Read FLOWERS ON THE WALL Online
Authors: Mary J. Williams
FLOWERS ON THE WALL
FLOWERS ON THE WALL
♥♥♥ ♫ ♥♥♥
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/home.html
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https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5648619.Mary_J_Williams
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 and Cages (Coming in September)
Flowers are Red (Coming in October)
Flowers for Zoe (Coming in November)
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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.
Nobody 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.
"I DON'T KNOW, Dad. I just started a new project. However, I will try to get there for Cora's birthday."
"How often does someone turn thirty?"
Quinn wondered if that was a trick question. Cora, her father's third wife, had celebrated her thirtieth birthday last year and the year before. At this rate, it wouldn't be long until her stepmother magically became younger than Quinn.
"How are
you
doing?" There were times when a change of subject was the only solution. "Are you sticking to your diet?"
"No caffeine and one small whiskey a day? Don't get me started on the steamed vegetables. Have you ever tried to live on broccoli and kale?"
Quinn could almost see her father shudder. Michael Abernathy was a man who had always lived life on his own terms. He made his own rules and lived with the consequences. That attitude had made him one of the most successful corporate lawyers in the country. Which meant he was reviled as much as he was admired. Just ask his ex-wives. One hated him—with good reason. The other loved him—despite the extramarital affairs and the divorce.
"The doctor and Cora are trying to keep you alive. Those chest pains you suffered last year were a warning sign, Dad. I would like you to stick around for another thirty years or so."
"Your mother would have snuck me a little hollandaise."
"My mother would dance on your grave."
Michael laughed. "Belinda had passion. Still does. I miss her, Quinn."
Then you should have treated her better when you had her
. Her father had a habit of rewriting history. In his mind, he hadn't destroyed his first marriage with lies and betrayals. It had simply been a series of unfortunate misunderstandings. The fact that her mother hadn't spoken to him in twenty years was a minor matter he chose to overlook.
"Mom is happily remarried, and you have Cora." Whether her father was happy was up for debate. "Be glad you have someone who cares enough to make sure you eat properly."
"Cora is sweet. But she doesn't challenge me the way your mother did." Michael sighed. "Speaking of which. How's the job?"
That was her father's less than subtle way of saying, like his wife, her job was fluff, and she never should have dropped out of law school. He was wrong on both counts. However, Quinn knew it was a pointless argument. There were only so many times that she could knock her head against that brick wall. It resulted in nothing but harsh words and headaches.