Page 40 of Final Serenade

I took a moment to process everything. I was spending my evening in the company of an international rock star who, for some reason, liked me. The notion seriously blew my mind.

“And you just decided to ask me out because we bumped into each other three times in one night? Or because I wasn’t throwing myself at you like the rest of the women? That would have been kinda clichéd, you know.”

“There’s nothing wrong with clichéd.”

“What about Taylor Rhinehart? Rumor has it, you two are a thing.”

“That was the idea.”

“What do you mean? Like a decoy?”

“Yes. Give the press something else to talk about after our parking lot fiasco.”

“Wow. You’re sneaky. How did you get her to agree on such short notice?”

“I didn’t have to. She’s a fan of the band. Like you. Besides, I’m one of her wet teenage fantasies. I simply asked my manager to give her manager a call.” His tone was serious and I couldn’t tell whether he was messing with me or he really took pride in seducing the poor actress into a public appearance because he knew how she felt about him. I couldn’t tell a single thing about Frank Wallace. He was so close yet seemed so far away.

“You’re very full of yourself.” I shook my head and turned to face him.

“Comes with the territory, Cassy.” He shifted on the blanket, his blue eyes sharp and wild against the darkness.

We fell into silence for a few moments, and my brain started working overtime.

“And you think you’re my wet fantasy?” I questioned, curious.

“Am I?” There was a whole lot of cockiness in his voice.

“Let’s say hypothetically, for the sake of argument, that you are. Doesn’t it make you an asshole to go after women who you know already have a preexisting condition?”

“I was born an asshole, Cassy.” He slid over to me. “Only assholes and lunatics make it in this business.” The faint smell of his cologne crept up my nose. “Just because I mellowed out over the past couple years doesn’t mean I won’t use my charm to get the girl I want.”

“Your charm, huh?” I bit the inside of my cheek. “And do you always get the girl you want?”

“Most of the time.”

“So is this like a sport for you?”

“Not in the slightest. I even married one of them. Thought it was forever.”

This was a small window of opportunity to pick his brain about Heidi Fox, but I chickened out. Something told me dragging his ex into our conversation now would tip the scale. Instead, I said, “Playboy models aren’t cutting it anymore? You’re into emo chicks now?”

“You say it as if it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not.”

I didn’t have any illusions about who I was. I dyed my hair black, wore bra size 32B, and listened to a whole lot of music that made me cry. I never tried to be someone else. I worked with what I had. I didn’t peg a man like Frankie to be interested in a girl like me. But I could totally see an up-and-coming tattoo artist wanting to take me out.

“I think you’re…” Frank paused for a second. I wasn’t certain if he was looking for the right word or merely wanted to prepare me for what was about to come out of his mouth. “Exquisite.”

My stomach tightened.

“You still believe there’s some ulterior motive behind my inviting you to dinner?”

I looked up to the sky and scanned the dark, heavy clouds hanging above our heads. The air was still and there was no moon tonight. “Okay”—my gaze returned to his face—“let me get this straight. You, the man who has an entire planet lusting after you, including a number of famous and beautiful women, checked out for seven years and now that you’re back and lusted after even more, you want some reporter from Burbank who may or may not sell you out for a big buck.”

He nodded.

“Remind me again… Did you hit your head during the accident?” I reached for his hair and ruffled it. My fingers were lost in its silky thickness.

---