Haley
“Why
the hell not?” I say
with a smile when Brando asks me if I wanna go back to his place. If
I was just a little more sober, I’d
probably find a lot of reasons not to. I’d
be able to think up a lame excuse and go running back to my shitty
apartment, quit while I’m
ahead. Maybe I’d be
better at convincing myself I’m
not impossibly attracted to him, and better at keeping the question
of how good he must be in bed out of my mind.
But
then again, it’s not
like I make that many great decisions when I’m
sober either.
We
step outside and he hails a taxi within seconds in the effortlessly
powerful way he does everything, as if the whole world is just laid
out for him, and all he has to do is pass through it. “What
about your car?” I
ask.
“I’ll
grab it tomorrow. Not really into the whole DUI thing,”
he shrugs.
Sexy
as fuck and
responsible
to boot? I must be dreaming. He holds open the door for me and I let
myself smile back at him. It’s
infectious, that style of his. The way he seems to have it all
figured out. If you spend enough time around it, you can almost start
believing that life is really that easy. That’s
probably just the alcohol talking, but I’m
in the mood to listen to it.
“I
can’t believe I
actually had a good time,” I
say, as I get in the cab.
“You
know what,” Brando
says, looking at me, “I’m
kinda surprised you had a good time myself.”
“What
do you mean?”
“Well,”
he shrugs his shoulders, “you’re
a bit of a hard-ass.”
“I
am not!”
“Yeah,
you kind of are.”
“There’s
still time for me to decide to go home, you know,” I
tease, half-serious.
“See
what I mean?”
I
laugh and slap his shoulder, then turn to gaze out at the
multi-colored lights of LA speeding by.
“Anyway,
there’s not much
going on for me at home either,” I
admit.
“Oh
yeah?”
I
turn to face him.
“I’m
crashing with some roommates. My room is more of a closet. PETA would
go crazy if someone kept a dog in there – a
struggling musician, however, is just fine.”
He
lets out a deep, two-tone laugh. “That
bad, huh?”
I
nod a little, then laugh a little.
“Shit.
All I seem to do these days is complain,” I
say. “I’m
getting tired of myself. What about you? I still have no idea who you
are, or where you’re
from.”
“I
hate life stories,” he
tells me. “I prefer
living in the present.”
I
turn to him and see that he’s
watching me intently as he says it. Suddenly I feel like a rabbit in
the headlights of his piercing brown eyes. He reaches over and
strokes my hair lightly away from my face, rough fingers tickling my
tense neck slightly. My body – and
it’s my body that
decides, not me – reacts
by pressing my cheek against the back of his hand, nuzzling the tough
skin.
The
cab seems to rev up to lightspeed when he leans in, the city streets
turning into a blur of stars, the feeling of being pinned back into
the seat by acceleration hitting my gut. I close my eyes and feel
full lips kiss my neck delicately, from the nape to the back of my
ear, a trace of desiring tongue. I tilt my head back, inviting him to
do more of whatever he’s
doing, and melt into the seat. He blows softly against the sweat on
my neck, and the butterflies in my stomach go crazy, his cool breath
giving me goosebumps. I part my lips, breath short, and wait for what
comes next.
“We’re
here,” he says. I
open my eyes and turn slowly, like I’m
waking up from a deep sleep.
The
cab smoothly stops and Brando smiles as he puts his hand on the door
handle.
I
feel like someone just cancelled my birthday.
Brando
pays the driver, steps out, and has my door open before I can even
find the door handle. All swagger and grace, despite his size. I step
out and before I even stumble his hand is pressing against my side,
holding me up.
“Careful,”
he winks, when I look up at him.
He
keeps his hand pressed against my waist all the way through the large
entrance of the red-brick apartment block and into the elevator. He
pushes the top button, and we look at each other as the doors shut.
The second they draw close, it’s
like a starting gun. Without a word we leap into each other, Brando
pulling my tense body against his hard chest. His hands instinctively
go to the back of my thighs, lifting me off the floor with ease and
wrapping my legs around him.
Our
tongues crash together, and I get a full hit of Brando’s
dark, powerful aroma. I put my hands on his cheeks, guiding my lips
into his, the tough, sandpaper-stubble scratching at my palms.
The
doors open and the next thing I know, he’s
carrying me into a gigantic loft apartment. I can tell he’s
craving me, I can smell the animal nitrate coming off of him, feel
the way his body is starting to take over his mind. For a few seconds
it feels like I’m
lashed to a boat in the storm, about to be carried away by this beast
of a man. My heart starts to race, my breath shortening.
“Wait,”
I say, pushing myself away from
his lips with what little willpower I have left. He releases me,
placing me gently on the floor. I shyly look away. “This
is…really new for
me.”
Brando’s
lips curve into a broad smile. He laughs a little as he wipes my
lipgloss from his lips, his stubble sounding like a brush as he wipes
his fingers across it.
“Things
never stay new for long.”
I
smile meekly and fold my arms across my chest.
“Make
yourself comfortable,” he
says, taking off his coat to reveal a tight-fitting shirt that hugs
all the deep grooves of his torso. “I’ll
go get us a couple of drinks. Then we can talk more.”
I
watch Brando swagger off through a side door. The second he
disappears, being here in this huge, strange loft with a guy I barely
know feels even more crazy. It’s
only when I turn around nervously, scanning my surroundings, that it
starts making sense.
One
length of the loft is a floor to ceiling window, with a view that
seems to pan over the busiest, most picturesque part of LA. A
silhouette of glass towers against a star-filled sky. It’s
remarkable, and yet I barely give it a second glance. The real focus
for me is the rest of the room.
It’s
a musician’s
paradise. It’s as if
Brando reached into my subconscious, discovered what my ideal
apartment would look like, and then came up with a place twice as
impressive. I step forward slowly, like Alice through the looking
glass, eyes popping out of my head, dizzy from noticing so many
beautiful things. A butterscotch ’66
Telecaster lies on the couch in the middle of the room as if it was
just another guitar. A vintage Steinway upright piano sits casually
against the wall, sheet music messily spread across the keys. A rare
Linn drum machine leans against another wall, cables squirreling out
of it in all directions.
And
vinyl. Lots and lots of vinyl. On giant partitions that I would need
a step-ladder to reach the top of. Piled high in every corner of the
room. Decorating the walls and most of the furniture. I can smell it,
and it’s
intoxicating.
I
grab an album that I’ve
never heard of, its colorful cover compelling me to read a few of the
song titles, and put it back, continuing to step slowly through
Brando’s musical
grove. If I’d known
he had a collection like this, I would have never abandoned him that
first night in the club.
“Whoa!”
The
word comes out of my mouth in a shocked gasp. Without even thinking
about asking, I grab a beautiful mahogany acoustic guitar from an
antique chair and hold it in my arms like a newborn. I strum a few
chords and it hums and purrs perfectly, the sound from it almost
magical. After way too long with my broken pawn shop guitar, holding
this feels like a revelation from God.
I
play a little more, basking in the velvety richness of the sound,
singing a little softly. When I open my eyes, Brando’s
in front of me, a drink in each hand.
I
freeze, hand firmly caught in the cookie jar. “Shit.
I—”
“No.
Don’t stop.”
“I’m
sorry. I just…it’s
so beautiful.” I
lean over to put the guitar down.
“Don’t
apologize,” Brando
says. “Come over
here. Bring the guitar with you.”
He
leads me over to the sunken area in one part of the loft, a low, soft
couch lining it, and sets my drink down on the table. He pats the
spot next to him, a mischievous smirk on his face, and I oblige.
“Play
for me,” he says,
gently.
My
heart flutters for a second as I realize what I’m
doing, sitting in a loft filled with beautiful things, holding a
guitar I’d give my
left leg to own, and about to play to a handsome man –
still pretty much a stranger –
who seems to genuinely want to
hear me. It’s almost
too much, but before my flight response has a chance to kick in, I
catch Brando’s eye,
and something in it plucks my heart like a low E string and soothes
my nerves. I settle the guitar on my lap, half-facing him on the
couch, and start playing.
I
close my eyes, not even needing to look at the fretboard, it fits my
hand so perfectly. The words pour out of me like birds taking flight.
It’s the easiest
song I’ll ever play.
The acoustics of the loft, the feel of the mahogany guitar, the
gentle looseness that’s
still permeating through my body. The man I’m
playing for. It’s
too perfect. When I finish, I wonder if I’ll
ever play like that again.
I
open my eyes and look at Brando. His lips are parted, his eyes dreamy
and lidded, as if drugged by the sound. He gazes at me for what feels
like an eternity, then shakes his head slightly before speaking.
“I
haven’t heard a song
that moved me like that in a very long time.”
“Ah…”
I smile, hoping the delight at
hearing he liked it isn’t
obvious, “it’s
just a work in progress. I need to change the middle eight and—”
“It’s
perfect,” Brando
says, “
you’re
perfect.”
I
try to speak and fail.
“Sign
with me,” he
continues. “Let me
manage you, book you for gigs, get you into a studio with some great
producers who know how to work with real artists, and I can promise
you that you’ll get
the acclaim you deserve. You owe it to the world to put your music
out there.”
My
heart is pounding in my chest, my cheeks burning with a spreading
blush, but instead of jumping up and down and throwing my arms around
this man who claims he can make all my dreams come true, I shake my
head and push the guitar to the side.
“I…I
don’t know…
This all seems really fast. I
need time…I need to
think about it.”
“
Time?”
Brando says, the largeness of his voice filling the room. “There’s
no ‘time’
in this business. Take your time
and you’ll find
yourself in the same place years later – only
a little older, and a lot worse for wear. You’ve
got something, here, now. If you wait even a second too long you’ll
waste it.”
He
stands up and paces over to the other side of the coffee table.
“You’ve
only heard one song. How can you be so sure?” I
say. “What if I’m
not ready?”
“Is
that it?” he says,
stopping mid-pace. “You
don’t trust my
judgment?”
“I…I
do. You know, it’s
just…you’ve
only heard a few songs, most of them in pieces.”
Brando
laughs and buries a hand in his thick black hair.
“Haley,
throughout that whole song I was asking myself ‘How
is this girl singing at open mic nights?’ And
now I remember. You can’t
see an opportunity when it’s
staring you in the face. You’re
ready. Believe it.”
I
squirm a little, looking down at the guitar and picking a few notes
to avoid his eyes.
“A
deal is big commitment,” I
mumble, looking up at him almost apologetically.
Brando
crouches in front of me, his hands on my knees. I look at him,
attracted to his broad shoulders, afraid of what he’s
offering, confused by the speed of it all. I feel like I’m
being pulled in seventeen different directions.
“It
is,” he implores,
“but music’s
a big commitment –
life’s
a big commitment. If you don’t
commit, you don’t
get anywhere. I see something amazing in you Haley, something very
few people have. Even if it wasn’t
my job, I’d have
noticed it.”
I
take my eyes off him – a
face like his could convince anyone of anything.
“It’s
just…you know…
This
is amazing,” I say,
gesturing around me at the music-filled apartment. “Tonight
was amazing. That you manage the Triangles, that I… had
way
too much of a good time. But…”
“The
Triangles. Neon Fur. Broken Windows. The Red Leaves – I
signed them all – Majestic
signed them all. Any band with an ounce of real talent on the West
Coast, I’ve worked
with.”
“Broken
Windows? They’re
yours?”
“And
they’re still
together because of me too. You wanna know something else? I think
you’ve got the
potential to be bigger than any of them.”
I
laugh and look into his eyes for acknowledgment of how ridiculous it
sounds, but he just gazes back with disarming calm.
“I
don’t know…I’ve
heard a lot of stories about people who sign these ‘big’
deals who end up getting screwed.
I wanna take my time.”
“So
don’t sign a ‘big’
deal. Forget Majestic.
I’m
the one who believes
in you. Sign with me. Let me manage you, get things moving. You can
make up your mind about Majestic later on. If you don’t
like them, we’ll get
a deal somewhere else.”