FLOWERS ON THE WALL (7 page)

Rinsing her mouth out with water, Quinn wiped the moisture from her lips, sighing with pleasure at the feel of the ultra-soft towel on her face. There was something to be said for luxury.

Carefully, Quinn hung up the towel. Someday, she promised herself. Someday soon.

CHAPTER SIX

AFTER STOPPING TO eat—where Quinn ate a stack of the best pancakes ever—they had checked into the hotel. Everyone dragged themselves to their rooms—presumably to sleep. Quinn felt surprisingly wired, but she tried to rest. Her internal clock wasn't used to rock band hours. The way she figured it, she should have adjusted right around the time the tour ended.

To her surprise, she fell asleep the second her head hit the pillow. Four hours later, her eyes popped open when her phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Want to hit the mall?"

"Zoe?" Quinn sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Is there time?"

"Shopping relaxes me. We'll take the limo, do our part for the local economy, then the driver can drop us at the stadium. Are you game?"

"Sure." Quinn wasn't as big of a buyer as she used to be, but she loved to look. "Should I meet you in the lobby?"

"Come up to my room. We'll take the service elevator to the parking garage."

Quinn rolled out of bed, stretching her arms over her head. Checking her appearance, Quinn was satisfied that all she needed was to fluff her hair and splash some water on her face. Okay, a little blush wouldn't hurt.

It was hard to complain about her hotel room. It had all the amenities. A comfortable bed. Hot and cold running water. A toilet that didn't flush on its own every ten minutes—try sleeping through that nightmare.

She shuddered when she thought of some of the holes where she had stayed. The life of an itinerant photographer was not as glamorous as some people might think. By comparison, her room at the Philadelphia Regent was a suite at the Ritz.

Then she stepped into Zoe's room and had to laugh.

"Want to share the joke?" the blonde asked as she slipped on her jacket.

"I think I have a case of luxury envy. First the bathroom on the bus. Now this?" Quinn motioned to the huge room with a floor-to-ceiling bank of windows. The view wasn't New York, but it would do. "I thought I was used to generic peanut butter and bargain basement sheets. Now I wonder."

"Ryder said that you grew up rich." Zoe's were a different color, but in a blink, her eyes took on the same intense look that Quinn had seen in Ryder's.

"I grew up with a rich father. I found out quickly that it wasn't my money. It was his to dole out at his discretion." Quinn shrugged. "It was a shock when he cut me off. Luckily, I'm smart and surprisingly adaptable."

"And still standing."

"Stronger than ever."

Quinn waited while Zoe applied a pale-colored lipstick. The other woman was a natural beauty and was wise not to cover it up with heavy makeup.

"How was the sound check?"

"I gave you the perfect opening to ask me about my childhood. Why didn't you take it?"

They left the suite. Instead of retracing Quinn's steps, they walked in the opposite direction.

"Did you want me to?" Quinn shot Zoe a speculative look. "Or was that a test to see if I would dig for information?"

Zoe didn't deny it. "I've never hung out with a reporter. I don't know what to expect."

"I'm a photographer, not a reporter." Quinn wondered if she should have it printed on a card. It would be easier than saying it over and over again. Besides, if she had it embossed, it would look official.

The service elevator made a creaking noise as it came to a stop. The doors opened. And though Quinn didn't hesitate to step inside, she noticed it looked as though it had been lifted from
The Shining
. Not the most encouraging image she could have summoned as the doors slid shut.

"That's what Ryder said."

"Did he?" It was good to know someone listened.

"What's the difference?"

"In my case? Quite a lot. I am not here to gather information, Zoe. Unless it's visual." Quinn tapped the camera bag she had slung over her shoulder. "This will be a photo essay. A story in pictures."

"There is a lot of money to be made from celebrity exposés."

It was understandable for Zoe to be cautious. She didn't know Quinn—none of them did. But she was human. The questions rankled—enough that Quinn felt she had to bite back.

"Did you invite me so you could suss out my intentions or insult my integrity?" When the elevator stopped at the garage level, Quinn did not get out. "I think I'll skip the girl time. If I want an afternoon of passive/aggressive bullshit, I'll call my father."

Zoe hit the hold button on the elevator panel, making certain the doors stayed open. Deliberately, she turned to face Quinn.

"Let me make myself clear. I don't have a passive bone in my body. Aggressive? Hell, yes."

"Then say what you mean."

Quinn preferred it when all the cards were on the table. That said, she wasn't a naturally confrontational person. If possible, she liked to settle things calmly and rationally. Not knowing what was coming, she braced herself.

"We make music. And we are damn good at our jobs."

"I agree."

Zoe's dark eyes narrowed. "What happened before Ryder formed the band is nobody's business. However, there is something you need to know. Ryder has watched out for me from the moment I was born. I can't tell you all the times he sheltered me; most of the time, I didn't know. He made
certain
that I didn't know. Now it's my turn. I will not let you hurt him."

Shadows crossed Zoe's expression, making Quinn want to offer a comforting hug. Something told her Zoe would not appreciate the gesture.

"I think you overestimate Ryder's need for your protection, Zoe. Whatever happened in the past doesn't seem to haunt him. He's a well-adjusted, happy man." When Zoe didn't answer, Quinn frowned. "Isn't he?"

"Most of the time." Zoe stepped from the elevator. "Ryder is the best man I have ever known. Happy? Yes. And loving. And kind. But he has demons nipping at his heels, Quinn."

Quinn found that to be a bit dramatic. Zoe must have read her expression.

"I can see why you would be skeptical. It isn't that Ryder hides his foibles. What you see is pretty much what you get. But now and then, he…"

Quinn leaned closer. "Don't leave me hanging. Now and then, he what?"

"I've said more than I should have." Ten feet away, a long, black limousine pulled to a stop. The driver rushed around to open the passenger door. As she started to get in, Zoe gave Quinn one more piece to the puzzle. "Listen to Ryder's music."

"I have," Quinn frowned. How was that supposed to help?

Tucking her long frame into the car, Zoe told her, "Not the commercial songs that fly to the top of the charts. If you want to know where to start, play
Tangled Vines
."

BACKSTAGE WASN'T CHAOS. It was worse. From the moment
The
Ryder Hart Band
took the stage, there was never-ending movement. To the untrained eye, the crew seemed to go in hundreds of directions with no planned path.

But in truth, they were a well-oiled machine. This was not the crew's first rodeo. Ryder insisted on the best—from lighting to sound. From the first night of the tour, nothing had been left to chance. If something went wrong, it was fixed before the next performance. Or the person responsible was replaced—quickly.

The band had a hard-fought reputation for putting on a flawless show, and it was well earned. Ryder meant to keep it.

Quinn had learned fast to keep out of the way. Though to the crew's credit, as soon as they learned that she would be there every night, they looked at her as a mobile piece of the scenery.
Quinn is in the house,
rang out as soon as she arrived. She smiled every time; it made her feel a part of the gang.

A week had passed since her conversation with Zoe. Since then, few words had passed between them. Zoe had put Quinn on alert.
I'm watching you
. Quinn had no idea what Zoe would do if she decided to act on her vague threat. And she didn't want to find out.

Quinn had an easier time with the rest of the band. Dalton flirted—though he wasn't serious. Ashe teased. And Ryder? She had no idea what was going on with him. He was friendly. And cooperative. But the easygoing man she met in New York had morphed into something else. Ryder seemed preoccupied. Something was definitely on his mind.

There was another explanation. It could be that Quinn was looking for something that wasn't there. Ryder's schedule was brutal. He was the face of the band that carried his name. He drew the line at interviews. However, Ryder managed at least one personal appearance in every city they visited. An orphanage in Philadelphia. A hospital in Miami. A nursing home in New Orleans. What little free time Ryder had, he gave freely—and without publicity. Quinn found out by accident when Dalton let it slip. Ryder wasn't pleased. He kept his charity work hush, hush for a very good reason. If it were widely known, the requests would be overwhelming.

Quinn suspected that was only part of it. Ryder was a private man. Giving of his time was easy—and important. He didn't want accolades. Those came on stage from his screaming, adoring fans.

It was funny. Quinn felt she knew less about Ryder today than when they met. It seemed Zoe was right. There were hidden layers. Deep—and dark.
Tangled Vines
was a perfect example. The song was from the band's second studio album. Like most people, Quinn listened to the singles the most. Radio friendly was the term.
Tangled Vines
did not fit that description.

Yet, it caught the listener from the opening chords. There was something heartbreaking in Ryder's voice as he told the story of loss and the search for redemption. The final note faded without a resolution. Hope or despair? It was left to the listener to decide. Quinn chose to come down on the side of hope. But as she found from her online search, critics and fans were split down the middle. The arguments were numerous and passionate. And the only man who had the answer refused to talk.

Great art—as one writer noted—was best when the artist allowed others to enjoy it without preconceived ideas. Would the
Mona Lisa
be as powerful if we knew why she smiled?

Quinn doubted that Ryder would put his music on the same level as da Vinci's painting, but the point was valid. Ryder Hart was a genius. His words. His music. His voice. They could lift the spirits or haunt the soul. And for his fans, that was enough.

However, it was frustrating as hell for Quinn. She had been looking for a few answers and came away with more questions than when she started. Had that been Zoe's goal? To send Quinn on a quest that had no end? Quinn wouldn't be at all surprised.

"Ten minutes. Crank the backlights. And Richie, turn on the fans. Another minute and the stage smoke will obliterate Dalton."

The last slow song of the evening calmed the overheated crowd. Quinn closed her eyes and floated on Ryder's words. Beautiful. And seductive. She might have said no, but the audience was filled with women who would kill to share Ryder's bed. The irony of her situation was not lost on Quinn.

"We hit Chicago tomorrow."

With nothing to do until the set ended, two members of the crew stood off to Quinn's right, enjoying the break before the madhouse erupted again.

"Well, shit. Why do I always forget about Chicago?"

The first man gave a long-suffering sigh. "You know why. It's the one gig where Dr. Jekyll turns into Mr. Hyde."

"We hit Chicago on the first leg of the tour." The second man shuddered. "Why not skip it this time?"

"I suggested St. Louis instead."

"And?"

"The look Ryder gave me shriveled my balls. That was twelve months ago. I'm still waiting for them to thaw out."

"Get your asses in gear, ladies," the crew chief growled at his men. "I want you breaking that stage down the second the last encore is finished."

Quinn tuned out the rest of the conversation. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? Obviously, they were talking about Ryder. And it tied into the band playing Chicago. Ryder and Zoe's hometown. And the source of Ryder's demons?

It was another piece of evidence that the sweet, funny man that Quinn had met in New York wasn't as easygoing as she first thought.

CHAPTER SEVEN

RYDER NEVER DRANK to excess. It was an unbreakable rule forged in the memories of the evil alcohol could bring out in a normally placid individual. He had flirted with drugs. At sixteen, it had seemed like an easy way to get through his nights on the street. But he learned fast that when he was jacked up on cocaine, he lost his edge. And without an edge, the street could eat him up hard and fast.

Music became the answer. It gave Ryder a high better than any drug. And it helped him mask his demons until he no longer had to pretend that everything was okay. Happiness became a reality—not a concept. Ryder no longer began his day with dread or ended it in fear. Life was good. Damn good.

Until he remembered Chicago. The home of his nightmares. The city where he was born and wished to die. Then—miraculously—was reborn. The demons still lurked in the darkened alleys. Waiting for Ryder to join them. So rather than wait for them to come knocking, he sought them out. That meant including Chicago on their tour schedule. Every time. Sometimes—like this year—they landed here twice.

His bandmates argued. His manager cajoled. Even the tour crew put up a token protest. But Ryder would not be swayed from his path. He had a theory. To enjoy heaven's delights, now and then he had to remind himself what it was like in hell.

"I get why you won't top off the beer with a shot of Kentucky's finest." Ashe took a swig from the bottle of bourbon. "I even admire your restraint. But you need to take the edge off. For the love of God, and my sanity, find a willing woman and get yourself laid."

"We go on in less than an hour," Ryder pointed out.

"What's your point?" Looking confused, Ashe raised the bottle to his lips.

"You shouldn't be swigging bourbon, and I don't have time to get laid."