Page 35 of One Last Verse

“I won’t touch it again.”

We fell into dreadful silence. Sweat began to coat our palms that were pressed together. Jaw stiff, eyes hooded, he withdrew his hand first.

“This band is going to kill you,” I said after a long pause.

“You want me to sit at home and receive handouts in the form of royalty checks while a bunch of impostors tour the world performing my songs?” he snapped. His voice was cold and bitter.

“Sometimes you’re so fucking conceited you can’t see past the end of your nose,” I countered. Anger pulled at me and settled in my chest.

“The fuck I am! I created this band from my fucking blood and sweat, and now they want me out.”

“Because you’re hurting yourself, Frank!” I wasn’t sure how else to get through to him. I was ready to pound the words into his head with a hammer if needed.

“At least I’m hurting myself for something that’s mine, for something I believe in.”

“You’re not in the army. You’re a musician. You don’t need to be in that band all your life to give people what they want—songs. How can you not understand that?”

“I happen to likethatband, Cassy. I happen to have millions of fans because ofthatband, millions of people who care about me.”

“What about your parents? What about me?”

He stared at me unblinkingly.

“I care about you too. I don’t want you to drop dead on stage somewhere in Cambodia, Frank. I want you to keep making music in a way that doesn’t hurt you more than it already has.”

He remained silent, confusion and pain twisting his features.

“You were breathtaking today. You don’t need to be part of a band to write or perform music. You belong to you, no one else. Not your band, not the label. You have what every other aspiring singer on this planet wants, an incredible talent and an incredible voice, and you don’t need anyone to sign off on the new songs you’re going to write. You’re free to do as you please if you just let the possibilities in. If a nineteen-year-old girl with a disability can do it, why can’t you?”

My lungs needed more oxygen and every bit of me was trembling under Frank’s dark, arresting gaze.

“Ah, fuck. Why do you always have to do that?” he murmured under his breath and slipped his hand to the back of my head to cradle it. “Come here, Yoko Ono.”

There was an instant fire. My cheeks burned, my stomach lurched. I dipped my head and pressed my face against the hard curve of his neck. The hum of the engine droned in my ears.

“You know Paul McCartney admitted she didn’t break up the band,” I mumbled into Frank’s T-shirt.

“Too late. It’s already an urban legend.”

“I’m not trying to drive you apart.”

“Dang it.” I felt the smile. It colored him and everything around us. “And I was hoping to blame it all on you.”

“You could give it a shot.” I stifled a nervous giggle. “But I don’t think they’ll buy it.”

“You’re awfully smart, Cassy Evans.”

“And you’re awfully tempting.”

“Call it a match made in heaven.”

“You think?” I put my palm on his pec and felt the low rumble of his heart, wondering if he remembered what I’d said to him last night.

“I’m positive.” His hand slid to my neck and he tangled his fingers in my hair, tugging and playing with it. Pleasant shivers zipped down my spine. My panties were shamelessly damp against my swollen center.

Famished for his flesh and heat, I pressed a kiss to his neck. My lips slithered across his skin, stroking the ink lightly. I hadn’t considered myself an awfully sexual creature until I met Frank. Everything about him—his height, his scent, his voice, his laugh—made my pulse race.

He pulled at my hair slowly and carefully to bring my face to his. His lips ghosted over mine and my nipples stiffened inside my bra. The torture was deliciously dark, like a box of chocolate truffles. Our chests heaved. Our frayed moans clashed. I was tender and tight between my thighs and I felt a wave of painful need sweeping me under when his skillful tongue probed my lips. He tasted of sweet sensation and I responded with a hungry, wet lick.

---