Final Serenade (The Encore Book 1) Page 4

  The night before our credentials were confirmed, I contemplated whether showing up at the Regency without an invitation would make the Jay Brodie folks scratch us off their preferred outlets list. Despite knowing a number of influential people in the industry, Levi and I had agreed to never lower to the paparazzi’s level. Rewired produced fresh and original content. We were one of those rare magazines that stayed away from speculative articles. We only showed up where we were officially invited. We worked fast and efficient, and every promoter, bouncer, and artist relation rep in L.A. knew who we were and treated us with respect. There’d been just one case years back when we’d crashed an event. Our credentials hadn’t come through due to some stupid administrative mistake. We’d rolled up to the venue, armed with our gear and smiles, and hit up the press table. Ten minutes later, we were backstage interviewing the bass guitarist of the band whose single later that fall would hit number one on every rock station in the US, UK, Australia, and a handful of other countries.

  The PR firm that had set up the interview and then dropped the ball wasn’t Jay Brodie. Jay Brodie would normally toy with us for a while but would always give their final answer, no matter if it was a yes or a no.

  Levi picked me up at two. This wasn’t our usual routine, but we’d been swamped with the quarterly issue prep and hadn’t had a chance to discuss the interview questions and our course of action. Doing it during the commute made the most sense under the circumstances. To make matters even worse, Kevin, one of our contributors from Orange County, hadn’t come through with his “best of” list.

  Basically, Levi and I were two stress balls who’d discovered how to compensate the lack of sleep with too many energy drinks and coffee.

  The Regency was a flamboyant art deco landmark in the heart of L.A. It sat on a busy, nightlife-filled stretch of Wilshire Boulevard between K-Town and Beverly Hills, and from what I could gather from social media as we battled the Saturday traffic on our way there, the line of Hall Affinity fans had begun to form in front of the venue at dawn.

  Levi was rocking the extra hipster look today. Doc Martens, skinny jeans, faded T-shirt with a #hashtag slogan on the front. He hadn’t shaved in days and was on his second Red Bull when we finally got off the freeway.

  “It’s not like he’s the president,” Levi bickered over the fact we hadn’t been informed whether the interview would be on camera. We’d packed our entire gear arsenal—both tripods, both mics, both audio recorders, cameras, LEDs, and an extra pack of batteries, but according to Linda’s courtesy text, the chance that Frankie’s manager would agree to video was slim.

  “Dude’s a glorified version of Chad Kroeger,” Levi went on, sipping on his drink.

  “Oh no, you didn’t!” I had nothing against the front man of the Canadian powerhouse, but Frankie Blade was a player of an entirely different league. Comparing him to Kroeger was a blasphemy, and I seriously wanted to kick Levi for even thinking such nonsense.

  “I’m just saying. What’s wrong with telling us beforehand?” he muttered, his gaze never leaving the road.

  “You know how it is.” I shrugged, reaching for his phone sitting in the cupholder to change the playlist.

  T-shirts with the signature Hall Affinity merch colors, black and orange, swarmed on the sidewalk as we circled the block near The Regency in search of parking. The streets buzzed. Invisible energy charged the warm September air.

  “I think we should stick to Ubering from now on,” Levi grumbled as the car in front of us came to a stop.

  It took us another twenty minutes to get into a lot, park, and make it to the back entrance of the venue, where our bags were thoroughly searched by security before we were ushered toward a media tent on the opposite side of the barricade. The group was small. I recognized Darren from AP and Robbie, the owner of Pulse Nation. Linda and a couple of girls from Jay Brodie were handing out passes.

  We made it in time for the press briefing.

  The instructions were very specific.

  No questions about the seven-year hiatus. No questions about Frankie's ex-wife. Who cared anyway? They’d been married for two and a half minutes. No questions about his health. No questions about KBC. No questions about motorcycles or any other kinds of extreme sport or adrenaline related activities. Basically, no questions about anything but the upcoming album.

  Oh, and no questions about touring since it was still unclear whether Frankie was able to pull off a ninety-minute set.

  “And please”—Linda raised both hands in the air and gave everyone in the tent a tense look—“refrain from staring at Mr. Blade’s face for prolonged periods of time. It will make him uncomfortable and we don’t want that. Understood?”

  All heads nodded in unison.

  “Great.” She flashed us a smile and glanced at her phone. “We’ll have a house photographer. You’ll be provided images for your editorials. We ask you not to use any other unauthorized images.”

  We waited a bit longer before security finally escorted us inside to one of the upstairs lounges.

  Levi was wired. I could tell from the dark shadows beneath his eyes. He paced around and talked to people to pass the time while I sat in a velvet papasan style chair and stared at my phone.

  I had programmed Jax’s number into my contacts the morning after he’d decorated my shoulder blade, but my gut was being silent and my brain was too busy to help me decide if I should call him. It’d been too long since a man had actually showed an interest in talking to me on a level that wasn’t professional or friendship, and I had no idea how to start this.

  “Cassy,” someone said to my right. “How’s life treating you?”

  I lifted my gaze from my phone and swiveled toward the sound. Robbie’s doughnut body descended into the chair next to mine. He was wearing a dark blue blazer and his thinning hair looked like it’d been smothered with an entire bottle of gel.

  “Life’s been treating me well, Robbie.” I made it a rule to call people I worked around by their names to ensure they remembered me. Although Robbie and I went way back. I’d done some volunteer work for Pulse Nation after my Jay Brodie internship. Sadly, they’d told me the magazine didn’t have a budget to hire another staff writer when I brought up money.

  “Surprised to see you here,” he said, straightening his blazer.

  “Why? From what I know, three outlets were approved for an interview with Frankie and the rest can sit down with Dante.” I got that info from Linda.

  He shrugged. “Did you hear what Smith said?” His voice lowered to a hoarse whisper. “Frankie might not be doing any press today after all.”

  I wasn’t sure whether Robbie was simply pulling my leg or his info was legit, but I didn’t like the sound of it. Levi wouldn’t either. Especially since he’d brought his backup gear too. “Really?”

  Robbie nodded and ran his large palm over his gel-covered head. “I mean…the man’s been in hiding for seven years. Could be nervous.”

  I suppressed my laugh. People like Frankie Blade didn’t get nervous. Getting together with the rest of the band to record and tour after everything he’d been through took guts.

  A short, round man in his mid-thirties rushed into the lounge, the crackling of the radio attached to his belt following him as he marched over to our group.

  “Do we have”—he glanced at the clipboard—“Rewired?”

  “Here!” Levi called, grabbing the gear.

  “You’re up. Follow me.”

  I rose from the chair and gave Robbie a shit-eating grin.

  “My name is Smith,” the man with the radio introduced himself as we walked down the hall. He turned around and scanned the passes hanging around our necks. “We’ll need you to sign a confidentiality agreement first.”

  Somehow, this didn’t surprise me at all.

  “Do you know if the interview will be on camera or audio?” Levi asked as we got ushered into a small room at the end of the hallway.

  “Corey will get you up to speed,” Smith explained, motioning at the man waiting for us inside. He was older, dressed sharply, with streaks of silver in his hair and a deep frown in his forehead, all signs of permanent stress.

  The secrecy around the interview format was overwhelming.

  “Cassy and Levi with Rewired, correct?” Corey shook our hands and led us to the table in the middle of the room. “I’m Frankie’s manager.” He was reserved and very official, and his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Yes. That’s us.” I nodded, setting my bag on the floor next to my chair. My dress pants rode up my thighs and my left bra strap was falling down my shoulder. My clothes suddenly felt like they didn’t fit. Was I nervous? I knew all the questions. I knew the band’s history and the lyrical content of all their albums like the back of my hand. This was something else, something I couldn’t put my finger on.

  Corey went over the major points of the confidentiality agreement and left the room.

  “This is ridiculous,” Levi muttered as he scribbled his name next to the neon pink pointer sticker. “Are we filming or what?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it does. Video will get us more hits.” He was obsessed with numbers. Numbers brought us revenue. No numbers meant no money. The face of Hall Affinity’s front man would bring lots of traffic.

  “You need to slow down with the energy drinks.” I tried a joke to release the tension.

  Corey returned with two stickers with our names on them. “Frankie likes to know whom he’s talking to.”

  Oh boy!

  Levi and I exchanged silent glares. This was a first. We’d never had to wear name tags before.

  “We’ll go with the video,” the manager said, collecting the signed paperwork. “No LEDs,” he added. “You get te
n minutes to set up and ten minutes with Frankie. You’re welcome to stay for the show. Your passes are good.”

  Music pounded somewhere below. My heart sang inside my chest. Levi could barely keep from grinning. We were marching through a long hallway filled with enough security to form a baseball team when I saw Dante. He was heading toward us, his entourage consisting of two very young—probably barely legal—blonds, a bodyguard, and his manager, Javier, whom I’d met a few times before when Rewired was covering Dante’s solo album.

  Our groups melded, and brief words were exchanged.

  Dante wore his usual black silk shirt that wasn’t tucked in all the way, faded designer jeans, a leather cowboy hat, and boots. He looked as if he’d just gotten out of bed and thrown together whatever outfit he’d had on before engaging in a nightlong orgy. His flashy style matched his status and his personality. He was a rock star with a capital R. Sex, drugs, rock ’n’ roll, and then some.

  I wasn’t sure he’d recognize me, but none of the vices Dante had fooled around with for almost two decades seemed to dull his memory.

  His mind was sharp as a razor when he was sober. And he definitely was, because I’d seen a number of videos of him drunk. He was the tabloids' favorite. They probably made as much money on him as he’d made playing lead guitar for one of the best-selling rock bands in the world.

  He approached me. “Am I seeing you later?” he asked, ignoring Levi. His smile dazzled like a freshly cut diamond, the white tip of a lollipop stick showing from the corner of his mouth. Last I heard, he was trying to quit smoking.

  “Not today.” I shook my head.

  “Say what?” His voice jumped and heads turned, including Corey’s. “You cheating on me, Cassy?” He pouted, plucking the candy from between his lips. A glint of amusement flickered in his eyes.

  Dante was the kind of man who liked to touch people. I credited this particular trait to his Hispanic heritage. His free hand slid up my shoulder and he gave me an air kiss. The blonds observed me and snickered.

  Dismissing their stares, I returned his smile. They’d be yesterday’s news tomorrow morning. “Maybe next time.”

  “Next time it is, darlin’.” Dante topped off his game with a wink.

  We disengaged. I buzzed from the collision with his larger than life personality and his aura.

  “This little lady is da bomb,” he said, jerking his chin at Corey before sticking the lollipop in his mouth again.

  A chill raced up my spine.

  There was no time for a thank you. Our groups went their separate ways. Levi shook his head and barely bit back his I-told-you-to-use-your-hookups grin.

  The room Corey took us to was small and intimate. The music disappeared completely when the door behind us slammed shut. There were two security guards outside and an older man with a head full of gray hair sitting inside on a small couch in the corner. He wore a light brown vest, loose jeans, and boots. Faded swirls of ink crept from under the sleeves of his Woodstock-themed shirt.

  Billy, I thought to myself. Frankie’s father. He wasn’t hard to recognize.

  The old man gave us a half-smile and a nod.

  “You’ll have twenty-four hours to send me raw footage and a final cut for approval,” Corey said.

  There were refreshments set up on a table and I desperately wanted to get a bottle of water for my dry throat, but we didn’t have much time. Levi was setting up his tripod and I needed to test both mics.

  We worked fast and in tense silence. I wrestled off my jacket and double-checked the batteries. Sweat coated the back of my neck and my hair began sticking to my skin.

  I’d interviewed some of the biggest and nastiest names in the business. Anxiety was no longer an option. If the person sensed my hesitation, it always caused a shutdown. Establishing a relationship with a complete stranger in under thirty seconds was a gift. My gift. The one that fed me and paid my bills. Why my mind was suddenly blanking with terror was a brain twister to me.

  When we were all set, Levi indulged himself with a free energy drink and I grabbed a water.

  Billy kept quiet and I wondered how much say he had in what was going on here today or how big of a role he’d played in his son’s decision to return to the music industry.

  That Frankie had been adopted by the Wallaces shortly after he’d turned six wasn’t a secret. He didn’t talk about it much at first, and when his career took off, the topic had become a big no for the press. Of course, his reluctance to discuss the part of his childhood he’d spent in foster care didn’t stop gossip-hungry sharks from digging deeper. Fortunately, there was nothing to dig for.

  Frankie Blade was an American dream. Living proof that anyone could rise from the ashes. Not once, but twice.

  The door swung open and the room suddenly felt like an inferno.

  My gaze moved to the people entering. Corey led the group and I saw the bald head of a bodyguard lingering all the way in the back. Frankie was sandwiched between him, his manager, and a voluptuous leggy blond in a bright pink blazer and dress pants. I heard a door slam and my spine stiffened.

  Corey asked, “Are you all set?” Then his eyes darted between Levi and me, seeking confirmation.

  We both nodded.

  The air sparked; the floors rumbled. Frankie’s presence was a nuclear explosion, slowly traveling through the room until it hit me full force. My palm that was wrapped around the wireless mic was sweaty as I smiled.

  “This is Levi and Cassy from Rewired.” Corey made the brief introduction and stepped aside. The blond held out her hand for a shake first. “Hi. I’m Brooklyn, Frankie’s assistant.” She had a throaty, commanding tone and I couldn’t tell her age. Too many layers of makeup covered her skin.

  When Frankie and his bodyguard reached us, my heart jumped. The entire afternoon seemed unreal and the memories swept me under. I was a confused fourteen-year-old girl again, who sat in her room, crying through all twelve tracks of Breathe Crimson because her father hadn’t come home last night.

  “Pleasure,” Frankie said, his voice deep and thick with emotion. A hand extended to me. “How are you?” No name followed. Not that it was necessary.

  I snapped back to the present and slid my damp palm against his, slightly embarrassed. “Great. How are you?” A smile stretched across my lips. The words coming out of my mouth felt stale.

  He shook my hand, his stormy gunmetal blue eyes drawing a quick path along the length of my face and upper body. They didn’t descend past the sticker with my name, which I appreciated.

  Contrary to common belief, Frankie wasn’t as tall as the stage and the music videos made him out to be, but his trimmed-to-perfection five-eleven height was a force to be reckoned with against my thin-framed five-four. He was wearing all black. Slim jeans hung low on his hips, leaving very little to the imagination, a satin shirt clung to his chest and abs just enough to show the result of rigorous workout sessions, and sparse ink designs littered his jewelry-clad forearms.

  I attempted to follow Linda’s advice and refrain from staring at him, but my eyes didn’t agree with my brain. They ogled.

  Frankie returned my smile and withdrew his hand to shake Levi’s. The bodyguard retreated back to the corner to give us space. Corey positioned himself next to the camera.

  “If you don’t mind”—I grabbed a lav mic from Levi—“audio can get a little messy with this one if things heat up.” Heart racing, I shook my wireless Sennheiser. The base was damp from my sweat. I needed a napkin more than anything right now.

  “We definitely don’t want things to get messy.” Frankie laughed softly, moving toward the leather couch. The sound was subtle but infectious. It filtered through me like a sultry heatwave, taunting and soothing.

  He motioned for me to join him.

  Breathe, Cassy, breathe, I told myself. My lungs were tight and my stomach knotted pleasantly as I neared the couch. Frankie scooted over to one side and I sat on the other. The cool leather squawked under the weight of our shifting bodies as we made ourselves comfortable.

  “Could you put this on?” I handed him the lav mic.

  “Does it come with instructions?” A hint of a smirk tugged the corner of his mouth. The man was full of silent innuendos. I wasn’t sure if they were intentional or force of habit, but I loved it.