Page 13 of Final Serenade

Billy kept quiet and I wondered how much say he had in what was going on here today or how big of a role he’d played in his son’s decision to return to the music industry.

That Frankie had been adopted by the Wallaces shortly after he’d turned six wasn’t a secret. He didn’t talk about it much at first, and when his career took off, the topic had become a big no for the press. Of course, his reluctance to discuss the part of his childhood he’d spent in foster care didn’t stop gossip-hungry sharks from digging deeper. Fortunately, there was nothing to dig for.

Frankie Blade was an American dream. Living proof that anyone could rise from the ashes. Not once, but twice.

The door swung open and the room suddenly felt like an inferno.

My gaze moved to the people entering. Corey led the group and I saw the bald head of a bodyguard lingering all the way in the back. Frankie was sandwiched between him, his manager, and a voluptuous leggy blond in a bright pink blazer and dress pants. I heard a door slam and my spine stiffened.

Corey asked, “Are you all set?” Then his eyes darted between Levi and me, seeking confirmation.

We both nodded.

The air sparked; the floors rumbled. Frankie’s presence was a nuclear explosion, slowly traveling through the room until it hit me full force. My palm that was wrapped around the wireless mic was sweaty as I smiled.

“This is Levi and Cassy fromRewired.” Corey made the brief introduction and stepped aside. The blond held out her hand for a shake first. “Hi. I’m Brooklyn, Frankie’s assistant.” She had a throaty, commanding tone and I couldn’t tell her age. Too many layers of makeup covered her skin.

When Frankie and his bodyguard reached us, my heart jumped. The entire afternoon seemed unreal and the memories swept me under. I was a confused fourteen-year-old girl again, who sat in her room, crying through all twelve tracks ofBreathe Crimsonbecause her father hadn’t come home last night.

“Pleasure,” Frankie said, his voice deep and thick with emotion. A hand extended to me. “How are you?” No name followed. Not that it was necessary.

I snapped back to the present and slid my damp palm against his, slightly embarrassed. “Great. How are you?” A smile stretched across my lips. The words coming out of my mouth felt stale.

He shook my hand, his stormy gunmetal blue eyes drawing a quick path along the length of my face and upper body. They didn’t descend past the sticker with my name, which I appreciated.

Contrary to common belief, Frankie wasn’t as tall as the stage and the music videos made him out to be, but his trimmed-to-perfection five-eleven height was a force to be reckoned with against my thin-framed five-four. He was wearing all black. Slim jeans hung low on his hips, leaving very little to the imagination, a satin shirt clung to his chest and abs just enough to show the result of rigorous workout sessions, and sparse ink designs littered his jewelry-clad forearms.

I attempted to follow Linda’s advice and refrain from staring at him, but my eyes didn’t agree with my brain. They ogled.

Frankie returned my smile and withdrew his hand to shake Levi’s. The bodyguard retreated back to the corner to give us space. Corey positioned himself next to the camera.

“If you don’t mind”—I grabbed a lav mic from Levi—“audio can get a little messy with this one if things heat up.” Heart racing, I shook my wireless Sennheiser. The base was damp from my sweat. I needed a napkin more than anything right now.

“We definitely don’t want things to get messy.” Frankie laughed softly, moving toward the leather couch. The sound was subtle but infectious. It filtered through me like a sultry heatwave, taunting and soothing.

He motioned for me to join him.

Breathe, Cassy, breathe, I told myself. My lungs were tight and my stomach knotted pleasantly as I neared the couch. Frankie scooted over to one side and I sat on the other. The cool leather squawked under the weight of our shifting bodies as we made ourselves comfortable.

“Could you put this on?” I handed him the lav mic.

“Does it come with instructions?” A hint of a smirk tugged the corner of his mouth. The man was full of silent innuendos. I wasn’t sure if they were intentional or force of habit, but I loved it.

“Oh, it’s a clip-on,” I explained, holding it up.

Frankie’s hands didn’t move. He tilted his head slightly, then glanced down at his chest. The man had either never secured a microphone on his clothes before or was too lazy to do it himself. Although the latter made more sense since microphones were sort of his specialty.

“Okay, ummm”—I kept smiling as my hands reached for his shirt—“do you have a preference of which side you want it on?” Was there anything about touching Frankie in the confidentiality agreement? My mind drew a blank and I got slightly paranoid. The man’s worth was seventy million dollars, and if my memory served me right, his vocal cords and his entire body were insured for double that amount.

Rich people are strange,I thought, leaning toward him to clip on the lav mic. Part of me, the one who’d worked in the industry, understood why, but the other part of me, the lower-middle-class-neighborhood girl whose family could only afford liability auto insurance, was…disappointed.

“Whatever’s going to get us great audio,” Frankie said in a low voice as I began to secure the mic. My fingers were clammy and my eyes shamelessly wandered over his sculptured neck and chest. The tip of an unfamiliar tattoo that must have been done after the accident licked a trace across his left collarbone. The shirt hid the rest. I couldn’t tell what it was, but I was curious whether he’d talk about it in some other interview. He used to discuss every single tattoo he’d gotten and what had made him do it. His skin was perfect. Maybe even too perfect for a man who’d recently turned thirty-eight. He hardly had any marks or wrinkles on the right side of his face. Had this been the result of plastic surgery? Only faint smile lines fanned out from his left eye.

There was one scar below his chin. Cameras wouldn’t be able to pick it up. I’d seen it just because we were inches apart. My gaze lingered on the slim line of skin discoloration longer than necessary. I knew he’d noticed, because his body began to shift.

Heat hit my face. “We’re all done here,” I said, taking my hands off Frankie’s designer shirt that probably cost as much as my entire month of rent. His scent, a blend of expensive cologne, hair product, and pheromones, crept up my nose and coated my lungs.

“Thanks, Cassy.” He smiled again and I felt my thighs melt into the couch. “Shall we get started now?”

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