The Bet (6 page)

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.”

I purse my lips, wishing he wasn’t so beautiful so that I could think straight.

“I…” I shake my head in confusion.

“What have you got to lose, Haley? Your job at the coffee shop? The prospect of playing to people who don’t listen at open mics? Do you feel comfortable there?”

“Of course not. It’s the most depressing, deflating, soul-draining thing I’ve ever done.”

“Because you don’t belong there,” he says, lifting up my chin so I’m forced to stare into his eyes. “You belong in front of fans who appreciate you. You belong in studios where you can express yourself fully. You know that, deep down, and that’s why you hate where you are now so much.”

I try to speak, but my mouth’s too dry.

Brando goes on, “I don’t need to spend more time with you to know that – I didn’t even need you to play me that song right now. It’s obvious in everything you do. The way you talk, the way you look, the way you dance. You’ve got something that makes you unique, special. Maybe you’re too modest, too shy, too afraid to let it out – but I’m not.”

He’s right. It’s the reason I left Santa Cruz and came to LA. It’s the reason I keep playing open mics despite each one being worse than the one before. Because this is what I was meant to do.

But something just doesn’t feel right. Everything’s exactly how I imagined it. The slick manager, the expensive lofts filled with music and instruments, the promise of support. But something just feels wrong. Off-center. I wait a few moments, for the whole thing to fall into pieces, for the whole scene to go away in a puff of smoke. When it doesn’t, I realize that this is a chance I may never get again. Brando looks into my eyes, all in, still waiting. He flashes that infectious grin and I find myself grinning back.

“Okay,” I finally say. “I’ll sign a deal.”

Brando

I’M A MAN ON A MISSION. A man with a goal. And I’m coming for you, Lexi. Whether you want me to or not, I’m going to make that slimy shortass hand you back to me. And on that day you’ll learn that I never lose a fight, even if I look like I’m down for the count.

I waste no time making the arrangements for Haley, pulling as many strings as I can to get everything in motion as quickly as possible. I book studio time, call in a favor with a producer friend of mine who’s worked with tons of Top 40 artists, email some studio musicians to play back up. I’ve spent years buying these people drinks, congratulating them after shows, and hooking them up with gigs (and each other), and everyone is more than happy to step in and help.

Somewhere around the time I was trying to convince Haley to take the deal it dawned on me how much of a raw deal Davis gave me with the bet. He played me for a dope, drawing me in with the one thing he could: Lexi. And like the big dumb wrecking ball that I am I walked straight into it.

The one thing Davis didn’t consider, though, is that I’m also damned good at what I do. If I pull this off, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d achieved something nobody thought I could. One month to get a single into the charts sounds impossible, but taking it one step at a time isn’t. That’s where I come into my own; getting my hands dirty, making things happen, dragging myself and everyone around me up the mountain, inch by inch.

I pace up and down outside the best recording studio in Hollywood, punching my fist into my hand, my body tense, spoiling for a fight. I feel like I’ve got a bucket of adrenaline whizzing around inside of me. I roll my shoulders and wind my neck, trying to loosen myself up.

Eventually, Haley arrives. I hear her car before I see it, a sputtering, clattering Datsun with three differently-colored body panels on it. It jerks and rolls into the parking lot before stopping and farting out a thick puff of black smoke. Haley steps out with a smile and a kind of laid-back beauty that deserves way more than that Datsun.

“You made it,” I smile.

I walk over to her and give her a quick hug before placing a hand softly on her back and starting to guide her toward the studio.

“Wait. My guitar’s in the back seat,” Haley starts, pulling away from me.

“Shh, you won’t need that. We’ve got everything you need inside.”

“Okay,” she says, casting a backward glance at the guitar case in her car.

“You’re gonna love it. Trust me. I’ve got a great set-up for you,” I say, opening the big glass door for her and ushering her down the corridor. “It doesn’t get much better than this. Twelve of the top fifteen number one singles this year were recorded here.”

“Wow.” Her breath rushes out in an awed gasp as she eyes the gold records lining the walls.

I stop and turn to face her. “It doesn’t get much better than this. There’s a six-month waiting list to get just half an hour in here.”

She smiles nervously. “How did you book it so soon?”

“A combination of persuasiveness, old favors owed, and threats. Not necessarily in that order.”

I continue walking and push through the control room door, holding it open for her as she steps inside slowly.

“Haley,” I say, as the three men milling in front of the mixing board stand up and come forward. “This is Baptiste,” I say, and the crisply-dressed, boyishly-handsome man swaggers forward and tips his baseball cap in a gesture that would look ridiculous if he wasn’t so naturally cool. “You probably know him already.”

“Of course,” she says, as if dazed, “you’re like on every record on the radio right now.”

“Business is branding,” he says, with a half-smile.

“This is Duke, a guy you definitely
won’t
have heard of,” I say, nodding toward the tall, skinny hipster with shoulder-length, lank blonde hair. “But he’s had a part to play in more than a few songs in the top ten for the past five years.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he says, shyly.

Haley nods in reply.

“And Dennis, the best engineer since Geoff Emerick.”

Haley’s mouth falls open as I invoke the name of the engineer who worked with The Beatles.

“Hey,” the short, grumpy-looking guy in plaid says nonchalantly.

“Hi,” Haley says, meekly, her eyes big as saucers.

“What do you think of the studio?” Baptiste asks, eyeing Haley with curious interest.

“It’s…” Haley looks around at the stylishly-designed equipment and trendy seating that fills the room, then glances through the glass toward the gigantic recording booth’s array of neatly-arranged instruments, pedals, and microphones. “It’s really…high-tech.”

“Wait til you hear the song,” I say, after the guys take their seats again. “It’s a guaranteed hit. It’s been knocking around for months, and the only reason it isn’t out already is the gigantic bidding war going on over it.”

“Um…thanks?” Her expression is slightly confused, but I figure it’s probably just that she’s overwhelmed. I grin.

“I did everything I could to get this song for you, Haley. It’s perfect. Dennis, cue it up.”

I watch Haley’s face as the music starts, a winding electronic melody that you can’t get out of your head if you hear it just once, a beat that drops with enough oomph to keep every club goer moving from here to Berlin, then a hook – sung by Baptiste on the demo – that no teenage girl on the planet could resist.

Baptiste, Duke, and I rock our heads to the impulsive, driving rhythm. Haley’s face barely moves. I gesture for Dennis to cut the music and put my hand on her shoulder.

“Haley…you okay?”

“Um…sure. It’s…catchy.” I’m not seeing excitement register on her face. She must still think she’s dreaming.

“Look, I know this is overwhelming right now,” I soothe her. “The studio, the song. It’s a lot to take in. Maybe you think this is like ‘the moment of truth.’ It’s okay to not feel up to it, but you’re in good hands here. These guys know what they’re doing, we’ve got autotune, we can alter some parts of the song if they don’t work with your vocal range.”

Haley covers her eyes with her hand. I lean in closer.

“It’s okay,” I continue, “really. Everything’s going to be taken care of. I’ve got the best stylist in Europe flying over tomorrow, and a handful of video directors throwing ideas at me. Maybe you can even help me pick out the best.”

Suddenly, Haley whacks my arm away from her shoulder with the speed and venom of a kung fu master, yanks the studio door open, and runs through it. I stand there for a second, processing what just happened, then turn to the guys, who give me nothing but shrugs.

“Give us a minute,” I say, then grab the door and go after her. By the time I get outside she’s already wrestling with the rusted door of her Datsun.

“Haley!” I call out as I move towards her. “You getting cold feet already? I’m telling you, I’ll hold your hand every step of the way.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” she yells. I’m confused. Maybe it’s just her nerves.

“What do you mean? Haley, those guys in there are the best in the game, like you could practically sleepwalk through this recording session. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Just stop talking!” She smacks the door and marches toward me menacingly. “What the hell’s wrong with
you?!”

She shoves me right in the chest with all her strength. It doesn’t do much, but I step back out of surprise anyway.

“I actually believed you when you said you liked my music,” she screams, incredulous. “How fucking stupid is that?”

For a moment, I’m stunned. “I did like your playing. Why do you think I’m doing all this?”

She presses her hands to her temples and looks at me like I just tried to explain quantum physics in a single sentence.

“If you like my playing so much, then why are you doing everything you can to turn me into something I’m not?”

“Haley, it’s not like that.” I let loose with a winning grin that tends to get me where I wanna go. “I’m just trying to make everything as good as it can be. I mean, do you wanna make music or not? We’ve got an insta-hit in the making in there. This is gonna launch your entire career. I don’t see the problem.”

She gives me a cold stare, starts to speak a few times before shaking her head and taking a deep breath. “I
do
want to make music,” Haley finally says, sighing away her anger and replacing it with disappointment, “but not like that. If you can even call that making music.”