by N. N. Britt
I paused. My heart thundered inside my battered chest. I brought the glass to my lips and took a sip of my drink. It wasn’t half bad. Sweet and bubbly. Like the old version of me. Pre-Frank. Right now, I was a ball of hurt and bitterness, and I didn’t like who I’d become a single bit.
“You can’t protect everyone, Cassy. People flake and cheat. It is what it is. A cutthroat business. Not a charity. You don’t get a label to invest money in you unless you have what they’re looking for and it’s not always the talent.”
“Exactly. And people like you and Frank who actually pull some weight in this business and have a chance to change things around for younger musicians resort to hiding in the shadows, letting the labels rape the artists emotionally and financially.”
Seconds passed as Dante stared at me intensely. His palm that was wrapped around his glass remained still, as if one wrong move was going to interrupt his thinking process.
Then there was a knock.
“Hold that thought, short stuff.” He threw his hand in the air and cracked the door open. A wall of noise reigning the lanes drifted into the room. Levi marched in with my bag in hand. He was accompanied by a police officer and one of the guards who’d worked the red carpet. Dante stood back as I answered questions. It was over so soon, it felt like I’d dreamed the entire conversation. The only indication of the officer ever speaking to me was the business card he gave me before he left. I slid it into the side pocket of my bag and returned my attention to Levi.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Levi asked as soon as the three of us were alone. “I can give you a ride home. We’ll pick up your car tomorrow.”
Another knock came. It was the band’s manager, Javier. He gave me an apologetic smile and approached Dante.
“I really am fine,” I reassured Levi. It was a lie. The tremor was everywhere. In my hands, in my knees. In my stomach. I was on edge, needing a moment of calm, needing resolve. Facing the crowd milling around the bowling alley terrified me. “I’m just going to chill for a bit.”
Levi shot Dante a warning glance. “If you get her into trouble, hot shot, I’ll make a blooper reel from all the footage we have of you and send it to TMZ.”
“I’d love to see that,” Dante came back with a droopy grin. “I’m told I’m funnier when I’m high.”
My drink, barely touched, waited for me on the bar. As soon as Levi and Javier exited the room, I rose from the couch and grabbed the glass. My head hurt and an invisible rock sat in my chest.
“Are you sure you don’t want someone to check you out?” Dante probed, pulling another lollipop from his pocket.
I blinked at him.
“Geez, get your mind out of the gutter, woman.” He leaned against the pool table and fought the wrapper. The top three buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned. “I mean…like a doctor.”
“Right.” I surveyed my surroundings and took another sip. “Is there a restroom in here?”
Dante motioned at the door behind the bar and shoved the lollipop into the corner of his mouth. “If you change your mind, let me know. The ER is open twenty-four seven.”
“Thanks.”
When I shed my shirt in the restroom, the huge bruise forming on my chest bone told me the attacker had every intention to hurt me. My anger intensified. Swallowing past the uncomfortable tightness in my throat, I studied my reflection.
You’re okay, Cassy, my inner voice said. Breathe.
The alcohol had already taken charge of my bloodstream when I returned to the pub area. Back against the edge of the bar, Dante sipped on his drink.
“You don’t look well.” He turned his head toward me. “You’re positive you don’t want me to take you to the hospital?”
Shocking revelation, but I noted a lick of concern in his hazy eyes.
“No. It’s just a nasty bruise.”
Dante skirted around the bar. The fridge door slammed. Cubes of ice clattered onto the counter.
“My parents use to beat the shit out of me,” he said matter-of-factly, fully concentrating on his task. “I’m not telling you this because I want you to stop hating me. Hate all you want. I deserve it.” His lollipop jumped from one side of his mouth to the other. “I’m telling you this because you’re about to try the world famous bruise remedy from casa Martinez.”
I couldn't see exactly what Dante was doing behind the bar. I sat on a stool and watched his hands fumble around as the seconds ticked by. Finally, he held up a plastic bag full of ice and a towel. “Voila!” A grin spread across his cheeks. “Put it where it hurts.”
“Thanks. That’s very thoughtful of you.” My shoulders quaked in inaudible laughter.
“Don’t make fun of me, short stuff. It was either this or nothing when I was growing up.” He shook his head and threw his unfinished candy in the trash. “Aspirin was hard to come by in my neighborhood.”
Frost bit at my fingers when I took both offerings. I wrapped the towel around the ice pack and then placed it against my chest. Cold hit my bones instantly, overpowering the pain.
Dante went back to his drink. “Works like a charm, huh?” He motioned at my glass and raised his brows as if to ask if I was ready for a refill.
“I think I’m good. I still have to drive home,” I politely refused.
The light buzz I was feeling was more than enough to chase away the distress the downstairs incident caused me. Unlike Dante, I didn’t need to get wasted to cope. There was a reason I hardly drank. Socially or otherwise. I feared I’d become like my father. And Frank. I feared I’d develop alcohol dependence.
Dante leaned forward and propped his chin on his hand. “You mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Depends on the question.”
“Who ended it? Was it you?”
“Yes.”
Dante straightened. “Too bad for Frankie-boy. You’re one of the good ones.”
“He cost me a venue.”
Dante’s brows jumped up his forehead. “Do tell.” Curiosity laced his voice.
I readjusted the ice pack and took a deep breath. The ache was still there, but it was less severe. “There’s nothing to tell. The manager of the theater we really had our sights on pulled out of the project after the footage from the release party went viral.”
“Shit. That fucking sucks. Who’s the manager?”
“Margerie Helm. Peter Helm’s daughter.”
“Wasn’t he a movie producer back in the ’80s or something?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure my party is the reason she changed her mind?”
“Yes. I’m pretty sure. She was all chatty during the meeting and the morning after the party we received a very unwelcome decline. The woman did a complete one-eighty on us. Levi tried calling her, but she never responded. Considering Frank hasn’t kept a single promise in over six months, it’s safe to say no one in this city except the tabloids probably wants to be associated with him.”
“I gotta give it to you, Cassy.” Dante swung his drink in my direction. “You’re ballsy. I can see why Frankie-boy likes you so much. You’ve seen his ex. You’re a great upgrade after that dummy on a stick.”
“You fucked that dummy on a stick.”
“Good thing I was high when it happened.”
He spoke about all his shortcomings, mistakes, and faults with such ease, it made me wonder if he had any conscience left after two decades of doing coke and bathing in liquor.
“I guess he didn’t like me as much as you think if he chose the bottle over me,” I said bitterly.
“You should know better than anyone, it’s never like that. You don’t choose the bottle—the bottle always chooses you.”
His words were like a bitch-slap. Unexpected and weak yet irritating.
“Bottle, blow, cigarettes,” Dante continued as his cloudy gaze drilled into me. “It’s the only way some of us can do it.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Because you never had to
play a fucking guitar in thirty arena shows back-to-back until your fingers bleed. It hurts less when you’re numb, darlin’.” The cranky twist of his lips told me he was losing his cool.
Acute silence met his statement. I was taken aback by his confession. I didn’t quite buy the reasons he’d given me, but they made sense nonetheless. They were his truths.
He downed his drink and slammed the glass against the bar counter. “No one wants to grow up and be a fucking pawn. You think all we dream about is blow jobs and drugs? When you sign up for this gig, you’re buying a one-way ticket to hell. You’re going to get abused left and right and the only way to stay relevant is to be two steps ahead in this game.”
“Does being two steps ahead entail betraying your best friend too?”
“Even after he fucked up your charity thing, you’re still taking his side.”
“I’m not. I’m stating the obvious.”
“Your obvious. Not mine. He’s just as much of an arrogant asshole as I am. Do you really think I want to go on tour with Marshall Burns?”
“You seemed cozy the last time I saw the two of you together.”
“Part of the job.” Dante grimaced, his fingers dancing against the smooth surface of the bar. He looked ravaged. “Making sure people actually believe we’re thrilled to have a new singer who doesn’t need an army of medics.”
We fell back into silence. The tension building between us was thick with dark, conflicting emotions.
Dante grabbed another bottle and refilled his glass. His hands shook. The man didn’t know his limit. How he could stay in control of his thoughts and actions with so much alcohol in his system baffled me.
“Do you ever want to stop?” I asked, drawing the ice pack away from my chest.
“Every day, but then I remember all the horrible shit I’ve done and realize I won’t last long clean and sober.”
“Have you tried?”
“I do once in a while—” He paused abruptly, as if the right words had escaped his mind. “Give it a shot, I mean.”
“What makes you stop?”
“Why are you grilling me about my bad habits, short stuff? I’m a fucking lost cause. I’m going to be forty in less than two years. It’s too late for a change.”
“Because you’re making it sound like you can’t play music without selling your soul to the devil.”
“Oh, you can.” A cunning smile tilted the corners of his lips. “Just not the kind we write. It’s rock ’n’ roll, baby.” He slipped his hand into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small plastic packet.
My pulse leapt. Ice pack still in my hands, I narrowed my eyes.
“Don’t fucking look at me like that.” He shook his head. A credit card was wedged between his fingers.
I’d seen drugs. I’d seen people doing drugs. I’d seen what drugs did to people. Everyone in this city needed a pick-me-up to get through the trenches. Be it powder, needle, or liquor. Coke, heroin, and acid were injected or sniffed at almost every single VIP table of every single club in Hollywood, Downtown, or in the Valley. This was the capital of entertainment. The city of dreams. Some realized. Some broken. People either did drugs to stay afloat or to get through the dark. But the fact that Dante had enough nerve to flaunt his stash while we were having a conversation about the very reason why Frank and I weren’t together anymore shocked me. Everything about today shocked me. Starting from Margerie Helm’s email and ending with Dante Martinez shamelessly snorting a dozen lines in front of my eyes.
“Shouldn’t you at least lock the door?” I asked sarcastically, sliding from the stool.
“This is my room. There’s a guard outside. No one comes in unless I say so.” He dropped his head to get another hit.
I set the ice pack on the bar. “I guess I’ll leave you to it.” My heart thundered.
Dante tore his face from the powder and shot me a glazed look. “You want me to walk you to your car?”
“I’m fine. You know, you really should try again.”
“I don’t have anyone to try for.” He rubbed his nose.
“You don’t need anyone. Do it for yourself.”
“Is that what you told Frank before you dumped his ass?”
“Why are you bringing him into this?”
“Because he’s always here.” Dante’s index finger ping-ponged between our bodies, which were separated by the bar. “He’s always with me and with you. Once he gets under your skin…it’s for good. You can’t get him out. Tell me it’s not true.”
I couldn’t. Frank was in every part of me. In every inhale. In every exhale. In every thrum of my pulse. Even after countless weeks of silence, he occupied my thoughts. He sneaked into my dreams. A small fraction of me still hoped I’d get a random 4 a.m. call. And he’d be sober. He’d be the man I met last September. Warm, funny, charming.
“See what I’m talking about?” Dante threw his hands in the air, eyes wild, voice rough. “You can’t. Because I’m right. I’m always fucking right, darlin’.” He dipped his head and drew another line.
Frozen, I stared at the glittering row of bottles on the opposite side of the bar. The loud thumps of my heart pounded in my ears.
Go home, Cassy, my inner voice whispered. This man doesn’t care about your goodness either and he won’t give you the answers you want.
Truth was, I didn’t know what answers I was looking for or what exactly I was trying to do. Save the world? Sadly, the world didn’t want to be saved. People were happy and high. No one wanted to be miserable and sober.
“Good night, Dante,” I said. “Thank you for the ice pack.”
He jerked his face up, his hair flipped and fell across his shoulders in a dark, messy cascade. Then our eyes locked.
A ragged exhale left his mouth. “Fuck me.” Swaying, he tilted his head back and stared up at the ceiling. His body went limp and disappeared behind the counter.
It wasn’t until I heard the thud that my brain turned on.
“Dante?” I called, rounding the bar. My pulse was a furious chase in my veins.
He lay on the floor, lips blue, arms spread, eyes bugged out. Spasms twisted his long body.
All the oxygen in the room was gone. “Oh my fucking God!” Mind blank with panic, I dropped to my knees and slapped his cheek. “Dante?!” He continued to jerk beneath me. Foam spilled from the corner of his mouth.
Oh my fucking God, oh my fucking God! Heart, stomach and legs quivering, I sprung to my feet and rushed for the door. The sounds—the clatter of pins, the rumbling of balls, and the drunken screams of guests—crashed into me like a ton of bricks. The security guard was standing right outside.
Gasping for air, I clutched his suit jacket-clad shoulder and shouted, “Call a medic! Dante Martinez just OD’d!”
Chapter Eleven
The West Hollywood café where we were meeting Maria and Isabella for lunch was like a beehive without a queen. Loud. Unorganized. With price tags that didn’t measure up to the quality of food. A long line of bodies snaked through the dining room. In the booth next to ours, a toddler was crying a river. Ignoring the demon child’s assault on my ears, I spun my laptop toward Isabella and said, “I think The Spot will be great. I know you prefer ground floor, but they do have an elevator. We’re just waiting for confirmation that their restrooms are ADA compliant.”
Isabella studied the images that carouselled on the screen. Her sandwich and soda remained untouched. Maria sat by her side. Levi was sprawled on the bench, sipping his six-dollar latte.
“What about that lounge on Cahuenga? The one we looked at last week? Was that Swan Café?” Isabella looked up from my laptop to her mother, seeking a reaction.
“We liked it.” Maria nodded. She seemed exhausted with stress. Thanks to Jay Brodie PR, her daughter’s schedule was brutal. There were appearances to make and interviews to give. There was sudden interest from several local radio stations and an inquiry from a TV show.
“If we don’t hear from The Spot
’s management by the end of the week, we’ll reach out to Swan Café,” I said, mustering up a smile. My phone lay on the table next to my coffee. Its screen was littered with email notifications. “As a matter of fact, they jumped at the offer. What we have to keep in mind is that with their floor layout, setting up a projector could be very tricky. Also, their maximum capacity is only two hundred and fifteen people, and we think using a small venue might be doing you a disservice now that there’s so much interest.”
“Don’t forget about sponsors and special guests. We’ll need room for stand-up banners and merch tables.” Levi set his latte aside and rested both elbows on the tabletop. His gaze darted between Maria and Isabella. “Cassy is in talks with three larger venues that we both think are a much better fit than Swan Café. I believe at least one will come through. I say let’s sit tight for a few more days and not rush into it.”
Maria returned my smile. Hers was just as unenthusiastic and dull as mine. Obviously for entirely different reasons. She wasn’t the one who’d witnessed Hall Affinity’s guitarist’s brush with death five days ago. But that didn’t make her problems any less important. As a matter of fact, her problems were my problems. We lost Melrose Cinema because of my then-boyfriend’s drunken hysteria, and I was determined to find a new venue. Unfortunately, we were running out of time. Linda insisted we make a decision by the end of this week. She couldn’t push back the screening announcement any longer.
My phone blinked at me with another email notification. Though Shayne had taken over most of my duties at Rewired, I still checked my inbox religiously day and night. It was a stupid habit, to stay in the know. Even after I’d promised myself to dedicate the next month and a half solely to Dreamcatchers and Isabella’s band.
But then, what if Margerie Helm had changed her mind? What if Frank had come out of hiding? What if Ashton had gotten into a fight again?