Brando: Book 2
By J. D. Hawkins
Copyright © 2015 JD Hawkins
All rights reserved.
Cover Design: Najla Qamber, Najla Qamber Designs
Photo: Love N. Books
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to my lovely ARC readers and cult members.
Thanks for everything.
I love you long time.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Brando
“You did this to yourself,” I say to the bare-chested, unshaven, scruffy-haired mess of a man looking back at me with pain in his eyes. “You tried to have it all, and you ended up with nothing.”
I raise my whiskey glass and he does the same.
“Here’s to being a complete asshole.”
I drain the glass and look at the sorry motherfucker. He’s good-looking, even though he needs a shave and a shower. A strong jawline and dark eyes, but he’s got the expression of someone watching his pet being put down. His eyes are lidded and blank, as if all he wants to do is creep back into bed, and his lips look like they’re incapable of saying anything nice. It breaks your heart just to look at him.
“Shit. You look as bad as I feel,” I growl, stepping away from the mirror with a grim smile.
I put my glass down on the counter and stop myself just before I fill it up again – who am I kidding? I’m beyond glasses. I take the whole bottle with me as I cross the messy room, stepping on dirty clothes and other junk as I make my way to the record shelf. The place looks like a bomb hit it, a bomb filled with men’s underwear, beer bottles, and empty pizza boxes.
“Time to bring out the big guns,” I mumble, as I angle my head to flick through the very last records on the shelf – the ones I hoped I’d never need again.
Johnny Cash, Otis Redding, Sam Cooke, Bruce Springsteen – the old, smoky voices of men who knew too much and still had the scars from learning it the hard way.
I pick a record and bring it over to the player, taking my time as I put it on the platter. With slow anticipation, I lift the needle with my finger and drop it carefully on the groove. The comforting crackles and pops sound out from the speakers all over my apartment, and I swing the bottle to my lips as I stumble back over to the sofa and drop my heavy body onto it.
With the drink dulling my senses, I let the song take me out of myself. Guitars and drums swirling and beating like my bad thoughts, that sympathetic voice like an old friend…
Then the record scratches to a stop.
I open my eyes and look toward the player.
It’s Jax. He raises his hands out wide, looks at me incredulously, and says, “What the fuck, dude?”
“Ugh,” is all I can manage as I pull myself into an upright sitting position on the couch. I don’t need to ask how Jax got in; I gave him a spare key a long time ago – I sometimes have a habit of losing my own set in the apartments of particularly passionate women.
He steps through the room purposefully, scanning the wreckage of my apartment like he’s looking for something. With his crisp, tailored blue shirt and tight-fitting jeans he should look ridiculous in this pig-sty of an apartment, but he has a habit of making his surroundings look like they don’t fit him, rather than the other way around.
“So you had your heart broken, huh?”
“How do you know that?” I say, struggling to follow his movements as he paces around.
Jax shoots me a look. “’Cause this place looks like a crime scene – and you look like the corpse. Don’t need a detective.”
“I’m alright,” I insist.
“Alright? Dude. I haven’t seen you in nearly a month. I’ve called you—” he pauses to grab my phone from the coffee table, and yanks my finger onto it in order to unlock it, “twenty-four times,” he says, flicking through the call list on my phone. “And you ignored every single one. That’s kind of impressive, in a weird way. Looks like your boss called a bunch of times…your massage therapist…your yoga instructor…?”
I manage a little smile as I bring the bottle to my lips, but Jax snatches it away just as it reaches them.
“Hey!” I say, finding my hand suddenly empty.
“You even eating anything?” Jax says as he brings the bottle with him on his march to the kitchen.
“What are you, now? My mother?”
“Just a friend,” he says as he opens and closes cabinets looking for food. “If I was your mother I’d be hosing you down in the shower and spraying this place with Lysol.”
“We can just order a pizza,” I groan, as I drop back onto the sofa.
“I’ll take you to the salad place down the road. My shout,” he says, walking back to stand in front of me. “You seriously look like you could use a bucket of kale or some shit.”
“That sounds good,” I mumble sarcastically. “Or, we could just order a pizza.”
“Bro!” Jax shouts, gesturing around him. “You need to get out of this place. You’re a couple of video games and a superhero poster away from regressing into a reclusive teenager.”
I look up at him feebly. “I used to like video games.”
“So did I,” he says, “but even then, I never looked as bad as you do right now.”
He slows down for a second, staring at me with more pity than I’ve ever seen him use before – and this is a guy who stops to feed stray dogs. He steps in front of the coffee table and sits down on it, straight in front of me. Finally, he nods.
“So what happened with Haley?” he asks. “No bullshit this time.”
I push a hand back through my hair – the most grooming I’ve done in a week. As much as I hate to admit any of this, it’s time to come clean.
“That night, the one where you and I bumped into Lexi, that scumbag Davis made a bet with me. If I made a hit with Haley in one month, he’d give me Lexi back.”
Jax cocks an eyebrow. “And you won.”
“I won.”
He nods slowly, finally understanding. “But you don’t want Lexi anymore. Do you.”
I sigh— this is way too much to think about on just two quarts of whiskey.
“I don’t know what I feel for Lexi anymore. But I do know that I had pretty much given up on having anything with her ever again. Losing Haley, though…” I shake my head.
“So here’s the part I don’t get,” Jax says. “How did you lose Haley? I thought things were going great.”
I stare at him, using his compassion as a point to fix on, so that I don’t get angry, or depressed, or frustrated, or any of the other negative things that thinking about it makes me feel.
“She found out about the bet.”
Jax takes a moment, then rubs his temples like he’s suddenly got a killer headache as bad as the one I have.
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Oh.”
“She thought you were faking all along. Well, damn.”
“I don’t blame her,” I say, looking up at the ceiling. “To top it all off, Rowland – my boss – has us all by the balls. Davis gave us Le
xi. Then Rowland threatened me and Haley with his lawyers and forced Haley to sign a deal – with my help. And now I’m supposed to manage both of them.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. Ouch. You know, it took a really long time, a lot of days like this, and a whole load of women, before I could even stop dreaming about Lexi. And Haley…I…I don’t know. But this time it’s even worse. I’m so fucking stupid!” I ball my hand up into a fist and slam it on the sofa.
“Jesus, buddy! Calm down. It’s not over. Not yet, anyway.”
“Shit. Sorry,” I say, putting my hands on my face and leaning over to calm myself down. “What the fuck am I supposed to do, dude?”
“Here’s what you do,” Jax says, leaning forward and putting his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t think. Remember when you told me that? Well do it. Just go take a shower, put some clothes on, and come get something to eat. One step at a time. Get yourself off the couch, and then just follow your instincts. Keep on moving. Don’t stop to wonder.”
I let out a sigh.
“That sounds like good advice. But it’s the same damn reasoning that got me into this mess in the first place.”
“Sure it is.” Jax just grins. “And it’s the only thing that’ll get you out of it.”
Chapter 2
Haley
Ever since I was a kid, I’ve written down my dreams when I woke up. From the recurring one about a white horse, to the strange ones about flying through an auditorium. Even the anxiety dreams where I feel like I’m falling, and the nightmares about Freddy Krueger. I’d wake up and write them all. Maybe it was some way of trying to make my dreams come true, maybe it was an attempt to cling to the fantasy and weirdness in my otherwise typical life. At the very least, it gave me a lot of stuff to work from with song lyrics. I’ve done it almost every morning for over ten years.
But not anymore.
I’d like to say it’s because my life this past month has been pretty much a dream come true – which it has – but it’s not. I’d like to say it was because it takes me at least five minutes every morning to remember and realize where I am, in a beautiful new apartment I’m sharing with Jenna – but it’s not that either.
It’s because I keep dreaming about him.
The more I try to suppress it, and the more I try to fill my head with junk so that I don’t have to think about him, the more vivid and explicit the dreams become. It’s gotten to the point where I can almost smell him, taste him. The dreams are different, but the feeling’s always the same. The guilt mixing with ecstasy, the bitterness mixing with sweetness. But in them I can’t help myself. I can’t pull away. It’s only when I wake up, my thighs rubbing together, my hearth thumping, that I feel real enough and strong enough to remember what he did to me. The bet. Then I get angry.
This morning is no different. I wake up and realize my hand is between my thighs, the other against my neck where he was kissing me. I pull them away in annoyance and jump out of bed. I can hear the sound of the juicer outside my room, and Jenna’s voice. After pulling on a pair of sweatpants I push open the door, eager for the distraction of company.
“She’s alive!” says Josh, breezily.
My record producer is sitting on a stool at the counter while Jenna buzzes around the kitchen. Since we moved in together, using the proceeds of my advance and the money from the play she finally got paid for, Jenna’s been making sure she’s getting her money’s worth from the apartment’s furnishings and appliances. The juicer, the coffee machine, the bread maker, it doesn’t matter: if it does something, she’s been using it as much as she can.
“Morning, Haley!” she says as she pours out a big smoothie for herself, the toaster popping in the background. “Coffee?”
“Absolutely. Hey, Josh.”
“You’re up late,” he says, as I rub the gunk out of my eyes.
“We were up all night watching horror movies on the TV,” Jenna says, excitedly, nodding for Josh to turn around and look at it. “It’s fifty-five inches!”
“And you know how we ladies love our inches,” I grumble drily, not caring that I’m tossing out inappropriate innuendo to my producer. I know Josh can handle it, though. He’s seen worse from me by now. They both have.
“Oh, Haley,” Jenna mock-scolds me. I’ve been in a foul mood ever since things went south with Brando, but she (and Josh) (and my music) have been my rock this whole time. With their help, I’ve even managed to have a few happy moments.
I sit up on a stool next to Josh and he pulls out a couple of tapes and a USB stick.
“It’s a nice TV.” Josh smiles at Jenna, then at me. “Living the high life, I see.”
I shrug with my eyebrows. Jenna pours each of us a cup of coffee with the kind of quick, fluid motion I’m used to seeing, and I understand how she manages to cope with working at the café; she enjoys serving people, taking care of them in some small way.
Josh takes his coffee with one hand and slides the USB stick over to me.
“The takes from last week,” he says, pausing to take a sip. “A couple of them are really good. We should definitely use your guitar tracks from some of them.”
“Cool. I’ll listen to them today.”
Jenna suddenly explodes into a higher gear. “Shit!” she squeals, as she catches sight of the big clock hanging from the wall. “I’m gonna be so late!”
Josh and I watch with awed appreciation as she slaps a cover on her juice cup, finishes buttering her toast, sticks it in her mouth, uses a foot to close a cabinet, hangs a purse over her shoulder, and glides out of the door in less time than it takes me to sip my coffee and shout a feeble “Bye!” after her.
“Can she afford to live here?” Josh asks, a few seconds after she’s gone. “No offense. It’s just, this place is…” he gestures at the grandeur all around us.
“Not really,” I admit. “I’m paying most of the rent. But without her, I’d just be living here alone anyway. And besides, she’s got some auditions lined up. I really think it’s going to happen for her soon.” A smile crosses my face for a split second, because I mean it.
“That’s very generous of you.”
I shrug. “She believed in me for a long time. I want to repay that. I believe in her too.”
Josh looks seriously at his cup for a few moments before speaking again. “There’s somebody else who believed in you who could do with some of that support right now.”
I close my eyes and shake my head.
“Josh, I know Brando’s your friend, and he probably asked you to talk to me, but—”
“He didn’t ask me to talk to you. But he is my friend,” he says, before sighing. “I don’t know what happened between you two, but I have some idea. Either way, he’s still your manager. You can’t keep avoiding him.”
“Why not?” I say, grabbing a slice of toast that Jenna left and sticking a piece in my mouth. “You, me, and the band are doing just fine recording the album without him.”
“If only music was all about recording,” Josh says, wistfully. “I’m not the kind of guy to preach, Haley. It’s none of my business. But you need Brando. For your own sake. He got you this far. If you can’t work with him, you’re not going to last long. I’m not telling you this because he’s my friend, I’m telling you this because you are.”
I turn to look at him, his craggy face somehow soft and understanding. The kind of face that couldn’t lie if it tried.
“I know,” I say. “Don’t worry. I’ll work with Brando. I’ll hate him, avoid him, and never forgive him. But I’ll work with him.”
The most surprising thing about Majestic Records is how bad the acoustics are. Everything in the office is made of glass so shiny it reflects almost everything under the bright lights. The surfaces are all cold and hard, marble floors and metal desks, with only a couple of simple, hard-lined paintings to offer a hint of personality, as if to place complete emphasis on the people alone.
I always did think record executives were vain and t
one-deaf, and whoever designed the Majestic Offices seems to agree.
I step up to the reception area.
“Hi. I’m supposed to meet Mr. Rowland at eleven?”
“Ah, Haley,” the smiling girl says. “He’s expecting you. Let me show you the way.”
She asks the intern beside her to take over, and then leads me toward the elevators at the back of the building. When the doors open up on the billionth floor, I see Brando sitting on a couch, thumbing through a magazine. My whole body clenches, as if bracing itself for the emotional onslaught of being around him.
“Haley!” he says, tossing the magazine aside and standing up. He looks like shit. But it’s no consolation. He was probably up late screwing the next girl in line who doesn’t know any better.
I clench my jaw tight and follow the receptionist, keeping my eyes on the door. She knocks on it, and when Rowland shouts a response, opens it for me. I walk through quickly, more to get away from Brando than to get to the meeting quicker.
Rowland is standing with his back to the door, his feet spread wider than a tennis player, as he gazes out of the window. He spins around, smiles, and walks over to his chair.
“Take a seat, you two,” he says.
I continue to ignore Brando as I sit down, though I can almost sense his big frame gliding into the chair, his cologne wafting over me like searching fingers, a smell that I now associate with so many things. Being thrown onto a bed, pressed up against the window, kissed on the neck….Stop it, Haley.
I breathe deeply and cross my legs in the opposite direction from him, as if shielding myself against his sex voodoo.
Rowland checks his watch excitedly, then grits his teeth with restraint.
“We should wait for Lexi, but I can’t hold this in any longer,” he grins, broadly.
“Lexi?” I ask, the name coming out of my mouth with barely-concealed disdain. “I thought this meeting was about my album.”
Brando 2 Page 1
