Chapter 2

Haley

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve written down my dreams when I woke up. From the recurring one about a white horse, to the strange ones about flying through an auditorium. Even the anxiety dreams where I feel like I’m falling, and the nightmares about Freddy Krueger. I’d wake up and write them all. Maybe it was some way of trying to make my dreams come true, maybe it was an attempt to cling to the fantasy and weirdness in my otherwise typical life. At the very least, it gave me a lot of stuff to work from with song lyrics. I’ve done it almost every morning for over ten years.

But not anymore.

I’d like to say it’s because my life this past month has been pretty much a dream come true – which it has – but it’s not. I’d like to say it was because it takes me at least five minutes every morning to remember and realize where I am, in a beautiful new apartment I’m sharing with Jenna – but it’s not that either.

It’s because I keep dreaming about him.

The more I try to suppress it, and the more I try to fill my head with junk so that I don’t have to think about him, the more vivid and explicit the dreams become. It’s gotten to the point where I can almost smell him, taste him. The dreams are different, but the feeling’s always the same. The guilt mixing with ecstasy, the bitterness mixing with sweetness. But in them I can’t help myself. I can’t pull away. It’s only when I wake up, my thighs rubbing together, my hearth thumping, that I feel real enough and strong enough to remember what he did to me. The bet. Then I get angry.

This morning is no different. I wake up and realize my hand is between my thighs, the other against my neck where he was kissing me. I pull them away in annoyance and jump out of bed. I can hear the sound of the juicer outside my room, and Jenna’s voice. After pulling on a pair of sweatpants I push open the door, eager for the distraction of company.

“She’s alive!” says Josh, breezily.

My record producer is sitting on a stool at the counter while Jenna buzzes around the kitchen. Since we moved in together, using the proceeds of my advance and the money from the play she finally got paid for, Jenna’s been making sure she’s getting her money’s worth from the apartment’s furnishings and appliances. The juicer, the coffee machine, the bread maker, it doesn’t matter: if it does something, she’s been using it as much as she can.

“Morning, Haley!” she says as she pours out a big smoothie for herself, the toaster popping in the background. “Coffee?”

“Absolutely. Hey, Josh.”

“You’re up late,” he says, as I rub the gunk out of my eyes.

“We were up all night watching horror movies on the TV,” Jenna says, excitedly, nodding for Josh to turn around and look at it. “It’s fifty-five inches!”

“And you know how we ladies love our inches,” I grumble drily, not caring that I’m tossing out inappropriate innuendo to my producer. I know Josh can handle it, though. He’s seen worse from me by now. They both have.

“Oh, Haley,” Jenna mock-scolds me. I’ve been in a foul mood ever since things went south with Brando, but she (and Josh) (and my music) have been my rock this whole time. With their help, I’ve even managed to have a few happy moments.

I sit up on a stool next to Josh and he pulls out a couple of tapes and a USB stick.

“It’s a nice TV.” Josh smiles at Jenna, then at me. “Living the high life, I see.”

I shrug with my eyebrows. Jenna pours each of us a cup of coffee with the kind of quick, fluid motion I’m used to seeing, and I understand how she manages to cope with working at the café; she enjoys serving people, taking care of them in some small way.

Josh takes his coffee with one hand and slides the USB stick over to me.

“The takes from last week,” he says, pausing to take a sip. “A couple of them are really good. We should definitely use your guitar tracks from some of them.”

“Cool. I’ll listen to them today.”

Jenna suddenly explodes into a higher gear. “Shit!” she squeals, as she catches sight of the big clock hanging from the wall. “I’m gonna be so late!”

Josh and I watch with awed appreciation as she slaps a cover on her juice cup, finishes buttering her toast, sticks it in her mouth, uses a foot to close a cabinet, hangs a purse over her shoulder, and glides out of the door in less time than it takes me to sip my coffee and shout a feeble “Bye!” after her.

“Can she afford to live here?” Josh asks, a few seconds after she’s gone. “No offense. It’s just, this place is…” he gestures at the grandeur all around us.

“Not really,” I admit. “I’m paying most of the rent. But without her, I’d just be living here alone anyway. And besides, she’s got some auditions lined up. I really think it’s going to happen for her soon.” A smile crosses my face for a split second, because I mean it.

“That’s very generous of you.”

I shrug. “She believed in me for a long time. I want to repay that. I believe in her too.”

Josh looks seriously at his cup for a few moments before speaking again. “There’s somebody else who believed in you who could do with some of that support right now.”

I close my eyes and shake my head.

“Josh, I know Brando’s your friend, and he probably asked you to talk to me, but—”

“He didn’t ask me to talk to you. But he is my friend,” he says, before sighing. “I don’t know what happened between you two, but I have some idea. Either way, he’s still your manager. You can’t keep avoiding him.”

“Why not?” I say, grabbing a slice of toast that Jenna left and sticking a piece in my mouth. “You, me, and the band are doing just fine recording the album without him.”

“If only music was all about recording,” Josh says, wistfully. “I’m not the kind of guy to preach, Haley. It’s none of my business. But you need Brando. For your own sake. He got you this far. If you can’t work with him, you’re not going to last long. I’m not telling you this because he’s my friend, I’m telling you this because you are.”

I turn to look at him, his craggy face somehow soft and understanding. The kind of face that couldn’t lie if it tried.

“I know,” I say. “Don’t worry. I’ll work with Brando. I’ll hate him, avoid him, and never forgive him. But I’ll work with him.”

The most surprising thing about Majestic Records is how bad the acoustics are. Everything in the office is made of glass so shiny it reflects almost everything under the bright lights. The surfaces are all cold and hard, marble floors and metal desks, with only a couple of simple, hard-lined paintings to offer a hint of personality, as if to place complete emphasis on the people alone.

I always did think record executives were vain and tone-deaf, and whoever designed the Majestic Offices seems to agree.

I step up to the reception area.

“Hi. I’m supposed to meet Mr. Rowland at eleven?”

“Ah, Haley,” the smiling girl says. “He’s expecting you. Let me show you the way.”

She asks the intern beside her to take over, and then leads me toward the elevators at the back of the building. When the doors open up on the billionth floor, I see Brando sitting on a couch, thumbing through a magazine. My whole body clenches, as if bracing itself for the emotional onslaught of being around him.

“Haley!” he says, tossing the magazine aside and standing up. He looks like shit. But it’s no consolation. He was probably up late screwing the next girl in line who doesn’t know any better.

I clench my jaw tight and follow the receptionist, keeping my eyes on the door. She knocks on it, and when Rowland shouts a response, opens it for me. I walk through quickly, more to get away from Brando than to get to the meeting quicker.

Rowland is standing with his back to the door, his feet spread wider than a tennis player, as he gazes out of the window. He spins around, smiles, and walks over to his chair.

“Take a seat, you two,” he says.

I continue to ignore Brando as I sit down, though I can almost sense his big frame gliding into the chair, his cologne wafting over me like searching fingers, a smell that I now associate with so many things. Being thrown onto a bed, pressed up against the window, kissed on the neck….Stop it, Haley.

I breathe deeply and cross my legs in the opposite direction from him, as if shielding myself against his sex voodoo.

Rowland checks his watch excitedly, then grits his teeth with restraint.

“We should wait for Lexi, but I can’t hold this in any longer,” he grins, broadly.

“Lexi?” I ask, the name coming out of my mouth with barely-concealed disdain. “I thought this meeting was about my album.”

“How is the album going?” Brando asks me.

Rowland’s glance flicks between us rapidly, waiting for a response, before he realizes that I’m ignoring the question.

“Whatever the state,” he says, picking up on the weird vibe and using the opportunity to take the lead, “it’ll have to be put on hold – because you’re going out on tour! All over America!” He smiles like a game show host who’s just told me what I’ve won.

“What?!” I scream, a combination of excitement and panic rushing up like a tsunami wave. It feels like someone just punched me in the stomach. “How? Why? Are you sure?” I bite my lip, nerves taking over.

“I thought you’d be excited,” Rowland says, leaning forward in his chair and placing his palms out wide on the table. “It’s not just any tour. You’re going to be the support on Lexi’s tour!”

“What?!” I repeat, only this time it isn’t in a tone of excited disbelief, this time it’s a long wail of defiant irritation. I look over at Brando for the first time since we entered the office and he give me a ‘not my idea’ shrug.

Rowland stands up and walks toward the window as he speaks. “It’s perfect, isn’t it? The idea came to me a few days ago, in the bath. Moments of brilliance like that, you know, you just have to let them happen. I mean, that’s the nature of genius when you think about it, am I right? It’s in the moments, not the—”

“Why?” Brando suddenly calls out in a big, booming voice that slices through Rowland’s self-indulgence. For a second, I almost miss him.

Rowland spins around to face us, still wearing his broad smile as he steps back behind his desk.

“Come on, Brando, you of all people should know.” Rowland turns to me. “You and Lexi need each other. Lexi committed herself to this tour before we got her. Sure, she sold out some of the small towns that rarely get big stars coming through, but she’s yet to sell out the big cities - the cooler spots, the towns with more astute audiences. She just doesn’t have the edge anymore. Her singles sold like hotcakes, but her album was panned. Most people are already onto the next hot thing. Lexi needs some credibility, a boost. She needs to be associated with someone who has a little substance, someone street, so people don’t write her off already – and that’s where you come in!”

“Well I don’t need her, so—”

“Oh, but you do!” Rowland interrupts me as he lowers himself into his seat. “Don’t let the TV spot you played fool you into thinking you’ve already made it, young lady. The music bloggers might love you, but that doesn’t mean a thing in terms of sales. Until we start putting you in front of bigger audiences you’re just another cute girl with a guitar. Lexi’s your in.”

“But my music speaks for itself. I don’t need—”

“Exactly!” Rowland says, jabbing his finger in the air to dot his point. “You make great music, Haley. But you know what the problem with great music is? You need to actually hear it. Really hear it. Most people won’t give it a chance unless we sit them down and serve it right to ‘em with a cherry on top. Lexi is that cherry.”

I just shake my head. This can’t be happening. Everything about this is wrong.

“Listen.” Rowland leans forward over the desk. “You and Lexi, you’re like two sides of the same coin. Lexi’s got people’s attention, and you’ve got the talent to back it up. Alone, she’s going to be off the map completely in a few months, and all you’ll get are some great reviews and enough sales to buy a new guitar. But together,” he draws his hands together, locking them and smiling as if he’s proud of it, “you could take each other to a new level with this tour.”

“I don’t know…” I say, but suddenly I do know. Everything he’s saying makes perfect sense. I’d have killed to get a tour the size of Lexi’s a month ago. I was happy enough with the opportunity to just record an album, but this is a chance that probably won’t come along many more times. I remember Jenna’s words, about how she had ‘One chance. And that’s all.’

“Tell her, Brando,” Rowland says, sensing my still-lingering hesitation.

I try to just glance at him, but something about his eyes makes it impossible, and I find myself being pulled magnetically to look at him fully. Even with the stubble and the circles under his eyes, he’s magnificent. Hating him would be a lot easier if he didn’t look like that.

“He’s right, Haley,” Brando says slowly, almost regretfully. “The tour could be the difference between ten thousand album sales, or half a million. You’ll be reaching people in a tangible way, in their home towns, standing right in front of them, that all the internet buzz can’t even touch.”

I swallow hard. I think about a whole tour with Lexi. Her supporting act. No doubt she’ll never let me forget I’m only there ‘cause she is. I remember her lording it over me in the bathroom of the club: ‘Brando’s new little toy.’ I close my eyes and ask myself if I’ve really got the strength to do this.

“It’s just three weeks,” Rowland says, as if reading my thoughts. “Twelve dates.”

I remain silent. Rowland sighs, nodding sympathetically.

“Look, Haley, I get it. You don’t think you’re up to it. But you know what? You’ve already nailed one of the hardest TV gigs there is. You’re a natural. Just do what you—”

“Okay, okay,” I say, interjecting so that I don’t have to hear his voice anymore. I know he’s giving me a spiel – something I never felt from Brando.

I guess some guys are just better at lying.

“I’ll do it.”