All Strings Attached

1. Opener

One hour earlier, Zak Parker had appeared before a family court judge to weave a tale of personal responsibility, integrity, and self-sufficiency.

Now, her first beer sat untouched on the tile counter in front of her.

It wasn’t that she cared about underage drinking. At least if she got arrested, she would have a place to stay tonight. Beer just looked gross, no matter how enthusiastically her best friend Edge hyped it up as the perfect way to solemnize her emancipation.

“A toast.” He lifted his own glass, filled with virgin pi?a colada from the frozen drink machine. “To growing up too fast and dying too young.”

“Not funny. You’re not allowed to die on me.” Zak clinked the side of her pint against his. The golden lager fizzed as a thin sheet of foam spilled over the rim. “When’s your next appointment with the neurologist?”

“We don’t need to talk about that right now.” He squatted until she was no longer speaking to his face, but to a mop of curls, as he pretended to reorganize the bottles in the bar fridge. “We’re supposed to be celebrating.”

“I am celebrating.” She tipped back the mug to prove it, and a flavor that could only be described as liquified car freshener coated her tastebuds. “This is disgusting,” she rasped, dribbling as much of that vile drink as possible back into the cup.

Edge popped up to catch her reaction. His laugh extended to his deep brown eyes, twinkling mischievously under the stained-glass pendant lights. He had been sneaking tastes from his family’s cantina since the day it opened, but getting diagnosed with epilepsy had put a stop to most of his shenanigans. Drinking included.

Before he could call her a wuss, his mother cut him off in rapid-fire Spanish from the stockroom. Something along the lines of, “Eduardo Miguel Cortez-De La Fuente! I swear to God, if you and your little girlfriend are chugging down our profit, she will not be the only one without a mother anymore.”

Zak’s nose crinkled. She nudged her glass away until it bumped into the spill mat.

Edge gave her a look halfway between pity and embarrassment. Marisol De La Fuente had no idea how good of a language tutor her son was. “She didn’t mean it. I work for free. She makes more than enough profit off of me.” He lowered his voice at the end. No doubt, to avoid getting beaten half to death with a jelly sandal.

“Anyway, what are you working on these days?” He rapped on the worn cover of her composition book.

“Nothing worth sharing,” she said, but she didn’t protest when he flipped through the notebook and found the lyrics she had scribbled down the last time they were here. Fingerprint-shaped grease splotches stained the paper, courtesy of the empanadas she’d been eating.

Edge concentrated on deciphering her handwriting while she tried to play it cool. Songwriting was a cyclical experience. She hated everything she created. Then loved it. Then hated it again. The only way to break the cycle was to get an outsider’s opinion. Another musician, someone who knew what they were doing. Someone honest, like him.

“Hold on a second. I’ve got an idea for this one.”

Zak unclipped the latches on her guitar case to tune up before he came back. She experimented with a few chords and scales and launched into a soft, off-tempo rendition of the unfinished guitar part.

Edge spent more time at the cantina than he did at home, and he stored his bass in the kitchen so they could play during slumps. The saloon doors creaked as he shouldered his way between them, and again when he returned, carting his instrument and amp. He plugged in and sat on top of the speaker, reaching beneath his thigh to adjust the volume.

A pulsing bass line came in as soon as she rounded off the first chorus, mumbling more than singing. Words flowed easily from her pen, but from her lips? Not so much.

She followed the time he kept by tapping his toe, spacing out on his neon green shoelaces as they brought life to her song in real-time. It was a simple dance beat relying on heavy accents. The lyrics were so somber she hadn’t considered pairing them with an upbeat tempo, but now she loved the idea.

“Run it again?” She wanted to try out a new intro riff.

From the corner booth, Zak could hear a stranger tapping a rhythm on the laminate tabletop with his fork and knife. She kept an eye on him, perplexed by his instrument of choice, his skill at it, and his presence in general.

Eleven a.m. was far too early for most people to be thinking about tacos and margaritas. The lone young man with wind-blown reddish brown hair, seated beside a suitcase and a motorcycle helmet, was Marisol’s only true customer.

“Sorry.” Drummer Guy set down the utensils, misjudging her stare.

“No,” Zak said over the music. “Keep it up.”

They made it halfway through the song before the row of wind chimes at the entrance clattered against the glass door.

Zak was so lost in playing that she didn’t look up until she heard a voice with a mellow Southern accent say, “You’re pretty good for a girl.”

“I’m very good. For a guitarist.”

She paused mid-strum to peek over her shoulder at the newcomer, a man who couldn’t be much older than her and wasn’t much taller than her either. His bony arms were covered in heavy black tattoos—most of which were questionable in quality—that extended onto his hands and up his neck. Shoulder-length black hair framed his angular face, and silver piercings glinted at his eyebrow, lip, and ears. The Styrofoam cup in his hands was filled with vodka, a secret his breath betrayed.

She expected his next comment to turn aggressive or patronizing, but he only cracked a smile and said, “Fair enough. You’re better than me, that’s for sure. What’s your name?”

She debated giving him a fake one but landed on the truth. “Zak Parker.”

“Short for?”

“Short for Zak Parker.” The story of how her parents ruined her life began with the moment they signed her birth certificate. Socializing was hell enough without this added detour. “My mother wanted a boy. My father was probably high when I was born because he always was. I’m pretty sure that’s how it happened, but I’m not going back for confirmation.”

Edge chuckled, having listened to the story a million times even though he was the one person who had never asked her for it. “And you are?”

“Dale Winkler.”

Zak snorted. “Speaking of terrible names, huh?”

“It gets worse.” He leaned in as if he were telling a secret. “I’m a Junior, too. Friends call me DJ, not that DJ is any better.”

“Your parents must hate you,” Edge said.

The other guy smirked. “Oh, you have no clue.”

“Hey, you can’t change your DNA, but you can change your name,” she said. “You said you play, too? Go for it.”

She pulled the strap over her head and handed the stranger her pride and joy, the only possession she had other than a backpack full of clothes and an impractical pair of heels she’d swiped from her mother”s closet.

“I’m not much of a songwriter, but my buddy Link and I do covers at The 99. He’s got a helluva voice. I’m just his backup,” he said. “Actually, he’s meeting me here”—he checked the broken face of his watch—“any minute now. You should really hear him.”

“Is that your polite way of telling me I’m a better writer than a vocalist?”

Dale plucked at the strings with the reluctance of someone not used to improvising. “It’s my way of telling you that I don’t go to church or nothin’, but sometimes things happen for a reason. Don’t you think?”

Even if Link wasn’t the only customer there besides the owner’s son, his homeless best friend, Dale Winkler Jr, and Drummer Guy, Zak would have placed him the moment he sauntered in. The leather jacket, the baggy ripped jeans, the unbrushed dirty blond hair, and the full-color neck tattoo of a bleeding heart. A big, crooked grin spread across Link’s face as he walked over to his friend.

“Hope this asshole hasn’t been bothering you for too long, gorgeous,” he said by way of greeting. “He can’t tell the difference between when women are flirting and when they’re just being nice to get rid of him. It’s usually the latter.”

“That’s an awfully fancy word for a high school dropout.” Dale handed her back the guitar, then clapped Link on the shoulder. “She’s a musician. Writes her own songs and everything, check ‘em out. Think you can keep up?”

“Can’t I always?” Link”s brows drew together in concentration as Edge counted them off.

Zak started from the top again.

This time, everything was different. An electric hum of anticipation sizzled in the air. Their booth-seat drummer joined the bass, and the instrumentals clicked into place like fate. This was how her song was meant to sound.

Link forgot to come in when they gave him the cue, but upon hearing his voice, it didn’t matter that he was a full five measures off.

They all stopped, letting the crisp, bold, pleasantly raspy tone of his voice fill the restaurant from wall to wall. He was incredible. A legend built to take center stage at a sold-out arena, not in an empty bar stringing together lyrics he didn’t know. Making up words whenever he couldn’t interpret Zak’s messy cursive.

The five of them were no longer strangers when they faded back in, sharing glances and smiles. Before the song ended, their band was born.