by Sadie Grubor
"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."
"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 comi
ng 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.