Page 66 of Fire

She laughs. “And who came up with this one?”

“Presley.”

She cocks her head to the side. “Why do you sound bitter about that?”

“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 whenCash choseCreedence 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’vepropped 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?”