“Keep me posted?”
“Sure. Ms. Evans?” He paused. “I’m glad you called.”
“The last thing I want is for his name to be dragged through the mud while Marshall Burns is getting all the attention.”
“I know you probably won’t believe me, but he appreciates it. He’ll regret most of what he said tonight when he sleeps it off. Don’t take it personally.”
“Good night, Roman.”
“Good night, Ms. Evans.”
It was the doorbell that roused me the next morning. Or afternoon, to be more exact, because the digital clock on the phone read twelve thirty.
Outside my apartment stood a delivery person with flowers. I knew they were from Frank. Phone calls and messages began a couple of hours later, probably when he finally sobered up. I ignored every single one. I wasn’t ready to talk to him yet.
I needed space and I needed to rethink my priorities.
Then I had to discuss the duet fiasco with Maria and Linda, which was the hardest conversation I’d had in years. The man had singlehandedly ruined months of collective work, and now we were left to pick up the pieces.
“What the fuck happened to Frank yesterday?” was the first thing Ashton asked when he got home from school.
Leaning against the kitchen counter with my arms crossed on my chest, I was watching the plastic container with a premade entrée revolving inside the microwave. My appetite was absent, but my brain needed something other than coffee. Frank drama aside, Dreamcatchers required my undivided attention. Levi and I were in talks with several venues, and now that my boyfriend’s involvement was up in the air, things promised to get more complicated.
No one would care about a girl from Northern California if a big name wasn’t attached to the project. Linda would have to try really hard to keep us afloat.
“I don’t want to talk about him right now,” I told Ashton.
He scratched the back of his neck and dipped his head to check what was inside the microwave. “Trouble in paradise, huh?”
“You can have it if you’re hungry.” I motioned at the container and returned to my room.
The apartment felt too small for the two of us. I couldn’t tell whether it was because I was used to the luxury lifestyle of Frank’s Malibu mansion or because Ashton had turned my place into a man cave. Everything looked strange. Every detail stuck out. As if my place wasn’t mine anymore. Even the gigantic teddy bear no longer made me smile.
I’d never taken Frank for a big texter, but apparently, the man knew exactly how badly he’d fucked up yesterday. He was showering me with messages nonstop. I had to set my phone to silent. By the time evening rolled around, TMZ had gotten wind of what had happened at Gary’s studio. According to “a source close to the singer,” Frankie Blade decided not to record the duet for reasons that were yet to be explained. I didn’t know how this information had become public knowledge.
Still wired from yesterday’s fight and all my disappointments, I was sitting in front of my computer and sorting through emails when an unfamiliar number flashed across the screen of my phone. I answered. It was force of habit. It could have been film-related.
“Hello. Is this Cassandra Evans?” the male voice asked.
“Yes.” My gut told me that picking up this call was bad judgment on my part.
“This is Brad Finley from Entertainment Weekly. Do you have a comment about your relationship with Frankie Blade?”
A rush of anxiety raced through me. I hung up without saying a word and noted a new message from Levi that had just come in.
You’re out, it read.
Frazzled, I clicked the link he included.
There they were, the photos of me and Frank from the Ventura gas station. No faces. But then there were other photos of him with Isabella, screenshots from her Instagram with me in the background.
Ready for the worst, I drew a deep breath through my teeth and looked at the headline.
“The rumors are true: Frankie Blade is dating”
“Secret relationship isn’t that secret anymore: Former Hall Affinity singer Frankie Blade is seeing music reporter Cassy Evans”
The time stamp indicated the post had gone live thirty minutes ago.
I dialed Levi.
“Is that what it takes to make you return my calls?”
“Sorry, I was on the phone with Linda and I just…needed some alone time.”
“We don’t have the luxury of alone time, Cass. Margerie Helm just emailed me back. She wants to meet.”
“Really?” My heart sputtered in my chest. “You’re not kidding me?” The woman had been so hard to pin down, I was about to scratch Melrose Cinema from our venue list.
“No. I’m not. Something tells me you would hate me forever.” He paused. “You wanna let me in on what happened to Frank yesterday?”
“You know I can’t.”
“I assume he’s off the project for good?”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t count on him. Let’s move forward with the editing. I’m not sure he’s up for anything at the moment.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Cass?”
“Let’s not talk about him, huh?”
“Okay, okay,” Levi agreed. “I’m just going to pretend your face isn’t all over TMZ next to the face of the man who fucked us over.”
I moved my gaze down the screen of my computer. “Hey, at least they got my name right. Already better than Starbucks.”
“You should see the numbers. Your interview has been getting tons of hits.”
Sometimes Levi’s obsession with numbers infuriated me. My soul was torn apart and all he cared about was the magazine’s traffic.
“A lot of trolls?” I asked, pulling up Rewired’s front page to search for my interview with Frank.
“I suggest you don’t look.”
I scrolled to the bottom of the post and skimmed through the latest comments while Levi continued to talk.
I wonder if she sucked him before or after.
She should find another job…
I bet she got that interview because she gives good head.
Dante probably watched, bwahaha.
My stomach knotted. I minimized the window and began to pace my room. This
