Brando (6 page)

I
purse my lips, wishing he wasn’t
so beautiful so that I could think straight.

“I…”
I shake my head in confusion.

“What
have you got to lose, Haley? Your job at the coffee shop? The
prospect of playing to people who don’t
listen at open mics? Do you feel comfortable there?”

“Of
course not. It’s the
most depressing, deflating, soul-draining thing I’ve
ever done.”

“Because
you don’t belong
there,” he says,
lifting up my chin so I’m
forced to stare into his eyes. “You
belong in front of fans who appreciate you. You belong in studios
where you can express yourself fully. You know that, deep down, and
that’s why you hate
where you are now so much.”

I
try to speak, but my mouth’s
too dry.

Brando
goes on, “I don’t
need to spend more time with you to know that – I
didn’t even need you
to play me that song right now. It’s
obvious in everything you do. The way you talk, the way you look, the
way you dance. You’ve
got something that makes you unique, special. Maybe you’re
too modest, too shy, too afraid to let it out – but
I’m not.”

He’s
right. It’s the
reason I left Santa Cruz and came to LA. It’s
the reason I keep playing open mics despite each one being worse than
the one before. Because this is what I was meant to do.

But
something just doesn’t
feel right. Everything’s
exactly how I imagined it. The slick manager, the expensive lofts
filled with music and instruments, the promise of support. But
something just feels wrong. Off-center. I wait a few moments, for the
whole thing to fall into pieces, for the whole scene to go away in a
puff of smoke. When it doesn’t,
I realize that this is a chance I may never get again. Brando looks
into my eyes, all in, still waiting. He flashes that infectious grin
and I find myself grinning back.

“Okay,”
I finally say. “I’ll
sign a deal.”

Brando

I’m
a man on a mission. A man with a goal. And I’m
coming for you, Lexi. Whether you want me to or not, I’m
going to make that slimy shortass hand you back to me. And on that
day you’ll learn
that I never lose a fight, even if I look like I’m
down for the count.

I
waste no time making the arrangements for Haley, pulling as many
strings as I can to get everything in motion as quickly as possible.
I book studio time, call in a favor with a producer friend of mine
who’s worked with
tons of Top 40 artists, email some studio musicians to play back up.
I’ve spent years
buying these people drinks, congratulating them after shows, and
hooking them up with gigs (and each other), and everyone is more than
happy to step in and help.

Somewhere
around the time I was trying to convince Haley to take the deal it
dawned on me how much of a raw deal Davis gave me with the bet. He
played me for a dope, drawing me in with the one thing he could:
Lexi. And like the big dumb wrecking ball that I am I walked straight
into it.

The
one thing Davis didn’t
consider, though, is that I’m
also damned good at what I do. If I pull this off, it wouldn’t
be the first time I’d
achieved something nobody thought I could. One month to get a single
into the charts sounds impossible, but taking it one step at a time
isn’t. That’s
where I come into my own; getting my hands dirty, making things
happen, dragging myself and everyone around me up the mountain, inch
by inch.

I
pace up and down outside the best recording studio in Hollywood,
punching my fist into my hand, my body tense, spoiling for a fight. I
feel like I’ve got a
bucket of adrenaline whizzing around inside of me. I roll my
shoulders and wind my neck, trying to loosen myself up.

Eventually,
Haley arrives. I hear her car before I see it, a sputtering,
clattering Datsun with three differently-colored body panels on it.
It jerks and rolls into the parking lot before stopping and farting
out a thick puff of black smoke. Haley steps out with a smile and a
kind of laid-back beauty that deserves way more than that Datsun.

“You
made it,” I smile.

I
walk over to her and give her a quick hug before placing a hand
softly on her back and starting to guide her toward the studio.

“Wait.
My guitar’s in the
back seat,” Haley
starts, pulling away from me.

“Shh,
you won’t need that.
We’ve got everything
you need inside.”

“Okay,”
she says, casting a backward
glance at the guitar case in her car.

“You’re
gonna love it. Trust me. I’ve
got a great set-up for you,” I
say, opening the big glass door for her and ushering her down the
corridor. “It
doesn’t get much
better than this. Twelve of the top fifteen number one singles this
year were recorded here.”

“Wow.”
Her breath rushes out in an awed
gasp as she eyes the gold records lining the walls.

I
stop and turn to face her. “It
doesn’t get much
better than this. There’s
a six-month waiting list to get just half an hour in here.”

She
smiles nervously. “How
did you book it so soon?”

“A
combination of persuasiveness, old favors owed, and threats. Not
necessarily in that order.”

I
continue walking and push through the control room door, holding it
open for her as she steps inside slowly.

“Haley,”
I say, as the three men milling
in front of the mixing board stand up and come forward. “This
is Baptiste,” I say,
and the crisply-dressed, boyishly-handsome man swaggers forward and
tips his baseball cap in a gesture that would look ridiculous if he
wasn’t so naturally
cool. “You probably
know him already.”

“Of
course,” she says,
as if dazed, “you’re
like on every record on the radio right now.”

“Business
is branding,” he
says, with a half-smile.

“This
is Duke, a guy you definitely
won’t
have heard of,” I
say, nodding toward the tall, skinny hipster with shoulder-length,
lank blonde hair. “But
he’s had a part to
play in more than a few songs in the top ten for the past five
years.”

“Pleased
to meet you,” he
says, shyly.

Haley
nods in reply.

“And
Dennis, the best engineer since Geoff Emerick.”

Haley’s
mouth falls open as I invoke the name of the engineer who worked with
The Beatles.

“Hey,”
the short, grumpy-looking guy in
plaid says nonchalantly.

“Hi,”
Haley says, meekly, her eyes big
as saucers.

“What
do you think of the studio?” Baptiste
asks, eyeing Haley with curious interest.

“It’s…”
Haley looks around at the
stylishly-designed equipment and trendy seating that fills the room,
then glances through the glass toward the gigantic recording booth’s
array of neatly-arranged instruments, pedals, and microphones. “It’s
really…high-tech.”

“Wait
til you hear the song,” I
say, after the guys take their seats again. “It’s
a guaranteed hit. It’s
been knocking around for months, and the only reason it isn’t
out already is the gigantic bidding war going on over it.”

“Um…thanks?”
Her expression is slightly
confused, but I figure it’s
probably just that she’s
overwhelmed. I grin.

“I
did everything I could to get this song for you, Haley. It’s
perfect. Dennis, cue it up.”

I
watch Haley’s face
as the music starts, a winding electronic melody that you can’t
get out of your head if you hear it just once, a beat that drops with
enough oomph to keep every club goer moving from here to Berlin, then
a hook – sung by
Baptiste on the demo – that
no teenage girl on the planet could resist.

Baptiste,
Duke, and I rock our heads to the impulsive, driving rhythm. Haley’s
face barely moves. I gesture for Dennis to cut the music and put my
hand on her shoulder.

“Haley…you
okay?”

“Um…sure.
It’s…catchy.”
I’m
not seeing excitement register on her face. She must still think
she’s dreaming.

“Look,
I know this is overwhelming right now,” I
soothe her. “The
studio, the song. It’s
a lot to take in. Maybe you think this is like ‘the
moment of truth.’ It’s
okay to not feel up to it, but you’re
in good hands here. These guys know what they’re
doing, we’ve got
autotune, we can alter some parts of the song if they don’t
work with your vocal range.”

Haley
covers her eyes with her hand. I lean in closer.

“It’s
okay,” I continue,
“really.
Everything’s going
to be taken care of. I’ve
got the best stylist in Europe flying over tomorrow, and a handful of
video directors throwing ideas at me. Maybe you can even help me pick
out the best.”

Suddenly,
Haley whacks my arm away from her shoulder with the speed and venom
of a kung fu master, yanks the studio door open, and runs through it.
I stand there for a second, processing what just happened, then turn
to the guys, who give me nothing but shrugs.

“Give
us a minute,” I say,
then grab the door and go after her. By the time I get outside she’s
already wrestling with the rusted door of her Datsun.

“Haley!”
I call out as I move towards her.
“You getting cold
feet already? I’m
telling you, I’ll
hold your hand every step of the way.”

“That’s
exactly the problem,” she
yells. I’m confused.
Maybe it’s just her
nerves.

“What
do you mean? Haley, those guys in there are the best in the game,
like you could practically sleepwalk through this recording session.
What the hell’s
wrong with you?”

“Just
stop talking!” She
smacks the door and marches toward me menacingly. “What
the hell’s wrong
with
you?!”

She
shoves me right in the chest with all her strength. It doesn’t
do much, but I step back out of surprise anyway.

“I
actually believed you when you said you liked my music,”
she screams, incredulous. “How
fucking stupid is that?”

For
a moment, I’m
stunned. “I did like
your playing. Why do you think I’m
doing all this?”

She
presses her hands to her temples and looks at me like I just tried to
explain quantum physics in a single sentence.

“If
you like my playing so much, then why are you doing everything you
can to turn me into something I’m
not?”

“Haley,
it’s not like that.”
I let loose with a winning grin
that tends to get me where I wanna go. “I’m
just trying to make everything as good as it can be. I mean, do you
wanna make music or not? We’ve
got an insta-hit in the making in there. This is gonna launch your
entire career. I don’t
see the problem.”

She
gives me a cold stare, starts to speak a few times before shaking her
head and taking a deep breath. “I
do
want to make music,” Haley
finally says, sighing away her anger and replacing it with
disappointment, “but
not like that. If you can even call that making music.”

I
stare at her, feeling all my work and effort slipping through my
fingers.

“Look,
Brando, you don’t
need me. You just need a pretty face to go along with everything
you’ve got going on
back there, the pre-written songs and the electronics and the
machines. I’m sorry,
but that’s just not
me.”

The
rusted door opens this time, and she steps inside, revving and
jerking the car out of the parking lot and down the road, taking
everything I want with her.

Damn.

Haley

“… And
that’s when I ran
out.”

“Oh
God, Haley,” Jenna
says, still holding a bemused customer’s
change.

I
look back at her and shrug, but I notice her tell. Jenna’s
a good girl, and like all good girls she isn’t
very good at hiding her feelings. She’s
biting the inside of her lip.

“You
don’t think I should
have run out on him, right? You think I should have stayed, sucked it
up, let those guys turn me into another radio-friendly clone?”

Jenna
hands the guy’s
change to him with a smile, checks that no other customers are
coming, and turns to me with the same look my mother gave me when I
found out she was the tooth fairy.

“Sit
down,” she says,
nodding to the stool behind the counter. I do as she says, and she
leans back on the counter in front of me. “Look.
When I was trying to make it as an actress – I
mean a big Hollywood star, not the local theater plays and cheesy
commercials and non-speaking background work I’m
doing now – I was
going through a lot of the same things you’re
going through now. The pointless running around and grabbing at
hopeless causes. The long, grinding anticipation and hard work
leading up to a big audition, only to find there’s
nothing on the other side. But I was nineteen; just smart enough to
realize I had to work for it, and just dumb enough to have hope.
Every day – every
second – that passed
without me doing something to try and make it felt like wasted time.
Making it was all I thought about, morning to night, even in my
dreams – especially
in my dreams.”

I
nod. “I remember you
telling me all this. That’s
exactly how I feel.”

“I
know,” she sighs.
“But I never told
you this: I had my chance. One chance. And I blew it. And that’s
all. I never got another one. Not like that one.”

I
look at Jenna wide-eyed. She’s
never sounded like this before, and I can hear how naked she feels in
her tone.

“What
happened?”

She
scans the coffee shop again to make sure she won’t
be interrupted, then drops her eyes to the floor and starts talking,
slowly.

“I
met this producer. A big deal. The kind that never goes a day without
speaking to at least one star or hot-shot director. He was nice to
me, I guess he liked something about me. Anyway, he sends me a script
to read, and it’s
amazing. I fall in love with it right away. I think ‘if
I can get a role in this, I know I can knock it out of the park.’
We meet up a couple of days later
and he asks me what I think. I say it’s
fantastic. That I’d
kill someone to be in it. He says the part is mine,”
Jenna pauses and looks at me
before saying the next three words ominously, “with
one condition.”