This time it’s her who pulls away from me.
“Fuck me,” she begs, her eyes pleading. It always gets me, the gratifying sight of a girl’s face when she loses control, the one I’ve put on a lot of girls’ faces, but which has never looked as good as it does on hers.
“I’m gonna fuck you, Haley,” I promise, bending her over the railing and grabbing my cock. “I’ll fuck you real good.”
I slide her panties to the side, and lean over her. She’s got her hands on the railing for support, and I groan as I push myself inside her. With her jeans still bunched around her knees, keeping her thighs close together, her tightness makes both of us feel each other even more intensely.
The drum drops as I put a hand against her waist and curl the other around to cup and pull her breast. Nothing but the bass and the vocals hitting a minimalist groove as I fuck Haley from behind in ever-deepening, ever-quickening thrusts. I press my thumb into the deep arch of her spine, put a hand on her hair and pull it back.
She holds onto the railing with white knuckles, her screams loud and piercing enough to be heard over the crowd. Then the drums come in, thunderous and earth-shattering, and I let them power me as I fuck her hard enough to send ripples across her ass cheeks, her back convulsing. She throws her head down, then back again, involuntarily, the volatile heat of the drums and my cock stimulating her from without and within.
Pushing herself against the railing, she backs up onto me, in no mood to extend the agonizing sweetness, desperate for a release. I lean over and press my fingers against her clit as I thrust into her, grabbing the railing with my other hand. The song ends with one last boom of the bass drum, and we both erupt along with the crowd, the same way we began, hard and fast, greedy and selfish. Her whole body seems to inflate and deflate quickly, and she leans her head against the railing. I move over her, carefully tugging her jeans back up, and then softly kiss the back of her neck. She rolls her head to the side, and I see a flash of smile before the lights go dark.
We leave the concert before the last few songs. Partly to avoid the crowds, and partly because we both need a drink and a bite to eat. With the three bodyguards that I arranged, we skip down the empty steps of the stadium and make our way out of the large, open exit. I take Haley’s hand as we walk and squeeze it. The fact that she barely notices, that she treats it like the most natural thing in the world, somehow means more to me than if she had squeezed back. For the first time in what feels like half of my life, I feel like I’ve got everything I want. Everything I need. Everything I don’t deserve, but somehow lucked myself into.
“I could go for Chinese,” Haley says, swiping a lock of hair from her face.
“Chinese it is, then.”
“Or maybe Italian.”
“Haven’t you had enough Italian?” I grin, with dumb glee.
Haley rolls her eyes. “Do you have kids, Brando?”
“Hell no!” I say, almost jumping back at the weird heaviness of the question.
“Then don’t make dad jokes,” Haley says with a sweet smile.
I laugh. My normal laugh, which is big, long, and can be heard from across the street. Which is why it happens.
“Over there!”
“Shit! That’s her!”
“Haley!”
“Haley!”
“Haley!”
The paparazzi are on us in seconds, like jackals with SLRs. Yapping and filling the night sky with flashes from their peeping-tom lenses. There are more than a dozen of them, bombarding Haley with random shouts and questions. One of the bodyguards moves toward the street, pushing several of them with him, while the other two form a barrier between the photographers and us.
We shove through, guided by the bodyguards like the world’s clumsiest football play. I cover Haley with my coat like a smuggled package, ruining multiple gossip editors’ morning stories in the process. We make it to the side of the road, where a yellow cab is already waiting for us.
I’m about to shove Haley into the cab, dive in after her, and start thinking about food, when she stops and pulls away from me. That’s how quickly it happens. That’s how fast my happiness disappears. A new record.
“What did you say?” Haley shouts, as she squeezes between the bodyguards to get a full view of the reporters.
“Rex Bentley!” comes the reply from multiple scumbags at once. “Are you really Rex Bentley’s daughter?”
“Haley!” I shout, grabbing her arm and holding the cab door open with the other. “Come on!”
Haley freezes, brings a hand to her head, and looks down wildly, trying to find a straight thought in the maelstrom of noise and attention. The bodyguards go full linebacker, sweeping the reporters away with giant arms in order to buy us some space.
“You’re Rex Bentley’s daughter! What’s your real name? Why did you keep this a secret? Haley!”
When Haley raises her head again she looks at me. She doesn’t need to say a word. Her tight lips, her cold eyes, her clenched jaw says it all.
“Haley, wait,” I say, sounding more desperate than the reporters, “No. Don’t…I didn’t do this. This isn’t me. I swear.”
She shoves me aside and slides into the taxi, her hand on the door. When she speaks it’s a low hiss, a coiled ball of disappointment and resentment that she seems to pull from the pit of her stomach.
“You were the only one I told. The only one I trusted.”
“Haley, wait! Please! I didn’t—”
“Fuck you, Brando,” she sneers through the streak of tears, as she slams the door of the cab closed. It speeds away with the reporters following desperately behind for a while.
“Do you need a cab, boss?” one of the bodyguards asks.
“Yeah. Find one that’ll run me over.”
Chapter 12
Haley
I cried all the way through the six hour flight to San Francisco. I cried when I spoke to the lady at the car rental agency. I cried for most of the 35. By the time I pull up to my mother’s sloped, brick house on a hill in Santa Cruz, I think I’m all cried out. But when she comes out the door and screams “Sweetie!” I start bawling harder than I have since I lost my first talent show at eleven years old.
She carries me inside, through the seventies décor and the antique furniture she never gave away, past the stacks of records and the acoustic guitars she hardly uses anymore but still loves, into the living room with the thick carpet and the smell of oak that I never notice until I’ve been away a while. She places me on the velour couch, drapes a hand-crocheted afghan around my shoulders, and sits beside me.
“Haley?” she says in a voice as light as a summer breeze. “What’s the matter, sweetie?”
I look at her through the wetness of my eyes. Without the crows feet and the wrinkles around her jaw, she’d still look just like the photo on the TV. She’s still got the long, straight hippie-hair, still wears long, flowing, patterned dresses, and still has the eyes that seem too pure for anyone but her.
“You don’t know?” I say, through sobs.
“Know what?”
“What happened on the tour.”
“I know everything that happened on the tour!” she smiles, nodding toward the stack of newspapers and magazines on the coffee table, the scissors and glue she uses to cut and paste clippings set neatly beside them. That’s when I realize she wouldn’t know about the Rex Bentley leak anyway – she doesn’t use the internet, barely turns the TV on – and when I think about having to tell her everything that happened, I break down again, folding into my lap.