“Did you know—” He paused to catch his breath. “The first time I tried chocolate was after Janet and Billy took me in.”
My stomach spasmed. I hated that he made me pity him.
“Now I have a piece of paper in my living room that cost more than my birth mother made in a year.” Frank continued to stare. “And the funny thing is…I don’t know why I even have it.”
“Where’s Roman?” I repeated my question. I had no idea how disorderly he could get with this much alcohol in his system, but I wanted to be ready for the worst, and my hundred and ten pounds weren’t going to cut it against the wall of lean muscle and madness that he was.
“Why?” Frank arched a brow. “You don’t like my company?”
“Not when you’re drunk,” I said firmly.
He turned his back to me and staggered down the hall, every single ounce of his torment weighing on his shoulders, dragging him down to hell. His broken footsteps thudded against the floor like an off-beat rhythm. In the living room, furniture banged and keys jingled.
Heart in my throat, I raced through the house. “Where are you going?” My pulse skyrocketed.
“I’m not in the mood to listen to your pestering. I get enough of this shit from everyone. My parents. My assistant. My manager. I don’t need you to police me too.”
Ouch. “Excuse me? Me wanting you to get better is pestering?”
Helmet in hand, Frank was on his way to the garage. Skirting around his body to face him, I stood in the doorway and held out my hand. “Give me the keys.”
He didn’t stop. His shoulder knocked against mine.
“Give me the keys.” I twirled around and grabbed his arm.
He jerked away.
My mother was right. Saving someone from himself if he didn’t want to be saved was a waste of time.
In the house, Jeff Buckley sang “Hallelujah.” The majestic lull of his voice filled the air as Frank rounded the Escalade, his steps unsteady.
“You’re not going anywhere!” My shout boomed through the garage as I hurried along the line of cars parked there. All five of them. Including the Ferrari with its muddy wheels.
“Get out of my way, Cassy.” He shot me a mean stare and neared the Harley.
Determined, I positioned myself in front of the bike and grabbed the handlebar. My pulse roared.
“Move, Cassy.”
“You’re not going, Frank!” I screamed, my lungs and my throat tense with panic. “You’ll crash!”
The man was so drunk, he’d lost all his marbles. I had no idea how to reason with him.
“Get out of my way, doll.”
“I won’t. You’re going to have to run me over, Frank!”
We yelled at each other full throttle. Angry words spilled and soared through the garage, drowning out the soft sounds of the music. Staining everything good, every nice memory of this house and us with depravity.
Frank was a blur behind the tears forming in my eyes. He grabbed the handlebar and turned the front wheel to twist it out of my hold. I felt it crunch against the cement and grind against my jeans as my foot slid over the floor. Every muscle in me drew tight.
“Please stop it,” I pleaded, clutching his wrist. “Please, Frank! I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I need to ride. Move.”
It was a split-second decision. I knew he wouldn’t cease trying otherwise. He was teetering on the edge of insane, too stubborn and too drunk to hear me.
I pushed him. I pushed him hard. I didn’t want to, but I had no choice. It was either risk his stitches and a couple of bones or let him leave and never come back, because he wouldn’t.
Not after this stupid suicide ride he was so hell-bent on attempting.
My heart pounded so hard, my ribcage felt as if it was about to crack in half. The swell of moisture in my eyes made it difficult to see, but I heard a thud. Frank’s body had slammed against the Escalade. The helmed dropped to the floor.
“Fuck you!” he cried out in anger and pushed himself off the car. Pain twisted his face. “Fuck you!”
“Well, fuck you too!” I was shaking. “If you want paramedics scraping your insides from the bottom of the ditch, be my guest.”
“Who the hell are you to judge me? You don’t know anything about me, doll.”
“That’s right, I don’t. Because you won’t fucking talk to me. Because you’d rather drink yourself stupid. Guess what? I’ve already seen one man in my life go down that road. I’m not going to stick around to watch another do the same shit.”
My wrath was immense. Apocalyptic proportions. I hated my father. I hated Frank, but most of all, I hated myself for not being enough for either one of them.
Every drop of my blood raged a mad fire. The fury was absolute. Blinded by hurt, I kicked the bike with all the strength left in me. It tipped and fell over, its crash drowning out the sounds of the music and Frank’s loud, angry breaths.
Resentment blazed in his eyes. He spun to the Escalade, jerked the door open, and climbed into the driver’s seat.
Disbelief choked me. Fists balled, I screamed. It was a spiteful growl. No words. Just noise. My lashes were heavy with tears and I felt them spill down my cheeks one by one, burning my skin. Sick adrenaline ran through my veins.
Frank was out of control. Delusional.
He activated the remote inside the car and I heard the soft scrape of the automatic garage door behind me. Cool air rushed in from the outside. The Escalade’s engine rumbled.
Think, Cassy. Think! my inner voice howled.
My gaze scoured the shelves as I searched for something to stop him. My trembling hands sifted through the scattering of useless gadgets. The man didn’t have a single tool in his garage that a car owner actually needed.
Grabbing the first thing I deemed strong enough—a wrench, I raced over to the door and wedged it into the chain. A shrill screech pierced the exhaust-filled air as the metal panels came to a halt.
The Escalade was like a beast. It roared, its tires squealing against the cement floor. Cursing, Frank scrambled out of the vehicle and began his approach.
I shook my head. “Please stop.” He drilled past me and yanked at the wrench but to no avail. He was too drunk.
Heart thrashing, I charged back into the house to get my phone.
A string of expletives followed by heavy footsteps and the banging of furniture trailed after me while I galloped through the hallway as if the floor were on fire.
“Fix the goddamn door.” Frank’s voice carried over the noise.
Dialing Roman’s number, I ran out onto the terrace. The cold stones bit my feet. The line clicked.
“Ms. Evans?”
“You need to come over right now. Frank is drunk. He just tried to get on his bike.” I paused to catch my breath and hopped down the stairs, skipping a step.
“Mr. Blade gave me the rest of the week off,” he said carefully.
Behind me, the front door slammed.
“I don’t think you understand. He’s very drunk and he needs a doctor,” I muttered as I walked to my Honda, my keychain clutched in my palm so hard, my skin started to tear. “I really don’t want to call in a domestic disturbance, but I don’t know how to handle him.” My words were turning into sobs.