Page 71 of One Last Verse

Jaw slack, he gave me a crooked, shiver-inducing smile. “You know, you’re very sexy when you’re mad.”

My patience had reached its limits. I was unamused and shaking with frustration.

Deep breaths, girlfriend,I said to myself. “Do you even understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“I’m not that drunk.” He shook his head and set the empty bottle aside.

“Yes, you are and you need professional help.”

“Fuck professional help.”

He pushed himself off the floor and stood. The room suddenly felt small. He wasn’t a tall man, but his height was impressive against my five-four. Without a word, he stumbled past me toward the hallway.

I followed.

He halted in front of the wall with the paintings and stared at them for a good minute. “Do you know how much each one of these cost, Cassy?” His gaze whipped to my face, dark and foggy. “Fifty thousand dollars. Can you imagine?”

“Where’s Roman?”

“Did you know—” He paused to catch his breath. “The first time I tried chocolate was after Janet and Billy took me in.”

My stomach spasmed. I hated that he made me pity him.

“Now I have a piece of paper in my living room that cost more than my birth mother made in a year.” Frank continued to stare. “And the funny thing is…I don’t know why I even have it.”

“Where’s Roman?” I repeated my question. I had no idea how disorderly he could get with this much alcohol in his system, but I wanted to be ready for the worst, and my hundred and ten pounds weren’t going to cut it against the wall of lean muscle and madness that he was.

“Why?” Frank arched a brow. “You don’t like my company?”

“Not when you’re drunk,” I said firmly.

He turned his back to me and staggered down the hall, every single ounce of his torment weighing on his shoulders, dragging him down to hell. His broken footsteps thudded against the floor like an off-beat rhythm. In the living room, furniture banged and keys jingled.

Heart in my throat, I raced through the house. “Where are you going?” My pulse skyrocketed.

“I’m not in the mood to listen to your pestering. I get enough of this shit from everyone. My parents. My assistant. My manager. I don’t need you to police me too.”

Ouch.“Excuse me? Me wanting you to get better is pestering?”

Helmet in hand, Frank was on his way to the garage. Skirting around his body to face him, I stood in the doorway and held out my hand. “Give me the keys.”

He didn’t stop. His shoulder knocked against mine.

“Give me the keys.” I twirled around and grabbed his arm.

He jerked away.

My mother was right. Saving someone from himself if he didn’t want to be saved was a waste of time.

In the house, Jeff Buckley sang “Hallelujah.” The majestic lull of his voice filled the air as Frank rounded the Escalade, his steps unsteady.

“You’re not going anywhere!” My shout boomed through the garage as I hurried along the line of cars parked there. All five of them. Including the Ferrari with its muddy wheels.

“Get out of my way, Cassy.” He shot me a mean stare and neared the Harley.

Determined, I positioned myself in front of the bike and grabbed the handlebar. My pulse roared.

“Move, Cassy.”

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