Beneath the Stars (Falling Stars 4)

Constricting and compressing.

Part of me felt desperate to see his face. To get the affirmation that he was fine and whole, while the other half still felt raw and broken by what he’d done.

It wasn’t like we were a couple or anything.

I wasn’t delusional.

But I swore there’d been something there.

Something that was bigger than the two of us.

Something unfound that had begged to be acknowledged.

And then he’d just…freaked out.

Beat the hell out of that guy for no reason.

All while he spewed words against me.

Words that had slayed and stung.

After that?

Nothing.

Not a word.

I hadn’t heard from Rhys Manning in six months.

Radio silence.

So I’d resorted to this—stalking him on the internet.

Devouring any articles I could find. Searching his hashtags for a glimpse. Gorging myself on his music night and day.

Pathetic.

But it was like he’d disappeared from the face of the earth.

Only a few pictures had popped up of him in all that time—one of him with his mama in his hometown and a few others with women who were reposting from times before.

And I worried. Worried for him.

That he wasn’t okay.

That whatever demons had possessed him that night had completely infiltrated his heart and mind.

Taken over.

And I had no way to call him out of it.

I shifted in my seat, trying to pull myself together.

I needed to remind myself it wasn’t my job.

We were barely even friends.

Besides, I had enough of my own mess to deal with, didn’t I? Only God knew the kind of trouble I’d brought into my life.

I reached into the top pocket of my purse and ran my fingers over the little origami duck that was tucked inside.

Feeling its worn edges.

I’d made it in my group therapy class. It was meant to be an illustration that we had the power to reshape our circumstances. Form them into what we wanted them to be. That we might have been dealt a bad card, but we had the power to fashion that card into a new shape.

At the time, I’d picked a duck since it was easy to make. But there’d been something to it, and I’d kept the duck all this time, carrying it around with me as a reminder that I was in control.

Yeah.

My own demons might be on the hunt, but I was going to do whatever it took to pull this off.

It would be worth it in the end.

From where he sat in the middle row in front of me, my older brother Royce released a strained sigh. “Still not sure about all of this,” he grumbled as he roughed his tattooed fingers through his shock of black hair.

A rush of his anxiety slammed me. Palpable. As if it were a part of my consciousness.

I guessed that was the hardest part about being me.

It always seemed as if I felt too much, and the moods of people could be overwhelming.

The feel of it was wonderful and horrible, and everything in between.

“And just what aren’t you sure about?” his wife Emily questioned, voice wry and filled with a shot of southern amusement.

She sat on the opposite side of him, their sweet newborn Amelia nestled in her car seat in between.

“Dragging Maggie all the way out here.” He didn’t hesitate to say what was on his mind.

I frowned. “Is that your subtle way of saying you’re sick of your baby sister tagging along everywhere you go?”

From over his shoulder, Royce trained his dark gaze on me, the smile that graced his face close to a sneer. “Nah. It’s my way of sayin’ I hate that I’m always exposing you to douchebags.”

There was no missing the guilt that flashed in his eyes.

My head barely shook. “That’s untrue, Royce.”

A grunt escaped his throat. “Untrue? Seems to me every time I turn around, you’re getting hurt by someone I introduced you to.”

Suffice it to say Royce had been pissed over the whole Rhys debacle.

He’d been terrified when I’d called him in the middle of the night, drunk and crying and asking him to pick me up.

Finding the bassist of Carolina George cuffed and being dragged to a cruiser had only made it worse.

Royce had been irate.

Demanding to know what the hell I’d been doing with him. Hardly willing to believe we were only friends. “I wasn’t in any danger.”

“Bullshit,” he refuted.

Emily sent him a warning glare.

He cringed. “Fuck…I just hate that every time I turn around, seems like there’s something I can’t stop or control when it comes to you.”

“That’s because it’s not your job,” I told him, my tone going soft. Laden with the affection that I felt for him.

My brother might look bad, made of stone and printed in mayhem, but I’d learned long ago that it was what was on the inside that mattered.

Royce had been my savior. My hope. My liberator when I hadn’t been strong enough to stand or speak for myself. Now that I could? Now that I’d found my freedom and my strength?