by N. N. Britt
My heart lurched in my chest. Frank’s words took me by surprise. With everything he’d been going through emotionally these past few weeks, I hadn’t allowed myself to venture back into that territory. We’d put that conversation on hold.
“If I’m part of your project, we can’t keep walking on eggshells, doll. Besides, people will figure it out anyway.” He licked his upper lip. “I’m going to burn next to you every time we’re out in public and I can’t hold your hand or touch you.”
Heat pooled at my core. I needed so little to get turned on.
“Okay.” I nodded and moved closer. “You can touch me right now to get a head start.” My height lingered above his body seated in the chair. He shifted and pulled me to stand between his thighs. I sunk my fingers in his silky hair and brushed it away from his face.
“So we’re doing it, right?” He looked at me through his long, dark lashes.
“Yes.” A giddy smile stretched my lips. My head spun from the realization that we weren’t just a phase. We were going to take a step forward in our relationship—no matter how dysfunctionally codependent it was—and make it official. “Could you give me a couple of days to talk to my family?”
“Of course.” Frank drew me closer, filling the space between us with his want, erasing the distance and making us one. His warm breath tickled my skin through the thin fabric of my shirt as he buried his face between my breasts.
I loved him like this, undeniably needy and all hot and bothered.
Emotions of every color began to clog my chest.
“My mother is dying to know who you are,” I said, kissing the top of his head. “I haven’t told her yet.”
“It’s probably a good idea for me to meet her before we’re all over the internet. I wouldn’t want my mother to find out I was seeing someone through the tabloids.” He tore his cheek from my breast. “Oh, wait. That’s exactly how my mother has found out about all my girlfriends.”
“You’re impossible.” I laughed. My happiness was infinite. “You need to stop talking about your ex-girlfriends and other women. You’re taken.”
“Consequences of being famous.” He grinned up at me, eyes bright and shining.
“I’m surprised we’ve been able to cover this up for so long,” I confessed.
“I’m honestly surprised too.” His palm skimmed down my back and cupped my ass. “Doesn’t matter now. We’re worldwide, baby.”
Later that evening, while Frank was holed up in his studio, I took the liberty of stalking my brother’s Instagram account. His last photo, posted two days ago, was a selfie of him and Levi sitting in front of a large monitor with a screenshot of Isabella’s face in After Effects.
He’d changed his handle from @ftninja2001 to @ashtheman2019.
working on some sic shit with my bro @LeviBernstein, the caption below it read.
There were no photos or videos of Frank anywhere on his feed other than a few snippets of live Hall Affinity footage, which was fine. Half of L.A. had gone to that show.
After I’d ensured Ashton hadn’t been posting anything he wasn’t supposed to, I dialed his number.
“What up, sis?” he yelled. Loud music boomed in the background.
“Where are you?” I asked suspiciously.
“At Levi’s.”
Relief washed over me. Thank God, it wasn’t some bar or a strip club. Ever since Frank bought Ashton that car, I’d been dreading the call from the police to inform me my brother was arrested for something insanely stupid. Like breaking into Selena Gomez’s house. “Don’t you have school tomorrow?”
“I’m crashing here.”
“Can I talk to Levi, please?”
“Why are you calling my phone then?”
“Because I need to talk to you too,” I explained. “After I talk to Levi.”
The next thing I heard was Ashton shouting over the noise, followed by the thunder of footsteps and the rattle of a soda can.
“What’s going on?” Levi barked. The smack of his lips and the grind of his teeth told me he was eating. “Did Frank see the rough cut?”
“Are you corrupting my brother?”
“Don’t you worry. He’s on his best behavior.” Levi’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I told him I’d take him with me to interview Athena Angel.”
“Don’t feed him lies.”
“I’m not lying. Did you see the press release? She’s gearing up for a new tour.”
“I haven’t checked the Rewired inbox today,” I confessed.
“Okay. I got something for you.” I could hear Levi moving to another room so we could continue in silence. “I know you don’t want to do any on-camera work right now, but I haven’t told Shayne about it yet. I reached out to Bennett’s manager last month about an exclusive and he specifically asked for you.”
A surge of adrenaline hit my bloodstream. During my first two years working with Levi, I got excited about every single interview we locked in. Eventually, when it became part of the routine, I stopped getting emotional, but once in a while, when we nailed down an artist with a story worth sharing, I felt it again. This rush was a reminder of why I did what I did. We created a connection between artists and their fans. We lifted the veil. We let others see who the people injecting their soul into every song they wrote really were.
“I’d love to meet him, but”—my voice shook—“Frank and I are going public and I don’t know if this is the right time for me to be getting back in front of the camera.”
Levi was silent for a long moment. “Your name is all over this interview.”
“When do you need an answer?”
“We have a couple of weeks to decide. Bennett’s not fond of the press in general. The label is super picky about publications he speaks to, so I can stall, but ideally, if you could give me an answer before the first, that would be great.”
“I want to do it, but I’ll need to think about it. By the way, I showed Frank the cut and he loved it. He’s still considering my offer, but I believe it will be a yes. For now, let’s just lock in the screening date because I can’t pitch without it. How does April sound to you?”
“If he decides to be part of the project and I have to add more footage, that’ll be tough.”
“Isn’t tight deadline your middle name?” I laughed.
“No shit.”
“All right, then I’m emailing Maria tomorrow about April. Give me my brother now.”
“We’re not smoking weed, I swear!” Ashton bellowed over the phone after Levi returned it to him.
“I need to talk to you about something else.” My tone was serious.
“Okay. You’re not moving to Tibet or anything like that, are you?”
“You wish.” I paused. “Frank and I are going public, which means you’ll probably get stalked on social media and be approached by reporters. I want you to be aware of this and I want to make sure you understand you can’t talk to anyone about me and Frank.”
“I got it.”
“People will promise you money, Ashton. A lot. For exclusive info and photos. Your only response is no response. Capiche?”
“Okay.”
“If you open your mouth, Frank and I will never speak to you again and you’ll be off Dreamcatchers.”
“Geez, why you gotta be so mean?”
“I’m not mean. I’m just trying to make sure you understand the situation.”
“I’m not dumb. I get it.”
“Okay, great. Let’s call Mom tomorrow and see what day is good for a family dinner. Frank wants to meet her.”
Saying those words out loud felt strange. If someone had told me six months ago I’d be introducing Frankie Blade to my mother, I would have laughed in their face.
“And hey, Ashton,” I added before ending the call. “It’s probably a good idea for you to set your Instagram account to private. At least for now.”
Chapter Seven
Gary Torino was a fiftysomething no-nonsense guy who worke
d mostly out of his Sherman Oaks studio. On day one, the band was scheduled to arrive early to track the instrumental parts first. Frank and Isabella weren’t needed until after lunch.
It was a hectic morning with an incident of spilled coffee and a fight over the toothpaste tube. Frank had been on edge the entire week. The therapy sessions helped him to stay sane, but despite my attempts to keep all the electronic devices with internet access out of his reach, he still managed to find ways to read the news. I suspected Corey was the one who fueled Frank’s anger by purposely feeding him updates. Slimy bastard pushed for a lawsuit even after Frank had expressed his desire to postpone filing the paperwork with the court.
We left Malibu at noon with Roman driving us in the Escalade. Our windows were cracked slightly, just enough to let the salty scent of the ocean inside. It was almost peaceful, not counting Frank’s knee jerking to my left.
“I think your mother hates my guts,” he said as the car began to slow down in anticipation of the upcoming traffic light.
“No, she doesn’t.” I shook my head. “I think it went really well actually.”
“I’m pretty sure she’ll poison my spaghetti next time I show up.”
I laughed. “Why would she do that to the only boyfriend I’ve ever had?”
“Did you tell her not to believe everything she’s read about me in the tabloids?”
“She won’t hold your divorced status against you for long. Don’t worry.”
My mother wasn’t a woman who cared about celebrities, but after I told her who I was seeing, she read everything she could find about Frank on the internet. Including the rumors about all the women he’d dated and the rundown of his short-lived marriage to Heidi Fox.
“Did I hear that correctly?” Frank leaned closer, and his breath tickled my cheek. “Am I the only boyfriend Cassy Evans has had?”
I nodded. “My bar is extremely high, so most candidates don’t make it.”
“Is that so?” He nipped at my ear.
I loved him when he was playful and I missed our late-night drives and our secret dinners under the stars. I wanted that magic back. There were glimpses of it here and there—in his occasional smile or in a teasing kiss, but it wasn’t enough to make me forget about his slip-ups. The fear of losing him to the alcohol again settled deep in my gut like a soccer ball-sized tumor.
The second we stepped foot into the studio, Frank was thrust into the middle of the creative riot that dominated Gary’s sanctuary. Story, Andy, and Kit had already recorded several takes and were on a break. Isabella was in the booth with her headphones on, waiting to get started.
I waved a quick hello to everyone and claimed a small couch in the corner. My mind was racing in millions of different directions. I’d expected going public to cause some sort of a bang in the press, followed by the rabid crowds of paparazzi. We’d agreed that we’d just let it happen, let the story run its course. Without any fuss, without any announcements, without any interviews. The lack of gossip almost scared me, but at the same time, I understood that people couldn’t really know we were together unless we made appearances and flaunted our relationship in front of the cameras. We hadn’t so far. Frank spent most of his days at home or in therapy while I worked on Dreamcatchers. Today was the first time we’d actually gone somewhere together in one car, and contrary to my predictions, no reporters tried to attack us on the way to the studio.
Coming out felt almost anticlimactic and I couldn’t tell whether this calmness bothered me or I was happy that my family was off the paparazzi radar. At least for now.
Gary’s workspace was a dark jungle of glass walls, framed photos, shelved awards, and tables full of equipment. Invisible energy emanated from every corner of every room. I couldn’t believe I was in the center of this rock ’n’ roll mecca—a place where some of the biggest rock hits had been created under the supervision of a short, soft-spoken man with a receding hairline.
Isabella did several takes, trying out various things. She looked for the right match with the music. Her guttural voice jumped up and down. I could hear the raw power in her breath as she twisted the notes, dragging them, dropping them, then lifting them up.
Frank settled next to the monitors and watched Isabella until Gary had enough to create additional scratch tracks. I’d brought my laptop and attempted to get through an ever-growing pile of emails, but Levi and Ashton, who couldn’t come since filming during day one wasn’t allowed, kept text message attacking me with memes and video requests.
Maria had arranged catering and we took a thirty-minute dinner break at around six.
Frank was the last one to step into the booth later that evening. He stood behind the glass, tall and impressive, and his gunmetal blue eyes shone intently. I observed him carefully, devouring every move of his lips and every heave of his chest as if the song were my oxygen. His voice had a way with my heart. The experience felt far more intimate than a live show. I was witnessing the birth of something new, something I happened to help create.
My phone pinged during the second chorus. Not wanting to miss a moment, I finished watching the take, then checked the message.
Levi: It’s Marshall Burns!!!
My heart dropped to my stomach.
Is that official or still a rumor?
Levi: Someone posted a video of Dante and Marshall on Reddit thirty minutes ago. It just hit TMZ and BuzzFeed.
Thanks.
Levi: You need to see the video.
A link popped up on my screen next. I set my laptop aside and rose from the couch. Panic pulsed through me when Frank’s gaze flicked over to my face. Offering him the best smile I could muster, I then rushed out of the lounge and called Linda.
“I thought they weren’t going to announce the name for another week!” I fumed, pacing the small restroom.
“That was the plan,” Linda said with a heavy sigh.
“So someone leaked it?” I asked for clarification.
“Yes.”
“Why did it have to happen today?”
“I’m sure you know firsthand that this is absolutely normal these days. It’s not the nineties anymore.”
“Yes.” I stopped in my tracks and tried to think. Keeping Frank away from his phone these past couple of days had been difficult. “It’s just bad fucking timing is all.” A sardonic laugh escaped from my lungs. “Would you keep me updated? Please?”
“I’ll do my best, but it’s out of my hands now.”
Linda ended the call.
I drew my phone away from my ear and pulled up the message exchange with Levi. My panic grew bigger with each second as I watched the Reddit video of Dante and his new sidekick—Marshall Burns. He was a fresh face with the body of Adonis and the voice of Orpheus. A rock ’n’ roll version of a Greek god, who nailed all the high notes in a thirty-second-long snippet of “Adrenaline Lane” that had been uploaded by an anonymous user. If anything, Marshall’s looks would be distracting enough for the crowd not to realize he was an impostor. His own band’s sophomore album peaked in Billboard’s top ten last summer. I’d interviewed him a few times. The man could hold his own on and off stage. Obviously, he was no Frankie Blade, but he was younger and possessed enough charisma to fill the shoes of his predecessor.
When there was a soft knock on the door, I called out, “Just a second.” Then I slipped my phone in my pocket and took a deep breath. News had never rattled me like this before. Levi and I had lived through a lot of band break-ups, but everything was different with Frank. Too personal.
Putting my plastic smile back on, I marched out of the restroom and returned to the lounge, where I continued to pretend things were great until we finally left the studio at around midnight.
Exhausted, Frank climbed into the back of the Escalade and slumped against the seat. The silence thickened as the car steered onto the freeway. There was a certain level of awareness that hung around us like a rain cloud, but I was too scared to speak first.
“Something I sh
ould know about?” Frank finally asked, his voice low and raspy after multiple takes.
Contemplating, I grabbed his hand as if it would stop him from checking his phone. “I think this should wait till tomorrow.”
He turned his head to look at me and paused a few seconds before posing the question, “Who is it?” The faint lines in the corner of his left eye deepened.
The silence that filled the space between us was lead heavy.
“Marshall Burns,” I replied after a moment.
Frank remained abnormally calm. His gaze swept over my face, lingering on my lips. Suddenly, he was unreadable, surrounded by an impenetrable wall he’d built in a matter of seconds.
I squeezed his hand and brought my mouth to his. “Fuck Marshall Burns. Fuck Dante. Fuck them all.”
“You have a way with words, Cassy.” A light chuckle met my breath. “Especially the swear ones.”
“So I’ve been told.”
I wasn’t sure when exactly it happened, in the car or at home, that I sensed the turbulence Frank was experiencing, but it woke me up in the middle of the night—the invisible dread. Restless, I lay on my back and stared at the streaks of lingering moonlight seeping into the bedroom through the cracks between the shades. The pitter-patter of my heart against my ribs filled the deafening silence that reigned in the house.
Stretching my arm, I brushed the sheets on the side of the bed Frank usually occupied. They were uninvitingly cold. Had he slept at all?
I found him in the dining room. Legs spread, head tossed back, he was sprawled in a chair that had been positioned to face the ocean view. His silhouette, framed by the shimmer of the moonlight coming in through the unshaded window, looked dejected. A bottle and a glass sat next to him on a table. His phone lay beside them.
I smelled liquor on his breath from across the room. He was wasted.
“Come to bed,” I said, approaching him.
Frank didn’t move. His face remained still, eyes dark, as if he hadn’t heard me at all.
“Please. You have a really long day tomorrow and you need to be rested.” I knew I sounded patronizing and policing, but I had no idea how else to talk to him when he was like this—like my father. Sometimes I succeeded. Sometimes I failed. There was no rhyme or reason behind his responses to the various approaches I’d tried.