Chapter 18 #2
“I’m not bitter,” I answer a bit too quickly.
Her brows lift. “Oh my god, you are! This really is a competitive thing. Wow, the Creed siblings are becoming more and more fascinating by the day. Let me guess, you were the last one to name the group before Presley booted you out?”
I wrap my arms across my chest. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
She snorts out a laugh. “Okay, but before we drop what I’m sure is a very sensitive subject for you, can you at least tell me what it was called?”
She gives me a pandering stare, and I sigh. “I feel like you’re not supporting me here, Zara.”
She reaches out and places a hand on each of my biceps, gently rubbing my arms over my T-shirt in a playful, there, there, sort of way.
The enormous effort she’s making not to crack up is impressive.
“I’m sorry,” she says sarcastically. “You’re right.
You definitely deserve support during this difficult transition. Losing is hard.”
“Fine,” I relent, just a second before she gives in and giggles. It’s fucking adorable. “It was called”—I pause for dramatic effect—“Creed Me Up Scotty!”
First, I think she didn’t hear me. The silence that follows would definitely explain it, but then her eyes go comically wide, and she just shakes her head in disbelief. “That is so bad!” Her giggle is a full-blown cackle now.
“It’s not that bad!”
“No, it is. It’s pretty terrible.”
“Okay.” I throw an arm over her shoulder as we begin to make our way down the hallway. “But you weren’t there when Cash chose Creedence Clearwater Revival. Like, that’s just a band name. There’s nothing remotely original about it.”
“At least it’s not an insult to Star Trek.”
“Never took you for a Trekkie, Cupid.”
“Oh, I’m not, but my dad is.”
We pass a few crew members who greet us by name. A couple of guys seem to notice how my arm is draped around her, and I have to hold myself back from shooting daggers in their direction when they linger a bit too long on Zara.
“The basketball star?”
She gives me a pointed look. “Who also happens to be a science teacher. People are multifaceted, remember?”
“Most people,” I agree. “But I’m not. I’m a musician, and that’s about it.”
She comes to an abrupt halt and turns. “Oh, I don’t believe that for a second,” she says. “You are so much more than your music, Hendrix. And I can’t wait to discover all the many layers that you’re made of.”
She hooks her arm in mine, and we start back down toward the exit. But I’m still stuck on her words, because I’m suddenly left wondering what will happen when she peels back that first layer and discovers there’s nothing underneath.
Because music is the only thing that makes me special.
Without it, I am nothing.
“You must really like her if you’re FaceTiming me for fashion advice,” Presley says as I step in front of the camera. I’ve propped my phone on the dresser and am now waiting to see if she approves of the black jeans and matching tee I picked out.
She just stares.
“What?” I look down and then back up again. “It’s not bad, is it?”
“No,” she agrees. She’s sitting cross-legged on—Wait…
is that my sofa? I don’t know why I’m surprised.
I gave her a key to my house. She probably moved in the second our plane left LAX.
At least she’s alone. I do not need mental images of her and her boyfriend in my house.
“It’s not terrible. But it’s not great. You’re basically wearing the same thing you wear to perform in. ”
“How would you know? Are you looking up our concerts? Oh my god,” I gush. “Are you proud of me, Pres?”
“More like making sure you don’t embarrass the family.” She motions with her finger. “Do you have a vest or a jacket you could throw on over that?”
I raise an eyebrow at her. A vest? “We’re in Texas. It’s like four hundred degrees outside.”
She shrugs. “So?”
“So?”
“Zander would wear his jacket.”
“Let’s not talk about Zander’s weird obsession with that thing, okay? Not all of us carry around a leather jacket like it’s a treasured blankie from childhood.”
“I actually see Elena with it more these days.” She pauses, giving me an appraising look. “What about the jeans? What color options do I have to work with?”
“Are you asking if I have a pink or purple pair in my suitcase?”
“Oooh, do you?”
I slow blink because I can’t tell if she’s fucking with me or not. “No. No, I do not.”
“Dammit. You are no fun. What about gray or—”
“I have about five more that look exactly like this, Pres.” I point to the jeans in question.
She rolls her eyes. “And you used to give Zander a hard time about his obsession with black.”
“They make my ass look good.” She makes a gagging noise. “Oh, I do have a faded pair that looks sort of gray.”
“Wear those. And then—”
My phone beeps, signaling a new text message. I lean in to read it, my sister making a disgruntled remark about my face being too close to the screen, but I don’t care.
Because the text message is from Zara.
Zara
Can’t make it. Sorry.
My brows furrow. “What’s wrong?” Presley asks.
“What could make a woman cancel a date at the last minute without any explanation or warning?”
Now her brows are bunched together as she tries to come up with an answer. “Everything was fine the last time—”
“Perfect,” I tell her. “Everything between us has been fucking perfect.” A little sporadic thanks to our crazy schedules, but we made up for it with texts and plans for later in the week.
She bites the corner of her lip before saying, “Then it’s not you. It’s—” Something else.
“I gotta go, Pres. Thanks for the help.”
I’ll take it from here.