Page 78 of Final Serenade

“Nice to see you too.” I forced a smile.

“And here I was, betting my money on Taylor Rhinehart.”

His joke was a sharp knife to my ribs, but I refrained from reacting. My feelings toward him were a mixed bag. Part of me almost wished Frank had never told me about him and Frank’s wife. The confession had stained the image of Dante I’d carried in my head. Years of idolizing a person. Andpow! Destroyed with one sentence. Even his talent seemed duller now, although deep down, I knew the fact that he’d fucked his friend’s wife didn’t make him a lesser guitar player. He was still one of the best, and I was being a hypocrite. Again.

Dante stuck his lollipop back in his mouth and settled in a chair, one leg slung over the other. He wasn’t wearing his usual flashy attire or any of his jewelry, and the black T-shirt and loose jeans threw me off a little. The man looked almost normal. Except for the permanent cocky expression.

“So what are you doing?” he asked.

“Preparing for a project.” I set my headphones aside. The beat of anxiety somewhere in my gut grew stronger. This wasn’t backstage at The Regency, and I wasn’t armed with a microphone and wearing business casual attire. I was out of my element in a tank top and yoga shorts. “What are you doing here?”

“Frank and I were going to work on some stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“We write songs, you know.” The corner of his mouth curled up. “We’re in a band. Hall Affinity. Ever heard?” The smirk became a sneer. “Kind of a big deal around here.”

I played along. “Nope. I’ll google it later.”

He laughed and it wasn’t light like Frank’s. It was moody and had a devious edge to it.

“What are you working on?”

“It’s a nonprofit project.” I couldn’t tell if he was genuinely interested or if this was his idea of small talk. Plus, I was still shaken up over the fact he was actually free to come here whenever he wanted.

“I’m listening.”

“We’re in the very early stages. I’m going through some live material. Looking for footage to use.”

“So what’s the project?” He lowered his leg to the floor and leaned forward. His dark blazing eyes searched my face.

“I don’t usually discuss my work-in-progress with people who aren’t involved.”

He rested both elbows on his thighs and continued to stare. “Why not?”

“Because…” I paused. My mind quieted. This was strange, sitting in a room with Dante. Unofficially. Off the clock. Knowing his history with Frank and the real reason behind their tension during theBreathe Crimsonera. My journalist brain finally kicked in and a long string of questions I knew I’d never get a chance to ask began to fill my head. “Why are you interested?”

“Maybe I want to get involved.” He shrugged.

“It’s a documentary my partner and I are working on to help a young artist who was dropped from her label get some exposure. We also want to raise awareness and secure some sponsorships. We’d love for her to be able to record the album the label was supposed to finance.”

“Really?” His voice jumped. “You produce documentaries too? You’re a jack-of-all-trades, darlin’.”

“We don’t produce documentaries. This is just a one-off project. The artist we’re featuring was dropped because of injuries she suffered in an accident, which, in my opinion, is extremely unfair. This is a good cause.Rewiredis an official sponsor of several nonprofit organizations.”

Levi’s vision for our baby was always big. He’d dreamed of hosting our own annual live show someday. We knew enough people in the industry and, technically, we could have put something like this together before now, but Levi wanted to wait until the right venue and the right time came along. He was a perfectionist. Like me.

Dante rose to his feet and began his approach. He rounded the table and positioned himself next to me, gaze focused on my laptop.

“Let’s see.”

I disconnected the headphones and pressed play. We watched several minutes of Isabella’s recent video.

Arms crossed on his chest, Dante listened to the song very carefully until it reached the solo. Then he said, “Shitty guitar work. The dude needs to pick a different instrument. His fingers are like fucking used rubber. The singer is awesome. She should audition forAmerican Idolor some other show. That’ll give her a jump-start. The other guys are meh. Need to practice more.”

The man was brutally harsh.

“They’re teenagers.” I rolled my eyes. “Of course they need to practice more.”

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