“I just wanted to say I’m sorry – but since I’m better at actions than words, I thought I’d show you instead.”
He slides something off his shoulder, a case that was obscured by his broad shoulders, and places it gently on the coffee counter. I know what it is, but I don’t let myself admit it until he flips the latches and gently opens the case.
The mahogany guitar.
My breath stops in my throat. I study the elegant wood grain, running my finger down the fretboard, before looking up at Brando, who’s just as beautifully constructed.
“I can tell when a woman wants something,” he purrs, “and if they stick with me, they usually get it.”
I shoot him a suspicious glance. “You’re giving this to me?”
“A nineteen-forty Martin 0-17. I’d tell you how much it’s worth, but you’d probably never play it if you knew.”
“What’s the catch?”
He spreads his hands. “No catch. Just a promise that if you give this relationship—this business relationship—another chance, we’ll do things your way. A fresh start. No autotune, no hi-tech studios, no pre-packaged songs—”
I cross my arms and study his face. He seems sincere. “No stylist, either.”
Brando shuffles his feet.
“What?” I demand.
“It’s just…you’ve worn the same leather jacket each time I’ve met you. Frankly I think the stylist is non-negotiable.”
I keep my arms folded and shoot a fierce glare at his glinting eyes.
“But we’ll let you choose which one,” he says, laughing it off.
I smile and duck my head, letting my hair fall in front of my face – a technique I use to give me a few moments when considering something. This decision doesn’t take more than a second to make, though. I flip my head up and brush back my hair.
“Okay. Deal.”
Brando offers his hand and I shake it, surprised by how gentle his large hands can be. He holds my hand a second too long, sending heat radiating through my palm, up my arm, and spreading into my chest. I pull away before he can notice the blush that I’m sure is turning my cheeks pink. This is business, I remind myself. Strictly.
“Done and done then,” Brando says. He turns sideways, about to leave, but before he does, he casts one last longing glance down at the guitar.
“Treat that thing well; there’s a hell of a story behind it.” His eyes flick upward to meet mine. “Maybe one day I’ll tell it to you.”
I stand there in a semi-daze, watching him leave. I’ve known Brando for half a week, and in that time we’ve argued, kissed, danced together, and become business partners twice over. But he still seems like a complete stranger, with hidden depths that I’ve barely even scratched.
“Well, at the very least,” Jenna mutters from behind me as I reluctantly tear my eyes away from the perfection that is Brando’s ass, “this’ll make for some good songwriting material.”
Chapter 7
Brando
I like things hard and fast, competitive and challenging. I play games of pick-up like it’s my last shot at the play-offs, slam weights at the gym like my life depends on it, fuck every woman like a man on death row. I hate the phrase ‘push it to the limit’ – because for me there are none. I see life as a series of barriers, and behind each one is the thing you want. Some people use their brains to get past, some people bang their heads against them until they break, most people tend to give up and just head in another direction entirely – me, I pick up speed and try to break through the first time. No second thoughts, no doubts, and no slowing down.
The problem is that when you live like that, you tend to make a mess.
So it’s a fresh start for me and Haley. I’ve tried the hard and fast approach, and gotten nowhere; now it’s time for me to support her. Which fucking terrifies me. I’ve got a bet to win. A red-headed bitch to win back. But to do it I’m going to have to trust Haley, which is hard, because I don’t even trust myself most of the time.
I start thinking about what would happen if I lost the bet. The ten grand I can handle. Losing an act will be tougher though, because my other acts – and anyone else who might ever work with me – might start to get scared. And my humiliation would be worse. But it’s missing my chance to get Lexi back that will kill me. Every time the thought enters my head I have to drop to the floor and do push-ups, or grab the nearest doorway and perform chin pulls to beat it back out again.
Then something I didn’t expect starts to happen. Haley and I talk on the phone and send messages back and forth for a few days. She sends me some more of her songs, I press her on how she imagines them getting recorded, the kind of production she wants. She references albums that are way beyond her years, cult classics and forgotten masterpieces that I thought only music buffs and old guys knew about.
“What’s Going On, Marvin Gaye.”
“You sure?” she says on the other end of the line, and I can hear her smile.