“You really lucked out here, Brando. I don’t know how, but you really did.”
Ben leaves and I turn my attention to Haley.
“Another drink?”
“No,” she says, the smile that’s been plastered onto her face since she came off the stage to rapturous applause still there, “I think I’m drinking too much.”
“If ever there was a night to drink too much, it’s this one. Most of these schmucks usually leave halfway through. They’re only here to get an audience with the future star.”
“You were the only audience I needed,” Haley says, squeezing my bicep before turning away to gaze at the crowd, which has now morphed into a rush of celebrity musicians. “I can’t believe how many famous people are here. I thought it was only record execs.”
“Musicians tend to like talking business over a loud song and some alcohol. Executives, on the other hand, tend to start living like musicians when they spend so much time around them.”
“Is that…Annabelle Church?” Haley says, gawking at the girl in a see-through dress that seems to glide through the entrance.
“Yeah. Probably here in the hope that dress will get her some funds for her next record.”
Haley turns to me suddenly, eyes filled with surprise.
“But…she’s huge.”
“And has an ego to match. Not many people want to touch her since she created her own Twitter account. Forget her, anyway, you should be mixing with people who’ve got real talent. Someone like Rex Bentley over there. Now that’s a genius.” I raise a glass in his direction, and Rex obligingly returns the gesture. “Guy’s a legend. Made some of the greatest records you’ll ever hear and he still looks better than—”
I stop when I notice Haley’s face. The color drains from it like a reverse painting. Even her lips turn a chilling shade of white.
“Let’s go.”
“What?”
“Please, Brando. Let’s leave.”
“But everyone here wants to speak to you! You’ve already made more connections than most musicians make in their careers, and you’ve barely spoken to half the record chiefs here. Besides, you haven’t even finished your dri—”
“I have to go. You can come with me or stay. Don’t make me ask you again. Please.”
“Haley,” I say, bending down to get a better look at her ghostly face, eyes limpid and dilated, as if she’s been drugged. “What’s the matter? Are you sick? Do you want to—”
She doesn’t even let me finish the sentence before dashing away into the crowd, shoving through confused strangers like she’s being chased. I watch her for a second, trying to think of a logical reason for the change in her, before giving up, slamming my drink down on a table nearby, and following her toward the back exit.
Chapter 12
Haley
Brando brings a thick blanket out from his loft onto the wide balcony of his apartment and wraps it around my shoulders.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice trembling, only slightly caused by the cold. It’s the first word I’ve said since Brando caught me outside, embraced me tightly, and ushered me into the back of a cab to his apartment.
“You sure you don’t want to go back inside? I can make you something hot to drink. Get you something to eat, maybe?”
“No,” I say, eyes unfocused as I watch the red and white lights of LA cars snake through the traffic-jammed streets. “I need the fresh air.”
Brando smooths a part of the blanket over my shoulder, making it a little more snug. A gesture I can’t resist smiling at him for. He leans up against the balcony railing beside me, his bicep against my arm.
“So,” he says, setting the tempo to a slow one with the patient, neutral way he says it, “you mind telling me what that was all about?”
I stiffen again as I recall the moment.
“He looked at me,” I mutter, clenching my jaw.
“Who? Rex? Well yeah. He looked at us. Is that what this is about?”
“He looked at me,” I say, the exact same way, “and he didn’t recognize me.”
Brando pauses before speaking.
“Haley, don’t get ahead of yourself. Tonight was great, but it’s just a first step. It’ll take time before people recognize you. You’ve got to be pa—”
“You don’t understand,” I say, turning toward Brando with a fierce gaze. “Rex Bentley is my father.”
Brando’s chiseled jaw drops so heavily it looks like it’ll smash through the floor.
“What? Wait…I don’t understand. Are you sure?”
I nod slowly, before turning back to lean on the railing and gaze into the night.
“It was right after his ‘blue’ period, when he made those albums in Europe. He came to LA, bought a big mansion, mountains of cocaine, and started making hits again. My mom was a musician too. She’d tried to get an album together, but ended up as a back-up singer. He liked her, used her on some of the records, and eventually, used her for some other things as well. That’s when she became his ‘assistant.’”
Brando still looks confused. “But he was married then…”
“Yeah,” I shoot back with a bitter laugh. “He was. Which is why when she told him she was pregnant he fired her, gave her a thousand dollars, and sent her on her way to ‘take care of it.’”
“Fuck,” Brando says, drawing out the word until it becomes a long sigh of anger and disbelief.
“When I was born,” I continue, feeling the heat build up behind my eyes, sniffing back the fogginess in my throat, “my mom sent him a picture of me. A letter telling him where we were, how he could get in touch. He never responded.”
Brando’s arm wraps around me tightly, but even the feeling of protection, of being cared for, can’t remove the pain that’s stabbing at me inside. He brushes tears from my cheeks softly.
“When I was twelve, my mother decided to tell me. I was already—” I pause to swallow down the hurt, “I was already in love with music. Already sure of what I wanted to do with my life. I thought it was amazing—” I can barely get the word out, stutters and sobs interrupting me, “…amazing that it was him. I had this big hole in my life where a father should have been, and I would have settled for anyone. Any drunk, or loser. But instead it was him. It made me so h… ha… happy.”
It takes a full minute of Brando rubbing my back before I can stop the quivering in my lips and the sobbing in my throat enough to continue.
“My mom still had his address – the one he used for personal letters. I knew he checked them himself, rather than through a secretary. I started sending him letters, photos, cassette tapes of me talking mixed with the songs I was making. I don’t know what I thought would happen. Maybe that he would accept me back into his life. Maybe he’d see that I had his blood, musician’s blood, and realize he’d made a mistake.” I shake my head at my own teenage stupidity. “Yeah. I actually thought he’d realize he’d made a mistake. Maybe it was the drugs, the lifestyle, the career that got in the way. I sent him letters for five years. Five fucking years! Half a decade, hundreds of letters with my whole life in them. My deepest thoughts, my hopes and dreams. One hope and one dream most of all – to have a fucking father.”
I break down fully. The cracks too wide to close up. Pain and heartbreak flowing through every vein in my body. Brando pulls me toward him tightly, squeezing me as if he can push it all back out.
“Haley,” he says, as I weep into his chest, “I’m sorry.”
I gather the pieces of me that remain and stand back upright to breathe in the cool night air.
“Maybe,” Brando says, his hand still brushing my wet cheek, “he didn’t get the letters? Perhaps he had a different address? Or it just got stuck with all the other fan mail?”