FLOWERS ON THE WALL (24 page)

Something kept him here. Ryder plucked out the opening chords haunting him. He knew what was wrong. Finishing the song he had started in Aruba would feel like the end to something logic told him was already over. Quinn was out of his life, and it had been his choice. He could stay—alone and frustrated—refusing to let it go. Or he could
write the damn song
.

Ryder swung his legs out of the hammock. Purposefully, he clutched the guitar and headed for the cabin. If he were going to do this, he was going to do it right. He closed the door behind him. Ryder needed three things. A beer. A comfortable chair. And his iPhone.

The cabin was rustic. However, Ryder liked to exaggerate its lack of comfort. The furniture was perfect for a long writing session in the wingback chair, followed by an afternoon nap on the soft as down corner sofa. There was little variety in the view—trees and more trees. But nobody would argue that what could be seen from the large plate-glass window was picture pretty.

The appliances in the kitchen were old. Vintage was the term used by the realtor. Since Ryder didn't cook, nor did he plan on starting, the refrigerator and microwave were all the modern conveniences he needed.

The cabin wasn't home. It was where Ryder hibernated. Rested. Worked. It served a purpose. If he wanted luxury, he would check into a four-star hotel.

Ryder took out a cold beer, twisting the top from the bottle. Finding his favorite spot, he picked up his guitar, reached for his phone, and hit record. As his body settled, he closed his eyes, focused, and waited for the magic.

GETTING OVER A man—the man—wasn't as easy as some would have her believe. There were endless articles chronicling the proper path. Do this, then that, and finally the other thing. Boom. Her heart was mended. As far as Quinn could tell, it was mostly common sense, tears, and a boatload of alcohol. She had never been a fan of taking the advice of a stranger—even one of hundreds who purported to be an expert.

Quinn had been home for a month. She hadn't cried, and she wasn't going to take up drinking. The last thing she needed was a pounding head to accompany her heavy heart. Common sense told her to give herself as much time as she needed. Eventually, she would stop thinking of Ryder first thing in the morning, last thing at night, and every other minute in between.

However, Quinn was certain of one thing. If she wanted to move on, the pictures on her computer—and the ones she had plastered on the walls of her workroom—were not helping.

Pushing back from her desk, Quinn used her chair to slowly turn in a circle. There he was in all his glory. Ryder Hart. He had started as a job—a boost to her career. A stepping stone to bigger and better things. According to her editor at
Rolling Stone
, that was exactly what was about to happen. When her photo layout hits the stands next week, the magazine brass expected record sales. Exclusive access to the notoriously publicity-shy Ryder Hart Band was more than buzz-worthy. For Quinn, it was a potential game changer. She already had three new jobs lined up and her agent fielded offers from all over the globe. Quinn Abernathy was officially in demand. She wouldn't give Ryder all the credit. It took more than aiming a camera to produce a great picture. But he was a big part of it.

Ryder could have nixed her big break before it happened. Now she had everything she had dreamed of. Unfortunately, dreams were not stagnant. They grew—expanded when she wasn't paying attention. Professionally, she was golden. Personally? Quinn wasn't sure how to answer that. She wasn't miserable. Or inconsolable. She was… sad. Not as sad as a month ago. But the difference was negligible.

"What am I going to do about you?" Quinn asked, scanning the printed pictures.

There were hundreds from the tour. However, her favorites were the ones she had taken in Aruba. Ryder wearing the fedora. Handsome didn't begin to describe him. Sexy. Magnetic. Ryder was a natural in front of the camera. Quinn could have made a small fortune off
one
of the shots. Closing her eyes, she sighed. That would never happen. The moment had been too personal to share. Instead, she chose to torture herself with image after image. She couldn't have him. Why not spend hours reminding herself?

Straightening her spine, Quinn slammed her hand down on her desk. "Enough."

When had she become a self-involved wallower? Whether he was here or not, loving Ryder was something to celebrate, not mourn. Determined, Quinn pulled the first picture from the wall. Then the next. And the next. She had each one cataloged and filed on her computer. Making prints had been self-indulgent foolishness. Quinn was booked on a flight to Boston at the end of the week. It was a short trip, but she was determined to make a fresh start when she returned. That meant not having Ryder's face greet her as though he lived here.

"I live alone, Mr. Hart." Quinn sealed the photos in a manila envelope before exiling them to the bottom drawer of her desk. "Someday when I have gained a little perspective, I might let them see the light of day. But for now, I can at least pretend that out of sight means out of mind."

Armed with a new attitude, Quinn took a break. It was afternoon, and she had skipped breakfast. Unless the grocery elves had paid her a visit, her cupboards were bare. She always kept peanut butter on hand. The bread wasn't fresh, but she wouldn't call it stale either. With a glass of milk, it would do just fine. She was just reaching for a plate when there was a knock at the door. It had to be one of her neighbors. The tenants were very good about not letting strangers in. If it were a delivery or a guest, she would have heard the buzzer.

Quinn wasn't exactly dressed for company. She had combed her hair that morning, pulling it back into a messy bun. She wore no makeup—nothing new when she was at home. Her jeans had seen better days, and the baggy t-shirt was a faded yellow from many, many washings. Feet bare, Quinn padded across the hardwood floor. She didn't bother to check the peephole. Her neighbors had seen her after a three-day bout of the flu. If she hadn't scared them off after that, she wasn't worried.

The second Quinn opened the door, she regretted her decision. Zoe Hart didn't wait for an invitation to enter—she barreled into the apartment. There was no point in asking how Ryder's sister had gotten into the secured building. One look at Hurricane Zoe and only a fool would have stood in her way.

It was obvious that something had Zoe wound up. Without preamble, she tore into Quinn. "You unscrupulous, duplicitous, greedy bitch. We trusted you. No, I take that back. Ryder trusted you. The rest of us trusted Ryder. He will never forgive you."

Perhaps it was a lack of food, but Quinn's first thought was that she should have combed her hair. And put on some lipstick. When an avenging angel came to call, it didn't help when she looked like she had just stepped off a fashion magazine, and Quinn looked like she was one step away from homeless. Zoe's jacket alone must have cost a fortune. The gray leather set off her blue eyes to perfection. Then Zoe's words kicked in, and Quinn's appearance became the least of her concerns.

"What did you call me? Unscrupulous? Duplicitous? Greedy?"

"Don't forget bitch," Zoe growled. Her heels clicked as paced across the small living room.

"I'll give you that one." At the moment, the other woman labeling her a bitch was the least of Quinn's worries. "But you'll have to explain the rest."

Blue eyes blazing, Zoe took something from her purse, tossing it on the coffee table.

"How much did they pay you? I hope it was plenty." Zoe looked Quinn up and down. "You certainly didn't spend it on your wardrobe."

"Now who's the bitch?"

Quinn picked up the paper. It was obviously a supermarket tabloid. One of the big ones. The headline was typical—overblown and filled with conjecture and innuendo.

The Secrets of the Ryder Hart Band. The backstabbing. The jealousy. Is the end near? An inside source tells all.

"You've been around long enough to know how these rags work, Zoe."

Quinn winced at the badly photoshopped pictures. Ryder looked like he was ready to murder Dalton. Ashe and Zoe were in some kind of odd, supposedly romantic clinch. It was typically awful.

"I would agree if I hadn't read the story. There are things in there that have never been printed before."

"About Ryder?" Suddenly concerned, Quinn rifled through the pages.

"About all of us."

Quinn skimmed the two pages. There were more bad photographs. The rest was personal but hardly earthshaking. Mostly things about Dalton. Ryder was hardly mentioned.

"It wasn't me, Zoe."

"Right," Zoe sneered. "All the years we've been together without more than the occasional crap speculation popping up, and suddenly the band is featured on the cover of every tabloid in the country. Not to mention the internet gossip sites. Why now?"

"Is this really all over the place?" Quinn sat down, giving the article a closer run through.

"Yes. A friend of mine alerted me to it this morning."

"What did Ryder have to say?" Quinn couldn't imagine that his reaction had been as over-the-top as Zoe's.

"Luckily, he's been someplace where he doesn't have access to this crap."

"Is he still at his cabin in the mountains? I thought he would have been back by now."

"You know about Ryder's cabin?" Zoe's eyes narrowed. "Nice. You have enough information to keep you in ratty t-shirts and ripped jeans for years."

"Damn it, Zoe." Quinn jumped to her feet. "I am not the source. I doubt there is one. Most of the stuff in the article is pretty general."

"And some of it is very specific. Too specific not to come from someone close to one of us." Zoe stared her down. "I came here to tell you that you've been outed. Don't try to contact Ryder. If you do, I will take you down."

With that coldly worded warning, Zoe headed for the door.

"It couldn't have been me, Zoe."

"Why should I believe you?" Zoe asked, halfway out the door.

"I would never do anything to hurt Ryder. Or any of you. I love him, Zoe."

That seemed to make Zoe pause—but not for long. The steel in her gaze hardened. "Join the club. Thousands of women claim to love my brother. It hardly makes you unique." With a swing of her long, blond hair, she slammed the door behind her.

Quinn sank to the sofa. With her index finger, she absently tapped the tabloid. Suddenly, an idea hit her. Pushing aside the front page, her gaze moved down the index page until she found what she was looking for. Quinn smiled, reaching for her phone. Sometimes old contacts came in handy.

Hurricane Zoe. One wouldn't know it to look at the room, but Ryder's sister had left potential disaster in her wake. Hopefully, Quinn could do her part to clean it up.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

RYDER FOUND DALTON and Ashe exactly where he expected them to be. In the recording studio arguing over arrangements. It was always something irreconcilable. The two of them came from different places—geographically and musically. Ryder often wondered how it worked. But it did. Before long, Dalton would give a little. Unless the first move came from Ashe. Either way, when they caught each other's rhythm, nobody in the business could rival their ability to find the perfect mix.

"Have you come to blows yet?"

It was a running joke—funny because, in their hot-headed youth, more than one punch had been thrown. Now, they settled things in a less violent manner. However, Dalton and Ashe had never lost their passion for the music. It gave their recordings an edge that others had tried and failed to duplicate.

"Well, look what we have here, Dalton." When he spotted Ryder, Ashe took off his headphones. "How's it hanging, Jeremiah Johnson?"

It wasn't the most original joke, but it was accurate. Ryder had driven straight from his cabin to downtown Los Angeles without bothering to shave off his beard. He wanted to see his friends—and record a rough cut of his newest song.

"Get it out of your system," Ryder urged. "This afternoon, this look is history."

"It's good to have you back, man." Dalton pulled Ryder close, patting him hard on the back. "A few more days and Zoe would have sent out the National Guard."

"I lost track of time."

Ashe shoved Dalton aside to get in his greeting. Standing back, he gave Ryder the once over. "Other than the Grizzly Adams impression, you look good. Do I detect a spring in your step? You were dragging pretty low before you left."

Ryder thought of Quinn and smiled.

"I had an epiphany."

"No kidding," Dalton winked at Ashe. "Does she have a sister?"

While Dalton laughed at his own joke, Ryder opened his guitar case. After weeks alone, he was anxious to get a second opinion on the songs he had written. One in particular. Quinn's song hadn't turned out the way he expected. The finished product wasn't a mournful lament to what couldn't be.

"No rest for the wicked?" Ashe chuckled when Ryder began to tune his guitar. "You've been back all of five seconds. What's the rush?"

"This song is a little different for me." It was easier to show than tell. "Just listen."

Writing a love song had always been easy for Ryder. There was a tone he set and words he strung together. Those songs had been good. Hell, they had sold more copies than he could remember. But they were by rote. He could have done them in his sleep. When he said
The Road Back,
was different, Ryder wasn't exaggerating
.
This time, he hadn't written about some nameless, faceless person. This time, the words and music hadn't come from his brain. For the first time, they came from his heart.

Closing his eyes, Ryder strummed the opening chord. He didn't see the look Ashe and Dalton exchanged. Nor did he notice when Ashe began recording. From the opening note to the last, Ryder was lost in another world. When he finished, he hung his head, took a deep breath, and waited.

"What the hell, man?" Dalton shook his head.

"He's crazy," Ashe agreed.

Frowning, Ryder slowly set aside his guitar. Whatever reaction he had expected, this wasn't it.