Page 17 of Final Serenade

“Thank you.” Then I was on my way.Damn margaritas!

I heard people talking as I neared the turn, but the alcohol in my blood slowed my brain. We collided as I rounded the corner. My nose and mouth pressed against a hard, satin-clad chest. I knew immediately it was Frankie’s. His scent, a lush blend of cologne and hair products, made my head spin even faster.

“Umph…sorry.” I pulled back, my body swaying. I registered Frankie’s palms on my elbows. They felt warm and nice against my skin, and it didn’t help my coordination.

“You okay?” he asked, steadying me.

“Yes. Thank you. I’m fine.” A nervous laugh of embarrassment escaped from between my lips. I was dizzy, drunk, and apparently clumsy, but I willed myself to stand straight.

Behind Frankie was another security guard with a shaved head. I recognized him from the TMZ photos.

“I’m looking for a restroom,” I explained. “I loved what you did with ‘L.A. Woman,’ by the way.” My lips stretched into a grin.

“That was the idea.” Frankie released my elbows and took a step away. A smile touched his face.

“I’m sorry”—I motioned at his chest where my glossy mouth had left a pink smudge—“about your shirt.”

His gaze slid down to assess the damage, then returned to me. “It’s not a big deal.”

Electricity zapped through the air. My stomach twisted under his scrutiny. “Well…” I stammered. “Welcome back and have a good night.”

“You too, Cassy.” He smirked. “Make sure to watch your step.”

While I took care of business in the restroom, I cursed myself like a sailor, my cheeks burning and my heart pounding.

Have a good night? Really? You tell a man who’s on every the-most-(insert celebrity-relevant adjective and noun here)-in-the-world list to have a good night? Girlfriend. You must not drink anymore. Ever again.

My body was trembling as I positioned myself in front of the mirror to wash my hands. It was all Frankie’s fault. His charm was addicting. He was addicting.

I pulled out my phone and absently stared at the iMessage window.

Jax: I didn’t think you’d text.

What kind of response would a young, educated woman give to this? That she needed to weigh all the pros and cons. Nah. Too clinical.

Why not?

There. I was going to utilize Levi’s favorite answer-a-question-with-another-question strategy.

Outside, Levi was waiting for me as we’d agreed. The rear lot was busy. Trucks roared, equipment rattled. The security guards scanned the perimeter to make sure extra-enthusiastic fans couldn’t get past the barricades. Didn’t mean they’d stop trying.

“You good?” Levi asked, pushing my bag over to me. My arm hurt and I had no desire to carry anything whatsoever.

A long black limo crawled up to the dock. I noted the barely legal blonds jumping in, along with some faces I’d seen on the covers of magazines and in the tabloids before. The card in my back pocket seemed to burn my ass.

“Are you coming?” a voice asked. Dante.

My brain stalled. God’s honest truth, I hadn’t taken his invitation seriously.

He was making his way toward the limo in the company of his manager and another woman. No, scratch that. A girl. The man had a weakness. Apparently, he didn’t hang out with any females over twenty-five, because I hadn’t noticed anyone in his entourage today who looked remotely older than me.

Levi nudged me on the shoulder when I didn’t respond.

“Will you take my stuff?” I muttered to him, motioning at my bag.

“Geez.” Levi extended his hand. “Hand it over. But you’re gonna have to pick it up from my place. I’m not delivering it to you.”

“Okay.”

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