The Bet (7 page)

I stare at her, feeling all my work and effort slipping through my fingers.

“Look, Brando, you don’t need me. You just need a pretty face to go along with everything you’ve got going on back there, the pre-written songs and the electronics and the machines. I’m sorry, but that’s just not me.”

The rusted door opens this time, and she steps inside, revving and jerking the car out of the parking lot and down the road, taking everything I want with her.

Damn.

Haley

“… AND THAT’S when I ran out.”

“Oh God, Haley,” Jenna says, still holding a bemused customer’s change.

I look back at her and shrug, but I notice her tell. Jenna’s a good girl, and like all good girls she isn’t very good at hiding her feelings. She’s biting the inside of her lip.

“You don’t think I should have run out on him, right? You think I should have stayed, sucked it up, let those guys turn me into another radio-friendly clone?”

Jenna hands the guy’s change to him with a smile, checks that no other customers are coming, and turns to me with the same look my mother gave me when I found out she was the tooth fairy.

“Sit down,” she says, nodding to the stool behind the counter. I do as she says, and she leans back on the counter in front of me. “Look. When I was trying to make it as an actress – I mean a big Hollywood star, not the local theater plays and cheesy commercials and non-speaking background work I’m doing now – I was going through a lot of the same things you’re going through now. The pointless running around and grabbing at hopeless causes. The long, grinding anticipation and hard work leading up to a big audition, only to find there’s nothing on the other side. But I was nineteen; just smart enough to realize I had to work for it, and just dumb enough to have hope. Every day – every second – that passed without me doing something to try and make it felt like wasted time. Making it was all I thought about, morning to night, even in my dreams – especially in my dreams.”

I nod. “I remember you telling me all this. That’s exactly how I feel.”

“I know,” she sighs. “But I never told you this: I had my chance. One chance. And I blew it. And that’s all. I never got another one. Not like that one.”

I look at Jenna wide-eyed. She’s never sounded like this before, and I can hear how naked she feels in her tone.

“What happened?”

She scans the coffee shop again to make sure she won’t be interrupted, then drops her eyes to the floor and starts talking, slowly.

“I met this producer. A big deal. The kind that never goes a day without speaking to at least one star or hot-shot director. He was nice to me, I guess he liked something about me. Anyway, he sends me a script to read, and it’s amazing. I fall in love with it right away. I think ‘if I can get a role in this, I know I can knock it out of the park.’ We meet up a couple of days later and he asks me what I think. I say it’s fantastic. That I’d kill someone to be in it. He says the part is mine,” Jenna pauses and looks at me before saying the next three words ominously, “with one condition.”

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.