Snare (Falling Stars #3) (6 page)

Setting the Surface on the floor next to me, I settle back into the beanbag and sip my wine.

The music in the room switches to the next song. I tense the minute the first notes of
Fireless
by The Black Sheep starts. Focusing on the crackling fire, I stare unseeing.

The heat radiating from the hearth forces me to blink. Taking a stuttered breath, I fight the oncoming sobs. I gulp down the last of my wine, set the glass on the floor, and try to hold off the tears for as long as I can, but heartbreak delay will not be denied its moment.

Curling up into the beanbag, I pull the blanket over my head and cry. This time, it's a soul-cleansing cry. Before I drift off to sleep, I silently take a vow to boycott love.

Xavier

"Stupid ass weatherman," I grumble, driving through the heavy snowfall on the way to the cabin.

The back end of the Hummer slides, just a little, but enough to irritate me. The Weather Channel said I had another goddamn hour before this shit was supposed to hit the mountain.

I can't completely blame the weather for my annoyance. My mood's been shit since starting the fourteen fucking hour drive from Fort Bragg to Mt. Baker—since I took the girls to see Maria and Gil to spend time with them for the weekend, she broke the news that her body is rejecting the new heart.

After three hours of trying to talk about outcomes, all she could do was discuss what she is sure will come. She's so fucking sure everything is over.

"Last will and testament, custody, last wishes, final requests," I growl, keeping my eyes focused on what can be seen on the road. "Fuck," I shout, slapping the black leather steering wheel.

On top of it all, it's four days until the anniversary of Ethan's death—a day already marred by the loss of a guy I loved like family, like a brother.

Approaching the foot of the mountain, I reach into my passenger seat, shove empty bottles onto the floor, and grab my cell phone. Before I lose my signal, I make a call to one of my sisters—Ember, the one I'm closest to.

"You almost there?" She doesn't bother with niceties.

"Yeah," I clip out. "I need you or mom to—"

"Gil already called. Mom and I are going to drive up tomorrow," she informs.

"Thanks."

"You have one day, Xavier. Then Mom and I are coming up there. The girls will need you."

"Yeah." I keep my answers short, not wanting to take my mood out on her.

I know my girls will need me and I'd do anything for them, but tonight, I need to be alone to process everything.

"We'll see you Tuesday afternoon sometime," she says, like it's not up for negotiation.

"Weather isn't good," I say. "Make sure to call the ranger and get the forecast from him before you start the drive up. It might take a couple days to clean these roads, even with your truck."

She sighs loudly, then says, "Why the hell are you driving during a storm up there? That's fucking stupid, Xave," she says, whispering the word 'fucking'.

My nephews must be close by.

"Why are you keeping me on the phone in a storm?" I counter.

"You're a pain in the ass and I'm telling Mom you drove up in the snow." She ends the call before I can respond.

Great. That's all I need. My fucking mother will tear into my ass, regardless of my age. Almost thirty-eight years old and that woman still acts like I'm a damn baby, which my older sisters, Kami and Ember, enjoy using against me when it suits their needs.

Tossing the phone back to the passenger seat, I grab the half-f bottle of whiskey and twist the lid off with my mouth. I take a large swig, draining the remaining liquid before dropping it to the floor of the car.

Sure, I know better than to fucking drink and drive, and I held off for almost the entire drive, but once I got to town, I stopped. At the local grocery store, I greeted Patty Reeves, the owner, and bought a couple bottles to chase away the world. The intention was to drink them at the cabin, but thoughts of losing Maria and Ethan already being gone needed numbing.

It takes double the usual drive time to reach the cabin.

"Who the fuck...?" I ask no one, pulling in next to a silver Subaru.

Every emotion imaginable rushes beneath my skin, heating my body. Sliding out of the Hummer, I slam the door and rush up the stairs. Almost falling on the snow twice only escalates the anger boiling inside.

As I'm about to punch the lock code into the security pad, I see the door is fucking unlocked. It's the last straw.

I grab the door, shove it open, and stomp inside. Soft music fills the room.

"Who the fuck is in here?" I shout into the dimly lit space.

A dying fire draws my attention. One of the beanbags sits in front of it. Stepping closer reveals a crumpled blanket and throw pillow. I twist my head and look up the stairs.

"Someone better fucking start answering me," I yell, stalking toward the staircase.

On the fourth step, I hear a commotion and look down into the living room. A dark shadow jumps up from behind the couch and runs for the door.

I jump the banister, my knee protesting when I land on the hardwood floor.

Ignoring the pain, I rush after the figure.

They get out the door, but I catch up on the porch. Before the fucker can make it down the stairs to the cars, I snag their arm and yank them backward.

"Let me go," they shriek, spinning on me.

They land a kick to my thigh before trying to pull out of my grip.

"Let go, hillbilly asshole!"

The realization of a female voice takes me back just long enough for them to get a good swing and hit my eye. It knocks me off balance, causing me to fall into the pile of firewood. Her body crashes into my chest and I wrap both arms around her, breaking the fall with the side of my back. We're both still and silent for a minute before she starts fighting my hold.

"Stop fucking fighting me," I growl.

"I don't think so, creeper," she shouts, shoving against my chest.

Rolling, I pin her body beneath mine.

"Oh my God, get off me," she cries. "You don't want to do this! I have STDs, a lot of them—like all of them."

Holy shit, I know the voice. I press myself down against her to stop the squirming and recognize the body as well.

"Sid?"

Instantly, she freezes, her muscles tensing beneath me.

"Stalker," she shouts and starts hitting, shoving, and squirming manically.

"I am not a fucking stalker. Settle down, hellcat," I bark.

She stills once more. Pushing off her, I stand, groaning. I hold my side with one hand and reach the other out to her.

"Xavier?" she asks in a whisper.

"Yeah," I confirm.

Instead of taking my hand, she pushes herself up from the ground.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asks, accusation in her tone.

"It's my fucking cabin," I explain.

"You scared the shit out of me," she yells, slapping my arm—hard.

"Quit hitting me," I warn, and then turn the question on her. "What are
you
doing here?"

"Jackson…" she begins, but lets the explanation die. "That oversized art project will pay," she growls, and I can't help but laugh.

My laughter's cut short when she wraps her arms around her body and shivers. The bite of the snow and cold mountain air start seeping into my skin as well.

Taking her by the arm, I pull her toward the door.

"Quit manhandling," she complains, stumbling along next to me.

Back inside, I lead her to the fireplace and set her on the closest chair.

I grab the throw blanket, toss it over to her, and turn my attention to stoking the fire.

Once it's roaring with heat again, I take a seat across from her.

"Now," I rub my face, "want to tell me why you are here? How you got in here?"

Reaching down, she takes off her wet socks and says, "Jackson and Liza set it up, but they didn't tell me it was
your
place."

I sit back into the chair, my brow furrowed.

"Jack asked to use the place next week," I inform her.

She shakes her head and pulls the blanket around her tighter.

"No, he asked about this week. If he hadn't, then why would I have all the codes and directions to come up?"

Her body twists and turns, mimicking a butterfly about to emerge from its cocoon.

"That's impossible," I argue. "I am always here during this week."

One naked, pale arm emerges from the blanket, her shirt in hand. My eyes follow as she drops the wet fabric into a pile with her socks.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to go get dry clothes on," she says, standing and walking toward the stairs.

"We aren't done talking," I bark out to her retreating form.

"Calm down, ginger beard man. I'll be back down," she says, a little too much attitude in her voice.

Something I sure as hell don't need tonight.

"Don't give me your goddamn attitude," I snap, pushing out of the chair and following.

She might be a bitch, but changing into dry clothes sounds really great right about now. Grabbing the hem of my shirt, I stop and pull it over my head.

At the top of the stairs, she turns just outside one of the spare bedrooms. Her eyes narrow on me.

"What are you doing?" she asks, her eyes roaming over me.

"Changing," I say, starting to unbutton my jeans.

Frowning, she pushes inside the bedroom and quickly closes the door. At the click of the lock, I shake my head.

Ten minutes later, I step out of the master bedroom. The first thing I notice is the silence. The music is no longer playing over the speaker system. Looking over the loft railing, I see Sid picking things up from the floor around the beanbag chair.

The firelight catches in her dark hair, casting her in a golden glow. When she bends over, her ass up in the air, I lick my bottom lip.

Padding quietly down the stairs, she doesn't hear when I reach the main level and approach.

"If only you would stay bent over and quiet all the time." I slap her ass.

"You bastard," she squeals, straightening upright and rubbing her left ass cheek.

Laughing, I fall into the soft, overstuffed couch.

"Fuck me, I needed that," I admit.

I didn't realize how much I'd needed something light and fun to ease the sadness and anger—at least, not until I unexpectedly stumbled upon her tonight.

"I'm so glad to be here for your amusement." She lays the sarcasm on thick.

"You should be," I taunt, rolling onto my side and watching her push the beanbag over with the others.

Coming back, she sits on the arm of the couch. She crosses her arms over her chest and looks down on my lounging form.

"Well, tomorrow you will have to find a new way to entertain yourself," she grumbles.

"Why is that?" I furrow my brow.

"Because I'll be leaving," she informs, shrugging.

I sit up and put my elbows on my knees. Angling my head toward her, I raise a brow, and ask, "Did you not notice the weather?"

She slips from the arm of the couch and shuffles over to the window.

"Well, fuck me," she moans, experiencing a mountaintop white out.

"If you insist," I say, earning a glare from over her shoulder.

Chapter Five

Sidra

"You made it up the mountain. I can make it down," I say, trying to sound sure, even though the thought of driving down the winding road in this weather makes my stomach turn.

Xavier's laughter pulls my attention away from the window and snow deterring my escape.

"What's so funny?" I ask, already knowing I shouldn't.

"The fact that you think you'd actually make it down the mountain."

He settles back into the couch, kicking his big bare feet up onto the coffee table.

"If I crash and die, you can call it a bonus," I snap, stalking to the opposite end of the couch.

"Why would you say something like that?" he asks, his tone suddenly serious.

"It was a joke." I plop down, getting engulfed in the couch cushions.

"That wasn't funny," he says, his voice still severe.

"Your couch is trying to eat me," I grumble, reaching for the arm of the couch and heaving myself forward.

"Lucky couch," he says low, grabbing my arm and pulling me in his direction.

He shoves extra pillows behind me and motions for me to sit back.

I ease into the pillows and find I can sit normal.

"Ha, take that Venus fly couch," I blurt.

"Did you just talk smack to the—"

"Don't judge me," I snap before he can finish.

Putting his hands up, he settles back into the cushions in his corner.

"So, why would Jack send you up to my cabin?"

"Because he obviously hates me," I answer, waving at him.

"I guess shit could've gotten mixed up," he says, resignation in his tone. "Shit's been a little crazy lately," he adds.

"Well, as soon as the weather clears, I'll be out of your way," I offer.

"It will be a couple days, so I guess we should…"

Before he finishes that sentence, I narrow my eyes at him.

He grins.

"I was going to say, we should attempt to be civil."

"Oh," I say, and purse my lips. "I guess."

Discomfort swirls in my gut. Not because I'm feeling unease around him. It's because this—him and me sitting here on a couch—is easy, comfortable like we've been friends for a long time.

"So, truce?" He holds his big hand out.

I hesitate for a moment before resigning myself to this. Reaching out, I take his hand. His palm is soft and warm, while his fingers are coarse and rough with calluses. The hand of a drummer. When I try to take mine back, he won't let go.

"What happened?" he asks, pulling my arm to his face.

"Let go," I demand, trying to retrieve my limb from his grip.

"What happened?" he growls.

"I carried wood," I explain, tugging to escape his clutches.

"Not these." He touches the fresh bruises. "These," he rumbles, his rough fingertips brushing over my wrist.

I cannot wait until those damn things finally fade.

"Nothing," I answer, and try to change the subject. "It's been a pretty eventful night, so I'm going to head up to bed."

This time, I make a noise of pain as I pull. He quickly releases me.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, guilt etched on his face.

I shrug. "It didn't hurt."

Standing from the couch, I make my escape to the stairs. Over my shoulder, I say, "I just made the noise so you'd let go."

"Who did it?"

His voice is closer than I expect. I glance over my shoulder to find him only a few steps behind me.

"If you must know," I sigh, and turn to face him, "my part-time job is a submissive. Bruises happen."

I give him a large, forced smile, turn around, and start up the stairs.

"It's the jerk who gives you a hard time, isn't it?"

His question surprises me and I stumble. Reaching out, I grasp the railing in an attempt to steady myself.

"W-what…who—?" I ask in a breath.

"I know there's some asshole in your life," he explains, crossing his arms over his chest. "You don't deserve that shit."

Embarrassment, shame, humiliation—every level of the emotion turns dark and ugly inside me.

"It's not really any of your fucking business, now is it?" It's not really a question, but he feels the need to respond anyway.

"I'm making it my business." The threat is clear and I know, without further explanation, if Xavier meets him, Paul is a dead man.

For the briefest moment, the image of Xavier mutilating Paul forms in my mind. Biting the inside of my cheek, I hide how giddy it makes me feel.

"Well…" the fight in me dies, so my words come out shaky, "don't. It's taken care of."

Unable to take any more, I stomp my way up the stairs. Before I close the bedroom door, I swear I hear him say, "It's not taken care of until he's sporting his own bruises."

I curl up in the center of the bed and try to will away the tears burning my eyes. It's a battle I can't win. Putting a pillow over my face, I release my tears of shame and stupidity.

Xavier

Heat boils beneath my skin and every muscle is so tight, I'm sure they'll start cramping. Pacing around the main level of the cabin, I can't get it out of my head.

That fucker put his hands on her. Left marks on her pale, smooth skin.

My anger gets the best of me and I go down to the lower level, stalking toward the bar. Pulling out the bottle of whiskey and a tumbler glass, I pour a shot. I toss it back, reveling in the burn, but it's not enough. Pouring two fingers full this time around, I set the bottle down hard on the bar.

It catches the edge and shatters. I jump back to avoid getting glass in my feet, but my hand doesn't make out so well.

"God damn it!" I yell, the pain making me inhale sharply and exhale on a hiss.

Instinctively, I flex my hand, causing pain to shoot up my arm.

"Son of a bitch!" I shout, releasing the neck of the bottle.

It smashes to the floor, creating more glass fragments.

Grasping right below the shard sticking out of my hand, I step around the mess. Blood starts dripping onto the carpet.

"Damn it," I repeat on a growl.

"Are you okay?" Her voice draws my attention from my injury.

Her feet hit the carpeted floor, carrying her toward me.

"Stay back," I snap, harsher than I mean to.

"Don't yell at me because you hurt yourself," she says firmly.

"There's glass everywhere," I rush to explain, stepping away from the mess.

"You're also getting blood everywhere." She motions to the drops at my feet. "Lord knows what diseases you're spreading. I'm going to need a hazmat suit."

"If I recall, you're the one who insisted you had every STD known to man," I counter.

"Hey, that's a self-defense tactic," she argues. "That shit would've worked with a real rapist who knew what he was doing."

My mouth drops open, and I ask, "Did you just insult me for
not
being a rapist?"

"Do you have a first aid kit?" she asks, avoiding my question. Her eyes focus on my bloody hand.

"Yeah, it's upstairs under the sink." I give a chin lift, motioning toward the stairs.

"I'll get it," she says, rushing back the way she just came down.

I pull my shirt off with one hand and wrap it around the one with the glass puncturing my skin.

Sid comes back with the red canvas bag, paper towels, and a bowl.

"Sit down," she orders, using the bowl to indicate the old worn couch.

Sitting on the edge of the cushion, I'm reminded of why I've kept it. It's ugly as fuck, but so comfortable.

Sid kneels in front of me, placing the bowl between my feet and the other items to her right. Gently taking my hand, she puts it over the bowl and removes the t-shirt.

I can actually feel how comfortable she is around me and it's so fucking weird. The way we verbally spar with each other, there should be a paramount level of tension, but there's not. She maneuvers me like it's an everyday occurrence.

I like it. I like it a little too fucking much.

"Are you practicing for a Magic Mike audition or something?" she asks, keeping her eyes on the piece of glass.

Reaching for the first aid kit, she unzips it and pulls tweezers from a pocket.

"What?" I furrow my brow, confused by her question.

"You take your shirt off like you do it for a living," she explains, using the tweezers to get a hold of the glass.

"You keeping track of how often my shirt's off?" I ask through clenched teeth as she pulls the large sliver from my flesh.

"It's kind of hard not to notice when Sasquatch gets naked," she taunts, putting a wad of paper towels against the gash and pressing.

"I am not covered in hair," I argue, hissing from the pain. "Only tattoos."

Her eyes flicker to my chest before looking back to the kit.

"Point taken," she concedes.

Pulling the towels away, she pours peroxide over my hand and blots with new paper towels.

I catch sight of the bruises on her skin and it stokes my anger from earlier. But when she leans in closer, securing a large bandage over the wound, the anger dissolves.

Her scent surrounds me, filling my nostrils. My uninjured hand moves of its own volition into her hair, bringing the dark strands to my face. I bury my nose in the softness and inhale deeply. An urge to rub her all over me swells within.

"What do you smell like?" I ask, already deciding she smells like spring in heaven.

"Stop sniffing me," she orders with a scowl, taking her hair away.

"Tell me, or I'll smell you until I figure it out," I threaten.

A brief flash of amusement twitches at the corner of her lips before she puts a stern mask in place.

"It's called soap."

Standing, she takes the bowl and kit with her, carrying them toward the bar.

"Stop," I exclaim.

She pauses, looking back from over her shoulder.

"The glass went everywhere."

She twists her head to the bar, nods, and changes direction for the stairs.

Her scent lingers on my hand and I bring it to my face, reveling in it. I watch her climb the steps, committing the curve of her ass and sway of her hips to memory.

Sidra