“Okay, check the signs and talk to the attendant,” I told him on my way to the bathroom. “If the car was towed, please find out what forms of payment they take and if they can take a credit card over the phone.”
There was a message with the address of the impound lot waiting for me when I stepped out of the shower.
“Great,” I muttered, staring at the text for a good minute. Annoyance brewed in my gut.
First, I called my brother. “Do you have proof of insurance on you?”
“Umm…” He paused.
“Ashton?”
“In my email.”
“Can they take my card over the phone?”
“No, they said the credit card holder has to be there to pay in person.”
“Okay, I’ll get you an Uber and I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
Then I called Roman. “Could you please come over right now?”
“I thought Frank said ten.”
“I have to go get the stupid BMW out of impound. You’ll need to drive Frank to Sherman Oaks.” I paused to catch my breath. “He was drinking last night, so he’s probably hung over…and not in a very good mood. I’m going to go ahead and wake him so that he can get moving, but I need you to be nearby since I won’t be here.”
Roman cleared his throat. “I understand.”
“You have to make sure he’s there by eleven. Gary is leaving for New York tomorrow, so vocals must be recorded today.”
“I got you, Ms. Evans. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Frank looked frazzled when I woke him.
“I’m sorry, but you gotta get up.” I shook his shoulder lightly, my phone in my hand.
“What?” Hair mussed, face sleepy, he rubbed his eyes and absently stared at me through the shadow of his flitting lashes. His clouded gaze ran over my mouth as if I were speaking Arabic.
“Roman will be here in a bit. I’ll meet you at the studio.” I pulled the blanket aside and helped him sit up.
“What time is it?”
“It’s eight.”
Confusion crossed his features. “I thought we didn’t have to be there until eleven.”
“Don’t ever buy anything for my brother again. Asshole got the car towed.” Rolling my eyes, I nudged Frank off the bed and ushered him to the bathroom.
Dazed, he stepped into the shower cabin and fumbled with the controls. Water splashed against the glass.
“I’ll meet you at the studio, okay?” I said, putting the finishing touches on my makeup.
Frank’s hangover was evident. Palms against the tiled side of the cabin, head down, he lingered somewhere on the edge of awareness, and seeing this reminder of his recklessness the night before drove me mad. The last thing I wanted to do was leave him alone, but Ashton was blowing up my phone like crazy.
“Okay.” Frank nodded, lifting his face to meet the stream. There was weakness in his every move and breath.
“Hannah made waffles!” I shouted on my way out.
Ashton was already waiting for me when I pulled up to the office of the impound lot that was somewhere on the outskirts of Santa Monica. It was in a crappier part of the city, across from the cemetery. Beat up asphalt and plastic dumpsters greeted me as I maneuvered my Honda between the rows of vehicles. My head hurt from lack of coffee and sleep.
Inside, there was a mile-long line and it took me a minute to find Ashton.
“I thought you were going to ditch me,” he said under his breath as I wormed my way into the spot between his shoulder and some woman’s oversized Coach bag.
“I’m having an extremely bad day. Let’s just get this over with.”
“That’s why I need my own credit card.”
“Oh, really?” I stared up at him with every intention of mentally burning him to the ground. “So you can forget it somewhere too?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Then how was it, huh?” I hissed. “You dragged me all the way across town because you can’t read road signs.”
My observation was met with a dramatic pout.
We waited for nearly an hour. By the time Ashton finally received his precious car keys back, I had two missed calls from Roman, three texts from Brooklyn, and all signs of a heart attack.
Frank never made it to the studio.
Panic crawled up my throat as we hurried to leave the building and get to our vehicles. I dialed Frank’s cell twice but was greeted by the same generic service provider programmed voice message.
“You owe me the Uber fee and the three hundred bucks I just paid for your car,” I snapped at Ashton as we walked through the lot.
“You’re joking, right?” He gave me the side-eye.
“It’s called adulting, buddy.”
I knew he’d never have that kind of money unless he started smuggling drugs or got a job as a male stripper, but I couldn't resist the urge to yell at someone, and between Roman, who, according to our phone conversation, had missed Frank earlier this morning, and my brother, it was obviously going to be my brother.
On the way to Sherman Oaks, I called Frank’s house phone and asked Hannah to check the garage. Of course, the Ferrari was missing. My anxiety shot through the roof. It clawed at my thundering heart like a predator, tearing it into small pieces. This wasn’t happening. Not today, I thought as I dialed again and again, only to hear the same recording.
The burst of cool air blasting from the vents pricked my cheeks and I could barely feel my face, but the tremor that took over the rest of my body compensated for that numbness tenfold. The seconds seemed to drag by as if this were a three-day cross-country drive.
When I arrived at the studio, Ashton and Levi were already there, unloading their equipment. Without saying a word to them, I brushed past the cluster of cases and hurried to find Brooklyn.
Inside, a dozen stupefied gazes were shot at me. Isabella was in the booth, doing a take. Her voice felt dangerous,
