ALMOST HOME

by Williams, Mary J.

  “Danny.” Joplin swallowed, not sure what she wanted to say. “I—”

  As though he anticipated her reluctance, Danny interrupted before she could put her reservations into words.

  “What I’ve asked will take some time,” he said. “More time away from your fiancé.”

  Bradley Sheerer. Thirty-four. Harvard Law graduate. On the fast track to becoming a partner in one of the most successful law firms in the state of California. He and Joplin met at a cocktail party and started dating a week later. They were a good fit. Both career-oriented, neither raised a fuss when the other put business before pleasure.

  Their engagement was a recent development—so recent Joplin didn’t have a ring. To be honest, she wasn’t in a hurry to acquire the semi-binding piece of jewelry—not a good omen, she supposed.

  “Bradley won’t miss me.”

  “And you won’t miss him.” Danny sighed. “He’s a dud, Joplin. A flesh and blood Ken doll with less personality. Tell me again why you agreed to marry him?”

  The question wasn’t new, and Danny wasn’t the first to ask. Like her uncle, her friends wanted to know why she agreed. Joplin wished she had a good answer. She hadn’t expected Bradley to propose. When he did, saying yes was more of a reflex reaction to a man she liked but didn’t love and who, she was certain, didn’t love her.

  “Forget Bradley,” Joplin said.

  “I will if you will,” Danny snorted, a twinkle in his eyes.

  The man was incorrigible, Joplin thought with a smile. Then, she remembered why he’d asked to meet with her and sobered. He was dying, and he wanted a favor. A big, painful, messy favor.

  “Razor’s Edge.” Joplin sighed, resigned to what she had to do. “You want to meet with them again. One at a time, I hope; getting them together in one room would take a miracle.”

  Danny blinked, surprise lighting his eyes.

  “A boring meeting? When did I ever want something so prosaic when the alternative is more fun?”

  “What alternative?” Joplin asked, dreading the answer.

  “I want a full-blown, no-holds-barred, blow-out reunion.”

  Forget the miracle, Joplin thought, her stomach dropping to her feet. The man just asked for the impossible.

  “A Razor’s Edge reunion? After five years and everything that went down?”

  “Yes,” Danny said as though his request were as simple as asking her to pick up a bag of potato chips from the corner store.

  Joplin’s head fell forward. What could she say? Only one thing came to mind.

  “Well, crap.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  ♫~♫~♫

  KANE HARRISON STEPPED inside the front door of The Way-Out Bar & Grill. In a few hours, the quiet honkytonk would be filled with the usual raucous Saturday night crowd of lumberjacks and townies.

  For now, the only sound came from behind the bar—the clinking of bottles as the bartender prepared for a busy night.

  These days the siren call of alcohol was little more than a faint echo. However, Kane understood how temptation worked. Two years clean and sober could vanish with one careless slip. He worked in a tavern because he needed the job and knew little else. He avoided the bar because he didn’t want to push his luck.

  Kane paused backstage, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

  Didn’t matter the distinction. Pub, bar, tavern, saloon. Whatever name the owner chose to hang above the door. Whether the floor was covered in pricy hardwood or scattered with sawdust and peanut shells. High-brow or low-rent.

  In Kane’s opinion, from Albany to Zanzibar, a gin joint was a gin joint. He filled his lungs again. Like Pavlov’s dogs, the second he smelled the familiar combination of stale booze and disinfectant, the musician in him salivated with the need to pick up a guitar and pick out a song.

  Music had always been another kind of addiction. The need to sing, play, and write was in the Harrison blood, father to son, handed down from generation to generation. Unfortunately, the stronger need for alcohol and drugs always won.

  Perpetually strung out or high, Kane’s grandfather and father died young, whatever dreams they held for fame and glory, long gone, drowned in a bottle.

  Determined to be different, Kane beat the odds. Certain he could handle his addictions, he lived the dream where words and music flowed like the sweetest wine. The lows were bad, but the highs were better.

  Young in years and unbearably arrogant, Kane played by his own rules. When he lost—as addicts always do—he was left with nothing but regrets.

  Kane quickly learned he could live without fame and fortune. But the loss of his friends ate a hole in him he would never fill. The loss of the woman he loved left him with a broken heart still on the mend.

  “Hey, there’s my best bud!”

  A man with long dark hair and a scruffy beard strutted onto the small stage. Without an ounce of modesty, he shoved his dick back into his jeans. Behind him, a woman rushed from the shadows, keeping her head down as she straightened her blouse. Kane recognized the pretty—married—barmaid but didn’t comment, nor did he judge.

  Been there, done that.

  Sid Showalter reminded Kane of a younger version of himself—without the baggage or ambition. You needed more than talent to rise above weekend gigs at local bars. If you were satisfied to be a big fish in a small pond, the hometown celebrity, you’d never push yourself to try for more.

  “Ready to make some magic?” Sid asked.

  Kane swallowed a laugh. No magic in covering songs by other artists, he thought. As always, he kept his opinion to himself. His job was to man the lights and handle the soundboard, not give unwanted—unheeded—advice.

  “Still a few hours until showtime,” Kane said. Sid was nice enough, but he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.

  “Right.” Sid grinned. “Came in early to work on a new song.”

  “Never hurts to expand your repertoire.” Kane didn’t care, but he asked to be polite. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Wounded by Jaxon Cross.” Sid shrugged. “Lyrics make no sense to me, but everything the guy touches turns to gold. And the chicks seem to dig what he’s selling. So, who am I to argue?”

  Kane nodded but tuned out Sid the moment Jaxon Cross’ name was mentioned. Superstar with a bullet, Jax was once his best friend, writing partner, and brother in every way but blood. They met as boys, founded the rock band Razor’s Edge, in their teens and shared what by every definition had to be called a complicated past.

  In more ways than Kane could name, Jax saved his life. In return, he did his best to destroy everything. Luckily, his old friend’s talent and ‘fuck the world’ attitude helped leave the past behind.

  Kane had no doubt Jaxon Cross would go down as a music legend—one of the all-time greats. And though he had no right, he felt a surge of pride every time one of Jax’s songs came on the radio.

  The only consolation Kane allowed himself when he looked back over his many mistakes was the fact his screw-ups hadn’t ruined his best friend’s life.

  Jaxon Cross, freaking rock god. Kane grinned as he checked the amplifiers. Sometimes, there was a bit of justice in the world.

  ♫~♫~♫

  THE MOMENT JOPLIN walked into the noisy, raucous bar, she was transported back in time. Suddenly, she was twenty-one, young, eager to make good, and certain she would.

  Every Friday and Saturday night for over a year, she would find a booth or table at the back of the room in places just like The Way Out. Most of the time, the music was serviceable and gave the locals exactly what they came for—background noise to wind down from their workweek.

  Tonight, was no exception. The singer was enthusiastic, could carry a tune, and knew how to sell a song. The ladies in the audience certainly enjoyed the show. A fact their dates hadn’t failed to notice.

  In a vague sort of way, Joplin wondered how the drama would play out. Two bouncers, the size of mid
-sized mountains, were posted at the exits. Though they were there as a deterrent as much as anything, historically alcohol combined with jealousy ignited more than one barfight.

  Perhaps she was interested, Joplin realized as she worked her way through the crowd. These days, her life was settled—not exactly boring, but without the unpredictability of youth. A bit of local drama might be a nice change of pace.

  Taking an empty spot at the end of the bar, she ordered a club soda—light on the ice, extra lemon—and looked around. For all her success, Joplin wasn’t so far removed from her talent scouting days that she forgot how to blend in with the honkytonk crowd. Blue jeans and plenty of attitude was the key.

  A man dressed all in black, cowboy boots to the Stetson sitting at a jaunty angle atop a mass of dark curly hair included, sidled up beside Joplin. A toothpick clenched between his teeth, he grinned and winked.

  “You alone, blondie?”

  Internally, Joplin rolled her eyes. On the outside, without saying a word, she raised an eyebrow, looked the man up and down then sipped her drink as she casually turned to face the other way.

  Attitude, pure attitude. Joplin’s cool, you aren’t worth my time of day, dismissal, worked ninety percent of the time. Then, there was Stetson guy who, to her dismay, fell into the other ten percent.

  “Been looking for a cutie like you all my life.”

  “Keep looking,” Joplin said with a deadpan delivery.

  In a perfect world, the joker would get the point and move on to a woman who might show some interest. Joplin learned early in life the world wasn’t perfect. However, she had the power to make her little corner habitable.

  And she sure as heck wasn’t required to put up with over-stuffed male egos.

  “My name is Mack and—”

  “I don’t care,” Joplin said, finally looking the man in the eyes.

  “Sure, you do.” Mack’s voice deepened, the husky tone designed, she assumed, to turn females into pools of melted butter. “Let me buy you a drink, then we can get to know—”

  “Stop.” Joplin held up a hand. “Don’t say another word. I’m not interested, understand?”

  If anything, Mack’s smile grew another inch of slime.

  “I can change your mind,” he cooed, slithering closer.

  “No!” Joplin said. The one word should have been enough, end of discussion. She knew from experience, the Macks of the world needed more. “I don’t want your company. I don’t want you to convince me, or charm me, or cajole me. If you had a thousand years, nothing you could say would change my mind. So, I suggest you leave now before your balls shrink any further and while you still have a modicum of dignity.”

  Mack might have tried again if he hadn’t realized the music had stopped, and Joplin’s words had drawn the attention of everyone within earshot. He quickly assessed the situation, curled his lip into a sneer, and gave her a comeback so old it creaked.

  “Should have known you were a lesbian,” Mack sniffed. “Bitch.”

  The woman behind the bar shot Joplin a sympathetic smile. Spiked red hair, a glorious assortment of intricate tattoos covering her well-defined arms, and a knowing glint in her dark eyes, she shook her head.

  “You okay?”

  “Oh, yes,” Joplin said with a crooked smile of her own. “I’m Joplin.”

  “Frieda.”

  They shook hands.

  “Why,” Joplin pondered, “do men assume the label of lesbian is an insult?”

  “Beats me. My ex was all for me having sex with another woman—long as he could watch.” Chuckling, Frieda swapped out Joplin’s half-empty glass with a freshly poured one. Light on the ice, extra lemon. “Didn’t make me a lesbian, he assured me. Just cool and edgy.”

  “And?” Joplin asked, certain there was more to the story.

  “I declined. However, when I suggested he take on another guy—with me in the room—he didn’t buy the cool and edgy argument. Final words as I kicked his ass out the door were, Listen, bitch. I ain’t no fag.”

  “Men,” Joplin said.

  “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t shoot ‘em,” Frieda sighed.

  “Unless you find the right lawyer.”

  “Damn, girl,” Frieda said with a twinkle of admiration in her eyes. “When you walked in, I pegged you for a rich girl out for a night of slumming.”

  “And now?” Joplin asked, more intrigued than offended.

  “Still going with rich. However, my guess is you came down from your ivory tower to discover life is more interesting here in the trenches with us common folk.”

  Frieda was right—up to a point. During her job, first as a scout, then talent manager, Joplin had seen the seedier side of humanity. However, jumping into the muck was easier when you had a fat bank account and a downtown Los Angeles luxury condominium loft to fall back on when things got rough.

  Glancing at her off-the-rack jeans, t-shirt, and jacket, Joplin frowned. When she left her motel room earlier in the evening, her reflection in the bathroom mirror said blonde, tall, slender, dressed for a night at a local bar—nothing special or out of the ordinary. Frieda saw something else.

  “What gave me away?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, you fit in just fine,” Frieda assured her. “Except…”

  “Yes?” Joplin prompted.

  “The boots. Don’t see a lot of designer footwear around here.”

  Glancing down at the black and tan knee-high leather, Joplin’s lips quirked into a half-smile. She knew her weaknesses—anyone who claimed not to possess one or two was a liar—and pretty things to put on her feet were near the top of the list. Unashamed, she met Frieda’s knowing look and rather than lie, shrugged.

  “Truth is, other than sneakers, these are the most comfortable shoes I own.”

  “My comment wasn’t meant as a criticism. Hell, hand them over, and I’ll wear them every day and twice on Sunday.” Frieda gave the boots a covetous look. “What size do you wear?”

  “Nine. You?”

  “Close enough.”

  Joplin chuckled. She appreciated anyone who appreciated fine footwear.

  “Duty calls,” Frieda said as she nodded toward a customer at the other end of the bar. “You plan to stick around for a while?”

  “Nowhere else to be.”

  “Good.” Frieda sent her a thoughtful look. “I’m curious to hear what brings you to a place like Stillwater. Not much to draw young people to unless you’re a lumberjack or married to one.”

  As Frieda left to fulfill her job description, Joplin turned, raising her glass to her lips. A blip on her GPS map, the small town of Stillwater, Maine was what some would call picturesque.

  A bit in need of a good sprucing up, the houses were old, but from what Joplin could tell from one drive through, the owners took pride in keeping their lawns mowed and their flower beds weed free.

  Tucked away from the main highway, Stillwater wasn’t the kind of place a person landed by accident. Joplin was no exception. Close to fulfilling the promise she made her uncle, out of nowhere, a jingle of nerves hit her hard.

  Crazy to feel anything but calm, she told herself. After all, she’d already dealt with four ex-band members of Razor’s Edge. One by one, she checked them off her list. First, Jaxon Cross. Then, Skye Monroe. Beck Kramer came next followed by Morgan McCloud.

  Jax had been the least receptive—hardly surprising. The others, much to her delight, welcomed her like an old, dear friend. They reconnected and though, like Jax, none agreed to Danny’s request for a reunion, she was thrilled to have them back in her life.

  One person remained. Kane Harrison.

  Joplin hadn’t fooled herself, or anyone else, when she claimed the reason Kane was left until last was because geographically, his location was the farthest east. Nothing except an illogical fear of facing him for the first time in five years stopped her from starting in Maine and working her way back to Los Angeles.

/>   Loathing. Resentment. Fear. After so long, the emotions didn’t make sense. Joplin wasn’t the same woman who fell head over heels for the worst man possible. She’d matured and moved on with her life. Her foolish heart had mended long ago.

  Loathing. Resentment. Fear. Joplin recognized her old companions and stifled a curse. She loathed herself for remembering every moment of their time together—good, bad, and everything in between—with perfect clarity. She resented every second spent mourning what in retrospect, had been an embarrassingly one-sided relationship.

  And, Joplin feared the second she looked into Kane’s hypnotic dark eyes, she would follow through on her greatest fantasy. Smack the familiar smirk off his handsome face.

  Kane had never been in love with her. Plain and simple. End of story. Joplin refused to add a prologue where she came off as bitter, pining for what never was.

  She didn’t pine—not anymore. As for the rest. She was a twenty-first century woman. To some degree, as she dealt with men in what was still a sexist industry, bitterness was part of the package. The key was not to let the struggle seep too far into her bones.

  “I’m back,” Frieda said, interrupting her musings.

  “You weren’t gone for long.”

  “Beer and whiskey, whiskey and beer.” Nodding toward Joplin’s glass, Frieda smiled. “Yours is the most complicated drink I’ve dealt with all night. Need a refill?”

  “Maybe later. You asked what brought me to Stillwater.” Joplin cleared her throat. “I’m looking for someone. A man.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Frieda snorted. “Anyone in particular?”

  “Kane Harrison.”

  The friendly light in Frieda’s eyes dimmed, replaced by a sudden air of suspicion.

  “Funny. You didn’t strike me as the type.”

  “Type?” Joplin raised an eyebrow. “Care to be more specific before I commit to anything?”

  “Groupies. Rubberneckers. Skanks. Pick a word. Been awhile, but they’ve all come looking for Kane at one time or another.”