Fearless (Forever 7)

"Almost," he said with a quick nod. "Put your ring finger a little up . . . Yeah, like that. And now this time, only use the first four strings."

This time, when I plucked the strings, Jax did it at the same time. Both our guitars rang out with a bold sound. I grinned. "This is kind of fun."

"Now, here's the tricky one," he said, his eyes sparkling roguishly. "You ready?"

I nodded with a smile. Whatever else might be wrong with Jax, it was clear that his passion for music was as strong as ever—and somehow, that gave me hope. Music had healed him in the past, maybe it could do the same now.

"For this one, you'll want to make sure your fingers only touch the right frets. Here's the G chord," he said, reaching one finger all the way across the neck of the guitar. "See how my finger has to go all the way to the last string? Now you try."

Stretching my finger to the last string made my hand ache, but after a few seconds, I had my hand in a passable imitation of Jax's. I looked down and suddenly became very aware of the way my middle finger looked. "This one looks like I'm flipping you off," I said with a giggle. "How many strings do I play this time?"

"On a G? All of them."

Making sure my hand was locked into position on the frets, I windmilled my other arm around in an exaggerated motion, bringing the pick down hard over the strings. "Yeah!" I shouted, pumping my fist. The sound was far from perfect, but I felt a swelling sense of pride anyhow. I'd started the day not even knowing what a chord was, and now I'd played three.

"There you go," Jax said, smiling crookedly. "Needs a little work, but you've basically got it. So now, we take the C, the D, and the G . . ."

His fingers moved roughly against the frets as he played the chords in turn. After a moment, I recognized a familiar tune and started to laugh. "I know that one! Bruno Mars."

"Yup. The Lazy Song," he said. "And you already know how to play it—well, almost, anyway. It's all just those three chords, so you'll just have to practice switching them up."

I looked down at the guitar, moving my fingers through the patterns he'd taught me, not plucking the strings, just feeling out the ways my hand position changed from chord to chord. As I tried to practice the fingerwork, Jax started strumming again—only this time, what came out of his guitar was unmistakably "Sweet Home Alabama."

"I didn't really picture you as the southern rock type," I said.

"How about the Johnny Cash type?" he asked, switching the tune to "Ring of Fire." "It's all the same chords, just different patterns."

My eyes widened in surprise. "Holy crap," I said. "Those are all the same chords we were just doing? All three of those songs?"

"Yeah," he said. "And there's lots more, too. La Bamba . . . Semi-Charmed Life . . . Wild Thing. . ."

With each new title, he played a few bars. I couldn't help but be impressed, even if it was only three chords. "You sound amazing."

A darkness seemed to pass over Jax's face. "I sound . . . " He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Thanks."

Stepping over a shattered guitar neck, I leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. "I don't suppose you have any tricks that could make me sound less like a stepped-on cat when I sing," I said sardonically.

He raised his scarred brow. "It can't be that bad."

I arched my brow back at him, as if to say, Wanna bet? Without another word, I started in on one of the Hitchcocks' songs:

How can you lose what you've never had?

Is this where things get strange—

And I'm lost all the same

My voice wobbled and warbled all over the place—I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. Jax tried to smile, but there was cringe written all over his face. Told you, I thought, then moved to the big crescendo:

Like a train off the tracks

I can never go back

And who is really to blame

As I hit the high note, my voice cracked hard, forcing a sound more like a death rattle than a song. The smile on Jax's face widened, his eyes crinkled, and suddenly his laughter rang out loud. Though he put his hand over his mouth to stifle it, he couldn't help it—the laugh continued, growing deeper, louder, echoing off the stucco walls until he clutched at his sore side. It had sounded terrible—even I had to giggle, and soon realized I couldn't stop.

He wrapped me in his arms, still grinning. "You're just what I needed."

I looked up at him, not sure whether he was being serious. "What, someone to sing an off-key song?"

"No," he said quietly, bending to kiss the top of my head. "A second chance."

Warmth radiated through me, and I stayed quiet in his arms, not wanting to break the silence or end the moment.

When Jax spoke again, his voice was low and intimate. "I'm sorry, Riley. I know the way I've acted this week has been hard on you. On the band, too."

"Jax, you don't have to—"

He shook his head. "Yes, I do. This is too much. I know something has to change. And I think you were right."

I had no idea what he was talking about. "Right about what?"

He closed his eyes tightly, as if what he was about to say was causing him physical pain. "I . . . I saw Darrel today. Again."

My heart started beating practically out of my chest. "What? Where?"

"No. You . . . you don't understand. I thought I saw him. I thought I saw his bike, but I don't think anyone else saw him. I think this is just me." Grabbing a hip flask of liquor, he took a swig and stretched his neck. "This isn't something I can handle on my own. So I . . . I'm going to talk to Reed. He can find me a therapist. He's always telling me he knows everyone worth knowing."

I almost gasped. Even if he was seeing things . . . Jax was okay with going to therapy? From the way he'd acted last night, I thought it was going to be nearly impossible to get him to agree to talk about his past to a total stranger, no matter how much he needed it. "You know I think it's a good place to start," I said cautiously, looking around Reed's debris-covered living room. "But don't you think Reed's going to be pissed about all . . ." I gestured to the smashed guitars and the torn painting.

"What, this?" Jax said, shrugging. "It looks better than it ever has after a Grammys after-party. He's seen worse. He'll get over it."

I felt a bit stunned. If I'd done anything to damage my boss Palmer's house, I'd have been collecting unemployment the next day, but Jax could destroy his manager's living room without even thinking twice. "I guess it's different for rock stars," I mused aloud.