Page 13 of One Last Verse

“Dante!” I called, rushing over. The click of my heels rattled in my ears.

He spun around and the wind whipped the sides of his shirt against his thin torso. People swarmed between us as we caught sight of each other. His expression was withdrawn, his eyes dark, and as they wandered across my face, I had to ask myself whether he understood what had just happened or he was experiencing the same type of delay Frank had felt during the motorcycle crash.

“Are you going to Cedars Sinai?”

Dante nodded. “You have a ride?” He plucked the cigarette from his mouth and spit on the asphalt. Anxiety riddled his face.

I shook my head. “No.”

“Okay, come on.” He jerked his chin and headed toward the black car that was waiting.

I followed. “What about Carter?”

“He’s riding with Johnny.”

We climbed in the back. The doors thwacked shut, separating us from the mayhem. Dante rolled down the window and continued puffing on his cigarette.

Phone clutched in my palm, heart racing, I stared at the arena lights smeared behind the tinted glass as we maneuvered through the developing gridlock. The traffic on Manchester was just as bad, if not worse. Cars lined up one after another.

Dante finished smoking, tossed the butt outside, and closed the window. His hand rested on his thigh, long fingers tapping out a nervous dance against the expensive denim.

“What happened?” I turned to face him as endless questions swirled in my head. “He was fine before the set.”

Dante dropped his gaze to the floor. “I don’t know. He tripped.”

I needed more than that. I needed an explanation my brain could work with. “What do you mean tripped? It makes no sense!”

“I don’t fucking know, Cassy!”

Our voices clashed inside the car like two cymbals. Mine was a raging high-pitch and his was frostbite on my skin.

I shivered. “But he was fine!”

Dante palmed his face, and I heard the rumble of his labored breath. “Can you shut up for a second, please?”

My phone buzzed. Again and again. Messages and email notifications that couldn’t make it through inside the arena. I hid the device in my purse and tried to breathe through the panic. My pulse thrummed in my temples and my body shook uncontrollably. I wasn’t sure whether it was from the AC that blasted from everywhere or shock.

Dante lit up another cigarette, this time not bothering to roll down the window. He smoked fast. Deep, nervous puffs. Rigid movements. His chest trembled.

I watched him from the corner of my eye. The tense set of his jaw gave away his temporary animosity toward me. Smoke was everywhere. In my hair, in my eyes, in my lungs. Suffocating me and reminding me once again why I’d never dated anyone who was addicted to nicotine. It was a deadly habit.

Cracking my own window open, I plastered my cheek to the glass and breathed. Cool air crept up my arms and legs. Worry for Frank settled deep in my chest.

Dante finally lowered his window. I heard the rustle of his clothes and the rough scratch of his vocal cords as he cleared his throat and spoke, “You probably want to call your family and make sure they don’t talk to reporters. Mom. Dad. Dog. Just in case.”

Wind rippled the light skirt of my dress. “No dad.” I shook my head, not sure why I’d said that. Dante knew very little about my life outsideRewired.

“How come?”

“He left us.”

I heard a chuckle. A bitter one. “Shitty fathers are pretty common these days, huh?”

I tore my cheek from the glass and looked at him. “What about you?”

He held up his cigarette between his fingers. Thick, rancid clouds streamed from his nose. “My father is six feet under. Heart attack.”

“I’m sorry.” I didn’t know about the nature of Dante’s relationship with his father. I knew he had passed. The news had circulated in the tabloids for a day or two when it happened. Dante was arrested for a DUI two days later.

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