The Bet

by J. D. Hawkins

  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 they just need a moment alone.

  “I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” I say. “Be right back.”

  “Sure.”

  I take a little longer in the bathroom than I need to, standing in front of the mirror, teasing out my curls and checking my teeth for remnants of the pasta Brando and I shared before coming to the club.

  I hear a latch close, except it doesn’t come from the cubicles, it comes from the entrance. I feel a cold chill down my spine, as if something – or someone – just sucked out all of the atmosphere from the room. I know it’s her before I even turn my head.

  Lexi Dark.

  She stands in front of the door, one hand on her hip. Her red lips projecting a dark control. She looks like a moving magazine cover, every inch of her body always in perfect alignment. I stare at her and wonder why people bother traveling halfway around the world to see breathtaking sights.

  Frozen solid, all I can do is watch her. She steps forward, slow but confident, a supermodel sashay to a beat of heels on tile.

  I’ve bitched about singers like Lexi a million times. About their fake appearance, plastic assembly-line songs, meaningless lyrics. But standing here, in her presence, her intensity has never seemed realer.

  “Well well well, aren’t you a cute little thing?” she says, reaching out elegant fingers, tipped with multi-colored nails, toward my shoulder. She trails her hand across my back to the other shoulder as she steps around me, sending lightning bolts of tension throughout my body. “Brando’s new toy.”

  The words are out of my mouth before I have time to think about what I’m saying. “Maybe he got tired of playing with dolls.”

  Lexi opens her mouth in excited pleasure. She leans back on the sink, the arch of her back pornographic.

  “Good. There’s some fight in you. Brando likes that. Not too much, though,” she leans in toward my ear, so close her cherry breath tickles the hairs on my neck, “he’s a big guy, but he breaks easy.”

  She keeps her face close to mine, close and dangerous. I glare at her in the mirror, her lips glistening in the bright fluorescent lights.

  “Has he fucked you yet?” Lexi says, pulling her head back and stretching out her slender neck. “What am I saying? Of course he has; a pretty thing like you. I’ll bet he can’t keep his hands off you.” Lexi brushes the back of her hand against my cheek. My brain screams for my body to move, but I just watch her in the mirror, encased in the iciness of her touch, trapped in her aura. “I’ll bet he has you right where he wants you: not sure if it’s your body or your career that he really wants.”

  Something snaps me out of my cage and I grab her wrist.

  “Maybe that dress is too tight,” I say, looking right into her emerald eyes, “your bitterness is showing.”

  Lexi jerks her hand away and twists her lips into a semi-menacing, semi-sweet smile. She turns to face the mirror, gently touching the already-immaculate strands of hair that fall lovingly around her striking face. Rolling her hands down from tiny waist to lurid hips. She does it all as if I’ve disappeared, and she’s on her own.

  “Just a little friendly advice from someone who knows.”

  I watch her study herself intently, like an engineer ensuring her well-oiled machine is tuned to perfection, before turning to leave. She glances at me for a second as she turns, a dark flash in her eyes, then strides toward the door, animal grace and clicking heels. She grabs the handle before pausing.

  “Try saying his name when you come,” she says, looking back at me over her shoulder, another cover girl pose, “he really loves that.”

  I hear her laughing even after the door closes.

  9

  Brando

  “SETTLING down has made you soft, Jax,” I say, as we carry our boards from the ocean to our towels, panting with the exertion of another ultra-competitive surf.

  “What’s your excuse then?”

  We dig our boards into the sand and stand for a while to catch our breaths, the glorious LA sun glistening off our wet bodies. I flip open the cooler and pull out two beers, popping the tops with my fingers and handing one to Jax.

  “How’s Lizzie?” I ask, as we sit on the towels and gaze out at the rolling sea.

  “Excited; I’m taking her to Paris this weekend.”

  “What is it with chicks and Paris? I never got it. I mean, what’s Paris got that LA doesn’t?”

  Jax gives me a sideways glance and smiles.

  “Centuries of complex history and culture? Fantastic cuisine? The biggest art collections in the world? The most sophisticated fashion labels? A beautiful language?”

  “Shit,” I say, swigging greedily from the cold bottle. “I’d take a girl with a Bronx accent and a good slice of pizza over that any day.”

  Jax laughs and takes a sip. After a few moments he asks, “How are things going with your new protégé?”

  “Haley?” I say, trying to suppress the smile I get from saying her name. “Pretty good. Yeah.”

  But Jax has been my friend for way too long not to notice. He grins widely when he sees it.

  “Damn, Brando. You’re really full of surprises.”

  “What?”

  Jax shrugs his shoulders, his smile widening a good half-inch.

  “You think I’m falling for her?” I boom. “Bro, that’s projection. I mean, it’s good that you settled down, but that shit ain’t ever happening to me. I was born wild and I’ll stay that way.”

  “Right,” Jax says, giving me the most unconvinced nod he’s ever managed.

  “You don’t believe me? You don’t believe me! Look, she’s great. Talented, sexy, sarcastic as fuck, and she’s definitely a change from the cuties we usually pick up, but bro… Come on! This is me we’re talking about. Brando. Think about it. Brando. Relationship. You can’t even use the two words in the same sentence – they’re like from different languages.”

  Jax laughs as he stands up.

  “Are you trying to convince me,” he says, as he throws his towel around his shoulders and picks up his board, “or yourself?”

  Jax salutes a goodbye and starts walking off, the question hanging in the air like an unconnected cable. Truth is, I don’t have an answer.

  After a couple more waves I decide to leave. The sun glints off the chassis of my jeep, obscuring the tall figure leaning up against it, waiting for me.

  I recognize her instantly, despite the disguise of a wide straw hat and big, Audrey Hepburn-style sunglasses. She’s wearing a black bikini, teasingly revealed by a lace sarong, and there’s only one girl with a body as poised and as slamming as that.

  Lexi.

  “I always thought you were hottest when you were surfing. Water dripping between all those muscles.”

  I frown at her, wishing I was more annoyed by her presence.

  “Where’s Davis? Did they not let him out of the wax museum today?”

  “I came alone. I was watching you,” she says, pulling
off her glasses to flash me an earnest look. “I wanted to come over and talk…but I hate breaking up a happy couple.”

  “You and me were a happy couple,” I say, before my brain can stop the weak, regretful words from falling out of my mouth.

  “Were we?” Lexi says.

  I look away, trying to ignore the deep thud of pain I get from even seeing her too much. I let the sound of the waves fill my ears, as if it’ll wash away the memories.

  “If you came to ask something,” I say, loading the cooler and my board into the back of the jeep, “just come out and ask it.”

  She pouts, the way I could never resist. “Can we just sit somewhere and talk?”

  I know there are a lot of answers to that question. No. Fuck you. Maybe later. How about next Tuesday? But there’s only one my brain seems capable of giving.

  “Sure.”

  I take Lexi to a pierside café; it’s got one of the best views in the city, and since I’m good with the owner I know he’ll keep the tables around us empty.

  Lexi looks out into the ocean as if she’s seeing it for the first time, or maybe she knows I’ve never been able to resist the taut curve of her neck when her head’s turned. We don’t speak until the cappuccinos are in front of us, as if we both need time to adjust to the other’s presence again. When Lexi takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights one, I know shit’s serious. International pop stars don’t smoke in public. I always thought it was a disgusting habit, but I’d forgive Lexi anything. Almost anything.

  “Things aren’t going well,” she says, before blowing out a long plume of smoke.

  “Funny,” I say, “’cause the last time I saw you and leatherface you seemed pretty pleased with yourselves.”

  “That was nearly a week ago. This is now. A week’s a long time in music – you know that.”

  “Your album is at number one in the charts. I don’t see the problem.”

  “Was number one. Now it’s dropping like a stone.”

  She holds the cigarette in her fingertips and leans over her coffee cup. Something about the gesture makes me shake inside, like a hammer hitting a bass piano note. Suddenly I’m not here anymore, not in a fancy beachside LA café, drinking ten-dollar cappuccinos out of oversized cups. I’m right back at the start, sitting with Lexi in a run-down twenty-four hour Brooklyn diner, drinking bitter black coffee from styrofoam cups, planning how I’m going to take her to the top.

  “How the hell does that happen?”

  Lexi laughs sadly before taking another deep drag, her pink lipstick leaving elegant marks on the cigarette butt.

  “Because it’s not about the music to Davis. The music’s just a tool; I’m the real commodity. Everything was about getting a number one album. He had this big plan for it. Big launch events all over the US. Social media campaigns. Made-up controversies to keep it on the news sites. I think he even hired a company to boost the online hits, leave fake comments, that kind of thing. It was all planned out. Like a military operation. Propaganda.” Lexi pauses to take another deep drag and gaze at the foam in her cup. “But the music sucked. The music always sucked. With the singles it was fine. All he had to do was put me in the video doing something hot. Or release a song with a controversial lyric that went just a little bit further than what the last empty pop star had done. You hear anything enough times – even by accident – and you’ll start humming it. But now that it’s all out there—now that people can hear the album and judge it for themselves…I guess there’s nowhere to hide.”

  I slowly sip my coffee, eyes fixed on her, anger rolling inside of me like a gathering storm.

  “So what do you want from me?” I say.

  “A friend who might understand? Advice? I don’t know.”

  I continue to stare at her as I take another sip.

  “Believe it or not, I don’t want us to be strangers, Brando. I heard you’ve got a new project – I’m really happy for you. Honestly. I want to see you do well. Seriously, your latest fuck-buddy is cute enough, and I’m sure with enough work you can fluff her up into something half-decent, right?”

  For a moment I say nothing. You know what the worst part is? It’s that Lexi isn’t even being malicious. This is just the way she thinks. In her mind, she just gave me a compliment.

  I drain the last of my coffee and pull my wallet out of my pocket.

  “What are you doing?” Lexi asks, surprised at my gesture.

  “I’m gonna pay for the coffee.”

  “Where are you going? We haven’t even spoken properly—”

  “I used to think you were perfect,” I interrupt, putting the money on the table and looking straight at her, “so when you left all that time ago, I thought it had to be me that was the problem. I thought Davis knew something I didn’t. That maybe I couldn’t make you a star like he could. But now I know I was right all along.”

  “It’s not like that—”

  “You wanted this, Lexi. You wanted to be bigger than the music,” I growl, all New York City reserved anger, “well now you are.”

  “Brando,” Lexi pleads, putting a hand on mine as I stand up, “don’t go. Please. I don’t have anyone else right now.”

  “Then it’s too late,” I say, pulling my arm away, “because I do.”

  It’s just a hunch. She’s not supposed to be at the studio for another couple of hours, and she has coffee shifts pretty much every day. Still, Josh is staying at the studio, and at the very least I figure we can share a beer until she arrives. When I pull up on the path outside the studio, however, I can hear my hunch is right.

  It’s loud and raucous. Fast and vibrant. The muffled sound of guitars and drums emanating from deep within the house. I step out of the car and make my way inside, the sound getting clearer and louder like a fog dissipating, dirt being cleaned away.

  She’s the first thing I notice when I step inside the studio, and she’s the first to notice me, even though she’s singing into the mic with every breath in her body, stamping her feet, playing the hell out of her guitar. Her tight tank top squeezes her breasts, ripped jeans show the firm flesh of her thighs. I watch the way she winds her curves, and can almost feel them squeezing against my hardening cock.

  She winks at me and smiles, and I can hear her smile in the words.

  I walk up beside Josh, who’s rocking his head and watching so energetically from behind the partition he doesn’t notice me until I’m right beside him. When he does he looks at me, he gives a thumbs up. I nod a reply. We both understand.

  This is not just good. This is fucking amazing.

  There are three other musicians in the studio playing, and all of them seem energized by Haley in the middle, a dancing, powerful, beautiful presence. Our eyes stay locked together and I begin to realize I’ve never seen anyone so alive, so sexy, so talented.

  Something falls into place deep inside of me. I’m going to make Haley a star. Not for a bet. Not for Lexi. Not even for myself. I’m going to do it because she deserves it.

  10

  Haley

  COFFEE BEANS BEING GRINDED. Radio blaring another bland pop tune. The cash register that sounds like it’s from the forties. The same customers having the same conversations about morning traffic and work. The rush hour shift is nothing if not consistent.

  “What can I get you ma’am?”

  “…he keeps changing the set. We’re nearly at the end of the run, and he’s still moving the walls a little bit to the left, shove the table over there, put the drawers a little closer…”

  “Would you like cream?”

  “It’s Death of a Salesman for God’s sake! It’s not like it hasn’t been done a million times before! But every night it’s ‘Whoops! Stubbed my toe again!’ or ‘Whoops! I’m exiting the stage on the wrong side again!’”

  “Will that be tall, medio, or venti?”

  “I think the only reason people are still coming is to see what new, weird arrangement the set’s going to be in rather than the actual play.” />
  And that’s when it happens. Just as I’m taking a ten dollar bill for a customer’s medio caramel frappucino with cream. In the middle of Jenna’s rant about her current play.

  That’s when my song comes on the radio.

  That’s when my life changes.

  My mouth drops open, my body freezes, and then I stiffly turn around to see that Jenna has done exactly the same. I drop the bill, Jenna drops the cup she’s holding, and we scream. Suddenly we’re in each other’s arms, jumping to the beat, half-dancing, half-hugging. I gasp over and over again, as if I’m flying too high to breathe while Jenna shouts across the coffee shop.

  “This is my friend’s song! This is her song playing on the radio!”

  I freeze again, listening once more to make doubly sure, positive that it must be a mistake. Another similar-sounding song, a mistake by the radio DJ, my cd finding its way into the coffee shop stereo. The song ends.

  “…and that last song you heard was Chasing Ghosts by Haley Grace Cooke. Great song there. Hopefully we’ll see a lot more of this talented singer-songwriter in the coming months.”

  Jenna and I turn to each other and scream again.

  I try to stick out the rest of my shift but my head feels like a swarm of bees are trapped inside it. Eventually, Jenna convinces me to leave early so that I can see Brando. She knows how much I want to.

  I’m no calmer when I walk into Brando’s apartment.

  “I can’t believe it! They played it twice! I was searching online and I’m in the rotation! Not just that station, but a bunch of them! There must be some mistake. I don’t even know how they got ahold of the song!”

  “I leaked it online,” Brando says, stretching out on the sofa.

  “Just like that?” I say, pacing around in front of him.

  “You don’t need tricks. The song speaks for itself. I just put it online, asked a few friends at stations to listen and make up their own minds, and there it is.”

  I stop to look at him – really look at him. Maybe something’s changed in one of us, maybe both, but I see someone different. He’s not the loud-mouthed New Yorker disrupting my open mic set; not the slick, indifferent manager who promised me the world and tried to turn me into a pop idol; he’s not even the impossibly hot, fuckable stranger who made me orgasm my nerves away; he’s Brando.