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.