Текст книги "Brando: Part Two"

Автор книги: J. D. Hawkins

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We leave the concert before the last few songs. Partly to avoid the crowds, and partly because we both need a drink and a bite to eat. With the three bodyguards that I arranged, we skip down the empty steps of the stadium and make our way out of the large, open exit. I take Haley’s hand as we walk and squeeze it. The fact that she barely notices, that she treats it like the most natural thing in the world, somehow means more to me than if she had squeezed back. For the first time in what feels like half of my life, I feel like I’ve got everything I want. Everything I need. Everything I don’t deserve, but somehow lucked myself into.

“I could go for Chinese,” Haley says, swiping a lock of hair from her face.

“Chinese it is, then.”

“Or maybe Italian.”

“Haven’t you had enough Italian?” I grin, with dumb glee.

Haley rolls her eyes. “Do you have kids, Brando?”

“Hell no!” I say, almost jumping back at the weird heaviness of the question.

“Then don’t make dad jokes,” Haley says with a sweet smile.

I laugh. My normal laugh, which is big, long, and can be heard from across the street. Which is why it happens.

“Over there!”

“Shit! That’s her!”

“Haley!”

“Haley!”

“Haley!”

The paparazzi are on us in seconds, like jackals with SLRs. Yapping and filling the night sky with flashes from their peeping-tom lenses. There are more than a dozen of them, bombarding Haley with random shouts and questions. One of the bodyguards moves toward the street, pushing several of them with him, while the other two form a barrier between the photographers and us.

We shove through, guided by the bodyguards like the world’s clumsiest football play. I cover Haley with my coat like a smuggled package, ruining multiple gossip editors’ morning stories in the process. We make it to the side of the road, where a yellow cab is already waiting for us.

I’m about to shove Haley into the cab, dive in after her, and start thinking about food, when she stops and pulls away from me. That’s how quickly it happens. That’s how fast my happiness disappears. A new record.

“What did you say?” Haley shouts, as she squeezes between the bodyguards to get a full view of the reporters.

“Rex Bentley!” comes the reply from multiple scumbags at once. “Are you really Rex Bentley’s daughter?”

“Haley!” I shout, grabbing her arm and holding the cab door open with the other. “Come on!”

Haley freezes, brings a hand to her head, and looks down wildly, trying to find a straight thought in the maelstrom of noise and attention. The bodyguards go full linebacker, sweeping the reporters away with giant arms in order to buy us some space.

“You’re Rex Bentley’s daughter! What’s your real name? Why did you keep this a secret? Haley!”

When Haley raises her head again she looks at me. She doesn’t need to say a word. Her tight lips, her cold eyes, her clenched jaw says it all.

“Haley, wait,” I say, sounding more desperate than the reporters, “No. Don’t…I didn’t do this. This isn’t me. I swear.”

She shoves me aside and slides into the taxi, her hand on the door. When she speaks it’s a low hiss, a coiled ball of disappointment and resentment that she seems to pull from the pit of her stomach.

“You were the only one I told. The only one I trusted.”

“Haley, wait! Please! I didn’t—”

“Fuck you, Brando,” she sneers through the streak of tears, as she slams the door of the cab closed. It speeds away with the reporters following desperately behind for a while.

“Do you need a cab, boss?” one of the bodyguards asks.

“Yeah. Find one that’ll run me over.”

Chapter 12

Haley

I cried all the way through the six hour flight to San Francisco. I cried when I spoke to the lady at the car rental agency. I cried for most of the 35. By the time I pull up to my mother’s sloped, brick house on a hill in Santa Cruz, I think I’m all cried out. But when she comes out the door and screams “Sweetie!” I start bawling harder than I have since I lost my first talent show at eleven years old.

She carries me inside, through the seventies décor and the antique furniture she never gave away, past the stacks of records and the acoustic guitars she hardly uses anymore but still loves, into the living room with the thick carpet and the smell of oak that I never notice until I’ve been away a while. She places me on the velour couch, drapes a hand-crocheted afghan around my shoulders, and sits beside me.

“Haley?” she says in a voice as light as a summer breeze. “What’s the matter, sweetie?”

I look at her through the wetness of my eyes. Without the crows feet and the wrinkles around her jaw, she’d still look just like the photo on the TV. She’s still got the long, straight hippie-hair, still wears long, flowing, patterned dresses, and still has the eyes that seem too pure for anyone but her.

“You don’t know?” I say, through sobs.

“Know what?”

“What happened on the tour.”

“I know everything that happened on the tour!” she smiles, nodding toward the stack of newspapers and magazines on the coffee table, the scissors and glue she uses to cut and paste clippings set neatly beside them. That’s when I realize she wouldn’t know about the Rex Bentley leak anyway – she doesn’t use the internet, barely turns the TV on – and when I think about having to tell her everything that happened, I break down again, folding into my lap.

“Haley, shhh. Come on now,” she says, pulling me to her and stroking my back. “You’re gonna have to tell me what it is if you want me to help, baby.”

The crying subsides, more from the fact that I have no more energy to cry than that I’m over it, and I sit back up and stare blankly at the switched-off TV.

“They know about…about Rex Bentley,” I say, sniffing.

“Who knows?”

I grit my teeth and force the ugly answer out. “Everyone.”

Her brow furrows in concern. “How? Did you tell them?”

“I told…someone. Someone I thought I could trust.”

There’s a pause so silent I feel like I can hear the dust moving in the sunlight.

“Brando?” my mom says, and even from her, even in that gentle, sing-song voice, it makes my stomach feel acidic.

“What?” I say, jumping up from the couch. “When did you– wait. Wait. Who– when—”

“He called me.” The look on her face is pure confusion, pure innocence. And I’m livid.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! No!” I shout, ignoring the dull ache that still lingers in my throat. I pace up and down the living room, my fingers furiously rubbing my frown. Infinite sadness turning into blinding rage in seconds. “No! This is … whoa! That is too far. That is way too far. First he violates my life. Then he sells me out. Now he’s trying to turn you against me?! This is…oh my God! I’m so pissed right now!”

“Haley! Calm down, it was just—”

“Who does he think he is? I mean, who does that? My own mother!? It’s one thing to mess with me, but this is over the line.” I clench my fist and jab it into my palm as I continue to pace even faster. “He’s going to pay for this, I swear. I don’t know how, I don’t know… He’s going to pay! Ragh! I could strangle him!”

“Haley! Listen to me!” I glance over at my mom. “And stop pacing!” I stop and stand there, chest heaving, fists clenched, my blood boiling. “He called me weeks ago. He just wanted to offer me tickets to the first show on the tour. He said if I wanted to come he would make sure I had the best seats in the house.”

I stand there, still furious, but my anger a little less focused.

“What? That’s all?”

“Well,” Mom says with a strange, sly grin, “we did talk a little bit.”

“About … what?” I say, putting a huge pause in the middle of the words. I sit on the lounge chair beside the couch and lean forward to express my deep interest in whatever the fuck happened between Brando and my mother.

“Nothing important. Don’t worry,” she says, way too casually. “I asked him about you. He told me you were doing just great. That your music was really striking a chord with people. He seems to be a very competent manager. Very invested in you. And…”

“And?”

My mom smiles warmly as she relives the conversation. “And he mentioned that you told him about my own music. The album I recorded in seventy-eight. He said he’d love to hear it. I told him if he ever found a copy to be sure to make me a copy, since they only printed five hundred of them.”

“Mom!” I say, when I notice how happy she looks. “Don’t look so pleased when you’re talking about him! He’s a … he’s an asshole.”

“He can’t be that bad,” she says. “He promised to find that record and let me know as soon as he did.”

I groan with every fiber of my being.

“Wait,” I say, holding a palm up. “I don’t understand. How did you get from that conversation that he was the one I told about…the secret.”

“Sweetie,” my mom says in a way that makes me feel thirteen again, “I might be old but some things don’t change. The sound of a man’s voice when he’s talking about a girl he’s infatuated with is one of them.”

“Mom! He’s just my manager!” But the lie comes out sounding defensive and weak, and I know I’m not convincing her.

She smiles gently. “I’m not judging.”

“Fine. But still…”

“Listen, Haley, the kind of man who would look for a rare, limited edition record for a girl’s mother is also the kind of guy who would go to the ends of the earth for that girl – young woman, I mean – and her secrets.”

“And is apparently also the kind of man who would spill those secrets to the whole world?” I say, slumping back against the chair in exhausted defeat.

“Are you sure about that?” my mom asks.

“Yes! It’s exactly the kind of thing he’d do. Probably for publicity or something.”

Mom’s expression remains skeptical. “Did he tell you that?”

“Of course not. He said he didn’t tell anyone.”

“So why do you think it was him?”

“Because…he was the only one who knew! And he’s lied to me before.”

My mom gives me the same sigh-and-critical-look combination that she gives her music students who skip their homework.

“Haley…”

“Mom…” I say, in the same voice I used when I wanted to skip school. “The whole music thing…it just sucks. Someone messed up my guitar before a gig. And way before that, Brando made a bet with some douche bag that he would make my song a hit. One minute the label won’t give us a video budget, the next they send me on tour with Lexi. They basically forced me to sign with Majestic by throwing a bunch of lawyers at us saying I’d have to repay the studio time back myself if I didn’t. This business is just full of snakes and lies and people playing fucked up games. It’s not as simple as it looks. You don’t understand.”

“Don’t I?”

I look at her soft face, barely able to conceal the hurt she feels.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

She shrugs it off and smiles. “It sounds to me like the music industry hasn’t changed one bit, honestly.”

I let out a little laugh, but the smile disappears quickly when I remember. “The point is, Brando probably did this. And he probably thought he was doing me a favor, that it would help my career.”

“Haley,” my mom says with an air of finality, “the – ‘secret’ – as you call it, was never going to stay secret for long once you got your name out there. Do you know how many people found out about me and Rex at the time? How many of his biographers I’ve had to fend off insinuating questions from? What about the strange letters I get from his insane fans that think they’ve made some connection between us? You’re right. I don’t know this Brando, but I do know people. And it’s worth giving them the benefit of the doubt every once in a while.”

I nod slowly, taking in her words, wishing I believed them. “I’d like to say thanks for the support, Mom. But the truth is that I’m more confused than ever right now.”

“So listen to your heart instead of your head,” she says simply. As if it’s that easy. “Now sit tight and let me make you some tea.”

Chapter 13

Brando

Her house is exactly how I imagined it would look. On the outskirts of a quiet hippie town near the beach, at the end of a quiet road that winds slowly up a hill, surrounded by a few quiet clusters of shady trees. It’s no wonder she enjoys making noise.

I step through the worn, wooden gate and knock on the door, shaking my arms and stretching my neck like I’m bracing for a fight. The door opens slowly, but the person who opens it is anything but confrontational.

“So you must be Brando,” says the striking woman in the doorframe.

She’s tall and slim, a flowing dress hanging from softly-curved shoulders. Her angular bone structure seems to catch and hold the light like a supermodel. Though she’s got the comfortable smile and glinting eyes of someone in their fifties, something about her makes everything else seem a little less physical.

“Ms. Cooke,” I say, quickly suppressing the guilty pang of finding Haley’s mom kinda hot.

She smiles, and it’s like the sun is shining directly at me. “Call me Wanda. Come on in,” she says, standing aside. I step through the doorway, looking around the room like a detective scanning for clues. “She’s not here,” Wanda says, noticing my tensed muscles. “She’s out in the shed.”

“The shed?”

“It’s where she likes to record and play. Me too, sometimes,” she says, as she leads me through the house toward the back door. “It’s a kind of studio. And a guest room.”

She pushes open the kitchen door to the long lawn of neatly-cut bright-green grass, colored blooms and bushes lining it all the way to the end, where a ramshackle wooden structure sits amid the greenery like some miniature English cottage that time forgot.

“Look. Wanda,” I say, turning back after she holds the door open once again for me to step past. “Thanks for telling me she was here. I know she probably told you not to.”

“You’d have found her here eventually. Better sooner rather than later.” Wanda looks down sadly. “Haley’s like a wild flame: Quick to start, and quick to calm. But if you leave her to herself, she can burn everything around her.”

I know Wanda’s right, but something about the way she says it makes me feel like I’m hearing a secret.

“I can see where she got her poetic side.”

Wanda takes my hand in hers and looks at me with mint-blue eyes. It feels like she can read my mind.

“I hope she didn’t inherit my taste in men.”

As soon as she says it, she drops my hand and steps back into the house, closing the door. The message is clear: You’re on your own, buddy. I spin around to face the shed across the lawn, which seems a thousand miles long now, and start walking.

By the time I get close to the shed door, my head’s swirling with so many thoughts, so many emotions, so many memories, that I can’t tell if the sound I’m hearing is real or imagined. It’s only when I get close enough to put a hand against the deeply-grained wood that I know it’s really her. She’s singing. Low and long, a sad song. She stops every few lines, then starts back up again, the same way she always does when she’s writing.

I listen for a while, taking deep breaths, and then brace myself once again. I glance back toward the house and see Wanda looking through the glass pane of the door. She offers me a gentle look of sympathy before turning away and heading back into the house.

I knock.

Haley calls out something that gets muffled through the wall, then gets back to playing. I knock again. This time I hear her stop, and the thud of what’s probably her guitar being put down. I take a step back from the door.

“What the fuck?” she snarls, her face twisting with uncontrolled anger as soon as she sees me. “No! Go away!”

As she screams this last word she puts her hand on my chest and shoves me as violently as she can. I stumble back, and she storms toward me.

“Just fucking leave already! Get out of my life!” she screams, her voice breaking up with how loud she’s screaming. She shoves me again, putting all of her strength into it.

“Don’t you fucking get it already? I don’t want anything to do with you!”

This time I grab her biceps and hold her before she can shove me again.

“Stop it!” I shout, my voice so loud it seems to swallow hers, to boom off the surrounding mountains. “For fuck’s sake, Haley! Stop.”

We glare at each other, chests heaving, jaws clenching. Two animals in a fight to the death.

“I’ll never forgive you for what you did,” Haley hisses, her voice as sharp as a blade.

“I’ve done a lot of dumb things, Haley. Made a lot of mistakes. But that wasn’t one of them.”

“Fuck you!” Haley says, shrugging my hands off her, rage pouring off her in waves.

Something in me snaps. “No, Haley. Fuck you! I didn’t come here to beg. I didn’t come here to apologize. I’m sick of fucking apologizing. This whole tour I’ve been twisting myself into knots over you. Praying you’d give me another chance. Wondering how fucking long you were going to stay mad at me. And then for a whole month before that I didn’t even leave the house. I felt like I’d give anything to see you again, and it still wasn’t enough.”

Haley glares at me even more fiercely.

“And for what, Haley? For what? A stupid bet that I didn't care about from the second I realized how good you really were. A stupid bet that I won, and still feel like I lost. A stupid bet that I'd make all over again, because it's the best damn thing that happened ever happened to me – and maybe to you, too. I'm not the one hung up on the bet, Haley, you are. You keep treating me like I’m an asshole – and maybe I am, but not for the reasons you think. The only mistake I made was feeling the way I do about you. But I’m done. I’m done being the nice guy. I didn’t come here to apologize. I didn’t come here to beg you for another chance. I came here to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Haley spits, her voice even harder and tighter.

“That I fucking love you.”

The words seem to light a fire in her face, her eyes flickering over mine, her lips opening in an angry scowl, trembling with anger. Her cheeks go hot red like I just slapped her in the face.

She leaps at me again, even more aggressively, even more fueled by her hot-headed temper, even more out of control. Only this time it’s not to push me. It’s to kiss me.

Chapter 14

Haley

On the drive back to LA I have to struggle to stop myself from smiling. I hang my arm out of the window and watch Brando as he focuses on the road, feeling weird in a happy kind of way. He notices me watching and laughs.

“You look pretty happy to return to LA,” he says

“I’m just happy right now. Take the 1.”

“Why?” he says, frowning. “It’s longer.”

“Yeah. But I like the ocean view.”

I lean toward the window and let the wind caress my face, stroke my hair. When I open my eyes I see Brando, notice the lines of his arm muscles, the Italian nose in profile, the way he looks like he’s dreaming when his face is at rest.

He glances over at me and notices me staring again.

“I feel like I should be charging you when you look at me like that.”

“I hope I can afford it,” I giggle, as I lean over to turn on the radio.

We listen to the tail end of a half-decent song, both of us only half-listening, until the two DJs start talking.

“…an interesting story. Rex Bentley – you like Rex Bentley, Sara?”

“Who doesn’t? ‘Put on your red shoes…’”

“Well his daughter, apparently. Haley Grace Cooke: The girl who just supported Lexi Dark on her tour and is set up to be even bigger.”

“She’s his daughter?”

“That’s what people are saying.”

“I can believe it.”

“What do you think? Is this just one of those publicity things? Or you think she really didn’t want people to know?”

Brando presses the off button so hard he nearly breaks it. We drive on in silence for a few minutes, but the sense of something wrong hangs in the space between us.

“What do I do?” I finally ask, turning to Brando. “What do I do about this?”

Brando focuses on the road, sighing deeply before he speaks.

“Rowland wants to use this, of course. Play up the connection. Milk the publicity, really drive home the ‘estranged daughter of the musical legend is just as talented’ angle. He’s already talking feature pieces about how you always knew the music was in your blood. Me: I want this to go away. Disappear. You can stand on your own talent, you worked your ass off for this career, and you’ve got no reason to want to be associated with a scumbag like him. If it were up to me, this story would be dead and gone yesterday.”

I nod. “Me too. But how? Is that even possible?”

Brando’s lips press together as he thinks of how best to let me down.

“I don’t know. Worst case scenario, this thing catches fire – more than it has – and the fans turn against you. They find out the truth, you get branded a wannabe who rode her daddy’s coattails, and nothing you ever do is judged fairly. If you even get the chance to make another record.”

“And what’s the bad news?”

Brando smiles.

“Best case scenario: The story gets buried in all the other garbage people write about, and in a year or two is nothing but an urban myth. I’ll be honest, that one’s unlikely. This is the juiciest thing in the news right now. Unless the Pope decides to streak at the Cubs game tomorrow.”

I look out at the view over the rocky cliffs, the ocean below looking a little more overwhelming than I remember it.

“Do you have his number?”

Brando drops me off at my apartment before zooming off to perform damage control. I check the time and groan when I realize Jenna is still on her shift and won’t be back for another four hours. When I get inside, I drop my duffle bag to the floor, toss my leather jacket to the side, and head straight for the refrigerator.

I’m eighty percent of the way toward deciding I should order Chinese when there’s a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” I shout, as I slam the refrigerator closed and walk over to the door.

The knock comes again, loud and impatient. I swing it open.

“Hey, babe!”

“Lexi?”

“The one and only,” she says as she strides right on past me into the apartment. Impossibly confident in just a pair of white cut-off jean shorts and a pink tank top.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just checking up on you,” she says as she glides around the room, looking around casually as if she’s considering buying it. “How’s your throat?”

I touch my throat as if remembering it was supposed to hurt suddenly. Despite the shouting match with Brando, the stress of crying all night on the plane, and the fact that I’ve been doing anything but resting since fucking Brando at Lexi’s show – it feels way better than it should.

“Fine … I guess?”

Lexi laughs wildly. “Oh! What a surprise,” she says with open derision. “I suppose that strange, unnamed, random doctor was wrong.”

I step toward Lexi, and she moves sideways.

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, making it clear from my tone that I don’t appreciate hers.

She grins menacingly as we circle each other around the furniture like wrestlers before a bout.

“Why don’t you take a guess? And show me just how gullible you can really be?”

“That wasn’t a real doctor? And I wasn’t sick enough to miss the show?” Lexi looks at me with mock-pity as she slow-claps. “You made me miss the New York show for nothing?”

“No. I never do anything for nothing. You missed the show because you were getting in my way.”

I shake my head in disbelief. Lexi leans back against the kitchen counter, stretching her long, bare legs out in front of her.

“You’re … you’re a bitch.”

Lexi laughs as she picks up an apple from the fruit bowl and plays with it in her hand.

“That’s not even the bitchiest thing I did yesterday.”

I take a couple of steps closer to her, my limbs feeling like coiled springs.

“What are you talking about?”

Lexi takes a loud bite of the apple and looks at me expectantly.

“No,” I say, refusing to let the thought take root. “No. You didn’t.”

“I probably did.”

“No. How could you? You didn’t even know.”

Lexi nonchalantly wipes the corner of her mouth, but her lipstick is still picture-perfect. “I know I have a good voice – but I have even better ears.” She puts on a comical impression of Brando. “‘Oh Haley, that night you told me Rex Bentley – the legendary singer – was your father, I got such a hard-on. Poor you, having such famous parents.’”

I bury my head in my hands, clawing at my hair.

“I can’t believe it. This is too much,” I say, looking back at Lexi. “It doesn’t make any sense. What do you get by telling the press about that? If anything it just makes me more famous, gives me more attention – more than you. Why would you do that?”

“Because,” Lexi says, turning serious as she tosses the apple away and strides slowly toward me, “I couldn’t give two fucks about your career anymore. I don’t care how many sweaty guitar geeks give your lousy records great reviews. I couldn’t be more oblivious to how many shows you sell out. I’ve realized what I really want.”

She stands in front of me, inches away, her face so close I can see the thickness of her lashes.

“I want Brando back.”

This time it’s me who laughs, hysterically, my body reacting with the only response it can find for something so insane.

“Are you fucking crazy?” I shout, pacing away from her and then turning back. “What? You thought I’d assume it was him and then we’d…” I stop laughing when I realize she was almost right, that she almost got exactly what she wanted.

I step toward her, finger in front of me. “Well it didn’t work. And it never will. Brando’s still mine. You failed. You and all your stupid fucking games.”

Slowly, Lexi puts her hand around my pointed finger, and pulls it away from her face.

“It’s not over yet, babe. Brando’s still going to choose me.”

“Wow,” I say, shaking my head. “You are one hundred percent, no holds-barred, batshit crazy. How can you even think that he’d still go back to you? I almost pity you for being that deluded.”

“I’m giving Majestic a choice. Either they drop me, or they drop you. Once you’re gone, it’ll be just me and my Brando again – just like old times.”

I turn and take a few steps away from her, unsure of whether to laugh or to call the men in white coats. I spin back around to look at her, standing proudly.

“You’re crazy. The label’s not going to drop me for a prima donna like you. You might be a star, Lexi, but you’re also a huge pain in the ass,” I say, stepping back toward her. “And even if they’re stupid enough to drop me, Brando’s not.”

Lexi licks her lips like she’s preparing to bite.

“You seem pretty certain that you know what Brando will do.”

“I do.”

“Are you sure? How long have you known him? Three months? Four? Try four fucking years with him. Four years that took us from a shitty studio apartment in Harlem to the Hollywood Hills. Four years to understand each other, to know how to make each other happy, to know how to push each other’s buttons.”

“Those years don’t count for anything,” I snarl, losing some of my self-control. “You made sure of that the instant you cheated and left him, left the real music. All you cared about was money and fame.”

Lexi’s unfazed. “That time must have counted for something – the only reason you’re even here is the bet he made to get me back.”

I clench my fists and hold them tightly to my side.

“Maybe he loved you at one point. But not now. Not after the way you treated him,” I say, the shakiness of the words letting both of us know I only half-believe it.

“And how exactly did you treat him, Haley? I saw the way you kept your distance from him on the tour, even though he wanted so badly to have a little taste of whatever it is you’ve got. I heard about how you assumed the worst of him the second you heard the Rex Bentley story broke out. You didn’t even give him a chance to explain, did you?”

I stand there stiffly, my mouth open as if to say something, but the shaking tension of my body, the stabbing fears in my mind, are too much to handle. Lexi’s got a point.

“You keep acting like I’m the one who’s fucking up your relationship,” she continues, “but the truth is, you’re the one who got in the middle of ours.”

Lexi laughs when she sees I’m too shaken to talk, and starts walking toward the door. She opens it, and looks back over her shoulder.

“I’ll tell you one thing you don’t know about Brando,” she says. “He’ll sacrifice everything he has, for the one thing he wants.”

She steps through the door, but just before she’s out of earshot I find my voice.

“You’d better hope he still wants you, then.”