“And we’ve also been paying for studio time for an album we haven’t even heard yet. We supplied you with the bus, the booking, the planning for you to get your name out there – and don’t forget, Haley, you weren’t even the headliner. As far as I’m concerned, we’re even.”

I stand up, my despair turning into cold, frustrated anger.

“You can’t get away with this! There must be something I can do.”

“Sure there is,” Rowland says, continuing to talk as calmly as if he’s ordering a pizza, “you can hire yourself a lawyer, and try to get us to uphold the contract. We would end up tearing each other to shreds, and it would cost both of us more money than we were even making from each other. Plus, and usually I enjoy saying this, but not now; unless you know the second-best lawyer in Los Angeles, you’ll just bury yourself deeper – because I happen to hire the best myself.”

I don’t speak for a few seconds as I try to process all of it, the sudden loss of everything I built my life around for these past couple of months— no, years. I think about the high-rent lease I signed on for, the almost-finished album with no label to distribute it, the reputation I built up so hard on the road turning into gossip-fodder, and wonder if I’m actually worse off than when I was just playing open mics, serving coffee, and crashing with people I only barely called friends.

Then I hear the door of the apartment open, and quickly hang up on Rowland to see who it is. I’m not the only one: the entire loft is silent now, as the team puts all of their focus on the man at the door in a ripped shirt, with cuts and bruises all over his torso, waiting for some sense of reality to reappear.

“Brando?” I say, rushing toward him and inspecting the cuts. “What the hell happened to you? Where did you go?”

“You guys can stop now,” he says to the team seated around his coffee table. “You’ve all done a great job, but I need you to get out of here. I’ll call everyone tomorrow. Thanks.”

Too stunned and frightened to ask anything else, they pick up their laptops and file past us one by one, Simon closing the door behind him and leaving just the two of us alone. Brando looks at me, his eyes loaded with whatever it is he just went through.

“What happened?” I repeat, this time in a whisper.

He puts a hand against my cheek, and brings my chin up to look at him face-to-face.

“I spoke to Rex,” he says, leaving a long pause for my reaction. Instead of freaking out, I keep my expression neutral, even though it feels like someone just punched me in the gut. Brando’s clearly been through enough today already. He continues, “He’s going to deny the rumors. Coming from him, it should bury them for good. He’s been doing this a long time. He’s got a great PR team. He knows who to trust, how to get a point across.”

I step back and turn away, unable to look at him – at anyone. I feel like I’m falling into myself, the same as I always do when I think about Rex Bentley, as if I’m eleven years old still, trapped there, never growing up.

“He’ll probably frame it as a joke,” Brando says, his voice getting a little closer as he says it. “Make it sound casual, and like he doesn’t really care what people believe. Because the truth is, he has no reason to. That’s why everyone will buy it when he says it.”

I feel Brando’s hand rest on my shoulder, and close my eyes.

“Did he…” I say, my voice shaking, “Um … did he say anything else?”

Brando takes a long time before answering, “He asked about you.”

I tense my body, press my eyelids together, trying to stem the impending tears. I turn around and Brando squeezes me against his chest. I hear him breathe in sharply through his teeth.

“Sorry,” I mutter, pushing my emotions away. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” he says, gazing down at me as I rest my chin on his chest.

“What happened to you?” I say, tracing a light finger across the dirt and blood on his forearm.

“Getting in to see Rex was a little tougher than I thought,” Brando says, before adding slowly, “getting through to him was even tougher.”

I look up at Brando’s sympathetic eyes.

“He’s an asshole, right?”

Brando nods regretfully.

“I’m sorry. He kind of is. Do you think you’d ever want to meet him?”

“You know,” I say, taking Brando’s hand and leading him over to the couch, where we both drop ourselves next to each other, “it’s funny. Before all of this, the records, the tour, you, I would have done anything just to speak to him one time. Anything. But now…I dunno. I don’t really care. It is what it is, and I’m done pushing to change it.”

Brando smiles warmly as he brushes my hair back, his big, bloody arm stretched across the back of the couch.

“Maybe now that you’ve done so much on your own, you realize that you don’t need anyone else,” he says.

I laugh, and rub a hand up his thigh affectionately.

“None of that is true. I didn’t do it alone. And I definitely need a certain someone,” I say, my tongue on my teeth. “Rowland called me while you were gone. Told me that I’ve pretty much been dropped already – a ‘clean break,’ as he put it.”

“So we’re back to square one,” Brando says, grinning as he shuffles a little closer.

“We did it before though, didn’t we?”

“And this time we have a whole album.”

I sigh. “No we don’t. Majestic paid for the studio time – and for Josh. The album’s theirs.”

Brando’s brow creases. “Have they heard any of the songs?”

I shake my head. “No. They weren’t quite done yet.”

“Right.” He pauses, thinking. “Don’t forget, I’m the one who managed you for Majestic. They only paid for your studio time, nothing else. They’re only interested in finished products, and up until that point, they don’t care – for better and for worse. If I know Josh, he’s keeping those master tapes close to his chest, and he’d sooner burn them than hand them over to a label and screw an artist over.”

As I process Brando’s words, it starts to dawn on me. I’m not as screwed as I thought. “So does this mean … we can still release it ourselves?”

“Right,” Brando says, as his hand curls around my waist. “Just you and me again.”

“Oh my God! This is amazing!” I can’t help squealing as I climb up into Brando’s lap. “Do you still have that video camera?” I whisper huskily as I press my cheek against his.

“That depends on what you want it for,” Brando says, his voice soft in my ear. “Is this about music, or about us?”

“Oh, this time it’s about us. Absolutely.”

Epilogue

Brando

Even though we’re sitting in an auditorium of thousands, even though the biggest musicians in the world are here, even though there are cameras everywhere, even though I’ve been in this situation many times, I can’t take my eyes away from Haley sitting next to me.

Tonight, she’s ditched the leather jacket and tight black jeans for a slim-fitting, light blue dress that makes her look hot in a way I’ve never seen before, and which is driving me crazy with lust. She even wore her wild, crazy hair up tonight. I never thought I’d see her do that, but then again, this is the Grammys.

I pretend to pay attention to the stage a little more, but as soon as the audience starts clapping I push my hand toward the slit in her dress, fingers venturing between soft silk and even softer skin.

Haley pulls my hand away and continues clapping. Out of the corner of her mouth, barely moving her lips lest a camera settle on her, she speaks to me.

“Brando, I’m going to kill you when we get out of here!”

“I know,” I say, without trying to hide it, “and that dress is already torturing me.”

The clapping stops and the host cranks up into another introduction.