Four Simple Words: A Badass and the Billionaires Contemporary Romance (The Sisters Quartet Book 4)

by Mary J. Williams

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  AN EXCERPT FROM:

  FLOWERS ON THE WALL

  ♥♥♥ ♫ ♥♥♥

  HART of ROCK and ROLL BOOK ONE

  MARY J. WILLIAMS

  © 2016

  PROLOGUE

  COUNTING FLOWERS ON the wall. That don't bother me at all. Playing solitaire 'til dawn. With a deck of fifty-one.

  He hated the song. It was the music that nightmares were set to. When the first familiar note pounded through the broken-down trailer, he knew what it meant. Their fragile peace was at an end.

  Smokin' cigarettes and watching Captain Kangaroo. Now, don't tell me. I've nothin' to do.

  When he was younger—still innocent enough to believe that this time would be different—he would cover his head with his pillow and pretend the music hadn't started. He didn't have to worry about his sister. At least he knew she would be fine. She was practically a baby and blessedly, the monster left her alone.

  He was the one it sought out. He was the one who felt its wrath.

  Was it a joke that the walls of his tiny room were covered in daisies? The faded wallpaper made his skin crawl. Taking it down wasn't an option. He had tried. The scars in his hand had been his punishment. Or—as the monster put it—his reward for being such a clever little boy.

  Counting flowers on the wall. That don't bother me at all.

  "I need my little boy." The voice was sing-songy, and though the words were slurred, they were unmistakable.

  The bedroom door slammed open.

  "There he is." The monster grabbed his arm, jerking him out of bed. His breath was foul. Sour from cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes. "Come keep Daddy company."

  "I have school tomorrow."

  He knew the slap was coming. Not across the face. Teachers noticed when he showed up for class with a swollen lip. The monster knew better. He aimed low where a mark would be covered by long-sleeved shirts or blue jeans.

  "What good is school? Don't I teach you everything you need to know? How to pour a drink. How to light my stogie?" The monster took his cigar from his mouth, blowing on the end until it glowed red. "How to put it out?"

  The hot tip hovered near his face. Closing his eyes, he waited for the pain.

  "Nope. I'm not done with it yet." The monster threw him through the door, his teeth holding the cigar as he unbuckled his belt. Eyes narrowing, he slowly slid the leather from the loops around his waist, then slapped it against his hand.

  "Why?" Asking never helped. The answer didn't hurt as much as the belt. But it was close.

  "Why?" the monster jeered, slowly advancing. "Because I can."

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE KNOCK ON the dressing room door was firm and decisive. Whoever it was seemed to know what they wanted. He sighed. Pushy or tentative—it seemed someone always wanted something. All he wanted was a hot shower and a few blissfully uninterrupted hours of sleep. He should have gone straight to the hotel instead of collapsing on the sofa. After all these years, he knew better.

  He didn't answer when the pounding got louder. With a sigh, he slung an arm over his eyes and hoped against hope that whoever it was would take the hint and go away.

  "Mr. Hart?"

  Shit. Hadn't he locked the door? He heard the doorknob turn. Nope. He definitely hadn't locked the door.

  "Mr. Hart? Ryder? Do you mind if I come in?"

  Ryder didn't bother to look. She had a nice voice. A little husky. But his interest was zero. Neither his brain nor his dick was in the mood.

  "Sorry, sweetheart. I don't fuck groupies. Try two doors down. I hear the opening act isn't picky."

  "They might not be, but I am. Don't worry, Mr. Hart, your virtue is safe. I'm not looking for bragging rights. My name is Quinn Abernathy. We have an appointment."

  "I don't think so, honey."

  "It's Quinn. Not sweetheart. Not honey. If you can't remember my name, I occasionally answer to hey, you. But keep the sugary platitudes for your adoring fans."

  Interesting. In spite of himself, Ryder raised his arm enough to get a look at the lady with the acid tongue. Well, shit. He had hoped she would look like somebody's aunt. Instead, Quinn Abernathy was a knock-out. He felt a stir of interest. But not enough to do more than roll over so his back was to her. It was meant to end the conversation.

  "I spoke with your manager, Mr. Hart. He—"

  "Jesus H. Christ." Ryder whipped around. "I don't give a fuck. My head is pounding. My knee has swollen up to twice its normal size, and I need something to eat besides the crap they put out in my dressing room. Whatever you want, can it wait until morning?"

  "Sure." Concerned, Quinn's blue eyes lowered. "What happened to your knee?"

  "Old war injury."

  It wasn't far from the truth. Ryder's entire childhood had been lived in a war zone. He survived because he learned how to avoid the ever-present landmines. One time, when he was ten, he wasn't fast enough. The result had been a baseball bat to his knee. It had healed. But now and then—like tonight—it flared up.

  Ryder didn't know what the lovely Quinn thought of his explanation. She had a mighty fine poker face.

  "I won't keep you. Get some ice on that knee. And I would recommend a steak. The hotel where you're staying serves a mean ribeye."

  "How do you know?"

  "I had one for dinner."

  "Wait." All of sudden, Ryder wasn't as anxious for her to leave. "Are you staying at the St. Regis?"

  Quinn nodded.

  "What floor?"

  Shaking her head, her lips curved. Nice lips tinged with a touch of red gloss. Ryder wondered about the flavor.

  "Not yours." Halfway out the door, Quinn paused. "I'm a photographer, Mr. Hart." She patted the bag that hung over her shoulder. "Not a groupie."

  "I don't have sex with groupies."

  "I remember." Quinn laughed. "I'm not immune, Mr. Hart. And maybe—somewhere down the line—we'll see what we see. But for the time being, let's keep this professional."

  "I didn't proposition you." Ryder wasn't used to women setting boundaries. That was his prerogative.

  "You were going to." With that closing shot, Quinn shut the door.

  Refusing to let her have the last word, Ryder hurriedly limped across the room.

  "Hey, you," he called out. Quinn was already at the end of the hallway, but she heard him. To his delight, she stopped. Slowly, she turned toward him. In the glow of the harsh fluorescent lighting, Ryder could see that she tried not to smile.

  "You bellowed?"

  "Why do I need a photographer?"

  "Because I'm the best."

  Ryder loved a woman with confidence. "That doesn't answer my question."

  "I guess you'll have to wait and find out."

  "Lunch? One o'clock? My room?" When Quinn hesitated, Ryder laughed. "I promise… your virtue is safe. For now."

  "I don't know your room number."

  There were at least a dozen women roaming the hall. Ryder already had their attention. When his room number was mentioned, they practically began to salivate.

  "Call my manager. He'll give it to you."

  Ryder watched until Quinn was out of sight, then closed his dressing room door. This time, he made certain it was locked. He hadn't noticed the other women. At this point in his life, he rarely did. Before he became famous, when he and his band played one-nighters for peanuts, the women were always around.

  It was the music. Rock and roll. Country. Jazz. Classical. If a guy could play an instrument, he could get laid. It was a truth as old as time. Ryder imagined back in prehistoric days, the first caveman who figured out how to carry a beat with a stick and rock found himself beating the women off with his club.

  However, everyone had their saturation point. Ryder liked sex. Hell, it was one of life's great pleasures. But after over a decade of countless anonymous women, he no longer went for quantity over quality.

  Nobo
dy would call Ryder Hart a monk. He simply liked to know a woman's name before he stuck his tongue down her throat. Or any other place on her body.

  Quinn Abernathy. It was a nice name.

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  FLOWERS and CAGES

  ♥♥♥ ♫ ♥♥♥

  Hart of Rock and Roll Book Two

  Mary J. Williams

  © 2016

  PROLOGUE

  TRIED, CONVICTED, SENTENCED, and on his way to the state penitentiary, Dalton Shaw had learned two things. He wasn't as tough as he thought. And behind bars, there was no such thing as a guilty man.

  The black eye and split lip Dalton sported proved that a cocky attitude didn't impress anyone behind bars. Especially a bruiser who had used up his last strike and was going away for life. It could have been worse. The guard could have broken up the fight after Wiley Malone had done permanent damage.

  "I wanted to smash that pretty face into a pulp," Wiley growled as he was dragged away. "Next time, Shaw. There will be one. Count on it."

  The odds that Dalton would wind up in the same prison as Wiley were better than even money. The judge who sentenced him made it a sure bet. Three years—less than one if he kept his nose clean. But it was a long time to watch his back.

  "There are rules," Ryder Hart told him during their last visit before Dalton was relocated.

  "What do you know beyond what you've seen on television?"

  "I've done some research. So has Ashe. Zoe was the one who found you a tutor."

  Ryder, Ashe, and Zoe. Dalton's bandmates. Friends. Family—a bond stronger than any blood relation. They were his lifeline and the only thing that had kept him sane. None of them had believed Dalton would do any significant amount of time. He didn't have a record as an adult and only minor scuffles as a minor. Beating the shit out of someone—no matter how well deserved—was serious. But hard time? It didn't make sense. Unless one added in the fact that Dalton's victim lived in a small town where his daddy's influence ruled. Dalton's lawyer had tried to get the trial moved out of the county, but the judge refused.

  "I need a tutor to go to prison?"

  Ryder nodded. Dalton knew his friend was trying to keep a positive outlook, but his dark eyes were shadowed with worry. "Jock Lowe. It isn't exactly Miss Manners, but there is a definite way to do things."

  "Fuck that, Ryder. It's prison."

  "And like you said, all we know is what we've seen on TV or in the movies. Forearmed is forewarned, Dalton. Listen to what the man has to say."

  Dalton knew Ryder was right. But it seemed so final. Like a movie, he hoped for a last-minute reprieve. The sentence had been passed. Tomorrow the bus would take him to his new home.

  How the hell had this happened? Dalton was twenty-two years old. The future had seemed so bright. The Ryder Hart Band had its first album coming out next month. The buzz was good—better than good. After years of barely scraping by, they were about to hit it big, and Dalton wasn't going to be there to share the moment.

  "You need to hire a permanent replacement."

  "Why? Are you planning on becoming a career criminal?"

  "No, but—"

  "Nobody can play the drums like you. It won't be the same, but we'll get by until you're out. Eight months—tops."

  "What if it's longer?" The thought made Dalton sick, but it had to be said. "Things happen. The gray jumpsuit I'm wearing is proof of that."

  "That's why we hired the tutor. He'll tell you how to avoid trouble." Ryder gripped his arm. "I'll never forgive you if you don't come back to us, Dalton."

  "Time's up," the guard called out.

  "I'm scared, Ryder." It was the first time Dalton had admitted it to anyone—even himself.

  "We'll visit every week. Ashe, Zoe, and me." Ryder hugged him. "Stay strong, brother. More important, stay smart."

  The next morning, the bus to the prison was filled to capacity. Wiley Malone sat near the front, glaring at Dalton as he walked past. The tutor Ryder hired had given Dalton a plan—a course of action—beyond watching his back and cowering in his cell. It wasn't foolproof, but it was something.

  Ankles manacled, Dalton shuffled to his seat. The man he was chained to tripped, sending Dalton crashing into the side of the bus. His shoulder took most of the impact.

  "Sorry."

  Dalton shrugged it off. Thanks to Wiley, his body was already covered in bruises. What was one more?

  "Don Fitzgerald." The man held out his cuffed hand.

  "Dalton Shaw."

  "I shouldn't be here."

  Closing his eyes, Dalton sighed. Here it comes, he thought. Since his arrest, he hadn't met a single person who took responsibility for his incarceration. If he believed every story he heard, the criminal justice system got it wrong one hundred percent of the time.

  Railroaded. Screwed over. Framed. Pick your term. When those doors locked them in their cages each night, the prisoners slept the slumber of the unjustly incarcerated. Some were tormented by the knowledge. Others accepted their fate. But go ahead and ask. Not one of them was there because they had done the crime.

  "I'm telling you, man, I blame that bitch I married. Sure, the drugs were mine, but the police never would have found them if I hadn't been provoked into knocking the shit out of her. A man can only take so much lip, right? She made such a racket the neighbors called the police."

  Dalton closed his eyes, picturing himself smashing Don's face into the bus window. He wondered if a broken nose would shut the asshole up. Probably not. There was one good thought. At least Don's wife was rid of her abusive husband for the next three to five years.

  "What did they jack you up for?"

  "They didn't."

  Don frowned. "I mean what shit did they trump up on you, man?"

  "I put a man in the hospital because he liked to use his wife as a punching bag."

  "Huh?" Don looked more confused than before. "You ain't saying you did it?"

  Don's exclamation of disbelief got the attention of half the bus. Dalton felt like an exotic animal on display. A rare species that the prisoners had heard whispered about but never observed in person.

  "That's exactly what I'm saying. I did it." Dalton looked around. "And given the chance, I wouldn't hesitate to do it again."

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  HART of ROCK and ROLL BOOK THREE

  MARY J. WILLIAMS

  © 2016

  PROLOGUE

  EVERY TEENAGER POSSESSED a certain arrogance. Youth will be served—and all that crap. Ashe Mathison was no different. He believed the world was his to conquer. At eighteen, there were no boundaries. No limits. He had talent, ambition, and endless drive. Dreams would be fulfilled. One day he would stand on a stage while thousands cheered his name. Ashe had no doubts. If never entered his mind. Success was just a matter of time.

  Money was tight. Ashe shared a studio apartment with five other struggling musicians. The walls were paper thin. They froze in the winter and sweltered in the summer heat. Rats didn't scamper through the building's halls. They arrogantly loitered, waiting to snatch the first unattended scrap of food.

  Ashe was accustomed to better. He grew up the pampered son of a wealthy man. Heir apparent. To say he tried fitting into that life would have been stretching the truth. Ashe knew what he wanted for as long as he could remember. Working in an office. Chained to a desk. The thought of daily donning a suit and tie gave Ashe hives. A noose—whether fashioned from silk or hemp—was still a noose.

  In a perfect world, Randall Mathison would have accepted that his son wanted something different. Ashe had edges that couldn't be smoothed down to fit in a round hole. Two strong personalities. Father and son butted heads. Argued. Threats were made. Conform. Ashe wasn't given an alternative.
>
  On the eve of his eighteenth birthday, a freshly minted high school graduate, Ashe walked away from his home. His family. The only life he had ever known. And for the first time in that life, he felt free. The air smelled sweeter. His steps lighter.

  Pride made Ashe leave his childhood home with nothing but a suitcase and the saxophone he paid for with the money earned breaking his back at the local quarry—the family quarry—three summers straight. He had some cash, but it didn't last long. Chicago was an expensive town. Ashe learned quickly to hold onto what he owned with an eagle eye. Thieves that included a few of his early roommates were every place he turned. It helped he looked older—tougher—than most of his contemporaries. The summers hauling rocks at his family's quarry matured him, filled out his body. The lessons his fellow workers taught him paid dividends on the streets of Chicago. Ashe had learned how to keep his eyes open. Most of all, he learned how to fight. Dirty, if necessary. No Marquis of Queensbury rules in the limestone pits. Or in a dark alley.

  The average street thug thought twice before confronting Ashe because of his height and burly arms. Those that worked up the nerve never tried it again.

  Ashe earned enough to get by working minimum-wage jobs. Anything and everything. He wasn't picky about hours which made him appealing to employers. Flipping burgers. Washing cars. Sweeping floors. Ashe did it all. Gladly. He was a young man who liked to eat. Money was necessary if he wanted to keep a full stomach.

  The plethora of mindless jobs meant something else. Something more important. Ashe used the hours in between to work on his first and only love. His music. There were advantages to growing up rich. Little boys with mothers who supported the arts were given piano lessons. And violin lessons. Ashe learned from the best teachers in Boston.

  The lessons were fine. Ashe wanted more. Classical training was a great jumping-off point. However, when he began to chafe at the rigid structure, his family-sanctioned lessons ended. Ashe taught himself the saxophone. And the guitar. And any instrument that caught his interest. Gifted. That was what his instructors called him. All he knew was that playing. Writing. Singing. Music. They were as vital as breathing.