Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 17
No one who saw all those luscious dark curls peeking out from under the cap would ever guess what Julian was trying to cover up underneath it, and for Brooke, it only added to Julian’s appeal, made him more vulnerable and human. She secretly loved that she was the only one who ever got to see Julian without the cap, when he would safely pull it off at home and shake his curls just for her. Had someone told Brooke a few years earlier that she’d find her thirty-two-year-old husband’s increasing baldness to be one of his most appealing qualities she would’ve laughed with disbelief, but that is exactly what had happened.
“How are you feeling? Are you nervous?” Brooke asked, searching his face for a hint as to how he was holding up. He’d been a wreck all week—barely eating, never sleeping, even vomiting earlier that afternoon—but when Brooke tried to talk to him about it, he’d completely turtled. She had wanted to accompany him to the venue that night, but Julian insisted she go with Nola. He said he needed to talk through a few things with Leo, get there early, make sure everything was set up. Something must have worked, because he looked a little more relaxed.
“I’m ready,” he said with a determined nod. “I’m feeling good.”
Brooke kissed him on the cheek, knowing he was racked with nerves but proud of him for holding it together. “You look good. You look ready. You’re going to be fantastic tonight.”
“You think so?” He sipped his club soda, and Brooke noticed his knuckles were white. She knew he was dying for something stronger, but he never drank before a performance.
“I know so. When you’re sitting at that piano, all you’re thinking about is the music. Tonight is no different from doing a gig at Nick’s. The crowd always loves you, baby. Remember that. Just be yourself, and they’re going to love you here too.”
“Listen to her,” said an unfamiliar male voice. When Brooke turned around, there stood one of the best-looking guys she had ever laid eyes on. He was at least six inches taller than her, which immediately made Brooke feel girlishly slight and dainty. She wished for the umpteenth time that Julian were as tall as this mystery man but then forced the thought from her head; Julian probably wished Brooke’s body was more like Nola’s, so what right did she have? The guy wrapped an arm around Brooke’s back and squeezed her left shoulder, so close she could smell his cologne. Masculine, subtle, and expensive. She blushed.
“You must be the wife,” he said, leaning down to kiss the top of her head, a gesture that felt oddly intimate and impersonal at the same time. His voice was not nearly as deep as Brooke would’ve expected from someone of his height and obvious level of fitness.
“Leo, I’d like you to meet Brooke,” Julian said. “Brooke, this is Leo, new manager extraordinaire.”
A gorgeous Asian girl walked by at that exact moment and both Brooke and Julian watched as Leo winked at her. Where the hell was Nola? She needed to warn her early and often that Leo was off-limits. It wasn’t going to be easy—Leo was exactly her type. His pink dress shirt was open one button more than most men would dare, and it highlighted his lovely tan—dark enough but without a hint of booth or aerosol. His pants were low-waisted and European slim. He dressed as though his hair should’ve been slicked back with heavy product, but he smartly let his thick, dark locks wave freely just over his eyes. The only flaw she could make out was a scar that bisected his right eyebrow in a hairless dividing line, but it actually worked to his benefit, taking away any hint of effeminate over-grooming or perfection. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on his entire body.
“Pleasure to meet you, Leo,” Brooke said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
He didn’t appear to hear. “Okay, listen,” he said, turning to Julian. “I just got word that you’re scheduled as the final act. One down, one to go, then you.” Leo peered intently over Julian’s shoulder as he talked.
“Is that good news?” Brooke asked politely. Julian had already told her that none of the other musicians scheduled to perform that night were in any real competition. One was an R&B group who everyone thought sounded like a modern-day Boyz II Men, and the other was a heavily tattooed female country singer who wore frilly dresses and her hair in pigtails.
She looked at Leo and saw that once again, his gaze had wandered. Brooke followed it and saw he was staring directly at Nola. Or, more precisely, Nola’s pencil-skirt-swathed bum. She made a mental note to threaten Nola with banishment and worse if she went anywhere near him.
Leo cleared his throat and took a swig of whiskey. “The chick went already, and she was decent. Not mind-blowing, but mildly entertaining. I think—”
He was cut off by the sound of voices harmonizing. There wasn’t a stage, exactly, but there was a cleared area in front of the piano where four African-American men in their early twenties stood, each leaning in toward a central microphone. For a moment it sounded like a really good college a capella group, but then three of the guys stepped back and left the main singer alone to croon about his childhood in Haiti. The crowd nodded and grooved appreciatively.
“Listen, Julian,” Leo said. “Just forget where you are and why you’re here and do your thing. Got it?”
Julian nodded and tapped his foot furiously. “Got it.”
Leo motioned toward the area in the back of the room. “Let’s get you set up.”
Brooke stood on her tiptoes and kissed Julian on the mouth. She squeezed his hand and said, “I’ll be right here the whole time, but forget about all of us. Just close your eyes and play your heart out.”
He shot her a grateful look but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Leo led him off, and before she could finish her wine, one of the A&R guys announced Julian over the microphone.
Brooke looked around again for Nola and spotted her talking to a group of people in front of the bar. That girl knew everyone. Happy to have Trent there, Brooke let him lead her to a little sliver of couch space, where he motioned for her to take a seat. She perched herself on the end of a velvet sofa and nervously gathered her hair into a knot. She rooted around in her bag for a hair tie but couldn’t find one.
“Here,” said the beautiful Asian girl Leo had winked at earlier. She pulled a brown elastic off her wrist and handed it to Brooke. “I have a million.”
“How are you feeling? Are you nervous?” Brooke asked, searching his face for a hint as to how he was holding up. He’d been a wreck all week—barely eating, never sleeping, even vomiting earlier that afternoon—but when Brooke tried to talk to him about it, he’d completely turtled. She had wanted to accompany him to the venue that night, but Julian insisted she go with Nola. He said he needed to talk through a few things with Leo, get there early, make sure everything was set up. Something must have worked, because he looked a little more relaxed.
“I’m ready,” he said with a determined nod. “I’m feeling good.”
Brooke kissed him on the cheek, knowing he was racked with nerves but proud of him for holding it together. “You look good. You look ready. You’re going to be fantastic tonight.”
“You think so?” He sipped his club soda, and Brooke noticed his knuckles were white. She knew he was dying for something stronger, but he never drank before a performance.
“I know so. When you’re sitting at that piano, all you’re thinking about is the music. Tonight is no different from doing a gig at Nick’s. The crowd always loves you, baby. Remember that. Just be yourself, and they’re going to love you here too.”
“Listen to her,” said an unfamiliar male voice. When Brooke turned around, there stood one of the best-looking guys she had ever laid eyes on. He was at least six inches taller than her, which immediately made Brooke feel girlishly slight and dainty. She wished for the umpteenth time that Julian were as tall as this mystery man but then forced the thought from her head; Julian probably wished Brooke’s body was more like Nola’s, so what right did she have? The guy wrapped an arm around Brooke’s back and squeezed her left shoulder, so close she could smell his cologne. Masculine, subtle, and expensive. She blushed.
“You must be the wife,” he said, leaning down to kiss the top of her head, a gesture that felt oddly intimate and impersonal at the same time. His voice was not nearly as deep as Brooke would’ve expected from someone of his height and obvious level of fitness.
“Leo, I’d like you to meet Brooke,” Julian said. “Brooke, this is Leo, new manager extraordinaire.”
A gorgeous Asian girl walked by at that exact moment and both Brooke and Julian watched as Leo winked at her. Where the hell was Nola? She needed to warn her early and often that Leo was off-limits. It wasn’t going to be easy—Leo was exactly her type. His pink dress shirt was open one button more than most men would dare, and it highlighted his lovely tan—dark enough but without a hint of booth or aerosol. His pants were low-waisted and European slim. He dressed as though his hair should’ve been slicked back with heavy product, but he smartly let his thick, dark locks wave freely just over his eyes. The only flaw she could make out was a scar that bisected his right eyebrow in a hairless dividing line, but it actually worked to his benefit, taking away any hint of effeminate over-grooming or perfection. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on his entire body.
“Pleasure to meet you, Leo,” Brooke said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
He didn’t appear to hear. “Okay, listen,” he said, turning to Julian. “I just got word that you’re scheduled as the final act. One down, one to go, then you.” Leo peered intently over Julian’s shoulder as he talked.
“Is that good news?” Brooke asked politely. Julian had already told her that none of the other musicians scheduled to perform that night were in any real competition. One was an R&B group who everyone thought sounded like a modern-day Boyz II Men, and the other was a heavily tattooed female country singer who wore frilly dresses and her hair in pigtails.
She looked at Leo and saw that once again, his gaze had wandered. Brooke followed it and saw he was staring directly at Nola. Or, more precisely, Nola’s pencil-skirt-swathed bum. She made a mental note to threaten Nola with banishment and worse if she went anywhere near him.
Leo cleared his throat and took a swig of whiskey. “The chick went already, and she was decent. Not mind-blowing, but mildly entertaining. I think—”
He was cut off by the sound of voices harmonizing. There wasn’t a stage, exactly, but there was a cleared area in front of the piano where four African-American men in their early twenties stood, each leaning in toward a central microphone. For a moment it sounded like a really good college a capella group, but then three of the guys stepped back and left the main singer alone to croon about his childhood in Haiti. The crowd nodded and grooved appreciatively.
“Listen, Julian,” Leo said. “Just forget where you are and why you’re here and do your thing. Got it?”
Julian nodded and tapped his foot furiously. “Got it.”
Leo motioned toward the area in the back of the room. “Let’s get you set up.”
Brooke stood on her tiptoes and kissed Julian on the mouth. She squeezed his hand and said, “I’ll be right here the whole time, but forget about all of us. Just close your eyes and play your heart out.”
He shot her a grateful look but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Leo led him off, and before she could finish her wine, one of the A&R guys announced Julian over the microphone.
Brooke looked around again for Nola and spotted her talking to a group of people in front of the bar. That girl knew everyone. Happy to have Trent there, Brooke let him lead her to a little sliver of couch space, where he motioned for her to take a seat. She perched herself on the end of a velvet sofa and nervously gathered her hair into a knot. She rooted around in her bag for a hair tie but couldn’t find one.
“Here,” said the beautiful Asian girl Leo had winked at earlier. She pulled a brown elastic off her wrist and handed it to Brooke. “I have a million.”
