Today found Ashe on a street corner playing for tips. On a good day, he made a tidy sum. Most of the time, not so much. Ashe enjoyed the interaction with people. When somebody stopped and listened—truly heard what Ashe was playing—he didn't care if he made a dime.
Ashe took his saxophone from the case, wetting the reed, adjusting the mouthpiece. Early June. The weather was mild. He played when it wasn't as pleasant. Seventy-two degrees and sunny was perfect. People were happy on days like today. Happy translated to a few more listeners—and a few more bucks dropped into his open case. Ready to begin, Ashe raised his horn to his mouth. That was when he heard it. Faint but distinct. Music played with skill on an acoustic guitar.
Drawn to the melody, Ashe abandoned the street corner. Keeping his horn around his neck, case in hand, he crossed the street and entered the small park to his right. Finding his fellow musician was easy. The notes became louder as Ashe drew closer. On a bench, head bent, a dark-haired man attacked the strings with complete abandon. He didn't play for tips. He simply played.
A kindred spirit, Ashe thought, lips quirked. Damn, this guy could make those strings sing. Then he stopped mid-chord. Ashe watched as the man retreated several bars, played the notes, stopping in the same place.
"Son of a bitch," the guitar player muttered. He tried again, but couldn't seem to make it past the series of notes.
Sometimes it took a fresh ear. Ashe played the same sequence, note for note. When he came to the sticking point, he continued, bridging the gap, adding his personal flourish.
"That's what it was missing." Nodding, the man's fingers flew, echoing what Ashe had played. "I've been stuck on that for days. Thanks." Setting aside the guitar, he held out his hand. "Ryder Hart."
"Ashe Mathison."
Getting a better look at his face, Ashe realized he recognized Ryder Hart. Chicago was a big city, but the music scene was amazingly insular. Ryder was making a name for himself playing small clubs and bars in the area.
"I saw you play at the WFTW a few weeks ago. You were good." Working for the Weekend was the place to be seen if you were a young musician trying to get noticed. Ashe thought it overrated, but Ryder made an impression.
"Thanks. Again." Ryder grinned. He was about Ashe's age. Kind of pretty but not effeminate. As he recalled, Ryder drew a lot of women fans. "WFTW is all reputation and no heft."
"That was my impression, too."
"Smart man." Ryder paused, obviously sizing Ashe up. "I want to put together a band. Equal partners. Equal say. Are you free Friday night?"
"Are you asking me to join your band?"
"I'm asking you to sit in for a set or two. It's me and Dalton Shaw. He plays drums. Hell, he owns the drums. What do you say? Want to see if we click?"
"Why not?"
Ashe had a feeling about Ryder Hart. A good feeling. Maybe this was the break he had been looking for.
CHAPTER ONE
"ONE-NIGHT STANDS are the best. No commitment. No chance of getting bored. In and out. What could be better?"
With a wink, Ashe Mathison ran his finger over the electronic keyboard, testing the sound.
"Is that comment supposed to be provocative?" Zoe Hart shook her head. "Get a new line. The bread in my refrigerator is less stale."
"That speaks more of your culinary skills than my wit."
"That's hilarious." Zoe flung a guitar pick at Ashe. When it landed three feet from its target, he didn't gloat. Not with words. The smirk on his mouth said it all.
"Asshole," Zoe muttered.
"Bitch," he shot back.
Simultaneously, they burst out laughing. Heated banter was their favorite way of working off pre-show nerves. They were veterans. They had faced an audience—some friendly, some hostile—more times than either could count. However, the jumpy feeling never subsided. Ashe understood that it was a good thing. The day they could walk onto a stage with a blasé sense of calm was the day to think about hanging it up. Nerves equaled passion. It meant they cared. They wanted to give their best—every time.
The Ryder Hart Band was playing a One Night Only concert at the Hollywood Bowl. The day the tickets went on sale, they sold out in minutes. More dates could have easily been added. As many as the venue allowed. However, volume was not the point.
The band was between touring. A new album was ready to drop the next day. The tie-in made perfect sense. Word was this would be their biggest release. Record breaking. Chart topping. The first single, On Your Mind, had been number one four weeks straight.
Ashe was damn proud of that song. He wrote it. The saxophone solo was one of his best. The first time he heard the final mix he knew it would be a hit.
"Tossing out insults already?" Ryder Hart joined them, his guitar in one hand. "Now I know it's going to be a great show."
"Damn straight. If Ashe and Zoe have sunk their claws in, we can't go wrong."
On his way by, Dalton Shaw tapped Zoe on the butt with his drumsticks. She slapped them away, shaking her head.
"Men have died for less," she warned Dalton.
"Died?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Fine. Walked funny for a week."
"When Zoe's knee hits a man's balls, he only wishes he were dead." Quinn Abernathy winked at Zoe, walking into Ryder's outstretched arms.
"When did you get in?" Ryder asked after a long hello kiss.
"About an hour ago."
Quinn spent most of her time in Los Angeles. As an in-demand celebrity photographer, there was more work than hours in the day. When she traveled, it had to be something special. A personal invitation from Bob Dylan qualified.
"The new album cover is going to be amazing."
"If you do say so yourself."
"Colleen." Quinn rushed to greet the newest member of the growing group.
"How come Quinn gets a hug before your fiancé?" Dalton demanded, pulling Colleen close.
"She moved faster." Colleen touched the side of Dalton's face, her green eyes filled with love. "You get a hug and a kiss." She demonstrated to Dalton's satisfaction. He wandered to his drum set, keeping Colleen's hand in his.
Ashe watched all this play out with an indulgent smile. They had been a close group for a long time. First, it was Ryder, Dalton, and him. Then, Ryder's younger sister joined the mix. Zoe made an easy transition from the kid who watched from the wings to badass lead guitar and smooth backup vocals. But one never knew how the dynamic would change when a member—or two—fell in love.
First Ryder. Then Dalton. It could have been a disaster. Instead, Quinn and Colleen fit in so seamlessly, it was almost as though they had always been around. Funny, smart, sarcastic in the best possible way, and easy on the eyes. Ashe couldn't have been happier for his buddies.
There had been an unexpected side effect to all of this personal happiness floating around. Dissatisfaction with his own life. Not his love life. Ashe was fine with temporary. Women floated in and out. Quickly. With no remorse. Not his or theirs.
The small niggling feeling had to do with his family. The one he was born into. Perhaps it had to do with thirty looming in the not-too-distant future. Ashe wasn't concerned about getting older. However, as he aged, so did his parents. His father would turn sixty next month. Hopefully, Randall Mathison had many years left. That wasn't guaranteed.
Walking away from his family hadn't been an easy decision. But it had been the right one. Ashe vowed he would never return unless his father made the first move. Hateful words were said—on both sides. His father told him there would be no going back. Was that true? Ashe didn't feel the same burning resentment. His anger had mellowed.
Was it time to go home?
"Hey." Zoe snapped her fingers in his face. "Earth to saxophone boy. Are you with us?"
Shaking off the past, Ashe laughed. Looking around. Ryder. Dalton. Zoe. And now Quinn and Colleen. No matter what he decided, they would always be the family of his heart.
Slinging an arm
around Zoe's shoulders, Ashe nodded. "Hell yes, I'm with you. What are we waiting for? Let's rock this place."
FLOWERS FOR ZOE
♥♥♥ ♫ ♥♥♥
HART of ROCK and ROLL BOOK FOUR
MARY J. WILLIAMS
© 2016
PROLOGUE
FOUR YEARS OLD. Zoe Hart was a big girl now. She could dress herself—mostly. Get her own bowl and cereal from the cupboard—with the help of a chair. And pour her own milk—the few spills that her brother Ryder quickly cleaned up didn't count. She was almost grown up. Unlike Suzy next door who was a whole year older, Zoe didn't need a nightlight, and she never wet the bed.
Pre-school was fun. Finger painting was the best because Zoe was allowed to make a mess. Ryder told her they couldn't make messes at home. She did her best—she was a big girl now. But sometimes she forgot. Her big brother would rush to put things right, keeping an eye on the front door. Then he would wipe away her tears—she didn't cry very often because only babies cried—holding her on his lap, telling her everything would be okay.
Ryder always made things right. He brushed Zoe's hair without pulling too hard and made the best peanut butter sandwiches ever. He knew how to tie her shoes and always held her hand when they left the apartment. He never scolded. She loved Ryder more than anything in the whole world—even her teddy bear.
It seemed like Zoe's friends were afraid of everything. Spiders. The dark. And something they called the boogeyman. She didn't know who that was, but she knew he wouldn't frighten her. Nothing scared Zoe. Except the Monster.
The music brought the Monster. Deep asleep, Zoe never heard it, but Ryder always did.
"Shh," he urged, waking her up with a gentle shake. Before she could complain, he would put a finger to Zoe's lips. "Hear that?"
Counting flowers on the wall, that don't bother me at all.
The sound was faint, but Zoe could hear the words through the thin apartment walls. When she was a little girl—a whole year ago when she was three—she thought the music sounded happy. Now that she was grown up, she had figured out that the song made Ryder sad. He was sad for a long time after it finally stopped playing. She might not understand the reasons, but Zoe knew one thing. If her big brother didn't like it, neither did she.
"Do you have your teddy?" Ryder would ask.
Zoe nodded, she always slept with teddy. Ryder would take her hand. He had her crawl under the bed, way in back to the farthest corner, before tucking a blanket around her.
"Remember the invisible game?" Ryder whispered. "You have to stay right here, Zoe. Curl up in a little ball, don't make a sound, hold on to teddy, and keep the blanket tight. The Monster can't see you if you follow the rules. He won't know you're here."
"I remember," Zoe whispered back. She knew it was part of the game. But she didn't like it. She didn't want to play by herself. "Stay with me."
"Shh." A loud thump from the other room made Ryder hurriedly look over his shoulder. "You know I'll be back."
"But—"
The bedroom door slammed open, making Zoe jump, the squeak she let out muffled by Ryder's hand.
"I need my little boy." The Monster's voice was sing-songy, and though the words were slurred, they were unmistakable.
"I'll always come back for you, Zoe. Always. Now close your eyes. Please?"
Reluctantly, Zoe scrunched her eyes tight.
"There he is." Zoe knew she wasn't supposed to, but she couldn't help peeking. The Monster grabbed Ryder's arm, jerking him from under the bed. "Come keep Daddy company."
With a silent sob, Zoe shut her eyes. Daddy. She never thought of the Monster that way. He was rarely around. Ryder made certain Zoe had something to eat. They would play games or watch something on the television. After she brushed her teeth, her big brother would tuck her in, reading her a story. Zoe liked it when it was just the two of them.
On the few occasions when the Monster spent the evening in the apartment, Ryder made her stay in the bedroom, quietly playing by herself.
The song grew louder. Zoe pressed her hands to her ears, unable to block out the noise or the sound of Ryder crying out. She knew there would be boo boos on his arms in the morning. Dark spots he tried to hide under an old, ripped shirt that was way too big, the sleeves hanging past the ends of his fingers.
Why won't the Monster stop? Furiously, Zoe wiped the tears from her cheeks, clutching her teddy bear close. Humming a nonsensical tune, in her head she recited Ryder's words over and over, drifting into a deep but troubled sleep.
You are invisible. I'll always come back for you. You are invisible. I'll always come back for you. You are invisible. I'll always come back for you.
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FLOWERS⁕IN⁕WINTER
♥♥♥ ♫ ♥♥♥
HART of ROCK and ROLL BOOK FIVE
MARY J. WILLIAMS
© 2017
CHAPTER ONE
♥ ≈ ♥ ≈ ♥
HER NAME WAS Tula.
Born Petula Joyce Carson. When she was little, her family called her Petula Joyce. Later, simply Petula. However, on the day she began the second grade, she put her little, but determined foot down. She would only answer to Tula.
Why? All summer long, her cousin Bert—born a week earlier—but infinitely less mature—started calling her Petal in the most annoying, sing-song voice ever.
Ignore him, Tula's father counseled. Bert will get tired of teasing you. He'll find someone else to torment. She tried. Truly. But by the end of August, she'd had enough. Bert ended up with a fat lip, and he never called her Petal again.
And Petula became Tula.
The incident had become a Carson-clan legend. Tula tended to think as the years passed, the story had become blown out of proportion. Expanded with each telling for the entertainment of her large, raucous, loving, sometimes smothering, though always well-meaning family.
Tula wished the incident had been the beginning, not the end, of her rebellious ways. Oh, she had no problem standing up for others. She could, and would, fight when she witnessed injustice. Friends in need never hesitated to come to her. Without a second thought, she gladly did what she could to help.
For the life of her, Tula couldn't pinpoint the moment the feisty little girl turned into the stagnating woman. But she knew one thing. She had to change. Shake up her world before she found herself irrevocably bogged down in a job she didn't like, married to a decent but boring man, and pregnant long before she was ready.
Tula could feel the resentment build even though she was still free to choose. What would happen if she let herself fall into a pre-set life? What if she didn't put up a fight? Now. When she still had the chance. Would she stay silent until, at the age of forty, her head literally exploded? Or would she turn into a harpy who made the life of her unremarkable, yet kind husband a living hell? Not to mention her poor children.
Tula wiped her hands on her jeans. Other than the light from the computer screen, the room was dark as though she was afraid too much illumination would make her chicken out.
Now or never, she told herself. Tula took a breath. Now. She hit the send button and waited for an alarm to sound. Or her laptop to burst into flames. Instead, a message popped onto the screen.
Congratulations. We received your entry. The winner will be announced on September twenty-first. Good luck.
September twenty-first. Tula's birthday. Should she consider the date, three months away, to be an omen? Or a mere coincidence? The latter, she decided. The chance she would win was a long shot. However, even a chance was better than nothing. Right?
Tula felt a burst of excitement. Something had changed the second she hit send. If she won, she would grab the opportunity and run, literally, out of her small hometown.
If she lost? Tula laughed. Actually laughed. If she lost, the result had to be the same. She had to get out.
With a snap, Tula clo
sed the laptop. Tonight, she'd planted a seed, and she was the only person she could count on to make certain the tiny kernel grew big, strong, and wonderful.
Tonight, was the beginning. Of what? Only time would tell. But one thing was certain. Tula Carson had finally learned how to dream.
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Four Simple Words: A Badass and the Billionaires Contemporary Romance (The Sisters Quartet Book 4) Page 27
