My pulse leapt. Ice pack still in my hands, I narrowed my eyes.
“Don’t fucking look at me like that.” He shook his head. A credit card was wedged between his fingers.
I’d seen drugs. I’d seen people doing drugs. I’d seen what drugs did to people. Everyone in this city needed a pick-me-up to get through the trenches. Be it powder, needle, or liquor. Coke, heroin, and acid were injected or sniffed at almost every single VIP table of every single club in Hollywood, Downtown, or in the Valley. This was the capital of entertainment. The city of dreams. Some realized. Some broken. People either did drugs to stay afloat or to get through the dark. But the fact that Dante had enough nerve to flaunt his stash while we were having a conversation about the very reason why Frank and I weren’t together anymore shocked me. Everything about today shocked me. Starting from Margerie Helm’s email and ending with Dante Martinez shamelessly snorting a dozen lines in front of my eyes.
“Shouldn’t you at least lock the door?” I asked sarcastically, sliding from the stool.
“This is my room. There’s a guard outside. No one comes in unless I say so.” He dropped his head to get another hit.
I set the ice pack on the bar. “I guess I’ll leave you to it.” My heart thundered.
Dante tore his face from the powder and shot me a glazed look. “You want me to walk you to your car?”
“I’m fine. You know, you really should try again.”
“I don’t have anyone to try for.” He rubbed his nose.
“You don’t need anyone. Do it for yourself.”
“Is that what you told Frank before you dumped his ass?”
“Why are you bringing him into this?”
“Because he’s always here.” Dante’s index finger ping-ponged between our bodies, which were separated by the bar. “He’s always with me and with you. Once he gets under your skin…it’s for good. You can’t get him out. Tell me it’s not true.”
I couldn’t. Frank was in every part of me. In every inhale. In every exhale. In every thrum of my pulse. Even after countless weeks of silence, he occupied my thoughts. He sneaked into my dreams. A small fraction of me still hoped I’d get a random 4 a.m. call. And he’d be sober. He’d be the man I met last September. Warm, funny, charming.
“See what I’m talking about?” Dante threw his hands in the air, eyes wild, voice rough. “You can’t. Because I’m right. I’m always fucking right, darlin’.” He dipped his head and drew another line.
Frozen, I stared at the glittering row of bottles on the opposite side of the bar. The loud thumps of my heart pounded in my ears.
Go home, Cassy, my inner voice whispered. This man doesn’t care about your goodness either and he won’t give you the answers you want.
Truth was, I didn’t know what answers I was looking for or what exactly I was trying to do. Save the world? Sadly, the world didn’t want to be saved. People were happy and high. No one wanted to be miserable and sober.
“Good night, Dante,” I said. “Thank you for the ice pack.”
He jerked his face up, his hair flipped and fell across his shoulders in a dark, messy cascade. Then our eyes locked.
A ragged exhale left his mouth. “Fuck me.” Swaying, he tilted his head back and stared up at the ceiling. His body went limp and disappeared behind the counter.
It wasn’t until I heard the thud that my brain turned on.
“Dante?” I called, rounding the bar. My pulse was a furious chase in my veins.
He lay on the floor, lips blue, arms spread, eyes bugged out. Spasms twisted his long body.
All the oxygen in the room was gone. “Oh my fucking God!” Mind blank with panic, I dropped to my knees and slapped his cheek. “Dante?!” He continued to jerk beneath me. Foam spilled from the corner of his mouth.
Oh my fucking God, oh my fucking God! Heart, stomach and legs quivering, I sprung to my feet and rushed for the door. The sounds—the clatter of pins, the rumbling of balls, and the drunken screams of guests—crashed into me like a ton of bricks. The security guard was standing right outside.
Gasping for air, I clutched his suit jacket-clad shoulder and shouted, “Call a medic! Dante Martinez just OD’d!”
Chapter Eleven
The West Hollywood café where we were meeting Maria and Isabella for lunch was like a beehive without a queen. Loud. Unorganized. With price tags that didn’t measure up to the quality of food. A long line of bodies snaked through the dining room. In the booth next to ours, a toddler was crying a river. Ignoring the demon child’s assault on my ears, I spun my laptop toward Isabella and said, “I think The Spot will be great. I know you prefer ground floor, but they do have an elevator. We’re just waiting for confirmation that their restrooms are ADA compliant.”
Isabella studied the images that carouselled on the screen. Her sandwich and soda remained untouched. Maria sat by her side. Levi was sprawled on the bench, sipping his six-dollar latte.
“What about that lounge on Cahuenga? The one we looked at last week? Was that Swan Café?” Isabella looked up from my laptop to her mother, seeking a reaction.
“We liked it.” Maria nodded. She seemed exhausted with stress. Thanks to Jay Brodie PR, her daughter’s schedule was brutal. There were appearances to make and interviews to give. There was sudden interest from several local radio stations and an inquiry from a TV show.
“If we don’t hear from The Spot’s management by the end of the week, we’ll reach out to Swan Café,” I said, mustering up a smile. My phone lay on the table next to my coffee. Its screen was littered with email notifications. “As a matter of fact, they jumped at the offer. What we have to keep in mind is that with their floor layout, setting up a projector could be very tricky. Also, their maximum capacity is only two hundred and fifteen people, and we think using a small venue might be doing you a disservice now that there’s so much interest.”
“Don’t forget about sponsors and special guests. We’ll need room for stand-up banners and merch tables.” Levi set his latte aside and rested both elbows on the tabletop. His gaze darted between Maria and Isabella. “Cassy is in talks with three larger venues that we both think are a much better fit than Swan Café. I believe at least one will come through. I say let’s sit tight for a few more days and not rush into it.”
Maria returned my smile. Hers was just as unenthusiastic and dull as mine. Obviously for entirely different reasons. She wasn’t the one who’d witnessed Hall Affinity’s guitarist’s brush with death five days ago. But that didn’t make her problems any less important. As a matter of fact, her problems were my problems. We lost Melrose Cinema because of my then-boyfriend’s drunken hysteria, and I was determined to find a new venue. Unfortunately, we were running out of time. Linda insisted we make a decision by the end of this week. She couldn’t push back the screening announcement any longer.
My phone blinked at me with another email notification. Though Shayne had taken over most of my duties at Rewired, I still checked my inbox religiously day and night. It was a stupid habit, to stay in the know. Even after I’d promised myself to dedicate the next month and a half solely to Dreamcatchers and Isabella’s band.