Brando (9 page)

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.

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.”