Page 91 of One Last Verse

We were close, but not to the point where I could possibly tell him about the real reason for my delay—Frank fucking me senseless against his bedroom wall. Blaming everything on traffic in this city was normal. Although those of us who were born and raised in L.A. couldn’t use it as a valid excuse. It made us look dumb and, therefore, worked best for the newcomers.

“They have us upstairs on the patio,” Levi rambled on as we walked through the long, brightly lit hallway.

The entire pool area and half of the ground floor, including the ballroom, was closed off. The hotel staff that worked the event fussed over the buffet. Anxious chatter and the crackle of walkie-talkies filled the hallway and danced around me. The familiarity of it all hit me like a tidal wave. I missed being a full-time reporter.

A slew of voices drifted from one of the lounges as we passed.

“What time is the red carpet?” I asked Levi, noting familiar faces inside. Johnny. Carter. A couple of girls who looked awfully plastic. Waiters carried trays loaded with exotic hors d'oeuvres. No Dante. No Marshall.

“Six thirty. Did you not go over the itinerary at all?”

No, I was busy chasing an orgasm.“I didn’t have time.” I turned my head to look at Levi. “I didn’t exactly plan on conducting ten interviews today.” Then I really looked at him and grimaced at the multiple wrinkles across his shirt. “Is your steamer broken or something?”

He returned my stare with a scoff.

We entered the ballroom and headed for the spiral staircase at the far side, behind the small, performance-ready stage. There, on the wall across from us, hung a massive Hall Affinity poster. The new line-up. With a cocky smirk and tousled blond hair, Marshall Burns was in the center. My stomach drew tight and not in a pleasant way.

At that moment, I felt for Frank. I understood why he was upset.

On the patio, Ashton was guarding Levi’s gear. We had a small corner with a stunning view of Sunset Boulevard and the jagged bloodred horizon. TheRewiredbanner stood behind a small leather couch.

“Brother.” I scanned his outfit. Black shirt, jeans, sneakers, hair slicked back. He looked decent.

“Sister.”

Our gazes collided.

“Behave.” I smoothed the sleeve of his shirt and grabbed a small clipboard from Levi to check whom we were interviewing first.

“Relax. I’ve got this.” Ashton grinned and gave me a thumbs-up. This was his first major event, and he looked chipper. I suspected that later on, he’d attempt to get some selfies with the VIPs. His Instagram feed was littered with photos of Isabella and other people he’d met while helping out Levi. I was starting to see a pattern. My brother was a celebrity stalker in disguise. Honestly, half the people who worked in the industry were. As long as the privacy rules didn’t get broken, it was okay. Everyone was a fan. Just not everyone became an idol.

The noise of the party clashed with the noise of the street and while our spot was beautiful and free of foot traffic, I’d definitely have to scream through my questions, which I loathed. My throat always took a beating during such annoyingly loud events, and Levi hated tweaking sound in post.

“Do we have to interview Dante?” I muttered under my breath, scanning the list of artists. It wasn’t really a question, but more wishful thinking.

“It’s his party.” Levi grunted. “It’s not like we have a choice.”

“How about you do it?” I offered.

I was shot down with a joke. “My makeup doesn’t look good on camera.”

“Okay.” I drew a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the task at hand, interviewing rich, possibly drunk and high rock ’n’ roll folks. Thinking about hot sex with Frank and other fantasies needed to be put off for later.

Setting the clipboard on the couch, I glanced at the party below. People began to spill into the ballroom. Drinks were served. “I need to use the restroom. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

“If you see Dean Foster, bring him in.”

“Copy.” I tossed Levi a smile and hopped down the stairs. The song playing in the background was from the new Hall Affinity album, which was officially releasing next week. Mastered, titled, and properly packaged. If anything, the leak had only raised more interest. A little birdie named Linda had mentioned that preorder numbers were sky high.

Curious gazes swept over me as I made my way across the ballroom. My pulse kicked up, my awareness heightened. After all, I was dating Frankie Blade. Attention was expected. Whether these people liked me or not, we were a couple. Chin up, shoulders straight, I pushed past the loud knots of people and ducked into the dimly lit hallway.

Dante’s silhouette swam into my line of vision. Beer bottle in hand, he was attached to a Hannah Montana knock-off who propped up the wall. Her skinny leg was wrapped around his booted ankle, hand shoved in the waistband of his jeans. My stomach rolled. The man clung to his twenties like shit to a shovel. It wasn’t cool anymore. This sick obsession with younger, barely legal females made him look desperate and unattractive.

Dante heard the click of my heels and tore his face from the teenager’s. His clouded gaze swung my way. The girl’s hand remained on his crotch. No surprise there.

“Hey, short stuff.” His voice was weak and sluggish. “You’re looking gorgeous.”

I slowed my pace.

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