Текст книги "Brando: Part Two"

Автор книги: J. D. Hawkins

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 8 страниц)

Chapter 15

Brando

I drive home before going to Majestic to meet Rowland, calling the small team of college students I hired to manage Haley’s website and her social media to tell them they need to get their asses to my place as soon as possible for an emergency meeting. Even though I drive with all the impatient recklessness of a man with hours left to live, they’re in the lobby by the time I arrive, laptops under their arms. I bring the five of them into my apartment, seat them in the lounge, and stand in front of them like a general about to give the briefing for a suicide mission.

“Okay, guys,” I say, clapping my hands, “listen up. The next couple of days it’s crucial we put a mark on this thing. I’m going to need all of you to work like motherfuckers right now. Whatever I’m paying you, triple it. Now we can’t stop this story from spreading, but we can try and shape the conversation a little bit.”

I point to a couple of the wide-eyed students opening their laptops hurriedly. “Steven, Jessica: You take social media. Haley is nervous about her sore throat – she still hasn’t had it checked out. She’s gutted that she missed the New York show, but the tour went great, she’s eternally grateful to her fans for their support, and can’t wait to finish off the album. Act like you don’t even know about the Rex Bentley thing, you’re above it, it’s just some dumb rumor that you’re way above even acknowledging.

“Ross, Michelle: Find the freshest, biggest articles on the story – the ones that everybody else is linking to. Make multiple accounts, and comment on them. ‘This is just a dumb misunderstanding,’ ‘how is this even news,’ ‘daughter or not, her show was still awesome,’ that kind of thing. Make it seem like the logical reaction to this is disbelief and scorn for the guys who write about it.

“Simon,” I say, looking at him with keen intent, “here’s what I want you to do. Make a fake account, and message the people I’m going to give you the email addresses for. Tell them that you’re a source close to Haley. Tell them that they’ve got the story wrong, Rex Bentley is not her father.” I pause for a second while he nods. “Mick Jagger is.”

“What?” he says, incredulous. Everybody else turns to look at me. “That’s ridiculous!”

“Exactly,” I say. “You can’t kill a story like this, but you can make it so confusing and exaggerated that nobody gives a shit anyway. Disinformation. When people don’t know what to believe, they believe none of it.”

Slowly, as the idea sinks in, Simon starts to nod, then opens his laptop with enthusiasm.

“I’m going to have a meeting at the label now, I’ll be back later,” I shout behind me as I go for the door. “Don’t let me down, guys. Haley’s counting on you.”

I slam through Rowland’s doors like a bull through the gates, the sound of his secretary confirming my appointment already behind me.

“I’m squashing the story, Rowland! Don’t make any statements from the label, my team is going to handle this. I know you think this is good for Haley but—” I’m already at his desk, standing over it with my palms on the steel when I notice. “What’s Lexi doing here?”

I turn my gaze back from her crossed legs, casually bouncing up and down, toward the concerned, almost frightened, look on Rowland’s face. He locks his fingers in front of him on the table and fidgets.

He talks slowly, carefully, like a doctor on a death ward. “I don’t really know how to say this, and I’m pretty surprised myself, to be totally honest with you, but I—”

“Haley’s getting dropped from the label,” Lexi interrupts with dark relish. “I’ve just told him. It’s me or her.”

“What?” I say, my eyes switching between the two like I’m watching a frantic tennis match. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“I don’t exactly have a choice,” Rowland whispers through gritted teeth, as if Lexi wouldn’t be able to hear. He raises his helpless eyes to mine, almost like he’s begging for a way out. “Lexi’s pretty much made up her mind.”

I turn to her.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t like the way this label is run,” Lexi says, springing out of her chair and standing beside me. “What was Haley doing on my tour? She doesn’t even have a full album out! And you were supposed to be managing both of us, Brando, but I didn’t see you running to my side very often.”

“You seemed to do perfectly fine on your own,” I growl.

“Exactly. I don’t like sharing. And as long as Haley’s on the label, I know I won’t be getting all the support I could be getting. It’s me or her.”

I turn to Rowland. “This is ridiculous. Lexi signed a contract. She can’t leave, right? Isn’t that what you told me? That this whole business is about tying up artists even when they don’t want to be?”

“I’m only part artist – I’m all businesswoman,” Lexi purrs maliciously. “Anyone tries to stop me from quitting and I’ll destroy Majestic from the inside. A couple of tweets and I’d have every one of my fans boycotting your records. Maybe throw in a sexual harassment lawsuit. Yet another case of the big, bad record industry taking advantage of a poor, innocent girl. I can bring a shit storm raining down on this label that you people will never recover from.”

Rowland’s face goes white, and he jumps up from his chair. Lexi flutters her eyelashes and laughs. Now the three of us are standing around the desk.

“You see this?” he cries, despairingly. “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to drop Lexi, and keep Haley!” I shout back. “She’s the one who killed on this tour, not Lexi! She’s the one with the potential to take us to another level!”

“You think I want to drop Haley? She’s fantastic, I love her! But I don’t have a choice!”

“Yes you do! Lexi’s giving you one!”

Rowland slumps back into his chair and spends a full five seconds rubbing his forehead before looking back up at me. Lexi just watches us, all self-satisfied amusement and dancing eyes—loving every second.

“Haley’s had two hits, Lexi’s had five. Haley hasn’t even released an album, Lexi’s had a number one. The tour was great, but it was still Lexi’s name on the top of it. Even when you get past the simple numbers of the thing, I don’t know what the hell is going on with Haley. One minute she’s fucking up a gig because she can’t tune a guitar, the next minute she’s pulling out of the grand finale to the tour. And now there’s a weird story connecting her to Rex Bentley that you won’t let me use to her advantage because of her ‘feelings.’” I take a step back. I know what’s coming. “I’ve made my choice, Brando. Haley’s gone.”

“Then so am I,” I say, stalking toward the door.

Chapter 16

Haley

I’m still in shock over Lexi’s visit when there’s a knock at the door. I stop doing laps around the living room and pulling at my hair to turn and look at it. There’s another knock. I step slowly towards it. When I open it, I can’t control myself. I leap onto Brando, bury my face into his neck, clutch his back as tightly as a lifesaver. For the past hour I’ve been wondering if I’ll ever see him again, if the one guy who can make me feel like he does is about to disappear from my life forever. The idea alone crushed me, chewed me up, made me feel like a ghost. Just seeing him again is enough to make me break down.

“Haley,” he says slowly, pushing me off him gently and closing the door behind him, “I’ve got some bad news.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head and feeling my heart grow heavy. I back away slowly. “No.”

His face is serious, unhappy. I pray he doesn’t speak, gathering every bit of strength in my body to tell him not to speak, and it’s still not enough. I bury my head in my hands.

“The label dropped you,” he says, bluntly and sadly.

I look up slowly, feeling like somebody put a hot towel on my face.

“And you chose Lexi.”

His face changes. “No, I didn’t. Rowland did. Majestic did. Not me.” He pauses, realization dawning. “You knew about the ultimatum?”

I nod, steeling myself for an answer I probably don’t want to hear. “So what did you choose?”

“Haley,” he says, rushing toward me and lifting my face in his hands, “why are you even asking me that? I chose you. Of course I did. I quit on them. Same as last time. Same as when we had to go it alone before.”

Something inside me cracks open, releasing a flood of happiness that flows into every fiber of my body. I pull Brando’s face to mine, as if the feeling’s too much for one person, and the only way I can share it is by pressing my lips against his. A kiss more intimate than erotic, but no less necessary.

When we pull away slowly, Brando gazes inquisitively into my eyes, brushing away a tear-track from my cheek.

“How could you even doubt that?” he asks gently.

“With Lexi back and the way things have been going with us, I just thought—”

“Don’t think,” he says, affectionately.

Brando drives us to his apartment like we’re racing a jet, only stopping to run into a coffee shop and come out a few minutes later with a carrier tray of coffees and a bag of donuts.

“Who is all of this for?” I ask, as he puts them in my lap and revs the car away.

“You’ll see.”

We get to his apartment and Brando bursts through the door like he’s about to perform a robbery. I follow behind and try not to be too surprised when a bunch of college students immediately crowd around me, grab the coffees, and then go back to sitting around the open laptops on Brando’s coffee table.

“What’s going on?” I ask as Brando stands in front of them. “It looks like you’re running a sweat shop in here.”

“Haley, this is Michelle, Simon, Ross, Steven, and Jessica. Guys, you know Haley.”

They mumble a distracted greeting in unison like an uncoordinated choir group. Still confused, I raise a hand weakly in response.

“So, what’s the situation?” Brando says, his voice turning authoritative.

“We can’t do anything,” Jessica says, shaking her ponytail. “Every time we post something about the sore throat we get a hundred replies – every one of them about Rex Bentley.”

“Same here,” Ross adds, “we’re commenting, but it’s getting lost in the mix. It’s a drop in the ocean compared to what’s going on. It seems like every two minutes another site posts the story. We can’t keep up.”

“No takers for the Mick Jagger story so far. Sorry,” Simon shrugs.

I glare at Brando with bewilderment at this last one. He shakes his head in a clear ‘don’t ask’ gesture.

“Shit,” he says, walking to the window. “Okay. The bottom-up approach isn’t going to work.”

“Why doesn’t Haley just do an interview?” Jessica says. “She doesn’t have to go in deep. Just deny it with a word and leave it at that.”

“This is the internet,” Brando says, turning around. “There are no ‘denials’ and ‘confirmations.’ There’s just ‘admitting’ and ‘ignoring.’ Haley’s got everything to lose, and everything to gain from this. If she goes on record and denies it, all that will happen is that this thing will get another boost. People expect her to deny it. The only time denying something works is if you’re too big, or respected, or have nothing to—”

Brando looks up suddenly, his mouth open and his eyes round as if he just caught sight of something amazing.

“What?” I say.

Brando walks over to me and puts his hands on my shoulders.

“Haley. Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do,” I reply, still confused, but able to answer that much.

“I’m going to do something you won’t like. But it’s our only option.”

Before I can say anything, he’s kissing me deeply, and then grabbing his keys as he makes for the door.

Chapter 17

Brando

I don’t need to call anyone to find out where Rex Bentley lives; anyone who’s been in LA longer than a week knows the place. It’s one of the biggest mansions in the city, and was bought when rockstars like Rex were giants who couldn’t seem to fit their egos into anything smaller. A Tuscan-style villa, its walls are a combination of stark angles, sections jutting out in every direction, as if somebody took a small English village, smashed it all together, and colored it white. It’s the kind of place only a rockstar or a supervillain could live in – and I’m hoping Rex isn’t both.

I roll the car up to the tall black gates and push the button on the intercom conveniently placed on the driver’s side. After waiting for about as long as it takes someone to get anywhere in a home that big, a young woman with an accent answers.

“Hello?”

“Hey. This is Brando Nash. I’m here to speak to Rex Bentley.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Brando. Nash.”

“Just a moment, please.”

I drum my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. This time the wait is short. The intercom crackles into life again.

“I’m sorry. Rex isn’t here right now. Can I take a message? What was your name again?”

“Okay,” I say, in my ‘enough bullshit’ tone. “I know Rex is in there, otherwise you wouldn’t have had me hold. Please tell him it’s extremely important, and can’t wait.”

“Hold on just a second.”

I stare through the gates, the massive fountain at the front of his mansion just visible across the curve of the driveway. The intercom crackles.

“Rex isn’t here. Do you want to leave a message?”

“Fuck this shit,” I mutter, to myself rather than the intercom, as I push open the car door and get out. I start jogging alongside the wall, and hear the intercom behind me as it crackles off.

The vast grounds of Rex’s mansion are surrounded by the high walls of someone who has a lot of people he wants to keep out. But it’s also surrounded by plenty of gigantic trees trying to keep those same people from looking in. Though I’ve never climbed trees for the fun of it, as a teenager I went up plenty of drainpipes with a pretty girl at the back window and judgmental parents at the front door.

When I find a tree with a low-enough branch and a good-enough lean I start making my way up. Soon I’m feeling the adrenaline rush and the bone-deep satisfaction of a good work-out, and just like in the gym, I push all the negative thoughts out of my mind. Thoughts like the fact that I’m breaking and entering, like the fact that Rex’s mansion is probably full of security cameras, like the fact that turning up on his doorstep without an invitation doesn’t segue smoothly into asking for a favor.

I get to the end of a wide branch, slowly step out onto the wall, and don’t give myself time to worry about the drop. Before I can think, I’m flailing to get out of a thick, thorny bush, my shirt ripped so badly it looks like netting, and my arms stinging from a bunch of cuts and grazes.

I waste a second checking my elbows, but that’s all it takes before I start running toward the mansion – partly because I want to get this over with, and partly because I think I can hear dogs barking.

After twenty yards there’s no doubt about it. Two tough, black and yellow sons-of-bitches are behind me, teeth already out like they’re trying to nose past a finish line with them. After forty yards I don’t even turn back to look I can hear them so loudly. After fifty yards I can almost feel their dog breath on my neck. But I’m almost at the entrance now, almost at the steps. I speed up, ready to take them three at a time, ready to lower my shoulder and bust through those big doors – the only way I’ve ever done anything – and then—

“Stop!”

I wheel back on my heels, skidding on the gravel in front of the massive steps that lead up to the front door. The second I see him there I raise my hands. It’s Rex Bentley – and he’s aiming a shotgun at me.

“Stop right there,” Rex repeats, his British accent only adding to the intimidation of being at gunpoint.

I try not to flinch as the two dogs stalk past me slowly and settle themselves on the steps between me and Rex, eyeing me dubiously.

“I thought the British didn’t believe in guns,” I say, trying to smile, but too out of breath for anything other than a panting grimace.

“Why do you think I don’t live there?” Rex says, lowering the gun to his side, but keeping it pointed directly at me with his finger on the trigger. He squints a little. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Brando Nash. We go to a lot of the same parties.”

His face is stonier than the fountain in the courtyard. “If the name meant anything to me I’d have let you in when you asked.”

“I’m an A&R guy– was an A&R, for Majestic Records.”

“I don’t know any A&R guys who would do something as stupid as enter my property without permission.”

I’d like to shoot back an appropriately convincing response, but instead all I can manage to do is drop my hands to clutch the stitch in my side and double over a little.

“Wait a minute,” Rex says, stepping down the stairs toward me slowly. “You’re Josh’s friend, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” I say, triumphantly. “We met at the launch party for his book.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, stepping onto the gravel, the gun a little looser in his hand now. “He said that you were the one of the only guys still hiring him to produce, and I thought that must mean you’re one of the only guys left with an ounce of taste.”

He steps closer and stands in front of me, lowering the gun so the barrel finally points toward the ground. I offer my hand, but he raises his chin.

“So what do you want?” he says, his voice a few degrees colder than before.

“I’m here about Haley,” I say, tightening my face and standing up straight.

“Haley?” he says, only just hiding the deep note that the name strikes inside him.

“Haley Grace Cooke. Your daughter.”

I can sense his body tighten, see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. For a few seconds it seems like he could go in any direction: Crying, spitting, running… Shooting.

“It’s out in the open,” I say, seeing that he can’t decide. “The news broke last night. It’s still spreading. It’s not a secret anymore. Not unless you do something about it.”

For what feels like hours we glare at each other, no one making a move, but I know Rex isn’t really looking at me, he’s looking deep inside himself. Pulling at old memories, at whatever feelings he has about this. He looks down at the ground and pushes his lower lip out. When he raises his head, it’s high again. He sticks the hand that isn’t holding the gun into his pocket, an attempt to be cool that works only because it’s his job.

“I’ve had everything and anything written about me,” he says distantly, as if remembering all of them at once. “That I’m gay. That I’m a plagiarist. That I’m a Nazi sympathizer. That I’m part of the Illuminati. Even a pact with the devil. It doesn’t matter.”

“This time it’s different.”

Rex’s smile is both condescending and curious.

“Why should it be?” he asks.

“Because this time it’s true.”

Rex’s smile disappears instantly. He looks away, and I see him swallow deeply before he speaks again.

“Why are you telling me this?” he says, his voice speeding up. “I don’t care what some fucking teenager with a laptop writes on the internet. I don’t care about asinine rumors and the speculation of journalists. It might seem like the end of the world to someone young enough to be climbing walls and running from dogs, but I’ve seen real problems. I’ve had friends die before their time of drugs, seen careers ruined and talent wasted in the most disgusting, abhorrent ways you can imagine. And here you are talking to me about a fucking rumor! Here’s a bit of advice: Get the hell out off of my property, and don’t ever come here again!”

Rex turns back toward the staircase. In a split-second I see all the reasons I’m doing this, all of the things driving me to this point. If there’s one chance, this is it, and it’ll be gone if I don’t take it.

I grab Rex’s shoulder and spin him around to face me so violently the dogs on the steps stand to attention.

“You might not fucking care, but Haley does!” I roar, inches away from his face. “The only reason rumors don’t mean shit to you is because you’re hidden away out here! Behind your massive walls, and your dogs, and your shotgun. Nothing can touch the ‘great Rex Bentley.’”

I shove his shoulder away with disgust.

“Only you’re not great,” I continue, momentum behind me, “you’re just a selfish old man. A shell of a person. You want to talk about real problems? How about being a young girl who sees her father everywhere, who feels like everyone knows him but her, and who gets completely ignored by him? How about feeling like you’re unwanted, not good enough, for your own flesh and blood? How about sending hundreds of letters to the one man who’s supposed to love you, support you, teach you how to be a human being, and never getting a word in reply? Not a single fucking word.”

I stand there panting and tense, full of rage and fire. Rex’s stony glare only making me more violent. I keep talking – the only way I can keep myself from doing something physical.

“What you did was unforgivable. What you did would have broken most kids. Screwed them up for life. But not Haley. She still did what she loved. Did it without asking you for anything. Did it despite the fact that you crushed her. Did it better than people who had all the help in the world. Right now, she’s made something good, built herself a life, but those fucking rumors are about to take even that away from her. And she doesn’t have a mansion to hide away inside.”

Even the dogs are cowering back from me now.

“If you ever even thought about her, ever read one of those letters, ever considered giving her that one word – then now is the last chance you’ll ever get.”

“There’s nothing I can do—”

“Bullshit,” I cut him off. “Deny the rumors. Do it so that you can make up at least something for the years of pain you’ve caused. Do it so that you don’t spend the rest of your life in a big, empty mansion regretting who you are. Do it so that you can say you did at least one thing for another person when you’re on your deathbed. I don’t fucking care, but just fucking do it.”

Rex doesn’t move, everything about him fixed in place like an ancient carving. I scowl back at him, feeling drained from the force I put behind each word, from the empathetic hurt I dredged up inside of me. After it’s been long enough that I wonder if he’ll say anything at all, Rex speaks.

“Where did she get an A&R guy like you?”

“I already told you. I’m not an A&R guy anymore. I’m just Brando now.”

Rex’s nod is almost imperceptible.

“Okay. I’ll call a journalist and do it today.”

I open my mouth to speak, but saying the words ‘thank you’ doesn’t seem right. I let the promise hang in the air like a reminder, and turn slightly to go.

“How is she?” Rex says, before I look away.

I smile darkly with the weight of it all.

“She’s a lot of things,” I say. “Too much to tell you myself.”

I turn around, the long, curving, gravel driveway feeling like it leads somewhere better, and take a few steps, before stopping suddenly and turning back. Rex is still standing there, still unmoved. The bastard.

“You know,” I say, taking a step back toward him, “I swore I’d do this right, do this the old-fashioned way, when the time comes. But I never figured it would be like this. I figured that I’d ask for it, but to tell you the truth, I’m sick of asking for things, so instead I’ll just tell you. I’m going to marry your daughter.”