Cricket tilts her head to the side. “Please tell me you got mugged. Because what the fuck, Whitney?”

I wince as I touch the tender skin on the right side of my face, and then quickly slip the giant shades back on. “Angry fan. Got through security and went a little crazy.”

All peace and joy flees Cricket’s expression. “I’m going to kill that limp-dick motherfucker. And the fan who did this.”

There’s no doubt she’s talking about Ricky first.

“That’s going to be a little tricky.” I try to keep humor in my tone, but it falls flat. “Considering he’s already dead.”

“Fucker deserves to be brought back to life and run over by a truck repeatedly for what he did to you.”

I don’t want to think about the message Ricky posted on his fan page hours before that fatal dose hit his bloodstream. He doesn’t get to ruin my reunion with my cousin. He doesn’t get to ruin anything else in my life ever again.

“Can we get out of here?” I glance up at the glass building and the name looming over me. “As much as I like hanging out at bus terminals . . .”

“Damn right. Besides, we’ve got way too much to catch up on, and that’s best saved for non-bus-station conversations. I’ve got all the good-dick stories to tell you.”

With a smile back on my face, despite memories from Gable and LA hounding me, Cricket and I load everything I own in the entire world into the back of her conversion van—after she folds up the bed and moves a bottle of lube.

When I stare at it wide-eyed, she just laughs as we climb up into the burgundy cloth captain’s chairs that I’m pretty sure might swivel.

“What? If they didn’t want people to fuck in these, they wouldn’t have put beds in the back. Besides, Hunter works all the time, and I like to make sure I don’t miss out on my chance to get me some. I like multiple orgasms, and he can make this baby rock and roll. I know you haven’t seen him in years, but let me tell you—”

I hold up a hand. “Wait. Hunter who?”

Cricket, the sneaky ho who withheld the name of her groom in all our conversations because she wanted to tell me in person, smiles wide. “Hunter Havalin. He’s the lucky man who snagged me.”

My jaw hangs slack and my eyes feel like they’re about to bug out of my head. Hunter Havalin is the only son of one of Gable’s other affluent families. The Havalins aren’t Riscoff rich, but they’re still loaded.

I try to picture Cricket the free spirit, Ms. One with the World who eschews money and privilege, marrying a guy who probably knows every inch of the country club. My cousin is everything that is the exact opposite of Hunter Havalin. He was a senior when I was in middle school, and every girl had a crush on him, but he only dated girls from the private school one city over.