Page 107 of The Bridges I've Burned

“Do you write songs?”

“I used to,” he confessed. “But I haven’t in a long time. I haven’t had much time for it.”

He seemed to want to say more, but instead, he began to lazily pluck the familiar melody of “More Than Words” by Extreme.

“Is there any song you don’t know?” Amusement colored my tone, but mostly, I was just in awe of his talent.

“I’m sure there are a few.” He grinned.

“How long does one have to play to be a human jukebox?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before.” He laughed as he moved on to another song—Led Zeppelin maybe? “I actually started a bit late. I’d been having some trouble dealing with our mom’s death, and I guess Macon giving me something tangible to focus on helped with all those unfamiliar feelings.”

My throat felt thick with emotions. I knew their mom had died. Macon had told me, but until now, Zander had never spoken about it.

“So, he bought you a guitar?”

“He said he got it from a thrift store, but since we don’t have one of those around here, I’m guessing he probably worked or traded for it,” he said, his expression heavy with guilt. “It was pretty beat up and worn, but I played that thing for years.”

And something told me he still did.

“So, you just taught yourself?”

He nodded. “I have a pretty good ear.” He shrugged. “And for a long time, I didn’t even know how to read music.”

“What changed?”

He chuckled. “Lance.” When I looked up at him in confusion, he clarified, “The Creeds.”

“Lance is Hendrix’s father?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed as he effortlessly plucked out those familiar first notes of “November Rain” by Guns N’ Roses. “They’re well known in the music industry. Lance is my manager actually, but they also own a bar.”

“A bar?”

His mood was lighter when he spoke about the people who’d become his family, and I couldn’t help but be drawn in.

“I’d been in LA for months before I approached Creed’s—and I knew exactly who owned it. I knew what it could mean to have someone like that in my corner. I also knew I probably wasn’t the first person to try and worm my way in by getting a job at the bar.”

He smiled, and my eyes immediately fell on that bold tattoo on his arm that carried the family name.

“But I was willing to do anything to get in front of Lance Creed, so I busted my ass at that place—cleaning, bussing, and hauling equipment.”

“And did you get it?”

“No, I totally chickened out,” he confessed. “The first time I saw him standing behind that bar, I froze. And then before I could make a bigger idiot of myself, I turned and hid for the rest of my shift.”

I barked out a laugh. “Seriously?”

“Yep. I’d been there for weeks, waiting for him to show his face, and when he finally came back from a long business trip, I choked.”

“So, how?—”

“Hendrix,” he explained. “He came home from college for the summer and started working in the bar. We became good friends, and one day, he invited me over to play with him.”

“And the rest is history?”

“No.” He laughed. “The rest was a hell of a lot of hard work. Lance took one look at me and that beat-up guitar and knew I had no formal training. He put me through the wringer before he even considered representing me.” His eyes gleamed as he talked about his manager. “I worked in that bar for-fucking-ever before I landed my first gig.”

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