~Joan Crawford

PRESENT

I took my shaking self to the bathroom the instant Dante had left my room.  I gripped the counter and told myself to breathe, my trembling limbs barely holding me up.

I told myself that the shaking was relief at his absence.

When it passed, I went into the living room.  I smiled in spite of myself when I caught sight of the mystery man.

Ah.  Anton.  I should’ve guessed.

“Hopefully Demi didn’t get you punched in the moneymaker with her little stunt back there,” I said in greeting.

The tall man that lounged comfortably on our oversized sectional rose at my entrance, his rueful grin a familiar, endearing sight.  “It was a close thing, I think, but despite her best efforts, I seem to be unharmed.

I hugged him briefly, air-kissing both of his cheeks while he bent down far enough to real-kiss mine.

“So that was the guy, huh?” he said, his trained actor’s voice steady, his knowing eyes something else.

I shrugged dismally.  I hated to give Dante that much credit, whether he’d earned it or not.  “He was a guy, one I prefer not to talk about.”

I fingered his beard.  He was growing it out for a role as a scruffy biker, complete with long brown hair that he kept tied back in a neat little bun.  I’d hated the change in his look when he’d first gotten the part, but lately it was really growing on me.

Anton was Hollywood good-looking, versatile, and ever changing but polished to gleaming, with perfect teeth, handsome features, and total control over every muscle in his face.

We’d met two years ago shooting a doomed pilot.  The show had never made it on air, but at least I’d gotten Anton out of the deal.

We were so much alike that it scared me sometimes.  He was basically a male version of me.

We’d dated for about five minutes, and I’d even been about one drink from sleeping with him, but then I’d realized that I actually liked him, so friends it was.

He grinned.  “You’re starting to like this biker vibe I have going, aren’t you?”

“Fat chance, beardo,” I told him, making a face at him as I moved to take a barstool at the counter.

“Dante has a temper,” Demi pointed out from the kitchen, where she was staring at the cupcakes forlornly.

“Yes,” I said succinctly.

“But he’s not what I was expecting,” she added.

My lip curled.  “He can be charming—”

“It’s not that.  I figured he’d be charming.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know.  I knew you hated him, and I guess I just figured he hated you back.  But he definitely doesn’t hate you.”

I waved my hand in the air as though warding off the notion.  “It’s complicated.  He’s as hostile as I am, he just hides it better, but don’t let him fool you—he's a fucking beast when it comes to breaking hearts.

She nodded, her eyes so solemn that I had to look away.  “That I gathered.  I’m sorry I said Anton was your boyfriend.  I thought I was helping, but I made things worse, didn’t I?”

“On the contrary,” I assured her.  “Your interruption couldn’t have come at a better time, so thank you.”

She smiled cheekily, shrugging, “Anytime.”

“What was he doing here?” Anton asked from the sofa.

I looked down at my hands, bracing myself for the pain of saying it aloud.  “Gram died.”

They both gasped.

“Oh no,” Demi uttered softly.

“Not Gram,” Anton muttered, followed by a steady and vehement string of cursing.

Just like anyone important in my life invariably knew at least something about Dante, they also knew about Gram.  She was the only person I considered family and talked about as such.

“What happened?”

“A fatal stroke.  That’s why he was chasing me around.  I guess he didn’t want to tell me over the phone.”

“But he didn’t tell you last night?” Demi asked.

Anton coughed and I glared at him.

“He didn’t.”  I knew they’d heard what he’d said back in my room, or at least enough to suspect, but I had no intention of hashing it out.

“What can I do?” Demi asked, sounding so sincere and concerned that I could hardly stand to hear it.

I nodded at the open bottle of scotch I’d left in the kitchen earlier.  “Hand me that, will you?”

There was only one thing to be done.  Because crying in my room alone held no appeal, and crying in front of other people was even worse—I was throwing one hell of a drunk.

I was hoping this one was more successful than the last attempt.

Or, at the very least, less disastrous.

Demi and Anton didn’t hesitate to join me.

I stopped drinking out of the bottle (because we had company now) and made myself an oversized tumbler of scotch.

Anton and Demi did the same.  Demi despised scotch, so I knew she was just being a good sport.

“I hope you can stomach this stuff,” I told Anton as he took a long swallow.  “It was way too low class for Dante the Bastard.”

“I think it’s fantastic,” he told me, toasting the air.

“You don’t have to drink scotch for me, Demi,” I told her.

She shrugged and toasted at me.  “It’s for your gram,” she said and took a long, painful-looking swallow.

We got good stinking drunk and watched reruns of our favorite reality show, Kink and Ink.