Since I’ve known Layla, I’ve never once lied to her. I’ve never felt the need to. She’s the least judgmental person I’ve ever met. “We dated for a couple of months. Figured out real quick that relationship was a mistake.”

Layla grins, like she finds that amusing. “Well. She doesn’t think it was a mistake. She thinks I’m the mistake.”

Sable was the mistake, but I don’t want to say anything about Sable that might worry Layla. But the girl is definitely someone worth worrying about. It took me several weeks to figure it out, though, probably because I was only paying attention to how much my dick liked her and wasn’t aware that the way she felt about me was on a completely different level.

I initially thought our meeting was organic, but I found out from Garrett that Sable ran a fan club for me that she’d started a year before we even met. I confronted her about it, and things got weird after that. I tried to break it off, but she didn’t take that very well. At first, it was just incessant phone calls. Messages. Voice mails. But then she started showing up to shows, demanding I give her another chance.

Garrett and the guys started calling her Unstable Sable.

We finally had to have security escort her out of a show one night—a couple of days before I blocked her on my cell and social media. I also blocked the account she used to run her Leeds Gabriel fan club.

The whole thing was bizarre. She was bizarre.

And it really unnerves me that she’s still out there, watching my page, reaching out to people I post pictures with.

“It’s people like Sable that make me question whether or not I want to be in the public eye at all. Why am I even trying when I hate everything it entails?”

Layla crawls on top of me. “Sadly, you can’t really sell music without an online presence. Crazies and success are a package deal.” She kisses the tip of my nose. “If you ever do become a household name, you’ll have enough money to hire someone to delete the trolls for you. Then you won’t have to deal with them.”

“Good point,” I say, even though I have enough money now to hire someone to deal with my social media. My finances haven’t come up in conversation between me and Layla yet, though. She assumes I’m a starving artist yet somehow still loves me as if I could give her the world. There’s no better feeling than being loved for who you are rather than for what you’re worth.

Layla smiles. “I’m full of good points. That’s why you’re in love with me.”

“So in love with you.” I kiss her, but this kiss is coupled with concern.

In the beginning, I liked Layla. I was attracted to her. But concern for her didn’t accompany those feelings. However, over the last few weeks, I’ve started to worry about her.

Concern might be the only difference between liking someone and loving someone.

I debate telling her to be extra careful while I’m gone because now I’m even more apprehensive. I’d like it if she’d never answer my door when I’m not here. I’d really like it if she’d delete all her social media accounts. But she’s a grown-ass woman, so I don’t say any of that.

I don’t know why I have this pit in my stomach because essentially, I’m a nobody right now. One unofficial fan club and five thousand followers does not make me a somebody. A few comments from some fans online isn’t really something that warrants an overprotective boyfriend. Even still, I’m having a security system installed while I’m gone. It’ll put my mind at ease.

“I have to meet Garrett in two hours. And I still have to shower and finish packing.”

Layla kisses me and then rolls off the bed. “I’ll put a frozen lasagna in the oven so you can eat before you leave. Want some garlic bread with it?”

“Sounds perfect.”

She closes the bedroom door, and I begrudgingly head to the bathroom.

Maybe we should get a dog. A protective one, like a German shepherd. It’d make me feel better when I have to leave Layla here by herself.

I turn on the water in the shower and take off my shirt, but before I unbutton my jeans, there’s a knock at the door. I told Garrett I’d meet him at his house. Maybe he got impatient.

“I’ll get it!” I yell out from the bathroom. I really don’t want Layla answering the door after I read some of those comments. Not to mention, Sable knows where I live. She’s slept in my bed.

“I’ve got it!” Layla yells back.

I’m picking up my shirt and pulling it back over my head when I hear a sound. It’s like a single-shot firecracker. Pop!

My blood chills—as if my veins would shatter like glass if I moved. But I do move. I run.

When I reach the bedroom door, I hear the sound again. Another pop!

I swing open the door, and everything I know and everything I love and everything I live for is in a heap on my living room floor. There’s blood pooling beneath her shoulder. In her hair. I immediately drop to my knees and lift her head.

“Layla,” I whisper, right before feeling a sting in my shoulder.

Everything after that is a blur.

A nightmare.

Everything stops.

It just stops.

It just . . .

THE INTERVIEW

The man is quiet.

The whole house is quiet. Too quiet.

I need more bourbon. As if he knows this, he stands up and grabs the bottle. He brings it back to the table and slides it over to me. “What happened next?”

I shrug. Take a drink. “She survived.”

“Who shot her? Sable?”

My jaw is tense when I nod. “Yes. Over a fucking Instagram post.” My words are short and clipped. I’m sure the expression on my face shows just how done I wish I could be with this conversation.

“Was Sable arrested?”

I shake my head. “No.”

The man is looking at me like he wants me to elaborate even more on that night, and I will, but not right now. I’m still trying to swallow everything that’s led up to this point. I need to fully digest it before I spit it back out.

“I don’t really want to talk about that right now,” I say. “Not that it isn’t important. I just . . .” I push back from the table and stand up. “I need to check on Layla again.” My voice is dry from all the talking. He stops the recorder as I turn to walk up the stairs.

I pause halfway up the steps. I lean against the wall and close my eyes. It’s still hard to wrap my mind around what’s happening sometimes, even though I’ve been living it for weeks now.

I take a moment to separate everything I’m saying about Layla downstairs from what I need to say to her upstairs.

After a few long seconds, I push off the wall and head to our bedroom. I unlock the door and slowly open it, expecting Layla to be asleep. She isn’t. She is lying down, though.

“I’m thirsty,” she says flatly.

I pick up the glass of water by the bed and wait for her to sit up. I’ve given the rope plenty of slack so she can move around a bit, but she still winces when the rope rubs against her wrists. She leans forward until the glass meets her lips. She takes several sips before dropping against the headboard, exhausted.

“You should eat,” I tell her. “What do you want me to bring you?”