The Bet Page 2

  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.”

  I notice the three big guys standing around us, dressed in black, shades and everything. My mind starts doing the math regarding how many times I could pummel Davis’ face before they peel me off. Then again, maybe they’re only here to protect Lexi. Maybe Davis isn’t part of their job.

  Lexi laughs.

  “‘Real music’? You still talking about that, Brando baby? Is that why you’re here?” she says. “Listening to scruffy teenagers with bad hair trying to play guitar? Because it’s ‘real’?”

  She turns around and waves toward the crowd, who are almost entirely facing her, away from the stage. They shout and raise their drinks, hold up their phones quickly to take pictures, as if confirming her point. She turns back to me with a red-lipped smile that’s even deadlier than it was seconds ago.

  I ope
n my mouth to say something, and in the split second before my voice comes out, Lexi’s spun on her heels and walked away, her elegant, tall body painful to watch as it gets smothered by her bodyguards.

  “Good luck with the talent spotting…Brando baby,” Davis smirks, as he follows her like a designer dog.

  I zone out, my vision blurry with anger, fists clenching. I’m about to stride outside and land some sweet fucking hits on Davis’ face when I see fingers snapping in front of me.

  “Dude? You okay?”

  I look to the side, the world coming back into focus. It’s Jax. He never left.

  “Yeah,” I say, lying. “I’m good.”

  “I guess some girls are so good at fucking they’ll fuck up your life too. You’re lucky she’s gone.”

  The words are true, but I can’t force myself to believe them. Nothing makes me feel better about losing her. “Then why do I feel like someone just scooped out my insides?”

  Jax shrugs. “You’re probably just hungry.”

  I look at him and laugh.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he says, pointing at his watch. “Lizzie’s gonna start calling you a bad influence.”

  “You go,” I say. “I need another drink. And another girl. Then another drink, probably.”

  We clasp hands and Jax strides out. I turn back to the bar and order another beer. When it comes, I take it straight from the bartender, before it hits the bar, and gulp long and deep. I close my eyes, relishing the coldness, feeling it settle inside of me, reminding myself I’m not empty. I listen to the sound of the bar, the heightened voices, energized by the presence of a star. Somewhere in between the giddy laughter and shouted jokes I hear a nice minor chord change.

  I slam the bottle down and open my eyes.

  “Oh fuck. You again? Seriously?”

  Davis is standing beside me.

  “A glass of white wine,” he says to the bartender without taking his eyes off me.

  The bartender nods his acknowledgement, and slams down another beer for me – good guy. I grab it and swig deeply.

  “Did you forget something, Davis?” I say, keeping my eyes on the bottle. “Your hairpiece, perhaps?”

  Davis cackle-wheezes before speaking.

  “I just couldn’t resist seeing you squirm a little more, Brando.”

  I clutch the beer bottle as if it’ll hold me back.

  “Davis, I’d punch you in the face right now if I didn’t think the plastic surgery would protect you better than a hockey mask.”

  Davis keeps the grin on his face but I notice him edging back a little. “You know what I love about you, Brando, you’re deluded. It’s almost as if you genuinely think you’ve got some talent. That you’ve actually got something to offer this city. I think that’s what makes it so entertaining. The sheer gulf between what you think you are, and what you actually are.”

  “Go pick on someone your own size. I’m sure there are some rats by the garbage cans out back.”

  He goes on, as if I never spoke. “I mean, you made all the rookie mistakes. You fell in love with your own talent for Christ’s sake! You made the business personal. You can’t make someone a star when you care about them. That’s just ridiculous.”

  “This the kind of crap you filled her head with when you stole her from me?”

  “Lexi’s a smart cookie. She knew what needed to be done, and she did it. No second thoughts, no emotions, no doubts. I never stole her. She came to me.” He sips his wine smugly.

  My eyes slip out of focus and my body tightens. Enough. I spin toward him and grab Davis by the scruff of his shirt, feeling disgust as I pull his irradiated face toward mine.

  “You’re a fucking fraud, Davis. A vulture. A stinking bag of empty words that you spray around and hope will land somewhere to fester. You did nothing. You are nothing.”

  “And what are you? What exactly do you do, Brando?”

  I shake him in my grip, so tight that I have him lifted almost completely off the floor.

  “I’m a manager. I let musicians make their music, help them get their work out there, realize their potential. And I’m fucking good at it. I nurture talent, bring it out of people. I take talent and I make it shine. Because I care – not in spite of it.”

  Davis’s lips extend slowly into a smile like some sea creature bloating itself up. A horror movie scene played out upon his face.

  “Prove it,” he hisses.

  “I already did.”

  I release my grip and he drops to his feet, jerking his blazer straight and smoothing his shirt without taking his eyes away from mine. He’s still got that shit-eating grin on his face.

  “You think you’ve got the ‘magic touch’? Enough intelligence, drive, and passion to turn somebody into a star?”

  “I know it.”

  Davis sips his wine slowly, letting my words hang in the air. I grab my beer and glare at him as I swig from it.

  “Care to stake something on it? Or are you happy to just scream in my face about it?” he says snidely as he smooths his disgustingly shiny shirt.

  “Gladly,” I say defiantly. I suppress the nauseating feeling that I’m about to do something stupid – I’m too far gone for that. Right now all I can think about is wiping Davis’ slug-grin away from his face without copping a violent misconduct charge.

  “A bet then, if you wanna call it that. Winner gets ten grand…”

  “Pfft…” I say, turning to my beer.

  “And the pick of the other person’s acts.”

  My arm freezes halfway toward bringing my beer to my mouth. I turn slowly to face him.

  “What?”

  “If you win the bet,” Davis says, relishing the words so much he’s making smacking noises as he speaks, “you get to take one of my acts for yourself. I’ll cancel all my contracts and ties with them, and hand them over to you completely. If you win, of course.”

  I clutch my beer tight, hoping Davis doesn’t see my hands shaking. A slow tremor building in the pit of my chest. I know this is bad. I know this is too good to be true. But Davis has just kicked the door down on a whole lot of emotions I thought I’d packed away for good. I’ve spent the past few years wanting to turn the clock back – and he’s just offered me the next best thing.

  Lexi.

  I’d get Lexi back.

  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 ab
ove 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.”

  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.”