Chapter 4

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.”