For Kate’s birthday, Amelia sent her a huge, heavy, natural crystal necklace harvested from the caves of Perigord, because she believes they’ll protect Kate’s lungs from the city air pollution.

It’s a shame, how stringent the involuntary commitment protocols in this country have become.

Oh—and Amelia doesn’t like me at all. Don’t know why. I only met her once before this blessed event, and we didn’t speak more than five words to each other. I wonder if the withering glares she throws my way have anything to do with her nephew.

“Oh look—Billy’s here! He made it!”

Speak of the Devil and he doth appear. I glance over to the doorway where, sure enough, the ball-licker just waltzed in.

Yep, still hate him. He’s like genital herpes—he just won’t go the f**k away.

He’s been living in LA for the last eight months and much to my displeasure, he and Kate still talk. She says they’re just—say it with me—’friends’—but I don’t buy it. I mean, sure, for Kate, they’re just friends. That I believe. But for a guy? No way.

The “friend” card is one of the oldest hook-up tricks in the book. Right up there with ‘I think I might be g*y.’ He’s just biding his time—waiting for me to screw up so he can be the shoulder Kate cries on. Then when she’s all vulnerable and weak, he’ll stick his tongue down her throat.

Not gonna happen. Not on my f**king watch.

He makes his way over to our table and Kate goes up to him. They hug, and I grind my teeth together.

“Hi, Katie.”

“Hey, Billy.”

Pardon me while I swallow the vomit that just surged into my mouth.

“Dee Dee’s going to be so excited to see you. I thought you had a show?”

His smile is smug. Slick. Like a used car salesman. “I had my agent move some things around.” Then he looks Kate over, from head to toe.

And I want to simultaneously cover her with a tablecloth and scoop his eyeballs out with a coffee spoon.

“You look amazing.”

She tilts her head to the side with a smile, “Aww. You’re so sweet. You look great, too.”

She’s actually stomaching this bullshit? Are you f**king kidding me?

I clear my throat and stand up behind her. “Warren.”

“Evans.”

Our eyes clash—like a lion staring down a hyena—and Kate is the fresh kill we’re both looking to eat.

That’s when my mom comes over. “Kate, could you be a dear and help me find your mother? The photographer would like to take a few more family shots outside before the sun goes down.”

Kate’s dark eyes cloud over with concern. They dart between the two of us nervously. “Ah…sure, Anne. No problem.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Kate looks at each of us pointedly. “I’ll be right back.” As she turns to go, she stops at my shoulder and whispers, “Be good, Drew.”

I smirk. “That’s not what you wanted this morning.”

Her smile’s tight and there’s warning in her eyes. “It’s what I want now.”

I tuck a piece of her hair back behind her ear. “I’m always good, baby.”

She walks away, leaving me alone with my arch nemesis. This should be interesting.

He jumps right in with both feet. “So, I left Kate a couple voice mails last week. Apparently she didn’t get them.” His tone is accusing. Rightly so.

“Maybe she just didn’t want to talk to you.”

He snorts—as pigs tend to do. “Or maybe you deleted them.”

I take a step closer, making him back up. “Maybe you shouldn’t be calling my apartment.”

“I called to talk to Kate.”

“Right—Kate who’s living in my apartment.”

“You can’t f**king tell her who she can talk to. Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Her boyfriend. Which means—yeah—I can. And I don’t think that includes you anymore.”

“You know something, Evans? I see right through you. You come off all arrogant and full of yourself, but deep down? You’re shitting your pants. Cause you know it’s just a matter of time before Kate is done with you.”

My brow furrows in mock confusion. “I’m sorry—I don’t speak vagina. Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He moves forward, so we’re nose to nose, like boxers before the bell. “It means newsflash, dickhead—you’re the rebound guy. A distraction. Kate will have her fun, and then she’ll move on to more permanent prospects.”

I laugh. “Like you?”

“I do have the whole rock star thing going for me, don’t I?”

Kate said he signed a record deal a few months back, and I’ve heard a few of his songs on the radio. But I don’t care how many records he sells—he’ll always be a douche bag to me. Though he’s got a point about the rock star thing. It’s a powerful force. Guys who look like Mick Jagger or Steven Tyler wouldn’t have a shot in hell at getting laid without it, and they’ve spent decades shoulder deep in pu**y.

“But no, not me,” he says. “Kate and I are in the past. That doesn’t mean she’s sticking with you, though. How long have you known her, Evans? Eight months? I dated her for eleven years and I was her friend for nine before that. I think I’m a lot more qualified to predict what Kate will or won’t do.”