There was a shift in the air. A change.
“I can’t with him!” Arms flinging, Brooklyn rolled her eyes. Then her gaze jumped over to me. “He’s so goddamn stubborn.”
“Tell me about it.” I shook my head. “I’m out of ideas on how to make him give up the stupid lawsuit obsession.”
“Honey.” Brooklyn gave me a fake smile. “Nothing’s going to stop that man from trying to get back at KBC. He’s hurt, embarrassed, and angry. So you can take it down a notch with your daily deep throat treats.”
What do you know? The woman had sense of humor after all.
A week after our initial meeting with Linda, Dante’s first on-camera post-Frankie Blade interview hit the internet.
It was a cool, foggy Malibu night filled with the distant rustle of palm trees and the croon of the ocean. Wrapped in a blanket, I was sitting on the terrace with my laptop, going over my pitch, when an email notification with Levi’s name popped on my screen.
The link in my inbox that I instantly clicked opened a YouTube video. There were very few people in my life I truly hated. My father probably took the top spot, but at that moment, Dante’s name dominated my worst person of the year list. The headline pissed me off.
“Hall Affinity to Reveal Their New Singer’s Name Very Soon: Guitarist Dante Martinez acknowledges the band has been going through a rough patch and fresh blood will definitely breathe life into the ensemble.”
A time stamp indicated the video had been uploaded an hour ago. The view count was nearing two hundred thousand and I felt like I was late to the party.
Drawing a loud breath through my teeth, I hit the Play button and started watching the interview. Dante’s smug face filled the screen of my laptop. Eyes glazed, smile tipped all the way up, he looked higher than Mount Everest. A thin fringe of dark stubble shadowed his jaw and cheeks. The man was in his element, as always.
My stomach felt queasy as I listened to the string of slurry words pouring from the speakers. A strange sadness washed over me.
Backstabbing jerk, I thought, dragging the slider forward after the two-minute mark. This interview was an insensitive slap in the face. Dante could have done without it, but, of course, the man fed his ego with loads of attention. He had to go in front of the camera and tell the world how the band hadn’t been the same ever since Frank’s accident.
My phone pinged.
“Bad fucking timing, huh?” Levi muttered, his voice on the line low and full of worry.
“You don’t say.” I minimized the window.
“What do you think?”
“Considering how many diehard fans Frank has and how much fuss they’ll make once the band announces the new name, Isabella will definitely get some of the attention. She’s in the center of a major battle. Not that I like it, but if that’s how KBC wants to do it, we can play along.”
The upcoming mayhem in the press that Isabella would be dragged into right in the middle of recording “Afterburn” with Frank wasn’t my main concern. She was a tough cookie who’d been at war with the world ever since the shitty label in San Francisco had dropped her. Frank, on the contrary, wasn’t ready to fight. Not yet, anyway. His fragile physical and mental health were the main reasons why I kept on asking him to scrap the lawsuit. Having Dante flaunt the replacement singer news while Frank was trying to get on his feet again felt like a cheap trick.
A thud snapped my attention back to reality. I quieted and listened with my breath caught in my throat. The noise had come from somewhere inside the house.
“Let me call you back,” I told Levi, getting to my feet.
More racket. My heart leapt.
I set my phone on the table and stepped into the living room. All sorts of possibilities rushed through my mind.
Were we being robbed?
Roman hadn’t been sleeping on the property anymore. Janet and Billy had returned to Arizona after the holidays. It was only the two of us.
The noise was coming from the east wing. Pulse roaring, I ran down the hallway over to the studio. The door was wide open. Frank stood in front of the mixing board that had apparently just taken a beating. Blood was smeared on the knuckles of his left hand.
Awareness of what was happening hit all my senses.
“What the hell?” I rushed over to him and reached for his wrist. “Let me see.”
He silently jerked his hand away.
“Come on!” My voice went a pitch higher. “Let me see!”
He stumbled back as if he didn’t want to be touched. His eyes darkened.
Heart pounding, I gazed at him and then around the studio, looking for more signs of damage. Some of the picture frames lay on the floor, shattered. Crushed glass and shards of plastic littered the carpet.
“Fucking cunt.” I heard his whisper, then a kick. Only after something hit the wall, did I realize it was his phone.
Every single cell in my body told me to leave. Something about the way he was behaving—the unpredictability, in particular—troubled me as much as the scene before me, but I didn’t dare move. I froze, dead in my tracks, trying to think of the right words to say or the right questions to ask. There weren’t any. My mind was blank with searing panic.
Frank tossed his head back and stared at the ceiling with a steely expression. “Son of a bitch has the fucking nerve to invite me to the party after flushing twenty years down the toilet.”
My brain cells clicked. Brooklyn worked hard on filtering all of Frank’s correspondence, but she couldn’t monitor his personal phone. It must have been the album release event that made him turn his studio into the set of a post-apocalyptic blockbuster.
“Can you imagine, doll? Bitterness laced his voice.
My shock was still raw. “Let me look at your hand,” I asked tentatively.
“Does he expect me to just show up and pretend like nothing happened?”
I took a deep breath. “Why are you letting him do this to you? He’s moved on. You should too, Frank!”
“That’s fucking easy for you to say,” he spat, swinging his hand in the air as if he was looking for something else to hit. His words were a jagged razor shoved into my chest.
“Are you serious right now?” I positioned myself between his body and the wall of broken equipment to stop him from wreaking more havoc to what was left.
He inhaled sharply and finally looked down at me. “Yes, I’m dead fucking serious. Do you have any idea how it feels to be rotting in this house while your ex-best friend is whoring your band out?”
We stared at each other heatedly. His storm-filled gaze burned so hot against mine, I felt it in my chest, melting my ribs and my heart along with them. The dim light illuminating the side of his face accentuated his anger. I didn’t like what I saw in him.
He was unhinged. Completely lost in his pain and devastation.
“So you destroy your house because of some asshole who’s not worth one second of your time?” I was doing my best to keep my raging emotions under control. Someone needed to stay calm, and it looked as if that person had to be me. Frank had been balancing on a slack wire for far too long. Apparently, it had snapped today.
“It’s my fucking house. I’ll demolish it if I want to,” he growled.
“That’s not what we agreed on!” I cried out. “We’re supposed to talk about things, Frank. Like adults! Instead of driving off without a word or breaking shit.” I motioned at the mess on the floor and his hand.