Brando (15 page)

And
yet the memory of what Jax said earlier hangs over me like a dark
mist I can’t shake
off. This situation
is
familiar. I’m
starting to see signs everywhere, in everything I do. The feeling of
being almost there, the simple and strong trust I have in Haley, the
adrenaline rush I get from seeing my work actually getting results –
it’s
word-for-word, motion-for-motion what I felt just before Lexi tore me
apart. As soon as I set the ball in motion, it feels like it’s
getting away from me. What seemed perfect before is now a little
too
perfect to trust.

Jenna
sees me in the long, clean mirror of the hair salon as I walk up to
her.

“We
were waiting for you,” Jenna
says, bringing Haley’s
attention to me.

“Heeeey!”
she says, smiling wide and bright
with her face, but keeping her head in place as the bald guy in a
tight shirt snips and chops at it.

“Hey
you. Good to see you, Jenna,” I
say. I should step through and kiss her, make the bald guy stop so
that I can plant a long, slow kiss on those lips. But I don’t,
and Haley notices, even though she barely shows it.

“Thank
you
so
much for letting me in on this, Brando,” Jenna
says. “I’ve
needed a makeover, like, forever.”

“Hardly,”
I scoff. “You’re
already flawless, both of you. But I’m
glad you’re
enjoying.” I glance
at Haley. “You need
strength to get to the top. But you need strong friends to stay
there.”

“I
got more clothes today than I have in the past two years,”
Haley says, before winking. “I’ll
show you if you’re
free tonight.”

I
smile just enough not to set off her alarm bells, but it takes a lot
of effort.

“Actually
I’m not.”

Haley
pouts.

“And
neither are you,” I
continue.

“What
do you mean?” Haley
says, frowning for a second before the bald guy adjusts her head
slightly. “I thought
the next studio session was tomorrow afternoon?”

“It’s
not a studio session.”

“Well,
what, then? Quit teasing this out!”

“Yeah,
Brando!” Jenna adds
for good measure.

I
pause a little before answering.

“You’re
on Conan.”

Their
jaws drop at the same time, and they turn to look at each other
slowly at the same time, mirror images.

Then
they scream.

The
bald guy leaps back, palms out like Haley just combusted in front of
him, before turning to me with a glare as if I caused it. I shrug,
and the next thing I know Haley’s
pressing up against me, hair-filled bib still wrapped around her
shoulders, insatiable tongue between my lips.

I
try to be cold. Try to be smart. Try to keep myself from putting my
arms around her and pressing my lips back on hers. But it doesn’t
work. I can’t.
Haley’s nothing like
Lexi. This is nothing like before. I’ve
never felt so good. This time it’s
real, and I’m gonna
do it the only way I know how – by
putting everything I have on the line.

Haley

A
sore throat. That’s
why I’m here in the
green room of one of the biggest late night talk shows in the world.
The lead singer of the band that was
supposed
to play got a sore throat. That’s
all it took.

That,
and Brando.

“How
you feeling?” he
says, and I spin around to see him standing there, always big and
strong, always supporting me. I press a hand against his cheek and
kiss him gently.

“My
teeth are chattering, my knees feel like they’re
made out of silly string, and I’m
not sure if this new haircut makes me look incredibly hot, or like a
preteen who found her mother’s
hair product,” I
say. “But I don’t
think I’ve ever felt
this good in my life.”

“You’re
gonna knock ‘em
dead. By the time you wake up tomorrow there won’t
be a person in the country who doesn’t
know your name.”

“Thanks,”
I say, “that
thought’s gonna do
wonders for my nerves.”

Brando
chuckles softly, gently brushing the back of his rough hand against
my cheek.

“You’re
not really nervous,” he
smiles. “I can tell.
You’re growing,
Haley, coming into your own, turning into something amazing.”

The
muscles in my face soften as I gaze at him.

“Brando
Nash?!”

The
voice comes from a weedy guy in the doorway. It takes a second call
and another moment for Brando to turn and see him.

“What?”
Brando says, curtly.

The
weedy guy walks up to us and jabs his thumb at the door.

“You
need to come with me,
now!
”

“What’s
going on?” Brando
says, instinctively resisting.

Weedy
guy sighs before speaking.

“I’ve
got a fifty-six page document covering your song’s
copyright, usage rights, liability for the performance, and about a
thousand other legal technicalities sitting
unsigned
on my desk. It should have been signed before today, but right this
second will have to do. It also should have been signed by the artist
herself, but she’s
going out in a minute, so you’ll
have to do it on her behalf.”

Brando
waves him away, unconcerned. “Relax.
I’ll sign it. Just
give me a second with my client.”

“This
is network television, Mr. Nash, not karaoke night at the surf n’
turf. If I don’t
get ink on those papers in the next thirty seconds your girlfriend
doesn’t play and we
have to do an unrehearsed skit with one of the d-list guests –
and nobody wants to see that
.”

I
press a hand on Brando’s
shoulder and he looks at me.

“Go,”
I say. “I’ll
be fine. I’ll see
you after the show.”

Brando
smiles at me and then follows weedy guy out of the green room. I
watch him go, the feeling of something amazing about to happen
between us hanging in the air like swirls of smoke. I smile and
wonder if he’ll be
there in the audience, right in my eye line once again.

Then
someone walks into my eye line who is almost the polar opposite of
Brando.

“There
she is! The girl of the moment!”

He’s
short and squat, with the kind of paunch even pregnancy clothes would
struggle to hide. His face looks like it was constructed out of
play-doh by a team of soda-injected toddlers, and his hairpiece looks
like it was fished out of a plughole at a Turkish bath. Despite all
this, he’s wearing
the loudest, shiniest, most eye-catching Hawaiian shirt I think I’ve
ever seen.

Still,
I try not to judge on appearances – so
I decide it’s the
way his voice sounds like slime oozing down a gutter that creeps me
out about him.

“Who
are you?”

“Davis
Crawford,” he says,
offering me a hand with the texture of cold fish, “I’m
a friend of Brando’s.
Where is he?”

I
narrow my eyes. This guy is way too sleazy to be friends with Brando.
“He had to go do
some business.”

“Ah,”
Davis says, lopsided lips forming
what I assume is a grin. “That
sounds just like him. Always doing some kind of ‘business.’
Always neglecting the talent.”

I
offer an unconvincing laugh in response, hoping it’ll
bring the conversation to a close.

“Just
look
at you! You’ve come
a long way from that open mic, that’s
for sure! Who would have thought the mousy little girl down there
would have made it all the way up here, am I right?”

“You
saw me at the open mic?” I
say, a second before I remember his face, the first time I ever met
Brando.

“But
of course!
I’m
the one who chose
you!” Davis rasps
out a sound that’s
almost but not quite a laugh. “Needless
to say, you can tell Brando he won the bet.”

“What
bet?” I say,
beginning to get frustrated with Davis’ condescending
tone.

Realization,
smugness, and mischief combine on Davis’ face
to bring it to a whole new level of disgusting.

“He
didn’t tell you?”

“
What.
Bet,”
I
repeat with venom, suddenly feeling irrationally angry. I need to go
onstage in five minutes and this guy is standing here talking as if
he knows something I don’t
about the only two things I care about – Brando
and my career.

“Oh
my! You didn’t
know?
Haha! This is too delicious!” Davis
pauses for effect before continuing. “
You
were the bet, my dear. You! Or rather, the pitiful little thing that
was trying to sing up onstage at the open mic was. All he had to do
was get you into the charts in a single month. And by God, he did
it!”

I
shake my head, rolling my eyes, wondering why in the hell this guy
thinks I’d trust in
a man who looks like he’s
wearing somebody else’s
face. “Bullshit. Why
would Brando take a bet like that? He’s
not stupid. What would he get out of it?”

Davis’
smile gets so wide that I can see
the lines of his face lift. I feel somebody tug my arm.

“Haley,
you need to get moving, like,
now!
”
I glance in the direction of the
voice, a nervous-looking runner standing to the side. I shake his arm
off and glare back at Davis.

“You’re
right, he’s
certainly not stupid. Not at all. But every man has his price.
Brando’s was ten
grand and the pick of my acts – or,
to be more specific, as it is rather obvious, don’t
you think? – Lexi
Dark.”

The
words hit like a punch, knocking me out of my body. I freeze and
stare, grasping for some sense of reality.

“Rather
a bizarre proposition, when you think about it,” Davis
continues. “To build
up an entirely new star just to get his old one back –
but then again, it was never
about the business with Brando. A man like that will do anything for
love. Anyway, I’ve
got to go grab my seat. I’m
looking forward very much to your performance!”

He
backs away slowly.

“Make
it a good one, Haley! You’ll
have some competition from this point on! Hah!”

He
disappears. A man says something about taking our spots. I feel hands
pressing my shoulders, voices calling me, and I close my eyes, wet
and misted. When I open them Brando is standing in front of me, my
bandmates standing around him.

“Haley!
You okay? What’s the
matter?”

I
stare up at him, his eyes so trustworthy, his voice so calming –
I could almost believe he
actually cares.

“Commercial’s
over in sixty seconds,” the
runner says pleadingly to my left, “we’ve
got to get going.”

“Are
you okay?” he asks
again, big and strong, a liar and a fraud.

“I
was just a bet,” I
mumble through a gurgling throat. “That’s
all I was. A game you played.”

Brando’s
eyes widen when he realizes I know, realizes he’s
been found out.

“What?
You… Wait, Haley.
It’s not like that –
I mean, it was, but it turned out
different. Please Haley, don’t—”

I
narrow my eyes, hurt and anger roiling inside me. “Just
a way for you to get Lexi back.”

“Haley,
no…”

“It’s
time for us to take our spots, Haley, can’t
you guys talk about this after?”

Brando
nods at the band members to leave us and they go, leaving us alone –
the last place I want to be, with
the last person I want to be there with.

“What
else was a lie?” I
snarl through gritted teeth. “The
story of your childhood? It being ‘all
about the music’?”

“No,
I didn’t lie. It was
all true. Please Haley, you know it was. Surely you can feel that it
was all tr—”

I
smack him. Hard and fast. The tight, boiling pressure inside of me
spiking so much I can’t
hold it in anymore. He brings his hand to his cheek and turns back to
face me, his face vulnerable. Another lie.

“You
were right about one thing,” I
say, raising my head and setting my shoulders back. “I
am
growing. And I’ve
just outgrown you.”

I
shove him aside, grab my guitar from the couch and march out to set.
Full of determination, full of bravado, full of pain and fury and an
unbreakable resolution to trust myself, and only myself, from this
moment on.

Brando

Nobody
tells you that girls hit the hardest, but they do. A good hit from a
guy will knock you out, leave a nasty bruise, a black eye –
but you’ll
wake up, heal up. A girl can cleave your heart in two forever with a
slap you barely feel, rip shreds out of your soul and leave you a
walking zombie. Lexi was the first girl to teach me that.

Shit.
This is familiar.

Then
the show starts. First the announcer, then the audience, then the
music. All muffled through the walls of the green room, but still
impossible to ignore. Haley’s
music is louder, harder, more exciting than I’ve
ever heard her deliver before.

In
a trance I leave the green room, passing through the backstage area
slowly, the music getting clearer and louder. I remember the time I
walked into the studio to find her singing her heart out, a
revelation, a turning point. A realization that she was the one, that
she’d save me. When
I turn the corner to see her from the side stage, the revelation’s
different this time. She’s
still the one, but she won’t
save me.

I
feel a hand press on my shoulder with eerie gentleness. It’s
Rowland.

“You
were right, Brando. She’s
going to be big.”

I
try to speak, but all I can manage it a short, sharp sigh.

“Forget
about our little disagreement,” he
says, “I should have
trusted you. You’ve
worked wonders for Majestic Records tonight.”

I
glare at him. “What
are you talking about?”

Rowland
looks at me, amused and patronizing – or
trying to be.