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.