Read Brando for Free Online Page A

for what
comes next.
    “We’re
here,” he says. I
open my eyes and turn slowly, like I’m
waking up from a deep sleep.
    The
cab smoothly stops and Brando smiles as he puts his hand on the door
handle.
    I
feel like someone just cancelled my birthday.
    Brando
pays the driver, steps out, and has my door open before I can even
find the door handle. All swagger and grace, despite his size. I step
out and before I even stumble his hand is pressing against my side,
holding me up.
    “Careful,”
he winks, when I look up at him.
    He
keeps his hand pressed against my waist all the way through the large
entrance of the red-brick apartment block and into the elevator. He
pushes the top button, and we look at each other as the doors shut.
The second they draw close, it’s
like a starting gun. Without a word we leap into each other, Brando
pulling my tense body against his hard chest. His hands instinctively
go to the back of my thighs, lifting me off the floor with ease and
wrapping my legs around him.
    Our
tongues crash together, and I get a full hit of Brando’s
dark, powerful aroma. I put my hands on his cheeks, guiding my lips
into his, the tough, sandpaper-stubble scratching at my palms.
    The
doors open and the next thing I know, he’s
carrying me into a gigantic loft apartment. I can tell he’s
craving me, I can smell the animal nitrate coming off of him, feel
the way his body is starting to take over his mind. For a few seconds
it feels like I’m
lashed to a boat in the storm, about to be carried away by this beast
of a man. My heart starts to race, my breath shortening.
    “Wait,”
I say, pushing myself away from
his lips with what little willpower I have left. He releases me,
placing me gently on the floor. I shyly look away. “This
is…really new for
me.”
    Brando’s
lips curve into a broad smile. He laughs a little as he wipes my
lipgloss from his lips, his stubble sounding like a brush as he wipes
his fingers across it.
    “Things
never stay new for long.”
    I
smile meekly and fold my arms across my chest.
    “Make
yourself comfortable,” he
says, taking off his coat to reveal a tight-fitting shirt that hugs
all the deep grooves of his torso. “I’ll
go get us a couple of drinks. Then we can talk more.”
    I
watch Brando swagger off through a side door. The second he
disappears, being here in this huge, strange loft with a guy I barely
know feels even more crazy. It’s
only when I turn around nervously, scanning my surroundings, that it
starts making sense.
    One
length of the loft is a floor to ceiling window, with a view that
seems to pan over the busiest, most picturesque part of LA. A
silhouette of glass towers against a star-filled sky. It’s
remarkable, and yet I barely give it a second glance. The real focus
for me is the rest of the room.
    It’s
a musician’s
paradise. It’s as if
Brando reached into my subconscious, discovered what my ideal
apartment would look like, and then came up with a place twice as
impressive. I step forward slowly, like Alice through the looking
glass, eyes popping out of my head, dizzy from noticing so many
beautiful things. A butterscotch ’66
Telecaster lies on the couch in the middle of the room as if it was
just another guitar. A vintage Steinway upright piano sits casually
against the wall, sheet music messily spread across the keys. A rare
Linn drum machine leans against another wall, cables squirreling out
of it in all directions.
    And
vinyl. Lots and lots of vinyl. On giant partitions that I would need
a step-ladder to reach the top of. Piled high in every corner of the
room. Decorating the walls and most of the furniture. I can smell it,
and it’s
intoxicating.
    I
grab an album that I’ve
never heard of, its colorful cover compelling me to read a few of the
song titles, and put it back, continuing to step slowly through
Brando’s musical
grove. If I’d known
he had a collection like this, I would have never abandoned him that
first night in the