Page 149 of The Bridges I've Burned

“So, what now?” I asked.

He gave me an incredulous stare. “Fuck, I don’t know, Elena. Do I look like a relationship guru? You two need to figure your own shit out. Leave me the hell out of it.”

And then he tried to spin me, and my laughs drowned out my sorrow—for at least a short while.

Since I didn’t need to be back at work for another few days, I hadn’t planned on leaving Ocracoke until Monday. But when I woke up the day after the wedding, with Marin and Macon already on their way to the airport for their honeymoon and Zander…

Nothing about being in that town felt right anymore.

Even so, I still offered to stay and help with the cleanup. Molly, however, just waved me off, sending me home with a bunch of cake and a sad smile.

Yet another reason I was leaving.

Billy, Eli…even fucking Millie. They had all spent the whole wedding giving me the look. The one that said, Gosh, Elena, I’m sorry your crazy-hot rock-star boyfriend dropped you like a hot potato the second he became famous.

Did I even get to call him that? My boyfriend?

Ugh.

Macon had told me not to worry about cleaning the rental before I left since they had a management company for that. So, I took him for his word and packed up my stuff, all of which was mostly in Zander’s room—a place I had avoided since he’d left. That was where I found it.

His leather jacket.

It was spread across the neatly made bed, obviously left behind on purpose.

The fucking asshole.

I pulled the leather to my nose, breathing in his scent until I finally gave in and wrapped it around me. And then I got the hell out of there.

See you the fuck later, Ocracoke.

ZANDER

As soon as we landed in New York, I was whisked off to do sound checks, wardrobe fittings, makeup, photographs, and interviews.

Being a session guitarist, I had only been ever given a glimpse of what bands did during the tour. It was the gritty and intense part, but it barely encompassed a fraction of what was expected of them.

Now, I felt like I was getting a peek behind the curtain and seeing what really went on, and it was mind-boggling.

And exhausting.

“You’ll get used to it,” Evans—Manic’s bass guitarist—assured me as we stood backstage, waiting to go on.

Lance was off with Ridge, doing whatever managers did, while Hendrix got to know the guys better. He’d met them before, when he visited me on tour, and as expected, he fit right in.

“And it’s not always like this. We don’t do a lot of TV appearances.”

“Or group performances,” Asher added. “We probably could have eased you in a bit more.”

“Yeah, thanks for that.” I grinned.

“You seem to be doing all right. You handled those reporters at your brother’s wedding like a pro.”

I shrugged. “That was all Lance and Ridge. I just did what they told me to.”

“And that’s the point,” Darius, interjected right before his head turned and zeroed in on some girl’s ass, his drumsticks twirling between his fingers. That guy had the attention span of a mosquito.

Evans just shook his head and finished Darius’s thought. “You handled it like a professional. You listened to your manager, aced your first interviews, and managed to get those tossers away from your brother’s wedding.”

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