The problem is that when you live like that, you tend to make a mess.

So it’s a fresh start for me and Haley. I’ve tried the hard and fast approach, and gotten nowhere; now it’s time for me to support her. Which fucking terrifies me. I’ve got a bet to win. A red-headed bitch to win back. But to do it I’m going to have to trust Haley, which is hard, because I don’t even trust myself most of the time.

I start thinking about what would happen if I lost the bet. The ten grand I can handle. Losing an act will be tougher though, because my other acts – and anyone else who might ever work with me – might start to get scared. And my humiliation would be worse. But it’s missing my chance to get Lexi back that will kill me. Every time the thought enters my head I have to drop to the floor and do push-ups, or grab the nearest doorway and perform chin pulls to beat it back out again.

Then something I didn’t expect starts to happen. Haley and I talk on the phone and send messages back and forth for a few days. She sends me some more of her songs, I press her on how she imagines them getting recorded, the kind of production she wants. She references albums that are way beyond her years, cult classics and forgotten masterpieces that I thought only music buffs and old guys knew about.

“What’s Going On, Marvin Gaye.”

“You sure?” she says on the other end of the line, and I can hear her smile.

“I’m sure. If I was on a desert island, with just one record, that’s what I’d pick.”

“Wrong choice,” she says, laughing.

“How can it be a wrong choice? Greatest rhythm section of all time. The most soulful singer ever. Every theme you can imagine, sex, love, depression, society, life.”

She giggles, enjoying the sound of me trying to convince her.

“But it’s a desert island.”

“So?”

“You’re on the beach, in the beating sun, the big wide ocean all around you – you telling me you want to hear songs about ‘society’ and ‘depression’ out there?”

I chuckle.

“What would you choose then?” I ask, with a smile I’m sure she can hear this time.

“Bob Marley. Kaya.”

“Of course.”

“Sitting on the beach, sipping juice from a coconut, watching the waves roll back and forth, singing along to sun is shining… Paradise.”

“Would you be wearing a bikini in this scenario?”

“Brando…” she says disappointedly, but with more than a trace of sex in the way she draws my name out.

“Sorry,” I say, “I can’t help it.”

We talk about how weirdly beautiful Nico’s solo albums were, how underappreciated Laura Nyro is, argue whether Johnny Marr or Jimi Hendrix is the greatest guitarist of all time (I say Hendrix but she almost convinces me otherwise).

I listen past the poor audio quality and shy modesty of her songs and start hearing things that draw me in. Quirky melodies, interesting chord changes, powerful lyrics that swim around in my head when I’m not thinking. She starts talking about music production the way I’ve only heard grumpy engineers and brilliant geniuses do, picking up on details that only perfectionists – the kinds of people who make classic albums – care about.

I start to think that this might just work after all.

I start acting on Haley’s suggestions, booking a studio in a house in Laurel Canyon. It’s no hit factory, but it’s intimate, peaceful, and full of vintage equipment – a perfect fit for Haley. Next, I bring in Josh Chambers, an old singer-songwriter that Haley’s talked about adoringly. He hasn’t released a record in over thirty years, and he definitely doesn’t dress as sharply as Baptiste, but you’d struggle to find a guitar player who hasn’t stolen at least one of his licks, or a producer who doesn’t use a bag of tricks that Josh invented before they were even born.

This time Haley’s already there when I pull up at the wood and glass house built on a hillside. She’s sitting on the porch, smile as big as the coffee cup she’s clutching between her two hands as she talks casually with Josh. They stand up and walk toward me as I get out of the car.

“Brando.”

“Josh.”

We clasp hands, and after a split second end up hugging warmly. Josh is still good looking, despite his slim face bearing all the lines and toughness of a life well-lived. He’s in faded jeans and a well-worn plaid shirt. Nobody would guess that he’s in his late fifties, least of all because he’s more comfortable in his skin than anyone I’ve ever known.

“It’s been a long time, man,” he says in his gravelly, but still tuneful, voice.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” I say, nodding toward the sun-bleached Ford pick-up in front of the house, “you’re still driving that thing.”

“It’ll outlive us all. Especially you, if you keep driving junkers like that.”

He looks over at the Porsche 911 Turbo I pulled up in and we laugh.

“How you feeling?” I say to Haley, who I notice looks a little shy, even though she’s smiling.

“I dunno…” she says, her smile getting a little shaky. “Nervous?”

I swap a glance with Josh.

“That’s good,” he says, putting a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “Means you care. Come on.”

If the last studio felt like the sterile interior of a spaceship, this one feels like a seventies garage that a hoarder left in a hurry. We step into a shag-carpeted room with a suede couch and mini fridge on one side, a giant, wood-paneled mixing desk on the other. Beyond the glass partition that sits behind the mixing desk there’s the recording area, big valve amps dotted around the floor, pedals and cables tangled up in the corners like strange sea monsters. There’s a grand piano in the corner, and guitars lying around like used towels. Rugs with psychedelic patterns hang on the smoke-discolored walls, and I can almost smell the rock and roll history of the place. A mixture of alcohol, drugs, sex, and emotion.

“So,” Josh says, putting his cup down on a speaker, “how do you guys see this going?”

Haley looks up at me and I take the lead.

“I’m thinking we start simple. Nothing too complicated. Let’s do one of your songs – ‘Leaving Home’ or ‘Not Easy to Love,’ maybe – acoustic. Just run through it from start to finish, no pressure, and see what we get.”

Haley takes a second to think about it and then nods slowly.

“Sounds good,” she says.

“Great,” Josh says, “I’ll get us set up.”

“Shouldn’t we take those rugs off the wall?” I say, pointing at the hippie accoutrements.

“No,” Haley says, sounding sure for the first time since I’ve seen her today, “leave them. They’ll make it sound warmer.” At my lifted brow she adds, “Helps the acoustics.”

I look at Josh, who gives me a look that says ‘the girl knows what she’s talking about,’ and settles into a seat as they both start preparing.

It takes Josh only a few minutes to get everything ready, sorting cables and arranging the studio with deft expertise. Once he’s done, and Haley is sitting on a stool in the recording booth, all mic’d up with the mahogany guitar in her lap and a big pair of headphones buried in her hair, Josh joins me on the other side of the glass partition.

“Haley,” Josh says, holding down a button, “can you hear me okay?”

Haley returns a thumbs up.

“Say something Haley, so I can check the levels.”

“Oh, um…hi? Uhh…”

The tremble in her voice doesn’t need the amplification of a studio to be noticeable. Josh just nods before pushing the button again to speak. He’s seen it all before, and I’m hoping his laid-back demeanor will help calm Haley down fast, because right now she can barely get a single word out, much less a whole song.

“That’s great, thanks,” Josh soothes. “Just strum a few chords now.”

Haley obliges keenly, her neck and shoulders looking tense. As she pauses to make some minor adjustments to the strings, the expression on her face tells me she’s frustrated. Even through the glass, I can feel the anxiety radiating off her.