Chapter 2
Chapter Two
HENDRIX
“Zander? Can you get the door?” a female voice shouts as I stand on the other side and wait.
I’ve been here for baby showers, movie nights, and more.
But no matter how many times I approach this crazy house with its hand-carved wooden door and giant potted plants, I can’t help but think, My best friend is one lucky motherfucker.
It’s not like I grew up wanting for…anything, really. With the management agency, the recording studio, and the family bar, our family did more than all right. But even my parents’ Malibu beach house feels small compared to Zander’s new digs.
This is the kind of house rock star money buys you.
“Why the fuck is he ringing the doorbell?” Zander shouts back at his wife, Elena. “He checked in at the gate. We already know he’s here!” His deep voice grows louder with each word, and I can’t help but grin at his annoyance.
What’s the point of life if you can’t irritate your famous best friend now and then?
“Hell, if I know. But I have a child attached to my tit, so if you wouldn’t mind?”
And that’s why I ring the doorbell.
I do not want to ever walk into that house and stumble upon Zander’s wife with her tits out, no matter what they’re attached to. Pretty sure he would rip out my damn eyeballs for that.
He is quite fond of his wife. And her tits.
Footsteps sound toward me, and then that heavy ass door is pulled open, and standing before me is Zander Green.
The rest of the world knows him by his stage name, Zander Tate.
But to me, he’ll always be that teenage kid who wandered into my family’s bar looking for a job.
Dressed in gray sweatpants and a T-shirt, his nearly black hair is long and tousled on top with shaved sides.
He’s gotten rid of the eyebrow ring since his daughter was born, but he’s added a few more tattoos.
His arms are covered, much like mine, including the Creed family name on both our forearms.
Zander might not be a Creed by blood, but he is a Creed, nonetheless.
“Don’t move,” I tell him, reaching into my pocket to grab my phone. “I can get at least a couple grand for a candid shot of you in sweatpants. Double if you take your shirt off.”
A grin spreads across his face as he gives me a gentle shove. “Oh, fuck off.”
After a quick bro hug, I follow him inside, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead. Zander glances back and sees me, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “She’s finishing up in the other room. Still terrified of breastfeeding, huh?”
“No,” I lie, then relent with a sigh. “Fuck, maybe. But don’t get offended. I’m scared of everything that’s associated with tiny humans.”
“Oh, I know,” he replies, sliding his hands into his pockets. “The last time I tried to hand you Marisa, you jumped so high that I’m surprised you didn’t set a world record.”
“Ha ha,” I deadpan.
“You want a beer?” he asks as we walk down the hallway, his bare feet slapping against the hardwood as we head toward the spacious kitchen, covered in creamy marble and warm wood tones.
When he moved out of our modest one-story home in West Hollywood and bought this place for himself and Elena, I thought he was crazy.
At the time, they had only been dating for six months, most of which had been spent on tour in Europe, but he was resolute. My best friend, who had never been in a serious relationship before, was suddenly head over heels in love.
It took me longer to pick out the new sofa in my living room, and I’m still not sure I was completely in love with it. How did he know she was the one in such a short amount of time?
“Nah, I can’t stick around long.” He walks over to the fridge and grabs himself some fancy microbrew.
“Are you sure? Because Elena and I were thinking about ordering food. There’s this Venezuelan place we found, and she won’t stop talking about it. If she hadn’t gone back on the pill right after our little snafu, I’d swear she was pregnant again.”
“Little snafu?” I chuckle, taking a seat on one of the stools at the island. “Is that what we’re calling your daughter these days?”
“I mean, not to her face.” Instead of a beer, he hands me a bottle of water, which I happily accept. “She was definitely a surprise—a good surprise,” he emphasizes. “But if Elena ever needs to switch up her birth control again…”
“You’re wrapping it up?”
“Like my life depends on it.”
As if she heard her name, Elena appears in the kitchen entryway. Her silky brown hair is piled high in a messy bun, and she’s rocking the hot mom look in tight black leggings and an oversized green sweater that hangs off her shoulder.
She wanders over to Zander, and they share a kiss that is far from appropriate. His hand grabs at her ass, and I’m pretty there’s tongue involved.
Christ, no one needs to see that.
She giggles, pulling herself away from his reach, and gives me a lazy smile.
“Still ringing the doorbell, huh?” Marisa straddles her hip, wearing one of those footsie pajama things.
It’s covered in tiny cartoon guitars, and she’s clapping her hands together like it’s the most entertaining shit on the planet.
She seems completely oblivious to her parents’ mini make-out session.
At least one of us is.
Marisa appears to be an equal blend of both of them. From Zander’s mesmerizing green eyes to Elena’s light-brown skin and dark hair, I have to admit that the kid is cute.
Scary as hell, but still cute.
“Between breastfeeding and you two making out every few seconds, I never know what I’m gonna walk in on.”
“That’s fair.” She passes Marisa to Zander, who has set his beer aside for some quality baby time.
Is a one-year-old still considered a baby? They still carry her everywhere, but she can technically walk, even though she resembles a drunken sailor half the time. So doesn’t that make her a toddler instead?
Fuck if I know.
“So if you’re not here to hang out,” Zander says while bouncing his kid on his hip, making her laugh. “What brings you here? Not that I’m overjoyed to see you.”
I roll my eyes at his phony enthusiasm because he knows exactly why I’m here. He just wants to hear me say it.
Fucking asshole.
He stares at me expectantly.
“Gonna make me beg too, huh? Is that what we’ve come to?” My voice is strained as I lay the guilt on extra thick. “Is this what our friendship has become, Zander? Me having to come to my best friend—”
“For fuck’s sake.” Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes. “Please stop. You’re a terrible actor. Seriously shitty. Did you even try to sound sincere?”
Elena laughs as she leans forward on the marble counter.
I let out a huff. “Okay, no more bullshit,” I agree. “But you have to be honest with me. What’s the holdup, Z? Why did my dad just tell me that the entire fate of the tour hinges on you? Are you trying to ruin my life?”
“See, I told you he’d be like this,” Elena says as she turns to her husband.
“Like what?” My eyes ping-pong between them.
“Dramatic.” They answer me in unison.
“Dramatic?” I overemphasize the word as if I’ve heard it before. “I’m not the one trying to cancel a multi-million dollar tour while simultaneously shattering my best friend’s dreams!”
“For the love of God.” Zander pinches the bridge of his nose. “I did not tell anyone I wanted to cancel. I only expressed some concerns and said it might be better to consider the idea of postponing, since Evans is already out.”
“Evans is the bass guitarist. No one cares about the bass guitarist.”
He levels me with a glare. “You’re a bass guitarist.”
“Yeah, do you see any women throwing their panties at me?”
Marisa has gone from clapping and cackling like a deranged clown to being comatose in minutes and is now slung over Zander’s shoulder, sleeping like a log. So fucking weird. “When was the last time you were even on stage?”
“Exactly my point! I need this.” I throw my hands up. “It’s been so long since I performed in front of actual people that I’m starting to forget what real applause sounds like. You know this is my dream, Z.”
I attended a few of Zander’s concerts during Manic’s last tour, but that was nearly two years ago. Playing in a studio—when I actually get the chance to—just isn’t the same. I’m the type of musician who feeds off the audience. Hungers for it.
Plus, there is that other reason…
“Things are different from last time,” Zander says, his hand resting on the little person in his arms.
“Uh, yeah,” I say, gesturing toward his happy little family and the damn mansion we’re standing in. “Clearly.”
“I’m just worried that the tour life isn’t the best environment for an infant.”
So a one-year-old is still considered a baby. Fucking knew it.
“Plenty of people take their kids on tour,” I tell him casually. I run a hand through my sandy blond hair because, honestly, I have no clue. I heard my dad mention a few of his clients hitting the road with their families, so that adds up to a lot, right?
“Name two.” He raises an eyebrow in challenge.
Shit. “Tim McGraw and P!nk,” I blurt out.
He eyes me suspiciously. “You just made that up.”
“They seem like the kind of people who would take their kids on tour.” I shrug as Elena snorts. Zander shakes his head in disbelief.
“It’s not that I don’t want to go. I just worry that something might happen.
The guys have tamed quite a bit since the whole Mitch debacle.
” The Mitch debacle he’s referring to is when their former lead guitarist knocked up a seventeen-year-old minor and was later caught trying to pay her off.
Sounds like a stellar guy, right? “But everyone on that tour is still”—he pauses and dramatically covers Marisa’s ears—“a bunch of horny assholes.”
My lips quirk in amusement. Like that’s the worst thing she could possibly hear in this house. I sure hope some of that rock star money went to soundproofing Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom. “Who isn’t?”
“Hen.”
“Don’t call me that.” I point a finger at him. “Only my sisters get to call me that.”