She gasped in outrage.

Zane shot me a “really man?” look across the fire.

But I was over it.

So over it.

I was over it the day Angelica Greene walked out of my life and into my band mate’s arms.

I was over it then.

And I was over it now.

The only reason I was even involved in it was because she had about just as much shit on me as I did on her—and most days I loved my job.

She kicked sand onto my marshmallow.

I loved my job.

I loved my job.

I loved my job.

I hated Angelica Greene.