Brando
“Ok. Here it is: ‘Don’t think.’”
“What?”
“Don’t. Think.”
“That’s it?”
“That is it.”
“That’s your entire philosophy, the guiding principle for your entire life, summed up?”
“I’m telling you Jax, thinking is the root of all evil. In the gym, in business, in the bar,” I say, spinning around to face the crowd of people gathered around the stage, where various musical acts have been performing all night, “thinking just holds you back. Keeps you from doing things. Think too much, and all you’ll end up with is a beer gut and a dating profile, bro.”
Jax smirks and chuckles the way I’ve seen him do a million times. In the city of LA, where you don’t see the sharks for the suits, and where everyone knows how to play a role, you need two things: A friend you can trust, and a rival to keep you on your toes.
Jax is both.
“I know I’ve been drinking with you for way too long,” he says, as he raises his whiskey glass from the bar top, “because I’m beginning to agree with you.”
“You leaving?”
“Lizzie should be getting back around now. I told her we’d watch a movie together.”
Correction: Jax was both. Now that he’s done the one thing nobody expected him to— settled down— he’s no longer a rival; just a friend.
“The tiger has been tamed,” I say, shaking my head as I raise my beer bottle level with his glass. “Here’s to your legacy.”
“I’m sure you’ll pick up the slack,” he smiles.
When I bring my beer bottle into contact with his glass, I move my whole body toward him, shoulder-barging him backwards. He knocks into the person behind him as he steps out of the way of spilt whiskey.
“Brando! What the—”
I see his face relax into an expression of humorous understanding when he turns around to apologize and finds two gorgeous brunettes, fantastically balanced on their high heels by ample asses and firm tits.
“I’m sorry,” I say, shifting past Jax and in between them like a boxer setting his feet, “my friend’s a real klutz.”
Their expressions settle into coy smiles as they check us out. Jax shrugs and smiles like he’s been caught with his hands in the candy jar. He might not be available anymore, but he still knows how to play the wingman.
“Come on, Jax!” I say, mockingly. “Get these dancers another drink.”
“Dancers?” says the one with the lips that look like they’re about to burst they’re so juicy. “We’re not dancers.”
“No?” I say, putting a little growl into my voice. “You fooled me with those incredible bodies.”
It’s a blunt line, direct and true. I’ve never had a good poker face, I like things out in the open, cards on the table. And why not? I’ve been dealt a good hand. I’m six feet of gym-sculpted muscle, a strong jawline courtesy of Italian ancestry (via Brooklyn, New York), and I’ve got my dream job of being an A&R man at one of LA’s hippest labels. I’ve come a hell of a long way, and there’s a hell of a lot to forget before I start taking it for granted.
The girls giggle as they roll their eyes at each other, but the pout on their lips and the way they shift their shoulders toward me tells me it’s on.
I throw out a laugh as I remember Jax is heading back to his girl and consider how the two beautiful creatures in front of me would look silhouetted against the moonlight in my loft apartment, and then I feel a hand on my shoulder.
I turn to face Jax.
“Maybe we’ll make a movie while you’re watching one,” I smile, before I see the sharp lines of his face arranged way too severely. He nods, and I follow his eye line to the entrance of the bar.
I know it’s her before I even set eyes on the skin-tight pvc dress – always performing, even off-stage. I can sense her presence, the glow she gives off, the magnetism that compels everyone in the area to direct their attention her way. It’s magic, unreal, the same spellcraft that compels millions to adore her through TV screens and magazines. The perfect pop idol. A modern goddess that the world learned to worship.
There are guys in deep Amazonian tribes who have probably jerked off thinking about her. Eskimo teenage girls who wish they had her red, wavy hair. They call her fans ‘Lexians,’ a goofy tribute to the sexual exploration she pushes in her music videos, composed of split-second odes to the perfection of her body. A flash of tender thigh, delicious ass, quivering tits. To the world, she’s a symbol of freedom, feminine power, independence, fantasy, sex, a symbol of everything wrong with America, of everything anyone could ever want. To me, she’s a sucker punch, a thorn I’ve never been able to remove, a pain in the emptiness of my chest, a phantom limb where my heart should be.
Lexi Dark.
And standing right beside her, his hand on the small of her back, is the man who took her away from me: Davis Crawford.
The crowd starts to roar, drowning out the gently-strummed guitar chords of the poor rocker girl on stage, who can’t hold a candle to Lexi’s flame. Lexi raises her arms, making herself as big as can be, as if drawing power from the sycophants in the room. Even the two girls standing in front of us leave, phones in hand, to get a better look and probably take some selfies.
“Come on, bro,” Jax says, as he takes the beer bottle from my loose grip, almost as if he realizes I’m about to drop it. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll get you a slice of pizza.”
I let Jax gently guide me along the bar like the saddest patient on the ward, my head spinning, and then I hear it.
“Brando!”
The voice loved by millions. Distinctly sweet, but with a dark tone of huskiness that pulls at your sexuality the way a lifetime of therapy never could. A voice I believed in so much I staked my life on it. I’ve heard my name sung by that voice a thousand times, but it’s not singing the same song anymore; the notes are different now. Not the breezy melody of a girl who doesn’t know what she has, not the delighted wail of a woman discovering her body, not the sultry sonata of intimate promises. Now she squeals my name like a war cry.
“I thought I’d find you here,” she says when she draws close enough, though for me being in the same city is too close, “slumming it with the nobodies.”
I press a finger on Jax’s arm to signal for him to hold back. He knows I like to fight my own battles, but I also know he can’t stand seeing his friends get put down.
“It’s not so bad,” he says breezily anyway, impervious to her wiles, “I’ve only noticed a couple of nobodies so far.”
“What are you doing here, Lexi?” I say, wishing I had listened to the advice the yoga teacher gave me and taken that massage back at her place.
“We just wanted to show our appreciation,” Davis says, his croaky voice oozing out with so much slime I start to crave a shower. He’s a foot shorter than Lexi, perma-tanned the color of a ripe orange – but with only half the personality. “Her album’s just become one of the best-selling records of the internet era. Nearly a billion hits online for two of her singles. And it only released last week! If you hadn’t found her, I’d never have been able to come along and take her to the next level.”
“Stolen her, you mean.”
Davis emits a disgusting sound that I assume is supposed to be a laugh.
“This is LA! There’s no such thing as stealing here! It’s all just part of the process, and you did your part very well.”
I glance at Lexi – and immediately regret it. She’s smiling at me. Enjoying the sight of her little imp twisting the knife. I want her smile to make me angry, to make me hate her as much as she hates me, but it’s too fucking beautiful, too loaded with memories. She’s amazing, and I lost her.
“Yeah, I did my part well,” I say, sneering, every muscle in my body spoiling for a fight, “took her from nothing, built her up piece by piece, taught her what real music’s about, broke my back making her into what she is, before you came along and threw a tight dress and a few trendy producers at her, turned her from a musician into a pop product and reaped all the rewards.”