Page 18 of Final Serenade

“Last chance, darlin’,” Dante called. Giggles carried over the evening city noise.

“Can you hold on a second?” I bellowed, fishing my ID, credit card, and pepper spray from the side pocket of my bag. I didn’t know why I was going. It was against all my rules and all my beliefs, but my gut told me to.

Have fun, Cassy, it whispered.Have fun and stop worrying about everything for once in your life. The world will still be here tomorrow.

“Don’t get in trouble,” Levi said just before I rushed over to the limo where Dante had been patiently waiting for me.

“Are you ready to rock ’n’ roll?” He flashed a crooked smile, ushering me inside.

“I was born to rock ’n’ roll.”

“That’s what I’m talking about, darlin’.”

The door shut and we started to move.

I’d been in a limo a few times but never the kind we took to Dante’s place, with a stripper pole, disco lights, and built-in fish tank. My favorite part of the ride was when one of the blonds tripped when she attempted to utilize the pole to get Dante’s attention.

I certainly wasn’t the type to judge other women for showing off their bodies. Athena Angel was one of my favorite female performers, but the naiveté of the youth gathered here tonight made me laugh.

I blamed my cynicism on the alcohol. Every girl sitting in this limo was secretly hoping she’d hit the jackpot and marry a rock star, but every girl would be wrong. Hundreds of twenty-one-year-olds came and went and no one remembered their names the next morning. It was the way the world of the rich and famous worked. That’s why I’d never allowed myself to become one of those girls.

Everyone stared at me the entire ride as if I’d been branded, probably because I was the only woman who wasn’t wearing a skirt. I didn’t care. I was sitting next to Dante and my heart was dancing inside my chest like a drunk cheerleader. Somehow, he managed to maintain a conversation with every single person inside the limo who was still able to produce coherent sentences.

Including me.

The man was a charmer and a terrific multitasker.

Although a spur of words were flying around as various things were discussed, I fully intended to get answers to all my questions the second a good opportunity to pick Dante’s brain presented itself.

Was he ever going to record another solo album?

Was he going to try to quit drinking?

Was he drug-free at the moment?

Rumor had it, Dante had written most of theHollow Heart Dreamriffs while on coke, and the infamous guitar solo for “Ambivalent” had been born during his short stint with acid. The man was a trip.

I couldn't remember the last time I’d drunk this much and that made me sad. Because margaritas were fun and, apparently, I’d been missing out.

While the limo lazily rolled through the streets of L.A. nightlife, music roared and drinks spilled. It was just as I imagined. Except for Dante’s choice of residence.

I’d always thought rock stars favored the beach or the mountains, something away from civilization, somewhere to escape to. Hall Affinity’s guitarist settled on neither. He occupied a penthouse in a luxury building a few blocks north of Sunset Boulevard.

We parked near the front entrance and the concierge rushed to help us unload. The elevator was too small to fit everyone, so after Dante and some others went up, I took the next one with the rest of the party. We were crass and insanely loud, and I almost wanted to apologize for such behavior, but I had a feeling this was the norm here and my apology wouldn’t make any difference.

My feet were killing me and my head was spinning like a carousel when we finally arrived to the top floor.

I needed a minute—or ten—to fully accept the fact that people indeed lived like kings.

Dante’s place was a huge open-concept apartment with wall-to-wall windows overlooking L.A., glittering ceiling lights, and all sorts of freaky artwork. I wandered around the living room with a drink in my hand, ogling the paintings of guitars and talking to people. Surprisingly, not everyone here wanted to climb a stripper pole and undress. The crowd was a colorful mix.

An old rock tune blasted through the main quarters. Pizza and other refreshments were served in the kitchen. Dante took on bartending duties for a while, but as soon as his speech and coordination began to fail him, he resorted to using the blonds as crutches. They didn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, they looked ecstatic.

More people arrived. The place was getting wild, indecent, and bred a load of stories TMZ would kill for.

Marilyn Manson’s “The Beautiful People” was blasting from the speakers when my bladder started to scream again. I lost count of how many times I’d turned down the offer to “have fun.” It was strange that my attempts to actually find someone decent to have sex with at a party this big and raucous hadn’t been fruitful. The advances I received didn’t feel like fair game. They didn’t come from the individuals I could see myself getting it on with. Or the alcohol wasn’t working on me. Supposedly, a good amount of liquor made men appear less douchey and more educated, which would normally result in a better “quickie with a stranger” experience.

In my case, the stars simply didn’t want to align.

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