It had been my sixteenth birthday when my mother shared her wisdom with me, the motto I’d always followed.
Don’t ever let a man in to the point where when he’s gone, he’s taken a part of you with him.
She called it the breaking point.
Tonight was exactly that. The moment I’d been avoiding at all costs. And it happened the moment the ambulance left, taking Frank, taking my sanity, and taking my heart along with him. The entire night felt like an episode of a badly scripted reality show with an unlikable, unstable female lead. Me.
Stop it, Cassy. You’re an independent woman. You don’t fucking cry in the middle of a crowded parking lot.
I sucked in a deep breath through my teeth and choked down the wave of defeat. My gaze darted from person to person until it reached the dark shock of Dante’s hair near the back entrance. Cigarette dangling between his lips, shirt unbuttoned, he was surrounded by the screaming crowd. Something told me some of those people might have been overzealous fans who’d snuck in. Carter was right behind him, drenched. He pulled off his shirt and used it to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead.
“Dante!” I called, rushing over. The click of my heels rattled in my ears.
He spun around and the wind whipped the sides of his shirt against his thin torso. People swarmed between us as we caught sight of each other. His expression was withdrawn, his eyes dark, and as they wandered across my face, I had to ask myself whether he understood what had just happened or he was experiencing the same type of delay Frank had felt during the motorcycle crash.
“Are you going to Cedars Sinai?”
Dante nodded. “You have a ride?” He plucked the cigarette from his mouth and spit on the asphalt. Anxiety riddled his face.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Okay, come on.” He jerked his chin and headed toward the black car that was waiting.
I followed. “What about Carter?”
“He’s riding with Johnny.”
We climbed in the back. The doors thwacked shut, separating us from the mayhem. Dante rolled down the window and continued puffing on his cigarette.
Phone clutched in my palm, heart racing, I stared at the arena lights smeared behind the tinted glass as we maneuvered through the developing gridlock. The traffic on Manchester was just as bad, if not worse. Cars lined up one after another.
Dante finished smoking, tossed the butt outside, and closed the window. His hand rested on his thigh, long fingers tapping out a nervous dance against the expensive denim.
“What happened?” I turned to face him as endless questions swirled in my head. “He was fine before the set.”
Dante dropped his gaze to the floor. “I don’t know. He tripped.”
I needed more than that. I needed an explanation my brain could work with. “What do you mean tripped? It makes no sense!”
“I don’t fucking know, Cassy!”
Our voices clashed inside the car like two cymbals. Mine was a raging high-pitch and his was frostbite on my skin.
I shivered. “But he was fine!”
Dante palmed his face, and I heard the rumble of his labored breath. “Can you shut up for a second, please?”
My phone buzzed. Again and again. Messages and email notifications that couldn’t make it through inside the arena. I hid the device in my purse and tried to breathe through the panic. My pulse thrummed in my temples and my body shook uncontrollably. I wasn’t sure whether it was from the AC that blasted from everywhere or shock.
Dante lit up another cigarette, this time not bothering to roll down the window. He smoked fast. Deep, nervous puffs. Rigid movements. His chest trembled.
I watched him from the corner of my eye. The tense set of his jaw gave away his temporary animosity toward me. Smoke was everywhere. In my hair, in my eyes, in my lungs. Suffocating me and reminding me once again why I’d never dated anyone who was addicted to nicotine. It was a deadly habit.
Cracking my own window open, I plastered my cheek to the glass and breathed. Cool air crept up my arms and legs. Worry for Frank settled deep in my chest.
Dante finally lowered his window. I heard the rustle of his clothes and the rough scratch of his vocal cords as he cleared his throat and spoke, “You probably want to call your family and make sure they don’t talk to reporters. Mom. Dad. Dog. Just in case.”
Wind rippled the light skirt of my dress. “No dad.” I shook my head, not sure why I’d said that. Dante knew very little about my life outside Rewired.
“How come?”
“He left us.”
I heard a chuckle. A bitter one. “Shitty fathers are pretty common these days, huh?”
I tore my cheek from the glass and looked at him. “What about you?”
He held up his cigarette between his fingers. Thick, rancid clouds streamed from his nose. “My father is six feet under. Heart attack.”
“I’m sorry.” I didn’t know about the nature of Dante’s relationship with his father. I knew he had passed. The news had circulated in the tabloids for a day or two when it happened. Dante was arrested for a DUI two days later.
“It’s been a few years. I’m over it.” His words hung in the air, somber. There was a pause followed by a long, shaky drag. “Did Frankie-boy ever tell you about his birth mother?”
“Some. Yes.”
“Did he tell you why social services took him away from her?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you how he fell into a pool once while she was out partying? He almost drowned.”
Heaviness filled my chest. Frank had mentioned a lot of horrible things, mostly neglect, but not this.
I shuddered at the thought.
“He doesn’t really talk about it.” Dante studied the burning tip of his cigarette for a few seconds. Hot ash sprinkled across his jeans and he brushed it off. “I only heard the story once. Years ago. We were on tour in Europe. Amsterdam. It was Johnny’s birthday and we decided to take him to a strip club. The elite shit with high-end dancers, bottle service, and all that jazz. Frankie-boy had a few drinks and got all sentimental during the fucking lap dance. Can you imagine?” Dante faced me, a one-sided smile twisting his lips. “That was before your lover boy married that Playboy cunt. He’s not a dog, just so you know. He’s not going to fuck around if he has a nice piece of ass like you.”
I didn’t understand why he needed to reassure me Frank wasn’t a cheater. I ignored the last reference too. Dante Martinez was a spoiled, self-centered jerk and a womanizer. Piece of ass might have been a compliment for all I knew. But we had more important matters to discuss. “Why are you telling me this?” I caught his gaze. This was the first time Dante had brought up Frank’s wife and I sensed there was a lot more history behind that infidelity.
“I don’t want you to think just because a man has access to all the pussy in the world that he can’t be faithful. It’s the same as going to an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet when you fucking hate seafood. You go because it’s convenient. Cheap, close to your house. The cook knows you. What you really like is fondue. Problem is, fondue is an acquired taste and your homeboys think it’s disgusting.”
“I’m not following.”
“Of course you’re not.” Dante laughed and slipped the cigarette between his lips again to take a drag. “You’re fondue, darlin’, and Frankie-boy likes fondue.”