Page 27 of One Last Verse

“I hope he’s not doing drugs, Cassy.”

“No, Mom. He’s not.”

Liar!my voice screamed inside my head.

We left my mother’s an hour later.

“Did you tell her?” I punched Ashton on the shoulder as soon as we climbed into my Honda. I didn’t dare drive the Porsche in this part of town.

“Ouch.” He winced.

“You know this is just between me and you.”

“I know, but you’re gone all the time. She keeps asking where you are when she calls.”

“Tell her I’m in the shower.” I flung my hands in the air and gave him a dead stare.

“She’s going to find out sooner or later. It’s online anyway.”

My brother’s words were an equivalent of a kick in the head. “What’sonline?”

“You and Frank.” Ashton pulled out his phone, typed something in, and handed it over to me.

There on the screen was a collage of our TMZ photos, along with the information about my height, weight, hair color, and a list of all the places I’d allegedly either been seen with Frank or in his proximity. Not all the information was accurate, but the blogger made a pretty good argument.

My pulse tripped as I read through the post. “Shit.” I heard myself mutter as I returned the phone to Ashton. “Can you send me the link?”

“Why can’t you just come out with it?” he pondered.

“It’s a little bit more complicated than that.” I started the car.

“What’s complicated about it?”

“Oh, Ashton.” I shook my head with a sigh. “Trust me. You’re about to find out. Adulting is hard.”

I dropped off my brother in Burbank and headed to Malibu. It was nearly midnight when I finally pulled up to the house. The lights inside were off and the darkness worried me.

Frank didn’t care about electricity. There was always something blazing either on the terrace or in the living room at this hour, especially with guests over and the Christmas decor extravaganza set up.

I marched through the house, looking for signs of life, but the silence was thick, almost impenetrable. Chills rolled down my spine.

“Frank?” I called, traveling over to the east wing. The door to the studio was wide open, and that’s when I saw him. He was hunched over the mixing board, a drink sitting next to him.

I stopped on the threshold, unsure whether entering his private space where he created his songs was okay. It was one room inside the house I’d been to once briefly, the room that was off limits to anyone who wasn’t somehow involved in making music.

Cold danced along my skin.

“Hi,” I said, shuffling my feet.

Frank lifted his gunmetal gaze from the board and looked at me through the darkness. The studio didn’t have any windows, so its only source of light was the glimmer of the control buttons and the streak of moonlight hitting the stretch of hallway behind me.

He continued to stare. No words were said. I took it as permission to enter the room.

My eyes slid to the drink. I took a deep breath and tried to calm the burst of panic and rage forming within me.

“How was your day?” Frank asked absently, leaning back in his chair. His voice was a soft slur, and his right arm, which was still set in a cast, hung limp. He was scheduled for a second surgery next week.

“I saw my mom and hung out with Ashton. How was yours?” I skipped the part about the fan site my brother had come across. I’d send the link to Linda instead.

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