Brando: Part Two (Brando, #2)

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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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.”

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