by N. N. Britt
“I won’t touch it again.”
We fell into dreadful silence. Sweat began to coat our palms that were pressed together. Jaw stiff, eyes hooded, he withdrew his hand first.
“This band is going to kill you,” I said after a long pause.
“You want me to sit at home and receive handouts in the form of royalty checks while a bunch of impostors tour the world performing my songs?” he snapped. His voice was cold and bitter.
“Sometimes you’re so fucking conceited you can’t see past the end of your nose,” I countered. Anger pulled at me and settled in my chest.
“The fuck I am! I created this band from my fucking blood and sweat, and now they want me out.”
“Because you’re hurting yourself, Frank!” I wasn’t sure how else to get through to him. I was ready to pound the words into his head with a hammer if needed.
“At least I’m hurting myself for something that’s mine, for something I believe in.”
“You’re not in the army. You’re a musician. You don’t need to be in that band all your life to give people what they want—songs. How can you not understand that?”
“I happen to like that band, Cassy. I happen to have millions of fans because of that band, millions of people who care about me.”
“What about your parents? What about me?”
He stared at me unblinkingly.
“I care about you too. I don’t want you to drop dead on stage somewhere in Cambodia, Frank. I want you to keep making music in a way that doesn’t hurt you more than it already has.”
He remained silent, confusion and pain twisting his features.
“You were breathtaking today. You don’t need to be part of a band to write or perform music. You belong to you, no one else. Not your band, not the label. You have what every other aspiring singer on this planet wants, an incredible talent and an incredible voice, and you don’t need anyone to sign off on the new songs you’re going to write. You’re free to do as you please if you just let the possibilities in. If a nineteen-year-old girl with a disability can do it, why can’t you?”
My lungs needed more oxygen and every bit of me was trembling under Frank’s dark, arresting gaze.
“Ah, fuck. Why do you always have to do that?” he murmured under his breath and slipped his hand to the back of my head to cradle it. “Come here, Yoko Ono.”
There was an instant fire. My cheeks burned, my stomach lurched. I dipped my head and pressed my face against the hard curve of his neck. The hum of the engine droned in my ears.
“You know Paul McCartney admitted she didn’t break up the band,” I mumbled into Frank’s T-shirt.
“Too late. It’s already an urban legend.”
“I’m not trying to drive you apart.”
“Dang it.” I felt the smile. It colored him and everything around us. “And I was hoping to blame it all on you.”
“You could give it a shot.” I stifled a nervous giggle. “But I don’t think they’ll buy it.”
“You’re awfully smart, Cassy Evans.”
“And you’re awfully tempting.”
“Call it a match made in heaven.”
“You think?” I put my palm on his pec and felt the low rumble of his heart, wondering if he remembered what I’d said to him last night.
“I’m positive.” His hand slid to my neck and he tangled his fingers in my hair, tugging and playing with it. Pleasant shivers zipped down my spine. My panties were shamelessly damp against my swollen center.
Famished for his flesh and heat, I pressed a kiss to his neck. My lips slithered across his skin, stroking the ink lightly. I hadn’t considered myself an awfully sexual creature until I met Frank. Everything about him—his height, his scent, his voice, his laugh—made my pulse race.
He pulled at my hair slowly and carefully to bring my face to his. His lips ghosted over mine and my nipples stiffened inside my bra. The torture was deliciously dark, like a box of chocolate truffles. Our chests heaved. Our frayed moans clashed. I was tender and tight between my thighs and I felt a wave of painful need sweeping me under when his skillful tongue probed my lips. He tasted of sweet sensation and I responded with a hungry, wet lick.
“Come here,” Frank rasped into my mouth, resting his left hand on my ass to guide me.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to squash you.” Panic rushed through my stomach, tying it into a throbbing knot.
“As long as you limit yourself by riding my cock and not my broken shoulder, doll, we should be fine.”
Hesitant, I balanced myself on my hip.
“I just want to feel your body,” he whispered in my ear raggedly, pulling me over to his lap. Urgency was in his every movement. “We don’t have to do anything if you’re not comfortable.” His hand roamed and he touched me greedily. His fingertips traced strange shapes over my clothes. I couldn’t tell if he was writing something or simply drawing random pictures that came into his tired mind, but every inch of me was tense with desire. Thirst scratched at my throat. I straddled him, resting both hands on the seat behind his head. The leather upholstery squeaked under the weight of our bodies as we situated ourselves to get comfortable.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I confessed, brushing my lips over the stress line above his nose.
He laughed against my cheek and ran his palm up and down my back, wrinkling the fabric of my top.
Discussing sex safety with my lover was strange. I’d never had to think about where to grab him and how hard to ride him before the accident. But now he was a wall of fractured bones and broken plates wrapped in scars, and I wanted to cuddle him into the softest blanket and lull him to sleep.
“You were so good today, Frank. You really were.” I had to compliment him over and over again.
“Did you like the song?” he asked.
“I did.”
“She wrote it. It’s called ‘Afterburn.’ A beautiful composition.”
“I loved your voices together. You were magnificent. You should record it with her.”
“You didn’t even hear the beginning.”
“Trust me, I don’t need to hear the entire song to tell you whether it’s good or bad. I’ve been doing this way too long.”
“Have you now?” He tossed his head back and eyed me, his gaze rapt.
“Please stop flaunting your life experience in front of me, Mr. Blade.”
“Are you saying I’m old?”
“No, silly. You’re not old. You’re perfect.”
He stared at me with the intensity of a thousand suns. “I hate this.” His left hand slipped under the hem of my top. “I’m rich and hot and I can’t even rage fuck you in my own limo.” A smirk tugged the side of his mouth. Though miserable, he still found time to be cute.
“I can fuck you,” I purred, rubbing against his growing erection. “I’ve got two hands and enough rage for the both of us.” I held up my palms and squeezed my thighs invitingly.
He cupped my cheek. “I’m not with you because of the convenient sex, Cassy.” His tone was heated but serious.
My stomach flipped.
“I know sometimes you doubt me and what we have.”
I shook my head. “I don’t—”
Frank pressed his index finger to my lips before my sentence made it out. “Let me finish, baby.”
I swallowed down the words.
“I’m not a saint,” he continued. “I did a lot of shit back in the day. I’ve seen and tried a lot of things. I’ve dated some of the richest and most beautiful women in the world, but I’ve never felt as at ease with anyone as I feel with you. You’re not just there to agree with everything I say like most people do. You listen to me and you’re not scared to speak your mind, and that means something to me. I don’t want to be with a woman who’s there because of what I am with the backing of my money. I want to be with a woman who’s there because of what I am without it. I know you had doubts about us because we were this big secret and I didn’t want the world to know
about us. Truth is, I didn’t want to share you with the world. I didn’t want its jealousy and resentment to stain you. I didn’t want this world to do to you what it’d done to me. But if I keep you to myself, the world is never going to know how wonderful you are.”
Emotions jammed my chest. I couldn’t separate them. They were a mix of everything and almost felt like too much. I bit my bottom lip to stop it from trembling and palmed his face.
“I’d still date you if you lived in a studio apartment in East Hollywood and played in a local band that had zero chance to get signed.”
“If Dante succeeds in forcing me out, I’ll definitely be looking for that apartment,” he joked.
We were an odd couple. He was a hopeless medical case, and I was a woman in heat on top of him. The absurdity of this situation made me want to laugh. So I did.
“Was my speech funny?” Frank asked, grinning like a fool.
“Not really.”
“Okay then.” He paused, then the smile lines near the corners of his eyes deepened. “Do you seriously think Isabella and I should record a duet?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ll ask Brooklyn to reach out to Maria tomorrow.”
I couldn’t explain what exactly I felt at that moment. My heart was big and loud and drummed against my ribs so hard, I thought it was going to burst.
I love you, Frank Wallace, my inner voice said. I love you and I won’t let anyone harm you. Not your so-called best friend, not the world, not your demons.
Chapter Five
Frank’s second surgery went well. The doctors were able to remove the loose fragments and successfully replaced the plate in his right shoulder. He returned home from the hospital the same day and spent the first forty-eight hours in bed under the spell of a morphine-induced sleep. Janet flew in from Arizona to spend Christmas with us. Corey came by a few times. Brooklyn practically lived on the property. She was already on the phone in the office every morning when I woke up and usually stayed until after dinner. Roman slept on the ground floor of the east wing.
Ashton’s eighteenth birthday was around the corner and between car shopping, the documentary, and keeping an eye on Frank, I felt as if there weren’t enough hours in the day to get everything done.
Christmas wasn’t my favorite time of the year, mainly due to the shitty memories of my father, who’d always gone off the rails during the holiday season, and this year, with everything that had happened in the past few weeks, I dreaded the worst. It was a strange recurring feeling of doom somewhere below my chest. Dark and confusing, it crept up on me randomly. During a shower, during breakfast, during conference calls with potential sponsors.
I worked in a spare room down the hall while Frank was slowly coming back to his senses after the surgery. My end-of-the year editorial for Rewired felt like a bitter goodbye and I almost teared up while typing it. We hadn’t made any official announcements on social media about my stepping down yet, but Shayne’s face was all over our YouTube channel and people started to take notice. I even received a few emails from the German fans. They were under the impression I’d left the magazine for good and wanted to know what publication I worked for now.
The biggest event of December, not counting Frank’s surgery, was the inception of our film-baby’s name.
It was official. We titled the documentary Dreamcatchers.
I loved it, and so did Maria and Isabella.
A couple of days after Frank’s impromptu appearance at the rehearsals, Levi, Ashton, and I had gotten together for a night of pizza and brainstorming in my Burbank apartment. Of course, my brother’s ideas were never good, but it seemed unfair to exclude him from the decision-making process. He’d worked his ass off these past couple of months. Obviously, I credited all his drive to Frank’s involvement.
Some people wanted to change the world and some people wanted to meet celebrities while changing the world. My brother was the latter.
Bottom line, I had been ready to do whatever needed to be done to keep him away from the Xbox.
Things were great until several days after Frank’s surgery when there came a call that ruined everything.
Levi and I had a meeting at the Guitar Center on Sunset with the Schecter rep about possible Dreamcatchers sponsorship. I was running late because Frank had been a pain in the ass all morning. His new meds made him moody and we’d spent a good hour fighting over a toothpaste tube.
“They cannot do this while he’s in recovery!” Brooklyn’s shriek drifting through the small crack under the office door caught me off-guard.
I was on my way out, but my feet stopped in their tracks on their own accord. My body stiffened.
“That’s not what we discussed. He was looking into their offer.” There were more words, some very angry and some very rude. Then a slam and a growl. A real fucking growl! The woman was pissed.
I walked over to the office and pushed the door open.
Brooklyn stood in the center of the room, face red, phone on the floor.
Dread seized my bones. “What’s going on?”
She blinked at me rapidly. Her jacket seemed too small for her double Ds when she tried to breathe. “KBC is going to fire Frank.”
I felt dizzy. “How?” My chest caved. “I thought he was going to move forward with what Dante proposed.”
“The label feels he’s a liability now. We kept the second surgery under wraps. I don’t know how they found out, but they want him out altogether.”
“How can they do that? Why now?” I couldn’t wrap my head around what I’d just heard. Yes, I agreed with Dante. Frank wasn’t fit to tour with Hall Affinity. I’d seen it with my own eyes—the misery he’d been in. But kicking him out while he was down was low, even for KBC. Their methods had been deemed questionable in the past, but this didn’t sit well with me.
“They have a strong case.” Brooklyn rubbed her temples to relieve pressure. “They’re free to let artists go as they please, Cassy. We’re not talking about a middle level record label here whose biggest client is bringing in all the money. We’re talking about a major company who has all the money and who owns one of the biggest rock bands on the planet.”
“Can’t Frank’s lawyers build a case too?” I sounded desperate. Like a child whose candy was being confiscated.
“For God’s sake, Cassy!” Brooklyn whipped out her hands and waved them in the air, her eyes blazing with anger. “He had enough cocaine in his system to kill a damn cow the night of the accident. He clearly doesn’t understand what he’s doing anymore. One day he’ll kill himself trying to somersault on stage per the fans’ requests.”
She knew! She fucking knew.
I felt as if someone had just punched me in the throat. My breath caught. I didn’t know what exactly upset me more—the fact that Frank’s personal assistant was privy to his medical records and I wasn’t, or the fact that his record label was kicking him to the curb. Either way, things were shit.
Then came a long pause. Brooklyn paced the office, chewing on her bottom lip and cracking her fingers.
“Since when did drugs become a crime in rock ’n’ roll?” I muttered.
“Parts of the contract were revised last year before the label went public with the reunion. Because of possible complications, neither KBC nor the insurance company want to be responsible for accidents caused by his mismanagement of his health. That includes narcotics.”
“But that’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not.” She shot me a blank stare. “Hall Affinity is an investment, and KBC wants to protect that investment. There’re plenty of bands that replaced the original singer and did quite well. Journey, Black Sabbath, Stone Temple Pilots. It’s business, Cassy, and Frank is a casualty.”
Whether I liked it or not, Brooklyn was right and I appreciated her honesty.
“I still need to tell him.” She dropped her arms to her sides and strode past me. “Is he awake?”
“Yes. Do you want me to tell him?” I ask
ed as I followed her.
“No, honey.” She shook her head. “It’s best you take a back seat for this one.”
We found Frank on the terrace. I stood in front of the sliding door and watched Brooklyn through the glass. He sat in a chair and gazed at the waves crashing into the rock formations.
I had to remind myself to breathe. My heart thudded against my ribs, and my stomach turned. I couldn’t see his expression while Brooklyn delivered the news. Only his back and the slump of his shoulders. But I imagined the color leaving his face and the anger brewing in his eyes, and the scariest thing was that I could picture all these changes in such vivid detail, my brain almost hurt physically.
Brooklyn’s features went sour. She waited for Frank to react, but he continued to stare into the distance as if the answer to all his questions was hidden somewhere on the horizon.
“He needs some space right now,” she rattled off, stepping inside, and marched to the office.
My gut told me to stay away, but I went against its wishes and wobbled onto the terrace.
“I’m s-sorry.” There was a stagger in my voice.
Frank remained silent. A mask of indifference covered his face.
I walked over to the chair and rested my palm on his shoulder, needing a physical connection with him. His muscles twitched from my touch, but he didn’t react otherwise.
“Do you need anything?” I tested the waters.
“No.”
“Do you want to lie down?”
“It’s fine,” he slurred. His stitches were still raw and sensitive and he’d taken a whole lot of pain meds earlier, which probably only worsened his current state of mind.
I could only guess what the news Brooklyn had dumped on him was doing to his head.
“Are you sure? You don’t look very good.”
“I just got fired from my own band, doll.” He looked up at me. “What do you suggest I do? Celebrate?” There was a sudden shift in his tone, from indifferent to cold.
For a second, I’d forgotten about the meeting. My brain was preoccupied with Frank. I expected some sort of tantrum again, and the silence worried me more than ever.