Page 37 of Final Serenade

I have a couple of demos I’d love to get some feedback on.

Excitement rolled through me like a tornado through Texas, crashing all my defenses. I felt special. Taylor Rhinehart who?

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

I suppose I can hang out with Jon Snow tomorrow night.

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

Pick you up at nine?

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

Make it nine thirty. I want to finish this episode.

I didn’t know what to expect when an email from Frank came in three hours later. He was outside. Instead of the Ferrari, a black Range Rover waited for me downstairs, which was a relief because the car didn’t make as much noise, so it attracted less attention. The last thing I needed was for my neighbors to see me getting into a car with the rock star who’d been rumored to date Taylor Rhinehart. Because, obviously, the internet was flooded with speculations after their red carpet appearance. I scanned the street as I climbed into the passenger seat.

“Cassy. Nice to see you again.”

I felt his words simmer against my skin as they rolled off his tongue. Then his eyes captured mine.

He wore fewer clothes today. A black T-shirt that clung seductively to his trim body and a pair of faded jeans. I could tell they were tight, but I was willing to wait until he got out of the car to conclude my evaluation. No sunglasses and no hat.

“Nice to see you too,” I replied, my gaze totally enthralled by his heart-stopping gunmetal stare. I was melting.

“You look great.”

“So do you.”

“I hope you had a nice week.”

“Could have been better. Yours?”

“It’s better now.” His smile was like a stray ray of sunshine, burning its way into my heart and I hated it. He was so easy to like. And would probably be hard to forget.

We played a game. We exchanged pleasantries when, in reality, they were merely fillers. Frank didn’t ask me out again because he wanted to tell me how nice I looked. There was something else, and I was going to pull it out of him today. I needed to because the unknown terrified me.

“Where are we going?” I asked as the Range Rover began to move.

“Where no one can find us.” A hint of a smirk cut through his cheek.

“And the demos? Or were you just playing dirty and they don’t exist?”

“They do. We’ll get to that later.”

Frank drove with one hand on the steering wheel and one on his thigh, his eyes never leaving the road. For a man who was presumed to be an adrenaline junkie, he was extremely cautious. I wasn’t sure whether it was because I was in the car or because he truly feared the road. Yet there was something incredibly alluring in how seriously he took driving. Men usually never missed an opportunity to show off. I would have expected someone like Frank to go out of his way to do so, but tonight, that wasn’t the case, nor was it the last time I saw him.

He’d given me full control of the stereo, and although it took me a good minute to figure out how the damn thing worked, I thought I made a pretty good DJ. We skimmed through his ’90s collection and even listened to some hip hop as the Range Rover crawled over the serpentine road somewhere in the heart of the Hollywood Hills area. It was wide enough to fit one car, with one side still hanging over the bushy cliff.

“Where is this secret establishment where the paparazzi can’t find us located?” I questioned, staring out the window. The glittering city lights stretched as far as my eyes could see.

“We’re almost there.”

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