Read Brando for Free Online Page B

club.
    “Whoa!”
    The
word comes out of my mouth in a shocked gasp. Without even thinking
about asking, I grab a beautiful mahogany acoustic guitar from an
antique chair and hold it in my arms like a newborn. I strum a few
chords and it hums and purrs perfectly, the sound from it almost
magical. After way too long with my broken pawn shop guitar, holding
this feels like a revelation from God.
    I
play a little more, basking in the velvety richness of the sound,
singing a little softly. When I open my eyes, Brando’s
in front of me, a drink in each hand.
    I
freeze, hand firmly caught in the cookie jar. “Shit.
I—”
    “No.
Don’t stop.”
    “I’m
sorry. I just…it’s
so beautiful.” I
lean over to put the guitar down.
    “Don’t
apologize,” Brando
says. “Come over
here. Bring the guitar with you.”
    He
leads me over to the sunken area in one part of the loft, a low, soft
couch lining it, and sets my drink down on the table. He pats the
spot next to him, a mischievous smirk on his face, and I oblige.
    “Play
for me,” he says,
gently.
    My
heart flutters for a second as I realize what I’m
doing, sitting in a loft filled with beautiful things, holding a
guitar I’d give my
left leg to own, and about to play to a handsome man –
still pretty much a stranger –
who seems to genuinely want to
hear me. It’s almost
too much, but before my flight response has a chance to kick in, I
catch Brando’s eye,
and something in it plucks my heart like a low E string and soothes
my nerves. I settle the guitar on my lap, half-facing him on the
couch, and start playing.
    I
close my eyes, not even needing to look at the fretboard, it fits my
hand so perfectly. The words pour out of me like birds taking flight.
It’s the easiest
song I’ll ever play.
The acoustics of the loft, the feel of the mahogany guitar, the
gentle looseness that’s
still permeating through my body. The man I’m
playing for. It’s
too perfect. When I finish, I wonder if I’ll
ever play like that again.
    I
open my eyes and look at Brando. His lips are parted, his eyes dreamy
and lidded, as if drugged by the sound. He gazes at me for what feels
like an eternity, then shakes his head slightly before speaking.
    “I
haven’t heard a song
that moved me like that in a very long time.”
    “Ah…”
I smile, hoping the delight at
hearing he liked it isn’t
obvious, “it’s
just a work in progress. I need to change the middle eight and—”
    “It’s
perfect,” Brando
says, “ you’re perfect.”
    I
try to speak and fail.
    “Sign
with me,” he
continues. “Let me
manage you, book you for gigs, get you into a studio with some great
producers who know how to work with real artists, and I can promise
you that you’ll get
the acclaim you deserve. You owe it to the world to put your music
out there.”
    My
heart is pounding in my chest, my cheeks burning with a spreading
blush, but instead of jumping up and down and throwing my arms around
this man who claims he can make all my dreams come true, I shake my
head and push the guitar to the side.
    “I…I
don’t know…
This all seems really fast. I
need time…I need to
think about it.”
    “ Time?” Brando says, the largeness of his voice filling the room. “There’s
no ‘time’
in this business. Take your time
and you’ll find
yourself in the same place years later – only
a little older, and a lot worse for wear. You’ve
got something, here, now. If you wait even a second too long you’ll
waste it.”
    He
stands up and paces over to the other side of the coffee table.
    “You’ve
only heard one song. How can you be so sure?” I
say. “What if I’m
not ready?”
    “Is
that it?” he says,
stopping mid-pace. “You
don’t trust my
judgment?”
    “I…I
do. You know, it’s
just…you’ve
only heard a few songs, most of them in pieces.”
    Brando
laughs and buries a hand in his thick black hair.
    “Haley,
throughout that whole song I was asking myself ‘How
is this girl