Page 28 of Final Serenade

The music pouring from the speakers was euphoric and I was losing myself in its soothing rhythm. I loved that album. It was my second favorite afterBreathe Crimsonand while the two had absolutely nothing in common, they both tore me apart.

We discussedGraceand drove down a quiet Los Feliz neighborhood until we hit the trendy Franklin area. Hollywood was alive and kicking. Sidewalks buzzed. Clubs roared. The city went on as it had been for decades. Every night, fascinating stories happened here, and today, mine was apparently one of those stories.

“I love the new artwork on the band’s website,” I said as the Ferrari wormed its way through the traffic.

“The butterfly?”

“Yes.”

“Let me take a guess? You like butterflies.”

“They’re interesting creatures.”

“They are.”

“Is there a hidden meaning behind the artwork I might be missing?”

“Hmm.” Frankie’s grip on a steering wheel tightened. “It’ll be on the album cover.”

“I think it’s very—” I had to pause to look for the right word. “Recherché.”

“Recherché?” He shot me an over-the-shoulder glance. “I didn’t know you spoke French, Ms. Evans.”

“Sadly, I don’t. I took a semester in college. Didn’t have a chance to pursue it further, but back to the artwork.”

Frankie was quiet for a long moment. “It’s a reminder of how delicate the balance in life is, something I didn’t really have to consider before—” His voice cracked and the words died on his lips.

“So the concept is yours?”

“Yes. The idea is mine.” He nodded. “But obviously, we had a graphic designer develop it further.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

I tried not to freak when the Ferrari finally pulled into the underground parking lot of an old Victorian building off 101, but dread twisted my gut. We were at a hotel and I hadn’t brought my pepper spray.

“Frankie,” I muttered, unbuckling my seat belt as fast as I could in case I needed to run. “Why are we here?”

He turned to face me, his brow arched. “To eat.”

My stomach quivered in panic. “In a hotel?”

“Get a grip, Cassy.” He laughed. “There’s a restaurant here in the basement.”

“Why in the basement?”

“That, you will have to ask the owner.”

We stepped out of the car and made a beeline for the hotel entrance. Frankie’s hand was on the small of my back as he guided me through the empty lobby, and I could feel warm shivers zipping down my spine.

Black and white artwork decorated the walls. Small planters with flowerbeds lined up both sides of the walkway. The air smelled like citrus, cinnamon, and old money.

The concierge and the security guard greeted us with a nod as we passed the empty front desk area. I felt like a heroine of a David Lynch movie. This was a creepily exciting turn of events.

We reached the end of the hallway and paused in front of a door markedTommy’s.

No hours of operation were listed.

---