Chapter 8

Haley

“It’s catchy, it’s got great lyrics, a good groove – it’s got hit written all over it,” Brando says, gulping the last of his beer down, slamming it on the bar, and ordering another with ease. It’s the kind of club I’d never go to in a million years. Tables and booths that look way cleaner and more expensive than the usual dive bars I usually drink – and play – in, surround a central dance floor, where you can barely see the people with all the expensive suits and jewelry flashing all over the place. Ordinarily, I’d feel like a nun at an orgy entering a place like this, but being around Brando is like being in a bubble, where nothing can touch you, and everywhere is home.

“I know, but it’s acoustic,” I remind him.

“So?”

“So acoustic songs never get into the charts.”

Brando laughs and leans in slightly. Any other guy as big as him and it would feel intimidating, but with Brando it feels protective, warm, enticing.

“Quite a role reversal,” he smirks. “You telling me that I’m not being commercially-minded enough.”

I look down for a second and giggle a little, before looking back at him. When he’s in this kind of mood it’s next to impossible to keep my eyes away from his.

“Maybe you’re rubbing off on me,” I say.

“Well you’re definitely having an effect on me.”

“Who do you think’s getting the worse deal?”

Brando laughs breezily.

“Well, if I become an A & R guy with some integrity, I’m pretty much finished. And if you end up as a sell-out, you’ll end up as soulless as—” his face drops as he notices something in the corner of the club, a cloud passing over his face and wiping away the spark in his eyes, “her.”

I search for a clue in his eyes before turning around to see where they lead. Somewhere between a sea of black-suited bodyguards and a crowd of people who seem to fade to grey in her presence, I see her. Lexi Dark. Her pink, latex dress standing out from everyone and everything around her, as if she’s somehow more solid, more real. A Technicolor girl in life’s black and white film. Always the radiant smile, the demure pose; so brilliant that it frustrates you to only be able to see one side of her at a time.

I spin back around to Brando, who’s gazing at her like a widow at a gravestone.

“What’s the deal with you and her?”

“I made her.” Brando looks like he’s in pain as he turns around to face the bar, staring at his beer as he talks quietly. “She was mine. My singer. My girl. My everything. Then she burnt it all down and left.”

It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Brando look anything less than supremely confident. Something about the brief glimpse of vulnerability makes me want to do something, anything, to soothe the hurt written in his expression. It’s so strange that I’m almost afraid to ask, “What happened?”

Brando takes a long, slow sip of beer.

“I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

I place a hand on his broad shoulder, rubbing softly. I can almost feel the heat of the pain inside him. I think about saying something soothing, changing the subject to something lighter, maybe even flirting with him a little more to distract him – but if there’s one thing I know about men, it’s that sometimes they just need a moment alone.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” I say. “Be right back.”

“Sure.”

I take a little longer in the bathroom than I need to, standing in front of the mirror, teasing out my curls and checking my teeth for remnants of the pasta Brando and I shared before coming to the club.

I hear a latch close, except it doesn’t come from the cubicles, it comes from the entrance. I feel a cold chill down my spine, as if something – or someone – just sucked out all of the atmosphere from the room. I know it’s her before I even turn my head.

Lexi Dark.

She stands in front of the door, one hand on her hip. Her red lips projecting a dark control. She looks like a moving magazine cover, every inch of her body always in perfect alignment. I stare at her and wonder why people bother traveling halfway around the world to see breathtaking sights.

Frozen solid, all I can do is watch her. She steps forward, slow but confident, a supermodel sashay to a beat of heels on tile.

I’ve bitched about singers like Lexi a million times. About their fake appearance, plastic assembly-line songs, meaningless lyrics. But standing here, in her presence, her intensity has never seemed realer.

“Well well well, aren’t you a cute little thing?” she says, reaching out elegant fingers, tipped with multi-colored nails, toward my shoulder. She trails her hand across my back to the other shoulder as she steps around me, sending lightning bolts of tension throughout my body. “Brando’s new toy.”

The words are out of my mouth before I have time to think about what I’m saying. “Maybe he got tired of playing with dolls.”

Lexi opens her mouth in excited pleasure. She leans back on the sink, the arch of her back pornographic.

“Good. There’s some fight in you. Brando likes that. Not too much, though,” she leans in toward my ear, so close her cherry breath tickles the hairs on my neck, “he’s a big guy, but he breaks easy.”

She keeps her face close to mine, close and dangerous. I glare at her in the mirror, her lips glistening in the bright fluorescent lights.

“Has he fucked you yet?” Lexi says, pulling her head back and stretching out her slender neck. “What am I saying? Of course he has; a pretty thing like you. I’ll bet he can’t keep his hands off you.” Lexi brushes the back of her hand against my cheek. My brain screams for my body to move, but I just watch her in the mirror, encased in the iciness of her touch, trapped in her aura. “I’ll bet he has you right where he wants you: not sure if it’s your body or your career that he really wants.”

Something snaps me out of my cage and I grab her wrist.

“Maybe that dress is too tight,” I say, looking right into her emerald eyes, “your bitterness is showing.”

Lexi jerks her hand away and twists her lips into a semi-menacing, semi-sweet smile. She turns to face the mirror, gently touching the already-immaculate strands of hair that fall lovingly around her striking face. Rolling her hands down from tiny waist to lurid hips. She does it all as if I’ve disappeared, and she’s on her own.

“Just a little friendly advice from someone who knows.”

I watch her study herself intently, like an engineer ensuring her well-oiled machine is tuned to perfection, before turning to leave. She glances at me for a second as she turns, a dark flash in her eyes, then strides toward the door, animal grace and clicking heels. She grabs the handle before pausing.

“Try saying his name when you come,” she says, looking back at me over her shoulder, another cover girl pose, “he really loves that.”

I hear her laughing even after the door closes.