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by Williams, Mary J.


  Now, Joplin understood. Fame, however brief, was something a person never shook off completely. Didn’t matter that they hadn’t performed together in years. She knew for a fact, Razor’s Edge, the band Kane co-founded with his childhood friend and writing partner, Jaxon Cross, had an avid—some might say, rabid—fanbase.

  Unlike Jaxon Cross who went on to greater heights of success after the band’s demise, Kane crashed and burned. From all accounts, he picked himself up—eventually. He was clean and sober. In the old days, he was known as rock music’s newest bad boy with a temper easily ignited.

  A good private investigator led Joplin to Maine where Kane Harrison lived a low-profile, low-key life in the aptly named town of Stillwater.

  However, Kane might have left the spotlight, but his talent hadn’t, and his unforgettable face could be found 24/7 in a series of still-popular YouTube videos. While his voice, once described by a critic as smoke-laced sin, could be heard wherever Razor’s Edge songs were played.

  And make no mistake, the band lived on. And on. And on.

  “I’m not a groupie.” Despite herself, Joplin smiled at the thought.

  “What do you want with him?”

  Obviously protective, Frieda’s cool expression made Joplin pause. She couldn’t stop a question from tumbling out.

  “Are you and Kane together?”

  “None of your business,” Frieda said with what could only be described as a snarl. Her gaze narrowed to a slit. “One thing I will say. You aren’t his type.”

  “I’m well aware.” Joplin took a card from her purse. “Five minutes of his time is all I ask. Yes, or no, I won’t bother him again.”

  Frieda looked at the card, then, at Joplin.

  “Manager? Of what?”

  “Whatever strikes my fancy.” Joplin waited for a beat. “You plan to tell him I’m here?”

  “He’s not interested,” Frieda warned, then shrugged. “Guess Kane has the right to tell you himself.”

  Joplin agreed. The quest Danny sent her on was doomed from before she began. So far, she’d come away with four definitive nos. Kane would be number five. However, she promised Danny she would track down the members of Razor’s Edge. One by one, face to face.

  Tonight, after she spoke to Kane, her mission would be complete.

  Reaching for her glass, Joplin’s hand shook. Taking a drink, she sighed as the cool liquid wet her suddenly dry mouth. Why, she wondered, couldn’t the past stay where it belonged? Dead and buried.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ♫~♫~♫

  JOPLIN ASHFORD. MANAGER.

  The embossed business card was classy and understated. Like the woman herself, Kane thought. Correction, like the young woman he remembered.

  He hadn’t seen or spoken with Joplin in a long time. She might be a different person. No one knew better than Kane how five years could change a person.

  Closing his eyes, he pictured the way she looked the first time they met. Like a newly minted penny, she was bright, shiny and filled with unlimited potential. In the next year, Kane did his best to tarnish her glow, but he never succeeded—not really. A fact for which he was eternally grateful.

  “Should I tell her to go fuck herself?”

  “Don’t need you to fight my battles.” Hearing the gruff sound of his voice, Kane tempered his words with a smile. “I appreciate the thought.”

  Frieda Dickens was the first resident of Stillwater Kane had met when he stopped to fill the gas tank of his truck. Leary of anyone who seemed too interested, too soon, he quickly learned that she was the real deal—a friend in name and deed.

  Kane hadn’t planned to stay longer than a few hours. He moved around, never staying in one place long enough to establish more than the most casual of relationships. However, his cash flow was near empty and when Frieda mentioned a job opening at the bar where she worked, he figured a few weeks in one place wouldn’t be so bad.

  A year later, Kane lived in a studio apartment that was only a short walk from the bar. Six months ago, he finally unpacked his lone piece of luggage—an Army surplus duffel bag—into the small chest of drawers included with the furnished room.

  Without conscious effort, Kane found a small group of friends—Frieda topping the list. They were easy to be around, no drama, no expectations. His job paid the bills. For the first time in years, he settled in one place. However, he didn’t see Stillwater as long term.

  All his life, Kane had searched for a place to call his own, where he finally felt he belonged. Elusive, perhaps impossible, after so many of his dreams died by his own hand, in a small part of his heart, the wish he made as a boy lived. Hope, one day, he would finally find someplace that felt like home.

  Frieda, unaware where Kane’s thoughts had wandered, snatched the card from his hand, a frown making the gold hoop piercing her right eyebrow bounce.

  “Joplin.” She sighed with regret. “I like her.”

  “Everyone does,” Kane said. He retrieved the card and tucked the paper into his pocket.

  “You know her?”

  “A lifetime ago.” Running a hand through his hair, Kane looked around for something to check his reflection. Coming up empty, he turned to Frieda. “How do I look?”

  “Fine. Always do.” A light dawned in her eyes. “Oh. You don’t just know Joplin. You know her. Funny, she isn’t your usual type.”

  “I don’t have a type,” Kane grumbled. “And whatever scenario you’ve concocted about Joplin and me in that vivid imagination of yours, back up about a hundred miles. We were friends, nothing more.”

  “Friends with benefits?”

  Kane stopped himself before he licked his lips. One long-ago kiss and he swore he could still taste Joplin, smell the trace of lemon that always lingered in her hair, feel the curve of her body molded to his.

  “Just friends,” he told Frieda, lying through his teeth without an ounce of guilt or regret.

  “Right.” Frieda didn’t look convinced. “I’ve seen how you behave around your friends. Don’t recall you getting all sweaty over Thursday night poker and pizza with me, Ronny, Paz, and Mort.”

  “I’m not sweaty.” Was he? Kane ran a hand over his upper lip. Dry as a bone.

  “Close enough.” Frieda chuckled. “Never seen you nervous. Seems Joplin Ashford’s accomplished the impossible. She broke your cool.”

  Joplin. How many times over the past five years had Kane reached for his phone but stopped himself before calling her? More times than he could count. At times, he’d worried she wouldn’t answer. Or, that she would.

  For a long time, he was so low, so filled with self-loathing, he refused to drag her back into his mess of a life—even though the temptation had been almost as bad as his need for another drink. When Kane finally pulled himself from the bottom of one last bottle of tequila, when his hands were steady and his feet were on solid ground, the first person he wanted to tell was Joplin.

  Again, Kane stopped himself. He made a choice the day he walked out of her life. For her own good—for his—he gave up the right to ever see her again.

  “Joplin. Here.” He whispered the words. “Why?”

  “Money? You’re still a hot commodity in the music industry.”

  When Kane snorted in disbelief, Frieda shrugged.

  “Try checking out the fan sites devoted to Razor’s Edge if you want proof.”

  “I’d rather swallow broken glass.” Kane shuddered. Then, his gaze narrowed. “Since when do you waste your time cruising the internet for information on has-been rock bands?”

  “Since I met you.” Frieda grinned. “And, FYI, though the band isn’t together, Razor’s Edge is relevant. The new acts who cite your group as one of their biggest influences blew my mind.”

  If Frieda had a flaw—and who didn’t—hers was the need to over-exaggerate, especially when she saw the chance to pump up a friend’s accomplishments. While Kane appreciated the gesture, he’d spent too l
ong smoothing the edges of his inflated ego to take her words with more than a grain of salt.

  “Whatever Joplin’s motives, she isn’t here to jumpstart my career.”

  “Guess the only way to find out is to ask.” Frieda tipped her head to the side. “Well?”

  “Don’t you have a drink to pour?” Kane asked.

  “I’m on a break.”

  “Joplin’s waiting,” he reminded her.

  “For you, not me,” Frieda countered. She smiled. “I’ll leave you be. Anything you want me to tell Joplin?”

  Tell her I’m not here. I left town for parts unknown. Tempted to play the coward, Kane gave himself a mental kick in the pants, gritted his teeth, and shook his head.

  “Nothing I can’t say for myself.”

  “Then get moving before she’s hit on by another of our local Romeos.”

  Kane felt the rush of an emotion he recognized but hadn’t experienced in what seemed like forever. He was surprised until he remembered Joplin was involved the last time the green-eyed monster had reared its ugly head. Before her, women were lightweight, interchangeable fun. If he lost out to another guy, he didn’t care. Another conquest was just around the corner.

  From the beginning, Joplin was different, special. One of a kind. For once, Kane kept his distance, and he expected everyone else to do the same.

  Jesus, Kane thought, running a hand through his hair. What an arrogant asshole he’d been. Why Joplin gave him the time of day was a mystery too deep and twisted for him to solve.

  “I need to check on things backstage. Will you ask Joplin to wait? If she wants to leave…” Kane shrugged. “Let her.”

  “She won’t.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “After she came all the way to Stillwater just to see you? Not likely.” Frieda sent him a sizzling look she reserved for men she didn’t think of as a brother. “Besides, you’re freaking gorgeous. If nothing else, it would be worth her time for another look.”

  Kane laughed, shaking his head. Leave it to Frieda to unwittingly give him a selfish reason not to run. The last time Joplin saw him, he was a mess, mentally and physically. He’d stopped eating, slept fitfully, and subsisted on alcohol, pills, and adrenaline. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his hair brushed past his shoulders, lank and more times than not, in need of a good wash. He probably smelled as bad as he looked, though by then, he was too far into his own version of hell to care.

  Skin and bones, whatever he weighed hadn’t been enough for his once-muscular six-foot-three-inch frame.

  Five years later, Kane didn’t drink or take pills—not even aspirin. He maintained a balanced diet and exercise routine. The change was so drastic, he barely recognized himself when he looked in the mirror. Strong and healthy, enough of his old, ego-driven persona remained for him to hope Joplin noticed the results of his hard work.

  As motivators went, vanity wasn’t the worst, Kane supposed as he made a quick detour backstage. The bulk of his job happened before Sid Showalter’s first set. Other than a few tweaks during the breaks, everything ran on autopilot—a fact he kept to himself. The more Sid and the bar’s owner believed his talents were indispensable, the more likely he wouldn’t be replaced by an eager kid willing to work for half his paycheck.

  Kane eyed the exit. His mouth was dry, and his heart raced, but he kept walking toward the dance floor. Toward another mistake from his past. Toward Joplin.

  ♫~♫~♫

  THE MUSIC FOLLOWED Joplin across the room. Though her mind was focused on her meeting with Kane, the ex-talent scout and current manager in her automatically assessed the singer’s talent and potential. No grading system was perfect, but Joplin’s was as foolproof as they came.

  The singer was what she would call serviceable. Young, handsome, he knew how to sell a song to his target audience—local women ready to swoon over anyone who could swivel his hips and carry a tune. If he chose, he could have a nice career playing local bars. However, in Joplin’s opinion, his chances of going further were slim to none.

  Many a musician was satisfied to live their life as a big fish in a small pond. Which was fine. Not everyone was destined for musical greatness.

  Finding an empty table near the back of the room, Joplin took a seat, found a bag of lemon drops in her purse, popped one in her mouth, and waited for Kane.

  Nothing new. With a half-smile, she shook her head, remembering how he used to make a point of being late. From the moment they met, he was oil to her water. Opposites. Antagonists. Kane tried anything and everything to get under her skin. Joplin was just as bad. Pushing, prodding.

  For twelve months, as Razor’s Edge toured the world, they played a game of chicken to see who would lose their cool first. Joplin won—barely. The only saving grace to their epic shouting match was, for once, Kane was discreet and waited until they were alone.

  The room shook with the power of their words and—Lord help her—a mega load of pent-up sexual tension. Joplin had tried not to want Kane. He was everything she loathed about the music industry jammed into one infuriatingly talented, undeniably sexy, self-destructive man. And yet, despite her better judgment, she had fallen hard. Love at first sight.

  “Hello, Joplin.”

  Kane. Her pulse jumped. The term love at first sight wasn’t exactly right. More like, love at first listen. Before she looked into his dark eyes or marveled at his sculpted cheekbones, she heard his voice. The first time the sound hit her ears, she literally stopped in her tracks. Though she couldn’t know, then and there, she turned her heart over to a man she’d never met, never laid eyes on.

  Still deep, still like a shot of straight aged whiskey with a smoky chaser. Still designed to make the listener’s insides turn to jelly.

  After all the years apart, sporting a mended but battered heart, Joplin admitted—to herself—she wasn’t immune. Mentally, she’d braced herself to meet with Kane. However, knowing the moment would happen was worlds apart in theory than in reality.

  Palms damp, as her heart raced, she raised her gaze and said the first thing that popped into her head—the truth.

  “You look good. Almost like a different man.”

  Kane smiled, and Joplin felt a familiar catch in her breath. Nothing different there. Except she was older, wiser, less vulnerable to his charms. Most of all, she had a long memory. When she was twenty-one, she couldn’t know what loving Kane would do to her self-confidence or the scars he would leave on her heart and soul.

  Perhaps she wasn’t immune—the inoculation of pain and hurt not as effective as she would have liked. Didn’t matter. Joplin had something better in her emotional arsenal. A shaft of steely resolve forged from bitter experience and a promise to herself she would never lay herself vulnerable to another man the way she had to Kane Harrison.

  “May I sit?”

  “Please.” Joplin nodded toward the chair opposite her own and despite herself, smiled. “Can’t recall you ever asked permission for anything. You’ve learned manners since the last time we met.”

  “I’ve learned humility.” Kane shrugged, his lips ticking up on one side when Joplin’s brows shot up in disbelief. “Like everything else in my life, my humble side is a work in progress. One day at a time.”

  “Sounds right,” Joplin said, hoping he’d finally found the peace of mind that eluded the man she once knew. “I meant what I said. You look good.”

  More than the weight he’d gained, or his dark eyes no longer filled with clouds and shadows, from his face no longer lined with tension and worry, to the straight line of his once stooped shoulders, everything about Kane seemed lighter. Joplin hoped, for his sake, her observations were true.

  “Same goes for you,” Kane said, steering the conversation away from him and the past. “I like the shorter hair.”

  Joplin stopped herself from touching the ends of her expertly cut shoulder-length bob. Professional but modern and edgy, the style suited her music i
ndustry job—and her life in general—better than the longer locks Kane remembered.

  Professional. A reminder of why she was there, the word pulled Joplin back from the brink of nostalgia.

  “Sorry to drop in on you unannounced.”

  “Didn’t want to give me the chance to dodge your visit?” Kane asked, hitting the nail on the head with disturbing accuracy. “I wouldn’t have run.”

  “History tells a different story,” Joplin said before she could stop herself. Damn, damn, damn. The last thing she wanted was to head down an old, worn-out path. Her eyes were trained on the future, not the past. Before Kane could respond, she rushed her next sentence. “I’m here because of Danny.”

  “Danny?” Kane frowned. “You mean Danny Graham? There’s a name I haven’t heard in forever. After all this time, what could your uncle possibly want with me?”

  Rather than hem and haw, Joplin gave her pitch in one long streaming rush of words.

  “Danny is dying—a brain tumor. His last wish is to facilitate a Razor’s Edge reunion. Considering everything he did for you, one night out of your life shouldn’t be too much to ask. What do you say?”

  After four similar meetings with the rest of Razor’s Edge and four resounding answers of hell no, Joplin didn’t expect anything else from Kane.

  “Okay.”

  Certain she’d misheard, Joplin blinked.

  “Excuse me? What did you say?”

  “My answer is yes,” Kane said, his expression serious. “Tell me when and where. I’ll be there.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  ♫~♫~♫

  “I… Um… Huh.”

  Joplin struggled to find something to say, a cohesive response, as her brain tried to process Kane’s words. She wasn’t prepared for Kane to agree, no one else had. Of all the members of Razor’s Edge, she would have laid odds against that he would be the first—the only—one to say yes. And without hesitation.

  “Seriously?”

  When Kane nodded, Joplin almost laughed. She was prepared for him to say no. She had an arsenal of counterarguments, a plethora of reasons he should change his mind. The fact that he acquiesced so quickly threw her off her stride.

 

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