he lays on his back. As soon as he does, I kick my panties off and leap onto him, straddling his cock. “My turn,” I gasp with wet desire. I slide myself over his cock a few times, squeezing it between my lips, before grabbing it roughly and pushing it slowly inside – sitting on the head. Brando tries to push deeper but I shove him down harshly, smiling at the pleasure of keeping him on the edge. I work my pussy over the head of his cock slowly, teasing him with what’s to come. He tries to raise his chest once again but I shove him back down once more, even more roughly than before. He looks up at me, his face a mixture of maniacal smiling and the aching desire for more. I smile back, through gritted teeth, working myself up until I’m ready. We cry out in unison when I slam myself down on him, taking every last bit of his cock into my wet pussy. He clutches at my ass mindlessly as I ride his cock, arching my back, thrusting my hips, squeezing my lips to make it hit all the spots I want it to. I throw my head back, pushing myself higher and higher, so good that I don’t even know I’m coming until I’m yelling his name, my face buried in his neck, my pussy aching and satisfied as the orgasm starts to fade. The heat and sweetness drain out of me. I slowly catch my breath, my heart still pounding. I press my cheek onto Brando’s chest, my sweat-soaked hair settling against his skin. Limp muscles melting into his tough, reliable frame. The last thing I remember before I pass out is his arm coming up to wrap around my shoulders, holding me tightly to him. I wake up in the middle of the night. The faintest glimmer of yellow in the sky tells me it’s still a while before sunrise. I stretch out across the bed, eyes still closed, trying to see where Brando is. He’s not there. I open my eyes quickly, throwing off grogginess instantly. I look across the bed, and sit upright when I realize the fear is true. He’s not there. I snatch up the thin bedsheet around me and look around. Between the bed and the rest of the loft there’s a partition, and around its corner I see brief flashes of light. My mouth goes dry and I start to feel the coldness of the hour. I slide out of bed as slowly, and as quietly, as I can, then tiptoe up to the partition. “Brando?” I say, in sleepy confusion, when I see him sitting at the couch, intently bent over the laptop in front of him. I step closer and it becomes clear why he doesn’t answer: he’s wearing headphones. I walk up behind the couch and look at the screen. It’s the footage we filmed. Suddenly, Brando somehow notices me and turns around. He flips off the headphones and tosses them aside. “I didn’t know you were up.” “Likewise,” I respond. “What are you doing?” “Come and see for yourself,” he says, shuffling up on the couch to make space. I walk around and settle in beside him, hugging myself against his bicep as he presses play. It’s the music video. And it’s great. As the scenes play out on the screen, I laugh at the recorded memory of our day together, gasp at how

good we both look, find myself wordless at how well it goes with the music. “It’s amazing!” I say, laughing at just how surprised I am. “I had no idea you could do something like this.” Brando shrugs modestly. “I can’t. I just watched a few online guides, and figured the rest out as I went along. It was mostly just cutting and splicing, anyway.” I look at Brando, astonishment all over my face. “You were up all night doing this?” “I was never much of a sleeper anyway.” I kiss him long and slow, before turning back to the video. “It’s so good. I don’t know how you did it.” This time it’s Brando who looks at me with a deepness in his eyes. “I just tried to make the world see you the way I do.”

15

Brando WHEN I FIRST STARTED WORKING IN the music industry, the big labels were gatekeepers, standing at the gates of fame and fortune like saints passing down judgments. With a simple blessing they could induct you into the long, complicated process of pressing records, distribution, promotional campaigns, and corporate gigs. Or not. Those days are long gone. As soon as the internet came along the gates shattered, and every wannabe, hack, and debutante rushed through. All of them scrabbling and fighting to stand out. But in order to make the jump from being another face in the crowd, another small-time also-ran, to being a really big star, you need to work every second of every day, push twice as hard as the next guy. You need to hustle – and it just so happens that I’m a natural. For the next few days I go into overdrive. The first song I leaked, the acoustic track that was the first thing Haley recorded, got people’s ears immediately, and now the second one, a thrusting, dynamic, catchy song with a hook any bestselling artist would kill for, is the main event. The radio stations love it, and I send it to my connections in New York who embrace it just as eagerly, a double-pronged attack of airplay that spreads like wildfire from both coasts. I bring in a talented photographer who owes me a favor (possibly for services rendered in the bedroom) to take some good shots of Haley, and bring in a couple of eager-to-please college kids to build her a new website and hook her into every music discovery, streaming, and social media service around. I post the music video in the morning and by lunchtime its views are in the six figure range, seven by dinner time. The ball is rolling, and all I have to do is maintain it. I’m so busy that I barely have enough time to appreciate just how well it’s going. The only downside is that I’ve barely spoken to Haley herself in three days. Unless sending each other pictures of ourselves in the shower counts, but even there I’m starting to neglect my duties. I have a meeting with a producer who wants to use her song in the closing credits of a teen drama that just wrapped filming, and when I get back to my car I pound the wheel and roar with fired-up enthusiasm. I’m gonna do this. And it’s going to be the greatest thing I’ve ever done. Then Jax calls. “Let me guess, you’re on your way,” he says. It takes a full three seconds before I realize. “Oh shit! I’m sorry, dude.” Jax laughs. “It’s cool. I only surf with you to scare off sharks anyway.” “No, it’s not cool. I’m sorry, bro. I forgot you were back from Paris, and I’ve just been really busy.” “Hey, forget it. There’s always Thursday.” I mentally go over the rigorous schedule of promotions and networking I’ve got ahead of me for the next few days, as well as the time I need to carve out to see Haley again soon. “Yeah…I don’t know.” “Still busy?” I put the call onto the Porsche’s speakerphone and check the calendar on my phone. “I don’t know. I have to see someone in the morning, and then I’ve got to make some calls. Shit.” “I didn’t think you were that popular. Unless…Haley?” “Yeah,” I say with a sigh. Even hearing her name makes me feel a little better. Jax’s laugh is so easy and mild I can barely tell where the waves begin and his voice ends. “You’re in deep with her. Shit. I knew it before you figured it out yourself.” I laugh. He’s right. “She’s something special, dude. I don’t know what it is, and that’s the weird thing about it. I always know what it is with women. She’s breaking big, and we’re doing this thing together. I don’t know… This is the first time in a long time everything feels like it’s falling into place.” I hear nothing but the crashing waves over the phone.

“Bro?” I say, after waiting a few seconds. “You there?” “Yeah. I’m here,” Jax says, his voice downturned and low. “What?” “Brando. Buddy…” “Say it, dude.” I hear him take a deep breath. “I don’t wanna sound like the Grim Reaper here. You’re overdue a good thing. Way overdue a girl who can keep you in check. But…she’s your act, you’re obviously really into her, she’s about to make it big… Doesn’t this feel familiar to you?” I know what he’s talking about. Normally we don’t talk about my past with Lexi, the deal, the devastation – it’s off-limits and he knows it. It’s our code. I met Jax after the break-up, told him all about it one night when we decided to get drunk by ourselves rather than go home and bang chicks. I made him swear the next morning, when we woke up on the bar, never to mention what I told him ever again. I didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to go over it again. I wanted to be a new man, someone different. A man without that in his past. Jax acted like he couldn’t remember me telling him, did the only thing a decent friend would do. Until now. “Familiar?” I push, daring Jax to break the code. “Look, I don’t know her. Forget I said it. I’m just telling you to be careful. Friend to friend.” “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll call you about Thursday.” I hang up, drop the phone on the passenger seat, and stare ahead for a full ten minutes. He’s right. It is familiar. When I go to meet Haley, her friend Jenna from the coffee shop, and the stylist I finally convinced Haley to use, I’m coming with the best news yet. Our biggest chance, guaranteed to make her song a hit, if it wasn’t showing all the signs already. And yet the memory of what Jax said earlier hangs over me like a dark mist I can’t shake off. This situation is familiar. I’m starting to see signs everywhere, in everything I do. The feeling of being almost there, the simple and strong trust I have in Haley, the adrenaline rush I get from seeing my work actually getting results – it’s word-for-word, motion-for-motion what I felt just before Lexi tore me apart. As soon as I set the ball in motion, it feels like it’s getting away from me. What seemed perfect before is now a little too perfect to trust. Jenna sees me in the long, clean mirror of the hair salon as I walk up to her. “We were waiting for you,” Jenna says, bringing Haley’s attention to me. “Heeeey!” she says, smiling wide and bright with her face, but keeping her head in place as the bald guy in a tight shirt snips and chops at it. “Hey you. Good to see you, Jenna,” I say. I should step through and kiss her, make the bald guy stop so that I can plant a long, slow kiss on those lips. But I don’t, and Haley notices, even though she barely shows it. “Thank you so much for letting me in on this, Brando,” Jenna says. “I’ve needed a makeover, like, forever.” “Hardly,” I scoff. “You’re already flawless, both of you. But I’m glad you’re enjoying.” I glance at Haley. “You need strength to get to the top. But you need strong friends to stay there.” “I got more clothes today than I have in the past two years,” Haley says, before winking. “I’ll show you if you’re free tonight.” I smile just enough not to set off her alarm bells, but it takes a lot of effort. “Actually I’m not.” Haley pouts. “And neither are you,” I continue.

“What do you mean?” Haley says, frowning for a second before the bald guy adjusts her head slightly. “I thought the next studio session was tomorrow afternoon?” “It’s not a studio session.” “Well, what, then? Quit teasing this out!” “Yeah, Brando!” Jenna adds for good measure. I pause a little before answering. “You’re on Conan.” Their jaws drop at the same time, and they turn to look at each other slowly at the same time, mirror images. Then they scream. The bald guy leaps back, palms out like Haley just combusted in front of him, before turning to me with a glare as if I caused it. I shrug, and the next thing I know Haley’s pressing up against me, hair-filled bib still wrapped around her shoulders, insatiable tongue between my lips. I try to be cold. Try to be smart. Try to keep myself from putting my arms around her and pressing my lips back on hers. But it doesn’t work. I can’t. Haley’s nothing like Lexi. This is nothing like before. I’ve never felt so good. This time it’s real, and I’m gonna do it the only way I know how – by putting everything I have on the line.

16

Haley A SORE THROAT. That’s why I’m here in the green room of one of the biggest late night talk shows in the world. The lead singer of the band that was supposed to play got a sore throat. That’s all it took. That, and Brando. “How you feeling?” he says, and I spin around to see him standing there, always big and strong, always supporting me. I press a hand against his cheek and kiss him gently. “My teeth are chattering, my knees feel like they’re made out of silly string, and I’m not sure if this new haircut makes me look incredibly hot, or like a preteen who found her mother’s hair product,” I say. “But I don’t think I’ve ever felt this good in my life.” “You’re gonna knock ‘em dead. By the time you wake up tomorrow there won’t be a person in the country who doesn’t know your name.” “Thanks,” I say, “that thought’s gonna do wonders for my nerves.” Brando chuckles softly, gently brushing the back of his rough hand against my cheek. “You’re not really nervous,” he smiles. “I can tell. You’re growing, Haley, coming into your own, turning into something amazing.” The muscles in my face soften as I gaze at him. “Brando Nash?!” The voice comes from a weedy guy in the doorway. It takes a second call and another moment for Brando to turn and see him. “What?” Brando says, curtly. The weedy guy walks up to us and jabs his thumb at the door. “You need to come with me, now!” “What’s going on?” Brando says, instinctively resisting. Weedy guy sighs before speaking. “I’ve got a fifty-six page document covering your song’s copyright, usage rights, liability for the performance, and about a thousand other legal technicalities sitting unsigned on my desk. It should have been signed before today, but right this second will have to do. It also should have been signed by the artist herself, but she’s going out in a minute, so you’ll have to do it on her behalf.” Brando waves him away, unconcerned. “Relax. I’ll sign it. Just give me a second with my client.” “This is network television, Mr. Nash, not karaoke night at the surf n’ turf. If I don’t get ink on those papers in the next thirty seconds your girlfriend doesn’t play and we have to do an unrehearsed skit with one of the d-list guests – and nobody wants to see that.” I press a hand on Brando’s shoulder and he looks at me. “Go,” I say. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you after the show.” Brando smiles at me and then follows weedy guy out of the green room. I watch him go, the feeling of something amazing about to happen between us hanging in the air like swirls of smoke. I smile and wonder if he’ll be there in the audience, right in my eye line once again. Then someone walks into my eye line who is almost the polar opposite of Brando. “There she is! The girl of the moment!” He’s short and squat, with the kind of paunch even pregnancy clothes would struggle to hide. His face looks like it was constructed out of play-doh by a team of soda-injected toddlers, and his hairpiece looks like it was fished out of a plughole at a Turkish bath. Despite all this, he’s wearing the loudest, shiniest, most eye-catching Hawaiian shirt I think I’ve ever seen. Still, I try not to judge on appearances – so I decide it’s the way his voice sounds like slime oozing down a gutter that creeps me out about him. “Who are you?”

“Davis Crawford,” he says, offering me a hand with the texture of cold fish, “I’m a friend of Brando’s. Where is he?” I narrow my eyes. This guy is way too sleazy to be friends with Brando. “He had to go do some business.” “Ah,” Davis says, lopsided lips forming what I assume is a grin. “That sounds just like him. Always doing some kind of ‘business.’ Always neglecting the talent.” I offer an unconvincing laugh in response, hoping it’ll bring the conversation to a close. “Just look at you! You’ve come a long way from that open mic, that’s for sure! Who would have thought the mousy little girl down there would have made it all the way up here, am I right?” “You saw me at the open mic?” I say, a second before I remember his face, the first time I ever met Brando. “But of course! I’m the one who chose you!” Davis rasps out a sound that’s almost but not quite a laugh. “Needless to say, you can tell Brando he won the bet.” “What bet?” I say, beginning to get frustrated with Davis’ condescending tone. Realization, smugness, and mischief combine on Davis’ face to bring it to a whole new level of disgusting. “He didn’t tell you?” “What. Bet,” I repeat with venom, suddenly feeling irrationally angry. I need to go onstage in five minutes and this guy is standing here talking as if he knows something I don’t about the only two things I care about – Brando and my career. “Oh my! You didn’t know? Haha! This is too delicious!” Davis pauses for effect before continuing. “You were the bet, my dear. You! Or rather, the pitiful little thing that was trying to sing up onstage at the open mic was. All he had to do was get you into the charts in a single month. And by God, he did it!” I shake my head, rolling my eyes, wondering why in the hell this guy thinks I’d trust in a man who looks like he’s wearing somebody else’s face. “Bullshit. Why would Brando take a bet like that? He’s not stupid. What would he get out of it?” Davis’ smile gets so wide that I can see the lines of his face lift. I feel somebody tug my arm. “Haley, you need to get moving, like, now!” I glance in the direction of the voice, a nervous-looking runner standing to the side. I shake his arm off and glare back at Davis. “You’re right, he’s certainly not stupid. Not at all. But every man has his price. Brando’s was ten grand and the pick of my acts – or, to be more specific, as it is rather obvious, don’t you think? – Lexi Dark.” The words hit like a punch, knocking me out of my body. I freeze and stare, grasping for some sense of reality. “Rather a bizarre proposition, when you think about it,” Davis continues. “To build up an entirely new star just to get his old one back – but then again, it was never about the business with Brando. A man like that will do anything for love. Anyway, I’ve got to go grab my seat. I’m looking forward very much to your performance!” He backs away slowly. “Make it a good one, Haley! You’ll have some competition from this point on! Hah!” He disappears. A man says something about taking our spots. I feel hands pressing my shoulders, voices calling me, and I close my eyes, wet and misted. When I open them Brando is standing in front of me, my bandmates standing around him. “Haley! You okay? What’s the matter?” I stare up at him, his eyes so trustworthy, his voice so calming – I could almost believe he actually cares. “Commercial’s over in sixty seconds,” the runner says pleadingly to my left, “we’ve got to get

going.” “Are you okay?” he asks again, big and strong, a liar and a fraud. “I was just a bet,” I mumble through a gurgling throat. “That’s all I was. A game you played.” Brando’s eyes widen when he realizes I know, realizes he’s been found out. “What? You… Wait, Haley. It’s not like that – I mean, it was, but it turned out different. Please Haley, don’t—” I narrow my eyes, hurt and anger roiling inside me. “Just a way for you to get Lexi back.” “Haley, no…” “It’s time for us to take our spots, Haley, can’t you guys talk about this after?” Brando nods at the band members to leave us and they go, leaving us alone – the last place I want to be, with the last person I want to be there with. “What else was a lie?” I snarl through gritted teeth. “The story of your childhood? It being ‘all about the music’?” “No, I didn’t lie. It was all true. Please Haley, you know it was. Surely you can feel that it was all tr —” I smack him. Hard and fast. The tight, boiling pressure inside of me spiking so much I can’t hold it in anymore. He brings his hand to his cheek and turns back to face me, his face vulnerable. Another lie. “You were right about one thing,” I say, raising my head and setting my shoulders back. “I am growing. And I’ve just outgrown you.” I shove him aside, grab my guitar from the couch and march out to set. Full of determination, full of bravado, full of pain and fury and an unbreakable resolution to trust myself, and only myself, from this moment on.

17

Brando NOBODY TELLS you that girls hit the hardest, but they do. A good hit from a guy will knock you out, leave a nasty bruise, a black eye – but you’ll wake up, heal up. A girl can cleave your heart in two forever with a slap you barely feel, rip shreds out of your soul and leave you a walking zombie. Lexi was the first girl to teach me that. Shit. This is familiar. Then the show starts. First the announcer, then the audience, then the music. All muffled through the walls of the green room, but still impossible to ignore. Haley’s music is louder, harder, more exciting than I’ve ever heard her deliver before. In a trance I leave the green room, passing through the backstage area slowly, the music getting clearer and louder. I remember the time I walked into the studio to find her singing her heart out, a revelation, a turning point. A realization that she was the one, that she’d save me. When I turn the corner to see her from the side stage, the revelation’s different this time. She’s still the one, but she won’t save me. I feel a hand press on my shoulder with eerie gentleness. It’s Rowland. “You were right, Brando. She’s going to be big.” I try to speak, but all I can manage it a short, sharp sigh. “Forget about our little disagreement,” he says, “I should have trusted you. You’ve worked wonders for Majestic Records tonight.” I glare at him. “What are you talking about?” Rowland looks at me, amused and patronizing – or trying to be. “Lexi’s back in the fold. And now we’ve got another superstar to join her. You’ve just brought in two of the biggest acts this label’s seen in years. I’m thinking that’s at least deserving of a little compensation on my behalf. You can forget about being fired – I’m giving you your own label, under the company umbrella of course, and all the freedom to sign, blow cash, and do whatever you want with it. How does that sound?” “Haley’s not a Majestic artist. She might not even be mine anymore.” The words seem to slice me as I say them. I watch her on stage, singing with a passion that seems to infect the whole audience. The most talented person I know expressing herself, it used to fill me with pride seeing her do this – but that was before the fall. “No?” Rowland says, in a way that makes me look back at him. This time there’s no mistake, the amused and patronizing look is real for once. “She didn’t sign anything,” I say, an explanation that only seems to make Rowland smile even more. “Our agreement was verbal. Not on paper.” He looks out at Haley again, who’s reaching the crescendo of the song, wailing melodically, the audience moving to her rhythm. “Who paid for her studio time?” Rowland says, smugly. “Who paid her musicians to play with her, or Josh for producing her songs? You even used the Majestic account to fast-track her single onto services online. I’ve got my fingers all over Haley’s music. There’s more than enough for my lawyers to work with.” I look at him incredulously, unable to believe what I’m hearing. He chuckles and pats my shoulder. “Signing artists is the easy part, Brando. Tying them up, forcing them to depend on you, work in your structure – that’s what being a record label is all about. Haley’s perfectly within her rights to try and be independent, but she’ll have to pay back every penny I spent on her, and fight a long legal battle over what my fair share is. Of course, she won’t be making much music while she does that – court proceedings do tend to drag on and get awfully exhausting.”

Haley finishes the song and as the studio audience goes crazy I stand there, my body still feeling like it’s caked in concrete, while Rowland applauds enthusiastically along with the rest of the crowd. Haley leaves the stage on the other side, waving at the audience. “It’s going to be a hell of a ride,” Rowland says, leaning in far too closely, “managing two incredible acts. But I know you’ll do me proud.” He gives me one last smack on the back before walking away. I drop my head and remember to breathe. Four minutes. That’s how long Haley’s song is. Four minutes that made me forget Lexi. Four minutes that made me see Haley was special. Four minutes that connected us. Four minutes in which I lost it all.

18

Brando “YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELF,” I say to the bare-chested, unshaven, scruffy-haired mess of a man looking back at me with pain in his eyes. “You tried to have it all, and you ended up with nothing.” I raise my whiskey glass and he does the same. “Here’s to being a complete asshole.” I drain the glass and look at the sorry motherfucker. He’s good-looking, even though he needs a shave and a shower. A strong jawline and dark eyes, but he’s got the expression of someone watching his pet being put down. His eyes are lidded and blank, as if all he wants to do is creep back into bed, and his lips look like they’re incapable of saying anything nice. It breaks your heart just to look at him. “Shit. You look as bad as I feel,” I growl, stepping away from the mirror with a grim smile. I put my glass down on the counter and stop myself just before I fill it up again – who am I kidding? I’m beyond glasses. I take the whole bottle with me as I cross the messy room, stepping on dirty clothes and other junk as I make my way to the record shelf. The place looks like a bomb hit it, a bomb filled with men’s underwear, beer bottles, and empty pizza boxes. “Time to bring out the big guns,” I mumble, as I angle my head to flick through the very last records on the shelf – the ones I hoped I’d never need again. Johnny Cash, Otis Redding, Sam Cooke, Bruce Springsteen – the old, smoky voices of men who knew too much and still had the scars from learning it the hard way. I pick a record and bring it over to the player, taking my time as I put it on the platter. With slow anticipation, I lift the needle with my finger and drop it carefully on the groove. The comforting crackles and pops sound out from the speakers all over my apartment, and I swing the bottle to my lips as I stumble back over to the sofa and drop my heavy body onto it. With the drink dulling my senses, I let the song take me out of myself. Guitars and drums swirling and beating like my bad thoughts, that sympathetic voice like an old friend… Then the record scratches to a stop. I open my eyes and look toward the player. It’s Jax. He raises his hands out wide, looks at me incredulously, and says, “What the fuck, dude?” “Ugh,” is all I can manage as I pull myself into an upright sitting position on the couch. I don’t need to ask how Jax got in; I gave him a spare key a long time ago – I sometimes have a habit of losing my own set in the apartments of particularly passionate women. He steps through the room purposefully, scanning the wreckage of my apartment like he’s looking for something. With his crisp, tailored blue shirt and tight-fitting jeans he should look ridiculous in this pigsty of an apartment, but he has a habit of making his surroundings look like they don’t fit him, rather than the other way around. “So you had your heart broken, huh?” “How do you know that?” I say, struggling to follow his movements as he paces around. Jax shoots me a look. “’Cause this place looks like a crime scene – and you look like the corpse. Don’t need a detective.” “I’m alright,” I insist. “Alright? Dude. I haven’t seen you in nearly a month. I’ve called you—” he pauses to grab my phone from the coffee table, and yanks my finger onto it in order to unlock it, “twenty-four times,” he says, flicking through the call list on my phone. “And you ignored every single one. That’s kind of impressive, in a weird way. Looks like your boss called a bunch of times…your massage therapist…your yoga instructor…?” I manage a little smile as I bring the bottle to my lips, but Jax snatches it away just as it reaches them. “Hey!” I say, finding my hand suddenly empty.

“You even eating anything?” Jax says as he brings the bottle with him on his march to the kitchen. “What are you, now? My mother?” “Just a friend,” he says as he opens and closes cabinets looking for food. “If I was your mother I’d be hosing you down in the shower and spraying this place with Lysol.” “We can just order a pizza,” I groan, as I drop back onto the sofa. “I’ll take you to the salad place down the road. My shout,” he says, walking back to stand in front of me. “You seriously look like you could use a bucket of kale or some shit.” “That sounds good,” I mumble sarcastically. “Or, we could just order a pizza.” “Bro!” Jax shouts, gesturing around him. “You need to get out of this place. You’re a couple of video games and a superhero poster away from regressing into a reclusive teenager.” I look up at him feebly. “I used to like video games.” “So did I,” he says, “but even then, I never looked as bad as you do right now.” He slows down for a second, staring at me with more pity than I’ve ever seen him use before – and this is a guy who stops to feed stray dogs. He steps in front of the coffee table and sits down on it, straight in front of me. Finally, he nods. “So what happened with Haley?” he asks. “No bullshit this time.” I push a hand back through my hair – the most grooming I’ve done in a week. As much as I hate to admit any of this, it’s time to come clean. “That night, the one where you and I bumped into Lexi, that scumbag Davis made a bet with me. If I made a hit with Haley in one month, he’d give me Lexi back.” Jax cocks an eyebrow. “And you won.” “I won.” He nods slowly, finally understanding. “But you don’t want Lexi anymore. Do you.” I sigh— this is way too much to think about on just two quarts of whiskey. “I don’t know what I feel for Lexi anymore. But I do know that I had pretty much given up on having anything with her ever again. Losing Haley, though…” I shake my head. “So here’s the part I don’t get,” Jax says. “How did you lose Haley? I thought things were going great.” I stare at him, using his compassion as a point to fix on, so that I don’t get angry, or depressed, or frustrated, or any of the other negative things that thinking about it makes me feel. “She found out about the bet.” Jax takes a moment, then rubs his temples like he’s suddenly got a killer headache as bad as the one I have. “Oh.” “Yeah,” I say. “Oh.” “She thought you were faking all along. Well, damn.” “I don’t blame her,” I say, looking up at the ceiling. “To top it all off, Rowland – my boss – has us all by the balls. Davis gave us Lexi. Then Rowland threatened me and Haley with his lawyers and forced Haley to sign a deal – with my help. And now I’m supposed to manage both of them.” “Ouch.” “Yeah. Ouch. You know, it took a really long time, a lot of days like this, and a whole load of women, before I could even stop dreaming about Lexi. And Haley…I…I don’t know. But this time it’s even worse. I’m so fucking stupid!” I ball my hand up into a fist and slam it on the sofa. “Jesus, buddy! Calm down. It’s not over. Not yet, anyway.” “Shit. Sorry,” I say, putting my hands on my face and leaning over to calm myself down. “What the fuck am I supposed to do, dude?” “Here’s what you do,” Jax says, leaning forward and putting his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t

think. Remember when you told me that? Well do it. Just go take a shower, put some clothes on, and come get something to eat. One step at a time. Get yourself off the couch, and then just follow your instincts. Keep on moving. Don’t stop to wonder.” I let out a sigh. “That sounds like good advice. But it’s the same damn reasoning that got me into this mess in the first place.” “Sure it is.” Jax just grins. “And it’s the only thing that’ll get you out of it.”

19

Haley EVER SINCE I WAS A KID, I’ve written down my dreams when I woke up. From the recurring one about a white horse, to the strange ones about flying through an auditorium. Even the anxiety dreams where I feel like I’m falling, and the nightmares about Freddy Krueger. I’d wake up and write them all. Maybe it was some way of trying to make my dreams come true, maybe it was an attempt to cling to the fantasy and weirdness in my otherwise typical life. At the very least, it gave me a lot of stuff to work from with song lyrics. I’ve done it almost every morning for over ten years. But not anymore. I’d like to say it’s because my life this past month has been pretty much a dream come true – which it has – but it’s not. I’d like to say it was because it takes me at least five minutes every morning to remember and realize where I am, in a beautiful new apartment I’m sharing with Jenna – but it’s not that either. It’s because I keep dreaming about him. The more I try to suppress it, and the more I try to fill my head with junk so that I don’t have to think about him, the more vivid and explicit the dreams become. It’s gotten to the point where I can almost smell him, taste him. The dreams are different, but the feeling’s always the same. The guilt mixing with ecstasy, the bitterness mixing with sweetness. But in them I can’t help myself. I can’t pull away. It’s only when I wake up, my thighs rubbing together, my hearth thumping, that I feel real enough and strong enough to remember what he did to me. The bet. Then I get angry. This morning is no different. I wake up and realize my hand is between my thighs, the other against my neck where he was kissing me. I pull them away in annoyance and jump out of bed. I can hear the sound of the juicer outside my room, and Jenna’s voice. After pulling on a pair of sweatpants I push open the door, eager for the distraction of company. “She’s alive!” says Josh, breezily. My record producer is sitting on a stool at the counter while Jenna buzzes around the kitchen. Since we moved in together, using the proceeds of my advance and the money from the play she finally got paid for, Jenna’s been making sure she’s getting her money’s worth from the apartment’s furnishings and appliances. The juicer, the coffee machine, the bread maker, it doesn’t matter: if it does something, she’s been using it as much as she can. “Morning, Haley!” she says as she pours out a big smoothie for herself, the toaster popping in the background. “Coffee?” “Absolutely. Hey, Josh.” “You’re up late,” he says, as I rub the gunk out of my eyes. “We were up all night watching horror movies on the TV,” Jenna says, excitedly, nodding for Josh to turn around and look at it. “It’s fifty-five inches!” “And you know how we ladies love our inches,” I grumble drily, not caring that I’m tossing out inappropriate innuendo to my producer. I know Josh can handle it, though. He’s seen worse from me by now. They both have. “Oh, Haley,” Jenna mock-scolds me. I’ve been in a foul mood ever since things went south with Brando, but she (and Josh) (and my music) have been my rock this whole time. With their help, I’ve even managed to have a few happy moments. I sit up on a stool next to Josh and he pulls out a couple of tapes and a USB stick. “It’s a nice TV.” Josh smiles at Jenna, then at me. “Living the high life, I see.” I shrug with my eyebrows. Jenna pours each of us a cup of coffee with the kind of quick, fluid motion I’m used to seeing, and I understand how she manages to cope with working at the café; she enjoys serving people, taking care of them in some small way.

Josh takes his coffee with one hand and slides the USB stick over to me. “The takes from last week,” he says, pausing to take a sip. “A couple of them are really good. We should definitely use your guitar tracks from some of them.” “Cool. I’ll listen to them today.” Jenna suddenly explodes into a higher gear. “Shit!” she squeals, as she catches sight of the big clock hanging from the wall. “I’m gonna be so late!” Josh and I watch with awed appreciation as she slaps a cover on her juice cup, finishes buttering her toast, sticks it in her mouth, uses a foot to close a cabinet, hangs a purse over her shoulder, and glides out of the door in less time than it takes me to sip my coffee and shout a feeble “Bye!” after her. “Can she afford to live here?” Josh asks, a few seconds after she’s gone. “No offense. It’s just, this place is…” he gestures at the grandeur all around us. “Not really,” I admit. “I’m paying most of the rent. But without her, I’d just be living here alone anyway. And besides, she’s got some auditions lined up. I really think it’s going to happen for her soon.” A smile crosses my face for a split second, because I mean it. “That’s very generous of you.” I shrug. “She believed in me for a long time. I want to repay that. I believe in her too.” Josh looks seriously at his cup for a few moments before speaking again. “There’s somebody else who believed in you who could do with some of that support right now.” I close my eyes and shake my head. “Josh, I know Brando’s your friend, and he probably asked you to talk to me, but—” “He didn’t ask me to talk to you. But he is my friend,” he says, before sighing. “I don’t know what happened between you two, but I have some idea. Either way, he’s still your manager. You can’t keep avoiding him.” “Why not?” I say, grabbing a slice of toast that Jenna left and sticking a piece in my mouth. “You, me, and the band are doing just fine recording the album without him.” “If only music was all about recording,” Josh says, wistfully. “I’m not the kind of guy to preach, Haley. It’s none of my business. But you need Brando. For your own sake. He got you this far. If you can’t work with him, you’re not going to last long. I’m not telling you this because he’s my friend, I’m telling you this because you are.” I turn to look at him, his craggy face somehow soft and understanding. The kind of face that couldn’t lie if it tried. “I know,” I say. “Don’t worry. I’ll work with Brando. I’ll hate him, avoid him, and never forgive him. But I’ll work with him.” The most surprising thing about Majestic Records is how bad the acoustics are. Everything in the office is made of glass so shiny it reflects almost everything under the bright lights. The surfaces are all cold and hard, marble floors and metal desks, with only a couple of simple, hard-lined paintings to offer a hint of personality, as if to place complete emphasis on the people alone. I always did think record executives were vain and tone-deaf, and whoever designed the Majestic Offices seems to agree. I step up to the reception area. “Hi. I’m supposed to meet Mr. Rowland at eleven?” “Ah, Haley,” the smiling girl says. “He’s expecting you. Let me show you the way.” She asks the intern beside her to take over, and then leads me toward the elevators at the back of the building. When the doors open up on the billionth floor, I see Brando sitting on a couch, thumbing through a magazine. My whole body clenches, as if bracing itself for the emotional onslaught of being around him. “Haley!” he says, tossing the magazine aside and standing up. He looks like shit. But it’s no

consolation. He was probably up late screwing the next girl in line who doesn’t know any better. I clench my jaw tight and follow the receptionist, keeping my eyes on the door. She knocks on it, and when Rowland shouts a response, opens it for me. I walk through quickly, more to get away from Brando than to get to the meeting quicker. Rowland is standing with his back to the door, his feet spread wider than a tennis player, as he gazes out of the window. He spins around, smiles, and walks over to his chair. “Take a seat, you two,” he says. I continue to ignore Brando as I sit down, though I can almost sense his big frame gliding into the chair, his cologne wafting over me like searching fingers, a smell that I now associate with so many things. Being thrown onto a bed, pressed up against the window, kissed on the neck….Stop it, Haley. I breathe deeply and cross my legs in the opposite direction from him, as if shielding myself against his sex voodoo. Rowland checks his watch excitedly, then grits his teeth with restraint. “We should wait for Lexi, but I can’t hold this in any longer,” he grins, broadly. “Lexi?” I ask, the name coming out of my mouth with barely-concealed disdain. “I thought this meeting was about my album.” “How is the album going?” Brando asks me. Rowland’s glance flicks between us rapidly, waiting for a response, before he realizes that I’m ignoring the question. “Whatever the state,” he says, picking up on the weird vibe and using the opportunity to take the lead, “it’ll have to be put on hold – because you’re going out on tour! All over America!” He smiles like a game show host who’s just told me what I’ve won. “What?!” I scream, a combination of excitement and panic rushing up like a tsunami wave. It feels like someone just punched me in the stomach. “How? Why? Are you sure?” I bite my lip, nerves taking over. “I thought you’d be excited,” Rowland says, leaning forward in his chair and placing his palms out wide on the table. “It’s not just any tour. You’re going to be the support on Lexi’s tour!” “What?!” I repeat, only this time it isn’t in a tone of excited disbelief, this time it’s a long wail of defiant irritation. I look over at Brando for the first time since we entered the office and he give me a ‘not my idea’ shrug. Rowland stands up and walks toward the window as he speaks. “It’s perfect, isn’t it? The idea came to me a few days ago, in the bath. Moments of brilliance like that, you know, you just have to let them happen. I mean, that’s the nature of genius when you think about it, am I right? It’s in the moments, not the —” “Why?” Brando suddenly calls out in a big, booming voice that slices through Rowland’s selfindulgence. For a second, I almost miss him. Rowland spins around to face us, still wearing his broad smile as he steps back behind his desk. “Come on, Brando, you of all people should know.” Rowland turns to me. “You and Lexi need each other. Lexi committed herself to this tour before we got her. Sure, she sold out some of the small towns that rarely get big stars coming through, but she’s yet to sell out the big cities - the cooler spots, the towns with more astute audiences. She just doesn’t have the edge anymore. Her singles sold like hotcakes, but her album was panned. Most people are already onto the next hot thing. Lexi needs some credibility, a boost. She needs to be associated with someone who has a little substance, someone street, so people don’t write her off already – and that’s where you come in!” “Well I don’t need her, so—” “Oh, but you do!” Rowland interrupts me as he lowers himself into his seat. “Don’t let the TV spot you played fool you into thinking you’ve already made it, young lady. The music bloggers might love you,

but that doesn’t mean a thing in terms of sales. Until we start putting you in front of bigger audiences you’re just another cute girl with a guitar. Lexi’s your in.” “But my music speaks for itself. I don’t need—” “Exactly!” Rowland says, jabbing his finger in the air to dot his point. “You make great music, Haley. But you know what the problem with great music is? You need to actually hear it. Really hear it. Most people won’t give it a chance unless we sit them down and serve it right to ‘em with a cherry on top. Lexi is that cherry.” I just shake my head. This can’t be happening. Everything about this is wrong. “Listen.” Rowland leans forward over the desk. “You and Lexi, you’re like two sides of the same coin. Lexi’s got people’s attention, and you’ve got the talent to back it up. Alone, she’s going to be off the map completely in a few months, and all you’ll get are some great reviews and enough sales to buy a new guitar. But together,” he draws his hands together, locking them and smiling as if he’s proud of it, “you could take each other to a new level with this tour.” “I don’t know…” I say, but suddenly I do know. Everything he’s saying makes perfect sense. I’d have killed to get a tour the size of Lexi’s a month ago. I was happy enough with the opportunity to just record an album, but this is a chance that probably won’t come along many more times. I remember Jenna’s words, about how she had ‘One chance. And that’s all.’ “Tell her, Brando,” Rowland says, sensing my still-lingering hesitation. I try to just glance at him, but something about his eyes makes it impossible, and I find myself being pulled magnetically to look at him fully. Even with the stubble and the circles under his eyes, he’s magnificent. Hating him would be a lot easier if he didn’t look like that. “He’s right, Haley,” Brando says slowly, almost regretfully. “The tour could be the difference between ten thousand album sales, or half a million. You’ll be reaching people in a tangible way, in their home towns, standing right in front of them, that all the internet buzz can’t even touch.” I swallow hard. I think about a whole tour with Lexi. Her supporting act. No doubt she’ll never let me forget I’m only there ‘cause she is. I remember her lording it over me in the bathroom of the club: ‘Brando’s new little toy.’ I close my eyes and ask myself if I’ve really got the strength to do this. “It’s just three weeks,” Rowland says, as if reading my thoughts. “Twelve dates.” I remain silent. Rowland sighs, nodding sympathetically. “Look, Haley, I get it. You don’t think you’re up to it. But you know what? You’ve already nailed one of the hardest TV gigs there is. You’re a natural. Just do what you—” “Okay, okay,” I say, interjecting so that I don’t have to hear his voice anymore. I know he’s giving me a spiel – something I never felt from Brando. I guess some guys are just better at lying. “I’ll do it.”

20

Brando THE SECOND ROWLAND calls the meeting to a close, Haley springs out of her chair and breaks for the door, her slim legs not just for show. I bound after her, but she’s so fast that I only catch up just as she’s about to get into the elevator. “Haley, please,” I say, grabbing her arm. She spins around and I almost flinch when I see her eyes. It’s like I’m being skewered by them. It’s a look worse than any punch. “Let go,” she says. It’s her voice, but it’s been possessed by something that even I’m scared of. “Just give me a minute,” I say. “Sure. You’re my manager. I can give you a minute. Starting now.” “Come on, Haley.” She checks her watch. “Fifty eight. Fifty seven. Fifty six…” “Are you not even going to give me a chance to explain?” “Go ahead,” she says, folding her arms and pursing her lips. “Explain. Explain the bet you made. Explain how you got Lexi back to Majestic Records. Explain why you were in such a rush to make my record a hit, and what it really meant to you all along.” “Haley, come on,” I say, putting my hand on her arm, gently this time. She bats it away violently anyway, and I see the delicate line of her jaw move as she grinds her teeth, breathing through her nose. “I’m sorry. Okay? I fucked up.” She steps toward me angrily and puts her face close to mine. “You didn’t fuck up at all, Brando. You got exactly what you wanted. I fucked up. I trusted you. Signed a deal with you. Slept with you. I told—” she stops herself as the elevator opens and lets some people out, lowering her voice a little, from furious spite to hissing venom, “told you about Rex Bentley being my father. You took advantage of me, Brando. I put everything in your hands: My career, my secrets, my…body. And it was all just a stupid fucking game to you. Explain this: How could you do that to me? To someone you claimed to care about? How did you lie so well?” “I wasn’t lying,” I say, though I can barely look her in the eye. Her words fall like a sack of bricks, crushing me. It was bad enough losing her, but knowing that I hurt her this much is enough to push me over the edge. I try to speak. “I… I…” “Brando!” comes the call from across the hall. We turn in the direction of Rowland’s office and see him peeking out from the doors. “Get your ass back in here. Lexi’s on her way.” It’s the last thing I want to hear right now. The last thing I wanted Haley to hear. She flashes me one last go-fuck-yourself look. “I’m beginning to feel like all I do is keep you warm for her.” “Haley!” I call, as she steps behind the elevator doors just before they close. I think about putting my arm in to stop them, dragging her out, getting on my knees to beg, but I don’t – I can’t. All I want to do is take her pain away – even if it that pain is me. Rowland is talking about something but I’m not really listening when Lexi shows up. I’m still somewhere deep in my thoughts, still trying to swim out of all the feelings swirling around inside of me. I wish I was anywhere but here. Hell is Rowland’s office. Where I’m forced to listen to a boss I find repulsive, where Haley tells me how much she hates me, and where the girl I once loved more than anything in the world, only to lose her to the shallow, plastic, star-making machine, is about to show up and piss all over my hopes and dreams once again. “Lexi!” he calls out suddenly. I turn slightly to look at the doorway. She’s still beautiful. Still remarkable. Still capable of making

time stand still. Even now that she doesn’t wear the latex dresses and miniskirts that Davis had her in. Instead she’s wearing her gym clothes, yoga pants and a tank top – but she’s still unbearably hot. I turn back around to face Davis. “Hi baby,” she says to me, as she sits on the chair Haley was in and crosses her legs slowly, aware of the effect it always had on me. Rowland’s gaze flickers between us in the same way it did when Haley was here, only this time it’s me giving off the ‘let’s get this over with’ vibe. “I’ve got awesome news, Lexi. Haley’s gonna be supporting you on your tour!” Lexi times her derisive laugh perfectly. It’s the one she used to use in order to let all the men in the room know who’s in charge. “Why? To make me look better?” Her gaze slides over to me. “Or is this a pity thing? Your little protégé can’t book a gig, is that it?” “Come on now, Lexi,” Rowland says, his voice going as feeble as the poor guys who try to pick her up. “Haley’s the next big thing! She’s got a lot of people out there excited.” Lexi turns to me with her wet-lipped look. “Does she get you excited, Brando? Let me guess; this was your idea.” “Hell no!” Rowland exclaims, leaning back in his chair as if the insult blew him back. “You think he could come up with something like that?” “Rowland thinks that having a genuine musician on your tour might help you last long enough to be worth a second album,” I say, staring back at her, my voice deadpan. “Maybe some of her talent will rub off on you.” “Which talent is that, honey? The one she uses in the studio? Or the one she uses in—” “Ah-hem!” Rowland interrupts, struggling to gain our attention. She and I are locked in a stare, two bulls pushing each other until one breaks. If the last meeting was all about Rowland, he may as well not exist for this one. “Take your pick,” I growl, “she’s better than you at both.” “Enough!” Rowland shouts, slamming his palms on the table. “Jesus Christ! I almost regret arranging for you to go with them.” “What?” Lexi and I say at the same time, our heads swiveling back to Rowland. I can’t have heard him right. This must be some kind of bargaining tactic, some kind of threat. “Oh,” Rowland says, adjusting his collar as if he’s just been in a fight, “that was the other thing I wanted to tell you; you’re going on the tour with them, Brando.” “Ha!” Lexi laughs, throwing her head back and sticking her tongue between her teeth. She’s loving this. “Why, Rowland? I have work here, and—” “These are your two biggest artists, Brando, and they’re about to go on the biggest tour of their careers together! We need this to go smoothly. What are you going to do here in LA? Continue booking gigs and arranging studio time for your other groups? We could get an intern to do that. Your work is on the road.” “Yeah, come on, Brando. We can ditch the third wheel and make it just like old times again,” Lexi says, winking. Her eyes are sparkling at how much she’s enjoying this. “Shit. She can join in if she wants.” “This is maybe the most important event in Lexi’s, Haley’s, and Majestic Records’ history,” Rowland says, before I can snap back at Lexi. “I can’t leave it to chance.” I roll my eyes away and fix them on the building across the street. Three weeks of Lexi twisting the knife every chance she can. Three weeks of trying to stop the only two women I’ve ever loved from killing each other. Three weeks to get Haley back.

And then it hits me: this is the best chance I’ve got. The only one.

21

Haley “I WANT TEXTS, emails, phone calls, every day,” Jenna says, so excited I’m scared she’ll drive the car into oncoming traffic. “And you better come prepared. I want diary-level insight. I want to feel like I’m there with you. How it smells, how it sounds, what it’s like. I wanna know about the crowds, what it must be like to stand in front of so many people. You better promise to give me all that.” “I promise.” “You better,” she repeats, as she pulls the car off the road and into the big parking lot. “Oh my God! Look at how many people are there! Three tour buses! It’s just like in the movies! HolyshitthisisamazingohmygodIcan’tbelievethis—” Her voice gets faster and more high-pitched until I have to squint and hunch my shoulders to stop my eardrums from bursting. She brings the car to a halt and looks around her like she just drove through a portal to Neverland. “This is amazing!” she squeals again, bobbing up and down in the driver’s seat. “Thanks for giving me a lift, Jenna,” I say, opening the door. She walks with me to the back of the car and we both pull my luggage from the trunk. “Well, I guess this is it,” she says, when I’m standing there with my guitar case in one hand and my luggage in the other. “I’ll tell you everything. I promise,” I repeat with a smile. She hugs me tightly, and I try not to cry. Not because I’m going to miss Jenna (though I will), but because I’m about to embark on a three week tour of my own personal hell. And on top of that, I’ll still have to perform with a smile on my face at every show. “And hey, good luck with that audition.” Jenna waves it away. “I’m more nervous about your tour than the audition, to be honest.” “Still, I really hope you get it.” “Me too,” she says, stepping back to the side of the car and opening the door. “See you in three weeks, Haley. Go give them something to remember!” “I’ll try flashing my breasts.” “Doesn’t Lexi already do that in her show?” I’m still laughing as she reverses her car back out of the lot, and then I watch as she concentrates so much on waving at me that it’s a miracle she re-joins the flow of traffic without crashing. I take a deep breath, turn around, and start walking toward the buses. My band’s already there. Paula, the drummer, and Aaron, the bassist, are loading bags into the open bay doors underneath the bus. Brian, my guitarist, is having a cigarette. He comes to meet me and takes my luggage. “Thanks,” I say. “Can you believe this is really happening?” he says, his voice nowhere near as calm and collected as he looks. “Nope. Why are there three buses? And so many people. Is there another band?” Brian laughs. “Us, Lexi, and her band.” “Lexi gets a whole coach to herself?” “Could her ego fit in otherwise?” We laugh and Brian lifts my luggage into the storage bay. I put my guitar case in and take a moment to soak it all up. “Sorry I’m late,” I apologize. “Traffic. I hope I didn’t keep everyone waiting.” “You’re always late,” Brian replies, teasing, before adding, “but some people are always later.” I turn my head toward wherever he’s looking and see a black Mercedes with tinted windows pull up. A big guy who looks like a bear in a suit jumps out of the passenger side and runs to one of the rear doors.

He opens it and stands upright, his eyes engaging in their usual rapid-scan for paparazzi and rabid fans. But he’ll find none here. Her leg comes out first, long and slender, a practiced motion, and then the rest of her. I do a double take. She’s dressed like a valley girl who just got a promotion. White jeans, red high-tops, and a turquoise off-the-shoulder t-shirt. If it wasn’t for the big sunglasses and the destroy-every-thing-in-its-path walk, she’d almost be approachable. Seconds later, I realize how wrong that idea is. She makes a beeline for me and Brian, entourage of black-suited bodyguards and slightly less attractive hangers-on following her in almost perfect Vformation. She takes her glasses off slowly. “So you’ve finally got your big break. Tagging along behind me. Scared, little girl?” “What’s there to be scared of?” I reply, noticing Brian is frozen in place. “I’m doing what I love, what I do best.” Lexi laughs as if I’m a pet that just did something cute. “I forgot, you’re all about ‘real’ music, aren’t you? So long as you get those audiences warmed up for the main event, we won’t have a problem.” “Just make sure you don’t get them cold again, Lexi.” She takes a step closer to me and I noticed her bodyguards shift closer. Are they supposed to protect her – or me? Maybe they know something I don’t. Her voice goes cruel and sharp, all the teasing gone. “Let me just remind you quickly why you’re here. It’s because you’re too small to do it without trying to catch some of my glow. It’s because you fucked a guy who took you this far. It’s because Brando wanted to win a bet – to win me. You’re an openmic also-ran, a bargaining chip, and a third wheel. We both know you don’t belong here, so just try your best, and try not to fuck up my shows too badly, okay?” She leans back and flashes me that sexy mega-watt grin, sliding her sunglasses back on. Now I know what the bodyguards know: Lexi has the consistent, indefatigable habit of making you want to slap her. Maybe it’s her superpower. Before I can decide whether I want to hit her or give her a detailed, expletive-ridden account of her many flaws as a person, she’s buried in her entourage and heading away toward the other bus. “Uh. We should get going,” Brian says, his voice a little shaky. “Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask, as we climb onto the bus. “You’re not scared of her, are you?” He laughs nervously, then changes the subject clumsily. “Check this out! TV, PS4, awesome stereo,” he says, leading me toward the back where Paula and Aaron are already booting up the game console. “And a fully stocked fridge! This bus is pretty much better than most of the apartments I’ve lived in.” “Even those beds?” I say, nodding at the cramped bunks. He leans in and sniffs. “Yeah.” I punch his shoulder. “Eww, gross! I don’t even get why we have a bus though, aren’t we just going to stay in hotels?” “Most of the time,” a voice behind me says, unmistakeably strong and commanding. I spin around and see him, stepping onto the front of the bus and making his way back to me. The very sight of him getting me hot for too many reasons to pick one. “But there are a couple of dates that are going to be a squeeze without it. Better this than sleeping on a plane.” “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask tightly, as he nods Brian away toward the back of the bus. “What did you think I’d do? Follow you on a bicycle?” “You don’t need to be on the bus with us,” I say in a childish voice. Brando draws himself close, squeezing beside me in the slim aisle between the beds. “I’m supposed to make sure everything is alright, that everyone’s happy. I can only do that when I’m

on the ground with them.” The bus lurches forward, and Brando falls against me, my face almost in his neck, my hands raising up to hold his chest, his arm grabbing my back to stop me from falling. Can hate make you want to fuck someone even more? Because I’ve never wanted to tear Brando’s shirt off more than I do now, in this cramped, moving bus, and ride the weirdly thrilling mix of emotions I’m feeling by holding him to me. “Well it’s not alright,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady as he pulls himself back away from me far slower than he could, “and I’m definitely not happy.” He leans in close, his lips against my ear. “Then it’s my job to make you happy.” I shove him back as suddenly and as reluctantly as I shove the hotness I’m feeling back down deep inside of me. “I’ll never be happy with you, Brando. Never.” I spin on my heel and storm off toward the back of the bus. Because right now, that’s as far away as I can get.

22

Brando HALEY’S first show is in San Francisco. Thousands of people, completely sold out, and the news that she was supporting Lexi only made it out a couple of weeks before. It’ll be a baptism of fire, not least because until now Haley’s only played for an audience at open mics, one showcase, and a TV spot. It won’t help that she’s spent the last month cooped up in a studio with Josh. Still, she made it through this far with my help, and I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna help her nail these gigs – even if she doesn’t want me to. I turn up at the soundcheck early to wait for her, only to find that she’s even earlier. I watch her guide her band as they blast through a song, and goof around with the ending, turning the song into a silly parody of one of Lexi’s songs. I start smiling, but something about the way she shares the laughter with her guitarist makes me drop the smile pretty quick. When they’re done laughing and checking with the engineer in the stands that everything’s okay, I walk straight to Haley – but my eyes are fixed on the guitarist. He gives me a weak wave, before pretending to have somewhere he needs to be and leaving. Haley turns around to see what scared him. “Oh,” she says, as if I’m a major disappointment. “You guys sounded good.” “Easy to sound good in an empty theatre,” she says sardonically. I try to keep my hands to myself as she bends over to put her guitar in its case. When she stands back up and looks at me I lose myself for a second. She’s got a new kind of sexiness I’m seeing for the first time. If the girl I met at the open mic was sexy because she was so innocent, naïve, and keen to see the world, this new Haley is sexy for a whole new set of reasons. No more of the round, whites-of-the-eyes looks that she used to get; now they’re hard, like two pools of suppressed fire. The lips that once curled outward as if tasting something for the first time are now tight and ripe. Even the way she carries herself now is different. No more hanging her head, hiding behind her hair, standing sideways: now she stands with her shoulders back, her chin high, and it’s impossible not to notice the swell of her breasts, the roundness of her hips. Once upon a time everything about her said ‘take me, I’m yours,’ and now it says ‘you’re mine, and I’ll take what I want.’ I think back to the time we fucked in the studio, my head between her trembling thighs, her fragile body shaking under my hands, and realize I’d give anything to taste her again, this new Haley. Before I can stop myself, I say something stupid. As usual. “I’m sorry about how this turned out.” She folds her arms, shifts her weight onto one leg, and I have to look away to stop my cock from reacting to the way the line of her ass syncs so perfectly with the outline of her lifted tits. “Are you?” “Look Haley, I know—” I’m interrupted by the sudden onrush of Lexi’s people to the stage. More than a dozen colorfullydressed men and women with flamboyant haircuts emerging from the sides and taking up spots with the precision of a military operation. “Do dancers need to soundcheck too?” Haley says, noticing them as well. I take her by the arm and lead her off to the side, a sense of joy spiking in me when I see she doesn’t resist – little victories. We stand by one of the quieter corners in the backstage area and Haley promptly assumes her ‘I’ll listen but I’ll also judge’ position again. “I know you don’t believe anything I say anymore,” I continue, sounding like I’m not pleading, but looking every bit the beggar, “but you’re the best musician I’ve ever worked with.” I stand aside slightly to let a couple more dancers run to the stage, and when I look back at Haley she’s still glaring at me – only there’s a little more softness in her eyes than there was a second ago. She doesn’t say anything, she’s expecting more. Fine.

I’d beg all night for her. “Yes, I made a bet. And yes, it was to get Lexi back. But do you think I’d be here if that was all it was? I mean, I won the bet, I got Lexi back, I got you a hit record, I should be happy, right?” I point at my face. “Do I sound like a happy man right now? Or do I sound more like a whining idiot who’s desperate to fix the dumbest mistake he ever made?” Haley breaks a little, and looks away to try and hide her smile, but I catch it. This must be what coming back from the dead feels like. “I wish I didn’t feel like this, Haley. I wish I could just brush you off. God knows I’ve had enough practice forgetting about girls. I spent a month listening to your songs, getting Josh to sneak me the demos of you at the studio, playing them over and over again. Torturing myself with how amazing you are. Trying to convince myself that it was just about music, nothing else. But the night you told me about Rex being your father, about how you never even got to speak to him – I knew that even though we come from different worlds, deep down, we’ve got a connection. Something more than music.” Haley looks down, hiding behind her hair, almost as if she’s once again the shy open-mic’er who was too nervous to play her own songs. When she looks up again, though, she’s back to the new, tough Haley. “Maybe, Brando. But you still lied to me. You started this whole thing off with a lie. How am I supposed to know where the lies stopped and the truth began? Did you lie when you told me I had something special and should sign with you right away? Did you lie about how you grew up tough and only a love of music got you through? Are you lying right now?” “Haley, I—” She raises a hand to stop me from speaking, and I’m so enraptured by the movement of her lips, the lines of her face, by being this close to her again, that it feels like slamming into a train. “You know what your problem is, Brando?” she says, her voice gentle but lethal. “You’re too good. Too perfect. Too smooth. I can never tell when you’re actually feeling something. Actually hurting, and yearning, and sad, like a regular person.” She takes a step away from me, about to leave, before turning back. “But this is a start.” I watch her walk down the long hall of the backstage area, my chest heaving, every bone in my body feeling like it’s just been thrown around in a washing machine. She pushes through the exit doors, and I feel a hole in my chest. “I wonder if you ever watched me walk away like that.” I spin around and see her leaning casually against the wall. “Lexi.” “You were probably just watching her ass though, right?” she laughs. I’m not amused. “How long have you been standing there?” “Why? Did I miss the best part?” she says, pushing herself away from the wall and stepping out onto the stage, where there are roughly twenty people now waiting for her to soundcheck. I push a hand through my hair, emotions running and striking inside of me like a storm. I start striding in the opposite direction, head down, fists clenched. I can barely tell whether I’m angry at Lexi’s snooping, at having disappointed Haley so deeply, or whether I’m just so fucking hot for her that it’s making me aggressive. Either way, it’s a bad time to bump into her guitarist. Which is exactly what happens. He nods a greeting at me, quickening his pace to glide right by, but I put a hand on his chest to stop him, and he almost flails onto my palm like he just walked into a lamppost. “Oh, hey!” he says, with frightened enthusiasm. “Brian? Is it?” “Yeah! You’re Brando, right?”

“Tell me: Do you like Haley?” “Uh…of course! She’s awesome. Best singer I’ve played fo—” “I mean,” I snarl, slower this time, “do you like Haley?” I takes a second for understanding to appear in his glazed eyes. “Oh! No! No, man, come on! No.” Suddenly I realize how ridiculous this is, how crazy I’m being. The last thing I need right now is to turn into a paranoid maniac who gets into jealous fights with my client’s back-up musicians. I drop my palm and shake my head like a dog shaking off a bad scent. “Sorry,” I mumble, as if I just woke up. “Forget about it.” I stalk past him and through the exit doors like a wounded animal. Haley’s going to be on stage in less than six hours. I should be doing the rounds and making sure everything is running smoothly at the venue – but right now I can barely keep my own thoughts together, let alone everyone else’s. With my head pounding and blood thumping in my veins I leave the venue and make for the hotel, conveniently located just a couple of blocks away. The second I get into my room I slam the door shut and drop back onto the bed. “What an asshole,” I mutter at the ceiling as I remember the moment Haley told me she found out about the bet. But then again, without that bet, without Davis’ being a slimy opportunist, I’d never have found Haley. I should have told her myself. Should have laid it all out before that greaseball did it for me. That would have been the right thing to do. The smart thing to do. I fish out my phone and glance through it at a sea of notifications that sound important but that I couldn’t care less about. I bring up the music video, the one Haley and I filmed together. I tell myself I’m doing it to check on the number of views, maybe check the comments, pick up on the current vibe around her as any good manager should do. But really I just want to see her face. More than that, I want to see her when she was happy, when we were happy. The video starts and I smile. That summery dress that hugged the curves of her body, that shy smile that seems as distant and as mysterious as a star. I watch as she dances and pulls away from me, remember the taste of her ice cream on her lips, the feel of her cool hands on my neck… Automatically my hand goes to my belt buckle, undoing it before unzipping my fly. I’m still on my back, the phone in one hand, the other already around my hard cock. I stop the video and rewind it during the scene in the sushi bar, the curl of her lips around chopsticks sending all kinds of heat straight through me. I grip my cock harder, as hard as her pussy was tight, stroke it smoothly, as rhythmically as she rode it. I toss the phone aside as the memory comes to me vividly in sensations. The sound of her soft moans as I pressed her against the window, the roundness of her eyes as she looked up at me, the warmth of her mouth. I’m sucked into the memory like a vacuum, unable to stop it even if I wanted to, hand pumping my cock with the ferocity of my want, the fierceness of my desire to make it real. I roll myself to the edge of the bed a second before coming hard and fast. The heat of lust, the tight knot of desire, leaving my body. Nothing but a deep emptiness remaining. I regret jerking off the second I’m done. The pain that comes after is even worse, even more difficult to deal with. The fact that Haley’s not actually here seems even realer. When my lust for her is satisfied, it’s impossible to escape all of the other feelings I have for her. I clean up, and put my belt back on. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror I make a promise to myself. A promise that this is as low as it gets. I’m not meant for this kind of torture, this kind of pain. I’ll give my last breath before I give up on getting Haley back. I don’t care who, or what, stands between us: Lexi, Davis, Rowland, the whole fucking music industry, I’ll take them all down before I let Haley go. She’s mine.

23

Haley I CAN’T THINK. Somebody has pressed fast-forward on everything around me, and my mind just can’t catch up. The green room’s big and comfortable, but it only makes me feel smaller and more out of place. Paula’s on the couch, tapping out rhythms on her knees as if she’s already out there, in front of the thousands of fans screaming so loudly we can still hear them through the thick walls of the backstage area. Aaron’s beside her, his eyes closed, hands folded, meditating. Brian’s leaning against the wall, re-tuning his guitar for the twentieth time. They look more or less poised, professional. Ready to go. Me, I’m pacing around the room like a rat looking for the exit of the maze. The runner knocks on the door, opens it, and leans in. “It’s time,” she says. Everyone gets up – except for me. I take a step back. “Time? But you just said we had ten more minutes?” The runner looks at me with a mixture of confusion and sympathy. “That was over ten minutes ago.” “Come on,” Brian says, putting an arm around my shoulders. “It’s going to be fine.” I let him walk me out of the green room, along the hallway that leads to the side of the stage, until suddenly he leaves my side and runs ahead. For a second it almost seems like he’s abandoning me. But then I look up, and see Brando standing in front of me. He might be a liar. He might have hurt me. I might hate him. But right now, there’s nobody else I’d rather see. I look into his cocksure eyes, waiting for him to say something, pleading with him to use that deep, reassuring voice and that commanding presence he has on me. Right now, I need something solid to hold on to, to ground me, and it doesn’t get more solid than Brando. He steps toward me and cups my cheeks in his strong hands. “Everything you’re feeling will disappear the second you hit the first chord,” he says, somehow making it sound like the most truthful thing in the world. “What if I choke? I can’t even remember the first song. I’m nervous just hearing those people out there, what about when I see them? I can’t do it,” I say, raising my hand. “Look, I’m shaking. I can’t play guitar. Tell them I can’t do it—” “Haley,” Brando says, leaning in so close I can taste his breath, “you’ve dreamed of this moment since you were a kid. Lived it over and over again in your head. I know you have. The big venue, the screaming fans, the flashing lights, you’ve dreamed it all, right?” I nod, my skin brushing against his rough palms. “Do you choke or forget the words in the dream?” “No.” “This is just like that. Just like your dream. A little bit louder. A little bit realer. But just the same.” He strokes my hair away from my face and I hear the screaming rise a full twenty decibels as my band makes it on stage. Brando pulls away and steps aside. I cast one last look at the firm belief in his eyes, gathering the last bit of strength I can from them, and then walk down the hallway and step out onto the stage. It’s just like he says, like a dream. I walk out and feel like a hurricane hits me. A sea of faces and arms shouting and wailing. A wall of sound that almost blows me back. I hit the first chord, and before I know it I’m almost done with the last song of the night. If I felt like I was on fast-forward earlier, it’s as if someone pressed the skip button through the concert. But even so,

judging by the audience applause, it seems that all those years of relentless practice have finally paid off. I didn’t totally bomb. “That was awesome, Haley!” yells someone from the group of strangers that mob us as we exit the stage, carrying us in a crowded mass back toward the green room. “Was it?” I say, barely able to hear myself speak over the excited laughter and whoops of the crowd. “Holy shit!” Brian says, putting a hand on my back. “I never heard you do that before!” “Do what?” I say, looking for him as I get pushed and pulled into the green room. “What was I doing?” “The ad-libs! Talking to the crowd!” Paula says, emerging at my side and holding out a beer toward me. “They loved you!” “Fuck,” I say, bringing a hand to my head to stop the spinning. “I didn’t even know I was doing it.” Somebody slams two glass bottles together to get people’s attention. We all look in the direction of the sound and see Mike the guitar tech standing on a table. “First show of the tour…and we fucking nailed it!” he screams, shooting his beer-carrying hands into the air and spraying everyone. The room erupts. Stage techs, roadies, anyone with a backstage pass – they’re all jumping and shouting as if whatever the fans are experiencing outside is contagious. As if on cue, Lexi’s show starts, and the room becomes a congested mass of noise, beer, and post-orgasmic energy. “Haley,” Brian says, leaning in close so I can hear him over the crowd, “you okay?” “Yeah,” I say, laughing the last of the butterflies away, “I feel like I just woke up from a coma – but I’m alright.” Brian doesn’t pull away, and I notice that he’s letting the crowd push his body up against mine. “You’re amazing, Haley,” he whispers into my ear. I pull my head back to stare up at him. He’s giving me a look I haven’t seen before, a look that makes me feel like we’re the only two people in the room. “Thanks,” I say, slowly. “You’re not too bad yourself.” Brian smiles at the joke, but his eyes have no humor in them. They’re the eyes of someone seeing something they want badly. He holds my gaze, and I wait for it. “You make me kinda nervous,” he says, awkwardly. I sip slowly from my beer. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’ve just grabbed the biggest opportunity in my life and made it – I feel invincible. Like I can do anything I want, and do it without thinking. “Aren’t you always kinda nervous, Brian?” I say, cocking my head to the side, and rubbing the beer bottle against my cheek. “Only when I’m around you,” he says. I giggle and lean into him. “And why’s that?” I purr. It takes Brian a few seconds to change his expression from nervous surprise to keen excitement. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he says anything, his cute, boyish face is replaced by Brando’s hard lines and manly stubble, as he sweeps Brian aside like a soft blanket. Brando stands over me, his loose shirt hanging over his broad shoulders, the faint outline of those neck muscles I liked so much teasingly traced in soft fabric. His eyes are hard and narrowed beneath his dark eyebrows, two planets that pull me into their orbit. “Just like in your dreams, right?” he says, fixing me in place with the symmetry of his face. I press a hand against his torso, feeling the grooves of his six-pack on my palm. “So far,” I whisper, as I roll my hand up and down his bicep, along his forearm, before locking fingers with his. I feel a flicker of excitement seeing the lines in his face get a little harder, a little more intensely focused upon me, as he sees where this is going. A small dimple on one of his cheeks where he

smiles. He leans in until his mouth is almost touching mine. Our eyes lock. Then he hesitates, as if he’s not sure this is the right move. But I know exactly what I want. I grab the back of his neck and our lips meet hungrily, moving together in perfect equilibrium, soft and wet, plucking the sweetness from each other. I feel his stomach tense up under my hand as he struggles to control himself. His tongue flicks against my lip and I pull back to flash him a teasing smile. I tighten my grip on his hand, lower my face to look up at him through my hair, and lead him out of the room.

24

Brando I LET the sway of her hips in those tight, black jeans hypnotize me as she pulls me by the hand. Out of the green room, down the hallway, and then turning off down a set of stairs that gets darker with every step. We go through a door that leads into a dark storage area. In the little bit of light that trickles in I can see amps, mic stands, and a bunch of other equipment. Somewhere in the distance the music’s still playing, but only the bass thump makes it this far. A pounding beat that we feel more than we hear. Haley stops, turns, and backs me slowly up against the wall. The elusive light playing off strands in her hair. Her face comes close, breath so hard and warm it feels like she’s kissing me already. “I’ve missed this, Haley,” I half-growl, half-sigh as I nuzzle against the side of her face. “Oh yeah?” she says, and I can hear the seductive smile in the huskiness of her voice. “Missed what?” I press my nose against her neck as her body rolls and curls itself against mine. “The way you smell…” I suck softly on her earlobe, and roll my tongue down the base of her ear along the smooth curve of her neck. “The way you taste…” She lets out a low moan followed by a sharp intake of breath as I run my fingers down her spine and grab her ass. “This…” She throws her head back, and I move forward to kiss the soft part of her neck but she backs away, laughing seductively. I push myself off the wall and follow her, my hands still around her waist, fingers working their way under her shirt. She backs up onto a large speaker-stack and sits up on it, and I move forward between her legs. “Keep going,” she murmurs, leaning back, her arms stretched out behind her. I stroke my hand around to her navel. “The way you tremble when you’re excited,” I say, smiling at this new game. I bring my hand up under her shirt toward her breast, her nipple between my fingers. “Your tits…” she lets out a two-tone moan, “and the way you sing when I touch them…” She yanks her shirt and bra off and pulls my head toward her with both hands. Her tongue whips against mine as I bait her, bringing her body closer. My hands savor the round firmness of her tits, the elegant way she twitches and undulates beneath me. I feel her thighs squeeze me, her body acting on its own now, urging me in, craving me. Even in the dark, her nakedness drives me wild. It’s been over a month since I last had her – since I last had anyone – and even wild horses couldn’t hold me back now. I take her nipple in my mouth, biting and sucking to the tune of the distant drumbeat, to the rhythm of her purrs and sighs, feeling every pulse of pleasure that tickles its way down the tender skin of her torso. Her hands fumble with my fly, releasing the tightness that’s been aching in me since she first took me by the hand. Her hips sway like a dance as I ease her jeans down, then her panties, the sound of rustling clothes mixing with her short breaths. I lower myself and kiss her thighs, run my tongue slowly up to her pussy, then around it in ever-nearing circles. I listen to her breathing like a musical cue, moving closer to the spot like a throbbing groove, my hands still playing across her stomach and ass, pulling and grabbing at the goosebumps on her skin. When I take her clit in my mouth she pulls my hair, grits her teeth and growls with aching anticipation. I fuck her with my tongue, deep and wet, bringing it out to flick it over her clit. Slow, resonant strokes, pausing at the end for a split-second to make her beg for more. “Brando, stop,” she pants, in between her moans. I pull back. “Tell me what you want, then,” I rasp, my voice husky with needing her. “I want you to take those stupid clothes off and fuck me.” It’s everything I’ve been waiting to hear, and I don’t need to be told twice. I grab a condom from my jeans and put it on while she caresses her tits, pinching the nipples, dappled light dancing over them as they bounce back. I stand up and watch her for an agonizing moment,

my hands spreading her thighs wide open, my tip teasing her wet lips, before sliding my cock inside her, deep and sure. It’s like coming home. Her breathing stops for a second, her body tensing, and I ease back just a little and then slam back inside until I’m all the way in, and she releases a half-suppressed scream. “How’s that feel?” I ask. She only manages a satisfied moan in return. I raise her legs and put them over one shoulder, holding them there with one hand on her ankles, the other reaching for her breast. She clutches at my hand, holding it against her breast tightly, her fingers scratching and pulling at the knuckles. “You get me so fucking hot, Haley,” I snarl, leaning over her as I start to fuck her to the beat of the distant drums. Her legs almost folded against her, her hands clutching at mine. I’m hard enough to break bricks, horny enough to fuck for hours, but she’s tight and wet enough that I know I won’t last that long. I put a little swing in my thrust, enough to make her really feel me inside, enough to make her scream without worrying who’ll hear her, enough to make her pussy tighten around my cock with the unbearable sensation of too much bliss. “Oh my God, fuck, don’t stop,” she gasps, her screams turning into stuttering moans, her fingers digging deep into my hand. I smack her ass as her pussy clenches, wetness flowing against me, and I know she’s right at the edge, almost there. Instead of thrusting faster I slow down, making sure she can feel every single stroke. “Brando.” Her breasts shiver under my hand as she comes hard, breathlessly, blood rushing to her head. I can’t hold back any longer. I pump into her again, my need taking over, losing myself in the moment. I cum fast, the ecstatic heat of it slamming through me in groaning waves, and I collapse onto Haley and let her twine her fingers through my hair. After a few minutes of drowsy contentment, I pull out and ease her legs to the ground. She lays on the speaker-stack, arms out wide, catching her breath, even the light that outlines her shoulder seeming fuzzy now with post-orgasmic warmth. Slowly, I lean over her, and kiss her one last time on the lips. So soft she can barely feel it. She receives it sleepily, and smiles when I pull away. I wait for her at the base of the stairs while she gets dressed. By the time she emerges from the dark she’s back in control, a sly grin on her lips, that knowing sway in her hips. She walks right past me, and I lose myself in her mesmerizing ass as she ascends the steps. A view that makes me immediately ready for a second round. But suddenly I’m full of doubt. “Haley?” She looks back at me over her shoulder. “That meant something, right?” I say, slowly. Haley chuckles slightly, then turns to face me, looking down at me from the height of the steps. “No,” she says, with a sense of satisfaction. “It didn’t.” I freeze on the stairs. “Are you serious right now?” Haley’s smile gets even more condescending, and all at once I feel like it’s more than just the higher ground making me feel like she’s the one in control. “It was just sex, Brando. Just a bit of fun, nothing more.” She turns around and walks up a step before adding, “Just like before.” She continues to walk up the stairs, and I watch her. Half-crazed by that ass, half-stunned by those words. “Haley!” I call out, causing her to pause, though this time she doesn’t turn. “Maybe you want to believe that, but your body doesn’t lie. That meant something.” She snorts derisively before continuing up the stairs. “Just like before,” I add, quietly to myself.

25

Haley WE PLAY PORTLAND, Seattle, Salt Lake City, Denver, and Austin. But it turns out that playing the biggest gigs of my life are the least of my worries. It’s hard keeping my hands off Brando, since he’s a constant presence, and each time I come off stage, flushed with adrenaline, all I want to do is drag him away to a dark corner and fuck all of my energy away. But I don’t. I can’t let that happen again. We’d already be doing it on the tour bus if it wasn’t for my other band members demanding all of my attention. After a mix-up in Portland where we end up staying three-to-a-room (I declined Brando’s invitation, of course) he decides to start flying out ahead of the crew and the band to make sure nothing else goes wrong with the hotels and venue arrangements. The fact that I can’t see him move any more heavy equipment should give me a chance to calm down, but even during the times when he’s away, I feel the echoes of his touch whenever I’m alone. A post-orgasmic bliss that refuses to fade. Like a drug, I’m itchy and thirsty for another fix of him – however much I insist to myself that I’m not addicted. Soon, I’m thinking more about the stolen moment at the first show than I am the next performance. I twist myself into knots remembering both how good he feels, and how badly he treated me. I almost break obsessing over the memories of him lifting amps onto the tour bus, his shirt off, muscles bulging, but a cold shower or my daily run-in with Lexi usually helps me get through it. If not, there’s beer. Eventually, I start actually looking forward to the shows instead of constantly twisting myself up in knots over each performance. It’s a big, cathartic release of all the tension inside of me, a chance to channel all of my mixed emotions and conflicts into something positive. Being on stage is the only time I let loose, and the shows are better for it. Lexi, on the other hand, only seems to get worse as the tour goes on. She’s a tangled knot of negativity, a whirlwind of tantrums and complaints. She talks in a language of bitchy put-downs and selfpitying breakdowns. Her massive entourage follows her everywhere, sycophantic when she’s feeling good, hiding behind each other when she’s not. Me and my crew steer clear, but the times I accidentally get close to her and witness the way she never stops berating or manipulating them, I feel like I’m back in time witnessing a head cheerleader gone mad with power. I almost begin to feel sorry for her; it’s as if she can’t help it. “What the fuck is this?!” I hear her scream as I walk through the lobby of the Texas hotel with my band. “‘Mildly interesting voice’? What does that even mean? ‘Songs that don’t match her stage presence’? Who the fuck is this guy?” I turn to see Lexi sitting with her entourage in the lobby’s lounge area, so many of them there aren’t even enough couches. She tosses the tablet toward one of her crew, almost hitting him on the head with it, then turns her head and notices me. “There she is! The fucking usurper!” She even talks like an under-threat queen now. My bandmates look at me, but I nod for them to go on through to have breakfast without me. I can handle Lexi. She gets up and stalks toward me, her long legs bringing her near me in a couple of strides. “You read the review?” she says, her voice low but menacing. “They’re saying you’re putting on a better show than me.” “Lexi,” I sigh. I don’t have time for this. I’m too hungry and it’s too early in the morning to get into a catfight. “It was Austin – they like guitar music down there, that’s all.” “Oh, that’s very fucking magnanimous of you. Easy to be gracious when you’re the one getting all the praise, isn’t it?” “Since when do you care about reviews, Lexi?” “Since they started talking shit about me, that’s when,” she hisses, leaning in. “I know exactly what

you’re trying to do. It won’t work.” I lower my head, pushing down the instinct to bite back at her crazed paranoia. “It was one show,” I say slowly. “The reviews for every date we did on the West Coast were positive about you. I was lucky to get a paragraph at the bottom for most of them.” Lexi’s face doesn’t soften, but some of the venom disappears from her eyes. “Maybe you’re right about the hicks down here,” she says. She starts slinking away, but then stops and turns back around, the menace still lingering. “You’d better hope so.” I almost run off stage when the set’s over, my blood boiling, my hands clenched into fists, heat behind my eyes. I’m so angry I could punch a wall right now. I storm through the backstage area and continue marching down the hall, breathing fire and clenching my teeth. I stop, tense every muscle in my stomach, and scream. “Fuck!” Then continue steaming ahead with livid, aimless determination. Brando’s the only person who’s dumb enough to come near me, running sideways beside me to keep up as I burst through one door after another. “Haley, what happened?” he says, his voice muffled and distant beyond the cloud of my frustration. “Haley?” he repeats. “Talk to me.” I stop tensely and face him. “My fucking guitar! First it was…out of tune…then too loud, then too quiet. I played the first half of my set sounding like some amateur at a fourth-grade school recital. Then when Mike gave me another one of my effects pedals, it was all on the wrong settings.” “I don’t get it.” Brando shakes his head. “It was fine during soundcheck.” He looks to the side and notices Mike standing at the end of the hallway, carrying my guitar and arguing with someone. “Mike!” he shouts. The long-haired guitar tech runs toward us with apologetic confusion written all over his face. “What the fuck happened?” He holds the guitar up and shakes his head. “I don’t know, seriously dude. The guitar’s a mess. The strings are way out of tune, the neck has a bow in it, and one of the pick-ups is coming loose. I swear, I’ve never seen anything like this. Maybe it’s the dry air, but…I don’t know, dude. It must have got knocked over or something.” He turns to me and hangs his head. “I’m sorry. I swear, it won’t happen again. I’ll take the guitar off stage right after soundchecks from now on, and double-check everything right up until you go on—” “It’s okay, Mike,” I say, putting a hand on his shoulder. I look at Brando. “I know who did this.” Brando waits, and I wonder if he knows what I’m going to say. “Lexi.” “No,” Brando says. “She’d never—” “Yes. She would. She’s scared that my show might get more attention than hers, and this is the only way she knows how to stop that.” Brando pushes his hair back with his hand and looks up at the ceiling. “Sabotaging your set?” “What? Is it out of character for her?” I reply, voice drenched in sarcasm. “Does it go against her strict moral code? You’re right. Lexi’s the kind of person who takes criticism constructively, and would be really happy for me if I started upstaging her.” “Okay, okay,” Brando admits. “It could have been her. Look, Mike, you make sure you take extra care with the instruments for the upcoming gigs. We’ll do soundchecks closer to the concert time, and I want you to double-check everything – not just the instruments, the amps, the mics, the lighting – everything.”

“I swear,” Mike says, nodding vigorously before turning back down the hallway, still shaking his head at the guitar. Brando turns back to me. “Look, don’t jump to conclusions, Haley. I know Lexi can seem like somebody poured pure evil into a pair of Louboutins, but she’s still a musician. She wouldn’t do something like this.” “You heard Mike,” I say, skeptically. “Somebody fucked with my guitar. If not her, then who else? Nobody else hates me like she does.” Brando shrugs. “Lexi isn’t in touch with reality. She has hundreds of people around her – working for her, depending on her. If she doesn’t do well, they don’t get her crumbs. Any one of them could have thought it was a good idea. Lexi doesn’t have a clue what half her entourage does for her. She lives in a bubble.” “When do I get a bubble?” He laughs warmly. “I’m not saying don’t watch your back, I’m just saying that right now you’re doing awesome. And this kind of thing is the price you pay when people start noticing how awesome you are. There’s always someone, somewhere, who’ll try to bring you down. You’ve got to just roll with it, to be tough.” I let a pouting smile form on my lips, put my hand on his chest, and slowly caress his front from his six-pack to his pecs. “Brando, I’m much tougher than you think,” I say, before pushing him away. “I know I’m in this alone.” I take a few steps backwards down the hall, facing him still. “The question is: Do you?” I say, before turning my back to him and walking away.

26

Brando BY THE TIME we get to New York, the final show on the tour, I’m going out of my mind. It’s one thing to want a girl so badly you could fill a book with the things you want to do to her, but it’s a whole new level of ball-ache when she’s everywhere you look. In every town we go to, I get calls all day long asking for a few minutes with the hot new star, pleading music reporters sounding as desperate as I feel. The photo shoots we did for the first single start popping up on magazines and newspapers, her sexy eyes and slightly-less-than-innocent smile tempting me to tear out the pages and do bad things to myself like a guilty schoolboy. And to top it all off, night after night I have to watch her go on stage and become a guitar-playing goddess, making thousands of fans go as crazy for her as I am. Jealous every time I see her put her lips close to the mic, curling her fingers slowly around it… I was a bad enough wreck when I lost her, but being near her like this is a torture that even a war couldn’t justify. She’s growing with every show, getting sexier with every victory. It’s not just me noticing anymore, every member of the crew who works with her, anyone who catches a glimpse of her shows realizes that they’re in the presence of something special, that this is the start of a star being born. The good thing is that Haley’s progress is making everyone work at the top of their game. I’ve never seen so many people willing and eager to do the best job they can out of love for an artist, but the bad thing is that I haven’t had a moment alone with her since our unlit private encore after her first gig. I have to barge my way through a crowd of people every time I want to ask her something. But I’m not completely out of action yet, and if I have to play a little dirty, then so be it. I pace a little, standing at the steps of the MOMA. I check my watch and stick my hands back deep inside the pockets of my designer jacket. I miss New York, but not the cold – I find it much easier to look good with fewer clothes on. I notice her immediately when she emerges from the bustle of people and traffic, how could I not in those tight patterned leggings and the same leather jacket she seems to wear like a security blanket. I smile as she draws near. “Where’s everyone else?” she asks as soon as she’s in earshot. “Who?” She gives out a deep laugh, one that says ‘I get it.’ “My band?” she says, deciding to play the game a little with me. “Aren’t we going on a tour of the city?” “Oh yeah,” I say, offering my arm for her to take. “Your band is sitting on top of a sight-seeing bus right now, probably freezing their asses off. You, on the other hand, get the special treatment.” She starts walking beside me, our arms linked. “What kind of ‘special treatment’ is that?” “You get to see New York with a real New Yorker. The authentic experience,” I say, leading her up the steps to the museum. “The good bagels and coffee.” “And the good pizza?” “And the best shops on Fifth Avenue.” “And the nicest drug dealer in Central Park?” “And the rudest, smelliest cab driver.” She throws her head back and laughs. I can’t help joining in. Even though it’s been a long time since we were alone with each other, it doesn’t take long for us to slip into same rhythm we had before: Easy, laid-back, and with more than a little sexual tension in the spaces between our jokes. We amble around the museum, dedicating as much of our attention to each other as we

do to the masterpieces around us. Haley asks me to take pictures of her next to a Georgia O’Keeffe with the giggling excitement of a schoolgirl, and she’s anything but the hottest young star on the music scene, nothing like the magnetizing whirlwind of energy that her fans can never be near enough to. When we’re done passing amateur judgment on the art, we leave the museum and I buy us a couple of hot dogs at a stand outside Central Park. I hand hers over and wait. “What are you looking at?” she says, holding the hot dog inches away from her lips. “Just watching you take a bite out of that hot dog.” She grins and rolls her eyes. I half-expect her to turn her back and eat it, but instead she locks her eyes onto mine, and takes a slow, soft-lipped bite. I know she’s playing it for laughs, but the almost heartattack inducing rush of blood to my cock is no joke. She chews with a smile, and after swallowing says, “Damn, that’s good. You satisfied?” “Mind doing that again?” She punches my arm and we laugh as we start walking through the park. “So what do you wanna do?” I ask. “Times Square? The Empire State? We should have enough time still for the boat to the Statue of Liberty.” Haley groans. “Ugh. I’ve seen those things so many times on TV I feel like I’ve already been there. Didn’t you say you were gonna give me the ‘authentic’ New York? Why don’t you show me the places you used to hang out?” I breathe in through my teeth. “You sure? The places I used to hang out sure weren’t LA.” “All the more reason to see them,” she challenges. I’ve never liked introducing girls to my friends. The last time I did that was with Lexi, and she had a habit of arguing with them and making them hate her, or flirting with them and making me hate her. With Haley, though, nothing ever feels tough. She’s almost too good to be true. I start hoping she’ll disappoint me, let me down, or just show me a flaw, so that not having her will be a lot easier, but she never does. We take the subway to Brooklyn, and I take her on a whirlwind tour of the record stores, instrument stores, and studios that I know better than I’ll ever know LA, and where the owners treat me like I was just there yesterday. Haley dives into the stacks of records like a kid on Christmas, and drinks in every drop of history from the dirty corners and graffiti-stained walls of the forgotten parts of the city. I watch her face light up as my friends tell her the same stories of landmark gigs and famous musicians I’ve heard a million times, but feel new now that I’m hearing them with her. We head back to Manhattan and duck into an old Irish pub to have a few drinks, but by the time we get out it’s already gotten dark and the temperature’s dropped a few more degrees. “You know, the Mercury Lounge is just a few blocks away,” I say, as we step out of the loud bar onto the street. “I got a good tip that there’s a pretty hot, unsigned band there doing their first gig in New York.” Haley breathes on her hands and rubs them. “Are you trying to replace me already?” I laugh. “Impossible.” She grins. “Thanks, but I should really get going back to the hotel. It’s late.” I know she should go. If she was just one of my artists I’d be arguing myself for her to go home now. To give herself plenty of rest and hot tea and to make sure nothing bad happens. But she’s not just one of my artists. I’ve been waiting to get her alone for three weeks, across the entire country. I’m not going to let her slip away from me again without a fight – or at least a kiss. “You don’t have a gig tonight, and you’re heading back soon. You should enjoy the city while you can.” “My gig’s still tomorrow, and it’s cold,” she says, tightening her jacket and folding her arms over it. “Why didn’t you say so,” I reply, taking off my designer jacket and hanging it off her shoulders.

“There. No excuses now. Unless you really don’t want to go?” She hesitates. “I do, it’s just that…” “Haley. It’s the Mercury Lounge. And as long as you’re with me, you’re a VIP.” She looks up at me and smiles with a little nod of defeat. I put my arm around her and lead her to the lounge. Little victories. The band is surprisingly good, even more so than I’d been led to believe, but I’m too focused on winning Haley over to bother with business. It’s a sold-out show, but I use a connection and get us in late, sliding into the back of the packed room. They play a slow, bass-led rhythm. Synths swaying around the lead singer’s dream-like vocals. The kind of music that makes time slow, that pulls at your deepest secrets. I stand behind Haley and wrap my arms around her front and feel glad when she puts her hand over mine and presses back against me. We stay like that for the whole show, moving slowly, her body melting into mine. We don’t even pull away when the band finishes and the crowd erupts in appreciative applause. Instead, Haley twists her head and looks up at me, her lips inches from mine. We look into each other’s eyes, as vulnerable and open as each other, a look that’s full of promises. I move in slowly, more like falling. Her lips part. “No,” she says, suddenly standing two feet away. “Brando … please.” It takes me a few seconds of rubbing my eyes and avoiding eye contact before I recover from being stunned by the rejection. “Okay. It’s fine, I get it,” I say, my voice suddenly sounding like somebody else’s, somebody defeated. “Let’s go get you a cab.” She nods, backing a few more steps away from me. What the fuck just happened?

27

Haley LYING ON MY SIDE, I push my soft breasts up against the hard muscles of his back. I feel the heat of his body, smell the hazy musk of his skin. My fingers trace his side, so delicately I can feel every goosbump. I reach around to his front, run my nails down the central line of his abdomen, down to the base of his cock, already growing. I pull myself closer and for a second it feels like I’m flying, like there’s nothing beneath me. Then I realize there really isn’t anything beneath me, and slam face-first into the floor beside my bed. I jump back up to my feet so quickly I see black and white stars zoom past. Through the daze and the mist of my sudden awakening I begin to put the pieces of reality together. I’m in a hotel room, in New York City. Brando’s not really in bed with me (he walked me to my door and left – almost like a real gentleman) and I have a gig tonight. There’s something else, I think, as I stumble into the bathroom, rubbing the dull echo of pain on my forehead, unable to tell if it’s a headache or the effect of falling out of bed. I stand in front of the mirror, turn on the faucet, and splash cool water onto my face. Another piece falls like a die in the groggy swamp of my sleepy mind. Brando. His big, broad arms around my shoulders, leaning back against his chest, tracing the thick veins in his hands. In the battle between professional distance and pure, animal instinct, the latter is winning. “Keep it together, Haley,” I say to my reflection. Except it doesn’t sound right at all. It sounds like somebody put my vocal cords through a lawnmower. And it feels even worse. “Oh no, wait. No,” I say, scrutinizing every stab of scratchy pain that each syllable causes in my throat, listening to the random pitch-shifting in my voice. From two-packs-a-day-smoker huskiness to clown-trumpet sharp notes and back again. “Fuck!” I scream, yanking on yesterday’s leggings, and it sounds like an outtake from the Exorcist. I run out of the hotel suite and go to the next door, banging like the zombie apocalypse is at my back. I don’t know who exactly is in the next room, but I know it has to be somebody I can trust; we booked the entire floor of the hotel for our crew, band members, and tour managers. “I am going to tear your head from your fucking neck and—” I hear Lexi say until the second she opens the door and sees me standing there. Her downturned eyebrows suddenly raise themselves in arches. “You’ve got the wrong door.” “I’m sick! My throat!” I scream with full force, though it comes out sounding like an alien language of squeaks and croaks. Lexi looks at me like I just turned into a giant beetle before I point frantically at my throat, and her confusion quickly turns into wide-eyed recognition. “Oh! You’re sick! You poor baby,” she says, smiling with sympathy. I nod so hard I nearly break my neck. I see the flicker of thoughts behind Lexi’s green eyes as she debates what to do, but then she steps aside and opens the door wide. “Okay, get in here. You’re not gonna get better standing in a hotel hallway.” I almost sprint into Lexi’s room, not too exasperated to notice how much more lavishly furnished it is than my own, but too panicked – and definitely too incommunicative – to worry about it. I walk in circles, humming and making sounds with my voice as if making the right one will stop it from feeling like I’m inhaling gravel. “Are you trying to look as ridiculous as you sound?” Lexi says, standing to the side watching me. “Sit down.” I sit on the lounge chair by the window, though I continue to tap my heels and clutch at my throat anxiously.

“Look,” Lexi says, grabbing her hotel key from the desk beside me, “stay here, and stop forcing it. I’m going to go get a doctor, alright?” “Yes,” I say, and it sounds like a creaky door. Ten minutes of frantic knee-tapping later Lexi returns followed by a sharply-dressed bald guy that looks kinda familiar. She taps him on the shoulder and nods toward me. “Hi, Haley,” he says, a note of awkwardness in his voice. “Let me take a look at you.” I sit still as he kneels in front of me and puts his hands on the side of my head. “Open your mouth…now stick your tongue out…now say ‘ah…’” He gazes into my mouth for a few seconds, adjusting the view by tilting my head a few times, then looks toward Lexi, who gives him a stern stare. He stands up, breathes deeply, and licks his lips. I can tell by his face that it’s not good, but I have no idea how not good it is until he says the exact words I’m dreading. “It’s bad. Really bad. You’ve been singing a lot, and it’s wreaking havoc on your vocal cords,” he says, exchanging a nervous look with Lexi. “You need a lot of rest, hot tea, no singing and no speaking. A couple of days at least.” “But the gig tonight!” I say, my will to plead with him forcing the words through. “It’s the last show of the tour! It’s New York!” “Haley, listen to me,” Lexi says, putting a hand on my shoulder and crouching beside me. “I’ve known singers who pushed themselves through things like this and did irreparable damage to themselves. You don’t wanna do this to yourself. Even if it is New York.” “It’s just a sore throat!” I say, looking up at the doctor for a positive sign. Though I’m still croaking and squeaking randomly, I manage to get the words out. “Look, it’s already starting to go away.” “I wouldn’t advise you to perform…” the doctor says feebly. Lexi nods him away angrily then turns her attention back to me. “It’s shitty, I know. But you can’t put your entire career on the line. You’ve gotta put yourself first. And there will be other shows. New York isn’t going anywhere any time soon—I promise.” I shake my head, tears that I didn’t realize were there falling from my eyes. “Not like this! This is what it’s all been building up to! Where’s Brando?” Lexi snorts. “Where he always is when you need him: Not here.” “I can’t do it,” I say, still shaking my head, my voice broken by both the sobs and croaks. “I can’t let everyone down. My band. The crew. The fans. I can’t do it. I won’t.” “Come here,” Lexi says, putting her arms around me and pulling my head against her soft chest. “You’re a fucking star now, Haley. Start acting like one. It’s not them that got this far, it’s you. You’re paying their bills – remember that. Take care of yourself first, and they’ll always follow.” She pulls away, her hands still on my shoulders, and we look at each other. She wipes the streaks from my cheeks and I laugh. “I’ve got to admit,” I say, looking into my lap, “I never thought you could be this nice.” Lexi smiles with her angular lips. “I wasn’t always a bitch, you know. But this business has a habit of bringing out the worst in you. If you survive.” “Thanks,” I mumble. “I know I didn’t make it easy for you, this tour, but you’re going to have to deal with a lot worse than me in the future. I’m impressed though. You came a long way.” Her kind words only make me feel even more defeated, and my lower lip trembles. “It wasn’t easy. And this isn’t the way I imagined it ending. How am I going to tell everyone?” “You’re not,” Lexi replies, picking up her phone and tapping out a message. “Let me take care of that. Just do what the doctor said and get some rest. It’s not your job to handle the small stuff. It’s your job to get better.”

I shake my head again as the realization that I won’t be playing finally sinks in. “I feel so bad about this,” I say to myself. Lexi looks up from her phone, her expression sympathetic. “I’ve been through worse than this, trust me. It’s not the end, remember that. You know, you kinda remind me of myself – in a funny kind of way. Tough, hard-working, dealing with a lot of shit…” “Does that mean I’ll end up in a latex dress?” I smile. Lexi’s face hardens, the pointed lines of her face getting sharper. She gives me a cold look that feels like taking a knife in the neck. I feel my muscles tighten, my spine tingle, my body bracing itself for something violent. “What the fuck does that mean?” she says in a voice that seems to come from the depths of hell. The voice I imagine people use right before they kill someone. “Uh…nothing,” I say, my voice barely a squeak. “Seriously…it’s just a joke—” Suddenly, as quickly as she turned cold, Lexi cracks up into a loud, deep laugh, doubling over as she heaves out huge hoots and snorts. “I’m sorry,” she says, in between deep gulps of air, “I’m just playing with you.” “Fuck!” I say, laughing myself, though more from the release of nerves than humor. “You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were going to kill me or something!” “Ha!” Lexi giggles, picking up her phone and heading out the door again. “No. If I wanted to do that then you wouldn’t even see me coming.”

28

Brando I DECIDE to give Haley a little space the day after her ‘tour’ of NYC. I’ve never been a patient guy, but then again, Haley’s got me doing a lot of things I never thought I’d do for a girl before. Sometimes you just have to load the bases before you try and hit it out of the park, and right now, I’m closer than I’ve been for a long time. I’m not going to fuck it up at the last moment. Just after midday, I hear the news, and wonder if I fucked it up at the last moment anyway. I’m in Brooklyn, at one of the guitar stores I visited with Haley the day before, arranging a pick-up for an amp she liked, when I get the email on my phone. Haley’s pulled out of her slot, and another support artist will be announced soon. I check a few more news sites, almost every one of them confirming her cancellation, the comment sections a shit-show of angry, snarky fans. What the hell is going on? I’m on the phone to anyone I can get before I even hail a cab, only interrupting the call to hand him a hundred dollar bill and tell him it’s for the speeding ticket. “Who the fuck did this? How the hell did nobody talk to me about cancelling a fucking show...I haven’t spoken to her since last night! …Well if you didn’t, then who the fuck did?” I try calling Haley’s phone but it’s turned off, so when I get to the hotel I make a beeline for her room, sliding my key frantically and then slamming the door open like a police raid. “Haley!” “What the fuck?!” she says, from the bed where she’s up to her neck in a thick duvet, her hand poking out of it clutching a steaming mug. “What the hell’s going on?” I ask, marching to the end of the bed. “You’re cancelling the show?” “I’m sick.” “But you sound fine! Wait here, I’ll get a doctor,” I say, taking a few strides toward the door. “I’ve already seen one,” Haley calls, stopping me in my tracks. I turn back. “What did he say?” “That if I keep singing without a rest I could fuck up my vocal cords. Permanently.” I drop myself onto the plush couch at the other end of the suite and cast a hand over my eyes. “Fuck,” I whisper angrily to the ceiling. “You should have come to me first.” “Why? Do you know how to perform throat surgery?” Haley quips after a sip of her tea. I sigh, not in the mood for jokes. “This is bad. Tonight was what this whole tour has been leading up to. The biggest gig of them all. The one we’ve been publicizing the most. Now that—” “Stop, Brando,” Haley interrupts curtly. “Do you think I don’t feel bad enough already?” I look her in the eye and see the disappointment there, the shame, and I know without a doubt that what she’s saying is true. This isn’t just nerves, or spite. Shit. “I’m sorry,” I say, getting up off the couch and walking over to her. I sit myself down on the edge of the bed beside her and stroke her hair. “Is there anything I can get you?” Haley looks around the room. “Well this tea could do with a refill,” she says, offering it to me. I take it and start to stand up, but Haley grabs my arm. “And there is one other thing…” “What?” She pauses before answering. “Go on,” I urge her. “Anything you want.” “I’d still like to see the show.” “Lexi’s show?” She nods. I take a deep breath and look away. “You’re sick. Are you sure that going to a show is a good idea? We could always just watch it streaming online, with my laptop, or—”

“Please,” she says, still clutching my arm. I look down at her and she smiles. I’m going to have to learn to say no to her one of these days. If she’s not going to be up on stage, it’s only right that Haley gets the best seat in the house. I pull the strings to make sure we get a VIP box for ourselves, her bandmates and crew in another. Seeing an exgirlfriend’s show with the girl I want to make mine isn’t exactly the kind of thing I had in mind when I thought about winning Haley over, but I’ll take what I can get. This tour has turned into a daily round of surprises, and I’ve learnt pretty quickly to roll with the punches. We make it up to the box surrounded by bodyguards and they leave us at the door. I step inside with Haley and she takes her coat off before sitting down. “Are you sure you should be taking off your coat?” “Brando,” she says, affectionately. “I need to rest my vocal cords; I’m not dying of frostbite.” I shrug and sit beside her. When the support band comes on, Haley turns to me with a dropped jaw and eyes that are lit up. “Oh my God! The band from last night! Did you do that?” “Well, I’m still managing the tour,” I say. “If people are gonna cancel gigs without telling me first, I’ll have to show my power in other ways.” “But aren’t they, like, unsigned? Wasn’t last night their first gig in New York?” “Yeah. And tonight’s their second.” I look at her face, and wonder how she can smile a million times and make it still seem different. “Music is music,” I go on. “If any of these fans feel half as good as I felt last night then they’ll have gotten their money’s worth.” Haley runs a finger across her lip and looks away shyly for a second. “It was the band that made you feel good?” “Not really,” I admit, putting an arm around her. “It was all you.” I hold her through the whole set, enjoying the smell of her hair, the way her body fits so perfectly against mine. When the band finishes up, however, and Lexi’s show is about to start, she sits up and leans over the railing. “Have you ever seen Lexi perform?” I ask. “No,” she says. “I used to be too tired from my own show. The last thing I wanted to do was sit through another.” Lexi’s show starts with an explosion of color, a bass drum that sounds like bombs exploding, a catchy synth melody that makes the crowd scream like they’re on the world’s loudest roller coaster. In the swirling mix of blood-pumping sounds Lexi starts singing, and the crowd goes even wilder. “Holy shit,” Haley says, her face pink with the heat and excitement emanating from the mass of humanity below us, “the audience loves her! I haven’t seen a crowd like this on the tour before at all.” “You’re half the reason they love her,” I say, as Lexi rises up out of the stage on a platform, legs spread on six-inch heels, white latex dress reflecting the sweeping lights. “This audience would be half the size if you hadn’t brought so much buzz to the tour.” Dancers spin onto the stage, obscuring the focus of the crowd’s love and adulation, and then the music goes low for all of half a second – but it’s enough. When it hits again, this time with snares and even harder bass bombs, the dancers fall away as Lexi exhibits her trademark strut through them. Sheer power, pure sex, ultra-feminine. “I dunno,” Haley says, almost as wide-eyed and adoring as the fans having seizures below us, “that’s some stage presence.” “Sure is,” I smile at her. “Enough to make you forget about the songs.” Haley shoots me a disapproving look before breaking into a laugh of acknowledgment.

“Maybe.” We watch Lexi strut across the stage, hold out the mic for the crowd to sing the chorus. “You see,” I say, leaning over the railing beside Haley, “she loves this: the performance, the act, the spectacle—and the crowd can tell.” “I love it too,” Haley replies, almost defiantly. “I know, that’s why your shows did well. But with Lexi,” I say, “there’s an added element. She’s not just giving them a show; she’s giving them a fantasy.” “What fantasy?” “That they can be like her,” I say, leaning in closer. “There isn’t a person in the audience who doesn’t want to be Lexi right now, or be with her, at least a little.” Haley laughs dismissively. “I’m in this audience, and I’m fine with who I am, thanks.” “You sure?” I say, nodding toward the stage as Lexi lets a couple of semi-naked male dancers run their hands over her body. “Maybe not the songs, and the latex dress. But that confidence? That raw sexuality? That command over the whole audience that seems so natural for her?” “No,” Haley says, glancing at the stage, then back at me. “Maybe. A little bit?” I lean in a little closer, so close she can hear the softness in my voice even over the loudness of the music. “It’s a fantasy though. And just like any fantasy, you only get it if you go for it, and it only lasts a little while. So enjoy it when it comes. As for me, I’d rather put my hands on what’s real.” Haley’s eyes flicker over my face, and I see her almost look away, but decide to keep her face close to mine. “Why does everything you say to me sound like it might lead to sex?” “Because it might?” Haley moves her face so close that I can see her pupils dilate and her tongue move between her teeth. “It might,” she purrs so sincerely I can feel it in my bones. The music behind us swells into a chorus, and it’s almost like it carries us away with it. We lock lips in a blur of neon lights and grabbing hands. Haley pulls herself onto my lap, her hands lifting my shirt and searching beneath it for my clenching muscles. I grab her ass, long fingers pulling and kneading at the soft flesh. Her hair falls into my face, her tongue fucks my throat, the music carries on hitting the satisfying hook of the chorus, again and again, a million satisfactions all at once. She rubs her pussy on the bulge of my crotch with the full body ripple of a belly dancer, my hands clutching her closer to the mounting hardness. I grab her throat and push her away from me. She’s panting like a dog in a fight, and I realize that I’m not the only one who’s been suffering from her decision to keep away from me. “You sure you wanna do this here?” I say through my own frantic gasps. “Can you wait?” “Fuck no,” I say, standing up out of my seat and pushing her against the box railing. I grab her arm and spin her around, then pull her ass up against me, my hand on her breasts, pinching and pulling. I rip my fly apart so violently I almost break the zipper, and then grasp around in my pockets for a condom while the next song starts. It’s a dirty, sex-fueled song, an urban beat with a thumping bass that reverberates through the walls and floors, setting my muscles on edge. The colored lights flash rapidly, making everything we do look like stop-motion animation. But I don’t need eyes for this, just the sweet feeling of her hard nipples under my hands, and the fire-stoking guidance of her undulating ass against my cock. I pull on the condom and she pulls down her pants, but only to her knees, her legs tight together, her pussy even tighter. She twists her head and I bring my mouth to hers, so this time it’s me tongue-fucking her, my fingers under her panties, teasing and pulling her clit, my hand pulling her breasts together, holding her steady as

she gets so heady she can’t even hold herself up. When the bass drops and the hook comes in I slide my middle finger inside her, circling it inside the walls, looking for that spot I know she likes. This time it’s her who pulls away from me. “Fuck me,” she begs, her eyes pleading. It always gets me, the gratifying sight of a girl’s face when she loses control, the one I’ve put on a lot of girls’ faces, but which has never looked as good as it does on hers. “I’m gonna fuck you, Haley,” I promise, bending her over the railing and grabbing my cock. “I’ll fuck you real good.” I slide her panties to the side, and lean over her. She’s got her hands on the railing for support, and I groan as I push myself inside her. With her jeans still bunched around her knees, keeping her thighs close together, her tightness makes both of us feel each other even more intensely. The drum drops as I put a hand against her waist and curl the other around to cup and pull her breast. Nothing but the bass and the vocals hitting a minimalist groove as I fuck Haley from behind in everdeepening, ever-quickening thrusts. I press my thumb into the deep arch of her spine, put a hand on her hair and pull it back. She holds onto the railing with white knuckles, her screams loud and piercing enough to be heard over the crowd. Then the drums come in, thunderous and earth-shattering, and I let them power me as I fuck her hard enough to send ripples across her ass cheeks, her back convulsing. She throws her head down, then back again, involuntarily, the volatile heat of the drums and my cock stimulating her from without and within. Pushing herself against the railing, she backs up onto me, in no mood to extend the agonizing sweetness, desperate for a release. I lean over and press my fingers against her clit as I thrust into her, grabbing the railing with my other hand. The song ends with one last boom of the bass drum, and we both erupt along with the crowd, the same way we began, hard and fast, greedy and selfish. Her whole body seems to inflate and deflate quickly, and she leans her head against the railing. I move over her, carefully tugging her jeans back up, and then softly kiss the back of her neck. She rolls her head to the side, and I see a flash of smile before the lights go dark. We leave the concert before the last few songs. Partly to avoid the crowds, and partly because we both need a drink and a bite to eat. With the three bodyguards that I arranged, we skip down the empty steps of the stadium and make our way out of the large, open exit. I take Haley’s hand as we walk and squeeze it. The fact that she barely notices, that she treats it like the most natural thing in the world, somehow means more to me than if she had squeezed back. For the first time in what feels like half of my life, I feel like I’ve got everything I want. Everything I need. Everything I don’t deserve, but somehow lucked myself into. “I could go for Chinese,” Haley says, swiping a lock of hair from her face. “Chinese it is, then.” “Or maybe Italian.” “Haven’t you had enough Italian?” I grin, with dumb glee. Haley rolls her eyes. “Do you have kids, Brando?” “Hell no!” I say, almost jumping back at the weird heaviness of the question. “Then don’t make dad jokes,” Haley says with a sweet smile. I laugh. My normal laugh, which is big, long, and can be heard from across the street. Which is why it happens. “Over there!” “Shit! That’s her!” “Haley!”

“Haley!” “Haley!” The paparazzi are on us in seconds, like jackals with SLRs. Yapping and filling the night sky with flashes from their peeping-tom lenses. There are more than a dozen of them, bombarding Haley with random shouts and questions. One of the bodyguards moves toward the street, pushing several of them with him, while the other two form a barrier between the photographers and us. We shove through, guided by the bodyguards like the world’s clumsiest football play. I cover Haley with my coat like a smuggled package, ruining multiple gossip editors’ morning stories in the process. We make it to the side of the road, where a yellow cab is already waiting for us. I’m about to shove Haley into the cab, dive in after her, and start thinking about food, when she stops and pulls away from me. That’s how quickly it happens. That’s how fast my happiness disappears. A new record. “What did you say?” Haley shouts, as she squeezes between the bodyguards to get a full view of the reporters. “Rex Bentley!” comes the reply from multiple scumbags at once. “Are you really Rex Bentley’s daughter?” “Haley!” I shout, grabbing her arm and holding the cab door open with the other. “Come on!” Haley freezes, brings a hand to her head, and looks down wildly, trying to find a straight thought in the maelstrom of noise and attention. The bodyguards go full linebacker, sweeping the reporters away with giant arms in order to buy us some space. “You’re Rex Bentley’s daughter! What’s your real name? Why did you keep this a secret? Haley!” When Haley raises her head again she looks at me. She doesn’t need to say a word. Her tight lips, her cold eyes, her clenched jaw says it all. “Haley, wait,” I say, sounding more desperate than the reporters, “No. Don’t…I didn’t do this. This isn’t me. I swear.” She shoves me aside and slides into the taxi, her hand on the door. When she speaks it’s a low hiss, a coiled ball of disappointment and resentment that she seems to pull from the pit of her stomach. “You were the only one I told. The only one I trusted.” “Haley, wait! Please! I didn’t—” “Fuck you, Brando,” she sneers through the streak of tears, as she slams the door of the cab closed. It speeds away with the reporters following desperately behind for a while. “Do you need a cab, boss?” one of the bodyguards asks. “Yeah. Find one that’ll run me over.”

29

Haley I CRIED ALL the way through the six hour flight to San Francisco. I cried when I spoke to the lady at the car rental agency. I cried for most of the 35. By the time I pull up to my mother’s sloped, brick house on a hill in Santa Cruz, I think I’m all cried out. But when she comes out the door and screams “Sweetie!” I start bawling harder than I have since I lost my first talent show at eleven years old. She carries me inside, through the seventies décor and the antique furniture she never gave away, past the stacks of records and the acoustic guitars she hardly uses anymore but still loves, into the living room with the thick carpet and the smell of oak that I never notice until I’ve been away a while. She places me on the velour couch, drapes a hand-crocheted afghan around my shoulders, and sits beside me. “Haley?” she says in a voice as light as a summer breeze. “What’s the matter, sweetie?” I look at her through the wetness of my eyes. Without the crows feet and the wrinkles around her jaw, she’d still look just like the photo on the TV. She’s still got the long, straight hippie-hair, still wears long, flowing, patterned dresses, and still has the eyes that seem too pure for anyone but her. “You don’t know?” I say, through sobs. “Know what?” “What happened on the tour.” “I know everything that happened on the tour!” she smiles, nodding toward the stack of newspapers and magazines on the coffee table, the scissors and glue she uses to cut and paste clippings set neatly beside them. That’s when I realize she wouldn’t know about the Rex Bentley leak anyway – she doesn’t use the internet, barely turns the TV on – and when I think about having to tell her everything that happened, I break down again, folding into my lap. “Haley, shhh. Come on now,” she says, pulling me to her and stroking my back. “You’re gonna have to tell me what it is if you want me to help, baby.” The crying subsides, more from the fact that I have no more energy to cry than that I’m over it, and I sit back up and stare blankly at the switched-off TV. “They know about…about Rex Bentley,” I say, sniffing. “Who knows?” I grit my teeth and force the ugly answer out. “Everyone.” Her brow furrows in concern. “How? Did you tell them?” “I told…someone. Someone I thought I could trust.” There’s a pause so silent I feel like I can hear the dust moving in the sunlight. “Brando?” my mom says, and even from her, even in that gentle, sing-song voice, it makes my stomach feel acidic. “What?” I say, jumping up from the couch. “When did you— wait. Wait. Who— when—” “He called me.” The look on her face is pure confusion, pure innocence. And I’m livid. “Oh my God! Oh my God! No!” I shout, ignoring the dull ache that still lingers in my throat. I pace up and down the living room, my fingers furiously rubbing my frown. Infinite sadness turning into blinding rage in seconds. “No! This is … whoa! That is too far. That is way too far. First he violates my life. Then he sells me out. Now he’s trying to turn you against me?! This is…oh my God! I’m so pissed right now!” “Haley! Calm down, it was just—” “Who does he think he is? I mean, who does that? My own mother!? It’s one thing to mess with me, but this is over the line.” I clench my fist and jab it into my palm as I continue to pace even faster. “He’s going to pay for this, I swear. I don’t know how, I don’t know… He’s going to pay! Ragh! I could strangle him!” “Haley! Listen to me!” I glance over at my mom. “And stop pacing!” I stop and stand there, chest heaving, fists clenched, my blood boiling. “He called me weeks ago. He just wanted to offer me tickets to

the first show on the tour. He said if I wanted to come he would make sure I had the best seats in the house.” I stand there, still furious, but my anger a little less focused. “What? That’s all?” “Well,” Mom says with a strange, sly grin, “we did talk a little bit.” “About … what?” I say, putting a huge pause in the middle of the words. I sit on the lounge chair beside the couch and lean forward to express my deep interest in whatever the fuck happened between Brando and my mother. “Nothing important. Don’t worry,” she says, way too casually. “I asked him about you. He told me you were doing just great. That your music was really striking a chord with people. He seems to be a very competent manager. Very invested in you. And…” “And?” My mom smiles warmly as she relives the conversation. “And he mentioned that you told him about my own music. The album I recorded in seventy-eight. He said he’d love to hear it. I told him if he ever found a copy to be sure to make me a copy, since they only printed five hundred of them.” “Mom!” I say, when I notice how happy she looks. “Don’t look so pleased when you’re talking about him! He’s a … he’s an asshole.” “He can’t be that bad,” she says. “He promised to find that record and let me know as soon as he did.” I groan with every fiber of my being. “Wait,” I say, holding a palm up. “I don’t understand. How did you get from that conversation that he was the one I told about…the secret.” “Sweetie,” my mom says in a way that makes me feel thirteen again, “I might be old but some things don’t change. The sound of a man’s voice when he’s talking about a girl he’s infatuated with is one of them.” “Mom! He’s just my manager!” But the lie comes out sounding defensive and weak, and I know I’m not convincing her. She smiles gently. “I’m not judging.” “Fine. But still…” “Listen, Haley, the kind of man who would look for a rare, limited edition record for a girl’s mother is also the kind of guy who would go to the ends of the earth for that girl – young woman, I mean – and her secrets.” “And is apparently also the kind of man who would spill those secrets to the whole world?” I say, slumping back against the chair in exhausted defeat. “Are you sure about that?” my mom asks. “Yes! It’s exactly the kind of thing he’d do. Probably for publicity or something.” Mom’s expression remains skeptical. “Did he tell you that?” “Of course not. He said he didn’t tell anyone.” “So why do you think it was him?” “Because…he was the only one who knew! And he’s lied to me before.” My mom gives me the same sigh-and-critical-look combination that she gives her music students who skip their homework. “Haley…” “Mom…” I say, in the same voice I used when I wanted to skip school. “The whole music thing…it just sucks. Someone messed up my guitar before a gig. And way before that, Brando made a bet with some douche bag that he would make my song a hit. One minute the label won’t give us a video budget, the next they send me on tour with Lexi. They basically forced me to sign with Majestic by throwing a bunch of

lawyers at us saying I’d have to repay the studio time back myself if I didn’t. This business is just full of snakes and lies and people playing fucked up games. It’s not as simple as it looks. You don’t understand.” “Don’t I?” I look at her soft face, barely able to conceal the hurt she feels. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” She shrugs it off and smiles. “It sounds to me like the music industry hasn’t changed one bit, honestly.” I let out a little laugh, but the smile disappears quickly when I remember. “The point is, Brando probably did this. And he probably thought he was doing me a favor, that it would help my career.” “Haley,” my mom says with an air of finality, “the - ‘secret’ – as you call it, was never going to stay secret for long once you got your name out there. Do you know how many people found out about me and Rex at the time? How many of his biographers I’ve had to fend off insinuating questions from? What about the strange letters I get from his insane fans that think they’ve made some connection between us? You’re right. I don’t know this Brando, but I do know people. And it’s worth giving them the benefit of the doubt every once in a while.” I nod slowly, taking in her words, wishing I believed them. “I’d like to say thanks for the support, Mom. But the truth is that I’m more confused than ever right now.” “So listen to your heart instead of your head,” she says simply. As if it’s that easy. “Now sit tight and let me make you some tea.”

30

Brando LESS THAN FORTY-eight hours since Haley got into the cab, her last words to me (“fuck you”) still ringing painfully in my ears, I’m back in LA. I called and texted her until she turned her phone off, and then I called and texted her until I realized she wasn’t going to turn it back on. It’s been a long two days, but not long enough for me to feel any less pissed off, miserable, and frustrated. Somebody once told me that there are stages to grief, and I feel like I’m learning what they are: Punching a hole in a hotel room wall, staring at a ceiling fan for an hour without moving, and googling whether anybody’s actually died from a broken heart. I enter my apartment planning to spend the next five to ten years ordering take-out and wearing pajamas while I recover. But even here I can’t escape. I can’t look at anything without feeling a mental stab, a memory of her. The couch reminds me of the cute way she folded her legs under herself when we first came here, of the song she played just for me. I can’t look at the window without feeling like her silhouette is missing from it, and even glancing toward the fire escape makes me relive the entire conversation we had out there. I try to resist looking at her pictures on my phone, but there’s not an ounce of willpower left in me, and I fall into a dark hole, gazing for minutes at a time at each image. Maybe Jax was right. This is Lexi all over again. Only different. With Lexi I always knew she was bad for me, I always saw this coming, but Haley? She’s ten times the girl Lexi is, and I feel ten times stronger about her than I ever did with Lexi. If I still can’t make it work with Haley, then maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just not cut out for something so good. Maybe I should just stick to banging chicks and keeping my feelings cold. I never asked myself if Haley was too good for me because I knew I probably wouldn’t like the answer. I grab my duffle bag and stuff a few things into it. I need to get out of the apartment, get out of my head. And the only way I know how to do that is push my body to its limit. I quickly change into my gym gear and storm out like I’m late. It’s dark by the time I arrive at the gym. Nobody but an overweight guy and an older woman on a couple of the treadmills. I take a towel out of the bag, throw it over my shoulder, and stuff my bag into a locker before turning to the door. I swagger into the gym, rolling my shoulders and neck to loosen up. I’m halfway to the weight rack when I hear a voice behind me. “I was wondering when you’d show up again.” I turn around, even though I know who it is. It’s a voice so drenched in husky sexuality it would be hard to mistake. Even harder to mistake those blue, seductive eyes set in that sharp face. The blonde yoga instructor. Her tank top and tiny spandex shorts covering only the most obscene parts of her body, and revealing most of her bronzed skin. I remember immediately what it was like to feel her hard, smooth body rolling over my cock, and feel a quick rush of adrenaline pump into my veins. “You been avoiding me?” she asks with a small smile. She knows it couldn’t be true. “I’ve been a little busy,” I say, my voice sounding like it isn’t mine. She folds her arms. A gesture of mock-defiance, or an opportunity to squeeze her tits together in a way that would make most men bite their tongues. I feel a small spike of lust, but it’s faint, distant. Like an echo. Nothing like the forceful compulsion that used to take me over and turn me into an animal. Every impulse in my body seems to reject her now. My instincts all tell me it isn’t right. “It’s okay,” she says, drawing the words out until they sound like soft moans. “I forgive you.” I stand and stare like an idiot encased in jello. Somehow unable to deal with even this basic situation. A situation I’ve been in a million times before, a situation that used to feel as comfortable and routine as pouring a glass of water. Now it seems too complicated, too much for me to handle. “You can make it up to me,” she says, taking my hand and leading me back to her massage room, back to the place where the old me, a different me, fucked her into oblivion.

It takes barely fifteen seconds to cross the gym floor, but in those fifteen seconds my mind races at the speed of light. In those fifteen seconds I change my mind a hundred times, remember everything that happened since I last entered that room, experience every regret and joy all over again. Fifteen seconds of deep existential crisis. I need to do this, I want to do this. Haley’s gone. It’s over. This is where I belong now. This is who I am. I’m not the guy who can make Haley happy. I’m not the guy who can make it work with her. I’m the guy who fucks yoga instructors at the gym. I’m the guy who fucks and forgets. I’m not boyfriend material. I’m a one-night stand. I’m the guy incapable of loving, or being loved. She crosses through the doorway but I stop short, slamming my hand on the doorframe and holding back as if blocked by some invisible force field. I snatch my hand away from hers and she spins around, a delicate frown forming. She eyes me for a second and sees the strain on my face. “What’s wrong?” I shake my head, mouth too dry to speak, brain too fried to think. “Relax,” she says, stepping towards me, “it’s just like last time.” She reaches out a hand to place it against my chest but I pull back instinctively. “I can’t,” I say, suddenly feeling short of breath. “What?” Her shock is evident. “Why?” “Because,” I look at the floor for a few seconds before looking her in the eye and blurting out the truth, surprising even myself. “I’m in love with someone.” Saying the words out loud feels like etching them in stone. The second they leave my lips the thick cloud that’s been fucking up my mind for days seems to disappear, and the simple, indisputable revelation forms into a solid proof that I can hold on to. I spin on my heels and almost run out of the gym, leaving my bag behind. I might be not be the guy who can fuck hot women randomly anymore, but I’m still the guy who doesn’t know how to give up. Haley’s house is exactly how I imagined it would look. On the outskirts of a quiet hippie town near the beach, at the end of a quiet road that winds slowly up a hill, surrounded by a few quiet clusters of shady trees. It’s no wonder she enjoys making noise. I step through the worn, wooden gate and knock on the door, shaking my arms and stretching my neck like I’m bracing for a fight. The door opens slowly, but the person who opens it is anything but confrontational. “So you must be Brando,” says the striking woman in the doorframe. She’s tall and slim, a flowing dress hanging from softly-curved shoulders. Her angular bone structure seems to catch and hold the light like a supermodel. Though she’s got the comfortable smile and glinting eyes of someone in their fifties, something about her makes everything else seem a little less physical. “Ms. Cooke,” I say, quickly suppressing the guilty pang of finding Haley’s mom kinda hot. She smiles, and it’s like the sun is shining directly at me. “Call me Wanda. Come on in,” she says, standing aside. I step through the doorway, looking around the room like a detective scanning for clues. “She’s not here,” Wanda says, noticing my tensed muscles. “She’s out in the shed.” “The shed?” “It’s where she likes to record and play. Me too, sometimes,” she says, as she leads me through the house toward the back door. “It’s a kind of studio. And a guest room.” She pushes open the kitchen door to the long lawn of neatly-cut bright-green grass, colored blooms and bushes lining it all the way to the end, where a ramshackle wooden structure sits amid the greenery like some miniature English cottage that time forgot. “Look. Wanda,” I say, turning back after she holds the door open once again for me to step past. “Thanks for telling me she was here. I know she probably told you not to.”

“You’d have found her here eventually. Better sooner rather than later.” Wanda looks down sadly. “Haley’s like a wild flame: Quick to start, and quick to calm. But if you leave her to herself, she can burn everything around her.” I know Wanda’s right, but something about the way she says it makes me feel like I’m hearing a secret. “I can see where she got her poetic side.” Wanda takes my hand in hers and looks at me with mint-blue eyes. It feels like she can read my mind. “I hope she didn’t inherit my taste in men.” As soon as she says it, she drops my hand and steps back into the house, closing the door. The message is clear: You’re on your own, buddy. I spin around to face the shed across the lawn, which seems a thousand miles long now, and start walking. By the time I get close to the shed door, my head’s swirling with so many thoughts, so many emotions, so many memories, that I can’t tell if the sound I’m hearing is real or imagined. It’s only when I get close enough to put a hand against the deeply-grained wood that I know it’s really her. She’s singing. Low and long, a sad song. She stops every few lines, then starts back up again, the same way she always does when she’s writing. I listen for a while, taking deep breaths, and then brace myself once again. I glance back toward the house and see Wanda looking through the glass pane of the door. She offers me a gentle look of sympathy before turning away and heading back into the house. I knock. Haley calls out something that gets muffled through the wall, then gets back to playing. I knock again. This time I hear her stop, and the thud of what’s probably her guitar being put down. I take a step back from the door. “What the fuck?” she snarls, her face twisting with uncontrolled anger as soon as she sees me. “No! Go away!” As she screams this last word she puts her hand on my chest and shoves me as violently as she can. I stumble back, and she storms toward me. “Just fucking leave already! Get out of my life!” she screams, her voice breaking up with how loud she’s screaming. She shoves me again, putting all of her strength into it. “Don’t you fucking get it already? I don’t want anything to do with you!” This time I grab her biceps and hold her before she can shove me again. “Stop it!” I shout, my voice so loud it seems to swallow hers, to boom off the surrounding mountains. “For fuck’s sake, Haley! Stop.” We glare at each other, chests heaving, jaws clenching. Two animals in a fight to the death. “I’ll never forgive you for what you did,” Haley hisses, her voice as sharp as a blade. “I’ve done a lot of dumb things, Haley. Made a lot of mistakes. But that wasn’t one of them.” “Fuck you!” Haley says, shrugging my hands off her, rage pouring off her in waves. Something in me snaps. “No, Haley. Fuck you! I didn’t come here to beg. I didn’t come here to apologize. I’m sick of fucking apologizing. This whole tour I’ve been twisting myself into knots over you. Praying you’d give me another chance. Wondering how fucking long you were going to stay mad at me. And then for a whole month before that I didn’t even leave the house. I felt like I’d give anything to see you again, and it still wasn’t enough.” Haley glares at me even more fiercely. “And for what, Haley? For what? A stupid bet that I didn't care about from the second I realized how good you really were. A stupid bet that I won, and still feel like I lost. A stupid bet that I'd make all over again, because it's the best damn thing that happened ever happened to me - and maybe to you, too. I'm not the one hung up on the bet, Haley, you are. You keep treating me like I’m an asshole – and maybe I am, but

not for the reasons you think. The only mistake I made was feeling the way I do about you. But I’m done. I’m done being the nice guy. I didn’t come here to apologize. I didn’t come here to beg you for another chance. I came here to tell you.” “Tell me what?” Haley spits, her voice even harder and tighter. “That I fucking love you.” The words seem to light a fire in her face, her eyes flickering over mine, her lips opening in an angry scowl, trembling with anger. Her cheeks go hot red like I just slapped her in the face. She leaps at me again, even more aggressively, even more fueled by her hot-headed temper, even more out of control. Only this time it’s not to push me. It’s to kiss me.

31

Haley ON THE DRIVE back to LA I have to struggle to stop myself from smiling. I hang my arm out of the window and watch Brando as he focuses on the road, feeling weird in a happy kind of way. He notices me watching and laughs. “You look pretty happy to return to LA,” he says “I’m just happy right now. Take the 1.” “Why?” he says, frowning. “It’s longer.” “Yeah. But I like the ocean view.” I lean toward the window and let the wind caress my face, stroke my hair. When I open my eyes I see Brando, notice the lines of his arm muscles, the Italian nose in profile, the way he looks like he’s dreaming when his face is at rest. He glances over at me and notices me staring again. “I feel like I should be charging you when you look at me like that.” “I hope I can afford it,” I giggle, as I lean over to turn on the radio. We listen to the tail end of a half-decent song, both of us only half-listening, until the two DJs start talking. “…an interesting story. Rex Bentley – you like Rex Bentley, Sara?” “Who doesn’t? ‘Put on your red shoes…’” “Well his daughter, apparently. Haley Grace Cooke: The girl who just supported Lexi Dark on her tour and is set up to be even bigger.” “She’s his daughter?” “That’s what people are saying.” “I can believe it.” “What do you think? Is this just one of those publicity things? Or you think she really didn’t want people to know?” Brando presses the off button so hard he nearly breaks it. We drive on in silence for a few minutes, but the sense of something wrong hangs in the space between us. “What do I do?” I finally ask, turning to Brando. “What do I do about this?” Brando focuses on the road, sighing deeply before he speaks. “Rowland wants to use this, of course. Play up the connection. Milk the publicity, really drive home the ‘estranged daughter of the musical legend is just as talented’ angle. He’s already talking feature pieces about how you always knew the music was in your blood. Me: I want this to go away. Disappear. You can stand on your own talent, you worked your ass off for this career, and you’ve got no reason to want to be associated with a scumbag like him. If it were up to me, this story would be dead and gone yesterday.” I nod. “Me too. But how? Is that even possible?” Brando’s lips press together as he thinks of how best to let me down. “I don’t know. Worst case scenario, this thing catches fire – more than it has – and the fans turn against you. They find out the truth, you get branded a wannabe who rode her daddy’s coattails, and nothing you ever do is judged fairly. If you even get the chance to make another record.” “And what’s the bad news?” Brando smiles. “Best case scenario: The story gets buried in all the other garbage people write about, and in a year or two is nothing but an urban myth. I’ll be honest, that one’s unlikely. This is the juiciest thing in the news right now. Unless the Pope decides to streak at the Cubs game tomorrow.” I look out at the view over the rocky cliffs, the ocean below looking a little more overwhelming than I remember it.

“Do you have his number?” Brando drops me off at my apartment before zooming off to perform damage control. I check the time and groan when I realize Jenna is still on her shift and won’t be back for another four hours. When I get inside, I drop my duffle bag to the floor, toss my leather jacket to the side, and head straight for the refrigerator. I’m eighty percent of the way toward deciding I should order Chinese when there’s a knock at the door. “Who is it?” I shout, as I slam the refrigerator closed and walk over to the door. The knock comes again, loud and impatient. I swing it open. “Hey, babe!” “Lexi?” “The one and only,” she says as she strides right on past me into the apartment. Impossibly confident in just a pair of white cut-off jean shorts and a pink tank top. “What are you doing here?” “Just checking up on you,” she says as she glides around the room, looking around casually as if she’s considering buying it. “How’s your throat?” I touch my throat as if remembering it was supposed to hurt suddenly. Despite the shouting match with Brando, the stress of crying all night on the plane, and the fact that I’ve been doing anything but resting since fucking Brando at Lexi’s show – it feels way better than it should. “Fine … I guess?” Lexi laughs wildly. “Oh! What a surprise,” she says with open derision. “I suppose that strange, unnamed, random doctor was wrong.” I step toward Lexi, and she moves sideways. “What do you mean by that?” I ask, making it clear from my tone that I don’t appreciate hers. She grins menacingly as we circle each other around the furniture like wrestlers before a bout. “Why don’t you take a guess? And show me just how gullible you can really be?” “That wasn’t a real doctor? And I wasn’t sick enough to miss the show?” Lexi looks at me with mock-pity as she slow-claps. “You made me miss the New York show for nothing?” “No. I never do anything for nothing. You missed the show because you were getting in my way.” I shake my head in disbelief. Lexi leans back against the kitchen counter, stretching her long, bare legs out in front of her. “You’re … you’re a bitch.” Lexi laughs as she picks up an apple from the fruit bowl and plays with it in her hand. “That’s not even the bitchiest thing I did yesterday.” I take a couple of steps closer to her, my limbs feeling like coiled springs. “What are you talking about?” Lexi takes a loud bite of the apple and looks at me expectantly. “No,” I say, refusing to let the thought take root. “No. You didn’t.” “I probably did.” “No. How could you? You didn’t even know.” Lexi nonchalantly wipes the corner of her mouth, but her lipstick is still picture-perfect. “I know I have a good voice – but I have even better ears.” She puts on a comical impression of Brando. “‘Oh Haley, that night you told me Rex Bentley – the legendary singer - was your father, I got such a hardon. Poor you, having such famous parents.’” I bury my head in my hands, clawing at my hair. “I can’t believe it. This is too much,” I say, looking back at Lexi. “It doesn’t make any sense. What do you get by telling the press about that? If anything it just makes me more famous, gives me more

attention – more than you. Why would you do that?” “Because,” Lexi says, turning serious as she tosses the apple away and strides slowly toward me, “I couldn’t give two fucks about your career anymore. I don’t care how many sweaty guitar geeks give your lousy records great reviews. I couldn’t be more oblivious to how many shows you sell out. I’ve realized what I really want.” She stands in front of me, inches away, her face so close I can see the thickness of her lashes. “I want Brando back.” This time it’s me who laughs, hysterically, my body reacting with the only response it can find for something so insane. “Are you fucking crazy?” I shout, pacing away from her and then turning back. “What? You thought I’d assume it was him and then we’d…” I stop laughing when I realize she was almost right, that she almost got exactly what she wanted. I step toward her, finger in front of me. “Well it didn’t work. And it never will. Brando’s still mine. You failed. You and all your stupid fucking games.” Slowly, Lexi puts her hand around my pointed finger, and pulls it away from her face. “It’s not over yet, babe. Brando’s still going to choose me.” “Wow,” I say, shaking my head. “You are one hundred percent, no holds-barred, batshit crazy. How can you even think that he’d still go back to you? I almost pity you for being that deluded.” “I’m giving Majestic a choice. Either they drop me, or they drop you. Once you’re gone, it’ll be just me and my Brando again – just like old times.” I turn and take a few steps away from her, unsure of whether to laugh or to call the men in white coats. I spin back around to look at her, standing proudly. “You’re crazy. The label’s not going to drop me for a prima donna like you. You might be a star, Lexi, but you’re also a huge pain in the ass,” I say, stepping back toward her. “And even if they’re stupid enough to drop me, Brando’s not.” Lexi licks her lips like she’s preparing to bite. “You seem pretty certain that you know what Brando will do.” “I do.” “Are you sure? How long have you known him? Three months? Four? Try four fucking years with him. Four years that took us from a shitty studio apartment in Harlem to the Hollywood Hills. Four years to understand each other, to know how to make each other happy, to know how to push each other’s buttons.” “Those years don’t count for anything,” I snarl, losing some of my self-control. “You made sure of that the instant you cheated and left him, left the real music. All you cared about was money and fame.” Lexi’s unfazed. “That time must have counted for something – the only reason you’re even here is the bet he made to get me back.” I clench my fists and hold them tightly to my side. “Maybe he loved you at one point. But not now. Not after the way you treated him,” I say, the shakiness of the words letting both of us know I only half-believe it. “And how exactly did you treat him, Haley? I saw the way you kept your distance from him on the tour, even though he wanted so badly to have a little taste of whatever it is you’ve got. I heard about how you assumed the worst of him the second you heard the Rex Bentley story broke out. You didn’t even give him a chance to explain, did you?” I stand there stiffly, my mouth open as if to say something, but the shaking tension of my body, the stabbing fears in my mind, are too much to handle. Lexi’s got a point. “You keep acting like I’m the one who’s fucking up your relationship,” she continues, “but the truth is, you’re the one who got in the middle of ours.”

Lexi laughs when she sees I’m too shaken to talk, and starts walking toward the door. She opens it, and looks back over her shoulder. “I’ll tell you one thing you don’t know about Brando,” she says. “He’ll sacrifice everything he has, for the one thing he wants.” She steps through the door, but just before she’s out of earshot I find my voice. “You’d better hope he still wants you, then.”

32

Brando I DRIVE HOME before going to Majestic to meet Rowland, calling the small team of college students I hired to manage Haley’s website and her social media to tell them they need to get their asses to my place as soon as possible for an emergency meeting. Even though I drive with all the impatient recklessness of a man with hours left to live, they’re in the lobby by the time I arrive, laptops under their arms. I bring the five of them into my apartment, seat them in the lounge, and stand in front of them like a general about to give the briefing for a suicide mission. “Okay, guys,” I say, clapping my hands, “listen up. The next couple of days it’s crucial we put a mark on this thing. I’m going to need all of you to work like motherfuckers right now. Whatever I’m paying you, triple it. Now we can’t stop this story from spreading, but we can try and shape the conversation a little bit.” I point to a couple of the wide-eyed students opening their laptops hurriedly. “Steven, Jessica: You take social media. Haley is nervous about her sore throat – she still hasn’t had it checked out. She’s gutted that she missed the New York show, but the tour went great, she’s eternally grateful to her fans for their support, and can’t wait to finish off the album. Act like you don’t even know about the Rex Bentley thing, you’re above it, it’s just some dumb rumor that you’re way above even acknowledging. “Ross, Michelle: Find the freshest, biggest articles on the story – the ones that everybody else is linking to. Make multiple accounts, and comment on them. ‘This is just a dumb misunderstanding,’ ‘how is this even news,’ ‘daughter or not, her show was still awesome,’ that kind of thing. Make it seem like the logical reaction to this is disbelief and scorn for the guys who write about it. “Simon,” I say, looking at him with keen intent, “here’s what I want you to do. Make a fake account, and message the people I’m going to give you the email addresses for. Tell them that you’re a source close to Haley. Tell them that they’ve got the story wrong, Rex Bentley is not her father.” I pause for a second while he nods. “Mick Jagger is.” “What?” he says, incredulous. Everybody else turns to look at me. “That’s ridiculous!” “Exactly,” I say. “You can’t kill a story like this, but you can make it so confusing and exaggerated that nobody gives a shit anyway. Disinformation. When people don’t know what to believe, they believe none of it.” Slowly, as the idea sinks in, Simon starts to nod, then opens his laptop with enthusiasm. “I’m going to have a meeting at the label now, I’ll be back later,” I shout behind me as I go for the door. “Don’t let me down, guys. Haley’s counting on you.” I slam through Rowland’s doors like a bull through the gates, the sound of his secretary confirming my appointment already behind me. “I’m squashing the story, Rowland! Don’t make any statements from the label, my team is going to handle this. I know you think this is good for Haley but—” I’m already at his desk, standing over it with my palms on the steel when I notice. “What’s Lexi doing here?” I turn my gaze back from her crossed legs, casually bouncing up and down, toward the concerned, almost frightened, look on Rowland’s face. He locks his fingers in front of him on the table and fidgets. He talks slowly, carefully, like a doctor on a death ward. “I don’t really know how to say this, and I’m pretty surprised myself, to be totally honest with you, but I—” “Haley’s getting dropped from the label,” Lexi interrupts with dark relish. “I’ve just told him. It’s me or her.” “What?” I say, my eyes switching between the two like I’m watching a frantic tennis match. “Is this some kind of joke?” “I don’t exactly have a choice,” Rowland whispers through gritted teeth, as if Lexi wouldn’t be able

to hear. He raises his helpless eyes to mine, almost like he’s begging for a way out. “Lexi’s pretty much made up her mind.” I turn to her. “Why are you doing this?” “I don’t like the way this label is run,” Lexi says, springing out of her chair and standing beside me. “What was Haley doing on my tour? She doesn’t even have a full album out! And you were supposed to be managing both of us, Brando, but I didn’t see you running to my side very often.” “You seemed to do perfectly fine on your own,” I growl. “Exactly. I don’t like sharing. And as long as Haley’s on the label, I know I won’t be getting all the support I could be getting. It’s me or her.” I turn to Rowland. “This is ridiculous. Lexi signed a contract. She can’t leave, right? Isn’t that what you told me? That this whole business is about tying up artists even when they don’t want to be?” “I’m only part artist – I’m all businesswoman,” Lexi purrs maliciously. “Anyone tries to stop me from quitting and I’ll destroy Majestic from the inside. A couple of tweets and I’d have every one of my fans boycotting your records. Maybe throw in a sexual harassment lawsuit. Yet another case of the big, bad record industry taking advantage of a poor, innocent girl. I can bring a shit storm raining down on this label that you people will never recover from.” Rowland’s face goes white, and he jumps up from his chair. Lexi flutters her eyelashes and laughs. Now the three of us are standing around the desk. “You see this?” he cries, despairingly. “What the fuck am I supposed to do?” “You’re supposed to drop Lexi, and keep Haley!” I shout back. “She’s the one who killed on this tour, not Lexi! She’s the one with the potential to take us to another level!” “You think I want to drop Haley? She’s fantastic, I love her! But I don’t have a choice!” “Yes you do! Lexi’s giving you one!” Rowland slumps back into his chair and spends a full five seconds rubbing his forehead before looking back up at me. Lexi just watches us, all self-satisfied amusement and dancing eyes—loving every second. “Haley’s had two hits, Lexi’s had five. Haley hasn’t even released an album, Lexi’s had a number one. The tour was great, but it was still Lexi’s name on the top of it. Even when you get past the simple numbers of the thing, I don’t know what the hell is going on with Haley. One minute she’s fucking up a gig because she can’t tune a guitar, the next minute she’s pulling out of the grand finale to the tour. And now there’s a weird story connecting her to Rex Bentley that you won’t let me use to her advantage because of her ‘feelings.’” I take a step back. I know what’s coming. “I’ve made my choice, Brando. Haley’s gone.” “Then so am I,” I say, stalking toward the door.

33

Haley I’M STILL in shock over Lexi’s visit when there’s a knock at the door. I stop doing laps around the living room and pulling at my hair to turn and look at it. There’s another knock. I step slowly towards it. When I open it, I can’t control myself. I leap onto Brando, bury my face into his neck, clutch his back as tightly as a lifesaver. For the past hour I’ve been wondering if I’ll ever see him again, if the one guy who can make me feel like he does is about to disappear from my life forever. The idea alone crushed me, chewed me up, made me feel like a ghost. Just seeing him again is enough to make me break down. “Haley,” he says slowly, pushing me off him gently and closing the door behind him, “I’ve got some bad news.” “No,” I say, shaking my head and feeling my heart grow heavy. I back away slowly. “No.” His face is serious, unhappy. I pray he doesn’t speak, gathering every bit of strength in my body to tell him not to speak, and it’s still not enough. I bury my head in my hands. “The label dropped you,” he says, bluntly and sadly. I look up slowly, feeling like somebody put a hot towel on my face. “And you chose Lexi.” His face changes. “No, I didn’t. Rowland did. Majestic did. Not me.” He pauses, realization dawning. “You knew about the ultimatum?” I nod, steeling myself for an answer I probably don’t want to hear. “So what did you choose?” “Haley,” he says, rushing toward me and lifting my face in his hands, “why are you even asking me that? I chose you. Of course I did. I quit on them. Same as last time. Same as when we had to go it alone before.” Something inside me cracks open, releasing a flood of happiness that flows into every fiber of my body. I pull Brando’s face to mine, as if the feeling’s too much for one person, and the only way I can share it is by pressing my lips against his. A kiss more intimate than erotic, but no less necessary. When we pull away slowly, Brando gazes inquisitively into my eyes, brushing away a tear-track from my cheek. “How could you even doubt that?” he asks gently. “With Lexi back and the way things have been going with us, I just thought—” “Don’t think,” he says, affectionately. Brando drives us to his apartment like we’re racing a jet, only stopping to run into a coffee shop and come out a few minutes later with a carrier tray of coffees and a bag of donuts. “Who is all of this for?” I ask, as he puts them in my lap and revs the car away. “You’ll see.” We get to his apartment and Brando bursts through the door like he’s about to perform a robbery. I follow behind and try not to be too surprised when a bunch of college students immediately crowd around me, grab the coffees, and then go back to sitting around the open laptops on Brando’s coffee table. “What’s going on?” I ask as Brando stands in front of them. “It looks like you’re running a sweat shop in here.” “Haley, this is Michelle, Simon, Ross, Steven, and Jessica. Guys, you know Haley.” They mumble a distracted greeting in unison like an uncoordinated choir group. Still confused, I raise a hand weakly in response. “So, what’s the situation?” Brando says, his voice turning authoritative. “We can’t do anything,” Jessica says, shaking her ponytail. “Every time we post something about the sore throat we get a hundred replies – every one of them about Rex Bentley.” “Same here,” Ross adds, “we’re commenting, but it’s getting lost in the mix. It’s a drop in the ocean

compared to what’s going on. It seems like every two minutes another site posts the story. We can’t keep up.” “No takers for the Mick Jagger story so far. Sorry,” Simon shrugs. I glare at Brando with bewilderment at this last one. He shakes his head in a clear ‘don’t ask’ gesture. “Shit,” he says, walking to the window. “Okay. The bottom-up approach isn’t going to work.” “Why doesn’t Haley just do an interview?” Jessica says. “She doesn’t have to go in deep. Just deny it with a word and leave it at that.” “This is the internet,” Brando says, turning around. “There are no ‘denials’ and ‘confirmations.’ There’s just ‘admitting’ and ‘ignoring.’ Haley’s got everything to lose, and everything to gain from this. If she goes on record and denies it, all that will happen is that this thing will get another boost. People expect her to deny it. The only time denying something works is if you’re too big, or respected, or have nothing to—” Brando looks up suddenly, his mouth open and his eyes round as if he just caught sight of something amazing. “What?” I say. Brando walks over to me and puts his hands on my shoulders. “Haley. Do you trust me?” “Of course I do,” I reply, still confused, but able to answer that much. “I’m going to do something you won’t like. But it’s our only option.” Before I can say anything, he’s kissing me deeply, and then grabbing his keys as he makes for the door.

34

Brando I DON’T NEED to call anyone to find out where Rex Bentley lives; anyone who’s been in LA longer than a week knows the place. It’s one of the biggest mansions in the city, and was bought when rockstars like Rex were giants who couldn’t seem to fit their egos into anything smaller. A Tuscan-style villa, its walls are a combination of stark angles, sections jutting out in every direction, as if somebody took a small English village, smashed it all together, and colored it white. It’s the kind of place only a rockstar or a super villain could live in – and I’m hoping Rex isn’t both. I roll the car up to the tall black gates and push the button on the intercom conveniently placed on the driver’s side. After waiting for about as long as it takes someone to get anywhere in a home that big, a young woman with an accent answers. “Hello?” “Hey. This is Brando Nash. I’m here to speak to Rex Bentley.” “What did you say your name was?” “Brando. Nash.” “Just a moment, please.” I drum my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. This time the wait is short. The intercom crackles into life again. “I’m sorry. Rex isn’t here right now. Can I take a message? What was your name again?” “Okay,” I say, in my ‘enough bullshit’ tone. “I know Rex is in there, otherwise you wouldn’t have had me hold. Please tell him it’s extremely important, and can’t wait.” “Hold on just a second.” I stare through the gates, the massive fountain at the front of his mansion just visible across the curve of the driveway. The intercom crackles. “Rex isn’t here. Do you want to leave a message?” “Fuck this shit,” I mutter, to myself rather than the intercom, as I push open the car door and get out. I start jogging alongside the wall, and hear the intercom behind me as it crackles off. The vast grounds of Rex’s mansion are surrounded by the high walls of someone who has a lot of people he wants to keep out. But it’s also surrounded by plenty of gigantic trees trying to keep those same people from looking in. Though I’ve never climbed trees for the fun of it, as a teenager I went up plenty of drainpipes with a pretty girl at the back window and judgmental parents at the front door. When I find a tree with a low-enough branch and a good-enough lean I start making my way up. Soon I’m feeling the adrenaline rush and the bone-deep satisfaction of a good work-out, and just like in the gym, I push all the negative thoughts out of my mind. Thoughts like the fact that I’m breaking and entering, like the fact that Rex’s mansion is probably full of security cameras, like the fact that turning up on his doorstep without an invitation doesn’t segue smoothly into asking for a favor. I get to the end of a wide branch, slowly step out onto the wall, and don’t give myself time to worry about the drop. Before I can think, I’m flailing to get out of a thick, thorny bush, my shirt ripped so badly it looks like netting, and my arms stinging from a bunch of cuts and grazes. I waste a second checking my elbows, but that’s all it takes before I start running toward the mansion – partly because I want to get this over with, and partly because I think I can hear dogs barking. After twenty yards there’s no doubt about it. Two tough, black and yellow sons-of-bitches are behind me, teeth already out like they’re trying to nose past a finish line with them. After forty yards I don’t even turn back to look I can hear them so loudly. After fifty yards I can almost feel their dog breath on my neck. But I’m almost at the entrance now, almost at the steps. I speed up, ready to take them three at a time, ready to lower my shoulder and bust through those big doors – the only way I’ve ever done anything – and then—

“Stop!” I wheel back on my heels, skidding on the gravel in front of the massive steps that lead up to the front door. The second I see him there I raise my hands. It’s Rex Bentley – and he’s aiming a shotgun at me. “Stop right there,” Rex repeats, his British accent only adding to the intimidation of being at gunpoint. I try not to flinch as the two dogs stalk past me slowly and settle themselves on the steps between me and Rex, eyeing me dubiously. “I thought the British didn’t believe in guns,” I say, trying to smile, but too out of breath for anything other than a panting grimace. “Why do you think I don’t live there?” Rex says, lowering the gun to his side, but keeping it pointed directly at me with his finger on the trigger. He squints a little. “Do I know you?” “I’m Brando Nash. We go to a lot of the same parties.” His face is stonier than the fountain in the courtyard. “If the name meant anything to me I’d have let you in when you asked.” “I’m an A&R guy- was an A&R, for Majestic Records.” “I don’t know any A&R guys who would do something as stupid as enter my property without permission.” I’d like to shoot back an appropriately convincing response, but instead all I can manage to do is drop my hands to clutch the stitch in my side and double over a little. “Wait a minute,” Rex says, stepping down the stairs toward me slowly. “You’re Josh’s friend, aren’t you?” “Yes!” I say, triumphantly. “We met at the launch party for his book.” “Yeah,” he says slowly, stepping onto the gravel, the gun a little looser in his hand now. “He said that you were the one of the only guys still hiring him to produce, and I thought that must mean you’re one of the only guys left with an ounce of taste.” He steps closer and stands in front of me, lowering the gun so the barrel finally points toward the ground. I offer my hand, but he raises his chin. “So what do you want?” he says, his voice a few degrees colder than before. “I’m here about Haley,” I say, tightening my face and standing up straight. “Haley?” he says, only just hiding the deep note that the name strikes inside him. “Haley Grace Cooke. Your daughter.” I can sense his body tighten, see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. For a few seconds it seems like he could go in any direction: Crying, spitting, running… Shooting. “It’s out in the open,” I say, seeing that he can’t decide. “The news broke last night. It’s still spreading. It’s not a secret anymore. Not unless you do something about it.” For what feels like hours we glare at each other, no one making a move, but I know Rex isn’t really looking at me, he’s looking deep inside himself. Pulling at old memories, at whatever feelings he has about this. He looks down at the ground and pushes his lower lip out. When he raises his head, it’s high again. He sticks the hand that isn’t holding the gun into his pocket, an attempt to be cool that works only because it’s his job. “I’ve had everything and anything written about me,” he says distantly, as if remembering all of them at once. “That I’m gay. That I’m a plagiarist. That I’m a Nazi sympathizer. That I’m part of the Illuminati. Even a pact with the devil. It doesn’t matter.” “This time it’s different.” Rex’s smile is both condescending and curious. “Why should it be?” he asks. “Because this time it’s true.”

Rex’s smile disappears instantly. He looks away, and I see him swallow deeply before he speaks again. “Why are you telling me this?” he says, his voice speeding up. “I don’t care what some fucking teenager with a laptop writes on the internet. I don’t care about asinine rumors and the speculation of journalists. It might seem like the end of the world to someone young enough to be climbing walls and running from dogs, but I’ve seen real problems. I’ve had friends die before their time of drugs, seen careers ruined and talent wasted in the most disgusting, abhorrent ways you can imagine. And here you are talking to me about a fucking rumor! Here’s a bit of advice: Get the hell out off of my property, and don’t ever come here again!” Rex turns back toward the staircase. In a split-second I see all the reasons I’m doing this, all of the things driving me to this point. If there’s one chance, this is it, and it’ll be gone if I don’t take it. I grab Rex’s shoulder and spin him around to face me so violently the dogs on the steps stand to attention. “You might not fucking care, but Haley does!” I roar, inches away from his face. “The only reason rumors don’t mean shit to you is because you’re hidden away out here! Behind your massive walls, and your dogs, and your shotgun. Nothing can touch the ‘great Rex Bentley.’” I shove his shoulder away with disgust. “Only you’re not great,” I continue, momentum behind me, “you’re just a selfish old man. A shell of a person. You want to talk about real problems? How about being a young girl who sees her father everywhere, who feels like everyone knows him but her, and who gets completely ignored by him? How about feeling like you’re unwanted, not good enough, for your own flesh and blood? How about sending hundreds of letters to the one man who’s supposed to love you, support you, teach you how to be a human being, and never getting a word in reply? Not a single fucking word.” I stand there panting and tense, full of rage and fire. Rex’s stony glare only making me more violent. I keep talking – the only way I can keep myself from doing something physical. “What you did was unforgivable. What you did would have broken most kids. Screwed them up for life. But not Haley. She still did what she loved. Did it without asking you for anything. Did it despite the fact that you crushed her. Did it better than people who had all the help in the world. Right now, she’s made something good, built herself a life, but those fucking rumors are about to take even that away from her. And she doesn’t have a mansion to hide away inside.” Even the dogs are cowering back from me now. “If you ever even thought about her, ever read one of those letters, ever considered giving her that one word – then now is the last chance you’ll ever get.” “There’s nothing I can do—” “Bullshit,” I cut him off. “Deny the rumors. Do it so that you can make up at least something for the years of pain you’ve caused. Do it so that you don’t spend the rest of your life in a big, empty mansion regretting who you are. Do it so that you can say you did at least one thing for another person when you’re on your deathbed. I don’t fucking care, but just fucking do it.” Rex doesn’t move, everything about him fixed in place like an ancient carving. I scowl back at him, feeling drained from the force I put behind each word, from the empathetic hurt I dredged up inside of me. After it’s been long enough that I wonder if he’ll say anything at all, Rex speaks. “Where did she get an A&R guy like you?” “I already told you. I’m not an A&R guy anymore. I’m just Brando now.” Rex’s nod is almost imperceptible. “Okay. I’ll call a journalist and do it today.” I open my mouth to speak, but saying the words ‘thank you’ doesn’t seem right. I let the promise hang in the air like a reminder, and turn slightly to go.

“How is she?” Rex says, before I look away. I smile darkly with the weight of it all. “She’s a lot of things,” I say. “Too much to tell you myself.” I turn around, the long, curving, gravel driveway feeling like it leads somewhere better, and take a few steps, before stopping suddenly and turning back. Rex is still standing there, still unmoved. The bastard. “You know,” I say, taking a step back toward him, “I swore I’d do this right, do this the oldfashioned way, when the time comes. But I never figured it would be like this. I figured that I’d ask for it, but to tell you the truth, I’m sick of asking for things, so instead I’ll just tell you. I’m going to marry your daughter.”

35

Haley ONCE BRANDO LEAVES, there are a few moments of awkwardness between me and his team, until Jessica offers to explain what exactly they’re doing. Behind groans of embarrassment that five people are trying to repair my reputation, and a slight regret that I never had a team like that when I was in high school, I offer to help. Since they’re posting from my social media accounts, I figure I should supply some photos, so we hook my phone up and start trawling through the hundreds of pics I took on the tour for the best ones. After about a half hour in which the sound of speed-typing and phones ringing never stops, my own phone rings. “Take it,” Jessica says without peeling her eyes from the screen. “I’ll upload the ones we’ve pulled from it already.” “Thanks,” I say, as I pull the cable out and take the phone into the bedroom. “Hello?” “Haley,” says the serious voice on the other end. “It’s Rowland. Look—” I don’t give him a chance to beat around the bush. “I know you’re dropping me.” There’s a pause. “Brando told you already, huh?” “Yeah, but…I don’t understand how this is going to go. With the contract, the tour, the album.” “It’s done already. I’ve just had my lawyer draw up the termination. You’ll have to sign it – but that’s only a formality.” I sigh deeply, cover my eyes with my hand, and drop my ass onto the bed. “I don’t understand…I just did a whole tour for you, the album is supposed to come out in a few months, and what about the royalties? I…” “It’s a clean break, Haley,” says Rowland, and I can’t tell from his monotone whether he means that to sound like a good thing or a bad thing. “You’ll continue to get the same royalties from the two singles you released under our label, but that’s all.” “But that’s not fair!” I wail into the phone. “I just busted my ass on the road for a whole month!” “And we’ve also been paying for studio time for an album we haven’t even heard yet. We supplied you with the bus, the booking, the planning for you to get your name out there – and don’t forget, Haley, you weren’t even the headliner. As far as I’m concerned, we’re even.” I stand up, my despair turning into cold, frustrated anger. “You can’t get away with this! There must be something I can do.” “Sure there is,” Rowland says, continuing to talk as calmly as if he’s ordering a pizza, “you can hire yourself a lawyer, and try to get us to uphold the contract. We would end up tearing each other to shreds, and it would cost both of us more money than we were even making from each other. Plus, and usually I enjoy saying this, but not now; unless you know the second-best lawyer in Los Angeles, you’ll just bury yourself deeper – because I happen to hire the best myself.” I don’t speak for a few seconds as I try to process all of it, the sudden loss of everything I built my life around for these past couple of months— no, years. I think about the high-rent lease I signed on for, the almost-finished album with no label to distribute it, the reputation I built up so hard on the road turning into gossip-fodder, and wonder if I’m actually worse off than when I was just playing open mics, serving coffee, and crashing with people I only barely called friends. Then I hear the door of the apartment open, and quickly hang up on Rowland to see who it is. I’m not the only one: the entire loft is silent now, as the team puts all of their focus on the man at the door in a ripped shirt, with cuts and bruises all over his torso, waiting for some sense of reality to reappear. “Brando?” I say, rushing toward him and inspecting the cuts. “What the hell happened to you? Where did you go?” “You guys can stop now,” he says to the team seated around his coffee table. “You’ve all done a

great job, but I need you to get out of here. I’ll call everyone tomorrow. Thanks.” Too stunned and frightened to ask anything else, they pick up their laptops and file past us one by one, Simon closing the door behind him and leaving just the two of us alone. Brando looks at me, his eyes loaded with whatever it is he just went through. “What happened?” I repeat, this time in a whisper. He puts a hand against my cheek, and brings my chin up to look at him face-to-face. “I spoke to Rex,” he says, leaving a long pause for my reaction. Instead of freaking out, I keep my expression neutral, even though it feels like someone just punched me in the gut. Brando’s clearly been through enough today already. He continues, “He’s going to deny the rumors. Coming from him, it should bury them for good. He’s been doing this a long time. He’s got a great PR team. He knows who to trust, how to get a point across.” I step back and turn away, unable to look at him – at anyone. I feel like I’m falling into myself, the same as I always do when I think about Rex Bentley, as if I’m eleven years old still, trapped there, never growing up. “He’ll probably frame it as a joke,” Brando says, his voice getting a little closer as he says it. “Make it sound casual, and like he doesn’t really care what people believe. Because the truth is, he has no reason to. That’s why everyone will buy it when he says it.” I feel Brando’s hand rest on my shoulder, and close my eyes. “Did he…” I say, my voice shaking, “Um … did he say anything else?” Brando takes a long time before answering, “He asked about you.” I tense my body, press my eyelids together, trying to stem the impending tears. I turn around and Brando squeezes me against his chest. I hear him breathe in sharply through his teeth. “Sorry,” I mutter, pushing my emotions away. “Are you hurt?” “I’m fine,” he says, gazing down at me as I rest my chin on his chest. “What happened to you?” I say, tracing a light finger across the dirt and blood on his forearm. “Getting in to see Rex was a little tougher than I thought,” Brando says, before adding slowly, “getting through to him was even tougher.” I look up at Brando’s sympathetic eyes. “He’s an asshole, right?” Brando nods regretfully. “I’m sorry. He kind of is. Do you think you’d ever want to meet him?” “You know,” I say, taking Brando’s hand and leading him over to the couch, where we both drop ourselves next to each other, “it’s funny. Before all of this, the records, the tour, you, I would have done anything just to speak to him one time. Anything. But now…I dunno. I don’t really care. It is what it is, and I’m done pushing to change it.” Brando smiles warmly as he brushes my hair back, his big, bloody arm stretched across the back of the couch. “Maybe now that you’ve done so much on your own, you realize that you don’t need anyone else,” he says. I laugh, and rub a hand up his thigh affectionately. “None of that is true. I didn’t do it alone. And I definitely need a certain someone,” I say, my tongue on my teeth. “Rowland called me while you were gone. Told me that I’ve pretty much been dropped already – a ‘clean break,’ as he put it.” “So we’re back to square one,” Brando says, grinning as he shuffles a little closer. “We did it before though, didn’t we?” “And this time we have a whole album.” I sigh. “No we don’t. Majestic paid for the studio time – and for Josh. The album’s theirs.”

Brando’s brow creases. “Have they heard any of the songs?” I shake my head. “No. They weren’t quite done yet.” “Right.” He pauses, thinking. “Don’t forget, I’m the one who managed you for Majestic. They only paid for your studio time, nothing else. They’re only interested in finished products, and up until that point, they don’t care – for better and for worse. If I know Josh, he’s keeping those master tapes close to his chest, and he’d sooner burn them than hand them over to a label and screw an artist over.” As I process Brando’s words, it starts to dawn on me. I’m not as screwed as I thought. “So does this mean … we can still release it ourselves?” “Right,” Brando says, as his hand curls around my waist. “Just you and me again.” “Oh my God! This is amazing!” I can’t help squealing as I climb up into Brando’s lap. “Do you still have that video camera?” I whisper huskily as I press my cheek against his. “That depends on what you want it for,” Brando says, his voice soft in my ear. “Is this about music, or about us?” “Oh, this time it’s about us. Absolutely.”

Epilogue Brando Even though we’re sitting in an auditorium of thousands, even though the biggest musicians in the world are here, even though there are cameras everywhere, even though I’ve been in this situation many times, I can’t take my eyes away from Haley sitting next to me. Tonight, she’s ditched the leather jacket and tight black jeans for a slim-fitting, light blue dress that makes her look hot in a way I’ve never seen before, and which is driving me crazy with lust. She even wore her wild, crazy hair up tonight. I never thought I’d see her do that, but then again, this is the Grammys. I pretend to pay attention to the stage a little more, but as soon as the audience starts clapping I push my hand toward the slit in her dress, fingers venturing between soft silk and even softer skin. Haley pulls my hand away and continues clapping. Out of the corner of her mouth, barely moving her lips lest a camera settle on her, she speaks to me. “Brando, I’m going to kill you when we get out of here!” “I know,” I say, without trying to hide it, “and that dress is already torturing me.” The clapping stops and the host cranks up into another introduction. I turn from Haley to my other side, where Jax and Lizzie are sitting. The seats were reserved for Haley’s mom and Josh, but I should have known both of them would rather watch the Grammys on TV than attend it. “Thanks for coming at such short notice, both of you.” “Are you kidding?” Lizzie says, leaning across Jax. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. I’m probably more excited than Haley!” “You’ve come a long way, dude,” Jax adds, nodding slightly. “It feels like we’re just starting.” Jax and Lizzie look at each other, their eyes seeming to bounce light off each other. “It always does,” Jax says. Haley grabs my hand and squeezes it so hard I feel like she’s going to tear it off. I turn back toward her. “I’m so fucking nervous,” she says with her weird, side-mouth, gritted-teeth ventriloquist’s smile. It’s been a fast year. A roller coaster. And it still feels like we’re accelerating, pinned to our chairs at the Grammys, wondering how many more thrilling drops there are going to be. Even when I was hustling on the streets, things weren’t as hectic as managing Haley – if I can even call it management. Everything she’s touched has spun wildly out of control, beyond either of our expectations. It’s like watching a butterfly wing’s flap turn into a tornado before our very eyes. Once the label dropped Haley, and Rex Bentley answered a question about their kinship with a ‘Haley Who?’ followed by saying he was ‘flattered, but clean enough during the eighties to remember something like that,’ we were in freefall for a while. Haley put the finishing touches on the album at Josh’s own house, while I set up a new independent label of my own (and managed to sign the band that covered for her in New York). We put the album out, and another single using some cobbled-together footage of her in the studio and on tour. Then we took a long-needed weekend away at her mom’s (I found her mom’s album, eventually, using an old connection in New York – so that’s one parent who approves of me at least). On the Monday after, we returned to LA and turned our phones back on. That’s when we saw the record had gone gold. A few months later, it went platinum. “Relax,” I urge her, leaning over. “You’re going to win. I just know you will.”

“That’s what I’m fucking nervous about!” “You’ll be fine. Just don’t think too much about it.” “I’m gonna stumble on the steps, I just know it! And I’m gonna sound so dumb during the speech. I’ll probably wet myself while I’m up there.” As people start clapping wildly again, I put my hand on Haley’s cheek, and bring her face around to look at me. “Haley, when you get up there, just find me, and keep your eyes on me. Okay? It’s just you and me – like always. Remember the showcase?” “Of course.” “Just like that.” As if on cue, the clapping stops, and the host begins ramping up to one of Haley’s categories: Best New Artist. After an intro that seems to go on forever, another singer coming on stage to present the award, a video reel of the nominations, and some more blather, the red envelope appears – and Haley crushes my hands with a strength that could crack a walnut. “And so … the winner for Best New Artist is…” I hold my breath as the tuxedo-wearing host fumbles with the paper, and somehow feel like I’m about to suffocate when he finally calls out, “Haley Grace Cooke!” We stand up and tightly clutch each other. I can feel the electric energy of Haley’s excitement emanating from her. She kisses me quickly, and exchanges a couple of quick hugs with Jax and Lizzie, before stepping out into the aisle and making her way to the stairs without a single misstep. I clap, almost absent-minded as I watch her. Haley is more beautiful than all the girls here combined, worth more than any award can truly show, stronger than anybody else in this entire auditorium will ever know. The audience goes wild with hooting and clapping, it sounds like the entire world is admiring her, and it’s still less than she deserves. I watch her take the final, last step and sigh with relief. I feel proud, and lucky, and like a miracle happened to put her in my life, to make her mine. She steps behind the mic. “Oh my God! Wow! This is … wow!” I point two fingers at my eyes as she gasps and fidgets, until she finds me and seems to settle a little, breaking into a wide smile. “Um … I wanna be quick, but there’s so many people that I can’t leave this stage without thanking. Mom, of course, your love always brings me home, and always sends me off in the right direction again. Josh, you’re not just a great producer, you’re a great friend. Jenna … we made it! Lexi, thanks for teaching me how to play the game,” Haley says, before holding out the Grammy as defiantly as a middle finger, “keep on playing them. The fans, for being so open-minded and supporting of someone new, I owe you everything. “But most of all, my fiancé Brando – who everyone probably knows from the first video,” Haley makes an embarrassed face, as the crowd laughs. “You were with me from day one. You fought for me, protected me, supported me, guided me, comforted me. You were always there, completely and utterly, even when I gave you so many reasons not to be. This is as much yours as it is mine. “I love you.” I mouth the words back to her as I clap to the beat of my heart. This is how it all started, with me in the audience, and her on a stage. With me making a silent promise that ties me to her. Only the first time it was on somebody else’s terms – this time it’s all mine. I’m gonna love Haley every single day for the rest of our lives. I’m gonna give her everything she ever wanted. I’m gonna make her happier than she ever thought she could be. And if you don’t believe me, I’m willing to bet on it. THE END

Stay tuned for my next novel, CONFESSIONS OF A BAD BOY, releasing April 27th! To be notified when Confessions of a Bad Boy becomes available, please sign up for my newsletter.

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About the Author JD grew up in Southern California and now lives with his wife in Venice, CA. JD loves to travel and enjoys surfing, training in MMA and riding motorcycles. Join his newsletter where all the cool kids hang out: http://eepurl.com/bkVjMX When I'm not surfing or being my badass self at my local coffee shop, you can catch me on: @fuckyeahhawkins

JD-Hawkins-Author

Also by J.D. Hawkins Insatiable Part 1 It’s not cocky when you've got the goods to back it up. Lust-maker. Pleasure giver. Fantasy creator. I can blow your mind in five seconds flat — but trust me, you’ll want this to last all night. There’s not a woman in the city who can resist me. Except one. Now she’s got a proposition: Seven days. Every position. No strings attached. She wants to know what she’s been missing. Who am I to say no? Insatiable Part 2 It was supposed to be simple: I teach her a crash course in pleasure. No commitment. No strings. Now she’s found the perfect guy — and it’s not me. I should move on, but I need her. And I never back down from a fight. Now I've got one last lesson for her: I’m going to make her mine. BOOTYCALL "I’m going to show her just how good a bad boy can be..." When you're the prince of Hollywood, and everyone wants a piece of the action. I’ve got paparazzi stalking my every move, and supermodels lined up to spread their legs for a shot at fame. But this girl is different. She’s been hired by the studio to keep me in line. One wrong move, and my comeback is going up in smoke. I should keep my distance, but I’ve never played by the rules. BOOTYCALL Part 2 I'm going to show her just how good a bad boy can be... Everything's riding on my comeback, but suddenly, Hollywood is the last thing on my mind. Gemma Clark was supposed to keep me out of trouble, but now I'm in way over my head. What we have is real -- too real. It's just a matter of time before it all comes crashing down. I need to face my demons, but what happens when she discovers the truth?

Acknowledgments This book is dedicated to all the people who inspire others by their actions, not words. I'd like to thank the universe for creating music and children and flowers and rainbows and puppies and sunsets on the beach and blow jobs. And special thanks to the bloggers, promoters and Facebook friends who spread the word about my books and entertain me on a daily basis without getting paid. You girls rock and I am inspired by your passion and dedication. I love you long time.

Table of Contents Copyright Also by J.D. Hawkins Prologue 1. Brando 2. Haley 3. Brando 4. Haley 5. Brando 6. Haley 7. Brando 8. Haley 9. Brando 10. Haley 11. Brando 12. Haley 13. Brando 14. Haley 15. Brando 16. Haley 17. Brando 18. Brando 19. Haley 20. Brando 21. Haley 22. Brando 23. Haley 24. Brando 25. Haley 26. Brando 27. Haley 28. Brando 29. Haley 30. Brando 31. Haley 32. Brando 33. Haley 34. Brando 35. Haley Epilogue Sneak Peek of Confessions of a Bad Boy About the Author Also by J.D. Hawkins Acknowledgments