Brando (2 page)

When
she comes there’s no
missing it. She throws her body forward onto me with a desperate cry,
head over my shoulder, hands clawing against my back as I keep on
gliding in and out, relentless, relishing the convulsions shuddering
around my cock. Her stomach curves in and out like a booming
subwoofer, the orgasm washing over her like sea waves.

I
let myself feel the pressure of her pussy, the softness of her
breasts, the tightness of her thighs around my waist, and let go of
the tension I’ve
been clutching since she first touched me. I cum in a hard, pounding
rush as she’s
letting out the last, gentle moans of a hard fuck. The long breaths
of someone returning to their senses.

“Did
your research find I’m
worthy of my reputation?” I
ask after a few moments, blinking myself back to reality as the blood
returns to my head.

“That
and more.”

A
minute later I’m
helping her pull those tight pants up the last few inches of her
gut-punchingly good ass. I take my time – it’s
good enough to make me consider another round already. She turns
around and puts a hand against my cheek.

“How
about coming back to mine?”

I
glance at her with an apologetic shake of the head as I lace up my
shoes. “Sorry. I’m
heading out to meet a friend tonight.”

She
leans up against the door. “Aren’t
you tired? All that bench-pressing...I could give you that massage I
promised.”

“I
tend to make bad decisions when I’m
tired.”

“Not
going home with me is a
very
bad decision,” she
says, her voice loaded with promises.

“I’m
sure it is,” I say,
drawing close to her and opening the door a little.

She
steps aside, an expression that says ‘your
loss’ written all
over her face. “You
know…”

I
pause and turn back toward her. “Yeah?”

“You
might want to consider fucking the other half of my class.”

“Why’s
that?”

“I
really think it’d
help them, you know, balance their chi. Give them a better feel for
that whole mind-body connection.”

“I’ll
take it under consideration,” I
grin, breezing out the door. Like I need any encouragement.

Brando

“Ok.
Here it is: ‘Don’t
think.’”

“What?”

“Don’t.
Think
.”

“That’s
it?”

“That
is
it.
”

“That’s
your entire philosophy, the guiding principle for your entire life,
summed up?”

“I’m
telling you Jax, thinking is the root of all evil. In the gym, in
business, in the bar,” I
say, spinning around to face the crowd of people gathered around the
stage, where various musical acts have been performing all night,
“thinking just holds
you back. Keeps you from doing things. Think too much, and all you’ll
end up with is a beer gut and a dating profile, bro.”

Jax
smirks and chuckles the way I’ve
seen him do a million times. In the city of LA, where you don’t
see the sharks for the suits, and where everyone knows how to play a
role, you need two things: A friend you can trust, and a rival to
keep you on your toes.

Jax
is both.

“I
know I’ve been
drinking with you for way too long,” he
says, as he raises his whiskey glass from the bar top, “because
I’m beginning to
agree with you.”

“You
leaving?”

“Lizzie
should be getting back around now. I told her we’d
watch a movie together.”

Correction:
Jax
was
both. Now that he’s
done the one thing nobody expected him to— settled
down— he’s
no longer a rival; just a friend.

“The
tiger has been tamed,” I
say, shaking my head as I raise my beer bottle level with his glass.
“Here’s
to your legacy.”

“I’m
sure you’ll pick up
the slack,” he
smiles.

When
I bring my beer bottle into contact with his glass, I move my whole
body toward him, shoulder-barging him backwards. He knocks into the
person behind him as he steps out of the way of spilt whiskey.

“Brando!
What the—”

I
see his face relax into an expression of humorous understanding when
he turns around to apologize and finds two gorgeous brunettes,
fantastically balanced on their high heels by ample asses and firm
tits.

“I’m
sorry,” I say,
shifting past Jax and in between them like a boxer setting his feet,
“my friend’s
a real klutz.”

Their
expressions settle into coy smiles as they check us out. Jax shrugs
and smiles like he’s
been caught with his hands in the candy jar. He might not be
available anymore, but he still knows how to play the wingman.

“Come
on, Jax!” I say,
mockingly. “Get
these dancers another drink.”

“Dancers?”
says the one with the lips that
look like they’re
about to burst they’re
so juicy. “We’re
not dancers.”

“No?”
I say, putting a little growl
into my voice. “You
fooled me with those incredible bodies.”

It’s
a blunt line, direct and true. I’ve
never had a good poker face, I like things out in the open, cards on
the table. And why not? I’ve
been dealt a good hand. I’m
six feet of gym-sculpted muscle, a strong jawline courtesy of Italian
ancestry (via Brooklyn, New York), and I’ve
got my dream job of being an A&R man at one of LA’s
hippest labels. I’ve
come a hell of a long way, and there’s
a hell of a lot to forget before I start taking it for granted.

The
girls giggle as they roll their eyes at each other, but the pout on
their lips and the way they shift their shoulders toward me tells me
it’s on.

I
throw out a laugh as I remember Jax is heading back to his girl and
consider how the two beautiful creatures in front of me would look
silhouetted against the moonlight in my loft apartment, and then I
feel a hand on my shoulder.

I
turn to face Jax.

“Maybe
we’ll make a movie
while you’re
watching one,” I
smile, before I see the sharp lines of his face arranged way too
severely. He nods, and I follow his eye line to the entrance of the
bar.

I
know it’s her before
I even set eyes on the skin-tight pvc dress – always
performing, even off-stage. I can sense her presence, the glow she
gives off, the magnetism that compels everyone in the area to direct
their attention her way. It’s
magic, unreal, the same spellcraft that compels millions to adore her
through TV screens and magazines. The perfect pop idol. A modern
goddess that the world learned to worship.

There
are guys in deep Amazonian tribes who have probably jerked off
thinking about her. Eskimo teenage girls who wish they had her red,
wavy hair. They call her fans ‘Lexians,’
a goofy tribute to the sexual
exploration she pushes in her music videos, composed of split-second
odes to the perfection of her body. A flash of tender thigh,
delicious ass, quivering tits. To the world, she’s
a symbol of freedom, feminine power, independence, fantasy, sex, a
symbol of everything wrong with America, of everything anyone could
ever want. To me, she’s
a sucker punch, a thorn I’ve
never been able to remove, a pain in the emptiness of my chest, a
phantom limb where my heart should be.

Lexi
Dark.

And
standing right beside her, his hand on the small of her back, is the
man who took her away from me: Davis Crawford.

The
crowd starts to roar, drowning out the gently-strummed guitar chords
of the poor rocker girl on stage, who can’t
hold a candle to Lexi’s
flame. Lexi raises her arms, making herself as big as can be, as if
drawing power from the sycophants in the room. Even the two girls
standing in front of us leave, phones in hand, to get a better look
and probably take some selfies.

“Come
on, bro,” Jax says,
as he takes the beer bottle from my loose grip, almost as if he
realizes I’m about
to drop it. “Let’s
get out of here. I’ll
get you a slice of pizza.”

I
let Jax gently guide me along the bar like the saddest patient on the
ward, my head spinning, and then I hear it.

“Brando!”

The
voice loved by millions. Distinctly sweet, but with a dark tone of
huskiness that pulls at your sexuality the way a lifetime of therapy
never could. A voice I believed in so much I staked my life on it.
I’ve heard my name
sung by that voice a thousand times, but it’s
not singing the same song anymore; the notes are different now. Not
the breezy melody of a girl who doesn’t
know what she has, not the delighted wail of a woman discovering her
body, not the sultry sonata of intimate promises. Now she squeals my
name like a war cry.

“I
thought I’d find you
here,” she says when
she draws close enough, though for me being in the same city is too
close, “slumming it
with the nobodies.”

I
press a finger on Jax’s
arm to signal for him to hold back. He knows I like to fight my own
battles, but I also know he can’t
stand seeing his friends get put down.

“It’s
not so bad,” he says
breezily anyway, impervious to her wiles, “I’ve
only noticed a couple of nobodies so far.”

“What
are you doing here, Lexi?” I
say, wishing I had listened to the advice the yoga teacher gave me
and taken that massage back at her place.

“We
just wanted to show our appreciation,” Davis
says, his croaky voice oozing out with so much slime I start to crave
a shower. He’s a
foot shorter than Lexi, perma-tanned the color of a ripe orange –
but with only half the
personality. “Her
album’s just become
one of the best-selling records of the internet era. Nearly a billion
hits online for two of her singles. And it only released last week!
If you hadn’t found
her, I’d never have
been able to come along and take her to the next level.”

“Stolen
her, you mean.”

Davis
emits a disgusting sound that I assume is supposed to be a laugh.

“This
is LA! There’s no
such thing as stealing here! It’s
all just part of the process, and you did your part very well.”

I
glance at Lexi – and
immediately regret it. She’s
smiling at me. Enjoying the sight of her little imp twisting the
knife. I want her smile to make me angry, to make me hate her as much
as she hates me, but it’s
too fucking beautiful, too loaded with memories. She’s
amazing, and I lost her.

“Yeah,
I did my part well,” I
say, sneering, every muscle in my body spoiling for a fight, “took
her from nothing, built her up piece by piece, taught her what real
music’s about, broke
my back making her into what she is, before you came along and threw
a tight dress and a few trendy producers at her, turned her from a
musician into a pop product and reaped all the rewards.”

I
notice the three big guys standing around us, dressed in black,
shades and everything. My mind starts doing the math regarding how
many times I could pummel Davis’ face
before they peel me off. Then again, maybe they’re
only here to protect Lexi. Maybe Davis isn’t
part of their job.

Lexi
laughs.

“’
Real
music’
?
You still talking about that, Brando baby? Is that why you’re
here?” she says.
“Listening to
scruffy teenagers with bad hair trying to play guitar? Because it’s
‘real’?”

She
turns around and waves toward the crowd, who are almost entirely
facing her, away from the stage. They shout and raise their drinks,
hold up their phones quickly to take pictures, as if confirming her
point. She turns back to me with a red-lipped smile that’s
even deadlier than it was seconds ago.

I
open my mouth to say something, and in the split second before my
voice comes out, Lexi’s
spun on her heels and walked away, her elegant, tall body painful to
watch as it gets smothered by her bodyguards.

“Good
luck with the talent spotting…
Brando
baby,
”
Davis
smirks, as he follows her like a designer dog.

I
zone out, my vision blurry with anger, fists clenching. I’m
about to stride outside and land some sweet fucking hits on Davis’
face when I see fingers snapping
in front of me.

“Dude?
You okay?”

I
look to the side, the world coming back into focus. It’s
Jax. He never left.

“Yeah,”
I say, lying. “I’m
good.”

“I
guess some girls are so good at fucking they’ll
fuck up your life too. You’re
lucky she’s gone.”

The
words are true, but I can’t
force myself to believe them. Nothing makes me feel better about
losing her. “Then
why do I feel like someone just scooped out my insides?”

Jax
shrugs. “You’re
probably just hungry.”

I
look at him and laugh.

“Let’s
get out of here,” he
says, pointing at his watch. “Lizzie’s
gonna start calling you a bad influence.”

“You
go,” I say. “I
need another drink. And another girl. Then another drink, probably.”

We
clasp hands and Jax strides out. I turn back to the bar and order
another beer. When it comes, I take it straight from the bartender,
before it hits the bar, and gulp long and deep. I close my eyes,
relishing the coldness, feeling it settle inside of me, reminding
myself I’m not
empty. I listen to the sound of the bar, the heightened voices,
energized by the presence of a star. Somewhere in between the giddy
laughter and shouted jokes I hear a nice minor chord change.

I
slam the bottle down and open my eyes.

“Oh
fuck. You again? Seriously?”

Davis
is standing beside me.

“A
glass of white wine,” he
says to the bartender without taking his eyes off me.

The
bartender nods his acknowledgement, and slams down another beer for
me – good guy. I
grab it and swig deeply.

“Did
you forget something, Davis?” I
say, keeping my eyes on the bottle. “Your
hairpiece, perhaps?”