by N. N. Britt
The noise was coming from the east wing. Pulse roaring, I ran down the hallway over to the studio. The door was wide open. Frank stood in front of the mixing board that had apparently just taken a beating. Blood was smeared on the knuckles of his left hand.
Awareness of what was happening hit all my senses.
“What the hell?” I rushed over to him and reached for his wrist. “Let me see.”
He silently jerked his hand away.
“Come on!” My voice went a pitch higher. “Let me see!”
He stumbled back as if he didn’t want to be touched. His eyes darkened.
Heart pounding, I gazed at him and then around the studio, looking for more signs of damage. Some of the picture frames lay on the floor, shattered. Crushed glass and shards of plastic littered the carpet.
“Fucking cunt.” I heard his whisper, then a kick. Only after something hit the wall, did I realize it was his phone.
Every single cell in my body told me to leave. Something about the way he was behaving—the unpredictability, in particular—troubled me as much as the scene before me, but I didn’t dare move. I froze, dead in my tracks, trying to think of the right words to say or the right questions to ask. There weren’t any. My mind was blank with searing panic.
Frank tossed his head back and stared at the ceiling with a steely expression. “Son of a bitch has the fucking nerve to invite me to the party after flushing twenty years down the toilet.”
My brain cells clicked. Brooklyn worked hard on filtering all of Frank’s correspondence, but she couldn’t monitor his personal phone. It must have been the album release event that made him turn his studio into the set of a post-apocalyptic blockbuster.
“Can you imagine, doll? Bitterness laced his voice.
My shock was still raw. “Let me look at your hand,” I asked tentatively.
“Does he expect me to just show up and pretend like nothing happened?”
I took a deep breath. “Why are you letting him do this to you? He’s moved on. You should too, Frank!”
“That’s fucking easy for you to say,” he spat, swinging his hand in the air as if he was looking for something else to hit. His words were a jagged razor shoved into my chest.
“Are you serious right now?” I positioned myself between his body and the wall of broken equipment to stop him from wreaking more havoc to what was left.
He inhaled sharply and finally looked down at me. “Yes, I’m dead fucking serious. Do you have any idea how it feels to be rotting in this house while your ex-best friend is whoring your band out?”
We stared at each other heatedly. His storm-filled gaze burned so hot against mine, I felt it in my chest, melting my ribs and my heart along with them. The dim light illuminating the side of his face accentuated his anger. I didn’t like what I saw in him.
He was unhinged. Completely lost in his pain and devastation.
“So you destroy your house because of some asshole who’s not worth one second of your time?” I was doing my best to keep my raging emotions under control. Someone needed to stay calm, and it looked as if that person had to be me. Frank had been balancing on a slack wire for far too long. Apparently, it had snapped today.
“It’s my fucking house. I’ll demolish it if I want to,” he growled.
“That’s not what we agreed on!” I cried out. “We’re supposed to talk about things, Frank. Like adults! Instead of driving off without a word or breaking shit.” I motioned at the mess on the floor and his hand.
“They’re going on a fucking tour while I’m wasting away.”
“You’re not wasting away. You’re about to record a single.”
“I can’t fucking do anything with one arm.”
“Well, you’ll never get to use your second one if you keep hurting yourself.”
Eyes wide, mouth twisted, he pushed past me and walked out of the studio.
I followed.
When we reached the living room, Frank shifted gears and halted in front of the bar. He pulled out a clean glass and a bottle of liquor and poured himself a shot.
“Don’t,” I said, my voice wobbly.
“Silently, he brought the drink to his mouth and took a sip.
My heart sobbed in frustration. “Frank.” I moved closer and held out my hand in hopes he’d surrender the glass. “Please.”
No reaction.
“I’m serious.” I took another step. The inches of space between us that was poisoned with ugliness shrunk.
My heartbeats were fast and shallow.
Tossing his head back, Frank swallowed down the rest and gave me the empty glass. “Here.”
I glared at him, fury boiling in my chest.
“Take it or leave it, doll.” His deep whiskey voice was filled with defiance. It sounded a lot like an ultimatum.
Leave, my pride and my common sense whispered. But instead, I grabbed the glass. My hand shook. A thousand bitter words crammed my throat and threatened to come out, but I willed my tongue to remain quiet. There was no point in talking to him when he was completely out of his mind like this.
His loud footsteps boomed through the hallway and disappeared into the bedroom.
At first, I couldn’t move. A wave of unpleasant memories of my father swept me under. They were a dark vortex of fragments of my broken childhood and they made me wonder if my mother had tried hard enough and if I was wrong to think about leaving this house and the man who lived here. They made me wonder if I was a quitter too, if I was a bad girlfriend, ready to desert a person at his worst. The thought was like a hot flash. It hit me the instant Frank touched the drink and now it refused to go away.
Minutes passed before I finally gathered enough courage to move. Every muscle in my body was tight with worry. Confusion and anger brewed in my stomach. My fingers felt clammy and foreign as I went through the bar and emptied every single bottle that had alcohol in it.
Part of me expected to find more wreckage in the bedroom when I went to check on Frank, but there was none. Shoulders slumped, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his knuckles. Silent and still. A shimmering streak of moonlight spilled across the floor, slicing the room in half.
The night was almost perfect. Except for the faint smell of broken promises and alcohol in the air.
“I’m going to work for a bit,” I said calmly and returned to the den to finish my pitch. Three hours later, when I slid under the blankets, Frank was passed out.
“Didn’t he have a therapy session today?” Brooklyn muttered, checking Frank’s calendar on her iPad as we surveyed the gruesome results of his outburst inside the studio.
He was still asleep and I didn’t dare wake him. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t certain if I could face him just yet. Last night’s fight only strengthened my belief that Frank was spiraling out of control. He was falling and he was taking me along for the ride, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to go.
“Yep.” Brooklyn’s voice dragged me back to the studio. “Looks like he’s missing his 11 a.m.”
“Great.” I shook my head and stared at the pack of ripped wires sticking out chaotically from one of the output panels. “Do you think I’m a horrible person for wanting to call Janet?”
“Why would you do that?” Brooklyn’s brow arched up.
“I didn’t know how to handle him yesterday. I’d never seen him that…upset.”
“Trust me, Janet is the last person you want to call when Frank is going off the rails. Although he’s not her son by blood, they are the worst when they get emotional together. You don’t want to worry her for no reason. It’s best if you talk to Billy.”
“What do you mean for no reason? He hurt himself last night.”
Brooklyn tore her gaze from the iPad and looked at me. “He’s rich, famous, and talented. Self-destruction is in his blood.”
“And you suggest we just watch and don’t interfere?”
“No. Therapy usually helps him get back on track. You can’t expect him to simply snap
out of it overnight, honey. Not after everything he’s been through these past seven years.”
“I don’t want to be passive about his drinking problem. Isn’t there anything else we should do?”
“Like what? What do you have in mind that we haven’t tried yet? Committing him? I’d like to see you try that.”
A shuddered breath left my lungs. I’d already considered talking to him about AA, rehab, and meditation. We’d addressed the problem, but we’d never addressed how exactly he’d keep himself in check.
Brooklyn continued to stare at me. “I’ve been working for Frank for over ten years,” she spoke calmly and reassuringly. “I’ve seen his ugly side more times than you can imagine. Fame is overwhelming, Cassy. Especially when you need to meet the expectations of the entire planet. Imagine that everything that made you—your face, your body, your voice—is taken away from you in a split second. Imagine getting cut and rebranded countless times just to be able to meet those unrealistic expectations. I’ve been there through all of that and you haven’t. So don’t tell me how to do my job. He’s been in rehab before. He’s talked to dozens of different psychiatrists. Trust me when I tell you, it’s best not to push him over the edge and, instead, let him come to a decision gradually. When he’s ready. If he truly wanted to hurt himself, he would have done it a long time ago.”
I disagreed wholeheartedly, but I didn’t want to spread my feelings thin by engaging in a pointless argument. I was saving myself for my conversation with Frank. Promises without some kind of a plan didn’t cut it anymore.
I spent the rest of the morning working in the spare bedroom. There was a certain level of avoidance in my relentless chase after the empty inbox. I’d probably typed close to a million words by the time the knock on the door finally broke me out of my email-composing trance.
I dragged my gaze away from the screen and across the room to where Frank stood.
Our eyes met.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.” He’d shaved. His arm was back in the sling, which made me wonder if he’d done way more to himself last night than busting his knuckles.
“It’s fine.” I closed my laptop. “I was going to talk to you anyway.”
He began his approach, but stopped before reaching the desk. His expression conveyed a multitude of emotions, yet I couldn’t pin down a single one.
“About yesterday…” There was a slight rasp in his voice as he wavered.
“I can’t stay in this house if you drink.” My words tumbled out of my mouth and stunned him into shock.
“It won’t happen again, doll,” he finally whispered, moving toward the desk sitting between us. I lifted my chin and got to my feet, needing to be taller, needing to feel stronger, needing to be in charge. For once. Although everything inside me was plummeting.
“I promise.” Frank reached for my hand. “I’m sorry for how I acted yesterday. I was upset and I wasn’t thinking clearly.” I remained in my spot, my body unmoving, unable to react accordingly.
He circled the desk and cupped my cheek. “Please don’t be mad.”
“You already said that before.” I shook my head.
“I know, but it’ll be different this time.”
“You need help.”
“I know. I know.” He nodded. “I overreacted and you’re right. I shouldn’t waste my time being pissed about something I can’t change.”
“Okay.” He’d admitted the problem, but I needed to hear more. I needed him to give me a solution.
“I promise you it won’t happen again, doll. Just stay with me. Please.” He snaked his arm around my waist and drew me closer. It was a dizzying embrace. Soft, warm, and painfully familiar. Just the way I liked him. And for a moment there, I wanted to believe him. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. The things that I’d prepared to say—my warnings, terms, and conditions—had been wiped clean from my mind by his touch and his heartbeat. He was dangerous.
“Please reconsider the lawsuit?” I asked, my pulse a wild drum in my ears as I rested my hand on his chest. “For me, please.”
Frank was silent for a second. “I’ll think about it,” he finally said.
The following day Brooklyn received an email from Gary Torino. He was thrilled about “Afterburn” and could spare two full days at the end of the month. So as soon as the dates were locked in and all the arrangements were made, Jay Brodie PR got to work. The first press release went out on Monday, and Isabella’s official Facebook page raked up over forty thousand likes in less than twenty-four hours. Her social media platforms exploded. Literally overnight.
I couldn’t believe my eyes when I looked at the stats. Levi was on cloud nine.
Frank spent the remainder of the week in his studio creating a scratch track for “Afterburn.” Some of the equipment he’d destroyed was replaced fairly quickly, enough for him to get started. We hardly discussed the lawsuit again. He was so wrapped up in the song that I feared I’d kill his music mojo. Instead, I tried my best to keep him away from social media, TV, and the internet in general. Hall Affinity teased to unveil the name of the new singer’s name in the upcoming weeks and since the announcement seemed to coincide with the “Afterburn” campaign, it was imperative Frank stayed focused.
Dante publicly wished his former bandmate good luck with his new endeavors. The press release with his official statement hit my inbox six hours after Jay Brodie PR sent out the first “Afterburn” email blast, and I laughed at Dante’s speech for a good minute. No matter how the man tried to spin it, he was still a backstabbing jerk.
When Levi finally sent me the Dreamcatchers rough cut, Frank was caught up in the voodoo of music and refused to leave the studio. We watched the film on my laptop, surrounded by the monitors and panels of output gear.
Leaned back in his chair and clutching its left arm, Frank was silent while the cut rolled. His expression grew hard each time he saw images of himself. Per Brooklyn’s instructions, Levi used only minimal footage of Frank from the rehearsals.
Too nervous to sit down, I stood behind his chair and observed his reactions. We’d spoken about an interview only once after his last meltdown and he’d been thinking about it ever since, but I hoped that seeing the cut would help him decide faster, because we could no longer postpone setting the screening date.
“What do you think?” I asked after we finished watching.
Frank spun in his chair to face me, his features twisted in concentration. “It’s very compelling, doll. I love how it’s turning out.”
The edge in his voice indicated there was more, but he kept it to himself. At least for now.
“Are you still not sure about my offer?” I probed.
He stared at me candidly. His penetrating gaze reached deep into my soul and every fiber in me felt his hesitation. “I don’t want to steal Isabella’s screen time.”
My tongue was tight and heavy inside my mouth. “Trust me, you won’t, but if you want my honest opinion, I think that in light of everything that’s happened in the last couple of months, this is a way for you to really be heard…” I stammered and blushed like a teenager because it seemed wrong to give him my sales pitch, but he reminded me of a newborn baby that had just come into this world, screaming, kicking, and uncertain of what to do. Uncertain of whether the universe accepted him for what he was without his band and everything he’d accomplished with those three people who didn’t care to fight for him.
He just needed a push.
I matched his stare. “Your insight can draw a lot of attention to all the wrongs that are plaguing the industry. Can’t you see why I don’t want you to move forward with the lawsuit? It’ll make you look greedy. Sharing your true experiences will make you look human. People are drawn to vulnerability.”
“You know better than anyone that lawsuits in my line of business aren’t always about money.” His voice was like an acidic peel.
“I know, but people don’t see it that way unless you’re fighting a collect
ive fight. And that’s not the case here. For the label, you’re just a disgruntled former employee. For the fans, you’re just another money-hungry celebrity to yap about on the forums. This is the way your fans—including myself—will see you if you try to sue a corporation for millions of dollars when you already have enough to feed a country in Central America.”
The tension brewing between us reached its peak. Frank’s steely glare was like a torch to my face.
“Well”—he tilted his head—“at least you’re honest.” The grind of his jaw told me I’d hit a sore spot.
“I’ll always be honest with you. It’s called a relationship.”
Frank’s expression softened. “You’re right, doll. I have more than I need. The difference between me and people born into wealth is that I earned it with my blood, sweat, and broken bones.” He dropped his gaze to his arm resting in the sling.
“I’m not insinuating anything, Frank. I’m simply giving you facts. This is how people will perceive you and your actions if you sue KBC. I’m not going to sugarcoat the situation merely because I don’t want to hurt your feelings. Otherwise, what’s the point of doing all this?” I motioned at my laptop. “If you really want to fight the good fight, I’ve got one going on. Join me.”
Eyes narrowed, he evaluated my words.
“And just so you know, being objective is very difficult for me when it comes to this project. I have to be absolutely transparent with you and with our viewership.”
A hint of a smile passed his lips. “No woman ever told me I had too much money.”
“I don’t care about other women. When will you stop comparing me to everyone else?”
“I’m not comparing. I’m admiring.”
Blush crept up my cheeks.
“You know what, Cassy Evans?” He leaned forward. “I’ve never dated a film producer before.”
I replied with a tiny laugh.
“I know we haven’t discussed this lately, but I believe it’s time we go public. I’m tired of the secrecy.”