Page 70 of One Last Verse

“Was it fun?”

“Definitely better than sitting home and crying. At the very least, you’re getting a free dinner out of it.”

“I’ll keep that strategy in mind.”

“Izzie! Need you in five!” Maria’s voice called.

“All right. I gotta go bust out another take, sister,” Isabella said, steering her wheelchair toward the door.

I took off for Malibu ten minutes later, leaving Levi in charge.

The French doors on the terrace were slid open when I pulled into the driveway. The garage was closed, and Jeff Buckley’s voice drifted at me from the house. I tossed my purse on the couch, then kicked off my shoes and sauntered through the music-filled rooms in search of Frank. My heart raced. I hated altercations, but after having witnessed Isabella’s dreams crumple today, I was too pissed off to keep it in check. Raw, unadulterated anger stirred in my blood.

Frank was in his studio. Back against the output panel, he sat on the floor across from the line of newly installed monitors. They were bright and shiny and mounted atop the cherry finish desk, and I wondered how long they’d last. I lingered on the threshold and noted a bottle in his hand.

“How was your day, doll?” Glazed eyes swept up my body and stalled on my lips.

The pungent smell of liquor crawled up my nose. The man was wasted again.

I stepped closer and surveyed the room, looking for traces of more damage. There was none. Today, Frank had resorted to simply drinking himself into oblivion.

“Where were you?” I asked firmly.

“Out and about. Needed to clear my head.”

“If you didn’t want to be part of this project, why couldn’t you just tell me?” I said in a shaky voice. “Why come and do a bunch of scratch tracks and then not show up to record the actual song?”

“I know you hate me right now.” He tossed his head back and absently stared at the ceiling. His chest heaved. “I hate myself too. Sometimes I wonder why I didn’t die that night on a freeway.”

The weight of his words hit me hard. My mind and my heart battled each other. One wanted to slap some sense into this man and one wanted to cuddle him. “Don’t say shit like that.”

“Why not?” He released a bitter chuckle. “We’re all going to die. We should be ready the day we’re born. Instead, we keep looking for ways to live longer when, in reality, we’re all slowly decaying on the inside.” Frank reached for the bottle. “Ask me.” His desperate eyes burned through my skin like a torch. “Ask me what it’s like, how it feels to rot on the inside little by little, day after day.”

I leaned over to take the bottle away, but he shot down my measly attempt by blocking me with his right hand. His shoulder wasn’t secured in the sling, and too scared to hurt him, I didn’t dare fight.

Instead, I tried to reason, “You promised, Frank. You can’t mix alcohol and painkillers.”

“Watch me.” He grinned and took a swallow. “It’s just like the good old days…when Dante and I worked onBreathe Crimson. Now he’s got a new best friend. Marshall fucking Burns.” His Adam’s apple wobbled beneath his skin. “You ever tried heroin, Cassy?”

The invisible wall of indifference and pain he’d built grew thicker with each second as he rambled on.

Annoyed and uninterested in hearing his rock ’n’ roll stories, I straightened. “You made a fool out of me today. You left us all hanging like we weren’t important enough.”

“You know you’re important to me.”

“Oh yeah?” My tone pitched. “How am I important when you don’t have the decency to tell me you don’t want to be part of my project? You didn’t have to agree just to humor me if your heart wasn’t in it. I wouldn't have gotten mad or loved you any less. ”

“Shhh,” he hushed me and pressed his index finger to his lips. “Don’t say it. Don’t let me hurt you more than I already have.”

Fury spread through my chest. “And you also don’t have the decency to acknowledge my feelings.” My voice broke along with my faith in us. I hated the ugliness we’d become and the game of pretend we’d been playing.

“I don’t need you to tell me,” Frank murmured, resting his head against the panel. He drew a deep breath, his gaze remaining on my face. “I know.”

Emotions swelled in my chest. “Is that all I get? A fucking Han Solo one-liner for splitting myself in half for you?”

He stared up at me with clouded eyes as silent seconds passed between us. “What do you want from me then?” He slurred.

The house felt foreign despite the music. Even the soulful crooning of Jeff Buckley couldn’t pacify my rage. “I want you to get help, Frank. Real fucking help!” I cried out. “What happened to you isn’t Marshall’s fault, and the world hasn’t conspired against you. Stop acting like a child and looking for answers in a bottle of whiskey. They’re not there.”

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