“You seemed cozy the last time I saw the two of you together.”
“Part of the job.” Dante grimaced, his fingers dancing against the smooth surface of the bar. He looked ravaged. “Making sure people actually believe we’re thrilled to have a new singer who doesn’t need an army of medics.”
We fell back into silence. The tension building between us was thick with dark, conflicting emotions.
Dante grabbed another bottle and refilled his glass. His hands shook. The man didn’t know his limit. How he could stay in control of his thoughts and actions with so much alcohol in his system baffled me.
“Do you ever want to stop?” I asked, drawing the ice pack away from my chest.
“Every day, but then I remember all the horrible shit I’ve done and realize I won’t last long clean and sober.”
“Have you tried?”
“I do once in a while—” He paused abruptly, as if the right words had escaped his mind. “Give it a shot, I mean.”
“What makes you stop?”
“Why are you grilling me about my bad habits, short stuff? I’m a fucking lost cause. I’m going to be forty in less than two years. It’s too late for a change.”
“Because you’re making it sound like you can’t play music without selling your soul to the devil.”
“Oh, you can.” A cunning smile tilted the corners of his lips. “Just not the kind we write. It’s rock ’n’ roll, baby.” He slipped his hand into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small plastic packet.
My pulse leapt. Ice pack still in my hands, I narrowed my eyes.
“Don’t fucking look at me like that.” He shook his head. A credit card was wedged between his fingers.
I’d seen drugs. I’d seen people doing drugs. I’d seen what drugs did to people. Everyone in this city needed a pick-me-up to get through the trenches. Be it powder, needle, or liquor. Coke, heroin, and acid were injected or sniffed at almost every single VIP table of every single club in Hollywood, Downtown, or in the Valley. This was the capital of entertainment. The city of dreams. Some realized. Some broken. People either did drugs to stay afloat or to get through the dark. But the fact that Dante had enough nerve to flaunt his stash while we were having a conversation about the very reason why Frank and I weren’t together anymore shocked me. Everything about today shocked me. Starting from Margerie Helm’s email and ending with Dante Martinez shamelessly snorting a dozen lines in front of my eyes.
“Shouldn’t you at least lock the door?” I asked sarcastically, sliding from the stool.
“This is my room. There’s a guard outside. No one comes in unless I say so.” He dropped his head to get another hit.
I set the ice pack on the bar. “I guess I’ll leave you to it.” My heart thundered.
Dante tore his face from the powder and shot me a glazed look. “You want me to walk you to your car?”
“I’m fine. You know, you really should try again.”
“I don’t have anyone to try for.” He rubbed his nose.
“You don’t need anyone. Do it for yourself.”
“Is that what you told Frank before you dumped his ass?”
“Why are you bringing him into this?”
“Because he’s always here.” Dante’s index finger ping-ponged between our bodies, which were separated by the bar. “He’s always with me and with you. Once he gets under your skin…it’s for good. You can’t get him out. Tell me it’s not true.”
I couldn’t. Frank was in every part of me. In every inhale. In every exhale. In every thrum of my pulse. Even after countless weeks of silence, he occupied my thoughts. He sneaked into my dreams. A small fraction of me still hoped I’d get a random 4 a.m. call. And he’d be sober. He’d be the man I met last September. Warm, funny, charming.
“See what I’m talking about?” Dante threw his hands in the air, eyes wild, voice rough. “You can’t. Because I’m right. I’m always fucking right, darlin’.” He dipped his head and drew another line.
Frozen, I stared at the glittering row of bottles on the opposite side of the bar. The loud thumps of my heart pounded in my ears.
Go home, Cassy, my inner voice whispered. This man doesn’t care about your goodness either and he won’t give you the answers you want.
Truth was, I didn’t know what answers I was looking for or what exactly I was trying to do. Save the world? Sadly, the world didn’t want to be saved. People were happy and high. No one wanted to be miserable and sober.
“Good night, Dante,” I said. “Thank you for the ice pack.”
He jerked his face up, his hair flipped and fell across his shoulders in a dark, messy cascade. Then our eyes locked.
A ragged exhale left his mouth. “Fuck me.” Swaying, he tilted his head back and stared up at the ceiling. His body went limp and disappeared behind the counter.
It wasn’t until I heard the thud that my brain turned on.
“Dante?” I called, rounding the bar. My pulse was a furious chase in my veins.
He lay on the floor, lips blue, arms spread, eyes bugged out. Spasms twisted his long body.
All the oxygen in the room was gone. “Oh my fucking God!” Mind blank with panic, I dropped to my knees and slapped his cheek. “Dante?!” He continued to jerk beneath me. Foam spilled from the corner of his mouth.
Oh my fucking God, oh my fucking God! Heart, stomach and legs quivering, I sprung to my feet and rushed for the door. The sounds—the clatter of pins, the rumbling of balls, and the drunken screams of guests—crashed into me like a ton of bricks. The security guard was standing right outside.
Gasping for air, I clutched his suit jacket-clad shoulder and shouted, “Call a medic! Dante Martinez just OD’d!”
Chapter Eleven
The West Hollywood café where
