Brando (3 page)
Davis
cackle-wheezes before speaking.
“I
just couldn’t resist
seeing you squirm a little more,
Brando.
”
I
clutch the beer bottle as if it’ll
hold me back.
“Davis,
I’d punch you in the
face right now if I didn’t
think the plastic surgery would protect you better than a hockey
mask.”
Davis
keeps the grin on his face but I notice him edging back a little.
“You know what I
love about you,
Brando,
you’re deluded. It’s
almost as if you genuinely think you’ve
got some talent. That you’ve
actually got something to offer this city. I think that’s
what makes it so entertaining. The sheer
gulf
between what you think
you are, and what you actually are.”
“Go
pick on someone your own size. I’m
sure there are some rats by the garbage cans out back.”
He
goes on, as if I never spoke. “I
mean, you made all the rookie mistakes. You fell in love with your
own talent for Christ’s
sake! You made the business personal. You can’t
make someone a star when you
care
about them. That’s
just
ridiculous
.”
“This
the kind of crap you filled her head with when you stole her from
me?”
“Lexi’s
a smart cookie. She knew what needed to be done, and she did it. No
second thoughts, no emotions, no doubts. I never stole her. She came
to me.” He sips his
wine smugly.
My
eyes slip out of focus and my body tightens. Enough. I spin toward
him and grab Davis by the scruff of his shirt, feeling disgust as I
pull his irradiated face toward mine.
“You’re
a fucking fraud, Davis. A vulture. A stinking bag of empty words that
you spray around and hope will land somewhere to fester. You did
nothing. You
are
nothing.”
“And
what are you? What exactly do you do, Brando?”
I
shake him in my grip, so tight that I have him lifted almost
completely off the floor.
“I’m
a manager. I let musicians make their music, help them get their work
out there, realize their potential. And I’m
fucking good at it. I nurture talent, bring it out of people. I take
talent and I make it shine.
Because
I care – not in
spite of it.”
Davis’s
lips extend slowly into a smile like some sea creature bloating
itself up. A horror movie scene played out upon his face.
“Prove
it,” he hisses.
“I
already did.”
I
release my grip and he drops to his feet, jerking his blazer straight
and smoothing his shirt without taking his eyes away from mine. He’s
still got that shit-eating grin on his face.
“You
think you’ve got the
‘magic touch’?
Enough intelligence, drive, and passion to turn somebody into a
star?”
“I
know it.”
Davis
sips his wine slowly, letting my words hang in the air. I grab my
beer and glare at him as I swig from it.
“Care
to stake something on it? Or are you happy to just scream in my face
about it?” he says
snidely as he smooths his disgustingly shiny shirt.
“Gladly,”
I say defiantly. I suppress the
nauseating feeling that I’m
about to do something stupid – I’m
too far gone for that. Right now all I can think about is wiping
Davis’ slug-grin
away from his face without copping a violent misconduct charge.
“A
bet then, if you wanna call it that. Winner gets ten grand…”
“Pfft…”
I say, turning to my beer.
“And
the pick of the other person’s
acts.”
My
arm freezes halfway toward bringing my beer to my mouth. I turn
slowly to face him.
“What?”
“If
you win the bet,” Davis
says, relishing the words so much he’s
making smacking noises as he speaks, “you
get to take one of my acts for yourself. I’ll
cancel all my contracts and ties with them, and hand them over to you
completely.
If
you win, of course.”
I
clutch my beer tight, hoping Davis doesn’t
see my hands shaking. A slow tremor building in the pit of my chest.
I know this is bad. I know this is too good to be true. But Davis has
just kicked the door down on a whole lot of emotions I thought I’d
packed away for good. I’ve
spent the past few years wanting to turn the clock back –
and he’s
just offered me the next best thing.
Lexi.
I’d
get Lexi back.
The
one woman I’d give
everything up for.
Just
like it was.
I’d
probably have to drag her back kicking and screaming. She’d
probably never sing my name the way she used to ever again. But I
don’t care. I could
take her to new heights. Or I could break her career, or make her
sorry she ever left me. It doesn’t
matter. She’d be
mine.
“What’s
the bet?” I say,
knowing damn well I’ll
accept anything the cockroach offers, however dumb it is, however
smug it’ll make him.
Hell, I’d give him
my entire roster of acts for Lexi right now without blinking.
“Get
somebody into the charts, in just one month. Someone without a record
deal already, without any pre-existing label interest. You do this
from scratch. With a nobody.”
“Deal,”
I say, slamming my bottle down
and offering my hand the split second he finishes the sentence.
Davis’
creepy smile remains on his face
as he takes my hand. “But
I choose the act. You still want to put your money where your mouth
is?”
I
don’t hesitate as I
shake his hand in a bruising grip that leaves him wincing. “Who?”
I ask, when I take my hand away
and wipe it on my jeans.
Davis
purses his lips with delighted thoughtfulness, then looks toward the
stage. His beady eyes roll like marbles in their sockets toward me,
and he nods almost imperceptibly toward the singer on stage.
“See
you in a month,” Davis
murmurs as he drains his wine and turns around, “
Brando
baby.
”
I
look toward the stage. All I see are a bunch of messy brown curls
hunched over a beat-up old acoustic guitar. She’s
meek. Soft. Her voice barely cuts through the noise of the club. I
step forward, straining to hear above the chatter of people ignoring
her. Gently plucked guitar strings, a delicate low voice that she
seems almost shy of, burying it in the chords. I catch a glimpse of
her face between the riotous strands of hair. Pearly skin, smooth and
light, and she’s so
nervous that she can’t
lift her eyes up from her strumming fingers for more than a moment at
a time.
Everything
about her seems fragile. Too subtle to be heard in a bar. So reserved
it’s like she wants
to blend into the background. A snowflake in LA.
The
complete opposite of what I need to break into the charts.
“I’m
gonna make you a star,” I
say, as softly as she sings, “whoever
you are.”
Haley
When
I lay my old guitar into its battered case these days it feels like
putting my dreams in a coffin. I latch it closed and throw on a
leather jacket that looks expensive only because it’s
worn out from being the only one I have. Through the doors of the
hallway I can hear the people outside. People who came to drink, to
talk, to find somebody to fuck, and just happened to be where I was
playing my set.
“Wow,”
comes a low, strong voice behind
me. A deep New York drawl obvious even in the single syllable. “That
was a great set.”
“I’m
surprised you could hear it,” I
say, not even turning around as I fiddle with the stuck zipper on my
jacket.
“I’ve
got a good ear.”
Frustrated
with it, I give up on the zipper, pick up my guitar case, and turn
around to face the growling voice. From its bass I’d
have guessed its owner was big, but I’m
still surprised – he’s
a mountain of muscle, filling up almost the entire doorway, granite
pecs and biceps obvious even through the thick fabric of his
expensive suit. Between shoulders the size of a bridge his face looks
like it was carved out of marble, brutal and beautiful. All jawline
and sandpaper stubble, the face of a comic book superhero brought to
life, topped with black swirls of thick, soft hair.
“My
name’s Brando Nash,”
he says, taking a card out of his
inside pocket and handing it to me, “and
I’m about to make
your dreams come true.”
I
hold his satisfied gaze as I take the card. Eventually I peel my eyes
from his oak-colored irises and study it.
BRANDO NASH
A & R, Majestic Records
155055 Wilshire Blvd. Los Angeles
I
look back at him and flash a cynical smile. Clearly this guy thinks
it’s my first rodeo.
And guess what? It ain’t.
“Is
this the part where I’m
supposed to cry and get all excited?” I
ask. “Jump up and
down as if you’re
the star quarterback who just asked me to prom?”
He
frowns and turns his head slightly, sizing me up through squinting
eyes. A look that would have knocked me dead before I came to LA –
now it just makes me roll my
eyes.
“Yeah,”
he says, slowly nodding, “this
is something you should be very excited about. I’m
a talent spotter, a record label’s
agent. I can get you studio time, a deal. Put your music out there.
Unless playing grungy open mic nights for no pay is the height of
your ambitions?”
“Great.
That sounds fantastic,” I
say, too tired to try and hide the sarcasm. “Should
I fling my panties off right here, or do you want to string me along
for a little while, you know,
really
get your fill?”
He
sighs deeply, smiling, and if I wasn’t
in the city of Hollywood, I’d
almost believe he was genuine.
“This
isn’t like that.
Maybe you need to read my card again.”
I
glance down at the card, the embossed letters, the matte cream
cardstock. Expensive. So sure, he’s
legit. But that doesn’t
mean a damn thing in this town. I glare at him. “If
having a card proved anything, I wouldn’t
still be playing
grungy
open mic nights. So thanks, but no thanks. I know your type.”
I
rip the card in half, let the pieces flutter to the floor, and step
forward to go past him. But instead of letting me pass, he steps
back, filling up the hallway and opening his palms out as if he’s
the one scared of me.
“Whoa
there! Look, I’m not
trying to pull anything here. I genuinely think you’ve
got something going on, and I want to be a part—”
“Bullshit!”
I yell, pushing him away from me,
my palms pressed for one hot instant against his rock-hard chest. His
eyes widen, and I have to admit my outburst is a surprise even to
myself. Weeks of frustration I’ve
kept boiling inside of me burst out like a volcano. I glance down at
the torn business card on the floor, my fury still raging. “Bullshit,
Brando Nash!
You’re
very recognizable, you know, with your Easter Island head face and
you Gladiator body. You think I didn’t
notice you out there? You say you enjoyed my set, was that while you
were picking up women, or when Lexi Dark showed up in a dress too
small for my nine year old niece? Maybe you caught the chorus as you
were bullying that short guy with bad shoes?”
“I…look,
it…okay. Just…”
“You
didn’t hear a damned
note I played. I bet you can’t
even remember one of my lyrics, can you?”
He
stares at me, mouth open, before his eyes drop to the floor.
“I
thought not,” I say,
breathing deeply to regain some calm. “Look,
I’m tired, and I
have work in the morning. So nice try, but we’re
done here.”
His
hands go to his hips as he steps aside, and I push past, out through
the crowd of strangers, and into the city that keeps on disappointing
me.
“Another
late night?” Jenna
asks over the sound of the cash register as I tie my apron on
hurriedly, join her behind the counter, and slip into my role as
underpaid coffee dispenser for the morning rush.
“Late
nights are fine,” I
reply in between the hiss of the coffee foamer, “it’s
the early mornings that get me.”
Jenna
and I shouldn’t be
friends. She’s a
morning person, I like the night. She ties her pretty blonde hair in
a ponytail that swishes around as she moves with all the grace of a
ribbon, while taming my thick brown curls feels like putting out a
fire every second of every day. Her wardrobe consists mainly of skin
tight designer gym clothes and colorful classics, mine is a funky
combination of ripped jeans and faded vintage t-shirts. She’s
the prom queen, I’m
the rock chick. When you spend eight hours working in a shitty coffee
shop, though, all of that fades, and all you’re
left with is the stuff that matters. And what matters is that we get
each other.
I
pour the coffees, glide toward the counter with them, and hand them
over to my customers with a big white smile and a nod. Coffee
machines and cash registers you can learn in a day, the smile and the
nod, however,
that
takes weeks. I can only just hold it for a full three seconds, just
enough time to send the customer on their way before turning around
and settling into a more comfortable bleary-eyed scowl.
Jenna
moves to the machine as I step toward the cash register and take
another order.
“Well,”
she calls over her shoulder as
she pours out some coffee beans, “how
did the open mic gig go last night? I’m
still bummed I couldn’t
make it to see you kill it, but someone had to cover your shift so
you could go,” she
winked.
Taking
orders while holding conversations is another useless skill I’ve
picked up since working here. I sidle up beside Jenna and pretend to
do something practical, like rinse the frothing pitchers, while I
talk to her.
“Well,
you didn’t miss
much. I was pretty much last on a bill that included a guy singing
songs in what I think was German, and a comedian who –
if anyone could hear him –
would have probably offended
every minority in the crowd. And then Lexi Dark decided to show up
just before I started my set and get everybody’s
attention. I played to the back of about fifty heads, so all in all I
guess it wasn’t a
total bust. I mean, nobody booed me, right?”