“No. Fucking. Way,” Garth spluttered after a long and considerable silence following my story.

I looked at him in surprise. Garth did not say such things in such tones—ever.

Then I looked to Pria, expecting her to be gaping at her husband in much the same shock as I was. But her expression mirrored his instead.

She kept her eyes on me and jerked her thumb toward Garth. “What he said.”

I had just finished my entire Sam story.

Despite the pair of them being two of my closest friends, I had neglected to tell them anything about that night with Sam before now. In fact, I hadn’t even told them I knew him. Once the story of Lexie’s kidnapping and near death came out, so did where she came from. Before that, strangely, the band’s origins and connection to an outlaw, recently reformed motorcycle club had gone unreported. I reasoned that the aforementioned motorcycle club had a lot to do with that.

But it became impossible even for some of the most notorious badasses this side of Sons of Anarchy to keep under wraps. That meant everyone and their sister sold stories about their connection to the band. Countless girls from high school touted themselves as old girlfriends. People used their historical connection to Sam and the rest of the band as some sort of social currency.

I did not.

Even if I was somehow the kind of person who did that, I wasn’t about to broadcast the fact that I’d been obsessed with Sam before it was socially acceptable to be that.

It had kind of become inescapable when Pria snatched me by the front of my shirt, dragged me inside and slammed me against the wall in her foyer, demanding why in the fuck Sam from Unquiet Mind was eye-fucking the shit out of me and then arguing with me on the lawn. Then she asked me where I would like to be committed since I must’ve been batshit insane to walk away from Sam fucking Kennedy.

You never would’ve known Pria came from an incredibly conservative Indian family. Very traditional. I’d met them. Her mother was kind but quiet, her father friendly but incredibly stern.

So how they’d raised a daughter who swore like a sailor and married someone her parents did not technically approve of was anyone’s guess.

Well, they hadn’t technically approved at the start, or for a long while after, but they loved their daughter and were good people who wanted to see her happy.

So they accepted the Texas-born, utterly and completely American Garth. Though it was hard not to. His smile was infectious, his heart almost as big as the state he hailed from.

So I’d told them both the sordid story, hence them gaping at me now.

“B-but you’re Gina,” Pria said finally.

I sipped the wine that she’d uncharacteristically offered me. She accepted the fact that I didn’t drink often, though she openly grumbled about me making her drink alone. But she’d offered the full glass, knowing, as friends did, that I needed it.

And I did.

“Yes, I am Gina,” I agreed.

“You don’t drink, don’t party. Don’t date after that cockface ruined you for everyone else. And not in the good way.” She glared at that. She’d seen Simon for what he was from the start and had tried to tell me. But I hadn’t listened. And because she was a good friend, she supported me anyway. Then picked up the pieces afterward. Then very seriously researched hitmen until she grumbled about having to send her three-year-old to college.

“You read books and teach babies and you’re quiet,” she continued.

“All of this is true.” I nodded.

“So you can’t possibly be sleeping with a rock star,” she surmised.

Garth, who’d been quiet in his corner, chimed in. “It’s always the quiet ones.” He winked at his wife, who scowled at him.

“I know I’m not—”

“No, this is not because I don’t think you’re beautiful. You know I hate that shit you spout about you not being a fucking knockout. That’s not it.” She bulged her eyes at me to reinforce her point. “It’s just… you’re Gina.”

“The quiet ones,” her husband repeated.

I regarded both of them. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not sleeping with him. I slept with him. Once, singular.” I paused. “Or one night, more aptly.”

Pria grinned wickedly at me with the underlying point of such a statement.

I didn’t wait for her to interject something dirty or demand specifics. “It will not be happening again. He was here….” I trailed off, trying to wade through everything he said.

He was here for another chance.

For lots of sex.

For me.

“He’s here because he’s insane,” I lied. “Who knows why. Maybe he’s screwed his way around LA already. But whatever the reason, he got here, saw my face, for some insane reason felt responsible for it and has insisted on buying me a security system. Once my novelty or excitement or whatever wears off, he’ll be gone,” I said firmly. Convincing them, convincing myself. Because if I did that before he actually did leave, then maybe it would hurt a heck of a lot less.

Pria regarded me soberly, even though she was on her third glass of wine. I was only halfway through my second and was feeling slightly silly.

Though I did have the tolerance of a toddler.

“Honey,” she said. “Even from a window across the street, I can see that man is not here for a screw or because you’re some kind of novelty. You’re so much more than that. You’re just the only one who can’t see that. It’s broken my heart for years, and I’ve tried to show you that you’re so much more than what he made you believe you are. Maybe this one is finally going to make you believe it. Because he sure as heck does. And, honey, you were wearing sweatpants, had greasy hair and no makeup on and he watched you like you were strutting down a red carpet dripping in diamonds. That’s some shit right there. You better believe it.”

She was so serious, more serious than I’d ever seen her, that I almost believed her.

Almost. Then I focused on the wine in her hand and the loving husband at her side.

She was in the perfect place to believe in fantasies.

I, however, was not.