Chapter 17

Brando

I don’t need to call anyone to find out where Rex Bentley lives; anyone who’s been in LA longer than a week knows the place. It’s one of the biggest mansions in the city, and was bought when rockstars like Rex were giants who couldn’t seem to fit their egos into anything smaller. A Tuscan-style villa, its walls are a combination of stark angles, sections jutting out in every direction, as if somebody took a small English village, smashed it all together, and colored it white. It’s the kind of place only a rockstar or a supervillain could live in – and I’m hoping Rex isn’t both.

I roll the car up to the tall black gates and push the button on the intercom conveniently placed on the driver’s side. After waiting for about as long as it takes someone to get anywhere in a home that big, a young woman with an accent answers.

“Hello?”

“Hey. This is Brando Nash. I’m here to speak to Rex Bentley.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Brando. Nash.”

“Just a moment, please.”

I drum my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. This time the wait is short. The intercom crackles into life again.

“I’m sorry. Rex isn’t here right now. Can I take a message? What was your name again?”

“Okay,” I say, in my ‘enough bullshit’ tone. “I know Rex is in there, otherwise you wouldn’t have had me hold. Please tell him it’s extremely important, and can’t wait.”

“Hold on just a second.”

I stare through the gates, the massive fountain at the front of his mansion just visible across the curve of the driveway. The intercom crackles.

“Rex isn’t here. Do you want to leave a message?”

“Fuck this shit,” I mutter, to myself rather than the intercom, as I push open the car door and get out. I start jogging alongside the wall, and hear the intercom behind me as it crackles off.

The vast grounds of Rex’s mansion are surrounded by the high walls of someone who has a lot of people he wants to keep out. But it’s also surrounded by plenty of gigantic trees trying to keep those same people from looking in. Though I’ve never climbed trees for the fun of it, as a teenager I went up plenty of drainpipes with a pretty girl at the back window and judgmental parents at the front door.

When I find a tree with a low-enough branch and a good-enough lean I start making my way up. Soon I’m feeling the adrenaline rush and the bone-deep satisfaction of a good work-out, and just like in the gym, I push all the negative thoughts out of my mind. Thoughts like the fact that I’m breaking and entering, like the fact that Rex’s mansion is probably full of security cameras, like the fact that turning up on his doorstep without an invitation doesn’t segue smoothly into asking for a favor.

I get to the end of a wide branch, slowly step out onto the wall, and don’t give myself time to worry about the drop. Before I can think, I’m flailing to get out of a thick, thorny bush, my shirt ripped so badly it looks like netting, and my arms stinging from a bunch of cuts and grazes.

I waste a second checking my elbows, but that’s all it takes before I start running toward the mansion – partly because I want to get this over with, and partly because I think I can hear dogs barking.

After twenty yards there’s no doubt about it. Two tough, black and yellow sons-of-bitches are behind me, teeth already out like they’re trying to nose past a finish line with them. After forty yards I don’t even turn back to look I can hear them so loudly. After fifty yards I can almost feel their dog breath on my neck. But I’m almost at the entrance now, almost at the steps. I speed up, ready to take them three at a time, ready to lower my shoulder and bust through those big doors – the only way I’ve ever done anything – and then—

“Stop!”

I wheel back on my heels, skidding on the gravel in front of the massive steps that lead up to the front door. The second I see him there I raise my hands. It’s Rex Bentley – and he’s aiming a shotgun at me.

“Stop right there,” Rex repeats, his British accent only adding to the intimidation of being at gunpoint.

I try not to flinch as the two dogs stalk past me slowly and settle themselves on the steps between me and Rex, eyeing me dubiously.

“I thought the British didn’t believe in guns,” I say, trying to smile, but too out of breath for anything other than a panting grimace.

“Why do you think I don’t live there?” Rex says, lowering the gun to his side, but keeping it pointed directly at me with his finger on the trigger. He squints a little. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Brando Nash. We go to a lot of the same parties.”

His face is stonier than the fountain in the courtyard. “If the name meant anything to me I’d have let you in when you asked.”

“I’m an A&R guy- was an A&R, for Majestic Records.”

“I don’t know any A&R guys who would do something as stupid as enter my property without permission.”

I’d like to shoot back an appropriately convincing response, but instead all I can manage to do is drop my hands to clutch the stitch in my side and double over a little.

“Wait a minute,” Rex says, stepping down the stairs toward me slowly. “You’re Josh’s friend, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” I say, triumphantly. “We met at the launch party for his book.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, stepping onto the gravel, the gun a little looser in his hand now. “He said that you were the one of the only guys still hiring him to produce, and I thought that must mean you’re one of the only guys left with an ounce of taste.”

He steps closer and stands in front of me, lowering the gun so the barrel finally points toward the ground. I offer my hand, but he raises his chin.

“So what do you want?” he says, his voice a few degrees colder than before.

“I’m here about Haley,” I say, tightening my face and standing up straight.

“Haley?” he says, only just hiding the deep note that the name strikes inside him.

“Haley Grace Cooke. Your daughter.”

I can sense his body tighten, see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. For a few seconds it seems like he could go in any direction: Crying, spitting, running… Shooting.

“It’s out in the open,” I say, seeing that he can’t decide. “The news broke last night. It’s still spreading. It’s not a secret anymore. Not unless you do something about it.”

For what feels like hours we glare at each other, no one making a move, but I know Rex isn’t really looking at me, he’s looking deep inside himself. Pulling at old memories, at whatever feelings he has about this. He looks down at the ground and pushes his lower lip out. When he raises his head, it’s high again. He sticks the hand that isn’t holding the gun into his pocket, an attempt to be cool that works only because it’s his job.

“I’ve had everything and anything written about me,” he says distantly, as if remembering all of them at once. “That I’m gay. That I’m a plagiarist. That I’m a Nazi sympathizer. That I’m part of the Illuminati. Even a pact with the devil. It doesn’t matter.”

“This time it’s different.”

Rex’s smile is both condescending and curious.

“Why should it be?” he asks.

“Because this time it’s true.”

Rex’s smile disappears instantly. He looks away, and I see him swallow deeply before he speaks again.

“Why are you telling me this?” he says, his voice speeding up. “I don’t care what some fucking teenager with a laptop writes on the internet. I don’t care about asinine rumors and the speculation of journalists. It might seem like the end of the world to someone young enough to be climbing walls and running from dogs, but I’ve seen real problems. I’ve had friends die before their time of drugs, seen careers ruined and talent wasted in the most disgusting, abhorrent ways you can imagine. And here you are talking to me about a fucking rumor! Here’s a bit of advice: Get the hell out off of my property, and don’t ever come here again!”

Rex turns back toward the staircase. In a split-second I see all the reasons I’m doing this, all of the things driving me to this point. If there’s one chance, this is it, and it’ll be gone if I don’t take it.

I grab Rex’s shoulder and spin him around to face me so violently the dogs on the steps stand to attention.

“You might not fucking care, but Haley does!” I roar, inches away from his face. “The only reason rumors don’t mean shit to you is because you’re hidden away out here! Behind your massive walls, and your dogs, and your shotgun. Nothing can touch the ‘great Rex Bentley.’”

I shove his shoulder away with disgust.

“Only you’re not great,” I continue, momentum behind me, “you’re just a selfish old man. A shell of a person. You want to talk about real problems? How about being a young girl who sees her father everywhere, who feels like everyone knows him but her, and who gets completely ignored by him? How about feeling like you’re unwanted, not good enough, for your own flesh and blood? How about sending hundreds of letters to the one man who’s supposed to love you, support you, teach you how to be a human being, and never getting a word in reply? Not a single fucking word.”

I stand there panting and tense, full of rage and fire. Rex’s stony glare only making me more violent. I keep talking – the only way I can keep myself from doing something physical.

“What you did was unforgivable. What you did would have broken most kids. Screwed them up for life. But not Haley. She still did what she loved. Did it without asking you for anything. Did it despite the fact that you crushed her. Did it better than people who had all the help in the world. Right now, she’s made something good, built herself a life, but those fucking rumors are about to take even that away from her. And she doesn’t have a mansion to hide away inside.”

Even the dogs are cowering back from me now.

“If you ever even thought about her, ever read one of those letters, ever considered giving her that one word – then now is the last chance you’ll ever get.”

“There’s nothing I can do—”

“Bullshit,” I cut him off. “Deny the rumors. Do it so that you can make up at least something for the years of pain you’ve caused. Do it so that you don’t spend the rest of your life in a big, empty mansion regretting who you are. Do it so that you can say you did at least one thing for another person when you’re on your deathbed. I don’t fucking care, but just fucking do it.”

Rex doesn’t move, everything about him fixed in place like an ancient carving. I scowl back at him, feeling drained from the force I put behind each word, from the empathetic hurt I dredged up inside of me. After it’s been long enough that I wonder if he’ll say anything at all, Rex speaks.

“Where did she get an A&R guy like you?”

“I already told you. I’m not an A&R guy anymore. I’m just Brando now.”

Rex’s nod is almost imperceptible.

“Okay. I’ll call a journalist and do it today.”

I open my mouth to speak, but saying the words ‘thank you’ doesn’t seem right. I let the promise hang in the air like a reminder, and turn slightly to go.

“How is she?” Rex says, before I look away.

I smile darkly with the weight of it all.

“She’s a lot of things,” I say. “Too much to tell you myself.”

I turn around, the long, curving, gravel driveway feeling like it leads somewhere better, and take a few steps, before stopping suddenly and turning back. Rex is still standing there, still unmoved. The bastard.

“You know,” I say, taking a step back toward him, “I swore I’d do this right, do this the old-fashioned way, when the time comes. But I never figured it would be like this. I figured that I’d ask for it, but to tell you the truth, I’m sick of asking for things, so instead I’ll just tell you. I’m going to marry your daughter.”