The Bet (10 page)

It’s loud and raucous. Fast and vibrant. The muffled sound of guitars and drums emanating from deep within the house. I step out of the car and make my way inside, the sound getting clearer and louder like a fog dissipating, dirt being cleaned away.

She’s the first thing I notice when I step inside the studio, and she’s the first to notice me, even though she’s singing into the mic with every breath in her body, stamping her feet, playing the hell out of her guitar. Her tight tank top squeezes her breasts, ripped jeans show the firm flesh of her thighs. I watch the way she winds her curves, and can almost feel them squeezing against my hardening cock.

She winks at me and smiles, and I can hear her smile in the words.

I walk up beside Josh, who’s rocking his head and watching so energetically from behind the partition he doesn’t notice me until I’m right beside him. When he does he looks at me, he gives a thumbs up. I nod a reply. We both understand.

This is not just good. This is fucking amazing.

There are three other musicians in the studio playing, and all of them seem energized by Haley in the middle, a dancing, powerful, beautiful presence. Our eyes stay locked together and I begin to realize I’ve never seen anyone so alive, so sexy, so talented.

Something falls into place deep inside of me. I’m going to make Haley a star. Not for a bet. Not for Lexi. Not even for myself. I’m going to do it because she deserves it.

10

Haley

COFFEE BEANS BEING GRINDED. Radio blaring another bland pop tune. The cash register that sounds like it’s from the forties. The same customers having the same conversations about morning traffic and work. The rush hour shift is nothing if not consistent.

“What can I get you ma’am?”

“…he
keeps
changing the set. We’re nearly at the end of the run, and he’s
still
moving the walls a little bit to the left, shove the table over there, put the drawers a little closer…”

“Would you like cream?”

“It’s
Death of a Salesman
for God’s sake! It’s not like it hasn’t been done a million times before! But every night it’s ‘Whoops! Stubbed my toe again!’ or ‘Whoops! I’m exiting the stage on the wrong side again!’”

“Will that be tall, medio, or venti?”

“I think the only reason people are still coming is to see what new, weird arrangement the set’s going to be in rather than the actual play.”

And that’s when it happens. Just as I’m taking a ten dollar bill for a customer’s medio caramel frappucino with cream. In the middle of Jenna’s rant about her current play.

That’s when my song comes on the radio.

That’s when my life changes.

My mouth drops open, my body freezes, and then I stiffly turn around to see that Jenna has done exactly the same. I drop the bill, Jenna drops the cup she’s holding, and we scream. Suddenly we’re in each other’s arms, jumping to the beat, half-dancing, half-hugging. I gasp over and over again, as if I’m flying too high to breathe while Jenna shouts across the coffee shop.

“This is my friend’s song! This is
her
song playing on the radio!”

I freeze again, listening once more to make doubly sure, positive that it must be a mistake. Another similar-sounding song, a mistake by the radio DJ, my cd finding its way into the coffee shop stereo. The song ends.

“…and that last song you heard was
Chasing Ghosts
by Haley Grace Cooke. Great song there. Hopefully we’ll see a lot more of this talented singer-songwriter in the coming months.”

Jenna and I turn to each other and scream again.

I try to stick out the rest of my shift but my head feels like a swarm of bees are trapped inside it. Eventually, Jenna convinces me to leave early so that I can see Brando. She knows how much I want to.

I’m no calmer when I walk into Brando’s apartment.

“I can’t
believe
it! They played it
twice!
I was searching online and I’m
in
the rotation! Not just that station, but a bunch of them! There must be some mistake. I don’t even know how they got ahold of the song!”

“I leaked it online,” Brando says, stretching out on the sofa.

“Just like that?” I say, pacing around in front of him.

“You don’t need tricks. The song speaks for itself. I just put it online, asked a few friends at stations to listen and make up their own minds, and there it is.”

I stop to look at him –
really
look at him. Maybe something’s changed in one of us, maybe both, but I see someone different. He’s not the loud-mouthed New Yorker disrupting my open mic set; not the slick, indifferent manager who promised me the world and tried to turn me into a pop idol; he’s not even the impossibly hot, fuckable stranger who made me orgasm my nerves away; he’s Brando.

“You really believe in me, don’t you?” I say, stepping towards him slowly.

“More than anyone,” he says, low and steady, his eyes not moving an inch from mine.

Suddenly it all makes sense. The fucking, the music, the airplay. Everything I ever wanted, all at the same time, all made possible by the man sitting slouched on the sofa in front of me. All because he didn’t give up on me.

I throw myself on him, wrapping my legs around his hard hips, shoving my tongue between those flawless lips. It’s the first time I’ve ever kissed him without hesitating; the first time I haven’t held back. But it’s bigger than me, the force that makes my body press against him, makes my hands explore the muscles in his neck, squeeze his hips between my thighs.

Big, powerful hands grab at my ass cheeks as I grind myself against the front of his jeans, slowly at first, his bulge hardening quickly, then faster, rougher. Our lips stay locked while I work his shirt buttons, tongues knotting in a fury of wet lust. He bites and bucks ferociously under my hands, an animal I’m keeping under control with the movement of my hips.

I unbutton his shirt and pull back, devouring the view of his torso. His chest is fucking glorious. Hard, taut muscles perfectly arranged in front of me like a landscape. Time seems to stop for a second while I contemplate it, running my fingers down the groove between his pecs, delicately fingering his six-pack, a million ideas flowing through my mind.

“You look like you’ve never seen a man before,” Brando says, a slow smile playing out on his lips.

“Not like you.”

Brando laughs just before I feel his hands around my waist. Suddenly he throws me down to the floor, just gentle enough, just hard enough. He holds himself over me, triceps tightening as he crawls upward, burying the masculine grate of his stubble into the nape of my neck. I push and pull against his immovable body, scrambling to pull off my clothes while he feasts on my neck. I press my face into his shoulder, his shirt hanging off it loosely, the smell of his testosterone driving me wild.

It’s scruffy, messy, something we’ve both been wanting to do for a long time, something we’ve been holding back from. Now that we’re letting it out, it’s got a mind of its own.

I manage to throw my jacket off, but it’s Brando who undresses the rest of me, so quick it’s either magic or a hell of a lot of experience. When he gets to his own, however, he slows down. He’s on his knees in front of me, his shirt hanging on one shoulder. I hold myself up slightly on my elbows in order to take in the full magnificence of his broad chest as he peels off his shirt and then unbuckles his belt slowly, enjoying the sight of my chest heaving, my breath getting heavier.

“I’ve been waiting for this since you told me to get out of your way at the open mic,” he says, as he unzips his fly, the deep hunger he looks at my body with backing up his words.

“Holy shit,” I say, as the biggest and most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen emerges from his designer denim. “That looks…illegal.”

Brando’s smile is hard and foreboding as he pulls a condom out and puts it on with one hand, his other too busy exploring my breasts to help.

“It’s okay,” he rumbles, “I know how to use it.”

“So do I,” I murmur, not breaking eye contact for a second. A bubble of anticipation and lust starts growing in the pit of my stomach, a tangled mass of heat and intensity waiting to explode as soon as he hits it.

He presses the end softly against my pussy lips and I drop my shoulders to the floor, arms grabbing and scratching at the rug, eyes closed. He’s slow at first, his cock teasing at my pussy with aching restraint, rough fingers stroking all the right spots on my body. His lips cover my nipple, tongue rolling it slowly, everything in perfect synchronicity.

But it’s just a prelude, a slow-building overture. I lose myself in a flurry of sensations, so many it’s like there are a dozen of him, kissing and touching and biting at my body with beautiful timing. His stubble against my breast, his breath on my navel, hand on my neck, teeth on my ear. I lose sense of where one sensation ends and another begins. As he spears into me, steady and perfect, I pant and moan, barely able to hear myself through the sound of my body’s ecstasy. A virtuoso performance, and in the center of it all is the drumbeat of his cock, getting harder and faster. From rhythmic ballad to driving groove to slamming beat, until it turns in a jungle rhythm, a primal thump that feels like thunder striking deep, to the depths of my soul. A jackhammer booming inside of me, sending me higher into the stratosphere with each thrust.

For a few moments I lose all sense of time and space. Forget who I am, what I’m doing. Get scared at the idea I may never come back down again, may never be able to function after experiencing this, after so much pleasure. Every heartbeat, pulse, and nerve in my body reaches its peak, humming in unison as I hover for a few beautiful seconds on the edge. I let myself feel it, let it engulf me, let him push me over the brink, harder and faster, until there’s nothing else left.

“Come for me,” he demands, tilting my chin up so we’re staring into each other’s eyes.

Suddenly I’m falling. Back down to earth, back into Brando’s apartment, back to his floor, over his cock, coming in unstoppable waves of fluid release. I grab his shoulders to steady my arching, writhing body. The feeling of his flexing, sculpted muscles under my hands only urges me further. I realize I’m screaming like I’ve never screamed before, a sound that seems to come from every pore of my body. Through misted eyes I see him, groaning with satisfaction as he reaches his own shuddering climax inside of me.

Spent and satisfied, I collapse back onto the floor, my muscles feeling like they’re melting downward. A relaxing coolness filling the empty spaces in my body. I feel tender fingers brush hair from my face, stroking it into place, and open my eyes.

“You scream beautifully,” Brando says, grinning.

I put a hand to his face and pull him toward me for a slow kiss.

“It’s always about the music, right?”

11

Brando

SHOWCASES ARE the end of the road for most indie acts. The closest they ever get to breaking big. It’s where most indie performers put everything on the line, one shot, a double or nothing bet, in front of a brick wall of impossible-to-impress label men. Nine out of ten times none of the acts get picked up. One out of every hundred – maybe thousand – acts hears from a label afterwards. Big shots go to the events more to convince themselves that they’re not missing out, or to convince themselves that they’ve still got an ear on the ground, than to actually find talent.

I don’t tell Haley any of that.

The show I’ve booked Haley for is the most high-profile showcase event of the year. One of the biggest and best clubs in LA, booked for an entire evening by some of the biggest and best labels in LA. Every act on the bill has some heavy hitter already pushing them; managers with good connections and a reputation, A&R guys trying to prove something to their bosses. And though it looks like any other gig, everyone dressed down and drinking as if it was just another open mic, it’s exclusive too. Almost everyone in the room has the power to make or break an artist; almost everyone in the room has done it before.

I don’t tell Haley any of that, either.

Because there’s already a buzz around Haley – more than there should be for someone who barely has an online presence. It’s still just the hip stations – the ones that still choose for themselves what they put on the air – that are playing her song, but they’re playing it a lot. A fan-made video of her song with just a blank background and the lyrics flashing across the screen is already stacking up views on ViewTube. Everyone wants to see what she’s all about now. Whether she’s the real deal, or just some girl who accidentally wrote a good song. The few, low-res, unrevealing pics that come up when you search her name online only stoked their interest further. They’ve got a lot of questions that need answers.

I definitely don’t tell Haley about any of this.

To Haley – and the three people who make up her band – this is just another gig. Another easy-to-book guest spot in a venue that may or may not have a few influential label guys in the audience. That’s still enough to get her nervous.

“Did you
see
how many people are out there?” she says, as she rushes back to the green room.

She finally let a stylist trim her hair for the occasion, and the feather-cut dances around her face as she shakes her head with exasperation. It almost distracts me from the tight leggings she’s wearing under a denim skirt, her slender thighs even more darkly arousing in black silhouette. The tight tank top she’s wearing hugs all the right places, giving you just enough to know she’s hiding something special, but only when she moves the right way. The audience is going to love how she looks, at the very least.

The green room itself is packed. The air is tense and humid. Even the air of chatter and breaks of laughter amongst the artists sounds distant and edgy. About a dozen skinny guys who all look like they’re from the same band shuffle their feet, some of them doing better than others as they try to act cool and unconcerned. In the middle, five girls in tight outfits stretch and shake off their nerves – a sight that would steal most of my attention were it not for Haley.