Page 3 of Fire

“Who?”

My father just leans back in his chair and grins.

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—agood surprise,” he emphasizes. “But if Elena ever needs to switch up her birth control again…”

“You’re wrapping it up?”