“Okay,” Josh shrugs as he takes his seat again. I smile at Haley as she leaves to go back to the studio, then sit beside Josh again.
“I’ve known a lot of musicians who couldn’t hack it in a studio,” Josh says, once she leaves the room. “Good ones. Great ones. But they just couldn’t play without the right audience, feeding off the energy of a crowd.”
Through the glass I watch Haley sit on the stool again, put on the headphones, and pick up her guitar. Just as I’d hoped, something is different now. The smart, sarcastic shine in her eye, the calm earthiness of her movements. She looks like a girl who can take on the world again.
“Can you hear me over there?” she asks.
Josh pushes the button. “Perfectly. Ready when you are. I got a good feeling about this one.”
“Me too,” Haley says, and I can tell she means 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 they just need a moment alone.
“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” I say. “Be right back.”
“Sure.”