FLOWERS ON THE WALL (15 page)

"Mmm."

"And sexy." Cora wrapped herself around Michael. But her gaze stayed on Ryder. "Wait until I get you alone," she purred. "You won't have any doubt about how I feel."

CHAPTER TWELVE

"NOW I CAN breathe."

To prove his point, Ryder filled his lungs.

"It smells like stale beer and rancid sweat. With an overlay of
Pine-Sol
."

"If you added cigarette smoke, you would have the fragrance of my youth."

Quinn shook her head in mock sympathy. "Damn the government for making smoking in bars illegal."

"I'll give you that one."

Quinn looked around the crowded tavern. She couldn't help feeling a little apprehensive. They were one,
Oh, my God, it's Ryder Hart
, away from a stampede.

"Relax. Nobody is going to recognize me." Ryder pulled the faded
Colts
cap lower on his forehead. "I blend right in."

When Ryder had suggested they skip dinner with her father, Cora, and the gang, Quinn hadn't argued. She hadn't relished a long, drawn-out meal of Cora drooling over Ryder and her father glaring at her. Somehow, his wife's overt interest in another man had become Quinn's fault.

"Would you bring candy to a diabetic?" Michael had asked the second he maneuvered Quinn off the lanai and into his office.

"No." Quinn thought for a moment, trying to decide what her father was getting at. "Are you saying Cora is a sex addict?"

"Of course not."

Her father poured himself a drink from the bottle of whiskey he had hidden behind a copy of
Lost Weekend
. Quinn gave him props for his sense of irony.

"Then what are we talking about? Cora is having a fangirl moment. Nothing will come of it."

"Cora has no self-restraint. When she wants a man, she won't take no for an answer. I should know."

Quinn snorted. "Like you said no."

"This isn't funny, Quinn. That rock star is going to ruin my marriage. And it will be your fault." Michael's eyes narrowed. "Was that your plan all along?"

Choosing to ignore what they both knew was a ridiculous accusation, Quinn decided to play the adult and use reason.

"For argument's sake, let's say you're right about Cora. If she throws herself at Ryder, I can assure you, he won't catch her."

"Don't be so naïve. Cora is a beautiful woman."

"But not irresistible."

"You aren't a man. Or a sex-crazed musician. Ryder Hart will eat Cora for dinner and spit out her bones. Leaving me to clean up his mess."

"That makes absolutely no sense." Quinn watched her father drain his glass then reach for the bottle. "Slow down, Dad. How much have you had to drink?"

"Not nearly enough." But to his credit, Michael left the glass empty. "What are you going to do about the mess you've made, Quinn?"

It was clear that her father had Ryder pegged as a hedonistic sex maniac and Cora as his next victim. Telling him otherwise was not working.

"I will take Ryder out to dinner and explain the situation. We'll leave in the morning."

"That would be best." Michael held his arms out, beckoning to Quinn. Thinking of Ryder, Quinn reminded herself that there were far worse fathers in the world. Yes, she had been saddled with a self-absorbed twit. But Michael Abernathy wasn't all bad. Sometimes, like when he hugged her, Quinn actually believed he loved her.

That was how she found herself in a less-than-stellar bar on the outskirts of Minnow, Indiana in the company of an incognito rock star. Even her best friend would never believe it.

"I see a bandstand." Ryder craned his neck to get a better view. "Do you think there will be live music?"

"Damn straight," a man from the next table answered Ryder's question. He had a handlebar mustache and somewhere under all his tattoos, Quinn imagined there was skin the same color as his pasty white face. "It's Popcorn Festival week. Mickey does things up right every night."

"Mickey?" Ryder raised his voice to be heard over the crowd.

"The owner. That's him behind the bar."

"I wonder if the band will let me sit in for a song or two?"

Quinn could see how excited Ryder was at the idea. Back to his roots, so to speak. After years of playing stadiums and arenas to huge crowds of adoring fans, he wanted to take it down to the ground again. If only for one night.

"I'm sure they would be thrilled." Quinn leaned closer. "But do you think it's a good idea?"

"It's the best idea I've had in a long time." Ryder captured her lips with his. "Besides that."

"Then I say you should do it."

And damn the consequences. What was the worst that could happen? A stampede? A riot? Busted chairs? Broken bones? Fire? The police? Blaring headlines that would have Ryder's manager tearing his hair out?

"What's so funny?" Ryder asked when she laughed aloud.

"I have a vivid and colorful imagination."

He wiggled his eyebrows. "Me too."

Ryder ordered two more beers from the passing waitress.

"I'll be right back."

"Hey." When he saw that she was headed toward the door, Ryder stayed her with his hand. "The bathroom is that way."

"If you're going to do this, I need my camera."

"Maybe they'll tell me no."

Quinn smiled. Ryder grinned back.
Ya, right
. "I need my camera."

"I'll go with you."

This time, it was Quinn who stopped him. "Don't bother. I'll only be a second."

Ryder kissed Quinn's fingers before taking her hand in his. "I'll go with you."

"I appreciate it. But someone will probably grab our table while we're gone."

Unconcerned, Ryder shrugged. "There's always another table. If not, we'll sit at the bar."

Chances were that Quinn would have made it to the car she had borrowed for the night from her father, retrieved her camera, and returned to her seat without incident. However, it was a rowdy crowd. And the parking lot was dark. Having Ryder by her side made her feel safe and protected. After looking out for herself for so long, it was nice to have someone to lean on. Even if just for a little while.

Surprisingly, when they entered the bar, Quinn saw that their seats hadn't been pilfered. At the next table, the tattooed man gave them a thumb's up, letting them know he was responsible.

"Thanks," Ryder said. "We appreciate it. Let me take care of the next round for you and your friends."

"Much obliged." The other men at the table lifted their bottles of beer, saluting Ryder.

The crowd was content to play the jukebox for the next hour, dancing and drinking to the selection of country classics. Then the band arrived. Locals, they were well known, getting shout outs as they set up their instruments.

"I love this part," Ryder told her, his eyes locked on the band. "The anticipation. The adrenalin will be building. It's easier to get jacked up when you have a large crowd."

"What was it like when you were starting out?"

Ryder smiled. "Scary as hell. All I wanted to do was play guitar and sing. My dreams were small. The idea was to make some money, put it in the bank, and have a place for Zoe to live."

"You were sixteen? That means Zoe was thirteen. Was she planning to run away like you did?"

"Zoe had a good home—comparatively. I made certain of that."

"How?"

It was hard for Quinn to imagine what it had been like. Her parents had divorced, but there was always someone there to take care of her. Ryder had taken on that responsibility for himself and his sister at such a young age. And succeeded.

"Zoe and I were separated after our father killed himself. Separate foster homes. Luckily, she was only a bus ride away. I visited as often as I could. There were three other kids in the house—close to Zoe's age. She liked them. And the couple who looked after them were nicer than most."

"That's good."

"Zoe was quiet. Introverted."

"
Zoe
?" Introverted was not the word Quinn would have used to describe Ryder's sister.

Ryder shrugged, a smile playing around his lips. "She's come out of her shell. But back then, I was worried that she wouldn't be able to stand up for herself and would get pushed around. I didn't care where they put me as long as I could keep an eye on Zoe."

"Is that why you ran away? Because you were going to be sent someplace too far away from Zoe?"

"I had worn out my welcome with the greater Chicago-area foster system. I think the word they used was unmanageable." Ryder took a sip of beer. "I disappeared a lot, and that didn't sit well with my various foster parents."

"Disappeared to visit Zoe." It wasn't a question. Quinn knew the answer.

"The last family—the ones that tried to sell their story to the tabloids? He thought he could control me by smacking me around. That didn't go over well with me."

"Did you report him?"

"I knew how the system worked, Quinn. It's slow—at best. The case workers mean well but there aren't enough. Money and manpower were tight. I was on my own."

"So you left."

Quinn knew how the story turned out. Ryder sat beside her—strong, healthy, and successful. Not to mention amazingly well adjusted. However, she couldn't help but worry about the sixteen-year-old boy he once was. It couldn't have been easy.

"If I had stayed, I would have hit him back, Quinn. I was bigger and stronger than he was. It wouldn't have turned out well."

There was so much Quinn wanted to ask. Where had he gone? How had he found food and shelter? However, she could feel the tension radiating from Ryder's body. He had talked long enough about that part of his life.

"Tell me about your first gig."

Quinn knew she had hit the right button when Ryder grinned.

"I lied about my age. The bar owner gave me a meal and a few bucks under the table. I wasn't exactly a hit. But I
was
cheap. Word got around, and I started picking up more and more work, all the while polishing my performing skills."

"And the rest is history?"

"With plenty of bumps in between." Taking Quinn's hand, Ryder threaded his fingers through hers. "That's the most I've ever said to anyone about those days."

"I won't make you sorry that you confided in me, Ryder."

Ryder didn't speak for a moment, his eyes locked with Quinn's. Finally, his gaze never wavering, he kissed the back of her hand. "I know."

Two words. Yet they touched Quinn to her soul. Ryder was not a man who trusted easily. This was a moment she would treasure forever.

"How is everybody doing this evening?" The voice from the bandstand rang out, getting an enthusiastic response from the crowd. "Some of you know us. But for the rest of you, we are
Lightning Strikes
."

The band jumped into a fast tempo song that Quinn couldn't identify. Not that it mattered. It was all about pulling the audience in from the first note. Ryder grinned, tapping his foot and bobbing his head. Quinn laughed. He looked like a little boy in the middle of the best Christmas morning ever.

"Want to dance?" Ryder asked, practically yelling the question.

Quinn hesitated. She couldn't leave her camera unattended.

"My butt is in this chair for the duration." Their friend at the next table told her. "My name is Rudy, by the way." He held out his hand.

"Quinn." She didn't introduce Ryder. He had a first name you didn't hear every day. So far, he hadn't been recognized, but there was no reason to push their luck.

"I'll watch your bag."

"I appreciate that. But—"

Rudy took something from his back pocket and set it on the table. It was a badge.

"Officer Rudy Rayburn, at your service."

So much for judging a book by its cover. It was Quinn's fault for not looking past the tattoos and the bushy mustache.

"Thank you, Rudy."

"No problem." He motioned Quinn closer. "I'm a big fan, by the way."

Quinn looked from the policeman to Ryder and laughed. Rudy was full of surprises. It was apparent he hadn't shared his discovery with anyone else. She gave Rudy a quick kiss on the cheek and to her amazement, he blushed.

"What was that about?" Ryder asked her.

"I'll tell you later."

Holding her hand, Ryder zig-zagged across the room to the postage stamp-sized dance floor. It was already full of bouncing, gyrating bodies. Unconcerned, Ryder pulled Quinn close. She didn't know if his moves had a name, but there was an innate grace to his steps.

"You're good," Quinn called out.

"It's all in the rhythm."

One song flowed into another. Quinn couldn't remember the last time she danced—except by herself when she got her first paying job as a photographer. She became sweaty and breathless and loved every second. When the next song started, it was slow and romantic.
This
one she recognized. It was one of Ryder's. He slid his arms around her waist. Quinn automatically put her hands on his shoulders.

"I wrote this when I was nineteen, in love for the first time, and convinced that it would last forever. It was my first song to hit the charts. If I recall, it barely broke the top twenty," Ryder said, then began to hum along with the music.

"Not bad." Happy, Quinn sighed, resting her cheek on Ryder's chest as his chin nuzzled the top of her head. "Did she break your heart?"

"It lasted three passionate weeks before we broke up by mutual consent. So, no. My heart remained in one piece."

Not every woman had a hit song written in her honor. Quinn wondered what it would be like to be immortalized for all time? Did Ryder's first love smile when her song came on the radio? Or did she lament the fact that she had been too young and foolish to realize what she had let slip away?

"I danced to this at my senior prom."

"Jesus. Really?" Ryder laughed. "If it played in the background while you lost your virginity in the backseat of some rube's borrowed car, I don't want to know."

"His name was Anton. He was an exchange student from Russia. I thought he was exotic and deep. We made out to
Livin' on a Prayer
." Quinn shook her head at the memory. "My virginity was safe until my sophomore year of college."