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.
I
watch her pace between the band members. Brian, the lank-haired
guitarist, sits on a table and tunes his guitar over and over; Aaron,
the tall, wiry bassist, stares at his tapping toes, while Paula, the
drummer, bites her nails and gazes into space like she’s
waiting for test results.
This
isn’t good. Haley’s
band marches to her beat, and right now it’s
all over the place.
“Haley,”
I say, grabbing her arm to stop
her pacing and bringing her in close, “you’re
the most talented musician I’ve
ever worked with. Even if you go out there and play the worst set
you’ve ever played,
it would still be a thousand times better than what any other act in
this green room could hope to achieve.”
Haley’s
eyes go big and round. “I
don’t know if you’re
right…”
“
I
know I’m right.
Trust me, Haley. I wouldn’t
bring you here if I thought you couldn’t
cakewalk it.”
“I
know, but—”
There’s
a rise in the level of chatter and I look around. The dancers are
being called out.
“You’re
on soon,” I say,
noticing the rush of red that appears in Haley’s
cheeks. “When you
get out there, you’re
gonna see a sea of faces. A hell of a lot more people than you’ve
ever played in front of before. Look for me. I’ll
stand at the back, by the entrance, and when you see me, don’t
take your eyes away from me. Forget everything else: The lights, the
crowd, the noise. Just me. Play for me and no one else. Can you do
that for me?”
Haley
smiles and nods.
“Yeah.
Okay.”
“Good.”
I put a hand on her shoulder and
squeeze, startled at the jolt I get from the contact of my palm
against her warm skin.
“Haley
Grace Cooke?” comes
a loud, nasal voice from the doorway. We both turn to see the mic’d
up runner. He points a thumb back over his shoulder. It’s
time.
I
look back toward Haley, who smiles anxiously as her band gets up and
walks after the runner. She takes a few steps to follow them, before
suddenly stopping. I panic for a second before she turns, but when
she does, it’s only
to throw her lips against mine. A deep, desperate, stolen kiss,
before she spins back and hurries after the rest of her band. I can
still taste her glossy lips as she walks away, like an expensive
drink, only a little more intoxicating.
“Break
a leg,” I shout
after her.
Minutes
later and I’m
standing where I said I would be, right by the exit, waiting for her
to come out on stage. I stand up tall, but the crowd’s
thick and moving constantly. They push and jostle for a good view of
the stage as soon as they know Haley’s
on next.
When
she does walk out, it’s
obvious something is wrong. She walks with her head down, hair
covering her face. She fumbles for way too long to strap on her
guitar, and walks with painfully slow steps up to the mic. I can see
the band members exchanging glances, wondering how they’ll
cope without Haley’s
cues.
I
raise my arm higher in the hope that Haley will notice it. She’s
gazing out at the audience, which has gone embarrassingly quiet now,
between the strands of hair that hang lazily over her face. I wait
for the look of recognition, for any movement.
She
can’t see me, and
now she’s locked up.
The only movement she’s
making is the visible rise and fall of her chest as she pants
tensely.
I
push forward, shoving aside people I know I should really be more
polite to. But right now none of them matter. I move indiscriminately
through the crowd, toward the center, a spot where there’s
nothing between us, impossible to miss. I raise my hand and stand
tall, praying that Haley sees me.
There
in the center of the audience I hear the judgmental comments, the
random giggles at the bizarre turn of events. A couple of women in
front of me even turn away and start making their way toward the bar.
But
then Haley smiles. And it lights up the stage more than the thousand
dollar equipment could ever hope to. With a hair flick sexier than a
shampoo billboard on Hollywood and Vine, she moves the curls away
from her face and stands up to the mic, her eyes settling on mine.
She glances away only to cue up her band, before turning back toward
me.
Paula
smacks her sticks together four times and then it’s
on. I forget the audience around me, the lights, the noise. It’s
just me and Haley.
I
can’t keep my
attention away from her as the showcase finishes and morphs into a
loose and loud after party – and
apparently neither can anyone else.
“That
was
sensational!”
another schmoozing executive says, handing us another card to add to
the stack already filling my pocket. “Ben
Livingstone, Jupiter Records. I want to have first dibs on you, young
lady.”
Haley
giggles breathlessly, finding it hard to keep up.
“First
is taken,” I say,
with a smile, “so is
second. I can give you fifth. Maybe.”
Ben
laughs, but there’s
a note of disappointment in it.
“Well
if I can’t have
dibs,” he says,
raising his glass, “I
can sure offer the best deal.”
“Now
that’s more like
it,” I say.
Ben
laughs again before leaning in to whisper something in my ear.
“You
really lucked out here, Brando. I don’t
know how, but you really did.”
Ben
leaves and I turn my attention to Haley.
“Another
drink?”
“No,”
she says, the smile that’s
been plastered onto her face since she came off the stage to
rapturous applause still there, “I
think I’m drinking
too much.”
“If
ever there was a night to drink too much, it’s
this one. Most of these schmucks usually leave halfway through.
They’re only here to
get an audience with the future star.”
“You
were the only audience I needed,” Haley
says, squeezing my bicep before turning away to gaze at the crowd,
which has now morphed into a rush of celebrity musicians. “I
can’t believe how
many famous people are here. I thought it was only record execs.”
“Musicians
tend to like talking business over a loud song and some alcohol.
Executives, on the other hand, tend to start living like musicians
when they spend so much time around them.”
“Is
that…Annabelle
Church?” Haley says,
gawking at the girl in a see-through dress that seems to glide
through the entrance.
“Yeah.
Probably here in the hope that dress will get her some funds for her
next record.”
Haley
turns to me suddenly, eyes filled with surprise.
“But…she’s
huge.
”
“And
has an ego to match. Not many people want to touch her since she
created her own Twitter account. Forget her, anyway, you should be
mixing with people who’ve
got real talent. Someone like Rex Bentley over there. Now
that’s
a genius.” I raise a
glass in his direction, and Rex obligingly returns the gesture.
“Guy’s
a legend. Made some of the greatest records you’ll
ever hear and he still looks better than—”
I
stop when I notice Haley’s
face. The color drains from it like a reverse painting. Even her lips
turn a chilling shade of white.
“Let’s
go.”
“What?”
“Please,
Brando. Let’s
leave.”
“But
everyone here wants to speak to you! You’ve
already made more connections than most musicians make in their
careers, and you’ve
barely spoken to half the record chiefs here. Besides, you haven’t
even finished your dri—”
“I
have to go. You can come with me or stay. Don’t
make me ask you again. Please.”
“Haley,”
I say, bending down to get a
better look at her ghostly face, eyes limpid and dilated, as if she’s
been drugged. “What’s
the matter? Are you sick? Do you want to—”
She
doesn’t even let me
finish the sentence before dashing away into the crowd, shoving
through confused strangers like she’s
being chased. I watch her for a second, trying to think of a logical
reason for the change in her, before giving up, slamming my drink
down on a table nearby, and following her toward the back exit.
Haley
Brando
brings a thick blanket out from his loft onto the wide balcony of his
apartment and wraps it around my shoulders.
“Thanks,”
I say, my voice trembling, only
slightly caused by the cold. It’s
the first word I’ve
said since Brando caught me outside, embraced me tightly, and ushered
me into the back of a cab to his apartment.
“You
sure you don’t want
to go back inside? I can make you something hot to drink. Get you
something to eat, maybe?”
“No,”
I say, eyes unfocused as I watch
the red and white lights of LA cars snake through the traffic-jammed
streets. “I need the
fresh air.”
Brando
smooths a part of the blanket over my shoulder, making it a little
more snug. A gesture I can’t
resist smiling at him for. He leans up against the balcony railing
beside me, his bicep against my arm.
“So,”
he says, setting the tempo to a
slow one with the patient, neutral way he says it, “you
mind telling me what that was all about?”
I
stiffen again as I recall the moment.
“He
looked at me,” I
mutter, clenching my jaw.
“Who?
Rex? Well yeah. He looked at us. Is
that
what this is about?”
“He
looked at me,” I
say, the exact same way, “and
he didn’t recognize
me.”
Brando
pauses before speaking.
“Haley,
don’t get ahead of
yourself. Tonight was great, but it’s
just a first step. It’ll
take time before people recognize you. You’ve
got to be pa—”
“You
don’t understand,”
I say, turning toward Brando with
a fierce gaze. “Rex
Bentley is my
father
.”
Brando’s
chiseled jaw drops so heavily it looks like it’ll
smash through the floor.
“What?
Wait…I don’t
understand. Are you
sure
?”
I
nod slowly, before turning back to lean on the railing and gaze into
the night.
“It
was right after his ‘blue’
period, when he made those albums
in Europe. He came to LA, bought a big mansion, mountains of cocaine,
and started making hits again. My mom was a musician too. She’d
tried to get an album together, but ended up as a back-up singer. He
liked her, used her on some of the records, and eventually, used her
for some other things as well. That’s
when she became his ‘assistant.’”
Brando
still looks confused. “But
he was married then…”
“Yeah,”
I shoot back with a bitter laugh.
“He was. Which is
why when she told him she was pregnant he fired her, gave her a
thousand dollars, and sent her on her way to ‘take
care of it.’”
“Fuck,”
Brando says, drawing out the word
until it becomes a long sigh of anger and disbelief.
“When
I was born,” I
continue, feeling the heat build up behind my eyes, sniffing back the
fogginess in my throat, “my
mom sent him a picture of me. A letter telling him where we were, how
he could get in touch. He never responded.”
Brando’s
arm wraps around me tightly, but even the feeling of protection, of
being cared for, can’t
remove the pain that’s
stabbing at me inside. He brushes tears from my cheeks softly.
“When
I was twelve, my mother decided to tell me. I was already—”
I pause to swallow down the hurt,
“I was already in
love with music. Already sure of what I wanted to do with my life. I
thought it was amazing—” I
can barely get the word out, stutters and sobs interrupting me,
“…amazing
that it was him. I had this big hole in my life where a father should
have been, and I would have settled for anyone. Any drunk, or loser.
But instead it was him. It made me so h… ha…
happy.”
It
takes a full minute of Brando rubbing my back before I can stop the
quivering in my lips and the sobbing in my throat enough to continue.
“My
mom still had his address – the
one he used for personal letters. I knew he checked them himself,
rather than through a secretary. I started sending him letters,
photos, cassette tapes of me talking mixed with the songs I was
making. I don’t know
what I thought would happen. Maybe that he would accept me back into
his life. Maybe he’d
see that I had his blood, musician’s
blood, and realize he’d
made a mistake.” I
shake my head at my own teenage stupidity. “Yeah.
I actually thought he’d
realize he’d made a
mistake. Maybe it was the drugs, the lifestyle, the career that got
in the way. I sent him letters for five years.
Five
fucking years!
Half a
decade, hundreds of letters with my whole life in them. My deepest
thoughts, my hopes and dreams. One hope and one dream most of all –
to have a fucking father.”