Brando (7 page)

The
way she says it makes me tense my muscles. “What
condition?”

Jenna
takes a while to gather herself. She fiddles with her fingers, scans
the shop again, looks down at the floor, and shuffles her feet before
saying, “He wanted
me to go down on him.”

“Oh,
Jenna…” It’s
exactly the kind of stereotypical story that’s
a dime a dozen in this town, but all the same it’s
the worst thing you can imagine happening to someone like
Jenna—someone
hardworking, genuinely talented, and fierce. “What
did you say?”

Jenna
shrugs. “I said no.
Straight away. Obviously.”

“So
then what happened?” I
ask, although I’m
dreading the answer.

“He
looked at me like I was a waitress who didn’t
hear his order correctly. I’ll
never forget the way his eyes looked. Not quite evil, not quite
aggressive, just…pitying.
Like I was the one who didn’t
get it. He said, real slow so I’d
understand this time, ‘the
girl who sucks my dick is the girl who gets this part. You
do
want this part, don’t
you?’ And then he
unzipped.”

My
mouth drops open.

“That’s
when I ran out.”

“That’s
crazy! I mean, I know it happens, but I had no idea that it happened
to
you.
”

“That’s
not the crazy part,” Jenna
continues, smiling with black humor. “A
girl
did
do what he wanted, and she
did
get the part. And you’ll
never guess who it was.”

I
can’t help my
curiosity. “Who?”

“Julia
Lorde.”

I
gasp. “No! The girl
who just got nominated for an Oscar?”

Jenna
just shrugs. “It’s
actually her second nomination. She deserves it. Everything she’s
done has been great. She’s
even engaged to that hot guy from the spy movies now. While I get to
wake up at six every morning and spend eight hours a day pouring
coffee just so I can perform a small role in an unknown play to a
crowd of ten every weekend.

“Every
time I see her now on TV, talking about how she’s
living the dream, doing the thing she loves, or on the red carpet
meeting thousands of people who appreciate her, acting alongside all
the people I idolize – all
I can think about is how it should be me, how it could so easily have
been the other way around.”

“Come
on Jenna,” I say,
standing up and putting an arm around her. “You’re
not really saying you would do anything differently, would you?”

“Honestly,
I don’t even know
anymore. I want to tell you to just follow your heart, stick to your
guns, keep your art sacred, but all I know for sure is that chances
like that can change your entire life, and that you only get one.”

I
notice her eyes move to the door and widen.

“Although
maybe you just got a second one.”

I
turn around to see the unmistakable silhouette of Brando, so big and
powerful that he makes the coffee shop look like a playpen. Jenna
gives my arm a stroke and sidles off to the back room. As Brando
draws near I notice something different in his hard-edged face –
the persistent, knowing dimples
aren’t there
anymore. He looks almost embarrassed.

“I
really hope you’re
just here to buy coffee,” I
say, trying to ignore how hair-pullingly handsome he is when he’s
trying to be serious.

“I
would be if I didn’t
think you’d do
something bad to it.”

I
scowl at him. “I
probably would.”

Brando
laughs and I find myself smiling, despite not wanting to.

“Look,”
Brando says. “You’re
right. I got it all wrong. The song, the studio,
you.
”

“You
did.” I fold my
arms. He’s not off
the hook. And God am I glad I never signed on the dotted line,
otherwise I’d
probably be legally obligated to have gone along with his original
scheme.

Brando
looks at me like a lost puppy and, as I ignore the inconvenient rush
of heat between my legs, I wonder how many women have tried to take
him home.

“I
just wanted to say I’m
sorry – but since
I’m better at
actions than words, I thought I’d
show you instead.”

He
slides something off his shoulder, a case that was obscured by his
broad shoulders, and places it gently on the coffee counter. I know
what it is, but I don’t
let myself admit it until he flips the latches and gently opens the
case.

The
mahogany guitar.

My
breath stops in my throat. I study the elegant wood grain, running my
finger down the fretboard, before looking up at Brando, who’s
just as beautifully constructed.

“I
can tell when a woman wants something,” he
purrs, “and if they
stick with me, they usually get it.”

I
shoot him a suspicious glance. “You’re
giving this to me?”

“A
nineteen-forty Martin 0-17. I’d
tell you how much it’s
worth, but you’d
probably never play it if you knew.”

“What’s
the catch?”

He
spreads his hands. “No
catch. Just a promise that if you give this relationship—this
business
relationship—another
chance, we’ll do
things your way. A fresh start. No autotune, no hi-tech studios, no
pre-packaged songs—”

I
cross my arms and study his face. He seems sincere. “No
stylist, either.”

Brando
shuffles his feet.

“What?”
I demand.

“It’s
just…you’ve
worn the same leather jacket each time I’ve
met you. Frankly I think the stylist is non-negotiable.”

I
keep my arms folded and shoot a fierce glare at his glinting eyes.

“But
we’ll let you choose
which one,” he says,
laughing it off.

I
smile and duck my head, letting my hair fall in front of my face –
a technique I use to give me a
few moments when considering something. This decision doesn’t
take more than a second to make, though. I flip my head up and brush
back my hair.

“Okay.
Deal.”

Brando
offers his hand and I shake it, surprised by how gentle his large
hands can be. He holds my hand a second too long, sending heat
radiating through my palm, up my arm, and spreading into my chest. I
pull away before he can notice the blush that I’m
sure is turning my cheeks pink.
This
is business
, I remind
myself.
Strictly
.

“Done
and done then,” Brando
says. He turns sideways, about to leave, but before he does, he casts
one last longing glance down at the guitar.

“Treat
that thing well; there’s
a hell of a story behind it.” His
eyes flick upward to meet mine. “Maybe
one day I’ll tell it
to you.”

I
stand there in a semi-daze, watching him leave. I’ve
known Brando for half a week, and in that time we’ve
argued, kissed, danced together, and become business partners twice
over. But he still seems like a complete stranger, with hidden depths
that I’ve barely
even scratched.

“Well,
at the very least,” Jenna
mutters from behind me as I reluctantly tear my eyes away from the
perfection that is Brando’s
ass, “this’ll
make for some good songwriting material.”

Brando

I
like things hard and fast, competitive and challenging. I play games
of pick-up like it’s
my last shot at the play-offs, slam weights at the gym like my life
depends on it, fuck every woman like a man on death row. I hate the
phrase ‘push it to
the limit’ – because
for me there are none. I see life as a series of barriers, and behind
each one is the thing you want. Some people use their brains to get
past, some people bang their heads against them until they break,
most people tend to give up and just head in another direction
entirely – me, I
pick up speed and try to break through the first time. No second
thoughts, no doubts, and no slowing down.

The
problem is that when you live like that, you tend to make a mess.

So
it’s a fresh start
for me and Haley. I’ve
tried the hard and fast approach, and gotten nowhere; now it’s
time for me to support her. Which fucking terrifies me. I’ve
got a bet to win. A red-headed bitch to win back. But to do it I’m
going to have to trust Haley, which is hard, because I don’t
even trust myself most of the time.

I
start thinking about what would happen if I lost the bet. The ten
grand I can handle. Losing an act will be tougher though, because my
other acts – and
anyone else who might ever work with me – might
start to get scared. And my humiliation would be worse. But it’s
missing my chance to get Lexi back that will kill me. Every time the
thought enters my head I have to drop to the floor and do push-ups,
or grab the nearest doorway and perform chin pulls to beat it back
out again.

Then
something I didn’t
expect starts to happen. Haley and I talk on the phone and send
messages back and forth for a few days. She sends me some more of her
songs, I press her on how she imagines them getting recorded, the
kind of production she wants. She references albums that are way
beyond her years, cult classics and forgotten masterpieces that I
thought only music buffs and old guys knew about.

“
What’s
Going On,
Marvin
Gaye.”

“You
sure?” she says on
the other end of the line, and I can hear her smile.

“I’m
sure. If I was on a desert island, with just one record, that’s
what I’d pick.”

“Wrong
choice,” she says,
laughing.

“How
can it be a wrong choice? Greatest rhythm section of all time. The
most soulful singer ever. Every theme you can imagine, sex, love,
depression, society, life.”

She
giggles, enjoying the sound of me trying to convince her.

“But
it’s a desert
island.”

“So?”

“You’re
on the beach, in the beating sun, the big wide ocean all around you –
you telling me you want to hear
songs about ‘society’
and ‘depression’
out there?”

I
chuckle.

“What
would you choose then?” I
ask, with a smile I’m
sure she can hear this time.

“Bob
Marley.
Kaya
.”

“Of
course.”

“Sitting
on the beach, sipping juice from a coconut, watching the waves roll
back and forth, singing along to
sun
is shining
… Paradise.”

“Would
you be wearing a bikini in this scenario?”

“
Brando
…”
she says disappointedly, but with
more than a trace of sex in the way she draws my name out.

“Sorry,”
I say, “I
can’t help it.”

We
talk about how weirdly beautiful Nico’s
solo albums were, how underappreciated Laura Nyro is, argue whether
Johnny Marr or Jimi Hendrix is the greatest guitarist of all time (I
say Hendrix but she almost convinces me otherwise).

I
listen past the poor audio quality and shy modesty of her songs and
start hearing things that draw me in. Quirky melodies, interesting
chord changes, powerful lyrics that swim around in my head when I’m
not thinking. She starts talking about music production the way I’ve
only heard grumpy engineers and brilliant geniuses do, picking up on
details that only perfectionists – the
kinds of people who make classic albums – care
about.

I
start to think that this might just work after all.

I
start acting on Haley’s
suggestions, booking a studio in a house in Laurel Canyon. It’s
no hit factory, but it’s
intimate, peaceful, and full of vintage equipment – a
perfect fit for Haley. Next, I bring in Josh Chambers, an old
singer-songwriter that Haley’s
talked about adoringly. He hasn’t
released a record in over thirty years, and he definitely doesn’t
dress as sharply as Baptiste, but you’d
struggle to find a guitar player who hasn’t
stolen at least one of his licks, or a producer who doesn’t
use a bag of tricks that Josh invented before they were even born.

This
time Haley’s already
there when I pull up at the wood and glass house built on a hillside.
She’s sitting on the
porch, smile as big as the coffee cup she’s
clutching between her two hands as she talks casually with Josh. They
stand up and walk toward me as I get out of the car.

“Brando.”

“Josh.”

We
clasp hands, and after a split second end up hugging warmly. Josh is
still good looking, despite his slim face bearing all the lines and
toughness of a life well-lived. He’s
in faded jeans and a well-worn plaid shirt. Nobody would guess that
he’s in his late
fifties, least of all because he’s
more comfortable in his skin than anyone I’ve
ever known.

“It’s
been a long time, man,” he
says in his gravelly, but still tuneful, voice.

“Doesn’t
feel like it,” I
say, nodding toward the sun-bleached Ford pick-up in front of the
house, “you’re
still driving that thing.”

“It’ll
outlive us all. Especially you, if you keep driving junkers like
that.”

He
looks over at the Porsche 911 Turbo I pulled up in and we laugh.

“How
you feeling?” I say
to Haley, who I notice looks a little shy, even though she’s
smiling.

“I
dunno…” she
says, her smile getting a little shaky. “Nervous?”

I
swap a glance with Josh.

“That’s
good,” he says,
putting a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “Means
you care. Come on.”

If
the last studio felt like the sterile interior of a spaceship, this
one feels like a seventies garage that a hoarder left in a hurry. We
step into a shag-carpeted room with a suede couch and mini fridge on
one side, a giant, wood-paneled mixing desk on the other. Beyond the
glass partition that sits behind the mixing desk there’s
the recording area, big valve amps dotted around the floor, pedals
and cables tangled up in the corners like strange sea monsters.
There’s a grand
piano in the corner, and guitars lying around like used towels. Rugs
with psychedelic patterns hang on the smoke-discolored walls, and I
can almost smell the rock and roll history of the place. A mixture of
alcohol, drugs, sex, and emotion.