Page 59 of Final Serenade

I felt it then. His secrets. The patches of inked skin across his ribs were scarred. Rough and contorted beneath my fingertips. Frank didn’t react, but I noticed how the subtle line above the bridge of his nose tensed.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said after a while. “Stay a few more hours?”

“You owe me breakfast.”

“And five sugars.”

“And five sugars. That’s right.”

Finally, Frank disposed of the condom. I slipped on my panties and cleaned up the table while he handled getting the coffee.

The dining area alone was bigger than my mother’s entire apartment and I took a moment to soak in its luxury. The house itself was the perfect hideaway. It was cut off from civilization by an intricate scenic drive and an eight-foot stone fence.

“Is there a pool?” I asked, wandering over to the kitchen. My eyes stalled on the artwork decorating the south-side wall. They were large abstract paintings, hung side-by-side.

“Yes. In the back. You’re welcome to try it out after breakfast.” He shot me a naughty glance over his shoulder.

“I didn’t exactly pack for a day at the beach.”

“Swimsuits aren’t allowed in my house, Cassy.”

He said it with a poker face, but the glint of amusement in his blue eyes didn’t escape my notice. “I’ll consider it.”

“You do that.” I heard the slam of the cabinets and the clink of silverware.

“Can I help?” I offered.

“I’m capable of making coffee, Cassy.” His soft laughter carried over the noise of the water. “I’m rich, not handicapped.”Said the man who’d refused to secure his own microphone when we met.There was a pause. “Or at least, I don’t think I am.”

My throat tightened. There was sarcasm and something else in his voice. Bitterness? I couldn’t tell.

“And the doctors? What do they say?”

Frank set the carafe on the base and turned to face me. “They believe as long as I don’t lift, walk, or breathe, I’ll be fine. Thing is, I doubt twenty thousand people will be willing to pay money to see me stand still in front of the microphone and lip-sync for an hour and a half.”

I had questions. Tons of them. I wanted to know where he’d been these past few days and why they’d been rough and what I could do to make him feel better, but he was like a flower. He opened up only when he felt like doing so, and while the anticipation killed me, I was willing to wait for the bloom.

We moved to the corner sofa in the middle of the living room. Plates with food and mugs with coffee sat in front of us. The fridge was fully stocked and organized and while Frank had turned out to be pretty decent in the kitchen, I had a feeling he had someone taking care of the property on a daily basis. There was no dust anywhere, and nothing was out of place. Things looked extra tidy.

He’d given me one of his shirts and I cuddled against his warmth as we sipped our fuel. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone this long without looking at my phone. My brain was a hot mess of sleep and caffeine. The latter lost its battle eventually, and I drifted off with my cheek against Frank’s chest and the taste of waffles and strawberries on my lips.

It was his voice that woke me up sometime later.

“Cassy?” He shifted, his hands rearranging my body carefully.

I lifted my head, and my eyes fluttered open. Frank rolled his right shoulder slowly. His face was tense.

“What’s wrong?” I pushed my hair away from my cheeks.

“Just sore.” He shook his head, smiling.

Our legs were in a tangle, the shirt I wore riding up my thighs. He’d changed into a fresh pair of sweatpants, but his upper body was on display and I had a perfect view of the eagle tat across his pec. It was detailed and looked a lot like a pencil drawing. More fresh ink covered his ribs. There were swirls of flowers and vines and my fingers wanted to touch them again. To feel the scars. To feel the blend of pain and artwork.

“Care for a massage?” I offered.

“Sounds very tempting.” He brushed his lips against mine. “Maybe next time?”

“Okay.”

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