Brando by J.D. Hawkins

I’m right.
Trust me, Haley. I wouldn’t
bring you here if I thought you couldn’t
cakewalk it.”
    “I
know, but—”
    There’s
a rise in the level of chatter and I look around. The dancers are
being called out.
    “You’re
on soon,” I say,
noticing the rush of red that appears in Haley’s
cheeks. “When you
get out there, you’re
gonna see a sea of faces. A hell of a lot more people than you’ve
ever played in front of before. Look for me. I’ll
stand at the back, by the entrance, and when you see me, don’t
take your eyes away from me. Forget everything else: The lights, the
crowd, the noise. Just me. Play for me and no one else. Can you do
that for me?”
    Haley
smiles and nods.
    “Yeah.
Okay.”
    “Good.”
I put a hand on her shoulder and
squeeze, startled at the jolt I get from the contact of my palm
against her warm skin.
    “Haley
Grace Cooke?” comes
a loud, nasal voice from the doorway. We both turn to see the mic’d
up runner. He points a thumb back over his shoulder. It’s
time.
    I
look back toward Haley, who smiles anxiously as her band gets up and
walks after the runner. She takes a few steps to follow them, before
suddenly stopping. I panic for a second before she turns, but when
she does, it’s only
to throw her lips against mine. A deep, desperate, stolen kiss,
before she spins back and hurries after the rest of her band. I can
still taste her glossy lips as she walks away, like an expensive
drink, only a little more intoxicating.
    “Break
a leg,” I shout
after her.
    Minutes
later and I’m
standing where I said I would be, right by the exit, waiting for her
to come out on stage. I stand up tall, but the crowd’s
thick and moving constantly. They push and jostle for a good view of
the stage as soon as they know Haley’s
on next.
    When
she does walk out, it’s
obvious something is wrong. She walks with her head down, hair
covering her face. She fumbles for way too long to strap on her
guitar, and walks with painfully slow steps up to the mic. I can see
the band members exchanging glances, wondering how they’ll
cope without Haley’s
cues.
    I
raise my arm higher in the hope that Haley will notice it. She’s
gazing out at the audience, which has gone embarrassingly quiet now,
between the strands of hair that hang lazily over her face. I wait
for the look of recognition, for any movement.
    She
can’t see me, and
now she’s locked up.
The only movement she’s
making is the visible rise and fall of her chest as she pants
tensely.
    I
push forward, shoving aside people I know I should really be more
polite to. But right now none of them matter. I move indiscriminately
through the crowd, toward the center, a spot where there’s
nothing between us, impossible to miss. I raise my hand and stand
tall, praying that Haley sees me.
    There
in the center of the audience I hear the judgmental comments, the
random giggles at the bizarre turn of events. A couple of women in
front of me even turn away and start making their way toward the bar.
    But
then Haley smiles. And it lights up the stage more than the thousand
dollar equipment could ever hope to. With a hair flick sexier than a
shampoo billboard on Hollywood and Vine, she moves the curls away
from her face and stands up to the mic, her eyes settling on mine.
She glances away only to cue up her band, before turning back toward
me.
    Paula
smacks her sticks together four times and then it’s
on. I forget the audience around me, the lights, the noise. It’s
just me and Haley.
     
    I
can’t keep my
attention away from her as the showcase finishes and morphs into a
loose and loud after party – and
apparently neither can anyone else.
    “That
was sensational!” another schmoozing executive says, handing us another card to add to
the stack already filling my pocket. “Ben
Livingstone, Jupiter Records. I want to have first dibs on you, young
lady.”
    Haley
giggles breathlessly, finding it hard to keep up.
    “First
is taken,” I say,
with a