The Bet (11 page)

I watch her pace between the band members. Brian, the lank-haired guitarist, sits on a table and tunes his guitar over and over; Aaron, the tall, wiry bassist, stares at his tapping toes, while Paula, the drummer, bites her nails and gazes into space like she’s waiting for test results.

This isn’t good. Haley’s band marches to her beat, and right now it’s all over the place.

“Haley,” I say, grabbing her arm to stop her pacing and bringing her in close, “you’re the most talented musician I’ve ever worked with. Even if you go out there and play the worst set you’ve ever played, it would still be a thousand times better than what any other act in this green room could hope to achieve.”

Haley’s eyes go big and round. “I don’t know if you’re right…”

“
I
know I’m right. Trust me, Haley. I wouldn’t bring you here if I thought you couldn’t cakewalk it.”

“I know, but—”

There’s a rise in the level of chatter and I look around. The dancers are being called out.

“You’re on soon,” I say, noticing the rush of red that appears in Haley’s cheeks. “When you get out there, you’re gonna see a sea of faces. A hell of a lot more people than you’ve ever played in front of before. Look for me. I’ll stand at the back, by the entrance, and when you see me, don’t take your eyes away from me. Forget everything else: The lights, the crowd, the noise. Just me. Play for me and no one else. Can you do that for me?”

Haley smiles and nods.

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Good.” I put a hand on her shoulder and squeeze, startled at the jolt I get from the contact of my palm against her warm skin.

“Haley Grace Cooke?” comes a loud, nasal voice from the doorway. We both turn to see the mic’d up runner. He points a thumb back over his shoulder. It’s time.

I look back toward Haley, who smiles anxiously as her band gets up and walks after the runner. She takes a few steps to follow them, before suddenly stopping. I panic for a second before she turns, but when she does, it’s only to throw her lips against mine. A deep, desperate, stolen kiss, before she spins back and hurries after the rest of her band. I can still taste her glossy lips as she walks away, like an expensive drink, only a little more intoxicating.

“Break a leg,” I shout after her.

Minutes later and I’m standing where I said I would be, right by the exit, waiting for her to come out on stage. I stand up tall, but the crowd’s thick and moving constantly. They push and jostle for a good view of the stage as soon as they know Haley’s on next.

When she does walk out, it’s obvious something is wrong. She walks with her head down, hair covering her face. She fumbles for way too long to strap on her guitar, and walks with painfully slow steps up to the mic. I can see the band members exchanging glances, wondering how they’ll cope without Haley’s cues.

I raise my arm higher in the hope that Haley will notice it. She’s gazing out at the audience, which has gone embarrassingly quiet now, between the strands of hair that hang lazily over her face. I wait for the look of recognition, for any movement.

She can’t see me, and now she’s locked up. The only movement she’s making is the visible rise and fall of her chest as she pants tensely.

I push forward, shoving aside people I know I should really be more polite to. But right now none of them matter. I move indiscriminately through the crowd, toward the center, a spot where there’s nothing between us, impossible to miss. I raise my hand and stand tall, praying that Haley sees me.

There in the center of the audience I hear the judgmental comments, the random giggles at the bizarre turn of events. A couple of women in front of me even turn away and start making their way toward the bar.

But then Haley smiles. And it lights up the stage more than the thousand dollar equipment could ever hope to. With a hair flick sexier than a shampoo billboard on Hollywood and Vine, she moves the curls away from her face and stands up to the mic, her eyes settling on mine. She glances away only to cue up her band, before turning back toward me.

Paula smacks her sticks together four times and then it’s on. I forget the audience around me, the lights, the noise. It’s just me and Haley.

I can’t keep my attention away from her as the showcase finishes and morphs into a loose and loud after party – and apparently neither can anyone else.

“That was
sensational!”
another schmoozing executive says, handing us another card to add to the stack already filling my pocket. “Ben Livingstone, Jupiter Records. I want to have first dibs on you, young lady.”

Haley giggles breathlessly, finding it hard to keep up.

“First is taken,” I say, with a smile, “so is second. I can give you fifth. Maybe.”

Ben laughs, but there’s a note of disappointment in it.

“Well if I can’t have dibs,” he says, raising his glass, “I can sure offer the best deal.”

“Now that’s more like it,” I say.

Ben laughs again before leaning in to whisper something in my ear.

“You really lucked out here, Brando. I don’t know how, but you really did.”

Ben leaves and I turn my attention to Haley.

“Another drink?”

“No,” she says, the smile that’s been plastered onto her face since she came off the stage to rapturous applause still there, “I think I’m drinking too much.”

“If ever there was a night to drink too much, it’s this one. Most of these schmucks usually leave halfway through. They’re only here to get an audience with the future star.”

“You were the only audience I needed,” Haley says, squeezing my bicep before turning away to gaze at the crowd, which has now morphed into a rush of celebrity musicians. “I can’t believe how many famous people are here. I thought it was only record execs.”

“Musicians tend to like talking business over a loud song and some alcohol. Executives, on the other hand, tend to start living like musicians when they spend so much time around them.”

“Is that…Annabelle Church?” Haley says, gawking at the girl in a see-through dress that seems to glide through the entrance.

“Yeah. Probably here in the hope that dress will get her some funds for her next record.”

Haley turns to me suddenly, eyes filled with surprise.

“But…she’s
huge.
”

“And has an ego to match. Not many people want to touch her since she created her own Twitter account. Forget her, anyway, you should be mixing with people who’ve got real talent. Someone like Rex Bentley over there. Now
that’s
a genius.” I raise a glass in his direction, and Rex obligingly returns the gesture. “Guy’s a legend. Made some of the greatest records you’ll ever hear and he still looks better than—”

I stop when I notice Haley’s face. The color drains from it like a reverse painting. Even her lips turn a chilling shade of white.

“Let’s go.”

“What?”

“Please, Brando. Let’s leave.”

“But everyone here wants to speak to you! You’ve already made more connections than most musicians make in their careers, and you’ve barely spoken to half the record chiefs here. Besides, you haven’t even finished your dri—”

“I have to go. You can come with me or stay. Don’t make me ask you again. Please.”

“Haley,” I say, bending down to get a better look at her ghostly face, eyes limpid and dilated, as if she’s been drugged. “What’s the matter? Are you sick? Do you want to—”

She doesn’t even let me finish the sentence before dashing away into the crowd, shoving through confused strangers like she’s being chased. I watch her for a second, trying to think of a logical reason for the change in her, before giving up, slamming my drink down on a table nearby, and following her toward the back exit.

12

Haley

BRANDO BRINGS a thick blanket out from his loft onto the wide balcony of his apartment and wraps it around my shoulders.

“Thanks,” I say, my voice trembling, only slightly caused by the cold. It’s the first word I’ve said since Brando caught me outside, embraced me tightly, and ushered me into the back of a cab to his apartment.

“You sure you don’t want to go back inside? I can make you something hot to drink. Get you something to eat, maybe?”

“No,” I say, eyes unfocused as I watch the red and white lights of LA cars snake through the traffic-jammed streets. “I need the fresh air.”

Brando smooths a part of the blanket over my shoulder, making it a little more snug. A gesture I can’t resist smiling at him for. He leans up against the balcony railing beside me, his bicep against my arm.

“So,” he says, setting the tempo to a slow one with the patient, neutral way he says it, “you mind telling me what that was all about?”

I stiffen again as I recall the moment.

“He looked at me,” I mutter, clenching my jaw.

“Who? Rex? Well yeah. He looked at us. Is
that
what this is about?”

“He looked at me,” I say, the exact same way, “and he didn’t recognize me.”

Brando pauses before speaking.

“Haley, don’t get ahead of yourself. Tonight was great, but it’s just a first step. It’ll take time before people recognize you. You’ve got to be pa—”

“You don’t understand,” I say, turning toward Brando with a fierce gaze. “Rex Bentley is my
father
.”

Brando’s chiseled jaw drops so heavily it looks like it’ll smash through the floor.

“What? Wait…I don’t understand. Are you
sure
?”

I nod slowly, before turning back to lean on the railing and gaze into the night.

“It was right after his ‘blue’ period, when he made those albums in Europe. He came to LA, bought a big mansion, mountains of cocaine, and started making hits again. My mom was a musician too. She’d tried to get an album together, but ended up as a back-up singer. He liked her, used her on some of the records, and eventually, used her for some other things as well. That’s when she became his ‘assistant.’”

Brando still looks confused. “But he was married then…”

“Yeah,” I shoot back with a bitter laugh. “He was. Which is why when she told him she was pregnant he fired her, gave her a thousand dollars, and sent her on her way to ‘take care of it.’”

“Fuck,” Brando says, drawing out the word until it becomes a long sigh of anger and disbelief.

“When I was born,” I continue, feeling the heat build up behind my eyes, sniffing back the fogginess in my throat, “my mom sent him a picture of me. A letter telling him where we were, how he could get in touch. He never responded.”

Brando’s arm wraps around me tightly, but even the feeling of protection, of being cared for, can’t remove the pain that’s stabbing at me inside. He brushes tears from my cheeks softly.

“When I was twelve, my mother decided to tell me. I was already—” I pause to swallow down the hurt, “I was already in love with music. Already sure of what I wanted to do with my life. I thought it was amazing—” I can barely get the word out, stutters and sobs interrupting me, “…amazing that it was him. I had this big hole in my life where a father should have been, and I would have settled for anyone. Any drunk, or loser. But instead it was him. It made me so h… ha… happy.”

It takes a full minute of Brando rubbing my back before I can stop the quivering in my lips and the sobbing in my throat enough to continue.

“My mom still had his address – the one he used for personal letters. I knew he checked them himself, rather than through a secretary. I started sending him letters, photos, cassette tapes of me talking mixed with the songs I was making. I don’t know what I thought would happen. Maybe that he would accept me back into his life. Maybe he’d see that I had his blood, musician’s blood, and realize he’d made a mistake.” I shake my head at my own teenage stupidity. “Yeah. I actually thought he’d realize he’d made a mistake. Maybe it was the drugs, the lifestyle, the career that got in the way. I sent him letters for five years.
Five fucking years!
Half a decade, hundreds of letters with my whole life in them. My deepest thoughts, my hopes and dreams. One hope and one dream most of all – to have a fucking father.”

I break down fully. The cracks too wide to close up. Pain and heartbreak flowing through every vein in my body. Brando pulls me toward him tightly, squeezing me as if he can push it all back out.

“Haley,” he says, as I weep into his chest, “I’m sorry.”

I gather the pieces of me that remain and stand back upright to breathe in the cool night air.

“Maybe,” Brando says, his hand still brushing my wet cheek, “he didn’t get the letters? Perhaps he had a different address? Or it just got stuck with all the other fan mail?”

“All he had to do was look, you know?!” I scream, loudly and angrily, as if it’s him standing in front of me rather than Brando. “All he had to do was look! We weren’t on fucking Mars; we were six hours away in Santa Cruz! Twenty-four fucking years and
nothing
. Not one fucking word! I thought maybe he was staying away, scared to come back after all this time. He
had
to know. Who could spend twenty-four years without checking once –
just once
– to see what his daughter looked like? And then tonight… He just looked right through me, like I was anybody, and I knew. I knew I was lying to myself.”

Brando says nothing, but his eyes show it. He wishes he could take this pain away, wishes he could do something, but he can’t. Instead, he reaches down to the six pack of beers he brought out onto the balcony, cracks two open, and hands me one. I gulp almost half of it, hoping the cold fizz and the alcohol will help clear away the bad taste that all the memories left behind.

“Thanks,” I say, drying the last of my tears with the edge of the blanket.

Brando nods and leans back against the balcony, twisting the bottle in his hands as he searches for something to say.

“You know, I can’t tell you how to feel, or how to think about any of that. I can’t tell you how to stop hurting – I’d be a therapist if I could. But the one thing I do know, for sure, is that it’s the shit that hurts the most, which hurts the longest and the deepest, that makes you tougher.”