Page 53 of Layla

“How are you sleeping?” I snap back. I’m not going to let this guy forget that I slept in the bunk next to his for months at a time. I know exactly how often the nightmares get to him.

He just shrugs, looking a hell of a lot calmer than I feel. “Pretty well lately, yeah.”

That pulls me up short and I gape at him. The waitress arrives with our drinks, flirting shamelessly as Tim orders a burger. As if he can sense I’m in no state for basic conversation at the moment, he orders for me, too. I barely hear him.

When she’s gone, he turns to me, his eyes uncharacteristically serious. “I take it you’re still struggling with the nightmares.”

Of course I’m still struggling with the nightmares. I didn’t realize it was even possible for thatnotto be the case. But here’s my best friend, the only person who actually understands exactly what I had gone through, telling me he’s sleeping well. Fuck.

“You don’t have to look so betrayed,” he says conversationally. “You might even be able to say the same if you’d just get your head out of your ass.”

“What are you—”

“Therapy,” he says, voice flat. “You need to fucking be in therapy.”

I’m shaking my head before he’s even finished the sentence. “I had enough of that shit at the VA hospital.”

He shakes his head. “You weren’t ready for it then. You’d just gotten back. But the fact that this junk clearly isn’t going away,” he taps the side of his temple, “tells me that you really should give it another chance.”

I watch him for a long minute. He’s right—I do feel betrayed. Which is absolutely ridiculous. I should be happy for my friend, happy he’s putting all that messy shit behind him.

Why do I feel so sick instead?

For years, Tim Fulton was the only person I thought really understood me. It was easier dealing with all of this crap when I knew he was too. Because Tim is one of the toughest, most badass guys I’ve ever met, the complete opposite of weak. If he was having the same problems, that had to mean I wasn’t as pathetic as I thought I was. But now…

“It can get better, man,” he says softly. “You just have to work at it.”

“You sound like a goddamn after school special.”

He doesn’t crack a smile. “I mean it, Johnny. This shit is going to catch up to you someday. You need to deal with it.”

“I deal with it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whiskey doesn’t count.”

“Jesus.” I rub at my forehead. “Can we change the subject?”

I expect him to fight me on it, but he merely shrugs. “Sure,” he says, his face lighting up with a wicked smile. “So, tell me about the hot drummer with the purple hair.”

An image from last night flashes through my mind—combing through a wet strand of Layla’s hair as I stood behind her, looking down over her shoulder at the concentration in her face as she applied dye to another section.

“Shit.” Tim sounds delighted. “You have it bad.”

I groan in frustration. There’s no point arguing it—Tim does not do bullshit. And besides, maybe he can help me get my head back on straight. He knows what’s at stake.

“She’s my client,” I tell him through gritted teeth.

“Aren’t they all your—”

“No,” I interrupt. “She’s the reason I’m here, the reason they hired me. There’s a stalker.”

He grimaces. “Shit. Serious?”

I shrug. “Could be. He’s gotten way closer than I’m comfortable with, more than once. And he’s traveled to pull this shit—he’s showed up in several cities, all over the country.”

He frowns and I know what he’s thinking. That ups the stakes, a lot. We’re not dealing with some loser sitting in his mom’s basement obsessing over a rock star. This guy clearly has the means and the motivation to go out of his way to get close.

“The bureau involved?” I nod and he looks thoughtful. “I know a guy there—I’ll give him a call and see if he can tell me anything.”