"Nothing," she cried, pushing to her feet and slapping her hands on the table. "I just did what you've had me do way too many times in my life. How the hell was I supposed to know that you went and got yourself a girlfriend?"
"She's not—just—fuck, Sarah! Things were already a mess and you made it about a thousand times worse. Jesus fucking Christ!" he spat, dragging a hand through his hair.
"Jake, I'm sorry! If I had known, I would never—"
Big shook his head and glared at his little sister, his hand dropping carelessly to his side. "You're such a fucking train wreck! Just go home, Sarah. I can't deal with you or your fucking problems right now."
Grabbing his keys off the counter, he stalked towards the door, tugging his coat on before slamming out of the apartment. He hoped it wasn't too late to fix things with Alisha.
He wondered, as he ran down the stairs, why he hadn't just called her last night. Fuuuuuuuck!
She stalked down the street, the ire bubbling dangerously up through her body. Gone were the hot, angry tears that stung her eyes while standing in his doorway. Gone was the urge to throw up. The only thing she really wanted to do right now was hit something—maybe starting with the skank he'd screwed last night all because of some pathetic misunderstanding.
She'd like to hit him—of course. (that went without saying)
But the person she wanted to hit most at the moment? Was herself. She wished for Doc Brown and DeLorean in order to go back in time and slap some sense into herself and let her past self know that no good would come from sleeping with that asshole.
Maybe she could just stop and ram her head into the side of a building repeatedly for being so goddamn stupid! She knew—she knew what kind of guy he was going into this. Hell, he'd told her himself. And Maggie warned her (repeatedly). She didn't even want anything more than sex at the start of this; but fucking feelings developed anyway.
Sonofabitch!
Tears prickled behind her eyes as she neared the theater. She blinked furiously, refusing to cry over that no-good lothario. Taking a few deep breaths, she (miraculously) kept the tears at bay.
Her cell phone rang (again). She glanced at it…ignored it (again). "Get a fucking clue and stop calling!" she swore to the device, earning stares from passersby. Fuck them.
Life was still good (great even) and she needed to remember that. She had an amazing career that she loved and could focus all of her extra time back into. Jake Biggerman could fuck right off if he thought for one second that this could distract her from realizing the dreams she'd had since childhood. He'd been fun for a while, but it was over now.
Time to refocus.
Broadway. Tony. Stardom.
Swallowing the lump in her throat (and taking approximately fifteen more deep breaths) she steeled her spine and entered the theater ready to face the day full of hard work and entertaining an adoring audience.
"Goddammit!" he bit out when he got her voicemail again. "Alisha, please call me. What you saw this morning is not what you think it was. That was my stupid sister thinking she was funny. I want to see you, alright? Just—just call me, okay? Please."
Big shoved his phone into the pocket of his coat and walked up the steps of the subway station closest to Alisha's apartment. He was going to get her to talk to him. And even if she didn't answer the door, he thought as his hand closed around his keys, he had his own way in now.
Jesus, this was a mess.
Fuck.
His long strides ate up the distance to her building rather quickly. And with each step he took he scolded himself for being such a fucking prick to her the night before. Not that how he felt at the time had been unwarranted, because he was legitimately pissed off (and yes, she'd hurt his feelings, okay), but he should've stuck around long enough for them to talk it out.
Coulda, shoulda, woulda.
He trudged up the steps to her apartment and knocked softly on the door. When there was no answer after a few moments, he debated on whether or not to knock again or use the key she'd given him. Knowing she most likely wouldn't answer, he plucked the keys from his pocket and let himself inside.
Nothing hit him in the face once he was through the door, so he figured she either wasn't home or she was hiding. "Alisha?" he called, his voice echoing through the modest space. The apartment was exceptionally quiet, which was the exact opposite of everything in Alisha Larrington's life. Frowning, he walked into her bedroom.
No sign of her anywhere. Dammit.
He was about to walk out the way he came in, but something on her mirror (oh, the mirror) caught his eye. It was a picture of the two of them from the Colts game that she'd taped up. He had his arm slung carelessly around her shoulders and a crooked grin on his face. She was pressed up against his side, her hand on his chest and beaming for the camera. He'd forgotten about taking that picture right before halftime.
Fuck. He needed to fix this.
It dawned on him that it was Thursday and she had rehearsals; he decided to head to the theater and make her talk to him. Snatching the picture from her mirror, he peeled the tape off the back before tucking it safely into the pocket of his coat.
His phone blared to life when he was turning the last lock on her door; he scrambled for it hoping it was Alisha. A scowl broke out over his face when he saw that the captain was calling. He was on call and had to take it.
Being on call licked ass.
"S' Biggerman," he answered gruffly. He listened as the captain barked into his ear (a
