It hurt too much.
“Could you please come down?” I asked quietly, nearing the stage.
He ignored me. “You guys want to hear a new song?”
The crowd responded with a cheer.
“Frank.” I held out my hand. “Please come down.”
“Just wait, baby.” He shook his head and pulled out a piece of paper from the side pocket of his jacket. “I wrote some stuff the other day.” His fuzzy eyes settled on my face. “While you were mad at me.”
“Please come down.”
“Johnny! My man! Can you help a brother out?” Frank whipped his hand in an attempt to unfold the paper. “Fucking sucks when you’re disabled, right?” A silly grin passed his lips.
Scattered laughter filled the ballroom.
Not able to bear this anymore, I got up on stage. “Everyone is making fun of you. Let’s go home.”
He gave me a confused look. “I just got here, doll. I’m going to sing the song I wrote.”
“Please.” I clutched his elbow.
He jerked away. His body swayed backward and slipped from my grip. The rattle of cymbals filled the room as Frank wrecked Carter’s drum kit on the way down. I dropped to my knees to help him, but he was too heavy and too drunk.
“What is wrong with you people?” I cried out, glancing at the sea of spectators. “He just had two surgeries! Someone help him!”
Johnny and Dante hopped up. I saw Marshall making his way through the crowd. Cell phones and cameras continued to record. My body shook. I couldn’t tell if it was anger or something else. Emotions of all colors surged through me. From the darkest to the brightest, they fought within me as I watched Johnny and Marshall helping Frank up.
“My song,” he slurred, looking down.
Someone picked up the paper from under the destroyed kit and handed it to him.
“You gotta hear this, baby.” He dragged his gaze to me and a lopsided grin curled his lips.
Dante stepped in. “You’re ruining my party, man. Get your ass down.”
“I wrote the fucking album! You wouldn’t have a party if not for me.” Frank tried to shake off Johnny and Marshall, who held him straight.
“Can we please stop this?” I thrust myself between them. “What is it with you rock stars? What are you, in sixth grade?”
“See?” Dante giggled. “Listen to what your girlfriend says.”
“Why don’t you keep my girlfriend out of it?”
I turned to Frank and rested both palms on his chest. His heartbeat was scary loud. “Stop this. There’s press here. You two are going to be all over the tabloids. It’s not worth it.”
“Yeah, not worth it, Cassy. But you felt the need to be here tonight anyway, even after I asked you not to go.” A sad smile twisted his lips. “Is that how you love me?”
“Please don’t drag me into this.” My voice was low, but I knew that people could still hear us, and if they couldn’t, they’d be reading about this on TMZ’s front page in two hours.
“Why not?”
Johnny wrapped his arm around Frank and pulled him toward the edge of the stage. Marshall assisted.
The crowd swallowed them as they descended. I waited a second. Carter lingered in my peripheral. He held out a hand and helped me get down. My knees felt like they’ve been skinned and glued to my slacks.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m definitely better than your drums.”
“Ah, it’s not a big deal.” He shrugged.
The attention of the entire room was on Johnny ushering Frank to the exit. Cameras clicked, and then I heard a collective gasp. I ripped my way through the wall of security with Carter one step behind me.
In the middle of all the chaos, Frank and Dante were engaged in a pathetic fist fight. Or more like a drunk dance. I didn’t know how else to describe their swinging and shaking and the slew of profanities there were exchanging. It felt a lot like my high school. Only worse.
“Enough you two!” I grabbed Frank’s hand and stared at Dante. “Stop provoking him. He’s going to hurt himself.”
“Stay out of this, Cassy,” Frank growled, swaying backward. The crowd moved along with him to make room.
“I’m not going to stay out of it until you stop this,” I hissed.
Dante laughed. “Since you’ve got one hand. I’ll let you hit me first, Frankie-boy.”
“No one is hitting anyone.”
“Just get out of my way.” Frank gritted his teeth.
“I won’t!”
“Get out of my way, Cassy!”
“I won’t. You’re going to have to hit me first if you want to get to him!” Fists balled, I looked him in the eyes. Part of me almost expected a punch, but what came at me instead was worse. It was a kick to my gut, to my heart. A kick to all of me and everything I was.
“Just stop fucking suffocating me with your goodness!”
Cold dread hit my bones.
A murmur swelled in the ballroom.
“Fine. If that’s what you want, Frank,” I said. My voice trembled and broke. This was the last straw.
Swallowing down my unshed tears, I turned around and walked away.
Ten minutes later, I called Roman’s cell from where I was hiding in the hotel restroom. I didn’t have to. Not after the horrible words Frank had just thrown at me in front of three hundred people and a dozen reporters, but the sick part of me, the one that loved him stupid—loved him unconditionally—at least wanted to make sure he had someone to take him home.
“Could you please pick him up?” I asked Roman, then gave him the address.
* * *
Apparently, Frank hadn’t told anyone he was going to the party. Billy confirmed when I called home that Frank hadn’t taken any cars from the garage. My only guess was that he’d Ubered here from Malibu.
I heard a knock.
“Hey! You there?” Ashton called.
I scanned my reflection in the mirror. The tears had messed up my mascara and my hair looked like a bird’s nest.
“Are you okay?” He knocked again. My brother didn’t let up.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
It was such a lie. I was nowhere near okay. Hell, I wasn't even sure I would ever recover from what Frank had just said or the way he’d said it. At that moment, his eyes had told me he truly believed his own words. I was suffocating him. Me and my goodness. Whatever the fuck that meant.
“Can I come in for a second?”
“Why?”
“I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I just said I was okay.” My voice ugly-pitched. I was ready to punch the wall to get rid of the frustration and anger that filled me up, but my body ached from too much sex and my ballroom rescue mission. I wasn’t Frank. I didn’t want any more fractures and bruises. He’d given me enough. They weren’t literal, but they felt very real. They were a hole in my heart and a rip in my soul.
“You don’t sound okay,” my brother pressed.
Head pounding, I crossed the restroom and unlocked the door. Ashton slipped in and his eyes roamed my face and my outfit. For the first time in my life, my brother actually expressed concern about my well-being. It only took a millionaire rock star to humiliate me in front of the rock ’n’ roll elite.