Page 192 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

Two people are arguing.

The closer we get, the louder the voices grow. I’m quick to realize the strangers are right around the corner and stretch my arm out in front of Scar, stopping him.

“You didn’t see shit, Mitchell. You were high off your face.”

“I know what I saw. You were fucking the—”

Brody cuts him off. “If I were you, I’d think very carefully about what I’m going to say next. Last I checked, I’m not the only one with skeletons in the closet.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Was that a threat?”

“If that’s what it takes for you to keep your fucking mouth shut,” Brody spits.

“I told you those things in confidence.”

“And I’m telling you to mind your fucking business unless you want me to pay your little sister a visit. Dia, is it?”

“Fuck you, Richards.”

My reflexes kick in just in time for me to grab Scar and take cover behind the garden shed on our right. We watch as the guy Brody was talking to storms past us and out of the backyard.

Looking at him tells me hiding was a good move. He’s tall, on the buff side, too. I don’t want to know how he would’ve reacted if he’d caught us eavesdropping.

“What the hell was that about?” Scar mutters.

I shrug. “No fucking idea.”

Scar scoffs. “Your friend sounds like a tremendous guy.”

“He’s not my friend.”

Although tonight, he will be.

Scar and I cut across Brody’s backyard, meeting him and two of his friends by the pool.

They’re passing a joint around, seated on the patio furniture. The air is dense with smoke, the smell of weed infiltrating our lungs the second we reach them.

“Fuck me. Is that Kane Wilder?” Brody says in a high-pitched voice, fanning himself like he’s one of my groupies. He rises off the three-seater, making his way over.

“Glad you made it. How’ve you been, man?” Brody pulls me into a bro hug, patting my back. He introduces me to the group as soon as he’s pulled away. “Guys, this is Kane. We’ve been friends for ages.”

I force a smile, greeting everybody. It’s funny how he’s making it sound like we’re tight, when really, I haven’t thought about this guy once in the past two years.

You wouldn’t believe the amount of assholes I’ve had claim to be my friend since my career took off.

New day, same shit.

“I’m Axel.” The younger-looking guy waves, eyes bloodshot from the substances he’s been abusing. He looks higher than a fucking giraffe.

“Dean,” Brody’s other friend says.

“This is Scar.” I point to my drummer, who I have no doubt wouldn’t have bothered introducing himself. He looks like he’d rather swallow that entire joint than get to know these people.

One thing I like about Scar is that he doesn’t pretend for anyone. If he doesn’t like you, you’ll fucking know.

“Go ahead. Make yourselves at home.” Brody gestures to the patio furniture.

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