Her Minnesota Man (A Christian Romance Novel) (2 page)

Just as well. Although the critics called him a brilliant lyricist, Jeb had no talent for actual conversation. As one of his disgruntled schoolteachers had noted on a report card, he was "habitually uncommunicative, often responding to direct questions with nothing more than a stare." But Jeb had never known how to be any other way, except when he was with—

No
. Best not to think about her tonight.

All four of the guys started talking at once; Shari had stirred things up good. Shaking his head, Jeb turned away from the confusion and gazed unseeing at a wall covered with graffiti and band bumper stickers.

Yes, he was worn out. That was part of what had made him so ripe for conversion, especially after that awful show in Louisville, where a perfect storm of technical glitches had whipped the crowd into a frenzy of resentment. As Jeb grimaced at that memory, his gaze shifted and his attention was arrested by a drawing on the junked-up wall.

Between a band sticker and a crude limerick, someone had depicted a wooden cross on a rocky hilltop and neatly lettered two words beneath it:
Jesus saves.

Had the musician who left that message of hope ever been this confused about what God expected of him? Jeb intended to follow the straight and narrow path—but where was it?

Certain that he had overlooked some important clue, he pushed his mind back to the events of five nights ago.

Demoralized by the belligerent Louisville crowd, Skeptical Heart had played the worst show of their career. Afterward, Jeb had been too disgusted to go out and drink himself stupid with the guys and their guests, so he'd accompanied them only as far as the venue's VIP entrance.

Pausing in the doorway, he turned up the collar of his leather jacket and tugged down the bill of his Minnesota Twins ball cap. Then as security guards held back a gaggle of squealing girls and the band's party piled into a rain-beaded stretch limo, he slipped unnoticed through the crowd and strode into the drizzly, ink-black night.

How could a man be lonely when he was surrounded by people? How could he feel dissatisfied when he was ripping through life at the speed of sound, a guitar in his hands and music in his heart? In the intermittent rain, Jeb walked for miles with those questions playing on an endless loop in his head. He was soaked and shivering like a half-drowned dog when he finally ducked into a convenience store to buy a cup of coffee and call a cab to take him to the band's hotel.

Hunting for the room service menu, he'd discovered a Bible in the drawer next to his bed. On an impulse he still didn't understand, he had opened it to a random page, the first chapter of The Gospel of John.

Still staring at the carefully drawn cross on the band room's wall, he shook his head in amazement. What God wanted with a restive heart like Jackson Bell's was anyone's guess. But Jeb had read that even the worst of sinners was eligible to receive forgiveness and find peace.

He became aware that Taylor had out-shouted the others and gained the floor.

"No way," the drummer insisted. "Jackson would never quit on us."

Peace. The other night it had poured over Jeb like warm, healing water. But when he'd realized that resuming his normal habits would be like putting filthy clothes on a freshly-washed body, that newfound peace had been swamped by anxiety.

He turned away from the wall to join the conversation.

"The thing is, guys, I—"

"You need a break." Taylor nodded encouragingly. "This tour's been amazing, but it's good we're
goin
' home tomorrow." He looked at the other three guys. "As
for the God stuff, if he wants to read his Bible on the tour bus and pray before the shows, so what? After we all get back to L.A. and have a good rest—"

"Wake up, Taylor!" Veins bulged on Shari's forehead as she snarled the words. "He's not coming back with us. He told me this morning."

"He's staying here in Florida?" Taylor looked at Jeb, who was indulging a very unchristian fantasy about applying a dab of instant glue to Shari's bottom lip and pinching her mouth shut. "Why would he do that?"

"I didn't say he was staying here," Shari snapped. "He'll probably run home to that quaint little house in
Nowheresville
."

"You've been to his house?" Having somehow missed the derision in Shari's voice, Taylor eyed her like a kid who'd been denied a treat another kid was bragging about having enjoyed.

"I haven't been there," Shari admitted, watching Jeb through narrowed eyes. "But
he
hasn't been, either. Not in almost a year. And since he doesn't have a family, I don't know why he—"

"Fifteen months," Jeb corrected automatically. Every month he managed to stay away from Laney Ryland was such a hard-won victory, he couldn't help counting them.

Shari raised her chin to a mulish angle. "What's so great about some hick town in Michigan?"

"Minnesota." A shaft of longing stabbed Jeb's heart as he pronounced the word. Fifteen months was his new record. Last time he hadn't made it past eleven.

"Where
ever
. Why can't you just come back to L.A.?"

"Like Taylor said, I need a break."

Yesterday, he'd planned to head to a deserted beach he knew in Mexico to do some heavy thinking. But tonight his heart was tugging on its leash, straining toward home.

Maybe he should just give in. Laney had been a Christian all her life, so she ought to be able to help him figure out what God expected him to do next.

He'd hoped to find a clue in the Bible he'd swiped from that Louisville hotel room, but John—the guy who'd written that gospel—had been a little vague about how a twenty-first-century rock musician was supposed to extricate himself from a lifestyle that was pretty much all sin, all the time.

Absently rubbing his bare chest, Jeb looked past Taylor at the other three band members. Keyboardist Matt Holland was nursing a bottle of beer as he sprawled in a recliner, his relaxed posture at odds with the murderous glint in his eyes. Leaning against the wall, guitar genius Sean McPherson glared at Jeb while sucking viciously on a cigarette. And perched on the arm of a cracked leather sofa, bass guitarist Aaron Rice had curled his hands into fists and was staring with transparent longing at Jeb's unbroken nose.

Their animosity was understandable. If Jeb walked away now, Skeptical Heart was finished. Matt and Sean were excellent backup singers, but neither possessed the passion and power of a lead vocalist. And while Jeb valued his band's collaboration on the songs he'd written, the guys had never composed anything on their own.

He pushed his fingers through his damp hair and wondered why trying to do the right thing for once in his misbegotten life had to threaten the careers of these other people. What was God thinking, leaving their futures in his clumsy hands? He was nothing like wise, warmhearted Laney:
She
would have known the right course to steer through this mess.

All right, then.

"I'm going to Minnesota," Jeb announced. For two years he'd done his best to remain on the fringes of her life, but he needed her now, and Laney would never turn him away.

"Good idea." Taylor nodded briskly. "Let's all take a month off." Bending from the waist, he unzipped a duffel bag that lay on the floor. A moment's rummaging produced a black T-shirt, which he tossed to Jeb.

"No." Sean pushed away from the wall and moved to the buffet table, where he dropped his cigarette into Jeb's forgotten cup of coffee. "We'd lose our momentum."

"Exactly." Shari had reverted to her usual brisk, businesslike mien. "The label wants you back in the recording studio, and you'll need at least ten new songs for that." She looked around the room, assuring herself of an attentive audience before adding, "Last I heard, you only had three or four. So you don't have time for a vacation."

"Shari, I've got nothing left." Jeb pronounced the words with a solemn finality that spun the room into another shocked silence.

It was true. In the past few weeks he'd felt the creative impulse bleeding out of him like air from a slow-leaking tire. Whether that was due to exhaustion or whether God had simply revoked his gift, Jeb couldn't tell.

Laney would know. And if the answer was what he feared, Laney would help him accept it.

"So when will you be
comin
' back to L.A.?" Taylor asked.

Jeb expressed his resolution and his regret with a long, steady look. "I don't know."

Taylor shook his head. "But where does that leave the rest of us?"

"Nowhere!" Her dark eyes glittering with tears, Shari stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Matt swore and hurled his beer bottle at the wall.

Where are you, God?
Jeb's heart squeezed out the silent prayer as he watched foaming beer and wet glass splinters crawl down the concrete blocks to the floor.
I could use some direction here.

He tugged Taylor's shirt over his head. Its smoky scent triggered an insane craving for the cigarettes he'd given up five days ago, but Jeb ruthlessly shut his mind against that. He had bigger problems tonight.

In a few minutes he would have to take the stage and perform songs he was beginning to be ashamed of having written, but he couldn't see any way out of that because he was under contract. He had already struck one song from tonight's set list and made a mental note to change the lyrics of two others when he sang them. He didn't know what else he could do.

He'd read in the Bible that when a man surrendered his heart to God, his old self died and a new person was born. But Jeb was hardly a naked, innocent baby. His wicked past might be forgiven, but he was still shackled by his old promises, still dragging the consequences of a thousand bad choices like iron chains behind him.

Two sharp raps sounded and the door to the hallway opened, admitting the muffled noise of a restless audience on the floor above. A harried-looking stage manager pointed at his watch and said it was time.

"We'll be there in a minute," Jeb said.

When the stage manager objected to the delay, Jeb drilled him with a get-lost glare. The guy shut both his mouth and the door with an alacrity that satisfied Jeb until he recalled his resolution to stop using his eyes as weapons.

"Jackson?" Taylor's voice broke the strained silence. "If you get off this merry-go-round, the ride's over for all of us. You know that."

Staring at a sparkling island of broken glass in the beer puddle next to the wall, Jeb acknowledged that truth with a slow nod.

"So this could be our last show," Taylor persisted.

After a long hesitation, Jeb nodded again.

If only he could talk to Laney right now. If only he could hear her laugh. He'd close his eyes and concentrate on that effervescent sound until he absorbed it through his pores and felt it spread through his bloodstream, renewing his strength.

Too bad he'd accidentally left his phone on the tour bus.

No, it was better this way. If he didn't pull his band together in the next few minutes, there was no telling what might happen onstage.

"Guys," he began.

"Save it," Sean growled. "It's time to go."

Aaron sighed heavily and got to his feet. "Come on, Taylor." He hooked an arm around the dazed drummer's neck. "Let's be professional about this." He turned an expectant look on Sean, who in turn nudged Matt.

"Professional," Matt grumbled. "No problem. I'll just wait until after the show to rip out his vital organs."

They were filing out of the room when Jeb spotted a cell phone lying next to a plate of discarded shrimp tails on the coffee table.

"Guys, wait." As his heart beat a brutal tattoo against his ribs, he obeyed an irresistible impulse and picked up the phone.

"Oh, that's mine," Taylor said from the doorway. "Just drop it in my bag."

"Give me three minutes." Jeb tossed the words over his shoulder as he strode to the bathroom for some privacy.

He locked the door and sagged against a mirrored wall, his hands trembling as he stabbed the phone's tiny buttons to enter Laney's cell number. When he got her voice mail, he ended the connection and tried her home phone. As it began to ring, he turned toward the mirror and leaned his damp forehead against the cool glass.

He didn't have time to talk, he reminded himself as he counted electronic warbles. He'd just tell Laney he was coming home. Her squeal of delight would ease his heart enough to get him through this difficult evening.

The phone continued to ring.

"Please," Jeb whispered. Flattening the palm of his free hand against the mirror, he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed harder. "Please make her be home."