The one woman I’d give everything up for.
Just like it was.
I’d probably have to drag her back kicking and screaming. She’d probably never sing my name the way she used to ever again. But I don’t care. I could take her to new heights. Or I could break her career, or make her sorry she ever left me. It doesn’t matter. She’d be mine.
“What’s the bet?” I say, knowing damn well I’ll accept anything the cockroach offers, however dumb it is, however smug it’ll make him. Hell, I’d give him my entire roster of acts for Lexi right now without blinking.
“Get somebody into the charts, in just one month. Someone without a record deal already, without any pre-existing label interest. You do this from scratch. With a nobody.”
“Deal,” I say, slamming my bottle down and offering my hand the split second he finishes the sentence.
Davis’ creepy smile remains on his face as he takes my hand. “But I choose the act. You still want to put your money where your mouth is?”
I don’t hesitate as I shake his hand in a bruising grip that leaves him wincing. “Who?” I ask, when I take my hand away and wipe it on my jeans.
Davis purses his lips with delighted thoughtfulness, then looks toward the stage. His beady eyes roll like marbles in their sockets toward me, and he nods almost imperceptibly toward the singer on stage.
“See you in a month,” Davis murmurs as he drains his wine and turns around, “Brando baby.”
I look toward the stage. All I see are a bunch of messy brown curls hunched over a beat-up old acoustic guitar. She’s meek. Soft. Her voice barely cuts through the noise of the club. I step forward, straining to hear above the chatter of people ignoring her. Gently plucked guitar strings, a delicate low voice that she seems almost shy of, burying it in the chords. I catch a glimpse of her face between the riotous strands of hair. Pearly skin, smooth and light, and she’s so nervous that she can’t lift her eyes up from her strumming fingers for more than a moment at a time.
Everything about her seems fragile. Too subtle to be heard in a bar. So reserved it’s like she wants to blend into the background. A snowflake in LA.
The complete opposite of what I need to break into the charts.
“I’m gonna make you a star,” I say, as softly as she sings, “whoever you are.”
Chapter 2
Haley
When I lay my old guitar into its battered case these days it feels like putting my dreams in a coffin. I latch it closed and throw on a leather jacket that looks expensive only because it’s worn out from being the only one I have. Through the doors of the hallway I can hear the people outside. People who came to drink, to talk, to find somebody to fuck, and just happened to be where I was playing my set.
“Wow,” comes a low, strong voice behind me. A deep New York drawl obvious even in the single syllable. “That was a great set.”
“I’m surprised you could hear it,” I say, not even turning around as I fiddle with the stuck zipper on my jacket.
“I’ve got a good ear.”
Frustrated with it, I give up on the zipper, pick up my guitar case, and turn around to face the growling voice. From its bass I’d have guessed its owner was big, but I’m still surprised – he’s a mountain of muscle, filling up almost the entire doorway, granite pecs and biceps obvious even through the thick fabric of his expensive suit. Between shoulders the size of a bridge his face looks like it was carved out of marble, brutal and beautiful. All jawline and sandpaper stubble, the face of a comic book superhero brought to life, topped with black swirls of thick, soft hair.
“My name’s Brando Nash,” he says, taking a card out of his inside pocket and handing it to me, “and I’m about to make your dreams come true.”
I hold his satisfied gaze as I take the card. Eventually I peel my eyes from his oak-colored irises and study it.
BRANDO NASH
A & R, Majestic Records
155055 Wilshire Blvd. Los Angeles
[email protected]
I look back at him and flash a cynical smile. Clearly this guy thinks it’s my first rodeo. And guess what? It ain’t.
“Is this the part where I’m supposed to cry and get all excited?” I ask. “Jump up and down as if you’re the star quarterback who just asked me to prom?”
He frowns and turns his head slightly, sizing me up through squinting eyes. A look that would have knocked me dead before I came to LA – now it just makes me roll my eyes.
“Yeah,” he says, slowly nodding, “this is something you should be very excited about. I’m a talent spotter, a record label’s agent. I can get you studio time, a deal. Put your music out there. Unless playing grungy open mic nights for no pay is the height of your ambitions?”