“So, what’s the situation?” Brando says, his voice turning authoritative.

“We can’t do anything,” Jessica says, shaking her ponytail. “Every time we post something about the sore throat we get a hundred replies – every one of them about Rex Bentley.”

“Same here,” Ross adds, “we’re commenting, but it’s getting lost in the mix. It’s a drop in the ocean compared to what’s going on. It seems like every two minutes another site posts the story. We can’t keep up.”

“No takers for the Mick Jagger story so far. Sorry,” Simon shrugs.

I glare at Brando with bewilderment at this last one. He shakes his head in a clear ‘don’t ask’ gesture.

“Shit,” he says, walking to the window. “Okay. The bottom-up approach isn’t going to work.”

“Why doesn’t Haley just do an interview?” Jessica says. “She doesn’t have to go in deep. Just deny it with a word and leave it at that.”

“This is the internet,” Brando says, turning around. “There are no ‘denials’ and ‘confirmations.’ There’s just ‘admitting’ and ‘ignoring.’ Haley’s got everything to lose, and everything to gain from this. If she goes on record and denies it, all that will happen is that this thing will get another boost. People expect her to deny it. The only time denying something works is if you’re too big, or respected, or have nothing to—”

Brando looks up suddenly, his mouth open and his eyes round as if he just caught sight of something amazing.

“What?” I say.

Brando walks over to me and puts his hands on my shoulders.

“Haley. Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do,” I reply, still confused, but able to answer that much.

“I’m going to do something you won’t like. But it’s our only option.”

Before I can say anything, he’s kissing me deeply, and then grabbing his keys as he makes for the door.

Chapter 17

Brando

I don’t need to call anyone to find out where Rex Bentley lives; anyone who’s been in LA longer than a week knows the place. It’s one of the biggest mansions in the city, and was bought when rockstars like Rex were giants who couldn’t seem to fit their egos into anything smaller. A Tuscan-style villa, its walls are a combination of stark angles, sections jutting out in every direction, as if somebody took a small English village, smashed it all together, and colored it white. It’s the kind of place only a rockstar or a supervillain could live in – and I’m hoping Rex isn’t both.

I roll the car up to the tall black gates and push the button on the intercom conveniently placed on the driver’s side. After waiting for about as long as it takes someone to get anywhere in a home that big, a young woman with an accent answers.

“Hello?”

“Hey. This is Brando Nash. I’m here to speak to Rex Bentley.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Brando. Nash.”

“Just a moment, please.”

I drum my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. This time the wait is short. The intercom crackles into life again.

“I’m sorry. Rex isn’t here right now. Can I take a message? What was your name again?”

“Okay,” I say, in my ‘enough bullshit’ tone. “I know Rex is in there, otherwise you wouldn’t have had me hold. Please tell him it’s extremely important, and can’t wait.”

“Hold on just a second.”

I stare through the gates, the massive fountain at the front of his mansion just visible across the curve of the driveway. The intercom crackles.

“Rex isn’t here. Do you want to leave a message?”

“Fuck this shit,” I mutter, to myself rather than the intercom, as I push open the car door and get out. I start jogging alongside the wall, and hear the intercom behind me as it crackles off.

The vast grounds of Rex’s mansion are surrounded by the high walls of someone who has a lot of people he wants to keep out. But it’s also surrounded by plenty of gigantic trees trying to keep those same people from looking in. Though I’ve never climbed trees for the fun of it, as a teenager I went up plenty of drainpipes with a pretty girl at the back window and judgmental parents at the front door.

When I find a tree with a low-enough branch and a good-enough lean I start making my way up. Soon I’m feeling the adrenaline rush and the bone-deep satisfaction of a good work-out, and just like in the gym, I push all the negative thoughts out of my mind. Thoughts like the fact that I’m breaking and entering, like the fact that Rex’s mansion is probably full of security cameras, like the fact that turning up on his doorstep without an invitation doesn’t segue smoothly into asking for a favor.

I get to the end of a wide branch, slowly step out onto the wall, and don’t give myself time to worry about the drop. Before I can think, I’m flailing to get out of a thick, thorny bush, my shirt ripped so badly it looks like netting, and my arms stinging from a bunch of cuts and grazes.

I waste a second checking my elbows, but that’s all it takes before I start running toward the mansion – partly because I want to get this over with, and partly because I think I can hear dogs barking.

After twenty yards there’s no doubt about it. Two tough, black and yellow sons-of-bitches are behind me, teeth already out like they’re trying to nose past a finish line with them. After forty yards I don’t even turn back to look I can hear them so loudly. After fifty yards I can almost feel their dog breath on my neck. But I’m almost at the entrance now, almost at the steps. I speed up, ready to take them three at a time, ready to lower my shoulder and bust through those big doors – the only way I’ve ever done anything – and then—

“Stop!”

I wheel back on my heels, skidding on the gravel in front of the massive steps that lead up to the front door. The second I see him there I raise my hands. It’s Rex Bentley – and he’s aiming a shotgun at me.

“Stop right there,” Rex repeats, his British accent only adding to the intimidation of being at gunpoint.

I try not to flinch as the two dogs stalk past me slowly and settle themselves on the steps between me and Rex, eyeing me dubiously.

“I thought the British didn’t believe in guns,” I say, trying to smile, but too out of breath for anything other than a panting grimace.

“Why do you think I don’t live there?” Rex says, lowering the gun to his side, but keeping it pointed directly at me with his finger on the trigger. He squints a little. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Brando Nash. We go to a lot of the same parties.”

His face is stonier than the fountain in the courtyard. “If the name meant anything to me I’d have let you in when you asked.”

“I’m an A&R guy- was an A&R, for Majestic Records.”

“I don’t know any A&R guys who would do something as stupid as enter my property without permission.”

I’d like to shoot back an appropriately convincing response, but instead all I can manage to do is drop my hands to clutch the stitch in my side and double over a little.

“Wait a minute,” Rex says, stepping down the stairs toward me slowly. “You’re Josh’s friend, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” I say, triumphantly. “We met at the launch party for his book.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, stepping onto the gravel, the gun a little looser in his hand now. “He said that you were the one of the only guys still hiring him to produce, and I thought that must mean you’re one of the only guys left with an ounce of taste.”

He steps closer and stands in front of me, lowering the gun so the barrel finally points toward the ground. I offer my hand, but he raises his chin.

“So what do you want?” he says, his voice a few degrees colder than before.

“I’m here about Haley,” I say, tightening my face and standing up straight.

“Haley?” he says, only just hiding the deep note that the name strikes inside him.