Snare (Falling Stars #3) (3 page)

"Hey, I'm not the one who took off for eight months and left our business behind for me to handle on my own, Sid." He drops down into his matching chair at the other desk. "When we started this, I didn't realize I'd be doing it by myself."

"I started this and don't forget that," I growl, slipping my glasses with the bright green frames on my face.

"This is a fifty-fifty partnership." His voice rises.

"I know," I snap. "Just let me analyze the data since you were clearly too busy playing fraternity party in my apartment."

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath before digging into our financials and the latest customer satisfaction reports.

After two hours of analyzing, comparing, and research, I find two things: there are hidden expenses that need clarification, and our logistics issue isn't as bad as Paul implied.

The logistic issues come down to the shipping company we chose. We simply need to meet with the company to remedy the questions or sever the relationship and use the competitor. The missing and damaged items he ranted about were most likely lost due to packaging damages during shipping, so our fulfillment warehouse will just need to do a better job securing the packages to avoid it in the future.

"Paul, this really isn't—"

The ring of his phone cuts me off. It's
her
again.

He grabs the phone and stands to leave the room.

I watch him intently and the weight of my stare is enough to get his attention.

"She just wants to talk," he explains, trying to placate me with a smile.

"Of course," I clip, and turn back to the computer.

He spins my chair, bringing me back to face him.

"Don't be like that. We just have some things to discuss. You know, end of relationship shit." He gives a one-shoulder shrug.

Raising my chin and shoving down the insecurity, I put on my best "it's cool" face.

"I'm not being like anything."

"You're the best," he says before kissing the top of my head and walking away.

I place my elbows onto the desk, cradle my head in my hands, and take deep breaths.

Something is totally off. I fucking know it. Why did I sleep with him again? And why am I letting him weasel his way back in? If he can't take the call in front of me, then why the hell should I believe him?

Digging my nails into my scalp, I shake out my hair and focus on the folders next to my monitor. A receipt grabs my attention. I slip it out of the folder and everything inside me turns cold. Just the thought of it shatters me.

The air leaves my body, a knot forms in my stomach, and I fist the restaurant receipt dated four days ago. A second piece of paper falls into my lap. Lifting it, I find the jewelry store receipt. Dread and anger battle for dominant emotion.

Pushing away from the desk, I square my shoulders and head for the bedroom he's closed away in.

I reach for the knob and hear the words that confirm my suspicions.

"Baby, I told you, I'm working on a huge logistics issue. She's not even here. The bitch took off for California and left me to handle everything."

A dark, cold hardness sweeps through my body and I pull my hand away from the door, but I don't move.

"You don't think I would rather be there with you? I'm all alone here and missing you so much."

I bite the inside of my cheek and the coppery flavor of my blood assaults my taste buds. My skin heats from the burn of humiliation and shame.

"You did?" He asks in an eager, breathy tone. "You're such a naughty girl, Sam. Send it to me," he demands.

"Fuck baby, you know I love your dirty little pics. I want you to send me a video like you did last night."

I'm a fucking idiot.

My embarrassment turns to raw fury. I twist the knob and shove the door open hard enough to leave a hole in the wall.

Paul spins, mouth open and eyes wide in panic. The look only intensifies my need to rage.

"Baby—"

Before he says one more word, I shout, "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm confused. Which one of us is 'baby'?" I cock one eyebrow.

He opens his mouth, but shuts it when I step closer.

"Because you just called
her
baby, but last night…" I pause, for dramatic flourish, "last night, when you had your tiny dick inside me,
I
was baby."

"You fucking liar!" Samantha's shout loud enough to hear through his phone.

"S-Sid," he stutters.

"Yeah,
baby,
" I retort, the last word full of the disgust I feel.

"I-I…listen—" he starts, but Sam's voice cuts him off.

I can't hear what she's saying now, but he pales and swallows hard.

"You know, you look a little busy." I put my hands up and start backing toward the door. "Why don't you let her finish first? If anyone knows your penchant for finishing first, it's me."

His eyes narrow at me just before I close the bedroom door.

The latch clicks, and deep inside, something snaps. A thrilling current moves through me and I hurry into action.

Grabbing the small white laundry basket from my bathroom, I make my rounds through the apartment, picking up his clothes, iPad, wallet, and shoes.

"Sid, look, I know you're mad," he says, moving down the hall toward me. "But…what are you doing?" His gaze moves from me to the basket in my arms and back to my face.

"This," I say, rushing to the large window.

"Damn it, Sid!" His footsteps are loud and quickly approaching.

Shoving the glass panel up, I push the screen out and dump the basket.

"Will you stop!" Paul grabs the bottom of the basket and pulls, but it's too late.

"Oops." I shrug with a smile on my face, but don't feel as satisfied as I'd hoped.

Instead, I mentally chastise myself for letting him get me this upset, for destroying the careful rules I put in place for any man coming into my life.

"Christ, Sidra, what the fuck is wrong with you?" he asks, throwing the basket across the room.

"Me?" I point to my chest. "I'm the asshole? You're fucking delusional. You lying, little dick, couldn't-find-a-clit-if-you-had-a-map, fuckwad!"

I pull back my fist and launch, but he catches my wrist and levels me with a penetrating glare.

"Stop it." He shakes me by the arm.

The movement jerks my body uncomfortably, causing me to wince.

"I can't believe you could—"

"Could what?" he asks in a growl, tightening his grip. "This is what we do, Sid. We fuck around, but it doesn't last. You know this is how we work."

I open my mouth to launch my next attack, but instead, I close it and my eyes. Inhaling through my nose and exhaling out of my mouth, I refocus. Because he's right, and I fucking hate it.

"You're right," I concede, opening my eyes. "But not anymore. Get out, Paul, and don't come back."

Pulling my wrist from his grip, I wrap my fingers around the area and rub. The dull throb tells me there will be bruises.

He snorts. "We have a business to run. I'm not going anywhere."

"Get out of my apartment, Paul."

"We have—"

"Then we'll start operating the business from somewhere else, but you don't come back here." The stinging begins at the tip of my nose and backs of my eyes. "Give me the key."

I hold out my hand.

"You threw it out the fucking window, Psycho." He crosses his arms over his chest and glares down.

"Just get out," I point to the door, "and don't come back." I focus on a signed photo of Darth Vader hanging on my wall behind him.

"Fine," he barks, "but we both know I'll be back."

My eyes snap to his face. The smirk he wears makes me ball my hands into fists. I open my mouth to argue, but he speaks first.

"Every fucking time, I come back. It's us, baby." He shrugs.

I hate that fucking word—baby. My stomach turns, remembering the way the first asshole used it before and the way this asshole uses it now.

"Fuck you," I growl.

"Oh, I'm sure you will. I give it a week." He lifts his hand, showing one finger. "One week and I'll be back." He steps forward and grabs my arms, his fingers biting into my flesh before I can retreat. "There's one little problem."

"What problem?" I ask in a hush, regretting the question before he answers.

"You love me, Sid." The words are an acute stab to my chest and successfully shuts down the fight inside me. "And you only have me."

In a flash of movement, he grabs the back of my head and kisses me.

My anger flares to life at the boldness, the invasion. I bite his lip before shoving him away.

"Fuck, baby, that hurt," he shouts, covering his mouth.

I hate that fucking word
—
baby
.

Then, he grins, a sick twinkle of arrogance in his eyes.

"You know I'm right." He walks backward toward the door.

He's right. This cycle of us has always been like this, but it's clear now. He doesn't care enough to see what he's broken inside me. He doesn't see the past pain he's dredged to the surface. He doesn't see the raw and primitive grief swallowing me.

I shake my head and prepare to deny it, to swear this sick cycle has come to its end.

"I'll see you soon, Sidra," Paul says just before slipping out of my apartment.

I throw myself into the door, securing the deadbolt, chain, and standard lock.

Leaning back against the hard wood, I sink to the floor.

With shaking hands, I clench my chest. My heart thumps erratically, the sound of it the only thing I hear. My mouth goes dry and it's hard to swallow.

Not again. I've let it happen again.

"It hurts," I choke out. "Why does it have to hurt so damn much?"

The stinging behind my eyes becomes a burn— a burn my tears can't extinguish. Rolling to the floor and becoming a pathetic ball of sobs, I surrender to the agony.

Chapter Tw
o
Xavier Stone

Six Months Earlier…

"How many times does Gil have to go behind your back to tell me what's going on?" I grip one of her frail hands in both of mine, trying to keep my anger in check.

"Xavier," she rasps, "I'm sorry."

"You were sorry the last time I had to barge into a hospital room. Why are you keeping shit from me?"

"Not for you to worry about." Her eyes droop low and her breathing labors.

"Maria, I love you, you know that."

I pull her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles.

In my peripheral, I see Gil stiffen. He doesn't say a word, knowing the love I have for Maria is not romantic. Still, it's not fucking easy to watch another man kiss your wife. Something I know too well, having watched him kiss her the day she went from being Maria Stone to Mrs. Gilbert Frances.

"Xavier, I don't need everyone worrying about this. It doesn't help," she says, ending on a cough.

Gil's quick to get a glass of water and bring it to her lips in a practiced move.

"Sip slowly," he instructs.

She does as he says before settling back into the pillows. Her head turns toward me once again.

"We need to plan for what's ahead."

"The plan is to get you better and back home," I inform.

Meeting Gil's eyes, he nods in silent agreement.

Good, he hasn't given up on her.

"You aren't giving up," I order.

"Always so bossy," she laughs. "You and Gil sound alike."

It's a good sound.

"I want you to take the girls," she stops to take a few breaths, "to live with you," she finishes, but I shake my head.

"They need stability." Her words are followed by more coughing.

"They need
you
." I bow, putting my forehead on top of our clasped hands.

"I need you to do this for me, Xavier." Her free hand comes to my head. "Please. The girls are left with sitters and friends all the time. Gil is here with me and they need their father right now. Please, do this for me—for them?"

Lifting my head, I look into the sad eyes of my terminally ill ex-wife, my first real love, my best friend, and I give one sharp nod.

"Thank you," she chokes out around another cough.

I will myself not to cry in front of her. She doesn't need that shit.

"How long have you had the girls now?" Randy asks, sniffing a little too frequently.

"How much shit did you snort in my bathroom?" I return, knowing the fucker just came from there. A bathroom located in my home where my girls are currently doing their hair or nails, or some other girlie shit.

"What?" He feigns a look of innocence.

Putting the beer bottle to my lips, I raise one brow and drink.

Fucking Randy.

After our band, Corrosive Velocity, lost our lead singer, Ethan Crowne, to Neurofibromatosis, his twin brother and our lead guitarist, Corbin Crowne, couldn't stand to be on stage without him. And being completely honest, it felt wrong to play the drums behind anyone else.

At the time, our road manager had tried to talk Randy, our bassist, Jeremy Danvers, guitarist/violinist, and me into reforming the band. Stephen Redman hated the thought of letting Ethan's legacy fade away, but in the end, we went our own ways.

Corbin works behind the scenes and is pretty much a recluse, staying out of the public eye. Jeremy moved to the mountains with his wife, Agatha, and their three kids. Randall and I stayed in L.A., putting together GlenStone Productions.

When we entered this venture, I hadn't planned on having a drug addict as a partner. It's not like the fucker did much work. I was lucky he showed up today in my home studio.

"Look, I just needed a bump to keep going." He shrugs and turns back to the soundboard.

"I can't believe you're fucking high right now," I say, my voice hoarse with frustration. "After the shit you pulled with Jackson, you're still fucking around with this!" I slam the beer bottle on the wooden lip of the table.

"What?" he half-laughs, half yells. "I didn't do anything to Jackson. He asked for some blow, so I scored it for him," he defends.

"He almost died, you asshole," I growl. "And you're bringing that shit into my house? My girls are upstairs for fuck's sake. Besides the fact that you could've gone to jail after what went down with Jack."

"Don't act like you've never-"

"I quit that shit a long fucking time ago and you know it, Randy. Don't deflect your bullshit." I rub my face, fighting the urge to throat punch the asshole.

"Look, man, I don't wanna fight. I'm sorry I brought it here. I wasn't thinking."

"Damn straight you weren't thinking," I snap, dropping my hands from my face.

"I won't do it again." He puts his hands up, palms out.

"You need to stop using or you're going to end up killing yourself."

"Thanks, Dad, but I'm fine." He rolls his eyes, sniffing again, and turns back to the knobs on the table.

"So, you've had the twins now for almost a year, right?" He changes the subject, like his addiction isn't a problem.

"Six months," I correct.

His eyes come to mine, surprise on his face. "Really?"

"Yeah, really. They've been living here full-time for six months."

"I swear it's been longer." He looks back down at the knobs, his brow furrowed.

"Well, I'm pretty sure I remember when the decision was made, seeing as it took place with Maria lying in a fucking ICU bed." Snatching my beer off the table, I put it to my lips and drain the bottle.

"Fuck, man," he says, pulling me away from the memory. "I'm sorry." Randy shakes his head, not looking at me.

"Yeah, man, me too." Eyeing the wastebasket in the corner, I line up and toss the bottle. It lands inside, clamoring with the others. "Now, let's finish this shit up. I've got a date with my daughters tonight."

I focus on the soundboard and move the earphones to cover one ear.

"Sure, sure," he nods, moving more knobs and sliding keys. "Seen Red lately?"

My eyes flick back to Randy, knowing Red wants nothing to do with him. After he found out Randy was the one supplying Jackson, Red didn't even invite him to perform with us at the benefit concert.

"Yeah," I admit, turning my eyes back to the table. "We're gettin together in a couple days."

"Tell him I said hi," Randy says, his tone unfriendly.

"Dude, you did this shit to yourself," I bark out.

"What the fuck ever! I'm a part of—"

"I'm not having the drugs and Jackson conversation with you again," I say, raising my voice. "You need to clean your shit up if you want him to bring you on for the reunion concerts. End of fucking story," I growl, shutting down the conversation.

"How's Maria doing?" Stephen "Red" Redman asks, serving me another drink in the burlesque club he bought about a year ago.

When I first got a glimpse of Lux Hedonica, I thought it was a rundown strip joint. But after seeing the inside, I changed my mind. Now that Red had put some work into this place, it's the go-to hot spot in East L.A.

"She's doing well, I think." I take a drink of the amber liquid. It burns just the right amount.

"You think?" Red asks, coming around the bar and slipping onto the stool next to me.

"She keeps me updated, but I have to get the real information from Gil. I'm taking the girls up to see her in a couple days."

"I'm sure she just doesn't want to worry you and the girls." He clasps one of his big hands onto my shoulder. "She's always been a fighter, man. I'm sure she'll make this heart problem her bitch."

"I fucking hope so." Bringing the chilled glass to my mouth, I drain the rest of the liquid.

"Hey, beautiful," Red calls out to someone behind me.

Turning, I see Liza Campbell coming toward us. A gorgeous blonde with a body that could stop and restart a man's heart, and a voice any person would sell their soul to have.

"Hi, Red. Xavier," she greets.

I give a chin lift and set my glass on top of the bar.

"Where's your seven-foot shadow?" Red asks, referring to Jackson Shaw—the lead rhythm guitarist for the current chart-topping band, The Forgotten, and Liza's man.

Liza grins.

"He's at his AA meeting."

A few months back, Jackson and Liza went through some crazy shit. Jackson's psycho ex-girlfriend, Kristy, caused a stir in the media, Jack was nose deep in cocaine, and aside from her and Jackson's attraction and inability to stay away from each other, Liza was basically an innocent bystander.

"Good boy," Red praises. "He coming by afterward?"

"When doesn't he show up?" I ask, raising my brows at Red.

"If he's out of town or I'm not here," Liza interjects with a large smile.

Fuck, she's gorgeous, and so sweet. Jackson is a lucky man.

"Speaking of out of town, Sid went back to Pennsylvania the other day, right?" Red knows just what to ask to both annoy and entice me. "I have a couple things I want to discuss with her about marketing."

"Yeah." Liza nods. "A couple days ago."

Sidra fucking Campbell, Liza's cousin. A loud mouth, sarcastic, ball of fucking wit and infuriating insults, but a body built for fucking. Every time she's around, I can't control the urge to piss her off and try to get her in my bed, or straddle me in a chair…against a wall—pretty fucking much anywhere.

"When's she coming back?" Red presses.

I listen, a tad too intently, to Liza's response.

"I don't know," she says, worrying her lip.

"What's wrong?" Red pushes up from the stool.

"It was just different this time when she left. It felt wrong." She gives a one-shoulder shrug.

"That girl can handle anything," Red boasts on a laugh. "I'm sure she's fine."

"Maybe." Liza tries to sound convincing. "You don't know her like I do, though. Back in Pennsylvania…" she trails off.

"Back in Pennsylvania, what?" I ask, fully absorbed in the topic.

"It's nothing." Liza shakes her head. "I should get backstage."