Chapter 7

 

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.”