Brando (13 page)

He’s
standing in the typical pose he assumes when people get sent to his
office: legs akimbo at the glass wall, arms crossed to puff up his
puny chest, looking out over the city. I try not to roll my eyes as I
walk up to his desk.

“I
like you Brando,” he
says as he turns around, and I brace myself for the performance of an
asshole who thinks he’s
an alpha male. “I
see some of myself in you. You came up from the bottom. Fought your
way here. And now look at you.”

Rowland
spreads his arms wide, as if to say ‘Is
there anything better on planet Earth than my office?’ I
nod politely, then take a seat without asking. This is going to take
longer than I’d
hoped.

“But
it still bugs me that we lost Lexi. I still don’t
know why. Why, Brando?”

I
shrug. It’s too
early in the morning for this shit. Ten pm would be too early in the
morning for this shit.

I
clear my throat and hope the discussion can move on from this topic
ASAP. “I don’t
know what to tell you, Rowland. I guess she just felt this place
wasn’t a good fit
for her.”

He
shows his whitened, tiny teeth in a nasty smile. “
You
weren’t a good fit
for her, Brando. You lack that killer instinct. You couldn’t
close the deal.”

Hearing
this shit from Davis is one thing – at
least I can hang up on Davis. But here on my own turf? My fist
clenches at my side.

“I’m
here to talk about Haley Grace Cooke,” I
say, putting a little steel in my voice, enough to let Rowland know
where this conversation is going.

“Who?”

“Haley
Grace Cooke. The girl everybody went crazy over at the showcase a
couple nights ago. Everyone’s
talking about her.”

He
shrugs, unimpressed. “I
don’t speak to
‘everyone.’”

“Of
course. Look,” I
say, pulling out my phone, “she’s
got a song they’re
playing on regular rotation on every college station in California.
She’s already
getting a lot of momentum online. Listen.”

I
play the song on my phone and watch Rowland’s
reaction. He leans back in his chair, fingers arched in front of him,
and pouts as if he’s
contemplating the meaning of life.

“Nothing’s
official yet,” I
say, taking advantage of Rowland’s
rare silence, “but
she’s a lock. We can
pick her up when we want. For now, though, we need to take advantage
of this buzz. She’s
got a demo for now, five songs – all
of them potential hits. I’ve
been circulating the tape and it’s
already getting good feedback. Right now, though, she needs a video,
and for that I need a budget.”

“Stop
the song.”

I
oblige, leaning forward to turn it off, and put the phone back into
my pocket.

“You
want a budget,” Rowland
says, leaning back in his chair even further with an expression of
disapproval as if I just asked for his only daughter’s
hand in marriage, “for
an unsigned artist, who may not even go with us—”

“I
told you, she’ll
sign with us when I tell her to. I can call her in right now. But
this video will be an act of good faith. Trust me, she’s
worth it. You already have proof,” I
say, leaning forward in my chair as I try to convince him.

“Based
on what?” Rowland
says, a smile on his face. He can’t
hide how much he enjoys playing his power games. He puts his feet up
on the floor and his hands behind his head. “A
few college DJs? A few industry types who wouldn’t
know the street if it smacked them in the face?”

“It
doesn’t have to be a
big budget. She’s
talented. We should make the investment while we can.”

“You
mean take the risk. Then it’s
my ass on the line instead of yours.”

“It’s
no risk. It’s just a
small amount of money that we’re
sure to get back.
If
we capitalize on this.”

“Excuse
me? Last I checked
I’m
the one who decides what to do with this company’s
finances –
my
finances. And given your track record, I can’t
say I have much faith in this girl. Does she even have any talent, or
are you just blowing smoke up my ass for your latest flavor of the
week?”

Something
inside me sparks up, the thing that I suppress every time I walk into
Rowland’s office. I
lean forward slowly, my face blank, and say the next two words
slowly.

“Fuck
you.”

They
taste delicious.

Every
part of Rowland’s
face drops. He drops his feet off the desk, puts his palms on it, and
leans forward.

“I’m
sorry? Did you just—”

“You
heard me. You’re not
deaf – although that
would explain a lot of things.”

I
stand up, and Rowland instinctively backs up a little.

“Who
do you think you are?” he
manages to say, though his voice is weak and nasal. “Have
you forgotten that I’m
your boss?! I
pay
you!”

“I
know what I am. It might have taken me a while to figure it out, but
I know. I also know what I’m
not. I’m not a
cowardly parasite that doesn’t
believe in anything, or anyone. I’m
not a jumped-up rich kid with an inferiority complex he has to keep
hidden behind a big office and lousy power-plays.”

I
turn around and start walking for the door.

“You’re
fired, Brando!” Rowland
calls behind me. “You’ve
just made a
big
mistake!”

This
time it’s me who
raises my arms out wide as I step toward the door.

“So
why do I feel fucking great?”

Haley

“You
said
that?”

Brando
nods and takes another lick of his ice cream cone, his smile framed
against the endless ocean. The dusty-orange light of the setting sun
carves out his perfectly-proportioned face so sublimely I feel like
I’m living in an
Instagram photo.

We
carry on down the boardwalk, working on our ice cream cones, feeling
light and happy. Every second a perfect moment that seems to linger
before it gives way to another.

“So
what are you now? Are you still my manager?” I
say as we start walking up the pier, almost reluctant to break the
comfortable silence between us.

“I
guess,” Brando says,
sucking the end of his finger in a way that makes me wish he’d
asked me first. “I
was never that good of an A & R guy anyway. I like artists too
much to exploit them.”

I
laugh a little. “’Too
much’ is one way of
putting it… Thanks,
though. I appreciate you sticking up for me.”

“I
did it just as much for myself as for you. If I was really smart I’d
have kissed his ass until he handed me the budget. But…”

“But
that doesn’t exactly
come easy to you, right?”

Brando
sits on the bench at the end of the pier and looks up at me, smiling.

“I
guess we’re both
discovering what our limits are.”

Brando
points his dark-brown eyes at me in a way I haven’t
seen yet. I stand a few feet in front of him, feeling the salt air
fill my lungs, enjoying his devoted attention, wondering how bad news
can feel like good news when you’ve
got the simple things right.

“So
it’s just you and me
now? We’re going it
alone?” I say,
having to look at him through my wind-blown hair.

“In
case you hadn’t
noticed, it’s been
that way from the start.”

I
smile shyly and put a hand on my beach skirt as it blows against my
skin. I didn’t feel
like my regulation jeans and dark t-shirt today. It was a snap
decision to wear this light-blue, almost see-through skirt, and a
tight white tank top with a denim jacket over it. The kind of
decision a girl makes much more easily when she’s
getting some.

“What’s
the next step then?”

“We
still need a video,” Brando
says, still studying me like I’m
the Sistine chapel. His look makes me feel naked, but the stranger
thing is that I don’t
mind.

I
squinch up my face. “How?
You said it yourself, we have no budget. Nothing. Maybe we can borrow
some equipment, but don’t
we need a director? Lighting guys? A studio? I don’t
know, videos seem like—”

“You
look so beautiful right now,” Brando
says, his voice cutting through mine like a soft punch.

I
look down at my feet, wondering if it’s
normal for an adult woman to blush this much.

“The
way your hair falls over your face,” he
continues, as if in a trance, “the
way your eyes catch the light and hold it. You always look amazing,
but right now, right here, out in the light, I can see the magic
around you.”

I
look around to see if anyone else is nearby, embarrassed but smiling
like I’m guilty of
getting away with something.

“
Anyway…
we
were talking about the video?” I
say, looking back at Brando. He’s
holding his phone out in front of him. Filming me. “Oh
no! No no no!”

“Yeah,”
Brando says, standing up, his
face expressing pure, mischievous glee. “About
that video…”

I
hide my face behind my hands, turning away and taking a few steps
back down the pier. Brando follows, his hand still holding the phone
steady.

“
Brando!
Put the phone away!” I
say, but I’m
laughing as I say it, and the way his eyes narrow as they flick
between the screen and mine lets me know how much he’s
enjoying this.

“If
you look one tenth as good on film as you do in real life, this is
gonna be amazing.”

“Come
on!” I say, pleading
as I twirl around to face him, walking backwards away from the
camera, before turning back around to walk down the pier.

Brando
steps in front of me, so now he’s
walking backwards, and I’m
walking towards the camera. He winks, and I try not to smile, try not
to laugh. Try not to let Brando make me feel so playful and happy, as
if this could actually happen.

“How
about a little dance?” Brando
says from behind the lens. I stop and give him a look that says ‘no,’
before covering my face with my
hands again, hiding behind my hair. “Or
act shy,” he says.
“That works too.”

I
continue to walk, Brando still filming me head-on as he steps
backwards carefully.

“Okay,”
I say, talking to the camera
lens, “you win.
We’ll do the video
like this.” I get
just close enough, and then snatch the phone away from him. He
freezes on the spot, his hands still out in front of him, holding a
phone that isn’t
there anymore. “On
one condition,” I
say, raising the phone and pointing the lens at him, “
you’re
gonna be in it too.”

I
watch him on the phone screen as he drops his hands to his side, and
gives me a picture-perfect, cover-shoot sexy, incredibly photogenic
smile.

“Deal.”

The
rest of the evening is a heady blur of laughter and randomness. We go
to a sushi place and we film each other acting goofy with our
chopsticks. Brando gets sake on his shirt and we go to a clothes
store to buy a new one. I force him to change in the middle of the
store, on camera, making sure I catch the looks of the female
onlookers, eyes wide as they bite their lips. Brando gets someone to
film him surprising me by picking me up on his shoulders and running
down the boardwalk. I do cartwheels on the beach, Brando takes off
his clothes and emerges from the water, we film ourselves kissing
against the changing colors of the sky as the sun sets.

“This…could
actually turn out pretty awesome!” I
say, checking the footage as we enter Brando’s
apartment. “It’s
no blockbuster, but it’s
real. It kinda makes sense. Intimate, kinda silly, genuine. It’s
perfect for the song.”

Brando
walks up to me and pulls the phone from my hand. “I
agree.”

“Do
you think we got enough?” I
say, looking up at him. “For
the whole song?”

“No."

Brando’s
face is sultry as he raises the camera and points it at me.

I
look sideways at him, confused, but still playfully curious. “What
are you doing?”

“Filming
you.”

“I
can see that,” I
say, laughing gently. “But
is this for the song? Or for yourself?”

“That
depends,” he says,
voice thick and full, “on
how hot it gets.”

“Hot?”
I say, the wetness of my lips
audible in my voice. “You
mean, like this?”

I
ease off my denim jacket, body sideways, looking over my shoulder at
the camera – at
Brando. I drop the jacket to the floor and press myself back up
against the wall. “Like
this?” I say,
arching my back, breasts pushing out against the white tank, skirt
swishing from the curve my ass. Brando stalks around me with the
camera like an animal, moving the lens the way his eye would across
my body, lips parted like he can already taste me.

I
spin around and walk away from the camera toward the couch. “What
about this?” I move
the skirt slowly down over my ass before letting it drop. I look back
over my shoulder and see Brando on his knees, camera in one hand,
pulling his shirt off with another, breathing so heavy it’s
as if it doesn’t
fit, the lens and his eyes worshipping my ass.

Facing
the window, Brando behind me, I take my tank top off, slowly teasing
it up over my belly and over my head before tossing it aside. Then I
do the same with my bra, folding my arms, hands over my breasts,
before turning around. Brando’s
shirt is off, and though he’s
still holding the camera up to face me, he’s
not looking at the screen anymore. “This?”
I say, lips pouting.

Brando
steps toward me slowly, shoulders rolling like a jungle cat. My heart
beats faster with every inch of space that disappears between us. I
drop my hands from my breasts and push my palms against the phone
screen. He’s close
enough that I can see the tension in his neck muscles, taste the
testosterone on his skin. He stretches his arm out, camera pointing
back at both of us.