Snare (Falling Stars #3) (4 page)

"We have a travel schedule to go over tonight," Red reminds her retreating form.

She looks over her shoulder and gives a nod.

"Wonder what that's about?" I swirl the melting ice in my empty glass.

"About Sid?" Red reaches over the bar, grabs the neck of a bottle, and places it on the bar between us.

"Yeah." I refill my glass.

"Some douchebag fucks around with her." Red shrugs. "It's girl shit."

"And you know girl shit?" I half grin.

"Fuck you, Bethany talks about shit and it's usually to me." He takes a drink from his own glass. "And my good listening is often rewarded with gratuitous naked fuckery."

Bethany, another one of the dancer/singers who performs at the club, caught Red's eye. Though, from what he says, it took him weeks to wear her down.

I asked him once, why Bethany and not Liza. He looked me in the eye, and said, "
It's her laugh. The first time I heard Bethany laugh, I was done. To this day, I don't know what the fuck she was laughing about, but there she was, head tossed back, hand on her stomach, her laugh filling the backstage area."

"Yeah, sure," I taunt.

"Blow me," he laughs out.

"Speaking of things that blow," I start, pausing when I feel him tense next to me. He knows where this is going. "You know what's coming in a couple weeks."

"Yeah, I fucking know," he grumbles, skipping his glass and drinking straight from the bottle instead.

"You doing the norm?" Keeping my eyes on my glass, I watch the last piece of ice float.

"No. We'll be at Chris and Mia's wedding."

I nod.

Christopher Mason, lead singer of The Forgotten and Jackson's stepbrother, is finally marrying the only woman who can put up with his ass. Mia Ryder, the lead singer for Hushed Mentality, entered Chris' life when they toured together. In an unexpected turn of events, Chris ended up in love, a father, and engaged. I never thought I'd see the day for that little arrogant fuck.

"That's a good place to be," I say, nodding.

"You aren't going." It's not a question.

"Thought about it, but it's just a really rough time." Taking a large drink, I swallow the lump in my throat. "We were brothers, all of us. It's just really hard to—"

Red clasps my shoulder. "I know, man. I know."

"Red," Bethany calls out, breaking the depressing moment.

"What's wrong?" He drops his hand from me and takes three quick strides to reach her.

"Something happened with Sid," Bethany rushes out.

Standing up from the stool, I take a step toward them.

Bethany takes his arm and starts pulling him toward the backstage door.

"Liza's a mess and you need to tell her she can leave," she states, pulling him harder.

"What the fuck happened?" I ask, my voice a bit louder than intended.

Red stops, causing Bethany to jerk back on her heels. He glances over his shoulder before looking back to the curvy redhead yanking on his arm.

"Yeah, what the hell happened?" he asks her.

With a heavy sigh, she releases his arm and puts her hands on her hips.

"All I know is Liza got a call from her Aunt, Sid's mom, and then the tears and panic started. They can't find her or get in touch with her or something!" she shouts. "Now, get your ass moving and help me get Liza on a plane." Grabbing his arm again, she pulls and he allows her to lead.

Worry tightens my body. The thought of something happening to the little spitfire puts me on edge. The douchebag Red mentioned earlier better hope to God he didn't hurt her or he'll get a visit from all of us. She might be crazy, but she's definitely my kind of crazy.

At the hidden backstage door, Red glances back.

"I'll catch up with you later." He lifts a hand up in goodbye before disappearing through the curtained doorway.

Chapter Three
Sidra

After scrubbing about five layers of skin cells contaminated by his touch, and destroying and trashing everything Paul related—pictures, stupid knickknacks, and his coffee mug—I strip the sheets and blankets from my bed. Now, lying in the middle of the bare queen size mattress, I stare up at the white ceiling. Music blares, the pathetic love songs ripping out my heart, but at least it drowns out everything else. Mostly, it keeps the silence away. Silence is bad. Silence hurts. And the songs suck—but they keep it away. The only things they don't stop are the tears and the memories of what he said.

"One week and I'll be back."

"You love me, Sid. And I'm the only one you've got."

I'm so fucking cried out in my personal cocoon of anguish, but my tear ducts don't give a flying fuck what I want.

"Madonna? Really?" Liza asks at the same time the silence crashes in around me.

With a sigh, I turn my head. My beautiful, perfect, sunshine cousin leans in my doorway, the remote to my speaker system in her hand.

I want to shout, rage for her to go away, to let me drown in my stupidity and sorrow. Instead, I open my mouth, and say, "He's a fucking barista."

Liza pushes away from the door and climbs into the bed next to me as sobs wrack my body.

Sliding one arm under me, she pulls me into her and grabs my wrist.

"That fucking asshole," she says, cursing the bruises he left behind.

She wraps her other arm over me and I return the embrace, holding on tight. Everything is falling apart and I need her to hold me together.

"I'm crying over a fucking bastard who makes coffee, Liza," I sob against her chest. "I'm a fucking loser."

"You aren't a loser," she tries to soothe. "Wanna tell me what happened?"

"No," I choke out, not wanting to admit once again how right she is about the douchebag barista whose name shall not be mentioned.

"Okay," she whispers, pressing her lips to the top of my head.

My sunshine cousin, my best friend, holds me to her. Neither of us speaks, but the sound of her sniffle lets me know she's feeling this with me.

For the second time in two days, I wake up alone in my bed.

Climbing off the mattress and onto my feet, I follow the sounds coming from my kitchen.

I emerge from the hallway and find my living room clean. Looking to my right, I see Liza putting away clean dishes.

"You don't have to do that," I mumble, sliding onto a chair at the island separating my kitchen and living space.

"You would do…" she trails off and looks at me from over her shoulder.

I raise my brow line in an are-you-sure-about-that kind of way.

"Yeah, you wouldn't do the same." Shaking her head, she puts the plates in the cupboard, then turns to face me. "But you would make someone else take care of it for me."

She takes a couple steps and leans on the island across from me.

"Liza, you know you didn't have to come here," I say, dropping my eyes to the Formica top of the island.

"Of course I did," she scoffs like I insulted her.

It brings my eyes back up to meet hers.

"Go ahead," I say, putting my elbows on the island and cradling my face in one hand.

"Go ahead, what?" She purses her lips.

"Tell me how right you were," I say, motioning for her to get it over with.

"Yeah, like that's what I came here for."

She crosses her arms over her chest.

"Then what did you come here for?" I ask, a bit snottily.

"I came here for you, Sid." Liza plants her hands on the formica. "And to do what we do."

"And what do we do?" I ask, watching her open my refrigerator.

She straightens and starts setting five bottles of the fruitiest red merlot on the island.

"That's a lot of wine," I state, unable to keep the smile from my face, even though I feel like dying inside.

"Don't worry," she reaches into a plastic shopping bag on the other counter and sets down two boxes of crackers, "we have these to soak it up."

"But do you have—"

Before I finish, she sets out three cans of glorious, wonderful spray cheese.

"I love you so much," I croon, grabbing a can, popping the lid, and squirting it in my mouth.

"There's also pizza, candy bars, and ice cream, but I figure we start here," she says, setting down two large wine glasses on the tabletop.

After filling up the glasses and dumping the two boxes of crackers in a large mixing bowl, we grab another bottle of wine and the cans of cheese, and move this party to the living room. Taking up residence on opposite ends of the couch, I run down the details of the crash and burn with the barista whose name shall never be spoken again.

On the third bottle of merlot, we are slouching into the soft brown leather and slurring.

"I put a freeze on his credit card," I admit, laughing.

"You didn't?" Liza asks, eyes widening.

I nod, giving a manic smile.

"You're going to," she hiccups, "end up in jail." She groans.

"They'll never trace it," I scoff. "Besides, he deserves it."

Liza groans again.

"I can't believe I let him put his teeny weenie in me," I cry.

"Ew, don't want to hear about his weenie." Liza covers her ears.

I laugh, and it feels good. Then, in a moment of seriousness, I sit up and lean toward Liza.

Her eyes focus on me, anticipation on her face.

"Does Jackson know where your clit's at?" I ask, raising one brow.

"What? I'm not answering that," she slurs, but can't keep the large grin off her face.

"Fuck," I curse, throwing myself back onto the couch. "He does, and I bet he spends days just cuddling it…with his tongue."

Liza bursts out laughing.

I rest my head on the side of the couch and throw my arm over my eyes. Unfortunately, it's Paul's face I see behind my closed lids. The torment of his features chokes everything good from the moment.

"Why do I always fall for it?" I ask in a suffocated whisper.

Liza exhales loudly.

"Don't blame yourself for what other assholes do," she deflects, and I know why she's doing it. She's avoiding my journey back to college.

"I actually choose the assholes, Liza," I snap, my voice callous.

I pull my arm from my face and push up. She lolls her head toward me, understanding softening her eyes.

"I make a conscious decision to get involved with guys who are the worst levels of asshole. They're like the Bilbo Douchebaggins from the Shire of Douchey-ness.

Liza snorts. "Please don't make me laugh about this."

"Laughing is better than crying," I respond, dropping the volume of my voice.

Turning in my spot, I lean back into the softness of the cushion and stretch my legs out. I prop my feet on the wooden coffee table and accidentally knock an empty can of cheese to the floor.

"Sid," Liza coos, sitting up and mimicking my position, "they're assholes and good at tricking people. Pa—"

I put a hand up, silencing her. "Uh-uh, his name will not be said out loud."

"Don't you have to say it three times before he shows up?" she teases, bringing a smile to my face.

"That's Beetlejuice," I correct, trying not to laugh.

"Or Bloody Mary, or Candy Man," she lists, "but all have the same bloody results."

"You've been around me too long," I snort.

"I'm just saying, they know how to fool people, to get their hooks in them—they have the problem, not you."

"No, I have a problem."

"Sid—"

"Sure, he's a shriveled foreskin," I interrupt, "but he's also right."

I pull my legs to my chest, planting the heels of my feet into the couch cushion. Wrapping my arms around my legs, I turn my head toward her and place my cheek on my knees.

"I always let him back in," I whimper. "Always, Liza."

"Well," she slaps the cushions with the flats of her hand, "what are you going to do about it?"

Closing my eyes, I feel the wetness skim over my cheek. The warm tear soaks into the black leggings I'd put on during my break down.

"I don't know," I whisper.

"You need to figure it out," Liza says quietly.

I already know this, but I just don't know how.

Liza pushes up from the couch, swaying slightly, and puts a hand out to me.

I don't even ask. This is my beautiful, sunshine cousin, my best friend. I take her hand and stand next to her.

"Let's go hack his social profiles and post gay porn." She nods to my computers.

I sniff and wipe my damp cheeks. Swallowing the rest of my tears, I smile.

"You really know how to make a girl feel good."

She winks, her grin growing wider. Looping her arm in mine, we stagger over to the computer desk.

"Wakey, wakey, gorgeous," Liza sings.

Light bursts against my eyelids and I burrow down into the couch.

"It's time to get up." She shakes me for emphasis.

"What's with the early morning attack?" I grumble, covering my face with a throw blanket.

The material is snatched away and I'm physically assaulted again.

"Fine," I growl, rolling onto my back.

Opening my eyes, I'm stricken by light. "Holy mother of sunlight, Batman. It's too damn bright. Can't get up."

I try to roll back over, but a surprisingly strong Liza stops me.

Cracking one eye open, I look up at her.

"Shouldn't you be as hung over as me?" I mumble.

"First of all, it's almost noon. And second, unlike you, I was shoved off the couch at five this morning." She playfully narrows her eyes. "So, I ate something, took a shower, and got myself dressed."

"Such an overachiever," I groan, stretching my body. "Why am I getting up?"

"Because you're done now." The words are hard, but motherly.

"Done with…?" I hedge.