We took a different route back to our building so we’d pass our favorite donut shop. Luckily, the decision about what kind and how many to get distracted Trev from our conversation about Saturday night. Maybe he’d forget about it, and I wouldn’t have to tell him anything.

By the time we got there, he’d narrowed it down to a Boston cream-filled or a bacon-topped maple bar.

“Think I’ll do one of each. You want something?” he asked, knowing I had to wait outside with Kitty.

I nodded. “Big and black.”

“You’re talking about coffee or cocks?”

“Ha.” I took a breath. “Ha.”

“No judgment, Dec. I don’t care who gets your rocks off.” Walking backwards toward the door, he held up his hands and shrugged. “But until you mentioned this chick, it had been so long since you took a woman home I figured you didn’t like them anymore.”

“Wow,” I said dryly. “It’s as if you can see right into my soul.”

“Must’ve rubbed off from all those sessions I had with your dad.” At least he could laugh at that.

I found it nearly impossible to laugh at anything having to do with my father. The only good thing the man had ever done for me was to accidentally introduce me to my best friend. And sometimes, knowing Trev as well as I did, I wondered if that was actually a good thing.

I couldn’t remember why I’d been at my dad’s office that day, but I do remember his look of annoyance and then-ten-year-old Trevor’s look of surprise when they saw me sitting in the waiting room. They’d just finished a therapy session, and my dad wanted to speak to Trevor’s mother alone. So for the next five minutes the kid and I stared at each other. It was Trev who’d broken the awkwardness, in the way I’d soon learn he dealt with any uncomfortable situation—with a joke. It had actually been an impression of my father and was just rude enough to make me burst out laughing. He kept me giggling until his mom dragged him out, and my dad started his lecture about appropriate office behavior.

A year later, on the first day of middle school, Trev and I met again. From then on, we were inseparable, despite my dad’s disapproval of me befriending one of his patients. I never found out why Trevor had been seeing my dad, or which of his issues had made his mom decide it was worth paying one of the most prominent shrinks in Los Angeles to fix. Eventually, our parents had realized nothing they said or did could stop us from being friends, so Trev had switched to another shrink. Or at least that’s the story my dad guilted me with. Not for the loss of his client, though. Nope, Dr. Andrew Hollis tried to make me feel bad for forcing my best friend to go to a lower-class doctor. Because, obviously, every doctor was lower class than dear old Dad.

“Knock it off,” I said as Kitty shoved her nose into my ass cheek, right where I kept her treats. “You ate them all at the park.” She sat down and pouted until she saw a line of ants on the sidewalk that needed some intense scrutiny.

“Hey, Trev?” I called. “Grab one of those doggie donuts they have while you’re in there.”

“You spoil that drooly mutt, dude.”

“Stop bitching—I spoil you, too.”

“Truth. Speaking of…my belly needs rubbing. But I think I’d rather have a tall blonde do it.” Laughing, the idiot patted his stomach and went into the shop.

Sara’s hair was blond, more pale than golden. Long enough to spread out beautifully across a pillow or fall like a curtain around both of us while she was on top, and we were kissing. But tall? Nope. Far from it. She had to be at least a foot shorter than my six foot two, maybe more. And every part of her was tiny. I loved being able to hold both of her hands in one of mine and use my other to tickle her and then make her moan.

Shit. I needed to stop torturing myself.

Maybe I should’ve claimed Kitty was an emotional support dog—something she’d been since I took her in two years ago—and gone inside with Trev. Because as soon as the door closed behind him, I had nothing more important to think about than that night. And that led directly to the fact that I didn’t get Sara’s number, had no way of contacting her, and would probably never see her again.

That’s why I wrote songs—to do something with all the shit floating around in my head that I couldn’t do anything about. It’s also why I considered Kitty an emotional support animal. She always seemed to know when I went too far down a bad road, and she knew how to bring me back to the real world, back to the here and now.

I ruffled the fur on top of her head. “You would’ve liked her, girl.”

Hopefully, I had some good karma left, and they would have a chance to meet. Right before I took Sara out for dinner and got to know everything about her. Especially how she could leave so fast after what was probably the most amazing night of my life. No way could it have meant nothing to her.

Trevor came out a few minutes later with a greasy bag tucked in the crook of his arm, his finger through the hole of Kitty’s treat, and a gigantic cup of steaming coffee in each hand. He dropped Kitty’s donut in front of her and handed my cup to me. About three seconds later, once all signs of the dog treat had disappeared, we started walking again.

“So, Saturday night...” he said with half a donut in his mouth. “While I was in dire need of a wingman, you met this girl at a...”

“Karaoke bar.” And, unfortunately, she’d told me that night would be her first and last time there. Leaving me with zero ways to contact her.

“Karaoke bar?” He cringed. “Those things still exist?”

“Look around you—everything exists in San Francisco. Even things you wish didn’t.” Ironically, we were passing through a section of the city that offered everything from male burlesque shows to tobacco pipes. Two streets away from some of the most exclusive and expensive mansions in the country, brick walls and shop windows were covered with ad posters for escorts, the revolution, and local music events, including an upcoming one of ours.

See Self Defense Live Onstage. As opposed to seeing us dead onstage, I guess. Actually, that would probably draw a much bigger crowd. Maybe I should float the idea past the band, our new manager, and whoever the fuck else controlled my every move.

“So, you met this chick at a bar that shouldn’t exist and—can she sing?”

“She can, but I’m not sure she should. By the way, calling women chicks stopped being cool at least a decade ago. I think they actually prefer to be called by their names now.” I feigned lack of understanding. “Weird, right?”

“Damn. What’ll they want next? Respect?” Trevor had the incredibly rare ability of being able to say something way over-the-top sarcastic without his face giving anything away. Neither of us had figured out a situation where the skill would be beneficial, but we agreed that, as soon we could think of one, he’d be ready to take full advantage of it.

“So, what’s this woman’s name, then?” he asked. “The one with horrible taste in forms of entertainment and even worse taste in men she goes home with?”

“Thanks, and her name is Sara.”

“Sara.” He paused, taking a moment to absorb all four letters, I guess. “And this Sara…she didn't recognize you at all?”

“Not everyone knows who I am, Trev. In fact, most of the time people call me ‘the guy who stands next to Trevor Finley.’”

His face lit up. “Really?”

“Yeah. I think we should change the name of the band: Trevor and a Couple Other Guys. Nice ring, right?”

“Fuck. I’d take anything.” He pointed at the poster-sized ad for an upcoming gig that had been stapled to the building’s stucco. The club’s logo was at the top, the pint glass of beer tipped over so the liquid poured onto an obnoxiously large graphic of our album cover. “You see that little guy behind the huge pic of your ugly mug? He’s way in back with all the other little guys. It helps if you squint.”

No amount of squinting made it any less obnoxious. Unfortunately, I’d been out-voted by our manager and his minions, as if not even my face belonged to me anymore.

“Meh.” I stared at the brooding, miserable-looking version of myself. It might have been one of the first shots the photographer took, or one of the last. Hard to tell since I’d actually been brooding and miserable the entire day. Ironically, most people got a bad boy vibe from my expression, or at least that’s what I’ve been told.

I shook off the memories of the whole unpleasant experience. “That’s just because I have better hair.”

“Wrong. It’s because you have better everything that counts on an album cover.”

Trevor wasn’t an unattractive guy. Neither was Pete. Sam was…not the best-looking guy I’d ever seen, but he was the best drummer I’d ever known. And I’d rather be good than good-looking any day of the week. Supposedly, I was both. Lucky me. Unfortunately, a band’s popularity was more about presentation than performance nowadays. So, my looks were abused at every opportunity, and my skills were rarely noticed, let alone mentioned. Most of our fans didn’t even know I wrote all our songs. Or, more likely, they didn’t care.

“It’s not complicated.” I tugged Kitty’s leash so we could walk away faster. “Haircut, couple tats, and more outdoor exercise. That’s the difference between you and me.”

“Yeah, okay,” he grumbled. “Sure. Let’s go back to talking about your failures with this chick. I was enjoying that.”

“Sara,” I reminded him. “And it was a colossal failure. Seriously, like the biggest fail to-date—including that girl in sixth grade who kicked me in the balls and then ran off with her friends after I told her I was in love with her. What was her name again?”

“Lisa Burton. God bless that girl and her aim.” He put his hand over his heart. “That’s one of my most cherished memories. I wonder if she’s still cute.”

“She’s all yours, Trev. Neither my ego nor my balls could take another hit like that one. Plus, I’m not looking for anything serious.” I paused to wonder if that was true. Serious was different than real, and I could really use something real right about now. Someone real. Sara had felt real—literally and figuratively.

Fuck, she’d felt incredible, and we’d clicked so perfectly, and so quickly. As if we knew what the other was thinking.

Right up until she walked out. I definitely hadn’t seen that coming.

“I swear, as soon as I realized she was gone, and I had no way to contact or find her, it was as if my brain turned on a neon sign with the word commitment on it.” A neon sign that hadn’t been turned on in a really, really long time. If ever.

“Seriously?”

“Maybe. I don’t know,” I grumbled, shaking my head. A serious commitment was on the long list of shit I couldn’t deal with right now. “Would I like to see her again? Hell, yes. Regularly? Yeah. But we only had one incredibly hot night to get to know each other, so forever seems a little premature.”

Although, the more well-known the band got, the closer forever felt.

“Nothing is forever,” Trevor said. “Not fame, not women, not even your pretty face—so don’t worry about it. If you really want to get her, maybe you should send her something romantic yet practical. Like a therapist with a bow on his chest and a big bottle of anti-psychotic meds.”

I slugged him. “Maybe. If I knew where to send him. Except why would it work on her when it didn’t work on you?”

“Fuck you. I’m the healthiest mental patient you know.”

“Considering the people we know, that’s saying a shitload.”

“Forget her, man. You’ll find another soon, maybe even a normal one.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I hadn’t met a sane woman in years, so what was the chance that Sara wasn’t crazy, too? Obviously, she had issues. So, maybe it was better this way, after all. Between mine, Trevor’s, and the other guys’ I already had more than I could manage.