FLOWERS ARE RED
♥♥♥ ♫ ♥♥♥
HART of ROCK and ROLL BOOK ONE
MARY J. WILLIAMS
© 2016
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Writing isn't easy. But I love every second. A blank screen isn't the enemy. It is the opportunity to create new friends and take them on amazing adventures and life-changing journeys. I feel blessed to spend my days weaving tales that are unique—because I made them.
Billionaires. Songwriters. Artists. Actors. Directors. Stuntmen. Football players. They fill the pages and become dear friends I hope you will want to revisit again and again.
Thank you for jumping into my books and coming along for the journey.
HOW TO GET IN TOUCH
Please visit me at these sites, sign up for my newsletter or leave a message.
http://www.maryjwilliams.net/
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MORE BOOKS BY MARY J. WILLIAMS
Harper Falls Series
If I Loved You
If Tomorrow Never Comes
If You Only Knew
If I Had You (Christmas in Harper Falls)
Hollywood Legends Series
Dreaming with a Broken Heart
Dreaming with My Eyes Wide Open
Dreaming of Your Love
Dreaming Again
Dreaming of a White Christmas (Coming in December)
(Caleb and Callie's story)
One Pass Away Series
After the Rain
After All These Years
After the Fire
Hart of Rock and Roll
Flowers on the Wall
Flowers and Cages
Flowers for Zoe (Coming in November)
Table of Contents
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
HOW TO GET IN TOUCH
MORE BOOKS BY MARY J. WILLIAMS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EPILOGUE
COMING SOON
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.
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, bridg
ing 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."
BELLE RICHARDS COULDN'T remember the last time she had such a good time. The music was fantastic. The band exciting. The crowd loud and just rowdy enough. Belle jumped right in, singing along. Yelling at the top of her lungs. What did it say about the state of her life that she had to cross the country to let loose? There were three thousand miles between herself and a job that left her cold and a fiancé who wasn't much better. Tomorrow she was headed back. She wanted to stay. Never leave. She should feel guilty. Instead, all Belle felt was regret that if she let things sail in the direction they were headed, this could be the last great night of her life for a very long time.
Somebody jostled Belle, reminding her there was a party going on. Forget next year. Or next month. Or next week. Tomorrow could go to hell. Tonight, Belle Richards was checking off an item on her bucket list. Number three. See The Ryder Hart Band live. Not only were they everything she dreamed they would be. They were more.
As the notes to the next song started, Belle let out a wild whoop. On Your Mind! It just kept getting better and better.
QUINN RAISED HER camera, randomly snapping shots. She loved standing backstage while the band played. But she always took the time to wander through the crowd. The photographs contained an energy she couldn't duplicate from a distance.
Aiming, she caught the excitement in each set of eyes. The joy. They knew every song. Had listened to each hundreds of t
imes. This was different. The Ryder Hart Band put on a show few artists could equal. Topping it was impossible. If one loved the band's music—and who in their right mind didn't—one had to see them live at least once. There were fans who traveled from city to city. Continent to continent. Quinn had met them. Marveled at their devotion. Thought they were a little crazy. Of course, that was before she fell in love with Ryder Hart. Now, she understood completely.
Laughing at her thoughts, Quinn was about to head backstage when someone caught her attention. What it was about the woman that set her apart, Quinn couldn't have said. Not classically beautiful. Pretty. No. More than that. Arresting. That was the word. It was impossible to see the color of her eyes, but they were crinkled at the corners. Smiling eyes that matched the curve of her full lips. Quinn found herself drawn to the woman's utter enthusiasm for the moment. Taking her picture was a given. Ten photos later, Quinn couldn't resist. She struck up a conversation.
"Is this your first time?" Quinn yelled the words. She had no choice if she wanted to be heard.
"Yes." Beaming, she bounced in a circle, her arms in the air. "Amazing."
"I agree." It was like being drawn into sunshine. Happy and warm. "I'm Quinn."
"Belle."
Even her name made Quinn smile. "I take it you’re a fan."
Belle nodded. "I used to know one of them."
Fascinated, Quinn leaned closer. "Used to?"
"My bedroom window looked into Ashe's." Belle laughed. "It's not as provocative as it sounds. Unfortunately."
If it had been Ryder or Dalton, Quinn would have moved along. Ashe might hate her for what she was about to do. But he wouldn't hold a grudge. Who knew? He might end up thanking Quinn.
"Would you like to come backstage and say hello?"
The color seemed to drain from Belle's flushed face. No longer bouncing, she turned her wide eyes toward Quinn.
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