Page 3 of Final Serenade

“No one was forcing you.”

“I was trying to show my appreciation.”

“You want a tip? One drink is usually more than enough to show your appreciation. Doesn’t have to be six. Six means you’re trying to get a woman drunk, not thank her.”

“She didn’t say no.”

“Will you take my advice for once?” Levi had no clue what to do when it came to charming women. I didn’t remember him ever having a girlfriend. Not that my love life was any better. My last relationship had lasted a whopping two months before it went up in flames like a box of matches doused with gasoline.

My gaze slid down the screen of my laptop. The entire web was buzzing. The news had spread like wildfire, which was both scary and fascinating.

Even after seven years of silence, Frankie Blade made headlines.

“Okay,” Levi’s voice boomed in my ear. “Text Linda and check on your boy, Dante. I need to post this ASAP, beforePulse Nationcomes up with a massive write-up on the band’s history.”

While working on beatingRolling Stone’s numbers, Levi was practicing beating the numbers of other competitors.Pulse Nationwas his guinea pig this year.

“We can do one too,” I offered.

“Can you run a poll on our Facebook page? Ten best Hall Affinity songs. Or something along those lines?” Levi’s brain was working overtime. He pitched five more engagement post ideas before we finally said our goodbyes.

Heat creeping up my cheeks, I set my phone on my desk near the keyboard and spun in my chair several times. Adrenaline simmered beneath my skin. It’d been ages since I’d been this excited about a press release.

After years of picking the brains of people whose faces decorated everything from coffee mugs to billboards, the excitement had become routine. It was part of the job and it had to be relegated to the background to give way to competence and reliability.

My mind was the definition of a hot mess. It wondered and scrambled, dozens of scenarios playing out inside my head. My gut simply told me to stay put and wait.

Linda would make it happen. The Douglas & Krueger Cancer Benefit wasone of the hardest events of the fall to get credentials for. It was a high-end, celebrity-stuffed concert and auction. The tables cost five thousand dollars each. Jay Brodie only approved outlets that had print issues.Rewiredhad a quarterly one, which didn’t sell great, but it’d opened up a lot of doors where just a handful of magazines, likeRolling Stone,AP, andPulse Nation,could get in.Rewiredwas also on the list of Linda’s favorites. And that list was very short.

The first post-accident photo of Frankie Blade surfaced on the web the morning after the press release. I woke up at the ass crack of dawn to the maddening rattling of my phone against the nightstand. There was one missed call and two text messages with TMZ links from Levi.

“Crap,” I muttered, staring at my phone through the blur in my eyes. At moments like this, I hated this job. Sleep had been secondary for me ever since I met Levi. The blazing headlines were ridiculous. Whoever came up with those must have been doing some hard drugs or had an unhealthy addiction to Mary Shelley’s literary work.

“Frankie Blade: Back from the Dead, or is He?”

“Frankenstein of Rock ’N’ Roll: Rock Singer Spotted Leaving Beverly Hills Doctor’s Office”

I rolled my eyes at the last one and clicked on a photo below it. The image wasn’t from the best angle and must have been taken in a rush, because one of the two bodyguards escorting Frankie toward the building was turned toward the camera, his expression mean and menacing, eyes like two rocket launchers. Big guy obviously took his job seriously.

The man in question was wearing a baseball cap that hid his face and a hoodie that disguised his physique. An outfit that, in this particular case, didn’t do a stellar job of concealing his celebrity status. I had no doubt it was Frankie. The tips of his sandy locks grazed his cheeks and fell down the back of his neck, just like they did in dozens of other pre-accident photos. His rigid posture gave away his unease, but the way his hands hung loosely at the sides of his body told me he’d been ready for the ambush and didn’t care.

A strange flutter tickled my chest as I zoomed in on the photo to study it, trying to make out the face, to no avail.

Frankie Blade was an enigma. A mystery. A man who was worth seven years of scars, and the entire planet wanted to see what those scars looked like.

After checking a couple more websites to get a better idea of what was going on, I texted Levi.

You just made it to number one on my kill list.

Levi: I wasn’t already?

Are you upset?

Levi: Very.

A lazy smile stretched across my lips. I dropped my phone next to me on the bed and stared at the ceiling absentmindedly, praying to the universe to make this interview happen.

A text message alert yanked me out of my daze. I fished the phone from the blankets and looked at the screen.

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