“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?”
11
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.
I definitely don’t tell Haley about any of this.
T
o Haley – and the three people who make up her band – this is just another gig. Another easy-to-book guest spot in a venue that may or may not have a few influential label guys in the audience. That’s still enough to get her nervous.
“Did you see how many people are out there?” she says, as she rushes back to the green room.
She finally let a stylist trim her hair for the occasion, and the feather-cut dances around her face as she shakes her head with exasperation. It almost distracts me from the tight leggings she’s wearing under a denim skirt, her slender thighs even more darkly arousing in black silhouette. The tight tank top she’s wearing hugs all the right places, giving you just enough to know she’s hiding something special, but only when she moves the right way. The audience is going to love how she looks, at the very least.
The green room itself is packed. The air is tense and humid. Even the air of chatter and breaks of laughter amongst the artists sounds distant and edgy. About a dozen skinny guys who all look like they’re from the same band shuffle their feet, some of them doing better than others as they try to act cool and unconcerned. In the middle, five girls in tight outfits stretch and shake off their nerves – a sight that would steal most of my attention were it not for Haley.
I watch her pace between the band members. Brian, the lank-haired guitarist, sits on a table and tunes his guitar over and over; Aaron, the tall, wiry bassist, stares at his tapping toes, while Paula, the drummer, bites her nails and gazes into space like she’s waiting for test results.
This isn’t good. Haley’s band marches to her beat, and right now it’s all over the place.
“Haley,” I say, grabbing her arm to stop her pacing and bringing her in close, “you’re the most talented musician I’ve ever worked with. Even if you go out there and play the worst set you’ve ever played, it would still be a thousand times better than what any other act in this green room could hope to achieve.”
Haley’s eyes go big and round. “I don’t know if you’re right…”
“I know I’m right. Trust me, Haley. I wouldn’t bring you here if I thought you couldn’t cakewalk it.”
“I know, but—”
There’s a rise in the level of chatter and I look around. The dancers are being called out.
“You’re on soon,” I say, noticing the rush of red that appears in Haley’s cheeks. “When you get out there, you’re gonna see a sea of faces. A hell of a lot more people than you’ve ever played in front of before. Look for me. I’ll stand at the back, by the entrance, and when you see me, don’t take your eyes away from me. Forget everything else: The lights, the crowd, the noise. Just me. Play for me and no one else. Can you do that for me?”
Haley smiles and nods.
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Good.” I put a hand on her shoulder and squeeze, startled at the jolt I get from the contact of my palm against her warm skin.
“Haley Grace Cooke?” comes a loud, nasal voice from the doorway. We both turn to see the mic’d up runner. He points a thumb back over his shoulder. It’s time.
I look back toward Haley, who smiles anxiously as her band gets up and walks after the runner. She takes a few steps to follow them, before suddenly stopping. I panic for a second before she turns, but when she does, it’s only to throw her lips against mine. A deep, desperate, stolen kiss, before she spins back and hurries after the rest of her band. I can still taste her glossy lips as she walks away, like an expensive drink, only a little more intoxicating.
“Break a leg,” I shout after her.
Minutes later and I’m standing where I said I would be, right by the exit, waiting for her to come out on stage. I stand up tall, but the crowd’s thick and moving constantly. They push and jostle for a good view of the stage as soon as they know Haley’s on next.
When she does walk out, it’s obvious something is wrong. She walks with her head down, hair covering her face. She fumbles for way too long to strap on her guitar, and walks with painfully slow steps up to the mic. I can see the band members exchanging glances, wondering how they’ll cope without Haley’s cues.
I raise my arm higher in the hope that Haley will notice it. She’s gazing out at the audience, which has gone embarrassingly quiet now, between the strands of hair that hang lazily over her face. I wait for the look of recognition, for any movement.
She can’t see me, and now she’s locked up. The only movement she’s making is the visible rise and fall of her chest as she pants tensely.
I push forward, shoving aside people I know I should really be more polite to. But right now none of them matter. I move indiscriminately through the crowd, toward the center, a spot where there’s nothing between us, impossible to miss. I raise my hand and stand tall, praying that Haley sees me.
There in the center of the audience I hear the judgmental comments, the random giggles at the bizarre turn of events. A couple of women in front of me even turn away and start making their way toward the bar.
But then Haley smiles. And it lights up the stage more than the thousand dollar equipment could ever hope to. With a hair flick sexier than a shampoo billboard on Hollywood and Vine, she moves the curls away from her face and stands up to the mic, her eyes settling on mine. She glances away only to cue up her band, before turning back toward me.
Paula smacks her sticks together four times and then it’s on. I forget the audience around me, the lights, the noise. It’s just me and Haley.
I can’t keep my attention away from her as the showcase finishes and morphs into a loose and loud after party – and apparently neither can anyone else.
“That was sensational!” another schmoozing executive says, handing us another card to add to the stack already filling my pocket. “Ben Livingstone, Jupiter Records. I want to have first dibs on you, young lady.”
Haley giggles breathlessly, finding it hard to keep up.
“First is taken,” I say, with a smile, “so is second. I can give you fifth. Maybe.”
Ben laughs, but there’s a note of disappointment in it.
“Well if I can’t have dibs,” he says, raising his glass, “I can sure offer the best deal.”
“Now that’s more like it,” I say.
Ben laughs again before leaning in to whisper something in my ear.
“You really lucked out here, Brando. I don’t know how, but you really did.”
Ben leaves and I turn my attention to Haley.
“Another drink?”
“No,” she says, the smile that’s been plastered onto her face since she came off the stage to rapturous applause still there, “I think I’m drinking too much.”
“If ever there was a night to drink too much, it’s this one. Most of these schmucks usually leave halfway through. They’re only here to get an audience with the future star.”
“You were the only audience I needed,” Haley says, squeezing my bicep before turning away to gaze at the crowd, which has now morphed into a rush of celebrity musicians. “I can’t believe how many famous people are here. I thought it was only record execs.”
“Musicians tend to like talking business over a loud song and some alcohol. Executives, on the other hand, tend to start living like musicians when they spend so much time around them.”
“Is that…Annabelle Church?” Haley says, gawking at the girl in a see-through dress that seems to glide through the entrance.
“Yeah. Probably here in the hope that dress will get her some funds for her next record.”
Haley turns to me suddenly, eyes filled with surprise.
“But…she’s huge.”
“And has an ego to match. Not many people want to touch her since she created her own Twitter account. Forget her, anyway, you should be mixing with people who’ve got real talent. Someone like Rex Bentley over there. Now that’s a genius.” I raise a glass in his direction, and Rex obligingly returns the gesture. “Guy’s a legend. Made some of the greatest records you’ll ever hear and he still looks better than—”
&nb
sp; I stop when I notice Haley’s face. The color drains from it like a reverse painting. Even her lips turn a chilling shade of white.
“Let’s go.”
“What?”
“Please, Brando. Let’s leave.”
“But everyone here wants to speak to you! You’ve already made more connections than most musicians make in their careers, and you’ve barely spoken to half the record chiefs here. Besides, you haven’t even finished your dri—”
“I have to go. You can come with me or stay. Don’t make me ask you again. Please.”
“Haley,” I say, bending down to get a better look at her ghostly face, eyes limpid and dilated, as if she’s been drugged. “What’s the matter? Are you sick? Do you want to—”
She doesn’t even let me finish the sentence before dashing away into the crowd, shoving through confused strangers like she’s being chased. I watch her for a second, trying to think of a logical reason for the change in her, before giving up, slamming my drink down on a table nearby, and following her toward the back exit.
12
Haley
BRANDO BRINGS a thick blanket out from his loft onto the wide balcony of his apartment and wraps it around my shoulders.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice trembling, only slightly caused by the cold. It’s the first word I’ve said since Brando caught me outside, embraced me tightly, and ushered me into the back of a cab to his apartment.
“You sure you don’t want to go back inside? I can make you something hot to drink. Get you something to eat, maybe?”
“No,” I say, eyes unfocused as I watch the red and white lights of LA cars snake through the traffic-jammed streets. “I need the fresh air.”
The Bet Page 8
