Page 4 of Airhead

Katie rolled her eyes. “It’s always been like this.”

“Not three times,” Connie shot back before finishing her drink. “Three!” Her chin trembled and she wiped her napkin under her nose again, spreading the black line into a pencil-thin mustache. Then, in a wobbly voice, she said, “And he shaid it was my fault.”

Okay, this was officially way above Frank’s pay grade. Buying sympathy beers? He could do that. Punch some guy’s lights out? Consider it done. Comfort a woman who was crying in public because her boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—was a complete douche bag? Nope. He had absolutely no reference for this.

“It seems like you two are in the middle of things…”

His skin was crawling with the awkwardness. He was a breath away from excusing himself and getting back to his friends who were waiting for their turn at the pool table, when Katie got up and the words died in his mouth.

Fuck.

There were other things he should be paying attention to. But some people just looked so fucking good in neon blue and acid-washed jeans that they demanded it all for themselves. Katie was numbers one through fifty on the list of things to pay attention to.

He would love to get between her and her Calvins.

Was he destined to squish himself into a hand basket headed straight for an eternity in an uncomfortably hot place for thinking about Katie Madigan’s ass while her sister was bawling her head off? Probably. But he’d deal with that later. Right now, he only had to step back when she got up and circled around the table to comfort Connie, and admire the view.

Katie squatted down so she was eye level with her sister. She cupped her face in her hands so Connie had to look at her. “How in the hell is it your fault?” Katie demanded. “Did you yank his pants down and demand he have sex with Miss August?”

“February!” Connie hollered, loud enough that people on the dance floor turned to see what the fuss was about. “She was Mish February.” She hiccuped. (From the tears? From the alcohol? Who knew.) “The month of love!”

Everyone on the dance floor was trying to get close enough to hear exactly what Blane Adler had done this time (not that they’d be surprised, it’s what he’d done every time). Across the bar, his twin brother stopped talking to two guys Frank didn’t know (and he knew everybody) and glanced over. There was no missing Paul’s flushed face, or the way the back of his hair stuck straight up like it always did when he rubbed it—a telltale sign he was up to something stupid.

Frank swallowed back a groan. He did not have time for more drama in his life. Running into burning buildings for a living, taking care of his mom after the city screwed her out of his dad’s pension, and whatever was happening with the Madigan sisters right now was more than enough, thank you very much.

“I don’t care if she was Miss All Twelve Months,” Katie said, dragging his attention back to the sisters. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” Katie glared up at Frank. “Tell her.”

His gut dropped. Frank didn’t have shit to do with what that fucknut had done with his dick, but that didn’t mean he knew what to say.

“Tell. Her,” Katie said, emphasizing each word like it was its own sentence. “That. The. Creep. Not. Being. Able. To. Keep. His. Zipper. Up. Has. Nothing. To. Do. With. Her.”

Cliff Notes had saved him in Senior English when he’d spent most of class daydreaming about one Katie Madigan, and her version of them saved him now.

He turned his attention to Connie and settled his face into the serious one he used when he gave the stop-drop-and-roll lecture at grade schools during Fire Safety Week. “It’s not your fault Adler has a wandering dick.”

Connie sniffled and grabbed the beer he’d brought over for her. “It’s because I don’t orgashm very often, and when I do it’s not as loud as the women in the videos.”

Holy shit. He’d known Adler was an asshole. He hadn’t realized he was that much of an asshole. “That is a him issue, not a you issue.”

“But he’s the one with experience,” she said, before downing half the beer. “He says it’s not like that with other women.” She finished the rest of it so fast it was like she was trying to drown herself in Bud. “He’s the only man I’ve ever been with.”

“Liberal use of the word ‘man,’” Katie grumbled as she moved her own, untouched, beer out of her sister’s reach.

“Look, Connie.” Frank turned the empty chair at their table around and sat down, resting his forearms on the back of it. “Blane Adler is a dickless dweeb.”

“No he’s not.” She shook her head. “Everyone likes Blane.”

“Not even his toady friends like him,” Frank said, speaking the truth that everyone in Waterbury, except Connie (and maybe Adler), knew.

Connie looked at him, her eyes watery and the tip of her nose a bright enough shade of red that it was visible even in the deep recesses of the sports bar. Something that looked a little like understanding and acceptance flashed in her unfocused eyes, and she stood up. She was wobbly and Katie already had her hands out in preparation for disaster, but Connie managed to keep her two feet planted firmly on the ground.

Then she turned to say something to Katie and must have moved too quickly, because all of the color drained out of her face.

“I’m gonna ralph,” Connie said before slapping her hand over her mouth.

“And on that note, I think it’s time we go.” Katie shot him a look of what-are-you-gonna-do. “Thanks for the beer.”

“Maybe next time, you’ll get to drink it.” He shoots, he scores?