Tucking her long frame into the car, Zoe told her, "Not the commercial songs that fly to the top of the charts. If you want to know where to start, play Tangled Vines."
BACKSTAGE WASN'T CHAOS. It was worse. From the moment The Ryder Hart Band took the stage, there was never-ending movement. To the untrained eye, the crew seemed to go in hundreds of directions with no planned path.
But in truth, they were a well-oiled machine. This was not the crew's first rodeo. Ryder insisted on the best—from lighting to sound. From the first night of the tour, nothing had been left to chance. If something went wrong, it was fixed before the next performance. Or the person responsible was replaced—quickly.
The band had a hard-fought reputation for putting on a flawless show, and it was well earned. Ryder meant to keep it.
Quinn had learned fast to keep out of the way. Though to the crew's credit, as soon as they learned that she would be there every night, they looked at her as a mobile piece of the scenery. Quinn is in the house, rang out as soon as she arrived. She smiled every time; it made her feel a part of the gang.
A week had passed since her conversation with Zoe. Since then, few words had passed between them. Zoe had put Quinn on alert. I'm watching you. Quinn had no idea what Zoe would do if she decided to act on her vague threat. And she didn't want to find out.
Quinn had an easier time with the rest of the band. Dalton flirted—though he wasn't serious. Ashe teased. And Ryder? She had no idea what was going on with him. He was friendly. And cooperative. But the easygoing man she met in New York had morphed into something else. Ryder seemed preoccupied. Something was definitely on his mind.
There was another explanation. It could be that Quinn was looking for something that wasn't there. Ryder's schedule was brutal. He was the face of the band that carried his name. He drew the line at interviews. However, Ryder managed at least one personal appearance in every city they visited. An orphanage in Philadelphia. A hospital in Miami. A nursing home in New Orleans. What little free time Ryder had, he gave freely—and without publicity. Quinn found out by accident when Dalton let it slip. Ryder wasn't pleased. He kept his charity work hush, hush for a very good reason. If it were widely known, the requests would be overwhelming.
Quinn suspected that was only part of it. Ryder was a private man. Giving of his time was easy—and important. He didn't want accolades. Those came on stage from his screaming, adoring fans.
It was funny. Quinn felt she knew less about Ryder today than when they met. It seemed Zoe was right. There were hidden layers. Deep—and dark. Tangled Vines was a perfect example. The song was from the band's second studio album. Like most people, Quinn listened to the singles the most. Radio friendly was the term. Tangled Vines did not fit that description.
Yet, it caught the listener from the opening chords. There was something heartbreaking in Ryder's voice as he told the story of loss and the search for redemption. The final note faded without a resolution. Hope or despair? It was left to the listener to decide. Quinn chose to come down on the side of hope. But as she found from her online search, critics and fans were split down the middle. The arguments were numerous and passionate. And the only man who had the answer refused to talk.
Great art—as one writer noted—was best when the artist allowed others to enjoy it without preconceived ideas. Would the Mona Lisa be as powerful if we knew why she smiled?
Quinn doubted that Ryder would put his music on the same level as da Vinci's painting, but the point was valid. Ryder Hart was a genius. His words. His music. His voice. They could lift the spirits or haunt the soul. And for his fans, that was enough.
However, it was frustrating as hell for Quinn. She had been looking for a few answers and came away with more questions than when she started. Had that been Zoe's goal? To send Quinn on a quest that had no end? Quinn wouldn't be at all surprised.
"Ten minutes. Crank the backlights. And Richie, turn on the fans. Another minute and the stage smoke will obliterate Dalton."
The last slow song of the evening calmed the overheated crowd. Quinn closed her eyes and floated on Ryder's words. Beautiful. And seductive. She might have said no, but the audience was filled with women who would kill to share Ryder's bed. The irony of her situation was not lost on Quinn.
"We hit Chicago tomorrow."
With nothing to do until the set ended, two members of the crew stood off to Quinn's right, enjoying the break before the madhouse erupted again.
"Well, shit. Why do I always forget about Chicago?"
The first man gave a long-suffering sigh. "You know why. It's the one gig where Dr. Jekyll turns into Mr. Hyde."
"We hit Chicago on the first leg of the tour." The second man shuddered. "Why not skip it this time?"
"I suggested St. Louis instead."
"And?"
"The look Ryder gave me shriveled my balls. That was twelve months ago. I'm still waiting for them to thaw out."
"Get your asses in gear, ladies," the crew chief growled at his men. "I want you breaking that stage down the second the last encore is finished."
Quinn tuned out the rest of the conversation. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? Obviously, they were talking about Ryder. And it tied into the band playing Chicago. Ryder and Zoe's hometown. And the source of Ryder's demons?
It was another piece of evidence that the sweet, funny man that Quinn had met in New York wasn't as easygoing as she first thought.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RYDER NEVER DRANK to excess. It was an unbreakable rule forged in the memories of the evil alcohol could bring out in a normally placid individual. He had flirted with drugs. At sixteen, it had seemed like an easy way to get through his nights on the street. But he learned fast that when he was jacked up on cocaine, he lost his edge. And without an edge, the street could eat him up hard and fast.
Music became the answer. It gave Ryder a high better than any drug. And it helped him mask his demons until he no longer had to pretend that everything was okay. Happiness became a reality—not a concept. Ryder no longer began his day with dread or ended it in fear. Life was good. Damn good.
Until he remembered Chicago. The home of his nightmares. The city where he was born and wished to die. Then—miraculously—was reborn. The demons still lurked in the darkened alleys. Waiting for Ryder to join them. So rather than wait for them to come knocking, he sought them out. That meant including Chicago on their tour schedule. Every time. Sometimes—like this year—they landed here twice.
His bandmates argued. His manager cajoled. Even the tour crew put up a token protest. But Ryder would not be swayed from his path. He had a theory. To enjoy heaven's delights, now and then he had to remind himself what it was like in hell.
"I get why you won't top off the beer with a shot of Kentucky's finest." Ashe took a swig from the bottle of bourbon. "I even admire your restraint. But you need to take the edge off. For the love of God, and my sanity, find a willing woman and get yourself laid."
"We go on in less than an hour," Ryder pointed out.
"What's your point?" Looking confused, Ashe raised the bottle to his lips.
"You shouldn't be swigging bourbon, and I don't have time to get laid."
Heeding Ryder's words, Ashe lowered the bottle. "Blowjob?"
"Are you offering?"
"Over half the people in this arena are women. Give Linc the word and he will have a veritable smorgasbord of choices waiting outside your door before you can break the seal on a box of condoms."
"Sounds tempting." The lack of enthusiasm in Ryder's voice said otherwise. He reached for his old, beat-up guitar case. "I think I'll pass."
"I get it. I've lost my taste for the random screw. It was exciting at nineteen. Now?"
"Not so much." Ryder nodded. He couldn't remember his last random screw. If he weren't careful, any kind of sex would become a distant memory.
"There is always the beautiful Quinn. Unless I'm mistaken—and I never am—the intere
st goes both ways."
"No."
Ryder didn't want to talk about Quinn. She was light. Her smiles lit up a room, making him feel that hope still existed. Right now, he welcomed the darkness. He took his guitar from the case and plucked seven chords. Ryder took a deep, resigned breath. Instead of running from the acrid fog that always dogged his steps, he stopped to let it swirl around him.
"Not that song." Ashe screwed the lid on the bottle of bourbon. When Ryder casually began to tune the instrument, Ashe slammed the bottle onto the table. "Don't do it, Ryder."
Ryder didn't pay attention. Content that the guitar sounded right, he plucked the first few familiar notes again. Closing his eyes, he began to hum along.
"You promised that number had been retired."
"I promised I would never play it in public." As his fingers warmed up, Ryder increased the tempo. In spite of the words—and the memories they invoked—it was a peppy tune. "We are in goddamned, fucking Chicago, my friend. This song is a given. To quote the legendary Sammy Cahn, you can't have one without the other."
Flowers on the Wall. Some perverse part of Ryder's psyche insisted that he keep it in his personal repertoire. The old Statler Brothers' song never failed to lower his spirits—and make him want to vomit.
"Am I supposed to sit and watch your version of self-flagellation?"
"You can leave anytime. Or lend me some harmony. Take your pick."
"You are one sick son of a bitch."
But Ashe didn't leave. Ryder knew he wouldn't. Friends don't leave friends to fall into the abyss alone. If he were a sick son of a bitch, Ashe was right behind him, watching his back—as always.
Ryder took the lead and Ashe's voice blended in as smooth as Kentucky bourbon.
"SON OF A bitch."
Dalton stopped outside of Ryder's dressing room. He exchanged worried looks with Zoe—looks that Quinn didn't understand.
"Do you hear that?" Dalton asked.
"Am I deaf? Of course I hear it. Get out of my way."
Zoe calmly walked through the door. She looked at what was happening—Ryder playing, Ashe harmonizing. Without a word, she took a seat next to her brother and joined in.
"Really?" Dalton stood with his hands on his hips, watching the spectacle. "Fuck. This is some messed up shit."
With a resigned sigh, he sat and picked up his part of the harmony.
Quinn watched. She had no idea what was going on or the significance of the song they sang. More than ever, she felt like the outsider. Because she was exactly that. This was a tight circle. They had years of history and unswerving loyalty. She felt a touch of envy, but she didn't resent it.
Quinn was there to do a job. So she picked up her camera and began capturing a moment few people were allowed to see. If they vetoed her using the images, so be it. But she felt compelled to preserve with pictures something she didn't understand yet, felt to her very soul.
Their voices blended perfectly. They were four people becoming one. As the song reached its end, Quinn thought she saw a sheen of tears in Zoe's eyes, but it was gone before the last note faded.
"I love you." Zoe dropped her head onto Ryder's shoulder.
"I know. And every day I am grateful for it." Ryder, his eyes closed, brushed his cheek against Zoe's hair. It was a brief, poignant moment. One that Quinn would never forget.
"Is this the sappy portion of this farce?" Dalton grabbed Ashe's discarded bourbon, taking one long swig before setting it back on the table. "I love all you guys."
"I feel you, man." Ashe punched Dalton on the arm. "To the depths of my bowels."
"That's lovely." Zoe gave Ryder a worried glance, nodded when his eyes met hers, then rolled to her feet. "I can always count on you jokers to reduce a moment to bathroom humor."
"It wasn't me," Dalton protested.
"Not this time."
"I will admit—"
Whatever Dalton was about to say was interrupted when someone pounded on the door.
"Twenty minutes," a brusk voice called out.
"That's our cue." Ashe watched as Ryder put away his old guitar. "Better?"
"I'll meet you on stage."
Ryder's hazel eyes moved from bandmate to bandmate. When his gaze met Quinn's, he lingered for a second, causing a shiver of sexual awareness to shoot down her spine.
Holy crap, Quinn thought. One second she was worried about Ryder's state of mind, the next she wanted to rip his clothes off. How messed up was that?
As if reading her mind, Ryder's lips curved into a half smile that seemed to say, I know exactly how you feel.
"I say we rock Chicago like they've never been rocked then get the hell out of town," Dalton said.
"Best plan ever." Ashe clapped Dalton on the back. Draping his other arm around Zoe, he opened the dressing room door.
When Quinn started to leave with them, Ashe shook his head.
"He wants to be alone," she whispered.
"Ryder doesn't know what he wants. We need to get ready. Do me a favor and stay with him."
Ashe's tone told Quinn as much as his words. Dalton nodded. Zoe frowned, but she didn't protest.
"I won't leave him alone," Quinn promised.
The door closed quietly behind them.
"You're making a mistake. We shouldn't be alone."
Quinn gasped. She hadn't heard Ryder walk across the room. But his voice and the feel of his breath brushing against her ear told Quinn where he was.
Slowly, she turned to face him. "I don't have anything to do until the concert starts. Want to keep me company?"
"Don't placate me, Quinn." Ryder crowded her until her back was against the door. "I'm not a little boy."
"No argument here." Quinn tried to make it sound like a joke, but her words came out in a breathy rush that sounded more sexy than humorous.
"You want me. I've made no bones about how I feel." Ryder moved as close as possible without touching her. "If you hadn't set a wall of morality and ideals between us, we could be sharing a bed by now."
"That's an arrogant assumption." True, but arrogant.
"Normally, I respect a person's boundaries. Especially a woman's. But I'm on the edge, Quinn." Ryder's gaze dropped to her lips. "On a good day, you are a temptation I find hard to resist."
"You wouldn't force me." Quinn had no doubt about that.
"Who said anything about force?" Lightly, but with intent, Ryder touched her cheek with his index finger. Quinn leaned into his caress without a second thought. Ryder gave a low, satisfied laugh. "See? One touch and I can see the pulse at the base of your throat fluttering like mad. There's a lovely flush on your skin. Protest all you want. Your body doesn't lie."
"I'm not protesting."
"Jesus, Quinn." The green flecks in Ryder's eyes almost glowed. "You shouldn't have said that."
Quinn braced for Ryder's kiss, expecting it to be hard and desperate. It was all that, but what she hadn't expected was that her need would be as out of control as his.
It was a kiss like nothing Quinn had known. A wild intensity surged through her blood. She felt fierce. Strong. Invincible. She threaded her fingers through Ryder's dark, wavy hair, pulling him closer—if that were possible. They were fused together, the heat unbearable and beautiful all at once.
How long it lasted, Quinn couldn't have said. Seconds? Minutes? Hours? All she knew was that when Ryder lifted his head, it hadn't been long enough.
"I should go." But Quinn's feet felt cemented in place.
"You should run and never look back," Ryder corrected, his voice was low and husky.
"We both know that isn't going to happen." Reluctantly, Quinn stepped away. Picking up her forgotten camera, she took a shot of Ryder's face. It was perfect. Passionately beautiful. Nobody would ever see it but her.
"I would hate to hurt you, Quinn."
"Then don't."
Amazed by her response, Ryder laughed. "You make it sound easy. It
isn't."
"I know." She opened the door, then paused. "We have another week to decide if we want to take this any further."
"I know what would be best for you."
"So do I." Reaching out, she touched his hand. "Something tells me your answer is different from mine."
THE CONCERT IN Chicago hit a high note for the tour. It was the kind of performance that those who were lucky enough to have tickets would talk about for years to come. Fans who had seen Ryder Hart before swore there had been something different about him. He always reached their emotions. But that night, he tore at their soul.
Every night was an exhausting experience. But tonight, everyone involved was worn out. They were taking the band's private plane to Los Angeles where they would end the tour with five sold-out concerts. There was little of the usual banter as they took their seats, waiting to be cleared for takeoff.
Ryder entered the plane after everyone else. He didn't look Quinn's way. He didn't look at anyone.
"I'll be in my room. Unless it's an emergency, I don't want to see or talk to anyone."
Nobody commented. Ashe continued his game of solitaire. Dalton was doing something on his phone. And Zoe put on her headphones then adjusted the volume on her iPod. Closing her eyes, she settled her head on the back of her seat.
"That's it?" Quinn asked. "The man poured everything he had into his performance tonight. Shouldn't one of you make sure he's okay?"
"Ryder needs rest, Ms. Abernathy." Alden didn't look at her as he spoke. He sat near the front, sipping from an insulated travel mug.
"But—"
"We have known him a long time. Do you doubt our concern?"
"No. Of course not."
"Then trust that we are doing what is best."
Supercilious asshole. Thinking nobody was watching, Quinn poked out her tongue at Alden's back.
"Did that make you feel better?" Ashe asked as he placed an ace of spades onto the table.
"Not really."
"Try adding a double-finger salute." When he saw Quinn's skeptical expression, Ashe nodded. "I understand, but trust me, it does wonders. But you have to do it with attitude." Ashe demonstrated. He whipped up his hands, his middle fingers flying high. For good measure, he finished by twirling his arms in a circle. The gesture was aimed at an oblivious Dalton.
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