Free Brando by J.D. Hawkins Page A

it.
    This
time Haley doesn’t
need deep breathing. She takes a second to clear her throat, and
starts. Her fingers move over the guitar strings skillfully, and it
responds with a bed of beautiful, dynamic notes that cascade gently
throughout the studio. When she opens her mouth her voice soars.
Innocent as a girl, confident as a woman. Pure emotion, the sound of
someone letting go.
    “Holy
shit,” Josh drawls,
before she’s even at
the chorus, “this is
fantastic. What the hell did you say to her?”
    Haley
looks right at me as she sings. A smile in her eyes that seems to
help her get the words out.
    “It
wasn’t what I said
that helped her.”

 

Chapter 8
     
    Haley
     
    “It’s
catchy, it’s got
great lyrics, a good groove – it’s
got hit written all over it,” Brando
says, gulping the last of his beer down, slamming it on the bar, and
ordering another with ease. It’s
the kind of club I’d
never go to in a million years. Tables and booths that look way
cleaner and more expensive than the usual dive bars I usually drink –
and play – in,
surround a central dance floor, where you can barely see the people
with all the expensive suits and jewelry flashing all over the place.
Ordinarily, I’d feel
like a nun at an orgy entering a place like this, but being around
Brando is like being in a bubble, where nothing can touch you, and
everywhere is home.
    “I
know, but it’s acoustic ,”
I remind him.
    “So?”
    “So
acoustic songs never get into the charts.”
    Brando
laughs and leans in slightly. Any other guy as big as him and it
would feel intimidating, but with Brando it feels protective, warm,
enticing.
    “Quite
a role reversal,” he
smirks. “ You telling me that I’m not being
commercially-minded enough.”
    I
look down for a second and giggle a little, before looking back at
him. When he’s in
this kind of mood it’s
next to impossible to keep my eyes away from his.
    “Maybe
you’re rubbing off
on me,” I say.
    “Well
you’re definitely
having an effect on me.”
    “Who
do you think’s
getting the worse deal?”
    Brando
laughs breezily.
    “Well,
if I become an A & R guy with some integrity, I’m
pretty much finished. And if you end up as a sell-out, you’ll
end up as soulless as—” his
face drops as he notices something in the corner of the club, a cloud
passing over his face and wiping away the spark in his eyes, “her.”
    I
search for a clue in his eyes before turning around to see where they
lead. Somewhere between a sea of black-suited bodyguards and a crowd
of people who seem to fade to grey in her presence, I see her. Lexi
Dark. Her pink, latex dress standing out from everyone and everything
around her, as if she’s
somehow more solid, more real. A Technicolor girl in life’s
black and white film. Always the radiant smile, the demure pose; so
brilliant that it frustrates you to only be able to see one side of
her at a time.
    I
spin back around to Brando, who’s
gazing at her like a widow at a gravestone.
    “What’s
the deal with you and her?”
    “I
made her.” Brando
looks like he’s in
pain as he turns around to face the bar, staring at his beer as he
talks quietly. “She
was mine. My singer. My girl. My everything. Then she burnt it all
down and left.”
    It’s
the first time I’ve
ever seen Brando look anything less than supremely confident.
Something about the brief glimpse of vulnerability makes me want to
do something, anything, to soothe the hurt written in his expression.
It’s so strange that
I’m almost afraid to
ask, “What
happened?”
    Brando
takes a long, slow sip of beer.
    “I’m
still trying to figure that out myself.”
    I
place a hand on his broad shoulder, rubbing softly. I can almost feel
the heat of the pain inside him. I think about saying something
soothing, changing the subject to something lighter, maybe even
flirting with him a little more to distract him – but
if there’s one thing
I know about men, it’s
that sometimes