FLOWERS ON THE WALL (3 page)

"Jesus, Ashe." Zoe slung a magazine at his head. She had a good arm, but Ashe knew her moves. He ducked just in time. Dalton wasn't as fortunate.

"Hey." Dalton rubbed the side of his face. He picked up the magazine ready to throw it back, then changed his mind. "At least you tossed me the latest
Sports
Illustrated
. I haven't read this one yet."

"Are we done, children?"

"Is Dalton right?" Zoe's dark brown eyes narrowed on Ryder. "Is this about sex?"

"Not everyone is happy living like a monk, Zoe. Or in your case a nun."

"It's better than screwing everything that moves."

Unconcerned by the accusation, Dalton shrugged. "I'm making up for lost time."

"That was an excuse two years ago." Zoe pinned him with her gaze. "Now? It doesn't fly. You screw around because you can. Not because you went without."

"She's right." Always happy to egg on any argument, Ashe nodded.

"Enough! All I wanted was a vote. Our various sex lives—"

"Those of us that have them." Dalton was unable to resist one more jab at Zoe.

Rather than explode, Ryder calmly picked up his guitar. "You know what? Figure it out yourselves."

He walked out of the room without a backward glance. Sometimes he wondered why he put up with their shit. Sitting on an equipment case, he slowly picked out some random chords. Liking what he heard, he added a few more.

"I'm sorry, Ryder." Zoe rushed out of the dressing room. She ignored the guitar, throwing her arms around him. It was a spontaneous gesture that she only showed to him. "I acted like a child. Why do you bother?"

"Because I love you."

"You have to. I'm your sister."

On the outside, Zoe looked about as tough as spun sugar. Her long blond hair, delicate features, and slender build suggested an easy mark—a woman who would cave at the slightest push. However, looks could be deceiving—and dangerous.

More than one man had made the mistake of thinking he could take what he wanted from her. His sister was no shrinking violet. If her sharp tongue didn't do the trick, he had better watch out for her right cross. It was a dandy. Ryder knew. He taught it to her.

Zoe's tough exterior seldom showed a crack. Dalton and Ashe rarely saw her softer side. Only Ryder understood that under her armor, lurked the remnants of a scared, vulnerable little girl. He had tried his best to shield her, but it was impossible to deflect that much ugliness.

"Love has nothing to do with the blood that runs through our veins. Or shared DNA. We know that as well as anyone."

A shadow zipped across Zoe's dark eyes. Ryder recognized it. He had seen it enough when looking in the mirror. To their credit, they had gotten pretty good at shaking it off—as Zoe demonstrated when she smiled. She didn't do it often enough, but when she did, it lit up her entire face, turning her from beautiful to stunning.

"It isn't fair that you have to play peacekeeper."

"More like zookeeper."

"I wish I could argue, but we do behave like wild animals."

"On occasion. Then again, on occasion, so do I."

Zoe chuckled. It was a good sound. One Ryder wished he heard more often. "I guess we do belong together."

Ryder gave Zoe a reassuring squeeze before letting her go. "None of us had it easy growing up."

Zoe raised her eyebrows. It was Ryder's turn to laugh.

"All right. Ashe had an unblemished childhood. But he's been knocked down a time or two. The point is, we came together and made a family. Right?"

"At the moment, I would like to disown Dalton. But I agree." Zoe sighed. "And as a family, we have decided to let your girlfriend play shadow for the next two weeks."

"Not my girlfriend. Her name is Quinn Abernathy."

"Dalton wasn't far off, was he?" Zoe gave him a speculative look. "She must be gorgeous. I've never known you to let your dick do your thinking for you."

"My dick has nothing to do with it." When Zoe shot him another unconvinced look, Ryder sighed. "I like her. She's smart. And ambitious."

"And attractive."

"Yes," he conceded. "And attractive."

"Gorgeous?"

"In the right light." Or the wrong one. From what he had been able to ascertain during their two meetings, Quinn was gorgeous—period. But he didn't want to add any more fuel to Zoe's speculation. "You'll like her."

"I'll make up my own mind," Zoe bristled. "But I will try to keep an open mind."

"She shops eBay."

Ryder could tell he had piqued his sister's interest.

"Don't try to sweeten the pot, Ryder." Zoe tapped her temple. "Open mind. That's all I can promise."

"Sounds fair." Ryder stood. "Tell Dalton and Ashe to get their asses in gear. We have a sound check in fifteen minutes."

Knowing he could count on Zoe to put a flame under their bandmates' feet, Ryder headed toward the stage. He wouldn't admit it to anyone—not even his friends, but he was relieved. He wanted Quinn around. Maybe he would charm her into bed, maybe he wouldn't. However, it had been a long time since he had gotten excited about
any
woman. Perhaps it was because Quinn wasn't a sure thing. Or maybe it was the fact that he enjoyed her company.

Ryder smiled to himself. Why couldn't it be both? Two weeks. Just enough time to have some fun. But not long enough for her to get any ideas. He was in the mood to play. Light and easy. No expectations. No strings. That was how Ryder Hart rolled. Quinn might be the perfect playmate. As long as she understood the rules.

CHAPTER THREE

THE EXCITEMENT GREW with each passing minute. The opening act had done a nice job of warming up the crowd, but they hadn't paid their hard-earned cash to watch an up-and-coming band from Kentucky. They were here to see the headliner. The rock god with a voice like spiced Tupelo Honey. They were here to see Ryder Hart.

The spiced Tupelo Honey reference was one that Quinn heard while standing in line. A group of heavily made-up female college students had gushed non-stop as they inched their way toward the entrance.

Ryder this. Ryder that. Occasionally, one would throw in a sigh over the drummer or the hunk on the keyboard. Dalton Shaw and Ashe Mathison had their followers. But far and away, the women were here to see Ryder Hart.

Quinn still had a bit of a buzz herself. Lunch had been a revelation. Okay. Maybe that was a bit of an overstatement. But she hadn't expected Ryder to be such a laid-back, down-to-earth man. And funny. It wasn't as if he were
on
all the time. He was witty. And smart.

And, oh, boy. She was in trouble. It was one thing to find Ryder attractive. The world was with her on that score. But a sense of humor to go with his killer smile? It wasn't fair. The man had been blessed with
too
many irresistible qualities. Quinn wasn't an undisciplined fool. She wasn't ruled by her hormones or the twinkle in a man's eyes. Even eyes like Ryder's.
No
was a prominent word in her vocabulary.

If Ryder asked—and she was almost positive he would—she was capable of turning him down. She was a professional. And she was determined to remain friendly but not
too
friendly. Flirting was fine. After last night, and this afternoon, she would say it was mandatory. Why did it have to progress beyond that?

Because deep down you want more
? Quinn groaned.
That kind of thinking won't help. Stop. Stop now.

"Did you say something?" The woman in the seat next to hers sent Quinn a questioning look. She was in her mid-twenties with bright red hair and lipstick to match.

"Nothing important," Quinn smiled. One of the reasons she had chosen to watch the concert down here instead of backstage was so she could get a feel for the crowd and the fans. This woman with her
I love Ryder
t-shirt was a great place to start. "Is this your first time?"

"At a
Ryder Hart
concert?" the woman scoffed. Though to give her credit, she managed not to sound insulting. "I follow the band. At least, as much as I can. I try to get to twenty or thirty concerts a year. When they're touring."

"That's amazing. Just here in the U.S.?"

"I've followed them to Japan and Australia. And Canada, of course. That was a breeze. I would have loved to see them in Paris last week, but my international budget was tapped for the year. I can get around the U.S. on the cheap." She pointed down the row. "The eight of us travel together. We share expenses."

"I bow to the über fans." When the woman laughed, Quinn held out her hand. "I'm Quinn, by the way."

"Ren."

"Like the bird?" Names fascinated Quinn. Hers had been a mistake. It was supposed to be Queen. Thank God there was a miscommunication between her parents. Her father loved the regal moniker. Her mother swore she misunderstood what he had said. Whatever the truth, Quinn was grateful.
Queen
. She shuddered at the thought.

"Ren as in
Footloose
. My mother's favorite movie."

"It's different."

"I like it now. And Kevin Bacon
is
hot." Ren laughed. "But nobody spells it correctly. And kids are brutal when they think your name is funny."

"Kids are brutal. Period."

"True. Sugar and spice, my ass. There were girls in my school who came out of the womb playing mean."

They commiserated for several more minutes. Now and then, Quinn took a few candid shots of Ren and her friends.

"Do you mind?" Quinn lowered her camera.

"Not at all." Ren posed, hands on hips, her lips pursed in a flirty pucker. "Are you a reporter?"

"No. I tell my stories with pictures. And a few captions. But I leave the writing to someone else." Quinn pulled out her iPad. She carried around a digital release form wherever she went. Passing it down the row, she made certain she had permission to publish the photos. "Last night was my first time seeing them live. They put on quite a show."

That got Ren and the other women talking. They raved about the production values. The lighting. The acoustics. But mostly they spoke of the performances.

"We don't have to tell you about Ryder's voice." Ren sighed. So did her friends. "It kills me when he rocks out. But when he does a ballad? The man is a walking advertisement for sex. We've all used his music to get in the mood."

"Works every time. I'm Milly, by the way." The woman next to Ren held out her hand. "I love my husband; Ryder in the background adds a certain something."

"I like Dalton," another of Ren's friends called out. "Those drummer's arms make me drool."

"Give me Ashe any day."

"Ladies." Ren held up a hand when the discussion turned heated. "We could go on like this all night. The band is hot. Scorching." Ren lowered her voice so only Quinn could hear. "Brenda? The one on the end? She has a thing for Zoe. But she's married with three children so we don't make a big deal about it."

"The band's sex appeal can't be your only reason for following them. This is a pricey hobby."

"We all have our reasons. For me, this is my passion. I don't go to the movies. Or knit. Or collect do-dads. Or spend much on my wardrobe. This is it. Besides," Ren grinned. "My husband likes to go to Vegas. I think our marriage is stronger because of my love for Ryder Hart and his for blackjack."

"May I quote you on that?"

"Are you kidding?" Ren bounced with excitement. "Quote away. Any chance I'll see it in print."

"Rolling Stone." Quinn gave Ren the publication date.

"No kidding?" Ren shook her head. "Wow. You're like the big time."

Quinn took another shot of Ren's beaming face. "Not yet. But I'm getting there."

RYDER NEVER TIRED of the energy the audience gave him. It was the best drug going. Better than cocaine. Alcohol had nothing on the buzz that rushed through him from the moment he stepped on stage. In all of his twenty-eight years, he hadn't found anything that came close.

The first set rocked the house. He and his band—his family—began with their latest hit. It released a month ago at number one and was still riding that lofty perch on the charts.
Steel and Lace
was a collaboration between him and Ashe.

From the very beginning, Ryder insisted they write their own material. Dalton, for all his tough words and troubled past, was a poet. Ballads and love songs came easiest to him. Zoe—surprise, surprise—changed like the wind. He never knew what kind of song she would produce.

However, it was Ashe who had metal in his veins. A headbanger before he knew what that was, Ashe could make the rafters shake with his melodies. Ryder added the words. And between them, a multi-platinum hit was born.

One reviewer called the first thirty minutes of the show a non-stop cardio explosion. Nobody, not the band—or the audience—was allowed to take a breather. Ryder knew what he was doing. He wanted the crowd involved from the first note. And they were. By the time he picked up his acoustic guitar and strummed the open chords to
Out of My Heart
, every single person in the stadium was mesmerized.

"You might recognize this one," Ryder's voice crooned to the crowd.

Of course, they did. The ballad was the band's first number one song. In fact, five years ago Billboard named it the song of the year. It wasn't the last time they achieved that distinction. The awards had started rolling in as soon as they became the latest industry darling. An overnight sensation—ten years in the making.

The trick with that kind of success was to keep it going. To grow. Artistically all the time increasing their commercial success. It hadn't been easy. There were bumps. Hell, there were fucking mountains that they had to overcome. But they had a secret weapon. They were not four individuals looking for fame and fortune. They were a unit. Solid. Unbreakable.

Ryder sang the first line. He knew his gifts. Not the least of which was his ability to reach out to his audience. Not as a whole. One by one. The person in the front row, the back row, and every row in between would leave the concert convinced that Ryder had sung every song just to them.

The music coursed through him. Ryder felt every note. Every beat. And the words. Oh, the words. It was his specialty. It always had been. The music was his muse. The words his salvation. They carried him through some grim times. To right here. Right now. In front of forty thousand screaming fans. Who would have predicted that when he was seventeen and trying to find someone—anyone—to give him a shot.