by N. N. Britt
“Any idea what you want to get?” Jax asked.
I took a deep breath. My voice was barely there. “Honestly, I’m not having a very good day. What do you recommend for a broken heart?”
He stared at my face for a good minute, studying me. “I would recommend something that doesn’t remind you about it?”
“Makes total sense.”
“You should get a tattoo that represents you.” He spoke as if he knew what had happened. Even if he did, he was kind enough not to ask me any questions.
“I don’t even know who I am right now,” I confessed.
“You, Cassy Evans, are a Wonder Woman.” He smirked and grabbed a brochure with designs from one of the shelves. “And I’ve got just the thing for you.”
Chapter Ten
I woke up to the familiar stinging sensation on my newly inked shoulder blade. The noise in the living room told me Ashton was home. My head hurt. My chest felt cold and hollow. Frank’s words were a stigma branded into my brain and they burned. I lay in my bed and stared at the ceiling for what seemed like forever. The dread of facing the slander that had flooded social media overnight made me anxious.
Summoning all my courage, I scrambled for my phone and flipped through my notifications to weed out potential trolls. The last two days had been hectic. Between meetings and sex with Frank, I hadn’t been checking my inboxes or my follower count, but seeing three thousand new fans on Twitter shocked me. Online attention was obviously expected, but witnessing it for myself left me stunned and my heart started racing.
Swallowing past the tightness in my throat, I sat up, then logged out of the app and logged back in to make sure it wasn’t some kind of glitch.
The numbers remained the same. Obviously, most of these users were following me for one reason only, to spy on Frank.
Too bad for them. I wasn’t sure that we were still a thing. I didn’t want us to be a thing. Not when he couldn’t control himself in public. There was nothing that could possibly erase all the dirt he’d poured on me yesterday at the party.
Shaking off my unease, I returned to my Twitter feed and scrolled through the posts until my eyes caught a grainy shot of Frank and me on stage. It was from last night. I tapped the image to zoom it in. Instead, the picture began to move. It was a GIF. Frank destroying Carter’s drum set and me trying to get him up.
Oops!…I did it again! the text under it read.
Acid coated my throat. I exited the app, slid from my bed, and paced the room. The tremor that took over me was from deep in my bones. A mean rattle. I shook, my breath an uneven quiver. We were a fucking GIF now and the entire planet was going to keep making fun of us for the rest of eternity. Unbelievable. It only took us a few days after we’d gone public.
My phone buzzed in my hand. It was Levi.
“Did you check your email yet?” he asked, his tone full of panic.
“No. I think I’m just going to disappear for a couple of years,” I joked, walking over to my computer.
There, in my inbox, sat an unread email from Margerie Helm. My gaze skimmed over the text. What? No! I rubbed my eyes and read it again. Disappointment pulled at my chest.
Levi was still on the phone with me, quiet. His shallow breaths roared inside my head.
“That can’t be!” I muttered and stepped away from the computer. “Did she seem like a stuck-up bitch to you? I mean, she runs a fucking movie theater.”
“I’m sorry, Cass. I know you probably don’t want to hear it, but it sounds like she’s not fond of all this attention you’re getting in the tabloids.”
“So it’s my fault we lost the venue?”
“No. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m merely pointing out a potential problem.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. I’m not asking you to do anything. I didn’t think people actually paid attention to this shit. Okay, so a guy got drunk and made a spectacle of himself. Who cares? He’s not even part of the project anymore.”
My rage was like a flame, burning everything around me. My room, my hope, my heart.
I killed the call and rushed into the living room. Ashton was watching TV and eating, my guess was lunch since it was too late for breakfast. A pile of textbooks sat on the coffee table next to his laptop. His gaze followed me as I torpedoed my way through the apartment, tossing and turning everything that stood in my way.
“What are you looking for?”
I stopped. “Your car keys?”
“They’re by the door.” He motioned at the line of hooks on the wall and continued to chew on the slice of pizza.
I stomped across the living room and grabbed the set.
Ashton finally caught on. “Wait! What for?” He sprung from the couch and stalked me to my room with pizza in hand. “What do you need my car for?”
“I’m returning it.”
“No!”
“I am, Ashton. This is not up for discussion.”
“It’s my car. Frankie gave it to me!”
I drew a deep breath and lowered my voice. My throat was stiff and itchy from last night. “Get out of my room, please.”
“It’s my car.” Ashton pouted.
“No, it’s not. It’s a handout from a guy who doesn’t know what the fuck to do with his money.”
“That’s not fair! What does it have to do with my car? Why am I being dragged into your stupid fight?”
“There’s no fight.” I walked over to my closet and grabbed the first thing I saw, a sweater and a pair of ripped skinny jeans, exactly what my emo alter-ego needed after countless hours of heels, makeup, and designer slacks. “You remember my eleventh birthday?”
He blinked at me with confused eyes and took a bite of his pizza.
“You were too little.” I looked at the empty space above me. Forgotten memories passed through my jaded mind. “That morning, Dad gave me a twenty-dollar bill. Maybe he was too lazy to get a present or simply didn’t know what I liked, but he put the money into my birthday card and told me to buy whatever I wanted.” I had to pause because sifting through images of my father always rattled me. “Then, that night, he came into my room and asked for the money back because he didn’t have any for beer.”
My brother’s face remained expressionless and his jaw stopped moving.
“I don’t want you to be disillusioned about people, Ashton,” I said calmly. “I know you have this image of Frank in your head, but he’s not what you think he is. No one is. And if you’re going to keep trusting people with everything you have, you’re going to get hurt badly.”
“You sound like you’re on your period.”
“I’m returning the car. You’re going to find a part-time job and Mom and I will help you get another one.”
“When am I going to work? I’ve got school. I’m helping you and Levi with Rewired.”
“Welcome to adulthood, buddy.” I slapped his back and shoved him out of my room. “Now get out. I need to get dressed.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was leaving the parking garage in the BMW with an empty backpack in the passenger seat. The only pleasant part of this ride was Black Rain Coming blaring from the speakers. My brother’s taste had improved greatly since he started helping us with Rewired. Metalcore wasn’t on my preferred genres to listen to list, but Cameron Koller had an interesting voice. An outcast, the original trailer park kid from the rural Midwest, he was real to the bone. With an interesting story to tell.
Adjusting the volume, I pulled onto the road. Frank’s Porsche sat across the way from the complex, shiny and foreign in this neighborhood. I always had to park it on the street because my apartment only came with one garage spot that, up to now, was being occupied by Ashton’s car. Correction. Former car.
Fury filled my chest. I steered the BMW into an empty space between an SUV and a Ford, cut the engine and marched over to the Porsche.
Not my car, not my problem. My inner bitch laughed as I drove it down the street to the tow away zon
e.
Good luck looking for it, asshole.
My mood skyrocketed. Revenge, no matter how immature, felt good. However, it didn’t take long for disappointment to replace my high. Its hold on my confidence made me sad. Made me angry. Made me hate Frank for not trying harder.
When I finally got to Malibu, I was a ball of conflicting emotions. I parked the BMW in front of the garage and got out. The house felt different. Shattered. Loud. Uninviting. My Honda still sat in the driveway. The French doors on the terrace were slid open and I heard a slew of muffled voices drifting at me from the inside.
Brooklyn and Corey were hunched over the coffee table in the living room, their faces glued to their laptop screens, gloomy. They were probably working on a reputation repair strategy. I noted Billy’s silhouette lingering on the terrace. He was on the phone.
My heart twisted inside my chest. I was no longer sure if I was in any condition to see Frank and stay calm, but I needed to get this over with, grab my things, and be on my way.
Brooklyn tore her gaze from the laptop and looked at me, then at my backpack. Her expression remained sour.
“Is he awake?” My question floated through the room.
“He’s in the studio,” she explained.
Corey gave me a tight-lipped smile. His hard eyes told me he didn’t want me here.
“Great. Hopefully, we won’t have to see each other.” I strode over to the coffee table and dropped the BMW and Porsche keys into Brooklyn’s lap. “Trade ya cars?”
“What?” she asked, confused.
“I’m returning the BMW. Porsche is probably in an impound lot somewhere in the Valley.”
“What’s it doing there?”
“Resting.”
Brooklyn batted her lashes at me, expecting an explanation. For a moment, I felt sorry for her. She was going to be the one looking for that damn Porsche. Not Frank. I would be very surprised if he was able to string two words together right now.
“Sorry.” I shrugged and walked down the hall to grab my things from the bedroom.
Blinded with rage and hurt, I plucked everything that belonged to me—dresses, shirts, pajamas—from the drawers and the closet and shoved it all into my backpack, not bothering to fold anything.
“Cassy!” Frank’s voice carrying through the house told me coming here was a huge mistake.
He sounded broken and desperate, and his despair shot straight to my heart, clutching it for dear life. My walls made of hate, ice, and anger were melting.
There was no warning. He dropped to his knees and his arms wrapped around my waist like a chokehold. I couldn’t move. A gasp was stuck somewhere in my chest. My hands were still in a drawer, plowing through my clothes, separating the ones he’d paid for.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against my sweater, his breath a hot, pulse-jarring caress on my stomach. This heat he carried around was worse than kryptonite. I wanted to fall apart for him right there and then. It took all my willpower not to give in to his deadly charm.
Bracing myself, I spoke, “Frank, please stand up.”
“Tell me you forgive me.” He tightened his grip.
“I can’t.”
“Please.”
Slamming the drawer shut, I dragged my gaze to his sandy hair splayed over my sweater. “Frank, please let go.” My voice was firm and uncompromising. My heartbeat, a thrashing inferno against my sternum, was anything but.
“I’m sorry for what I said last night. I didn’t mean it. You’re not suffocating me. You never have.” He tilted his head back. His eyes, bloodshot and hollow, pleaded for sympathy, but I didn’t have any to give.
“Do you even remember any of it? Or did you have to read TMZ to get a refresher?”
He pressed his pale face to my stomach. “Please, baby.” I felt it then. His tears soaking my sweater, warm and terrifyingly familiar against my skin. They were little reminders of what he was. They were his fears, his dreams, his vices. They were impossible to ignore.
“Frank, please stop,” I said, brushing his hair, despite knowing I shouldn’t. Its softness against my fingertips was like a splash of nice memories. Memories I didn’t want right now. Anger was my fuel.
His shoulders shook. His entire body shook. I’d never seen a man cry like this before. Only on screen.
“Frank, you know this isn’t going to undo what you’ve done.”
“I can fix it. I promise.”
“No, you can’t fix it.” Exhausted, I dropped my hands to my sides. “Please let go before I call for help.”
He loosened his grip and his head tilted up. I refused to look. My gaze was trained on the wall. His brokenness was my weakness and I couldn’t afford to be weak anymore.
“Say something, doll.” He ran his palm over the small of my back.
“What do you want me to say?” I continued to stare at nothing. “You made a fool out of me, yourself, and our relationship. The entire planet is laughing at us.”
We were a fucking GIF.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” His whispers were sharp gasps that cut me deep, cut me into pieces.
“Don’t get me wrong…” I paused to take a breath. My throat stung and my lungs were out of oxygen. The room felt stuffy despite the AC and an open window panel. Even the wind was like a lick of a chemical burn. “I knew what I was getting myself into by being with you and by agreeing to go public. I can take online jokes. I can take hate mail. I can take paparazzi ambushes. What I can’t take is you ruining everything I’ve been working for these past five months in a matter of seconds.”
Frank clutched my sweater. “Just tell me how I can fix it.”
“You can’t,” I snapped, my tone accusatory. “Levi and I lost the venue. The management doesn’t like the kind of publicity your connection to the project is providing.”
I grabbed his hands and freed my sweater from his grasp. “Please don’t make this harder than it already is.” My gaze dropped to his face. Our eyes locked.
“Don’t do this to me, doll. You know I need you more than ever right now.”
I took a step back, wishing to distance myself from the tempting heat of his body. Desperate, he crawled toward me. It was pathetic and painful to watch and I couldn’t bear another second of this spectacle.
“Frank, please stand up. If you keep being careless with your shoulder, it’ll never heal.”
He froze, still on his knees.
We were broken. We were irreparable. We were over.
“I need peace of mind to finish Dreamcatchers. I’m sorry.” I choked back the tears. “I can’t babysit you anymore. Yes, I know this makes me a shitty girlfriend, but I tried to be there for you. Problem is, I don’t think I can anymore. I simply don’t have it in me to watch you ruin yourself and what’s left of my life and my career.”
“So you’re going to leave me?” Wounded eyes pierced me like a pair of scissors. One stab, double the hurt. “I thought you said you loved me.”
“Sometimes love isn’t enough, Frank,” I countered, my heart a thousand fragments. “It sure isn't enough to cure your alcoholism.” It hadn’t been enough to cure my father’s either. And between my mom, Ashton and me, we’d had a lot to give. He just hadn’t wanted any of it.
“I’ll get better.” Frank reached out to grab the stretched hem of my sweater. “I promise I will. I swear on my goddamn voice, I’m going to check into rehab tomorrow. Just don’t leave me.”
“We talked about this. You promise and then you slip. And every time you do, you drag me down with you, and it’s terrifying because I never know if we’re going to come back from it. Me loving you won’t make you want to get help. You need to want it, Frank. You need to understand that it’s for your own good. Don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself.”
“I can’t do it without you.”
“You’re going to have to, Frank. I’m sorry, but I don’t like who I’ve become with you. I don’t like that my world revolved around you like you’re
the fucking sun. You know what else I don’t like?”
He held on to my sweater and stared at me.
“I don’t like that I have to hurt you to stop you from hurting yourself.”
And that was it. I grabbed my backpack and left.
At first, Frank called, texted, and sent flowers relentlessly.
I didn’t respond to any of the messages and didn’t listen to the voicemails. They kept piling up on my phone like mail on the porch of a house where no one lived.
My heart needed time to heal and regroup.
The endless Hall Affinity emails that flooded my inbox daily in light of the upcoming album release were more than enough. New singer or not, one mention of the band stirred up all my memories of Frank that I tried to tuck away to the darker corners of my mind.
On Monday, Jay Brodie PR released an official statement regarding the incident during the album release party. Frankie Blade issued a public apology and a promise to get help. Sadly, thousands of Oops!…I did it again GIFs and someone give this guy crutches memes had already been circulating all over the internet. Twitter. Tumbler. Instagram. Facebook.
Frank’s meltdown was the hottest topic of the week. Possibly the month. Possibly even the year. He’d gone from the most admired man on the planet to a pathetic joke in a split second.
And my name was attached to this embarrassing moment like a label to a new pair of jeans. Even if you cut it out, it’d still scratch and irritate you.
On Tuesday, Ashton came home early. Apparently, someone in his school made fun of Frank, and my little brother took matters into his own hands. I’d never pegged him for a fighter. At least not outside his X-box games. Though tall, he was too much of a wimp to throw punches. His aggression, but mainly his need to defend Frank’s nonexistent reputation, surprised me.
On Wednesday, Flutter, the fifth Hall Affinity album, finally hit streaming devices and shelves. It reached the number one position the following week, three days before the annual Bowl N’ Roll event. The same evening, Dante was added to the charity’s list of attending guests.
I contemplated asking Levi to take Shayne instead. My heart was too fragile to withstand another assault. But Linda confirmed Dante Martinez wasn’t doing any interviews.