Page 100 of One Last Verse

“I’m returning the car. You’re going to find a part-time job and Mom and I will help you get another one.”

“When am I going to work? I’ve got school. I’m helping you and Levi withRewired.”

“Welcome to adulthood, buddy.” I slapped his back and shoved him out of my room. “Now get out. I need to get dressed.”

Fifteen minutes later, I was leaving the parking garage in the BMW with an empty backpack in the passenger seat. The only pleasant part of this ride was Black Rain Coming blaring from the speakers. My brother’s taste had improved greatly since he started helping us withRewired. Metalcore wasn’t on my preferred genres to listen to list, but Cameron Koller had an interesting voice. An outcast, the original trailer park kid from the rural Midwest, he was real to the bone. With an interesting story to tell.

Adjusting the volume, I pulled onto the road. Frank’s Porsche sat across the way from the complex, shiny and foreign in this neighborhood. I always had to park it on the street because my apartment only came with one garage spot that, up to now, was being occupied by Ashton’s car. Correction. Former car.

Fury filled my chest. I steered the BMW into an empty space between an SUV and a Ford, cut the engine and marched over to the Porsche.

Not my car, not my problem.My inner bitch laughed as I drove it down the street to the tow away zone.

Good luck looking for it, asshole.

My mood skyrocketed. Revenge, no matter how immature, felt good. However, it didn’t take long for disappointment to replace my high. Its hold on my confidence made me sad. Made me angry. Made me hate Frank for not trying harder.

When I finally got to Malibu, I was a ball of conflicting emotions. I parked the BMW in front of the garage and got out. The house felt different. Shattered. Loud. Uninviting. My Honda still sat in the driveway. The French doors on the terrace were slid open and I heard a slew of muffled voices drifting at me from the inside.

Brooklyn and Corey were hunched over the coffee table in the living room, their faces glued to their laptop screens, gloomy. They were probably working on a reputation repair strategy. I noted Billy’s silhouette lingering on the terrace. He was on the phone.

My heart twisted inside my chest. I was no longer sure if I was in any condition to see Frank and stay calm, but I needed to get this over with, grab my things, and be on my way.

Brooklyn tore her gaze from the laptop and looked at me, then at my backpack. Her expression remained sour.

“Is he awake?” My question floated through the room.

“He’s in the studio,” she explained.

Corey gave me a tight-lipped smile. His hard eyes told me he didn’t want me here.

“Great. Hopefully, we won’t have to see each other.” I strode over to the coffee table and dropped the BMW and Porsche keys into Brooklyn’s lap. “Trade ya cars?”

“What?” she asked, confused.

“I’m returning the BMW. Porsche is probably in an impound lot somewhere in the Valley.”

“What’s it doing there?”

“Resting.”

Brooklyn batted her lashes at me, expecting an explanation. For a moment, I felt sorry for her. She was going to be the one looking for that damn Porsche. Not Frank. I would be very surprised if he was able to string two words together right now.

“Sorry.” I shrugged and walked down the hall to grab my things from the bedroom.

Blinded with rage and hurt, I plucked everything that belonged to me—dresses, shirts, pajamas—from the drawers and the closet and shoved it all into my backpack, not bothering to fold anything.

“Cassy!” Frank’s voice carrying through the house told me coming here was a huge mistake.

He sounded broken and desperate, and his despair shot straight to my heart, clutching it for dear life. My walls made of hate, ice, and anger were melting.

There was no warning. He dropped to his knees and his arms wrapped around my waist like a chokehold. I couldn’t move. A gasp was stuck somewhere in my chest. My hands were still in a drawer, plowing through my clothes, separating the ones he’d paid for.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against my sweater, his breath a hot, pulse-jarring caress on my stomach. This heat he carried around was worse than kryptonite. I wanted to fall apart for him right there and then. It took all my willpower not to give in to his deadly charm.

Bracing myself, I spoke, “Frank, please stand up.”

“Tell me you forgive me.” He tightened his grip.

---