The Bet (26 page)

32

Brando

I DRIVE HOME before going to Majestic to meet Rowland, calling the small team of college students I hired to manage Haley’s website and her social media to tell them they need to get their asses to my place as soon as possible for an emergency meeting. Even though I drive with all the impatient recklessness of a man with hours left to live, they’re in the lobby by the time I arrive, laptops under their arms. I bring the five of them into my apartment, seat them in the lounge, and stand in front of them like a general about to give the briefing for a suicide mission.

“Okay, guys,” I say, clapping my hands, “listen up. The next couple of days it’s crucial we put a mark on this thing. I’m going to need all of you to work like motherfuckers right now. Whatever I’m paying you, triple it. Now we can’t stop this story from spreading, but we
can
try and shape the conversation a little bit.”

I point to a couple of the wide-eyed students opening their laptops hurriedly. “Steven, Jessica: You take social media. Haley is nervous about her sore throat – she still hasn’t had it checked out. She’s gutted that she missed the New York show, but the tour went great, she’s eternally grateful to her fans for their support, and can’t wait to finish off the album. Act like you don’t even know about the Rex Bentley thing, you’re above it, it’s just some dumb rumor that you’re way above even acknowledging.

“Ross, Michelle: Find the freshest, biggest articles on the story – the ones that everybody else is linking to. Make multiple accounts, and comment on them. ‘This is just a dumb misunderstanding,’ ‘how is this even news,’ ‘daughter or not, her show was still awesome,’ that kind of thing. Make it seem like the logical reaction to this is disbelief and scorn for the guys who write about it.

“Simon,” I say, looking at him with keen intent, “here’s what I want you to do. Make a fake account, and message the people I’m going to give you the email addresses for. Tell them that you’re a source close to Haley. Tell them that they’ve got the story wrong, Rex Bentley is not her father.” I pause for a second while he nods. “Mick Jagger is.”

“What?” he says, incredulous. Everybody else turns to look at me. “That’s ridiculous!”

“Exactly,” I say. “You can’t kill a story like this, but you can make it so confusing and exaggerated that nobody gives a shit anyway. Disinformation. When people don’t know what to believe, they believe none of it.”

Slowly, as the idea sinks in, Simon starts to nod, then opens his laptop with enthusiasm.

“I’m going to have a meeting at the label now, I’ll be back later,” I shout behind me as I go for the door. “Don’t let me down, guys. Haley’s counting on you.”

I slam through Rowland’s doors like a bull through the gates, the sound of his secretary confirming my appointment already behind me.

“I’m squashing the story, Rowland! Don’t make any statements from the label, my team is going to handle this. I know you think this is good for Haley but—” I’m already at his desk, standing over it with my palms on the steel when I notice. “What’s Lexi doing here?”

I turn my gaze back from her crossed legs, casually bouncing up and down, toward the concerned, almost frightened, look on Rowland’s face. He locks his fingers in front of him on the table and fidgets.

He talks slowly, carefully, like a doctor on a death ward. “I don’t really know how to say this, and I’m pretty surprised myself, to be totally honest with you, but I—”

“Haley’s getting dropped from the label,” Lexi interrupts with dark relish. “I’ve just told him. It’s me or her.”

“What?” I say, my eyes switching between the two like I’m watching a frantic tennis match. “Is this some kind of
joke
?”

“I don’t exactly have a choice,” Rowland whispers through gritted teeth, as if Lexi wouldn’t be able to hear. He raises his helpless eyes to mine, almost like he’s begging for a way out. “Lexi’s pretty much made up her mind.”

I turn to her.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t like the way this label is run,” Lexi says, springing out of her chair and standing beside me. “What was Haley doing on my tour? She doesn’t even have a full album out! And you were supposed to be managing both of us, Brando, but I didn’t see you running to my side very often.”

“You seemed to do perfectly fine on your own,” I growl.

“Exactly. I don’t like sharing. And as long as Haley’s on the label, I know I won’t be getting all the support I could be getting. It’s me or her.”

I turn to Rowland. “This is ridiculous. Lexi signed a contract. She can’t leave, right? Isn’t that what you told me? That this whole business is about tying up artists even when they don’t want to be?”

“I’m only part artist – I’m all businesswoman,” Lexi purrs maliciously. “Anyone tries to stop me from quitting and I’ll destroy Majestic from the inside. A couple of tweets and I’d have every one of my fans boycotting your records. Maybe throw in a sexual harassment lawsuit. Yet another case of the big, bad record industry taking advantage of a poor, innocent girl. I can bring a shit storm raining down on this label that you people will never recover from.”

Rowland’s face goes white, and he jumps up from his chair. Lexi flutters her eyelashes and laughs. Now the three of us are standing around the desk.

“You see this?” he cries, despairingly. “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to drop Lexi, and keep Haley!” I shout back. “
She’s
the one who killed on this tour, not Lexi!
She’s
the one with the potential to take us to another level!”

“You think I
want
to drop Haley? She’s fantastic, I love her! But I don’t have a choice!”

“Yes you do! Lexi’s giving you one!”

Rowland slumps back into his chair and spends a full five seconds rubbing his forehead before looking back up at me. Lexi just watches us, all self-satisfied amusement and dancing eyes—loving every second.

“Haley’s had two hits, Lexi’s had five. Haley hasn’t even released an album, Lexi’s had a number one. The tour was great, but it was still Lexi’s name on the top of it. Even when you get past the simple numbers of the thing, I don’t know what the hell is going on with Haley. One minute she’s fucking up a gig because she can’t tune a guitar, the next minute she’s pulling out of the grand finale to the tour. And now there’s a weird story connecting her to Rex Bentley that
you
won’t let me use to her advantage because of her ‘feelings.’” I take a step back. I know what’s coming. “I’ve made my choice, Brando. Haley’s gone.”

“Then so am I,” I say, stalking toward the door.

33

Haley

I’M STILL in shock over Lexi’s visit when there’s a knock at the door. I stop doing laps around the living room and pulling at my hair to turn and look at it. There’s another knock. I step slowly towards it. When I open it, I can’t control myself. I leap onto Brando, bury my face into his neck, clutch his back as tightly as a lifesaver. For the past hour I’ve been wondering if I’ll ever see him again, if the one guy who can make me feel like he does is about to disappear from my life forever. The idea alone crushed me, chewed me up, made me feel like a ghost. Just seeing him again is enough to make me break down.

“Haley,” he says slowly, pushing me off him gently and closing the door behind him, “I’ve got some bad news.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head and feeling my heart grow heavy. I back away slowly. “No.”

His face is serious, unhappy. I pray he doesn’t speak, gathering every bit of strength in my body to tell him not to speak, and it’s still not enough. I bury my head in my hands.

“The label dropped you,” he says, bluntly and sadly.

I look up slowly, feeling like somebody put a hot towel on my face.

“And you chose Lexi.”

His face changes. “No, I didn’t. Rowland did. Majestic did. Not me.” He pauses, realization dawning. “You knew about the ultimatum?”

I nod, steeling myself for an answer I probably don’t want to hear. “So what did you choose?”

“Haley,” he says, rushing toward me and lifting my face in his hands, “why are you even asking me that? I chose
you
. Of course I did. I quit on them. Same as last time. Same as when we had to go it alone before.”

Something inside me cracks open, releasing a flood of happiness that flows into every fiber of my body. I pull Brando’s face to mine, as if the feeling’s too much for one person, and the only way I can share it is by pressing my lips against his. A kiss more intimate than erotic, but no less necessary.

When we pull away slowly, Brando gazes inquisitively into my eyes, brushing away a tear-track from my cheek.

“How could you even doubt that?” he asks gently.

“With Lexi back and the way things have been going with us, I just thought—”

“Don’t think,” he says, affectionately.

Brando drives us to his apartment like we’re racing a jet, only stopping to run into a coffee shop and come out a few minutes later with a carrier tray of coffees and a bag of donuts.

“Who is all of this for?” I ask, as he puts them in my lap and revs the car away.

“You’ll see.”

We get to his apartment and Brando bursts through the door like he’s about to perform a robbery. I follow behind and try not to be too surprised when a bunch of college students immediately crowd around me, grab the coffees, and then go back to sitting around the open laptops on Brando’s coffee table.

“What’s going on?” I ask as Brando stands in front of them. “It looks like you’re running a sweat shop in here.”

“Haley, this is Michelle, Simon, Ross, Steven, and Jessica. Guys, you know Haley.”

They mumble a distracted greeting in unison like an uncoordinated choir group. Still confused, I raise a hand weakly in response.

“So, what’s the situation?” Brando says, his voice turning authoritative.

“We can’t do anything,” Jessica says, shaking her ponytail. “Every time we post something about the sore throat we get a hundred replies – every one of them about Rex Bentley.”

“Same here,” Ross adds, “we’re commenting, but it’s getting lost in the mix. It’s a drop in the ocean compared to what’s going on. It seems like every two minutes another site posts the story. We can’t keep up.”

“No takers for the Mick Jagger story so far. Sorry,” Simon shrugs.

I glare at Brando with bewilderment at this last one. He shakes his head in a clear ‘don’t ask’ gesture.

“Shit,” he says, walking to the window. “Okay. The bottom-up approach isn’t going to work.”

“Why doesn’t Haley just do an interview?” Jessica says. “She doesn’t have to go in deep. Just deny it with a word and leave it at that.”

“This is the
internet,
”
Brando says, turning around. “There are no ‘denials’ and ‘confirmations.’ There’s just ‘admitting’ and ‘ignoring.’ Haley’s got everything to lose, and everything to gain from this. If she goes on record and denies it, all that will happen is that this thing will get another boost. People
expect
her to deny it. The only time denying something works is if you’re too big, or respected, or have nothing to—”

Brando looks up suddenly, his mouth open and his eyes round as if he just caught sight of something amazing.

“What?” I say.

Brando walks over to me and puts his hands on my shoulders.

“Haley. Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do,” I reply, still confused, but able to answer that much.

“I’m going to do something you won’t like. But it’s our only option.”

Before I can say anything, he’s kissing me deeply, and then grabbing his keys as he makes for the door.

34

Brando

I DON’T NEED to call anyone to find out where Rex Bentley lives; anyone who’s been in LA longer than a week knows the place. It’s one of the biggest mansions in the city, and was bought when rockstars like Rex were giants who couldn’t seem to fit their egos into anything smaller. A Tuscan-style villa, its walls are a combination of stark angles, sections jutting out in every direction, as if somebody took a small English village, smashed it all together, and colored it white. It’s the kind of place only a rockstar or a super villain could live in – and I’m hoping Rex isn’t both.

I roll the car up to the tall black gates and push the button on the intercom conveniently placed on the driver’s side. After waiting for about as long as it takes someone to get anywhere in a home that big, a young woman with an accent answers.

“Hello?”

“Hey. This is Brando Nash. I’m here to speak to Rex Bentley.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Brando. Nash.”

“Just a moment, please.”

I drum my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. This time the wait is short. The intercom crackles into life again.

“I’m sorry. Rex isn’t here right now. Can I take a message? What was your name again?”

“Okay,” I say, in my ‘enough bullshit’ tone. “I know Rex is in there, otherwise you wouldn’t have had me hold. Please tell him it’s extremely important, and can’t wait.”

“Hold on just a second.”

I stare through the gates, the massive fountain at the front of his mansion just visible across the curve of the driveway. The intercom crackles.

“Rex isn’t here. Do you want to leave a message?”

“Fuck this shit,” I mutter, to myself rather than the intercom, as I push open the car door and get out. I start jogging alongside the wall, and hear the intercom behind me as it crackles off.

The vast grounds of Rex’s mansion are surrounded by the high walls of someone who has a lot of people he wants to keep out. But it’s also surrounded by plenty of gigantic trees trying to keep those same people from looking in. Though I’ve never climbed trees for the fun of it, as a teenager I went up plenty of drainpipes with a pretty girl at the back window and judgmental parents at the front door.

When I find a tree with a low-enough branch and a good-enough lean I start making my way up. Soon I’m feeling the adrenaline rush and the bone-deep satisfaction of a good work-out, and just like in the gym, I push all the negative thoughts out of my mind. Thoughts like the fact that I’m breaking and entering, like the fact that Rex’s mansion is probably full of security cameras, like the fact that turning up on his doorstep without an invitation doesn’t segue smoothly into asking for a favor.