by N. N. Britt
“Marshall. It’s great to have you here with us. So…” I smiled at him. A wide, professional, camera-friendly smile. “How does it feel to front one of the biggest rock bands in the world?”
My stomach was suddenly queasy.
“Well, in all honesty”—he laughed—“I still can’t believe it.” His words meshed into one muffled roar. My brain understood everything he was saying, but my heart was too restless to react accordingly.
Halfway through my second question, the chatter downstairs elevated. I heard a sea of footfalls moving up the stairs, but Levi’s camera was in my way and the LED light was blocking my view. Noise entered the patio. Marshall turned his head and leaned back to see what was going on.
Then I saw Frank. He was surrounded by a small group of people, most likely some super fans who believed groping a celebrity would give them power and talent. If only that were the case, I’d be on my way to the presidency.
Dressed in an ensemble that slightly resembled one of his Breathe Crimson era stage outfits—tight black leather pants, black see-through shirt, and a suit jacket—he looked all kinds of messed up. Though he was now allowed to take off the sling, he’d chosen to wear it, which made me wonder if the dependency was psychological or if he simply came here to play the role of a victim.
And he was drunk.
I heard it in the crack of his voice, I felt it in the pull of his broken breaths, and I saw it in his red-rimmed eyes as he marched over.
Marshall turned back to me. “This is quite unexpected.” His smile faltered, but he was a trooper. He quickly mustered it up again. Our eyes locked, and I wanted to smile too. Only, my face froze.
Frank ignored the camera and approached the couch. My heart all but beat out of my chest when he offered his hand for a shake. “Marshall! Congratulations.” There was a great deal of sarcasm in his tone. “Great party.”
His frame blocked the LED panel and in my peripheral, I could see a mix of horror and amusement on Levi’s face. Ashton stood off to the side with his hands in his pockets, expressionless. Probably due to shock.
“Thanks, man.” Marshall shook Frank’s hand. “I hope your shoulder is getting better.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt… I won’t stay long. You mind if I steal my girlfriend for a couple of minutes?” His gaze slid over to me.
“Frank, we’re in the middle of an interview,” I gritted out, trying to keep my cool.
He didn’t seem to understand what he was doing. Any trace of recognition or awareness was buried deep under the euphoria of intoxication. Jaw slack, he reached over to me. His hot breath stuttered. Blinded by drunk affection, he dipped and attempted to kiss my cheek.
I leaned back to avoid contact. “Frank, I’m serious. This is not the time.” My face burned with shame.
“Why not?” Eyes wild, he straightened up and motioned at Levi. His body swayed. “It’s not like you’re streaming live.”
The crowd on the patio grew. We were surrounded by a wall of whispers.
“I’m sorry,” I mouthed at Marshall, getting to my feet. “Could we resume in a bit?”
He nodded apprehensively.
“Why don’t we step out for a second?” I hooked my arm through Frank’s and led him toward the stairs. Everyone followed.
“You look really nice, baby,” he muttered against my hair.
“Why are you here? I thought you didn’t want to come?” I whispered through my teeth.
“I missed you.”
He tripped as we moved down the steps, and his body careened into mine. I halted and threw his arm over my shoulder.
“Ah, the prodigal son returns!” Dante screamed from the bottom of the stairs. Beer in hand, shirt unbuttoned, he was even more pathetic than Frank. Sometimes I wondered if they subconsciously competed with each other for the train wreck of the year title.
Anxious murmurs rolled through the ballroom. People pulled in toward the staircase from all directions. I felt their gazes on me.
“Nicely done, brother!” Frank bellowed. “Great party. Love the poster.” He jerked his chin at the band photo on the wall. “Who’s the singer?”
This was war.
“Please stop it,” I hissed. “You’re drunk. You’re making a fool of yourself.”
A Guns N’ Roses song played in the background.
“Could have been you.” Dante raised the bottle and a mean smirk tweaked his lips. “If you weren’t so fucking self-centered and actually thought about the band, not about your name.”
We reached the bottom of the stairs. Frank slid his arm from my shoulder and stumbled over to the stage. I followed. So did the rest of the party.
“What was that you said to me earlier?” Dante swung the bottle at me. “That someone had to show me the path.” His smirk vanished. “Did you check on your boyfriend first? Does he know where he’s going?”
“Just don’t.” I shook my head. Hurt and embarrassment pushed against my chest. Hard.
Frank spun around and shot Dante a hateful look. “You stole my wife!” Oh God! Not this! “You stole my band! Now you want to steal my fucking girlfriend!” His hand danced in the air, pointed at Dante.
This wasn’t good.
“Please stop it!” I shouted and stepped closer to calm him down, but it was too late. Cameras flashed. Laugher diluted the noise of the ballroom.
“Don’t fucking tell me to stop!” His drunken wrath was now directed at me. “You short-changed me for a goddamned magazine.”
My heart stopped beating. His words sliced me open. “There are people here, Frank,” I said firmly. “You need to calm down.”
“Yeah, buddy. You need to calm down!” Dante croaked, moving to stand by my side.
“Are you happy, Cassy?” His gaze swept over the stage, then back at me. “Or are you tired of fucking a guy who can’t use both hands?”
The blood drained from my face. “That’s enough, Frank.”
“Is that why you came here? To find a replacement for me? Someone who can fuck you properly?” His slurred voice was like a slap in my face.
A giggle rang out somewhere in the crowd. My entire body felt like it’d been set on fire. I’d never been subjected to this kind of public humiliation before. My words were stuck in my throat along with my breath. Tears swelled in my eyes.
Frank jumped on stage and twirled around in front of the microphone. A few claps came from behind me. Dizzy with hate, he trotted around the small podium as if he was looking for something he’d lost. Maybe his sanity. His frenzy seized all the air in the room.
I watched him through the gathering mist in my eyes. Part of me knew this wasn’t my Frank. This was the alcohol talking, but part of me hated him for bringing us into this stupid squabble with Dante, for making us a spectacle.
It hurt too much.
“Could you please come down?” I asked quietly, nearing the stage.
He ignored me. “You guys want to hear a new song?”
The crowd responded with a cheer.
“Frank.” I held out my hand. “Please come down.”
“Just wait, baby.” He shook his head and pulled out a piece of paper from the side pocket of his jacket. “I wrote some stuff the other day.” His fuzzy eyes settled on my face. “While you were mad at me.”
“Please come down.”
“Johnny! My man! Can you help a brother out?” Frank whipped his hand in an attempt to unfold the paper. “Fucking sucks when you’re disabled, right?” A silly grin passed his lips.
Scattered laughter filled the ballroom.
Not able to bear this anymore, I got up on stage. “Everyone is making fun of you. Let’s go home.”
He gave me a confused look. “I just got here, doll. I’m going to sing the song I wrote.”
“Please.” I clutched his elbow.
He jerked away. His body swayed backward and slipped from my grip. The rattle of cymbals filled the room as Frank wrecked Carter’s drum kit on the way down. I dropped to my kn
ees to help him, but he was too heavy and too drunk.
“What is wrong with you people?” I cried out, glancing at the sea of spectators. “He just had two surgeries! Someone help him!”
Johnny and Dante hopped up. I saw Marshall making his way through the crowd. Cell phones and cameras continued to record. My body shook. I couldn’t tell if it was anger or something else. Emotions of all colors surged through me. From the darkest to the brightest, they fought within me as I watched Johnny and Marshall helping Frank up.
“My song,” he slurred, looking down.
Someone picked up the paper from under the destroyed kit and handed it to him.
“You gotta hear this, baby.” He dragged his gaze to me and a lopsided grin curled his lips.
Dante stepped in. “You’re ruining my party, man. Get your ass down.”
“I wrote the fucking album! You wouldn’t have a party if not for me.” Frank tried to shake off Johnny and Marshall, who held him straight.
“Can we please stop this?” I thrust myself between them. “What is it with you rock stars? What are you, in sixth grade?”
“See?” Dante giggled. “Listen to what your girlfriend says.”
“Why don’t you keep my girlfriend out of it?”
I turned to Frank and rested both palms on his chest. His heartbeat was scary loud. “Stop this. There’s press here. You two are going to be all over the tabloids. It’s not worth it.”
“Yeah, not worth it, Cassy. But you felt the need to be here tonight anyway, even after I asked you not to go.” A sad smile twisted his lips. “Is that how you love me?”
“Please don’t drag me into this.” My voice was low, but I knew that people could still hear us, and if they couldn’t, they’d be reading about this on TMZ’s front page in two hours.
“Why not?”
Johnny wrapped his arm around Frank and pulled him toward the edge of the stage. Marshall assisted.
The crowd swallowed them as they descended. I waited a second. Carter lingered in my peripheral. He held out a hand and helped me get down. My knees felt like they’ve been skinned and glued to my slacks.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m definitely better than your drums.”
“Ah, it’s not a big deal.” He shrugged.
The attention of the entire room was on Johnny ushering Frank to the exit. Cameras clicked, and then I heard a collective gasp. I ripped my way through the wall of security with Carter one step behind me.
In the middle of all the chaos, Frank and Dante were engaged in a pathetic fist fight. Or more like a drunk dance. I didn’t know how else to describe their swinging and shaking and the slew of profanities there were exchanging. It felt a lot like my high school. Only worse.
“Enough you two!” I grabbed Frank’s hand and stared at Dante. “Stop provoking him. He’s going to hurt himself.”
“Stay out of this, Cassy,” Frank growled, swaying backward. The crowd moved along with him to make room.
“I’m not going to stay out of it until you stop this,” I hissed.
Dante laughed. “Since you’ve got one hand. I’ll let you hit me first, Frankie-boy.”
“No one is hitting anyone.”
“Just get out of my way.” Frank gritted his teeth.
“I won’t!”
“Get out of my way, Cassy!”
“I won’t. You’re going to have to hit me first if you want to get to him!” Fists balled, I looked him in the eyes. Part of me almost expected a punch, but what came at me instead was worse. It was a kick to my gut, to my heart. A kick to all of me and everything I was.
“Just stop fucking suffocating me with your goodness!”
Cold dread hit my bones.
A murmur swelled in the ballroom.
“Fine. If that’s what you want, Frank,” I said. My voice trembled and broke. This was the last straw.
Swallowing down my unshed tears, I turned around and walked away.
Ten minutes later, I called Roman’s cell from where I was hiding in the hotel restroom. I didn’t have to. Not after the horrible words Frank had just thrown at me in front of three hundred people and a dozen reporters, but the sick part of me, the one that loved him stupid—loved him unconditionally—at least wanted to make sure he had someone to take him home.
“Could you please pick him up?” I asked Roman, then gave him the address.
* * *
Apparently, Frank hadn’t told anyone he was going to the party. Billy confirmed when I called home that Frank hadn’t taken any cars from the garage. My only guess was that he’d Ubered here from Malibu.
I heard a knock.
“Hey! You there?” Ashton called.
I scanned my reflection in the mirror. The tears had messed up my mascara and my hair looked like a bird’s nest.
“Are you okay?” He knocked again. My brother didn’t let up.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
It was such a lie. I was nowhere near okay. Hell, I wasn't even sure I would ever recover from what Frank had just said or the way he’d said it. At that moment, his eyes had told me he truly believed his own words. I was suffocating him. Me and my goodness. Whatever the fuck that meant.
“Can I come in for a second?”
“Why?”
“I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I just said I was okay.” My voice ugly-pitched. I was ready to punch the wall to get rid of the frustration and anger that filled me up, but my body ached from too much sex and my ballroom rescue mission. I wasn’t Frank. I didn’t want any more fractures and bruises. He’d given me enough. They weren’t literal, but they felt very real. They were a hole in my heart and a rip in my soul.
“You don’t sound okay,” my brother pressed.
Head pounding, I crossed the restroom and unlocked the door. Ashton slipped in and his eyes roamed my face and my outfit. For the first time in my life, my brother actually expressed concern about my well-being. It only took a millionaire rock star to humiliate me in front of the rock ’n’ roll elite.
“What are you looking at?” I tossed my hands in the air and paced.
“Levi and I can finish the interviews if you want to leave,” he muttered, fumbling with the sleeve of his shirt.
I wasn’t sure if anyone would want to do interviews after the scene Frank had made, but I didn’t care to stay anyway.
“Okay, you two are on your own then.” A ragged breath left my lungs. I was still in shock. My mind ran in thousands of different directions. My heart hurt. Physically.
“Do you want anything?” Ashton asked, inching toward the door.
“No.” I froze in the center of the restroom. “I just need to drive around a bit and clear my head.”
“I guess I’ll see you at home?”
“Yes. You’ll definitely see me at home.” I laughed bitterly and pushed back the new wave of tears that pricked my eyes.
“All right then. Later, sis.” Ashton stepped out and the door closed.
I was left one-on-one with the mess in my head. Anger and helplessness zapped me again. I hated that, despite making me cry and ruining my night and possibly my reputation, Frank was like a bad splinter, buried deep beneath my skin. Constantly reminding me about his presence.
I slipped out of the building through the back entrance a few minutes later and rushed over to the valet to pick up the Porsche and be on my way.
There was no plan. No destination.
Reeling, I drove down Sunset with the windows down and the music full blast. A sea of text messages began to assault my phone shortly after I left the hotel. I ignored them all. I knew some, if not most, were from Frank, but my heart was in pieces. Talking to him right now would only make things worse. There would be apologies, and then tomorrow, there would be another drunk fight.
Instead, I turned up the music and continued my drive. I welcomed the stinging of the wind against my tear-stained cheeks and the exhaust fumes crawling into my nostrils. I welcomed
anything that didn’t smell like a bottle of liquor or a dozen broken promises.
My agony rendered desire for more pain, but a different kind, to offset the affliction that was already there, created by Frank. New ink. A good hour or two of lingering hurt.
That was how I ended up in front of my tattoo shop. The soft scent of burning sage greeted me as I stepped inside. The attendant flashed me a crooked smile.
“Do you have an appointment?” he asked as I neared the counter. My heart hammered in my chest. Being here after blowing off my new tattoo artist felt strange.
“No.”
“All right. Let me make sure Jax can take you.” The kid skirted over to one of the stations that was out of my line of sight. Muffled whispers carried over from across the room.
This was a bad idea, Cassy, my inner voice said. You fucked this one up real good.
Two seconds later, Jax’s head with the military cut popped out from behind the oriental-style screen divider. Our eyes locked and he smiled at me. It was a warm, kind, and beguiling smile.
And for a second there, I felt calm and at ease. The feeling only lingered for a fraction of a second, but it gave me hope.
Just like last time, I was seated on the couch and given a cup of tea while Jax was finishing up with his current client. My phone kept buzzing. Text messages. Phone calls. Emails. Facebook. Twitter. Instagram. With everything going on, I totally forgot to reach out to the social media manager Linda had recommended.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” Jax said once his client left. He looked the same. Hot. Fit. Happy.
“Yes. I’m sorry about flaking out on you.”
“It’s okay. Things happen. I’m sure you have a valid reason.”
Yes, I fell in love with Frankie Blade, and now that he turned out to be just another rich jerk, I’m crawling back for more ink and perhaps sympathy. Although I don’t deserve the latter.
“I guess you could say so,” I muttered, getting to my feet to shake his hand.
Did he read the tabloids? Did he follow Hall Affinity? Did he know I was seeing Frank? All these questions swarmed through my head as we walked over to his station.