Brando 2

by J. D. Hawkins

  “Sorry,” I mutter, pushing my emotions away. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” he says, gazing down at me as I rest my chin on his chest.

  “What happened to you?” I say, tracing a light finger across the dirt and blood on his forearm.

  “Getting in to see Rex was a little tougher than I thought,” Brando says, before adding slowly, “getting through to him was even tougher.”

  I look up at Brando’s sympathetic eyes.

  “He’s an asshole, right?”

  Brando nods regretfully.

  “I’m sorry. He kind of is. Do you think you’d ever want to meet him?”

  “You know,” I say, taking Brando’s hand and leading him over to the couch, where we both drop ourselves next to each other, “it’s funny. Before all of this, the records, the tour, you, I would have done anything just to speak to him one time. Anything. But now…I dunno. I don’t really care. It is what it is, and I’m done pushing to change it.”

  Brando smiles warmly as he brushes my hair back, his big, bloody arm stretched across the back of the couch.

  “Maybe now that you’ve done so much on your own, you realize that you don’t need anyone else,” he says.

  I laugh, and rub a hand up his thigh affectionately.

  “None of that is true. I didn’t do it alone. And I definitely need a certain someone,” I say, my tongue on my teeth. “Rowland called me while you were gone. Told me that I’ve pretty much been dropped already – a ‘clean break,’ as he put it.”

  “So we’re back to square one,” Brando says, grinning as he shuffles a little closer.

  “We did it before though, didn’t we?”

  “And this time we have a whole album.”

  I sigh. “No we don’t. Majestic paid for the studio time – and for Josh. The album’s theirs.”

  Brando’s brow creases. “Have they heard any of the songs?”

  I shake my head. “No. They weren’t quite done yet.”

  “Right.” He pauses, thinking. “Don’t forget, I’m the one who managed you for Majestic. They only paid for your studio time, nothing else. They’re only interested in finished products, and up until that point, they don’t care – for better and for worse. If I know Josh, he’s keeping those master tapes close to his chest, and he’d sooner burn them than hand them over to a label and screw an artist over.”

  As I process Brando’s words, it starts to dawn on me. I’m not as screwed as I thought. “So does this mean … we can still release it ourselves?”

  “Right,” Brando says, as his hand curls around my waist. “Just you and me again.”

  “Oh my God! This is amazing!” I can’t help squealing as I climb up into Brando’s lap. “Do you still have that video camera?” I whisper huskily as I press my cheek against his.

  “That depends on what you want it for,” Brando says, his voice soft in my ear. “Is this about music, or about us?”

  “Oh, this time it’s about us. Absolutely.”

  Epilogue

  Brando

  Even though we’re sitting in an auditorium of thousands, even though the biggest musicians in the world are here, even though there are cameras everywhere, even though I’ve been in this situation many times, I can’t take my eyes away from Haley sitting next to me.

  Tonight, she’s ditched the leather jacket and tight black jeans for a slim-fitting, light blue dress that makes her look hot in a way I’ve never seen before, and which is driving me crazy with lust. She even wore her wild, crazy hair up tonight. I never thought I’d see her do that, but then again, this is the Grammys.

  I pretend to pay attention to the stage a little more, but as soon as the audience starts clapping I push my hand toward the slit in her dress, fingers venturing between soft silk and even softer skin.

  Haley pulls my hand away and continues clapping. Out of the corner of her mouth, barely moving her lips lest a camera settle on her, she speaks to me.

  “Brando, I’m going to kill you when we get out of here!”

  “I know,” I say, without trying to hide it, “and that dress is already torturing me.”

  The clapping stops and the host cranks up into another introduction.

  I turn from Haley to my other side, where Jax and Lizzie are sitting. The seats were reserved for Haley’s mom and Josh, but I should have known both of them would rather watch the Grammys on TV than attend it.

  “Thanks for coming at such short notice, both of you.”

  “Are you kidding?” Lizzie says, leaning across Jax. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. I’m probably more excited than Haley!”

  “You’ve come a long way, dude,” Jax adds, nodding slightly.

  “It feels like we’re just starting.”

  Jax and Lizzie look at each other, their eyes seeming to bounce light off each other.

  “It always does,” Jax says.

  Haley grabs my hand and squeezes it so hard I feel like she’s going to tear it off. I turn back toward her.

  “I’m so fucking nervous,” she says with her weird, side-mouth, gritted-teeth ventriloquist’s smile.

  It’s been a fast year. A roller coaster. And it still feels like we’re accelerating, pinned to our chairs at the Grammys, wondering how many more thrilling drops there are going to be. Even when I was hustling on the streets, things weren’t as hectic as managing Haley – if I can even call it management. Everything she’s touched has spun wildly out of control, beyond either of our expectations. It’s like watching a butterfly wing’s flap turn into a tornado before our very eyes.

  Once the label dropped Haley, and Rex Bentley answered a question about their kinship with a ‘Haley Who?’ followed by saying he was ‘flattered, but clean enough during the eighties to remember something like that,’ we were in freefall for a while. Haley put the finishing touches on the album at Josh’s own house, while I set up a new independent label of my own (and managed to sign the band that covered for her in New York).

  We put the album out, and another single using some cobbled-together footage of her in the studio and on tour. Then we took a long-needed weekend away at her mom’s (I found her mom’s album, eventually, using an old connection in New York – so that’s one parent who approves of me at least). On the Monday after, we returned to LA and turned our phones back on. That’s when we saw the record had gone gold. A few months later, it went platinum.

  “Relax,” I urge her, leaning over. “You’re going to win. I just know you will.”

  “That’s what I’m fucking nervous about!”

  “You’ll be fine. Just don’t think too much about it.”

  “I’m gonna stumble on the steps, I just know it! And I’m gonna sound so dumb during the speech. I’ll probably wet myself while I’m up there.”

  As people start clapping wildly again, I put my hand on Haley’s cheek, and bring her face around to look at me.

  “Haley, when you get up there, just find me, and keep your eyes on me. Okay? It’s just you and me – like always. Remember the showcase?”

  “Of course.”

  “Just like that.”

  As if on cue, the clapping stops, and the host begins ramping up to one of Haley’s categories: Best New Artist.

  After an intro that seems to go on forever, another singer coming on stage to present the award, a video reel of the nominations, and some more blather, the red envelope appears – and Haley crushes my hands with a strength that could crack a walnut.

  “And so … the winner for Best New Artist is…” I hold my breath as the tuxedo-wearing host fumbles with the paper, and somehow feel like I’m about to suffocate when he finally calls out, “Haley Grace Cooke!”

  We stand up and tightly clutch each other. I can feel the electric energy of Haley’s excitement emanating from her. She kisses me quickly, and exchanges a couple of quick hugs with Jax and Lizzie, before stepping out into the aisle and making her way to the stairs without a single misstep. I clap, almost absent-mind
ed as I watch her. Haley is more beautiful than all the girls here combined, worth more than any award can truly show, stronger than anybody else in this entire auditorium will ever know. The audience goes wild with hooting and clapping, it sounds like the entire world is admiring her, and it’s still less than she deserves. I watch her take the final, last step and sigh with relief. I feel proud, and lucky, and like a miracle happened to put her in my life, to make her mine.

  She steps behind the mic.

  “Oh my God! Wow! This is … wow!” I point two fingers at my eyes as she gasps and fidgets, until she finds me and seems to settle a little, breaking into a wide smile. “Um … I wanna be quick, but there’s so many people that I can’t leave this stage without thanking. Mom, of course, your love always brings me home, and always sends me off in the right direction again. Josh, you’re not just a great producer, you’re a great friend. Jenna … we made it! Lexi, thanks for teaching me how to play the game,” Haley says, before holding out the Grammy as defiantly as a middle finger, “keep on playing them. The fans, for being so open-minded and supporting of someone new, I owe you everything.

  “But most of all, my fiancé Brando – who everyone probably knows from the first video,” Haley makes an embarrassed face, as the crowd laughs. “You were with me from day one. You fought for me, protected me, supported me, guided me, comforted me. You were always there, completely and utterly, even when I gave you so many reasons not to be. This is as much yours as it is mine.

  “I love you.”

  I mouth the words back to her as I clap to the beat of my heart. This is how it all started, with me in the audience, and her on a stage. With me making a silent promise that ties me to her. Only the first time it was on somebody else’s terms – this time it’s all mine.

  I’m gonna love Haley every single day for the rest of our lives. I’m gonna give her everything she ever wanted. I’m gonna make her happier than she ever thought she could be.

  And if you don’t believe me, I’m willing to bet on it.

  The End

  ****

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  INSATIABLE

  Chapter 1

  Jax

  I walked into the bar.

  That might not sound like anything impressive, but that’s where you’re wrong.

  Let me tell you something. I can tell how a woman fucks by the way she moves; you can tell how a man handles business between the sheets by the way he walks.

  And my walk says one thing very loud, and very clear. I’m the best fuck there is.

  When I lean onto the bar, I don’t need to get the barman’s attention. The club’s attention is already on me.

  “Hey Jax,” he says, sliding a beer towards me. “Brando coming?”

  “Yeah, he is,” I reply, taking off my shades and turning around to get a feel for the scene.

  When you’ve been hitting the clubs as long as I have, you learn to read the signs as easily as traffic lights.

  The girl with too many wrinkles in her tight dress? Her hair not perfectly straight? She’s been dancing all night. She’s not a regular – I’d know her if she was. She likes it all night, likes to be on top, so she can move at her own pace.

  That woman who isn’t laughing as loudly as her friends? Both hands tight around her glass ‘cause she doesn’t know what to do with them? She’s been dragged out for the night. She’s shuffling awkwardly, like she’s cold. Like she’s not feeling the heat of the club. She wants to take it slow. My breath on her neck, our flesh barely touching, every move a surprise. Probably shivers when she’s ready for it.

  The tall blonde bombshell – in the tiny black dress half her length - dancing to her own rhythm, slap bang in the middle of the bar? She’s looking for the highest high there is. Right now that’s the idea of having the whole club look at her. When she stops dancing, she’ll size the club up herself, and pick out the guy who’ll be prom king to her queen. That’ll be me – if I’m still here.

  I turn back to my beer, take down half the bottle, and feel a tap on my shoulder.

  “Hey,” the tall sensuous woman with amazing curves says. “Do I know you?”

  I let her watch me rake my eyes over her, from the stiletto heels all the way up to the cockteasing shine in her eyes. I smirk. “Do you want to?”

  She laughs with the kind of full-bodied voice that most women reserve for the bedroom. I check her out again. She’s got the kind of ass that I would let sit on my face for hours, cleavage big enough to lose your mind in and then spend the rest of the night trying to find it again.

  “You look like Ryan Gosling,” she flirts.

  “Maybe I am.”

  She moves closer. “Are you?”

  “No. I don’t wear make-up, and my lines are my own.”

  I’m debating whether or not to buy her a drink when I see Brando enter over her shoulder. He takes a few steps into the bar, spends a couple of seconds dancing up against a drunk girl, then makes his way over to me. He’s shouting his order to the barman from across the room.

  That’s Brando’s style. Loud, full of life, and always attracting attention.

  “Hey, Jax,” he says, locking hands, “you feelin’ good tonight?” He shoots an appreciative glance at the woman beside me and she returns it.

  Brando’s from Brooklyn. He’s got dark hair, dark eyes, tan skin, and he plays up his Italian roots every chance he gets. He likes to say he speaks French and Italian, but I think his knowledge begins and ends with the lyrics to old disco songs.

  “Depends which girl I’m feeling,” I say.

  Me; I’m more about finesse. I like well-made suits that fit right, places that look as good as I do, and women with an appetite. When my clothes are on, I’m the sharpest guy in the room, and once they’re off, I’m the kind of man who will make you feel like you’ve only fucked boys before. The kind of man who makes the pale imitations that follow feel like a compromise. The kind of man your mind will wander to when you’re naked in the bath…

  “Who’s this pretty young thing?” Brando says, turning to face the curvy girl.

  “I didn’t get her name yet,” I say, giving Brando the in. “But I was just about to.”

  “It’s Sophie,” she purrs.

  I rub my left eyebrow – it’s the sign me and Brando have for ‘she’s all yours’ - and turn towards the club.

  Dancing bodies writhe around me as I slice my way through the club. I let my eyes wander from toned legs to swerving hips. I run my hand across a girl’s waist as I pass and she licks her lips at me. Another throws her arms around my neck and leads me to a corner, where she rolls her body up against mine like she’s auditioning for a strip joint. She puts her lips on my neck, then pulls back and smiles. I smile back, wink, and pull away – too easy.

  I’m toying with the idea of a threesome, between the blonde bombshell who’s towering over her friends in the middle of the dancefloor, and the slim chick with an ankle tattoo.

  And then it happens.

  The entire club disappears. The girls, the bar, the music. All that’s left is a woman with a body that’s perfect. She’s wearing clothes, but her ass is so tight in that skirt, the arch of her back so sexual, that looking at her feels pornographic. It’s like a hit of LSD to the eyes, and I’m seeing a vision of the future. Wavy brown hair flying back in ecstasy, teardrop breasts bouncing in rhythm, my hands tight around that slim waist, guiding it like a loaded missile.

  Remember when I said my clothes fit well? Well I could do with a few extra inches in my bo
xers right about now.

  I get close enough to her to see her lips, and I’m already thinking of all the ways she could worship me with them.

  She sees me, and I lock on to a pair of brown eyes that could kill a lesser man from ten yards away. She has a couple of friends nearby, but I don’t give a shit about them, and soon, neither will she.

  She’s drinking a gin and tonic with lemon, and I’m jealous of the glass between her lips. I lightly grip her elbow, and she tilts her head up towards me.

  “I saw you an hour ago, and since then, I’ve been unable to focus on any other woman in this bar,” I say.

  She smirks. “That’s a lie.”

  “You’re right, that’s a lie. I just set eyes on you, and I already know you’re the most attractive woman I’ll see all night.”

  “Well there are always other nights.” She absently tongues the lemon peel on the rim of her glass and my pulse rockets to Mach 3.

  I smile. She’s sassy, but she can’t break her eyes away from me. New tactic: cut the bullshit and go direct.

  “You owe it to that amazing body of yours to give it to someone who knows how to make the most of it.” I cock an eyebrow. I’ve been told this is sexy as fuck by women who’d know, and I rarely feel the need to fight fair.

  She opens her mouth in mock-shock.

  “I’m serious,” I continue, “I don’t think you know what you have here.”

  “Maybe not,” she says, “but my boyfriend sure does.”

  I reel back, comically, “Oh! A boyfriend? Now that’s a real sin. Putting all of that,” I look her up and down, “in the hands of just one man. Especially when that man isn’t me.”

  The girl looks to her friends, whose eyes are still on me. Waiting for me to switch my attention to them. Not going to happen.