ALMOST PARADISE

by Williams, Mary J.

  “Still a barracuda with velvet claws.” Jax shook his head. “Good to know some things never change.”

  Joplin Ashford had changed, he realized as he took the time to study her. At least on the outside. Casually dressed in a dark-green satin bomber jacket—the exact color of her eyes—and a pair of lived-in jeans tucked neatly into knee-high black leather boots, she would have easily blended in with the other concert goers except for one unique accessory—a gloss of sophistication she’d acquired since the last time they saw each other.

  “What happened to the gangly college student, desperate to make good?”

  “I made good.” Joplin shrugged, tilting her head to one side. “Everyone evolves, I hope.”

  “Don’t look at me. Still the same son of a bitch I always was.”

  “I’ll take your word.” Joplin’s gaze narrowed. “You look good. Handsome, fit. Still the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

  Jax was a modern-day rock star. No drug-fueled sexy orgies, no smoking. He exercised, ate right. He planned to be around long past the once-dreaded age of thirty.

  “What do you think about the beard?” he asked, giving the long, dark hair a tug.

  “Different.” Joplin always had a knack of diplomacy. “What do your fans think?”

  “Fuck if I care.” Jax grew the beard on a whim. Great thing about life as a solo artist, when, if, he shaved, the decision would be his, no one else’s. Moving to a makeshift bar, he eased the cork from a bottle of Kentucky tequila. “Can I pour you one?”

  “Sure.”

  “You are full of surprises.” The Joplin he knew never drank anything harder than diet Sprite. “Gave up the teetotaler life?”

  She accepted the glass with a nod.

  “In moderation.”

  “Moderation plus rock and roll equals death.” Jax tossed back a swig of the smooth, amber liquid. “Good girl like you never should have hooked up with Razor’s Edge. We were riddled with vices. Sometimes I wonder how we lasted as long as we did. Course some were more responsible for the group’s downfall than others.”

  “You mean Kane?”

  “Who else?”

  Jax waited for Joplin to defend the man she’d always championed to a fault. When she sipped her drink without comment, he wondered if she’d finally seen the light or simply learned to keep her thoughts about his former bandmate—former writing partner and best friend—to herself.

  “I’m not here to dredge up the past.”

  “The subject was bound to come up.” Jax slumped onto a small sofa. “Maybe I’m in the mood to walk down memory lane.”

  “I don’t have the time or inclination to—” With a sigh, Joplin took the chair opposite Jax, slamming her drink onto a nearby table. The sound of glass hitting wood echoed through the small room “Fine. Mind if I start?”

  “Beauty before age.”

  “Too bad time hasn’t taken some wind out of your overblown ego.”

  “Meaning?” Jax asked, raising one eyebrow.

  “Five years ago, you put the blame for the breakup of Razor’s Edge on everyone but yourself. Nothing’s changed.”

  “Kane walked away. Not me.” Jax took another drink of tequila, ironically his ex-best friend's favorite, and smiled. “Or should I say, he staggered away.”

  Joplin’s jaw tightened, but she let his not-so-subtle jab pass.

  “We both know he would have returned.”

  “Do we? You handled our public relations, smoothed a lot of bumps. But you couldn’t handle Kane because you didn’t know him. Not really.”

  Jax’s gaze was pointed as he ignored a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t set out to open an old wound, to hurt Joplin. Seemed Kane, the bastard, still had the ability to bring out the worst in him.

  “Let’s say Kane was gone for good. Razor’s Edge would have survived the loss of one founding member.”

  “Obviously, you’re wrong. Everyone scattered to the wind like rats, leaving a sinking ship.” Jax’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “An apt simile.”

  “Why won’t you take some of the blame?” Joplin raised her voice for the first time. “You didn’t have the backbone, the balls, to step up when they needed you most.”

  “No one needed me.” A slap in the face at the time, Jax still felt the sting.

  “Skye—”

  “Don’t mention her name.”

  “For Pete’s sake.” Rubbing her temples, Joplin sighed. “You were wrong about her, you know. About what happened.”

  “I know what I saw.” The image was burned into his retinas.

  “I can’t believe you’re still harping on the same sour note.”

  “Then play me a different one. If I’m wrong, tell me the truth.”

  Slowly, her green eyes filled with exasperation, Joplin shook her head.

  “I’ll give you the same answer I did then. Ask Skye.”

  Fist clenched, Jax jumped to his feet, angry the pain he thought long gone could flame so hot, so fast.

  “Are you going to hit me?”

  Joplin didn’t seem worried. Still, the fact she could ask such a question took some of the wind out of Jax’s sails.

  “Sorry. I’m tired.” Sitting, he ran a hand over his face. “Not a great excuse, but the only one I have.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” Joplin smiled. “Great show, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” The answering curve of his lips slowly reached his eyes. “Last night of a tour has a unique energy.”

  “You’ve matured as a performer. Still plenty of sizzle, but with more meat.”

  Jax remembered stepping on stage by himself for the first time. All eyes, all expectations, firmly on his shoulders, no one to pick him up if he stumbled.

  The critics expected him to fail. The fans hoped for warmed-over Razor’s Edge. He proved to everyone, himself included, he could stand alone.

  “Ever get lonely?”

  Trust Joplin to ask the unexpected.

  “I don’t miss the need to get everyone’s input. Or, the five-sided personality clashes.” Jax met her knowing gaze. “Sure. They were part of me. A part I’ll never get back.”

  “No one died, Jax. They’re all just a call away.”

  A wave of intense longing washed over him, not cold and biting as he expected, but warm, almost welcoming. He gave himself a mental shake before he gave into the feeling.

  “I like my life, Joplin.” Telling himself he didn’t care, Jax couldn’t help but ask, “Have you kept in touch? With anyone?”

  “No.” She stared into her barely touched tequila. “Like you, I had to move on, move away, move forward. Just under a year.”

  “What?”

  “The span of time I knew all of you. Eleven months, sixteen days, seven hours, thirty-three minutes.” She let out a self-deprecating laugh. “I did the math.”

  “Hours, minutes? What, no seconds?” Jax teased without thinking.

  He wondered if Joplin remembered the running joke about her computer brain. Her smile, the twinkle in her green eyes, was his answer.

  “Meeting and working with you, with everyone, changed my life.”

  Suddenly, Jax wanted to take what was left of the booze, lock himself in a dark room, and drink away the memories. He took a deep breath. The urge for oblivion didn’t leave, but the crawling need lessened.

  “You helped take us to the top,” he reminded Joplin, his voice harsher than he intended.

  “Do you ever wish we hadn’t met?”

  “Look around.” Jax made a sweeping gesture with his left hand. “I’m a freaking superstar. Every step from the moment I played my first tentative note, to the crappy gigs, to the night we met, led me here.”

  “I’m happy for all your success, Jax. Truly.” Joplin snared his gaze with a pair of knowing green eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Regrets? To quote the great Frank Sinatra, I’ve had a few.”

  Th
e words were glib, and as much of an answer as Jax planned to give. Shaking her head, Joplin made a sound, half sigh, half snort.

  “Right. You did it your way.”

  Jax’s tank, once filled with post-performance adrenaline, was close to empty. The sweat on his body had dried, his muscles cooled, and he felt every one of his twenty-nine years—plus another decade or two.

  Despite the stirring of memories better left buried, he was glad Joplin came; honestly, he was. But now he needed her gone.

  “I hate to push you out the door…”

  A wry smile formed on Joplin’s lips.

  “The best-laid plans of mice and men,” she muttered.

  Jax had to laugh, remembering Joplin’s natural propensity to throw out a quote at the oddest moments.

  “Steinbeck?”

  “Actually, John Steinbeck took the title of his book from a Robert Burns poem. He—” Joplin stopped when she saw Jax’s raised eyebrow. Snickering at herself, she rolled her eyes. “The point, before I took myself off track, is that I had a speech prepared. Short, simple, to the point. Planned to take no more than ten minutes of your time. Instead, I’ve yammered on for—”

  “Over an hour,” Jax supplied the time before she could look at her watch.

  Color rose in Joplin’s cheeks. Jax was astounded, and oddly relieved, when he realized after everything she’d witnessed, the messes she’d been forced to clean up, she still had the ability to blush. Good to know her time with Razor’s Edge hadn’t fucked her up completely.

  “We’ve both done our share of yammering,” he assured her.

  “Okay.” In a blink, Joplin turned all business as a shadow entered her eyes. “Uncle Danny is sick.”

  “How sick?” Jax swallowed, afraid he already knew the answer.

  “He’s dying.” Joplin cleared her throat, sitting straighter as if the position would help get the words out. “A brain tumor. Fast moving, inoperable. The doctors give him six months, tops.”

  “Doctors can be wrong.”

  “Hopefully, they are.”

  Danny Graham. The image of Razor’s Edge first manager popped into Jax’s head with little effort. Jovial, easygoing—until he wasn’t—with a taste for loud sports jackets and an unparalleled instinct for finding under the radar talent.

  A legend in the business, Danny wasn’t as hands-on as Jax expected. Months passed without a word from the great man. Yet, in the end, he kept his promise. He took Razor’s Edge to the top in record time.

  “The band imploded, Jax. All on your own. You can’t blame Danny.”

  “I don’t.”

  Jax surged to his feet, needing to move. He ripped off the shirt he’d worn on stage, sending buttons flying. Wadding the black cotton into a ball, he tossed the garment toward the wastebasket, missing by three feet.

  Donning a clean t-shirt, he toed off his boots.

  “What does he need?” he asked when he felt more in control. “A cancer specialist? Money? Anything, name it.”

  “You think Danny would send me here for a handout?” Joplin shook her head. “Financially, he could get sick a dozen times over and never feel the pinch on his bank account. In fact, he started a foundation to help other cancer patients pay their bills.”

  “A saint to the end.” Crossing his arms, Jax leaned a hip against the dressing table. “Why are you here, Joplin? What does Danny want?”

  “You.”

  “A visit? Sure, no problem.”

  “You,” Joplin reiterated, clearing her throat. “And the rest of Razor’s Edge.”

  “There is no Razor’s Edge. Hasn’t been for a long time.”

  “Hear me out. Please?”

  “You want to talk, talk.” Jax reminded himself to breathe. “I warn you; my answer won’t change.”

  “Exactly what I told my uncle.” Joplin’s smile was bittersweet. “He practically raised me when my parents died, taught me everything I know about the music business. Like you, he gave me my first leg up. I wanted to tell him no, but how could I?”

  “Love and guilt. Great title for a song.”

  “Cut the cynicism long enough to listen.” Joplin leaned forward. “A Razor’s Edge reunion. One night only.”

  Jax didn’t know whether to laugh or break something. For some reason, he couldn’t stir up the energy for either.

  “No.”

  “Think twice before you deny a dying man his last wish.”

  “No. Twice,” Jax sneered. “Need a third time?”

  “Save yourself the trouble.” Joplin stood, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “I’m not surprised. Maybe the others will be more receptive.”

  “The others?”

  “Uncle Danny asked me to contact everyone, up close and in person. Yay, me.” Joplin made a half-hearted swish of imaginary pompoms. “Los Angeles was closest, so you landed first on the list.”

  Again, Jax didn’t want to ask, but the words came out against his will.

  “Who’s next?”

  “Skye.” Joplin cocked her head to the side. “She’s in Seattle, in case you’re interested.”

  Of course, he was interested. The only woman he’d ever loved? Even if she broke his heart, he couldn’t help himself.

  Joplin knew, but she didn’t push the point

  “After Skye, comes Beckett, then Morgan.”

  “Saving the worst for last?”

  Unkind, Jax told himself. But he felt raw and needed to lash out. Joplin was an easy target.

  “Kane happens to be farthest away. And yes, if I must see him again, I’d rather put off the meeting as long as possible.”

  “Coward,” Jax chided. The same color yellow ran down his back.

  “Damn straight.” Joplin took an envelope from her purse. “Here’s the information, date for the reunion, location. In case you change your mind.”

  “I won’t.”

  Joplin nodded. She hesitated, then threw her arms around his neck. Jax returned the hug, holding tight.

  “Take care of yourself,” she whispered.

  “It’s what I do best.”

  Joplin touched his cheek and, with one last look, walked out the door.

  Shutting off the light, Jax knew he should go home, but the thought of the waiting empty bed had lost its appeal. He skirted the tequila to sit in Joplin’s vacated chair. A trace of her warmth lingered.

  Eleven months, sixteen days, seven hours, thirty-three minutes. Joplin’s numbers rang true. However, the beginning of the story started one month earlier.

  The night Jax first laid eyes on Skye Monroe.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ♫~♫~♫

  SIX YEARS EARLIER

  “LOOK AROUND, BOYS.” Kane Harrison swung his arms wide, a beer in one hand, a guitar in the other. “For the picking, a bar filled with eager college girls awed by our artistic genius.”

  “Genius?” Beckett snorted as he made a final tweak of the drum set’s height to perfectly match his six-foot-three inch frame. “If your ego grows any bigger, we’ll need a bigger van.”

  Kane raised the beer to his lips. Finding nothing but an empty can, he popped the top on another before continuing.

  “You miss the point, my rhythmically gifted friend. Women dig musicians. Even the ugliest guy in any band must beat the babes away with a stick. If you doubt me, ask Morgan.”

  “Funny,” As he passed, Morgan Ames punched Kane in the arm—a little harder than necessary. “Forget music. You could make a fortune as a stand-up comic.”

  Kane grimaced, rubbing the offended area. He shot Morgan a warning look, but otherwise, let the moment pass.

  “Just saying. Gigs at college-town dive bars barely pay the bills. We’ve lived on Ramen noodles and ketchup packet soup for the past year. Only fair a perk should come our way now and then.”

  “These girls remind me too much of my little sister. She’s a freshman at Indiana State,” Beck muttered, a frown e
ntering his gray eyes. “What if right now, some grubby musician is hitting on her?”

  “Grubby?” Using the shiny surface on his bass guitar to check his reflection, Morgan ran a hand over his shaved head, down to a shaggy, light-brown beard. “Disheveled, maybe.”

  “Tell you what.” Kane slung a companionable arm around Beck’s shoulders. “Far as I’m concerned, your sister is off limits. However, long as they’re willing—and boy, are they—every other college colleen is mine for the asking.”

  Jaxon tuned his guitar, barely listening as his friends ragged on each other. The tone was light, affectionate, without a hint of rancor. However, the easy banter hadn’t developed overnight.

  When he and Kane met coming on eleven years ago, still wet behind the ears, not-quite teenagers, they clicked immediately over a love of music. Different personalities—Jax intense and focused, Kane unstructured with peddle-to-the-metal wildness.

  Yin and yang music styles, the fusion worked.

  The songs they wrote weren’t radio friendly or designed to rest on everyone’s lips one second, forgotten the next. Their music would stand the test of time, a legacy for which they, and their descendants, could be proud

  If they happened to get rich in the process, all the better.

  Like brothers, they didn’t have a bump-free relationship. Yes, Jax was slow to anger, but he wasn’t a pushover, and Kane rarely kept his opinions to himself. They clashed, they fought, they made up.

  And, in Jax’s opinion, they wrote some of the best music the world had yet to hear.

  Someday, he promised himself, feeling a familiar wave of frustrated ambition. He wouldn’t rest until Razor’s Edge made its mark.

  Jax was certain the final pieces of the puzzle were in place.

  Since he and Kane formed the group three years ago, they’d gone through their share of drummers and bass players. Between clashing egos and slackers just along for the ride, finding the perfect fit was harder than they’d imagined.

  Then they found Beckett Kramer and Morgan Ames. Rather, the best damn drummer Jax ever heard and the bassist with soul found them. A year ago, Beck came knocking in Chicago. A week later, Morgan joined up outside St. Louis.

  They went through some growing pains—a learning curve, as Kane put it. Jax still wasn’t sure about Kylie Hope, the singer they added last month. A native Oregonian, she showed up on weekends, following in their wake as they crisscrossed the state. Time would tell if she worked out or not. His bet was on not.