Chapter 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-to-book 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.