ALMOST PARADISE

by Williams, Mary J.

  “Wish I could say the same about Kane.”

  The color drained from Joplin’s face a second before she burst into tears. Jax patted her back, letting her cry without any clichéd words of comfort from him. Obviously, she needed the release.

  “Stupid.” The worst of the deluge past, Joplin took a package of tissues from her purse. Blowing her nose, she hiccupped. “Tears won’t help.”

  “Won’t help Kane but could do you a world of good.” Jax opened a bottle of water. “Drink. Then tell me what he did.”

  “Nothing.” She shrugged. “Much.”

  A good listener and the ultimate problem solver, everyone went to Joplin. He knew for a fact Morgan talked to her more than anyone else. Beck, still a bit smitten, enjoyed shooting the breeze.

  Skye avoided Jax as much as possible when they weren’t on stage, spending most of her time with Joplin. He longed to ask if they talked about him, Skye’s family, the whole screwed-up situation. No point. Joplin wouldn’t tell. She cared, listened, advised, and kept their counsel better than a priest.

  However, her relationship with Kane was a mystery. They still snarled and carped like junkyard dogs. Yet underneath the antagonism was something more, something indefinable to an outside observer.

  His eyes opened, Jax could tell Joplin’s feeling ran deeper than her professional role dictated. As for Kane? Anyone who could decipher how his brain worked deserved a Nobel Prize.

  “Are you in love with him?”

  Joplin hesitated.

  “Define love.”

  “The only emotion capable of ripping out your heart, eviscerating your guts, leaving nothing but a shell of bitterness and bile while your brain remains fully functioning, replaying your mistakes on an endless loop of misery.”

  “Wow.” Joplin blinked, her eyes filling. The tears were not mixed with joy. “Guess I’m in love.”

  Jax removed an ever-present handkerchief.

  “Thank you.” Clutching the cloth, Joplin let the tears fall unchecked. “I didn’t know any man under the age of sixty carried a hankie in his pocket.”

  With a shrug, Jax tried to shake the memory, tried not to think about Skye, but the effort was futile. Until he found a way to cut her from his heart, she was a part of him. At least not every lesson she taught him left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  “What did the bastard do?”

  “Be nice to put all the blame on Kane.” Joplin let out a watery hiccup. “I pushed him to let me in. Every now and then, he did. I thought we were friends—until we weren’t. Does anything I said make sense?”

  “Love, hate. Friends, enemies. Sounds like Kane.”

  “He told me about his father. Not everything, but enough to break my heart.”

  Surprise rendered Jax speechless. Kane carried his scars, physical and mental, in silence. He rarely dredged up the past. Joplin was the first, the only person, he’d trusted with his demons.

  “Any time we start to get close, he pulls away, runs to the countess. Can you still call yourself a countess when the count was four husbands ago?” Joplin scoffed before taking a shaky breath. “He’s sinking, Jax. I know I could pull him out, but he won’t let me. If you helped—”

  “The only person who can save Kane is Kane.”

  “Apparently, you don’t love him enough to try.” She shoved the handkerchief at him. “I do.”

  The pain and disappointment in Joplin’s eyes weren’t enough to make Jax give chase or change his mind. Her controlled anger only spurred his higher. Anger at Kane, Skye, Morgan, even Beck.

  Was he the only one who remembered their dreams? What happened to his so-called friends? Jax was ready for the next step but more and more, he felt alone.

  On stage, Razor’s Edge continued to sizzle with the kind of chemistry no one could manufacture. The rest of the time, they barely spoke except to argue.

  Kane fell further into his version of hell. Morgan was never around. Skye, he had to admit or drive himself crazy, was lost to him. Even the normally easygoing Beck wasn’t immune to everyone else’s black moods.

  Razor’s Edge was scheduled to record their first full album. A very lucrative offer for them to headline a six-city tour was on the table for negotiations. Tantalizingly close, their future was limitless, if he could find a way to hold the band together long enough for everyone to get their shit together.

  Jax scrubbed a hand over his face. For the first time, he felt helpless, unsure, as a question he couldn’t answer raced through his brain.

  Was Razor’s Edge headed for the top, or had they reached the end of the line?

  ~ ~ ~

  THE AFTER PARTY was low-key by rock and roll standards, a testament to the tour’s headliners. The Ryder Hart Band knew how to have a good time, but their definition of the phrase had changed over the years.

  Married with families, they were long past the party hard stage. Instead of groupies and questionable behavior, they celebrated the last concert with champagne and class.

  Not in the party mood, Jax didn’t stay long. He thanked Ryder, his mentor, his friend, waved goodbye to Beck, avoided Skye, and refused to tax his brain over why neither Morgan nor Kane felt obligated to show up.

  Jax craved sleep. Back in his dark, solitary hotel room, he left a trail of clothing between the door and the bed and climbed beneath the covers. Bone-tired exhausted, his body aching like a bad tooth, he proceeded to stare at the ceiling for the next hour. Down to nothing but fumes, his brain burst with turbo-charged energy fueled by a toxic cocktail of past mistakes, roiling resentment, and he admitted in a moment of self-awareness, a fair amount of guilt

  By the time the sun broke over the eastern horizon, Jax gave up on finding relief from his problems in the temporary cocoon of sleep.

  Rolling to his side, his gaze landed on a book. He bought a copy of The End of Rainbows before the tour started, thumbing through the pages from time to time. Foolishly sentimental—him and the novel—he went against his instincts, proceeding to pack and unpack the paperback from one city to the next.

  Once a way to feel closer to Skye, the book mocked him, a reminder that where women were concerned, his brain was a more reliable barometer than his heart.

  Tired of thinking, tired of his own company, he rolled to his feet. He needed food but couldn’t face another solitary room service meal. The dining room should have a few early risers, if not, his waitress might take the time to exchange a word or two.

  Pathetic, Jax sighed as he turned the shower on hot. All his friends had deserted him. Boohoo, poor me. When had he turned into such a freaking whiner? Around three-thirty, he decided. About the time Skye invaded his thoughts.

  Stepping from the stall, Jax swiped at the steam-covered mirror, groaning at his reflection. In one year, he managed to age another thirty. Forget luggage, his belongings would fit in the bags under his eyes—with room to spare.

  Jax dried his body, tossed the wet towel onto the floor. His father would tell him to cut his damn hair, he thought as the wet ends brushed his shoulders. Personally, he didn’t care.

  Pulling on a pair of jeans, Jax grabbed the first shirt in the drawer, zipped up a pair of boots, no socks, and shoved an old Seattle Mariners baseball cap, a souvenir from the band’s bar circuit days, over his still-damp hair.

  Timing was everything in music and in life. On stage, Jax never missed a beat, he wasn’t as fortunate the rest of the time. A few extra seconds in bed, a little longer in the shower was all he needed. Knowing his rhythm was off, he left his hotel room, and found Skye and Morgan by the elevator—kissing.

  No peck on the cheek between friends. An emotional goodbye kiss between lovers. Jax knew the difference.

  “Thank you.” Morgan kissed her again.

  Skye nodded, waiting as the elevator doors closed. Her smile, warm for Morgan, froze in place the second she noticed Jax.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” He yelled down the length of the ha
ll. “You and Morgan?”

  Cool, unruffled, dressed in a breezy lavender dress and sandals, Skye closed the distance between them. The picture of innocence, as though she hadn’t spent the night in the arms of another man. A sane woman would have turned and run.

  “For a year, I listened to you whine and weep over your father’s demands.”

  “Whine?” she interrupted. “Hardly.”

  “I played along,” Jax ground out, ignoring the way she flicked at him the way she would a bothersome gnat. “I suffered in silence.”

  “Ha!”

  “Silence,” Jax reiterated, his righteous anger growing. “I guess the rules only apply to me. When was the first time you screwed Morgan?”

  “Morgan? And me?”

  Skye seemed genuinely surprised—even appalled. Then again, Jax reminded himself, her dream was to act. She was a natural.

  “Yes, Morgan, and you. The kiss I witnessed told me everything I needed to know.”

  Jax longed for Skye’s denial. Please, he wanted to beg, give me a plausible explanation. Instead, after her first sucker punch, she left him to suffer.

  “Believe what you want.”

  A red wave swam before Jax’s eyes, hot and irrational. The people he trusted betrayed him, stomped on him. He was through—no more Mr. Nice Guy.

  “You think I’ve lived like a monk all these months?” Jax’s lip curled into a taunting sneer. “Wrong. I had a different woman every night.”

  The flash of agony in Skye’s dark eyes made Jax smile, but her pain didn’t make him happy. He doubted anything ever would again.

  “Good.” She cleared the catch from her voice. “I’m glad.”

  “Right,” Jax nodded, remembering. “You gave me permission, practically begged me to move on.”

  “Begged is an exaggeration.”

  “Let’s agree to disagree,” Jax shrugged. “Want to hear something funny?”

  Skye closed her eyes and sighed. When she looked at him again, resignation had replaced the hurt.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I needed those women, yet I was so worried you might find out, I didn’t bring them to my hotel room.” His laugh was harsh and humorless. “Found some damn creative places. Restrooms, men’s and ladies. Broom closets, hotel kitchens, back alleys.”

  “Stop.”

  When Skye tried to back away, Jax grabbed her wrist. He wasn’t finished, not by a long shot.

  “The night we played London was interesting. Found a little alcove off the stadium’s main lobby. We were almost caught, but I took the risk to spare your feelings.”

  “Liar!” Skye knew she couldn’t get away. Instead, she moved closer until her face was inches from his. “Don’t try to fool me or yourself. You enjoyed the thrill, the chance you might get caught. Neither my feelings nor the parade of women mattered.”

  “Could be right. Though a partner in my escapades was necessary. If all I wanted was to get off, I could masturbate in private.” Jax breathed in Skye’s scent hating how much he wanted her even now. Shaking off the feeling, he doubled down on his taunts. “Would you feel better knowing every time I had another woman, I only thought of you?”

  “I’d feel worse,” Skye hissed. “To use one woman is bad enough. But an endless string? You’re nothing but a promiscuous, selfish asshole.”

  Skye cursed. A small victory, but Jax and his raw nerves would take anything they could get.

  “You’re right. For once, I only thought of myself.”

  “And the women?” Skye’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Didn’t they count for anything?”

  “The whole point was to screw a rock star. Love wasn’t mentioned; no hearts were broken. Simply a means to an end, on both sides.”

  “When did you become so cynical about sex?” Using her free hand, Skye clutched at her heart. “What about love?”

  Jax’s anger cooled as icy fingers of dread crept along his spine. He was a fool and a masochist to ask, but he had to know.

  “Do you love Morgan?”

  Whatever Skye was about to say remained a mystery that would haunt him for years to come. Beck walked around the corner. With one glance, he assessed the situation and didn’t like what he saw.

  “Let her go.” He knocked Jax against the wall. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Drained, Jax’s head slumped to his chest.

  “Hell if I know.”

  “Are you okay?” Beck examined Skye’s reddened wrist, keeping a wary eye on Jax.

  “He could never hurt me.”

  The double meaning flew over Beck’s head, but not Jax’s. Skye wanted him to know nothing he said or did, mattered enough to cause her pain. He rubbed his chest. His aim was all over the place while hers hit the mark dead center.

  “Jax!” Joplin sprinted down the hall. Disheveled and out of breath, she gasped, “Kane is gone, disappeared, without a word.”

  The word disappeared almost pierced the haze of anger and betrayal. Then Jax remembered. Like the rest of the band, Kane didn’t need his friendship and sure as hell didn’t want his help.

  “He always lands on his feet—eventually.”

  Looking at him as though he were a stranger, Skye placed a comforting arm around Joplin.

  “Tell us what happened? Why are you so worried?”

  “Kane was in bad shape, worse than usual. When he fell asleep, I thought he was down for the night. When I checked on him a few hours later, he was nowhere to be found.”

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  “Jax!” Skye admonished. “Joplin’s personal business is none of yours.”

  “Right,” Jax sneered. “Like yours and Morgan’s?”

  “Forget Morgan, you ass. Kane needs—"

  “We slept together,” Joplin interrupted in a rush, “but we didn’t—. He slept, I held him. Nothing else. Now, will you help me find him, please?”

  “I know where he went.” Beck handed Jax his phone. “The reason I came to find you. I was in the shower when Kane’s text arrived. From Las Vegas.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Jax didn’t know whether to laugh or punch the wall. For Joplin’s sake, did neither.

  “Las Vegas?” Joplin took the phone. “Is he hurt?”

  “Kane married Countess Delilah.”

  The text consisted of two things, the picture of a signed marriage license, and a middle finger emoji.

  “Classy,” Beck scoffed.

  “He’ll be back.”

  Joplin’s words, delivered without emotion, were the final straw.

  “After everything, you still defend him. Forgive him?” Jax threw up his hands. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Razor’s Edge is the point, not me.” Eyes on Jax, Joplin shoved the phone at Beck. “In a week, you’ll forgive Kane. You always do.”

  A welcome calm settled over Jax. After months of turmoil and uncertainty, he was ready. Finally, he let himself accede to the inevitable. He glanced at Beck, his gaze lingered on Skye. No need for words, they knew.

  “Goodbye, Joplin. Take care.”

  “But—”

  “Forget Razor’s Edge. You can’t save what’s already dead.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ♫~♫~♫

  PRESENT DAY

  “THE WRITING DESK was crafted by a master carpenter. A true artist.” Skye Monroe, the promise of a hefty commission dancing in her head, ran her hand over the burnished mahogany.

  “The piece is beautiful.” Tawny Leclerc, smartly dressed in the latest fashion the Paris runways could provide, opened the middle drawer. “Exactly what I want for the guest bedroom. But the price is outrageous. Any chance of a discount for an old friend?”

  Old friend? Skye reminded herself to smile and not roll her eyes. She and Tawny attended the same acting class for less than a month before Tawny landed the part she was meant to play, a multimillionaire's latest trophy wife.

  “If I owned
the shop…?”

  Skye sighed, adding just enough regret to elicit Tawny’s sympathy, and entitled sense of superiority, before she continued her factual, if slightly embellished, sales pitch.

  “Chester Fleetwood lived in the Seattle area at the turn of the twentieth century. A devoted family man and deacon of his local church, he died in his early thirties, leaving only a handful of finished pieces.”

  “How sad,” Tawny gasped, clutching her throat.

  A strategic move meant to draw Skye’s gaze to the ten-karat rock on her right index finger. Either Tawny and her much-older husband were still in the honeymoon phase, or, two years in, the babble was Giles Leclerc’s first step toward his next divorce.

  Either way, Skye saw no reason why some of Giles’ disposable income shouldn’t land in her bank account.

  “When a one-of-a-kind Fleetwood comes up for sale, which is rare, the piece almost always ends up in an auction house where you would pay twice, even three times, the price we’re asking.”

  “Tempting, but I don’t know.”

  Skye played the ace up her sleeve, the one sure to entice Tawny’s no-limit credit card out of her Gucci wallet.

  “If I had the money…” Skye let out a sigh more pitiful than the last. “I’d snatch the desk up in a heartbeat. Can you imagine what my friends would do?”

  “What?” Tawny, a woman with no imagination of her own, leaned closer in anticipation.

  “They would die with envy.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the sale in the books, Skye filed the receipt. Good day, she thought with satisfaction. Three lucrative sales, the last to one of the ten most annoying women in the greater Seattle area. She didn’t know everyone, or, most likely, Tawny would make the top three.

  Skye didn’t mind her job. Not the best job, or the worst, Proctor’s Fine Furniture fell somewhere in the middle. The hours were steady, the wage decent, the commissions for a wily salesperson darn good.

  A bonus, the owner threw in the apartment over the shop practically rent-free—by Seattle standards—because she considered Skye an extra layer of security. Not that she was prepared to put her life on the line for an étagère. Luckily, the police were only a 911 call away.