The Bet (5 page)

And I’m trying to achieve all of that in a month. With a girl who appears to hate me.

It was a bad bet, and I was a dumbass for taking it. Davis played me for a fool and I walked right into, thinking with my heart rather than my head. Letting my hotheaded emotions make a decision before common sense had the time to pull the handbrake. I want to blame it on the tiredness, blame it on Davis doing the one thing he’s good at – manipulating people – but I can’t. Because the sad, pathetic truth is that I’d make the same decision if you asked me all over again.

Only for you, Lexi, only for you.

I pull up to the street corner I agreed to meet Haley on in a Mercedes SLR. I have a thing about cars; choosing the right one when you take a girl out is as important as the right outfit. The Merc is sleek, but not too flashy. Impressive, but not overbearing. Subdued, but you can still tell it’ll beat most cars.

I almost miss seeing Haley walking toward me, she looks so different in a jean skirt over tight black leggings. A loose grey tank under the same leather jacket she wore at the club. Hair wild and free – the way some girls pay their stylists hundreds of dollars to achieve. I know for sure that Haley didn’t get it that way by paying – if she could, she wouldn’t be living in this part of town.

She’s actually kinda cute, even with the crazy hair and that scowl on her face. A world apart from the minidress-wearing bombshells I usually take my pick from, but definitely hot enough to make me feel a stirring. Which I quickly tamp down. This is a business meeting, I remind myself.

Haley looks a little nervous as she opens the car door and ducks inside. I look over at her and try to catch her gaze, but she keeps her eyes straight ahead through the windshield, as if she can’t even stand to glance at me.

“So where are we going?” she asks, tension written all over her face.

“You like The Triangles?”

Her head snaps over to me, immediately dropping her guard, her brown eyes lit up. She likes them alright.

“Do
you
like The Triangles?” she asks, the implication clear. She doesn’t think I’m cool enough.

I laugh and let the clutch out.

“I manage them.”

“What?!” she squeals.

I let a grin spread across my face. My plan might just work after all.

I go full-Brando throughout the concert, introducing Haley to the band before they go on stage, pulling rank to get us through the line, barely waiting for drinks, commandeering the seats with the best view, and all the while focusing completely on her, making her feel like the center of attention.

“If I didn’t know any better,” she says, as I hand her another beer, “I’d think you were trying to turn this into a date.”

I laugh. “This is way too tame to be a date, don’t you think?”

“And I’m way too drunk for this to be a business meeting,” she replies. “What happened to the guy who wanted to talk about how much he liked my music?”

“He’s having a good time getting to know the girl who made the music he liked.”

She nods, and I see her tough exterior crack just a bit. I clink my bottle against hers and swig.

It happens slowly, piece by piece, but it happens. The sarcasm and the ice melting away, the smiles getting bigger and longer. We dance throughout the whole thing, alcohol and drums infusing our bodies, the breaks between songs feeling like torture because we don’t wanna stop. I hear her laugh for the first time and like it, long and melodic – a singer’s laugh.

“I haven’t had this much fun in a long time!” she screams over the music.

“I haven’t seen anyone have this much fun in a long time either!” I reply.

When the final crescendo melts into the crowd’s cheers and applause, I watch her scream along with them, a mixture of climaxing happiness and disappointment that it’s over written all over her face.

“That was amazing,” she says, her voice husky from all the yelling.

She grabs at her hair woozily, a satisfied grin on her face. I watch her bask in the afterglow of the high. Before I know what’s happening, we lock eyes, and Haley falls into me, holding tight to my biceps. Suddenly we’re kissing. It’s not lust, not affection, not desire. Her kiss is soft, innocent, deep. Just a girl moved by the music, drunk on alcohol and life. A girl whose inhibitions have been blown away by chords and dancing. A girl who feels like the whole world is there for her to just grab. And I’m here to oblige.

Then she pulls away, smiling drunkenly. Her wide, round eyes look up at me with tenderness and trust. For the first time I see the fragile hopes and fears that she’s buried under the wiseass remarks and attitude. I feel the pangs of guilt start to clutch at my chest. Maybe I’m going too far. Maybe this whole bet was a bad idea. Maybe the only way this could end is badly.

For a moment I lose myself in those eyes, out of my depth, swimming frantically to find my way back, to remember why I’m doing this, to remember what’s at stake, to remember how much I want Lexi back.

Then Haley presses her lips against mine again and I realize that it’s too late. I’m already in too deep.

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.