Chapter 6

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.”