“Hear you’re with a rock star now,” Simon said, leaning against my car door so I couldn’t get in. I was laden with groceries after fielding all the inquiring stares that I was not used to while doing my Saturday shop. No one had actually found the courage or lack of manners to come right up and say anything to me, but the stares themselves were exhausting. I just wanted to get home to where I was safe and could eat four of the frozen Twixes I had in one of these bags.

It should’ve been the carrot sticks, considering the sheer amount of food I consumed last night, but whatever.

Of course Simon had heard I was with a rock star. I’d only just gone to dinner with Sam last night, so that was more than a sufficient amount of time for the rumor to fly around town. I should’ve counted myself lucky that it was only around town at this stage. It was only a matter of time before it was around… well, everywhere.

Still, I wasn’t counting myself lucky at that point in my Saturday, when I was innocently running errands and found my asshole ex in my path. I glared up at him. “I’m not with a rock star,” I snapped. “I’ve just got one stuck to my shadow.

Simon furrowed his brows slightly under the aviators I despised. His face was too small for them. They swallowed him up like he was some reality star hiding a hangover.

He wore them because he thought they made him look badass, like some cop from a movie. When really he looked like a manlier, paler Khloe Kardashian.

“So you’re not dating him?” he clarified.

I narrowed my eyes at him and glared, something I hadn’t had the courage to do ever before. Even when I finally broke up with him, I’d been as quiet as a mouse, my eyes glassy with unshed tears though not with actual sadness. I was so angry with him, though more importantly with myself for taking so long to do what I should’ve done the second he started hurting me. So I’d cried out of anger.

Now I couldn’t believe I wasted a drop on him.

Hindsight was 20/20 in most scenarios. With exes, it was more so.

It was safe to say he hadn’t exactly taken to the breakup well. He hadn’t expected me to gather up enough courage or self-worth to do so. He’d harassed me for weeks afterward, after first making sure the whole town believed it was him who broke it off. Not that I gave a crap about what the town or his idiot buddies thought about our relationship finally ending. It took me threatening to take a restraining order out on him to get him to leave me alone.

The parting shot had done what he’d intended it to do. It hurt. But my threat had done what I’d intended it to do, and he left me alone.

Until now.

“It’s not really your business who I am or aren’t dating,” I informed him. “It stopped being so when we stopped dating.”

That time his brows furrowed in a look of disdain that was oh so familiar. “Of course you’re not dating the rock star,” he said, ignoring everything I said, as was his way. His aviators went up and down my body in the way a farmer might look at a stud mare that wasn’t as promised. “They date supermodels and actresses. You’re not really cut from the same cloth, are you?” he asked pleasantly. “It’s fine. You’re fine. Just not extraordinary. Plus characters such as that always have photographers following you around, taking pictures at unflattering angles. Then the world can judge you for not saying no to dessert. You don’t deserve that,” he said, feigning a caring tone that I saw straight through. Even so, he knew where to hit me. Right in the insecurities I’d been wrestling with the entire day. Since the moment Sam’s Ferrari had roared off last night, in fact.

Not that I let it show.

“Jesus,” I muttered. “How did I ever date you? You are such an asshole. I’ll just have to plead temporary insanity for the time that I thought you deserved me. You’re a small man with a small mind and a nasty heart. Let’s hope you find a woman who’s the same. I hear the supermodels in LA are going through a drought, you know, considering Sam’s spending time with someone not cut from the same cloth. Or able to wear the scraps of cloth they call clothing.”

And on that note—because I knew Simon and knew he wouldn’t let me get the last word, especially when he was bodily preventing me from getting into my car—I turned on my heel and stormed off.

Home wasn’t far away. That was the good thing about small towns—nothing ever was. I’d get Pria to drop me off at my car later on tonight when it didn’t have an asshole stuck to it.

About ten minutes and some seriously sore feet later, I was reminded of the bad things with small towns: running into the last person you want to see at the worst possible time.

Or the first person you wanted to see at the worst possible time.

I couldn’t figure out which column the dark-haired man in the convertible fit into.

“Hey, hot stuff, want a ride?” the voice offered. “Also, would you like a lift home in my vehicle before that?”

I glared at him in answer, stomping over to the car and dumping my shopping bags in the back before depositing myself in the seat.

I wished I had enough willpower to be stubborn and tell him that I’d walk the mile and a half. But I didn’t, because it was summer in Texas and I was unfit and not wearing footwear designed for such a walk.

“You are giving me a lift,” I informed him, slamming the door and glaring at him. “Nothing else.”

He regarded me. “Sure, yeah, that’s fine. Just out of curiosity, what’s got you walking in the middle of a day that is remarkably similar to the temperature in hell when you’re wearing sexy but totally unpractical shoes? And what’s got you in that particular mood that is nothing like the one I left you in last night?”

“No talking,” I snapped.

The car purred underneath me, but even 550 HP and the man I was obsessed with sitting in the seat next to me did nothing to cheer me up.

I hated that I let Simon affect me, let him sow the seed of uncertainty within me about Sam. Though he didn’t exactly sow it, since it was already there, had been the entire time. He just watered it so it grew too big to ignore.

“Alrighty then,” Sam said cheerfully, pulling back onto the road.

I was sure Sam would be one of those people who sensed when you needed complete silence and then continued to fill it anyway. His entire personality gave me that certainty.

But he was not. He gave me the silence I asked for, or rather demanded, the entire ride home. Which was a lot shorter than it would’ve been if I’d walked.

We pulled up to the curb, the short drive having done nothing to quell my anger. It had done a lot to feed my insecurities, however.

Sam turned the car off and I sat there, simmering, even forgetting the fact that my Twix bars were well and truly melted by now.

“So, can I talk now?” he asked, face tentative. “Or kill someone for you?”

I glared at him. “No, you can do neither. You can do me the great big favor of leaving me the heck alone,” I snapped. “My life wasn’t perfect or exciting or anything really before you came along, but it was mine.”

Sam’s easy and relaxed smile disappeared with my outburst, giving way to confusion. “I thought last night—”

I cut him off. “What? You take me to dinner once and I forget everything else? Everything being that you and I are never going to work.”

He stared at me. “Stop trying to list all these reasons about us not working,” he commanded. “How about you give us a chance to just work?”

I found myself losing it. The last stubborn strand of my frayed cord of sanity or patience or whatever it was snapped. I snapped.

“Why?” I screeched. “Why is it that you want me, Sam? Why is it that you’ve made it your mission to come down here and harass me until you get your way? Which would most likely be having your way with me and then you’d throw me away again, just like you did last time. Why?” I demanded.

“Because I can’t get you out of my head,” he replied simply.

Too simply.

“No, not an answer,” I snapped. “Why, Sam? Why can’t you get me out of your head? What is it about me that has you so certain you need to turn your life upside down for me?” I yelled.

I was pushing. I knew I was pushing. For an answer I’d never get. And when I didn’t get it, it would hurt. But I had the hope, that stupid one that had flared up as high school me whispered romantic reasonings in my ear.

“I don’t fucking know!” he yelled back. “I don’t fucking know, okay?”

I waited. For more, for something else. Something tangible. But nothing came.

Except a ringtone that shattered the extremely uncomfortable and painful silence between us.

I jumped slightly and Sam frowned at the center console. When he saw the name illuminating the screen, he picked it up.

“Babe, the last fucking thing I want to do right now is answer this phone, but I have to. I’ve kind of been neglecting shit in LA.”

I glared at him, because that was much more productive than crying. “Feel free. In fact, please go all the way back to LA. I can’t do this right now. I don’t need this right now. Just give me some fricking space, okay?”

He must have caught on to something hysterical in my tone that made him grasp my sincerity because his face slackened in defeat. “Okay,” he said. “But don’t take me leaving as me not wanting you or that I’m giving up on you or whatever warped shit chicks believe when a man listens to what they keep saying they want even when it’s really just some sort of test that a guy will fail either way. I want you. That’s not changing any time soon. And I’m coming back.” He yanked me across the car and kissed me before I or my anger could stop him.

But he let me go quickly enough for me to snatch my fury once more and stomp out of the car before I could do something insanely stupid like beg him to stay.

He didn’t. Stay, that was.

And even though I’d convinced him, and myself, that that was exactly what I wanted, I hated every second of the week we were apart.

* * *

Sam

When Sam walked into a recording studio, he usually felt instantly at home. An itch in his bones automatically began the second he crossed the threshold, yearning for the music to flow through him. To create it, live it.

That time there was an itch, but not to be there. To be in a little cottage in the middle of nowhere. One that smelled like vanilla, was warmer than the Bahamas in the summer and was the only place he truly felt at home other than sitting at a drum set.

Just over a year ago, if someone had asked him to describe his Nirvana, he’d say bright lights, a screaming, writhing crowd and music. Fast. Loud.

Now his answer would differ.

It would greatly fucking differ.

“Dude!” Wyatt pounced on him the second he entered the room.

He was still wearing his sunglasses. Mostly because it was a nice signal for any people he ran into in the halls that he was not into speaking, and also to hide the huge fucking circles lingering under his eyes from lack of sleep.

He was used to lack of sleep. Fuck, he usually existed on Adderall, coffee, whiskey, pussy and great thoughts. He and Wyatt consistently partied for three weeks straight not two months ago.

He would’ve done that and still looked as fresh as a daisy.

But spending all night escaping yourself, living fast was a whole lot less exhausting than spending a night in bed unable to fucking escape the thoughts of her.

Of her bruised face.

His fists flexed with the thought of it. Not just because he needed to beat the shit out of that fucker once more, though he made a mental note to do so as soon as he got back to Hampton Springs. And he’d be going back.

It had felt wrong, driving away, getting on that plane, putting the distance between them she’d pleaded for.

Though that’s why he’d done it. Not because of the string of threats and curse words Mark had shouted over the phone but that desperation on her face, for him to leave.

It had hurt. But he did it for her. He reasoned he’d cut off a limb for her if it made her just the littlest bit more comfortable.

He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

But he’d be back there, with her, in her as soon as he could. Sooner.

Not just so he could fucking sleep. So he could work to repair that look on Gina’s face.

The memory of her begging him to leave stung.

If it hadn’t meant letting the whole band down by missing this recording session, he never would’ve left in the first place.

He would let anyone and everyone else in the world down but these people. They were his family. His real one. Despite the death stares two-thirds of them were treating him to.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Wyatt demanded. “We’ve been calling and texting. Bro, you haven’t even posted a Snapchat story in like days. We would’ve legitimately thought you’d died if you hadn’t send Lexie that video of you catching those M&Ms in your mouth.”

Sam grinned, his eyes softening at the sight behind Wyatt, where Lexie was leaning against Killian, smiling at him knowingly.

He didn’t like that look. The one that made it seem like just because she was held hostage by that motherfucker called love that she could recognize it him. Was it a cult or something?

Love. Fuck. Did he just think the word love? And immediately think of Gina while he was doing it.

Not that there was a second in the day when he wasn’t thinking of her.

“You’ve got to admit, that was hil-ar-ious,” he said breezily, the tone well practiced. “Are we going to rock or just stand here with our dicks in our hands?” He glanced at Lexie. “Obviously I know you don’t have your dick in your hands.” His eyes moved up to Killian. “You have his.”

Lexie, used to his crude and what some had called immature verbiage, laughed.

Killian, also used to it, did Sam a solid by not killing him. The guy was super protective when it came to that chick. Hence him now being head of security and always attached to her if she wasn’t on stage or he didn’t have to be off on his Harley doing whatever outlaw motorcycle dudes did.

Sam liked to imagine they buried infidels to their heads in sand and left them in the desert for days to pay for a disrespectful comment against their wallet chains. He didn’t actually ask Killian much because he didn’t want his fantasy to be ruined.

He tried to move past Wyatt to his drum set, which didn’t hold as much draw as Gina in her stupid fuckin’ pj’s, which were somehow hotter than any skinny supermodel in a scrap of lace.

Wyatt clutched his upper arm to stop his journey.

His pushed his glasses onto his head. “Bro, watch the moneymakers,” he scolded.

Wyatt didn’t let him go. “Where have you been? Seriously, bro.”

Though he seemed pissed, there was concern in his tone too. The band was close. Closer than family, which wasn’t hard in Sam’s case at least. They barely went a day without speaking or seeing each other. Hell, Sam and Wyatt lived together. As had Noah and Lexie before she married Killian and got all domesticated and shit.

Well, she wasn’t technically domesticated because she was the lead singer of their band, but whatever.

“I am Keyser Soze,” Sam replied. “I have been everywhere, yet nowhere.”

Wyatt narrowed his eyes, Lexie grinned and Killian glowered, most likely still stewing over the dick comment, or doing whatever badass bikers think about. Glocks, waterboarding, whatever.

Noah was quiet in the corner, as was characteristic. Sam was the most vocal of the group, despite Lexie being the lead singer, then Wyatt and Lexie, and then Noah. He’d been like that since they were kids. Someone had to take one for the team and swallow some words while the rest of them spat them out on a regular basis.

“Did you get a chick pregnant or something?” Wyatt asked seriously.

“No I did not grace some lucky woman with the incredible gift of my thoroughbred genes,” Sam said, doing his best to ignore the way his dick hardened in his pants at the thought of Gina growing his baby.

He definitely did his best to ignore the warmth that settled somewhere in the vicinity of his chest at that thought too. The dick hardening was natural, but that other feeling was… not. He had always sworn to himself that he would never have children. No man to repeat the sins of his father, plus he was a selfish motherfucker. Kids required a lot of attention. And they were breakable as shit.

He knew that. Since he’d been broken as a kid. And no way would he open up the prospect of having the same thing happen to another kid.

He was about rock. Like Stephen Tyler, Mick Jagger and Bob Dylan, amongst others, he’d stop when he was dead. Even then, he planned on jamming it out with the greats downstairs.

“Jeez, can’t a guy have some mystery?” he asked, shrugging out of Wyatt’s grasp and sauntering over to his drum set.

Wyatt glared at him while he strung the strap of his bass over his shoulder. “Mystery?” he repeated. “You leaked your own sex tape. There’s no such fuckin’ thing as mystery with you.”

Lexie giggled again and pulled out of her husband’s embrace. Not before he kissed her tenderly on the head and whispered in her ear. Sam never got how he did that without looking like a total fucking hemorrhaging pussy. Killian made no secret of the fact that he adored and worshipped his wife since she’d taken him back. Granted, he’d come pretty fuckin’ close to losing her, so it was only natural that he wanted to make sure she was real. But he was still totally pussy whipped. And still he somehow managed to keep his badass card.

Sam sat down, grasping his drumsticks. Usually, the moment he was in front of the kit, the sticks in his hand, he felt complete. Whole. It unnerved the fuck out of him that he realized that was no longer the case. Whole was when he had Gina’s body writhing underneath him. When he was filling her to the hilt. When he was holding her fuckin’ hand. Shit, he was pussy whipped too. And he’d only fucked her once. Okay, technically more than once, but it was one night one fucking year ago. How was that even possible?

“Okay, you got me. I got late admission to Hogwarts and I was learning how to turn annoying bassists into pigs,” he snapped. “And now they’re going to kick me out for revealing the secret to a muggle. Happy now?” He didn’t wait for Wyatt’s response before he put his headphones on to drown out the noise.

Problem was, even when they started playing, when the music was almost deafening, he still somehow heard Gina’s small whispered voice over it all.

* * *

“You ready to talk about it now?” Noah asked, sipping his beer.

“About climate change? Yes, I do worry about the polar bears quite a lot,” Sam replied, not sipping his whiskey. He drained it in one gulp. No matter how much of the shit he drank, he didn’t seem to be able to get wasted. It was getting frustrating.

They were at his and Wyatt’s place in Calabasas. Lexie was at the beach house with Killian. It technically belonged to all of them, having bought the place with the first real money they’d made, amongst other frivolous things. But unlike the other frivolous shit, that was a good purchase, one that lasted. It was theirs. Though Lexie did all the decorating and chick shit, they all owned it, made it into their sanctuary.

They’d all agreed to make it Lexie and Killian’s marital home when they needed to be in LA and not in Amber, where Killian had built Lexie a kickass home by the sea. Sure, they had the means to buy something else, something bigger, flashier, whatever. But they didn’t have the means to buy what was already in that house: love, memories, all that girly shit.

Sam twirled his glass between his fingers. Gina didn’t exactly have the means to buy a mansion, he was pretty sure, despite her cute little car and her trendy-as-shit clothes. But she owned something that money couldn’t buy.

Her own little sanctuary.

Even though he had barely spent enough time in it, hadn’t even seen it all, including the bedroom, he knew it was his too.

She was his.

He made a mental note to get a realtor the next day so he could get out of his current pad. It was nice. Impressive. Huge. Expensive. None of that shit would impress Gina.

And no way did he want to bring her back to the same bed where he’d entertained countless girls, most of whom he barely even remembered.

He was thinking all of this while his two best friends regarded him as if he’d grown a third head.

Wyatt crossed his boots over his ankles, dangling his beer from the neck of the bottle between his thumb and forefinger. “Cut the shit, bro. Spill,” he ordered. “You refused to go to a fucking lingerie launch tonight.” He paused. “Fuck, are you dying or something?” he asked, half-serious.

Sam chuckled. “Yeah, you wish. Then you think you’d have a shot at the most attractive dude in the group. But that title would pass to Noah. You just don’t have his bone structure.” He winked at Noah, who shook his head.

They both stared at him, not saying anything. Just waiting. They knew how much Sam hated silence. Even with Grateful Dead playing in the background, that’s what it was, silence. Music didn’t count as noise when it was necessary to your existence. You didn’t count oxygen as food, did you?

“Fuck’s sake. What are we, chicks?” Sam snapped. “I just didn’t feel like going out, okay?”

Wyatt took a pull of his beer with a raised brow. “Yep, you’re definitely dying,” he surmised.

Sam huffed out a breath, scrolling through his phone, ignoring all the notifications from his Instagram account. He wouldn’t admit it to himself, but he was looking for some kind of communication from Gina.

It had been ten hours.

Nothing.

“Fine, but when I tell you this, you’re not allowed to scream or cry or ask for a fucking tampon, because even though you’re acting like a chick, you’re not one. Evidenced by the fact that I am not feeling any attraction toward you. And you’d make a striking woman, just FYI,” Sam said.

Wyatt ignored him and waited.

“I’ve been in Texas,” he began.

Even Noah, the master of the poker face, looked moderately surprised.“You hate Texas,” he said with a frown. “You said the only thing you like about it is the girls in short shorts who are the most polite at giving blow jobs—your words, not mine.”

“A girl lives there,” Sam continued, glaring at Noah. He didn’t remember saying that. He was sure it was true—it sounded like him—but it still pissed him off.

“I knew it,” Wyatt hissed. “It’s happened. Hell has frozen over. You’re going to have nowhere to go when you finally bite it.”

Sam glared at him. “Eat shit.” He drained his glass. “This girl, she’s different. Hooked up with her the night of Lexie’s wedding, fucked it up majorly the morning after. Hence me turning into whatever the male version of a nun is—”

“A monk, douchebrain,” Wyatt cut in.

Sam flipped him the bird. “And battling the worst case of blue balls this side of the sun,” he continued. “So, on behalf of my treasured balls, I went to go fuck her out of my system.”

“So romantic,” Wyatt muttered.

Sam ignored him. “When I got there, all that shit went to the wayside. She opened the door….” He flinched at the memory of her bruised face. And the paralyzing thought of her getting hurt again. He wasn’t there. And she could get hurt.

And it’d fuck him up.

More than he already was.

“Let me guess, she punched you in the face and the blue balls still remain?” Wyatt asked.

Sam glared at him. “No, the opposite, actually.” He paused, hearing how that sounded outside his head. “Wait, I didn’t punch her in the face,” he said quickly. “Some other fucker did. Repeatedly. She was bruised as shit when I saw her.”

The energy in the room immediately changed. It had been light with harmless ribbing, with amusement. Like a fire sucking the oxygen out of the room, Sam’s words snuffed out all air of joking. Wyatt’s grin left his face. Noah clenched his fists.

“Fuck, bro,” Wyatt muttered, his words heavy with fury.

“You kill him?” Noah asked conversationally.

Sam shook his head. “Wanted to. But the only color I don’t look good in is orange. Though I am researching the best options for killing someone and making it look like an accident. I’ll give Killian a call after this.”

Wyatt nodded. “Need another shovel to bury that hole, man, I’m there.”

Sam nodded in thanks. “For now, he’s behind bars. Had to pull some serious fuckin’ strings to get him there, though. Idiot local force had him out on bail. After going to my woman’s home and assaulting her. For reporting him for assaulting his kid,” he seethed. It came natural, calling her his. That’s what she was. Even if it was taking longer than he liked for her to admit it.

Longer than he liked was any longer than it took for him to realize it. He knew he was an impatient motherfucker. It hadn’t been a problem for the past half a decade though, as he hadn’t had to wait for anything. Even those rare seasonal peaches he loved. He got them flown in from whatever part of the world had a favorable climate at the time.

Gina was not something to be bought. She was something, someone to be earned.

Noah’s body went rigid. Sam felt for him. Hard. He knew his brother’s demons. Not all of them, not even half of them, but he knew his dad had used him as a punching bag until that punching bag grew biceps of his own. This shit was going to hit home for him.

It hit home for Sam, whose own father had been too drunk to actually hit him on the regular, but he’d tried, on occasion. He was usually too drunk to land a solid hit. Not that the hit needed to be solid for it to hurt.

“Kid’s four,” Sam continued, shaking himself free of his own demons.

“Motherfucker,” Wyatt hissed.

“Yeah,” Sam bit out.

“Where’s the kid now?” Noah asked. His brother’s tone was still calm, but his entire body shook. Just slightly.

Sam clenched his teeth. “With relatives. Mother’s side. Already got Keltan to do a comprehensive background search on them, seem to be good people. On paper. Though it’s pretty fuckin’ easy to be good on paper. We’ve got eyes on the situation. Duke stayed down there watching both him and Gina until I can get back.” He scratched at the back of his head. “Whole thing doesn’t sit right with me. Got a bad feeling.”

And he did. He didn’t believe in psychics and all that shit, but despite that, he felt something in his bones. Dread. Expectation. The similar bitter taste the air had when Lexie had been going through all her shit.

Wyatt’s face changed. Realization dawned. “Wait, Gina?” he repeated. “Lexie’s friend Gina? Gina, who we went to fuckin’ high school with?”

Anger Sam didn’t understand polluted his tone.

He frowned at Wyatt as he pushed from his chair in the direction of his whiskey bottle. Luckily he’d made sure it was within easy reach. “The very same. Though now she’s my woman, Gina.” He paused halfway toward the bottle. “Even if she won’t admit it yet.”

Wyatt stood and, in a gesture that shocked the shit out of Sam, yanked him out of reach of the whiskey bottle by his collar.

“What the fuck, man? This is custom!” he growled as Wyatt wrenched him up.

“Gina?” Wyatt yelled in his face. “All the girls in the planet you had to fuck over, and you fucked over her?”

Sam blinked at him, his own rage simmering. “What’s with the Hulk act, bro? You got a thing for her? I’ll tell you now, that would not end well,” he warned.

Though he strictly knew that wasn’t the truth. Wyatt had some fucked-up shit going on with Lexie’s other friend, the little spitfire who’d punched Killian in the face last year—Emma. Logically, he knew that. But Sam didn’t do very well with logic in a normal situation. With Gina, logic didn’t fucking exist.

“What’s not going to end well is you fucking with this girl,” Wyatt hissed. “Jesus, Sam. Are you fucking insane?”

Sam glared at him. “Of course I am. But what the fuck does that have to do with Gina?”

“Do you even remember her in high school?” Wyatt demanded.

“Of course I do, despite how much cheap booze I drank,” Sam snapped. It wasn’t untrue. Though he wished he could unremember most of it. A lot of it when he wasn’t with his friends was a fucking shit show.

But Gina, yeah, he remembered her in high school. He’d noticed her.

Snatches of the girl caught his attention, in her quiet world. But he’d made it his mission to move fast so he didn’t have to focus on anything too hard. He remembered appreciating her for her understated beauty, remembered thinking if his life was different he might have asked her out. As it was, even back then, he wasn’t about to pollute a girl so obviously innocent. Plus, he’d been a selfish fuck, focused on escaping his own situation. He hadn’t needed anchors. Some strange part of him had sensed back then that if he went near her, he would be chained to her.

Right now, that prospect made him feel warm and fucking fuzzy, filled him with whatever warped sense of joy his mind allowed him to feel.

Back then he had the emotional capacity of a teaspoon; therefore, even though he appreciated her, he sure as shit didn’t deserve her. Fuck, he didn’t deserve her now.

“You’re so full of shit,” Wyatt seethed.

Sam was starting to get pissed right the fuck off. “What are you talking about? Did you get into my Adderall or something?” he demanded, yanking out of his grasp.

That was the second time today Wyatt had put his hands on him. The dude was obviously battling his own chick shit and rubbing it all over him and his fabulous wardrobe. Sam could barely handle his own shit; he did not need to take on Wyatt’s.

“You have no clue, do you?” Wyatt asked.

“I have clues about anything and everything,” he snapped.

“She’s a sweet girl, Sam. She’s not someone you fuck over.” Wyatt regarded him levelly, reaching down to snatch his beer and drain it.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “I’m not planning on fucking her over,” he gritted out.

Wyatt sighed. “You already fuckin’ have.” His anger deflated and he sank down back onto his seat.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded. He felt as if he was missing something. A big something, considering Wyatt’s violent reaction to news he’d only just shared with them. Sam had been relatively certain his friends would be happy for him. Sure, Wyatt’s chances of getting laid would likely be cut in half since he was losing the ultimate wingman, but he’d survive. And his chances of getting laid would likely even out since Sam didn’t plan on touching another pair of fake tits attached to a fake bitch. Which exempted most of Hollywood. Most of the world, in fact. He only planned on touching one pair of tits for the foreseeable future, and they were not fake. Whatsoever. His dick twitched in his pants at the very thought of them in the palms of his hands. Of the way her nipples strained out of her shirt when he kissed her in the car.

He hadn’t touched them, tasted them in a fuckin’ year. It was past time.

Something dinged in his tit-filled mind. Maybe the reason Wyatt was so pissed was because he somehow knew about that horrific morning.

But he couldn’t. Gina hadn’t told anyone, not even Lexie. And he’d expected that for months. Chicks talked, especially about guys who treated them like shit.

Lexie hadn’t attempted to kill him, so that was his reasoning that Gina hadn’t told anyone. So Wyatt couldn’t be mad over how he’d treated Gina that morning because he didn’t know the specifics.

But he obviously knew something else.

Something Sam didn’t. And he hated being out of the loop at the best of times. This was the worst of times, considering it was about the woman he wanted to know anything and everything about.

Wyatt glanced to Noah, who like always was watching, observing. “You want to tell him?” he asked.

“Tell me what?” Sam demanded, feeling uneasy. And that had nothing to do with the half bottle of whiskey he’d downed.

Okay, it had a little to do with that.

The last time he’d eaten was all that vegetarian shit with Gina. And fuck if some of it was pretty darn good. But that was almost two days ago. He made a mental note to eat.

“Dude, the girl was totally in love with you in high school,” Noah said bluntly, but not unkindly. “Not in a creepy pathetic way, but in a sad kind of way. Like she knew you’d never notice her. Despite her being beautiful, kind, and actually pretty fucking funny if you got her comfortable enough to speak to you.” He paused. “And you were blissfully ignorant because you were too busy chasing empty heads and tight asses and making damn sure you didn’t have anything that would chain you to Amber. Everyone knew. I think you even fuckin’ did. Even if you are too stubborn to admit it to yourself. And now, seven years later, you’re comin’ back into her life because, what? She looked beautiful at Lexie’s wedding, so you finally opened your eyes enough to see her and you fuck her?” He shook his head, a glimmer of frustration peeking through his blank expression. “Fuck, man, did you even acknowledge that you knew her in fuckin’ high school?”

Sam flinched at the memory of him deliberately calling her by the wrong name. He’d already been kicking himself for that without knowing this shit. Now he wished he had a time machine so he could go back and kick Sam from a year ago firmly in the balls.

Then he’d go back to high school and make sure he saw Gina. He didn’t even fuckin’ care if it fucked up some space-time continuum balance and chained him in Amber on minimum wage for the rest of his life.

Noah took his flinch and his silence as answer. “Yeah, you’ve most likely been so wrapped up in how she makes you feel that you didn’t even stop to look at how she feels. We know you’re not deliberately callous, that’s not you. You’re emotionally dense, not cruel. But fuck, man.” He shook his head again.

It hit him deep to hear the disappointment in Noah’s tone. He had disappointed his parents often throughout his childhood, for existing amongst other things. His father blamed him for having to get a job on a local construction crew when he knocked Sam’s mom up at sixteen. He blamed him for the fact that it meant he lost any chance at a football scholarship and the fact that he began drinking to deal with that loss when he gained a son. He gained fifty pounds, went bald early and turned bitter and ugly. That disappointment hadn’t bothered him once he realized what a piece of shit his father was. But disappointing someone you respected? That shit was worse than forgetting the lyrics to Metallica.

They bathed in a long silence.

“I fucked up,” he said to the room. To himself.

Noah nodded.

“Big-time,’” he said.

“Big-time,” Wyatt agreed.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

There was another silence.

Sam regarded his friends. “Think she’ll forgive me?” he asked hopefully.

“If she’s suffered mild brain damage, maybe,” Wyatt said dryly.

Sam growled at him. Actually growled like a fucking dog. Shit. He was totally turning into Killian.

And he didn’t mind one fucking bit. As long as that meant he got the girl.

He stood up.

He was getting the fucking girl.

* * *

The slam of their front door made both Sam and Wyatt jump from their spots on their respective sofas.

Wyatt had tempted him with a Walking Dead marathon while Mark was getting his flights sorted.

The jet was in the shop for maintenance so they had to do commercial, which on short notice was proving to be not as quickly as Sam would’ve liked.

And Sam would’ve liked it to be last night, when he’d decided to get his ass back to his girl.

He did realize how much of douche he was turning into worrying about private jets. Past him would’ve totally ass-kicked present him. But he really didn’t care about the jet, though it had been pretty fucking epic when they’d first gotten it.

That was when he treasured possessions because he didn’t have anything else worth possessing.

Now he had her.

Fuck the jet.

But he was so wrapped up in his favorite show and the slam of the door that he momentarily forgot all of that.

“It’s the zombies! They’ve come!” Sam yelled, gaping at the monster eating a human. “I knew it would come. Take him first.” He shoved Wyatt at the figure storming into their living room.

The figure turned out to be much smaller than the zombie Sam was expecting. And prettier. And not dead. Though she was incredibly pissed off and looked like she might be able to commit murder. “Seriously, Sam?” she hissed, her pretty face flushed with anger.

He stopped using Wyatt as a human shield, but kept him close considering Lexie seemed mad. “It could happen, Lexie. Just because you’ve got a husband who’s likely more badass with a crossbow than Daryl, you should still worry at least a little bit.” He held his thumb and forefinger together so an inch of space separated them.

“Cut the shit, Sam,” she clipped, and Sam’s eyes widened.

Lexie didn’t get angry often these days. She was all into yoga and Zen and shit, and she didn’t usually have much to get angry about. Before, yes, when things were dark behind those eyes and her heart was so broken and shattered even an emotional cripple like Sam could see it, feel her pain. But not now. She was somehow healed and whole and brighter than before. Now there were no shadows in her eyes. And nothing to worry about. Especially not an apocalypse. She had a husband to do that and zombie killing for her.

So seeing her this pissed had him more shocked than an actual zombie storming through the door would have.

“What? I didn’t scratch your Jeep, it was Wyatt.” He immediately pointed at the gaping Wyatt.

“Gina!” she yelled. Yes, yelled. “Gina! It’s not enough for Wyatt to be fucking with my best friend.” Her laser beams attached themselves on Wyatt for a moment, the weight of her curse like lead in the room as she didn’t use “fuck” as a comma like the rest of them did. “Yes, I know about that. And Emma is well able to castrate you herself, but that doesn’t mean I won’t if you break her heart.” Her gaze whipped back to Sam as she stomped toward him on her platforms. “But you.” She pointed at him.

He half expected a shock to come from the gesture, it was that violent. Plus, someone who did that much yoga had to have connected to magical powers underpinning the universe. Otherwise, why else would they do it?

She was so far from Zen right then it was laughable. “Gina. She’s sweet and innocent and not someone you fuck with,” she hissed. “You leave her alone. You hear me? She’s not another groupie. Some empty-headed whore who doesn’t care how you treat her as long as she carves a notch in your bedpost. She’s my friend. A person with feelings and a heart and not meant for the fucking circus you call a life. The girls you take to bed know what they’re getting into, Sam, but Gina doesn’t. She isn’t like anyone else. And I will get Killian to kill you if you hurt her.” She paused, putting her hands on her hips in the universal chick battle stance. “No, actually I don’t need Killian for that one. He can just dispose of the body.”

Sam stood up, his own anger brewing at his friend, the girl he considered his sister thinking so little of him. Anger was easier and more comfortable to grab onto than the hurt her lack of belief in him created. “I know she’s not like anyone else,” he yelled. “You think I don’t recognize that shit? Why do you think I’m trying to do everything in my power to make sure I’m fucking worthy of her? You all are so fucking certain that she’s not right for me, but you guys don’t know shit about what’s right for yourselves, let alone me.”

He glared at Lexie, whose eyes widened at his outburst. “You spent four fucking years in your own wasteland because you were so certain that the man who loved you throughout the whole of high school, the man who took a fucking bullet for you, was breaking up with you because he, what? Popped your cherry and suddenly didn’t love you anymore? That’s the biggest load of horseshit ever. You were miserable for four years because you didn’t know what was good for you. You were so quick to think the fucking worst of him, just like you’re doing to me. Right now.”

He fastened his eyes on Wyatt. “You. You’re just as much a whore as me, though you’ll never fuckin’ admit it. Just because you remember their names and make them breakfast after doesn’t make you any less of an asshole. Especially when you’re playing your fuckin’ cat-and-mouse game with Emma. You were both lying to yourselves for that shit.”

He narrowed his eyes at the gaping woman who had lost most of her fire now. “Lexie, you’ve clued in, got the happy every after, and congratu-fucking-lations for that.” He clapped his hands. “But, Wyatt, you’re still lying to yourself, and we all know Noah is lying to fucking all of us. I’m the only one trying to live his fucking truth right now. And she’s my fucking truth. Okay? She’s it. You don’t have to understand it, but I’d appreciate it if you’d fucking accept it, because I’ve spent almost ten years accepting all of your bullshit and now it’s time for you to get right with some of mine.”

And on that, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. He really wanted to see what happened with Rick’s team at the prison, but his little outburst didn’t really accommodate that. And he was all for dramatic flair.

Right then he was thinking not about dramatic flair but about getting to his girl. Even if he had to fly fucking coach to get there.

Fuck, he’d do a Forrest Gump and run the entire way if that’s what was required of him.

As long as he got to her, as long he got her, the rest of the shit didn’t matter.

He pretended not to feel the naked fear of the prospect of not getting her.

He was Sam Kennedy, after all. He always got what he wanted.