“Are you okay, Cass?” Levi’s voice pulled me out of my daze.
“Yes. I am.”
I was lying. I was a complete mess for the remainder of the day. I had to shut off my phone because the calls and the messages from the reporters were too much. Deep in my heart, I understood I shouldn’t care, but I didn’t have enough experience dealing with bullshit. I couldn’t just turn my feelings off like Frank could.
But hey, I did give good head. My rock star boyfriend loved it. Or ex-boyfriend. I couldn’t really define what he was anymore.
I spent the next day glued to my computer, dealing with the fallout of Frank’s studio no-show stunt and dragging countless emails from reporters trying to get an exclusive into my trash folder. The tabloids were hungry for details and kept on blowing up my phone and my Facebook inbox. For the sake of my mental health, I had to change the privacy settings in all my social media platforms, which only made it worse.
In the afternoon, after Ashton got home from school, we set up a small camp in the living room and worked on Isabella’s article for Rewired. To keep readers up to date with her journey, Levi and I had agreed to post weekly recaps.
I sat on the floor, cross-legged, coffee in hand. My brother was next to me, sipping on his Red Bull and staring at the empty screen. An hour later, we were still only two paragraphs in.
“This article isn’t going to write itself,” Ashton croaked as I got to my feet and paced. My brain was lagging. This week’s piece was supposed to discuss Isabella’s experience working with Frank, but since Frank was out of the picture and she recorded the single alone, I had no idea what to put in the goddamned article. The words didn’t want to flow.
“Anyone approach you at school today?” I checked.
“You mean like reporters?”
“Yes.”
“There was one dude. He was hanging out in the parking lot. I didn’t talk to him.”
“Good.” I gestured at my laptop. “Don’t touch anything.”
Ashton leaned over the screen and stuck his tongue out.”
“You’re sleeping in your car if you lick my shit.” Laughing, I retreated to my bedroom to make a call.
“He’s fine,” Brooklyn stated over the phone. “X-ray didn’t show any major damages or fractures.”
“Is Roman there?”
“Yes. He’s staying at the house.”
“Thank you.”
“You should talk to him, Cassy.” Brooklyn’s voice softened. “I really am tired of arranging flower deliveries for you,” she added sarcastically.
“I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to him at this point. We’re in such deep shit with the sponsors and Isabella and her mother.”
“Don’t worry about money. Jay Brodie’s services are paid for. They’ll just have to tailor the campaign to suit your needs.”
“I’m not worried about the financial part. I’m worried about how this might reflect on Isabella.”
“She’ll be fine. It’s best for everyone that Frank stays off the press’s radar for now.”
“Is he drinking?”
My question was met with silence.
“Have you considered calling his parents?”
“Billy’s here. He flew in today.”
A sigh of relief left my lungs.
“You should talk to Frank too. He’s not in a very good place mentally and it could help us get him to rehab faster.”
Guilt was a horrible feeling. It overshadowed all the other feelings I had in me toward Frank. He was alone and depressed, and no matter how much he’d hurt me by ruining everything I’d been building for Isabella, I still wished him well. I still loved him in a horrible twisted, unhealthy way.
“I’ll think about it,” I told Brooklyn and ended the call.
I just couldn’t get past my pride yet. I needed time.
Frank made it difficult. He showed up at my place later that night, drunk. I was in my room, going over the monstrosity Ashton and I had written earlier. My phone buzzed and Frank’s name lit up the screen.
Open the door, the message read.
My heart leapt into my throat. The man wasn’t serious, was he?
I peeked into the living room. Ashton was fast asleep on the couch, hugging his laptop. The lights were off.
Please, another text popped up.
A muffled noise drifted at me from behind the door.
I slipped into my knee-length sweater and hurried outside. My pulse quickened, my mind raged. Frank stood off to the side. His right arm was back in the sling and a leather jacket was thrown over his shoulders. He looked every bit the mess a person who’d been drinking for days should look. The dim light illuminating his face accentuated the paleness of his skin and the bags under his eyes. Two-day stubble framed his jaw.
I wasn’t sure what exactly I felt at that moment. Pity, sadness, anxiety, or anger. He clung to me like a metal object to a magnet. Even after I’d harmed him. It was perverse.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he rasped softly. It rattled in the cool air between us like the fragments of our broken relationship.
I closed the door to make sure we didn’t wake Ashton. My head spun. I could feel Frank’s despair deep down in my body, but my pride rebelled against his natural charm.
“You’re drunk,” I said quietly, taking him in. Apart from the sling being in place again and a couple of scabs littering his wrist, he was fine physically. My heart pounded somewhere in my throat and my voice was a measly squeal.
He moved closer so that the space separating us shrunk to a few inches. “I’m sorry.”
Still conflicted, I stepped back until my head brushed the cold wall of the building. “Why are you here? And how did you get here?”
“Roman brought me. And I’m here because I wanted to see you. You’re not answering my texts.”
“I think I have a right to be upset.”
“Yes. Yes, you do. And I’m really sorry for flaking. Please come back.”
Eyes clouded, Frank leaned forward to snatch a kiss. He wasn’t as wasted as before, but I didn’t know what to expect from him
