Brando (10 page)

It’s
just a hunch. She’s
not supposed to be at the studio for another couple of hours, and she
has coffee shifts pretty much every day. Still, Josh is staying at
the studio, and at the very least I figure we can share a beer until
she arrives. When I pull up on the path outside the studio, however,
I can hear my hunch is right.

It’s
loud and raucous. Fast and vibrant. The muffled sound of guitars and
drums emanating from deep within the house. I step out of the car and
make my way inside, the sound getting clearer and louder like a fog
dissipating, dirt being cleaned away.

She’s
the first thing I notice when I step inside the studio, and she’s
the first to notice me, even though she’s
singing into the mic with every breath in her body, stamping her
feet, playing the hell out of her guitar. Her tight tank top squeezes
her breasts, ripped jeans show the firm flesh of her thighs. I watch
the way she winds her curves, and can almost feel them squeezing
against my hardening cock.

She
winks at me and smiles, and I can hear her smile in the words.

I
walk up beside Josh, who’s
rocking his head and watching so energetically from behind the
partition he doesn’t
notice me until I’m
right beside him. When he does he looks at me, he gives a thumbs up.
I nod a reply. We both understand.

This
is not just good. This is fucking amazing.

There
are three other musicians in the studio playing, and all of them seem
energized by Haley in the middle, a dancing, powerful, beautiful
presence. Our eyes stay locked together and I begin to realize I’ve
never seen anyone so alive, so sexy, so talented.

Something
falls into place deep inside of me. I’m
going to make Haley a star. Not for a bet. Not for Lexi. Not even for
myself. I’m going to
do it because she deserves it.

Haley

Coffee
beans being grinded. Radio blaring another bland pop tune. The cash
register that sounds like it’s
from the forties. The same customers having the same conversations
about morning traffic and work. The rush hour shift is nothing if not
consistent.

“What
can I get you ma’am?”

“…he
keeps
changing the set. We’re
nearly at the end of the run, and he’s
still
moving the walls a little bit to the left, shove the table over
there, put the drawers a little closer…”

“Would
you like cream?”

“It’s
Death of a Salesman
for God’s sake! It’s
not like it hasn’t
been done a million times before! But every night it’s
‘Whoops! Stubbed my
toe again!’ or
‘Whoops! I’m
exiting the stage on the wrong side again!’”

“Will
that be tall, medio, or venti?”

“I
think the only reason people are still coming is to see what new,
weird arrangement the set’s
going to be in rather than the actual play.”

And
that’s when it
happens. Just as I’m
taking a ten dollar bill for a customer’s
medio caramel frappucino with cream. In the middle of Jenna’s
rant about her current play.

That’s
when my song comes on the radio.

That’s
when my life changes.

My
mouth drops open, my body freezes, and then I stiffly turn around to
see that Jenna has done exactly the same. I drop the bill, Jenna
drops the cup she’s
holding, and we scream. Suddenly we’re
in each other’s
arms, jumping to the beat, half-dancing, half-hugging. I gasp over
and over again, as if I’m
flying too high to breathe while Jenna shouts across the coffee shop.

“This
is my friend’s song!
This is
her
song playing on the radio!”

I
freeze again, listening once more to make doubly sure, positive that
it must be a mistake. Another similar-sounding song, a mistake by the
radio DJ, my cd finding its way into the coffee shop stereo. The song
ends.

“…and
that last song you heard was
Chasing
Ghosts
by Haley Grace
Cooke. Great song there. Hopefully we’ll
see a lot more of this talented singer-songwriter in the coming
months.”

Jenna
and I turn to each other and scream again.

I
try to stick out the rest of my shift but my head feels like a swarm
of bees are trapped inside it. Eventually, Jenna convinces me to
leave early so that I can see Brando. She knows how much I want to.

I’m
no calmer when I walk into Brando’s
apartment.

“I
can’t
believe
it! They played it
twice!
I was searching online and I’m
in
the rotation! Not just that station, but a bunch of them! There must
be some mistake. I don’t
even know how they got ahold of the song!”

“I
leaked it online,” Brando
says, stretching out on the sofa.

“Just
like that?” I say,
pacing around in front of him.

“You
don’t need tricks.
The song speaks for itself. I just put it online, asked a few friends
at stations to listen and make up their own minds, and there it is.”

I
stop to look at him –
really
look at him. Maybe something’s
changed in one of us, maybe both, but I see someone different. He’s
not the loud-mouthed New Yorker disrupting my open mic set; not the
slick, indifferent manager who promised me the world and tried to
turn me into a pop idol; he’s
not even the impossibly hot, fuckable stranger who made me orgasm my
nerves away; he’s
Brando.

“You
really believe in me, don’t
you?” I say,
stepping towards him slowly.

“More
than anyone,” he
says, low and steady, his eyes not moving an inch from mine.

Suddenly
it all makes sense. The fucking, the music, the airplay. Everything I
ever wanted, all at the same time, all made possible by the man
sitting slouched on the sofa in front of me. All because he didn’t
give up on me.

I
throw myself on him, wrapping my legs around his hard hips, shoving
my tongue between those flawless lips. It’s
the first time I’ve
ever kissed him without hesitating; the first time I haven’t
held back. But it’s
bigger than me, the force that makes my body press against him, makes
my hands explore the muscles in his neck, squeeze his hips between my
thighs.

Big,
powerful hands grab at my ass cheeks as I grind myself against the
front of his jeans, slowly at first, his bulge hardening quickly,
then faster, rougher. Our lips stay locked while I work his shirt
buttons, tongues knotting in a fury of wet lust. He bites and bucks
ferociously under my hands, an animal I’m
keeping under control with the movement of my hips.

I
unbutton his shirt and pull back, devouring the view of his torso.
His chest is fucking glorious. Hard, taut muscles perfectly arranged
in front of me like a landscape. Time seems to stop for a second
while I contemplate it, running my fingers down the groove between
his pecs, delicately fingering his six-pack, a million ideas flowing
through my mind.

“You
look like you’ve
never seen a man before,” Brando
says, a slow smile playing out on his lips.

“Not
like you.”

Brando
laughs just before I feel his hands around my waist. Suddenly he
throws me down to the floor, just gentle enough, just hard enough. He
holds himself over me, triceps tightening as he crawls upward,
burying the masculine grate of his stubble into the nape of my neck.
I push and pull against his immovable body, scrambling to pull off my
clothes while he feasts on my neck. I press my face into his
shoulder, his shirt hanging off it loosely, the smell of his
testosterone driving me wild.

It’s
scruffy, messy, something we’ve
both been wanting to do for a long time, something we’ve
been holding back from. Now that we’re
letting it out, it’s
got a mind of its own.

I
manage to throw my jacket off, but it’s
Brando who undresses the rest of me, so quick it’s
either magic or a hell of a lot of experience. When he gets to his
own, however, he slows down. He’s
on his knees in front of me, his shirt hanging on one shoulder. I
hold myself up slightly on my elbows in order to take in the full
magnificence of his broad chest as he peels off his shirt and then
unbuckles his belt slowly, enjoying the sight of my chest heaving, my
breath getting heavier.

“I’ve
been waiting for this since you told me to get out of your way at the
open mic,” he says,
as he unzips his fly, the deep hunger he looks at my body with
backing up his words.

“Holy
shit,” I say, as the
biggest and most beautiful cock I’ve
ever seen emerges from his designer denim. “That
looks…illegal.”

Brando’s
smile is hard and foreboding as he pulls a condom out and puts it on
with one hand, his other too busy exploring my breasts to help.

“It’s
okay,” he rumbles,
“I know how to use
it.”

“So
do I,” I murmur, not
breaking eye contact for a second. A bubble of anticipation and lust
starts growing in the pit of my stomach, a tangled mass of heat and
intensity waiting to explode as soon as he hits it.

He
presses the end softly against my pussy lips and I drop my shoulders
to the floor, arms grabbing and scratching at the rug, eyes closed.
He’s slow at first,
his cock teasing at my pussy with aching restraint, rough fingers
stroking all the right spots on my body. His lips cover my nipple,
tongue rolling it slowly, everything in perfect synchronicity.

But
it’s just a prelude,
a slow-building overture. I lose myself in a flurry of sensations, so
many it’s like there
are a dozen of him, kissing and touching and biting at my body with
beautiful timing. His stubble against my breast, his breath on my
navel, hand on my neck, teeth on my ear. I lose sense of where one
sensation ends and another begins. As he spears into me, steady and
perfect, I pant and moan, barely able to hear myself through the
sound of my body’s
ecstasy. A virtuoso performance, and in the center of it all is the
drumbeat of his cock, getting harder and faster. From rhythmic ballad
to driving groove to slamming beat, until it turns in a jungle
rhythm, a primal thump that feels like thunder striking deep, to the
depths of my soul. A jackhammer booming inside of me, sending me
higher into the stratosphere with each thrust.

For
a few moments I lose all sense of time and space. Forget who I am,
what I’m doing. Get
scared at the idea I may never come back down again, may never be
able to function after experiencing this, after so much pleasure.
Every heartbeat, pulse, and nerve in my body reaches its peak,
humming in unison as I hover for a few beautiful seconds on the edge.
I let myself feel it, let it engulf me, let him push me over the
brink, harder and faster, until there’s
nothing else left.

“Come
for me,” he demands,
tilting my chin up so we’re
staring into each other’s
eyes.

Suddenly
I’m falling. Back
down to earth, back into Brando’s
apartment, back to his floor, over his cock, coming in unstoppable
waves of fluid release. I grab his shoulders to steady my arching,
writhing body. The feeling of his flexing, sculpted muscles under my
hands only urges me further. I realize I’m
screaming like I’ve
never screamed before, a sound that seems to come from every pore of
my body. Through misted eyes I see him, groaning with satisfaction as
he reaches his own shuddering climax inside of me.

Spent
and satisfied, I collapse back onto the floor, my muscles feeling
like they’re melting
downward. A relaxing coolness filling the empty spaces in my body. I
feel tender fingers brush hair from my face, stroking it into place,
and open my eyes.

“You
scream beautifully,” Brando
says, grinning.

I
put a hand to his face and pull him toward me for a slow kiss.

“It’s
always about the music, right?”

Brando

Showcases
are the end of the road for most indie acts. The closest they ever
get to breaking big. It’s
where most indie performers put everything on the line, one shot, a
double or nothing bet, in front of a brick wall of
impossible-to-impress label men. Nine out of ten times none of the
acts get picked up. One out of every hundred – maybe
thousand – acts
hears from a label afterwards. Big shots go to the events more to
convince themselves that they’re
not missing out, or to convince themselves that they’ve
still got an ear on the ground, than to actually find talent.

I
don’t tell Haley any
of that.

The
show I’ve booked
Haley for is the most high-profile showcase event of the year. One of
the biggest and best clubs in LA, booked for an entire evening by
some of the biggest and best labels in LA. Every act on the bill has
some heavy hitter already pushing them; managers with good
connections and a reputation, A&R guys trying to prove something
to their bosses. And though it looks like any other gig, everyone
dressed down and drinking as if it was just another open mic, it’s
exclusive too. Almost everyone in the room has the power to make or
break an artist; almost everyone in the room has done it before.

I
don’t tell Haley any
of that, either.

Because
there’s already a
buzz around Haley – more
than there should be for someone who barely has an online presence.
It’s still just the
hip stations – the
ones that still choose for themselves what they put on the air –
that are playing her song, but
they’re playing it a
lot. A fan-made video of her song with just a blank background and
the lyrics flashing across the screen is already stacking up views on
ViewTube. Everyone wants to see what she’s
all about now. Whether she’s
the real deal, or just some girl who accidentally wrote a good song.
The few, low-res, unrevealing pics that come up when you search her
name online only stoked their interest further. They’ve
got a lot of questions that need answers.