Chapter 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?”