I disagreed wholeheartedly, but I didn’t want to spread my feelings thin by engaging in a pointless argument. I was saving myself for my conversation with Frank. Promises without some kind of a plan didn’t cut it anymore.
I spent the rest of the morning working in the spare bedroom. There was a certain level of avoidance in my relentless chase after the empty inbox. I’d probably typed close to a million words by the time the knock on the door finally broke me out of my email-composing trance.
I dragged my gaze away from the screen and across the room to where Frank stood.
Our eyes met.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.” He’d shaved. His arm was back in the sling, which made me wonder if he’d done way more to himself last night than busting his knuckles.
“It’s fine.” I closed my laptop. “I was going to talk to you anyway.”
He began his approach, but stopped before reaching the desk. His expression conveyed a multitude of emotions, yet I couldn’t pin down a single one.
“About yesterday…” There was a slight rasp in his voice as he wavered.
“I can’t stay in this house if you drink.” My words tumbled out of my mouth and stunned him into shock.
“It won’t happen again, doll,” he finally whispered, moving toward the desk sitting between us. I lifted my chin and got to my feet, needing to be taller, needing to feel stronger, needing to be in charge. For once. Although everything inside me was plummeting.
“I promise.” Frank reached for my hand. “I’m sorry for how I acted yesterday. I was upset and I wasn’t thinking clearly.” I remained in my spot, my body unmoving, unable to react accordingly.
He circled the desk and cupped my cheek. “Please don’t be mad.”
“You already said that before.” I shook my head.
“I know, but it’ll be different this time.”
“You need help.”
“I know. I know.” He nodded. “I overreacted and you’re right. I shouldn’t waste my time being pissed about something I can’t change.”
“Okay.” He’d admitted the problem, but I needed to hear more. I needed him to give me a solution.
“I promise you it won’t happen again, doll. Just stay with me. Please.” He snaked his arm around my waist and drew me closer. It was a dizzying embrace. Soft, warm, and painfully familiar. Just the way I liked him. And for a moment there, I wanted to believe him. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. The things that I’d prepared to say—my warnings, terms, and conditions—had been wiped clean from my mind by his touch and his heartbeat. He was dangerous.
“Please reconsider the lawsuit?” I asked, my pulse a wild drum in my ears as I rested my hand on his chest. “For me, please.”
Frank was silent for a second. “I’ll think about it,” he finally said.
The following day Brooklyn received an email from Gary Torino. He was thrilled about “Afterburn” and could spare two full days at the end of the month. So as soon as the dates were locked in and all the arrangements were made, Jay Brodie PR got to work. The first press release went out on Monday, and Isabella’s official Facebook page raked up over forty thousand likes in less than twenty-four hours. Her social media platforms exploded. Literally overnight.
I couldn’t believe my eyes when I looked at the stats. Levi was on cloud nine.
Frank spent the remainder of the week in his studio creating a scratch track for “Afterburn.” Some of the equipment he’d destroyed was replaced fairly quickly, enough for him to get started. We hardly discussed the lawsuit again. He was so wrapped up in the song that I feared I’d kill his music mojo. Instead, I tried my best to keep him away from social media, TV, and the internet in general. Hall Affinity teased to unveil the name of the new singer’s name in the upcoming weeks and since the announcement seemed to coincide with the “Afterburn” campaign, it was imperative Frank stayed focused.
Dante publicly wished his former bandmate good luck with his new endeavors. The press release with his official statement hit my inbox six hours after Jay Brodie PR sent out the first “Afterburn” email blast, and I laughed at Dante’s speech for a good minute. No matter how the man tried to spin it, he was still a backstabbing jerk.
When Levi finally sent me the Dreamcatchers rough cut, Frank was caught up in the voodoo of music and refused to leave the studio. We watched the film on my laptop, surrounded by the monitors and panels of output gear.
Leaned back in his chair and clutching its left arm, Frank was silent while the cut rolled. His expression grew hard each time he saw images of himself. Per Brooklyn’s instructions, Levi used only minimal footage of Frank from the rehearsals.
Too nervous to sit down, I stood behind his chair and observed his reactions. We’d spoken about an interview only once after his last meltdown and he’d been thinking about it ever since, but I hoped that seeing the cut would help him decide faster, because we could no longer
