Page 85 of Final Serenade

“Yes, I’d love to meet Isabella.”

“There’s a rehearsal next week. You can come.”

“I’ll see what my schedule looks like and talk to my PA.”

I wasn’t sure what made me happier, his confession that he wanted me in his life indefinitely or his desire to help me with Isabella’s documentary. But at that moment, a small part of me loved him. Deeply and madly. Not the image of him. The real him.

Chapter Thirteen

Deep down, I knew it would happen sooner or later. Juggling my secret relationship with Frank and trying to keep up with deadlines and the documentary wasn’t an easy task. My sudden trip to Arizona pissed off Levi. Of course, I didn’t tell him where exactly I was going. I simply said I needed a break. He guessed that the reason behind my last minute change of plans was my ongoing affair that, according to him, had turned me into a zombie. Levi was very direct. He asked me if I was still seeing the mystery man and if I was ever going to introduce him. I told the truth. Well, half of it, anyway. I confirmed that I was still seeing someone. I just didn’t tell him that someone was Frankie Blade.

Then Levi asked me if I’d seen a retweet of Isabella’s video. Too busy speed-packing, I hadn’t had have time to check my social media. Apparently, Hall Affinity’s official Twitter account picked up one of the YouTube links with Isabella’s cover of “Ambivalent.” The recording had been trending all morning and had raked up over seventy thousand views.

I knew it then. Frank was going to come to the rehearsal.

Arizona was hotter than hell in the daytime and colder than Antarctica during the night. We stayed in Paradise Valley, where Frank had apparently bought a house right after he’d tracked down his mother. It was a large gated property that sat on ten acres of desert land. The Mediterranean-inspired estate came with a guesthouse, a pool, a two-story gym, and a wine cellar.

Frank didn’t need it, but he couldn’t risk staying at a hotel. The property was just another hideout, a safe place where he could be left alone. The deed was in Hannah’s name and there was little chance someone would make a connection between international rock star Frankie Blade and deceased Arizona woman Lilly Rickett.

The funeral was depressing. The only attendees were the four of us—Frank, Hannah, Roman, and me, plus the priest. I was a little surprised Brooklyn didn’t come, but something told me she’d stayed in L.A. for a reason. There was an empire to run. Because Lilly hadn’t left any will or wishes on how she’d like to be buried, Frank had made the decision to cremate her body.

We spent a total of three days in Arizona, surrounded by endless miles of rough desert. No phones, no emails, no social media. Just Frank and me. In a sick way, I liked it because I didn’t have to divide my time.

I could give it all to him, which I did.

I held his hand when he sought me out during the funeral. I hugged his hard body at night when we were lying in bed together. I kissed away the ache in his scars hidden beneath the layer of ink. I listened to stories about what he could remember of his early years with Lilly. They were a string of obscure images of a boy who’d lived in dozens of different places and didn’t know where he’d come from.

Frank’s sadness wasn’t the sadness of a person whose close relative had died. It was bleak. He seemed lost rather than upset. He could go on for hours without uttering a single word, but his eyes said it all.

He was scared.

Roman drove us to L.A. in his black Escalade. Hannah had taken a flight earlier. We sat in the back, silent, thighs brushing, hands locked together. It was going to be a long trip, but something told me Frank needed it. He needed to clear his head and this was the way to do it. Nothing but the road and time.

We reached the California border in the late afternoon and that’s when it started happening. Reality. It was my own mistake. I looked at my phone because, after hours of dead zone, messages and email alerts that began to litter my screen begged to be checked.

Jaw set, Frank stared out the window. His hand clutched mine tightly, and he seemed far away. Removed. I couldn’t tell what was going on in his head. He’d been mostly quiet these past few days, except for the occasional trips down memory lane. The hum of the engine and the hard blast of the AC were the only sources of noise inside the car.

My gaze swept over my email previews. Most texts I ignored, but the ones from Levi and Ashton held my attention longer than necessary. The itch was too strong. I was a child of the millennia, an information junkie. I had to get my fix. Not being online made me feel disconnected. My brother’s messages normally contained useless semi-spam or pocket money requests, so I caved in and clicked on Levi’s text first.

Ambivalent cover went viral. Got word from Maria last night. Someone from camp Blade reached out to her!

My pulse caught. In a way, this had been expected, but seeing the proof that Frank was going through with his plan made me a little nervous. And excited. It was well thought out and was aimed at keeping me out of the picture. It was perfect. I needed Levi to stop asking about Dante and my non-existent mystery man. The new development in Isabella’s project would ensure my partner’s mind was preoccupied.

Holding my breath, I re-read the message and checked the timestamp. It’d come hours ago when we were still in Paradise Valley.

Though withdrawn, Frank sensed the change in me. His fingers squeezed mine into a bubble of rough warmth.

I closed Levi’s text and went to Ashton’s. It was a TMZ link and I felt the car melting around me. Everything disappeared. Everything but the stupid headline glaring at me from the tiny screen of my phone.

“Move Over, Taylor Rhinehart! It’s Official: Frankie Blade is Taken!”

There were photos of us from the gas station in Ventura County that looked a lot like cell phone snapshots of the security camera footage. They were grainy, but only a person who’d never seen Frankie Blade wouldn’t be able to recognize his sandy hair and the fine outline of his sinfully perfect body. No matter what you put on the man—a T-shirt, a tuxedo, or a winter jacket, he was like a tiki torch on the beach at four in the morning in the middle of January.

Agitated, I zoomed in on the photos of us inside the car and studied the images. Asking me to stay put had been the right call. From the camera’s angle, my face was a blur behind the windshield of the Ferrari. Just the dark tangle of my wind-beaten hair stood out.

“Frank?” I called his name and handed him the phone.

He skimmed through the article, his brows knitted. “Your name isn’t mentioned here.”

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