Snare (Falling Stars #3) Page 2

My apartment isn't normally immaculate, but I didn't expect to see men's shoes, shirts, and socks lying around. Glancing to my right, I crane my neck into the kitchen and see dirty dishes piled up on the counter.

  I spin around and narrow my eyes on the one man who makes my mother sour and my cousin hate me.

  "What the hell, Paul?" I snap, waving my arms around toward the mess.

  "Sid," he breathes my name.

  In four long strides, his arms wrap around and pull me against him.

  My heart skips a beat for this man, the one who complicates everything.

  When his arms slacken, I look up into his dark chocolate brown eyes. His head dips and he crushes his mouth to mine.

  For the briefest of moments, I slip my arms around his neck and kiss back.

  God, how I've missed this—him. The taste of his tongue, the feel of his hands on me—it's all so familiar. And for that brief moment, I bask in the attention he gives me, until his phone rings from an unknown location in the apartment.

  It's her ringtone—the same ringtone I've heard over the past couple years.

  His shoulders tense and every muscle in my body turns to stone.

  Dropping my arms, I push away from him.

  "You should probably get that." I wipe my mouth and fight against the familiar pain stinging behind my eyes.

  "No," he states, surprising me by grabbing my arm and turning me back to him.

  "What?" I ask in a whisper.

  His hands come down on my shoulders, holding me in place. Closing his eyes, he brings his forehead to mine and takes in a deep breath.

  "You…" he licks his lips, "you just left."

  His hands slip to the side of my neck, tilting my head back.

  "I didn't think you were coming back." His mouth presses to mine in a quick kiss. "Fuck, the thought of you leaving and never seeing you again..." His eyes search my mine.

  I'm shocked silent. He never spoke like this, at least not since his initial pursuit.

  His phone rings again, the same ringtone, and I find my voice.

  "But Sam—"

  "Is over," he says, cutting me off.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and open my mouth to retort, because he's said that before, but he's not finished.

  "She started pushing for more and I…I just couldn't do it. Not after you left. You were gone so long and I missed you so much. I couldn't move forward with her knowing how much I needed you." His mouth covers mine once again.

  This time, it's more urgent. This time, his hands roam over my body, removing clothes. And this time, we no longer hear the phone.

  Waking up in my own bed after eight months in California is disorienting. Doing it alone sends a wave of nausea through me.

  Gripping the sheet to my chest, I wrap it around my body and climb from the bed. I close my eyes, swallow the dread rising, and steel my spine.

  Not again.

  I walk down the small hallway and slow near my small, light blue bathroom.

  Silence.

  My hands start to tremble as I continue to the end of the hallway leading to my open living room, kitchen, and should-be dining room. Stepping out of the hall, I glance to the kitchen and see only dishes. Scanning through the living room, all I see are dirty clothes.

  My heart clenches painfully, but then I hear him.

  "Hey, you all right?"

  I glance to my left, finding Paul sitting at my large computer set up in the should-be dining space.

  He's still here.

  "You don't look so well."

  I shake my head, releasing the breath I'd been afraid to let escape.

  He pushes out of the chair and rises to his full height. I watch as he walks toward me in faded jeans and an old Steelers t-shirt. For a moment, I find him…lacking.

  Paul isn't short at five-foot-ten and he's built well for a guy who doesn't work out, but after spending so much time with seven-foot Jackson, way too pretty Christopher, and rugged, muscular men such as Red, Elliott, and Xavier…well, who would measure up to all that?

  Remembering I'm not exactly supermodel material myself, I shake off my skewed expectations.

  "I'm all right," I finally answer, moving to embrace him.

  Paul places his hands on my shoulders, keeping me at arm's length.

  "You sure?" He cocks one brow. "I don't want to get sick."

  I roll my eyes and push his arms away. "Yes, I'm sure."

  Stepping into him, I place one hand and my cheek on his chest.

  Instead of the return embrace I expect, he grips my shoulders again and steps back.

  I look up at him and furrow my brow.

  "Why don't you go get dressed?" He puts another foot of space between us and drops his hands from my body. He glances down the length of me and turns, making his way back to the computer desk.

  "What's wrong?" I ask, looking down.

  The sheet I've been holding to my chest with one hand has gaped open. I'm almost entirely exposed from my left boob to my feet. The heat of a blush creeps up my neck. Pulling it around me tighter, I push the embarrassment and shame away.

  "It's not something you haven't seen before," I mumble, using both hands to keep the sheet closed.

  "I know." Paul shrugs, still not looking at me. "You know, I just don't like the whole being naked thing."

  "Yeah," I sigh out. "I remember."

  When I met Paul O'Ryan, I didn't give him a second glance. He was just a barista in one of my favorite coffee shops. Nothing about him fit my type. His advances were lost on me, but he was persistent—sending me free coffee and baked goods, taking note of the books and magazine's I was reading. It was my copies of Playboy, Popular Photography, and Wired that started one of many conversations. It also led to the discovery that he, too, was a bit of a computer geek.

  Him pursuing me with such devote attention was new—to me. Only one other time in my life had I been pursued like that, and it didn't turn out well. The fact that he didn't want to have sex right away was also completely different. I am a big fan of the hump-him-and-dump-him, the one night in Sid, but he was adamant about waiting.

  The first time we had sex, after five weeks of seeing each other, he needed the lights out and covers on. He said he didn't like being completely naked and exposed—it made him uncomfortable—and I was cool with that. Then, I discovered it also applied to me being naked.

  "Come on," he croons, finally looking at me. "Don't get mad. It just makes me uncomfortable."

  Nodding, I clench the sheet tighter to my chest and go back to my room. While I dress, I send my mom a text telling her I'm okay and won't be calling until later this evening.

  "What are we going to do about the logistics issue?" he shouts through the closed bathroom door.

  I spit the toothpaste from my mouth, rinse, and wipe my face. Straightening, I stare in the full-length mirror and examine my appearance.

  "I look bigger," I mumble at my reflection.

  Turning to the side, I scrutinize my profile. My hair is still dark brown, but longer, reaching just below the bra line. The girls don't seem to be trying to escape from bra-catraz. These jeans are one of my favorite pairs and fit comfortably. Grabbing the waistband, I twist and flip it out. Size eighteen. Why do I feel…bigger? I didn't in California.

  "Sid? Any ideas?" he calls out once more.

  Keeping my eyes on the mirror, I grab the doorknob and pull it open.

  "Have I gained weight?" I ask, turning back to face myself.

  "Maybe a little," he answers. "Just start exercising and eating better. I'm sure the weight will come right off."

  I know I asked, and I shouldn't have, because I knew it would hurt. The sting of the truth always does.

  "Yeah," I say.

  "So, about the logistics?" he presses.

  I tear myself away from the mirror and motion for Paul to lead the way.

  "Let me see the analytic reports." I twist my hair up into a knot at the back of my head.

  "Uh, I
have the complaint reports, but you weren't here to do the analytics." There's a bite to the end of his sentence.

  "You know how to do the analytics, Paul," I state, plopping down into my chair and rolling up to my desk.

  "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 Two

  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.