Until tonight, Joplin rolled with whatever challenges came her way. From the weather to a difficult client, she never broke a sweat or collapsed into a shivering mass.
Healthy as a proverbial horse, Joplin was never sick. Searching her brain for the last time she suffered from as much as a sniffle, she came up empty. Didn’t matter. She wasn’t a superwoman. If anything, she was all too human.
After the last few weeks spent zigzagging the country—California, Washington State, Nevada, back to California, Michigan, another brief stop on the West Coast, and now Maine, no matter how she tried to take care of herself, anyone was bound to get rundown and vulnerable to a virus or two.
Certain she was ill, ready to give in to the prospect, Joplin pressed her palm to her forehead. Though her body felt like the inside of a blast cooler, she expected to find a feverish brow. Her hand found cool, dry skin.
Frowning, Joplin tried again. Though the test was unscientific, her touch was accurate enough to determine she did not have a fever.
Great, she thought with a sigh. Joplin didn’t need a doctor to tell her what was wrong. A bit of self-diagnosis and a straight shot of honesty gave her the answer. She suffered from a case of the Kane Harrisons. Why couldn’t she have contracted the flu? Or the bubonic plague. Either would be preferable and a heck of a lot easier to cure.
Joplin rolled to her back and stared at the ceiling. Kane had always been a fever in her blood. For a long time after he walked away from Razor’s Edge—away from her—she tried to convince herself love was never part of the equation. What she felt for Kane equaled nothing more than unresolved lust.
Eventually, as Joplin came to terms with the most tumultuous year of her life, she admitted her true feelings. Yes, she’d loved him. He was her first love and the most intense relationship of her life, then, now, perhaps forever.
When Kane left, she was devastated. Yet, Joplin didn’t fall to pieces. She did what strong women had done since time began. She picked herself up and moved forward.
Seeing Kane again answered a question she’d pondered for a long time. Yes, he could still turn her insides to jelly. Whether by design or accident, he knew how to push her anger button with little more than an off-hand comment and a smirk.
And while she would always hope for his continued health and happiness, she could say without qualification, she was no longer in love with Kane Harrison.
Joplin waited for the next shiver. And waited. And waited. She wasn’t exactly toasty warm, but as her mind settled, so did her body.
Kane. She would never be done with him completely. He would always be part of her past—some good, some bad. And while a lack of love was one thing, the need for answers, something else.
Why? The word haunted more of her nights than she cared to remember. Why was he the only man who found a way to her heart? Why had she felt the need to save him when he pushed her away at every turn? And when, finally, she broke through the hard shell of his reserve, why did he run off and marry another woman?
Why did you break my heart?
The one, the only question Joplin allowed herself to ask.
I had no choice.
Why was she surprised by Kane’s cryptic answer? He said as little as possible, slammed the car door, and walked away. Eliminate the parking lot setting, and their exchange played out like a blast from their complicated past.
Hoping to escape into sleep, Joplin closed her eyes. A picture of Kane flashed onto the back of her eyelids. His hair was long, his handsome face covered, but not hidden, by a beard. And as he sang a song about pain and redemption, his eyes took on a dreamy quality comparable to nothing she’d seen before or since.
Joplin rubbed her eyes, but when she settled deeper under the covers, the image of Kane remained. Knowing sleep would be impossible, she relaxed and followed her memories down an old, familiar path.
♫~♫~♫
KANE STEPPED FROM the shower. Taking a towel from the nearby rack, he walked to the mirror, wiped the steam from the glass and stared at his reflection.
For years, during the worst of his addiction, Kane avoided looking himself in the eye. More than his gaunt features or sallow skin, he was afraid to acknowledge how close he was to falling off the edge of the cliff he’d clung to for most of his life.
Every time he reached for another bottle, or popped one more pill, he grew to hate himself more and more. Suicide was his best alternative. Put himself out of his misery. A coward at heart, he didn’t have the balls to end his life in one fell swoop.
Kane chose to kill himself in slow and steady increments. One oxycodone and swallow of tequila at a time.
At one point, the cycle of fear and loathing became so bad, Kane dreaded falling asleep, certain he wouldn’t wake up again. Conversely, when he pried his eyes open the next morning, he almost wept with regret at the thought of another day trapped in the hell of his own making.
Running a hand over his face, Kane carefully rehung the damp towel and rolled his head in a slow circle. He hated looking back. Yet, he couldn’t allow himself to forget either. He was two years sober and a year past the last night he almost slipped, almost took a drink to commemorate the anniversary of the first time he remembered getting high.
Twenty-four months wasn’t a huge amount of time in the scheme of things. Yet there were moments when he forgot the waste of space he used to be. For long stretches, his memories blurred. He could almost forget how he went from a functioning alcoholic and occasional drug user with a music career on the cusp of greatness to a fall-down, stinking drunken addict with nothing but a bottle to keep him company.
Kane was a better man today than at any time in his almost thirty years on earth. He could happily live without the artificial, drug-induced highs. And he sure as hell didn’t miss the crazed, tempted to claw out his own eyes, lows.
What he missed, craved like his next breath, was the music.
Once, a lifetime ago, Kane saw the world in vivid color. Every sound, every movement, every experience, served as his inspiration, and the songs flowed from him like sweet, sweet manna from heaven. A part of him for as long as he could remember, he never gave his gift a lot of thought—until it was gone.
Kane pulled himself out of a downward spiral. His life was on track, his mind was clear, his body strong. However, the day he set aside his addiction was the day he lost his musical muse. He didn’t play, he didn’t write, he didn’t sing. He didn’t complain.
The price Kane paid for his past sins was cheap compared to the alternative. These days, his world was mostly black and white, a small price to pay considering his past sins.
The shock of seeing Joplin sparked a hunger in Kane he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Inspiration. But like the desire to take her in his arms and never let go, he ignored the impulse.
Shaking his head, Kane crawled into bed, placed his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. Music was part of his past, not his present or his future. As for Joplin? She was never his, not really.
Joplin, so far out of his league, they weren’t in the same hemisphere, fell in love with him. And he with her. For a moment, a wisp of time, Kane fooled himself into believing he could have someone so wonderful, so full of light and life.
Of course, in the end, he was wrong. Leaving Joplin was perhaps the one selfless act Kane performed. He wanted her to hate him, to move on and forget he ever existed.
Kane knew better than anyone the task of wiping your mind clean was impossible. He lived with his mistakes. Joplin had to do the same. However, she had moved on and, from what he could tell, didn’t spend her time looking back on what might have been.
At least for tonight, Kane couldn’t say the same. He spent so much time keeping his gaze trained on the road ahead, he hadn’t let himself think about Joplin. Now, he couldn’t seem to stem the memories, one after another.
With a sigh, Kane closed his eyes and let himself remember.
CHAPTER S
IX
♫~♫~♫
KANE & JOPLIN—SIX YEARS EARLIER
ONE EYE ON the strings, the other on the table in the back of the bar, Kane plucked out a random melody, listening for just the right tone and timbre.
Because he could tune a guitar in his sleep with one hand tied behind his back, he focused the bulk of his attention on the woman who, for the past few weekends, seemed awfully interested in his band.
“She’s back,” Kane muttered out the side of his mouth.
Jaxon Cross, lost in his own pre-performance routine, didn’t bother to look.
“Who?” he asked.
“The girl.”
“Girl?” Jax snickered. “What is a girl doing in a bar? Drinking age in Oregon is twenty-one.”
“Did you just make a joke?” Kane asked. He looked over his shoulder at the other two people on the small stage. “Anyone laughing?”
Morgan Ames exchanged smiles with Beck Kramer but neither commented. Part of Razor’s Edge for the past two years, they were used to the back and forth exchanges between the group’s founding members. Like when Kane and Jax partnered up to write a song, the childhood friends had a rhythm unique to themselves in all facets of their life.
Realizing he was on his own, Kane drained the last drop of beer from the can, tossed the empty into the trash, and immediately longed for another. Knowing Jax had an eye on his alcohol consumption before and during their performances, he made himself wait before popping the top on his next beer.
“Forget I asked,” Kane muttered.
“Such a drama queen,” Jax snorted. Blue eyes twinkling with humor. He turned his gaze toward the audience. “Where is she?”
Rather than explain why the presence of the blonde in the back sent an uneasy feeling up and down his spine, Kane shrugged.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Jax raised an eyebrow but didn’t pursue the subject.
“Speaking of women. Kylie is late,” Beck said. “Again.”
Kane almost grimaced but managed to maintain a neutral expression. He was the one who brought Kylie Hope into their lives. Meant to be another in a long line of one-night stands, his drunken, mid-sex promise to let her sing with the group hadn’t been a disaster—exactly.
Though Kylie was always late and tended to whine about everything, she looked good on stage and her voice wasn’t bad, blending well with Jax’s during their duet of Kane’s composition, Savior.
“She’s out—for good.” Morgan crossed his arms over his black Metallica t-shirt, daring anyone to argue. Built like a Mack truck, few people outside the band ever tried. “We agreed if she showed up late one more time, we’d kick her fine ass to the curb. Agreed?”
Relief washed over Kane. One woman was all he wanted, but only one time and one time only. He never went back for a second taste. Kylie had filled the bill quite nicely. Trouble was, she wanted more.
Didn’t matter that Kane made his position clear. Didn’t matter that he told her straight out, right to her face. One night meant one night. He hadn’t touched her since. Kylie considered herself irresistible and was convinced when Kane left town, she would be right by his side.
Kane would have walked away without an ounce of guilt. He wasn’t the sentimental type. Still, removing her one and only song from tonight’s set made saying goodbye forever even easier.
“We sound fine without her,” Kane said. “Better. The duet becomes a solo. No big deal.”
“Unless we get someone else.”
Three sets of surprised eyes turned toward Jax.
“You groused about adding a girl singer. Now you want someone new?” Beck threw up his hands. “Welcome to Bizzaro World.”
“I was opposed to Kylie.” Jax sent Kane an I told you so smirk. “Give me someone reliable, who can actually hit the proper notes, and I’m onboard.”
“We can talk about a possible replacement later. Right now, we have a show to do,” Morgan reminded them.
“I already have someone. Skye.”
Kane chuckled. He should have known. From the moment Jax laid eyes on the beautiful waitress, his friend was obsessed.
Blonde, but unlike the ponytailed cutie at the back of the room who exuded a wholesome, self-confident vibrancy and continued to draw Kane’s reluctant attention, Skye Monroe possessed a delicate, almost ethereal quality.
Whatever demons lurked behind Skye’s dark-chocolate eyes, Jax would want to exorcise—he couldn’t help himself. A fact Kane could attest to from personal experience.
“You want to replace one girlfriend with another?” From his expression, the idea didn’t make Beck happy.
“Girlfriend?”
Jax and Kane spoke at once, Kane appalled, Jax terrified.
“Skye is a girl. And we’re friends. But we aren’t… I mean, we don’t…” Jax let out a frustrated growl. “Do I call her up, or not?”
“You haven’t screwed her?” Kane asked without inflection.
“No,” Jax said without hesitation.
“Okay then. I’m onboard.”
“Why?” Morgan demanded.
“Sexual tension,” Kane explained.
“He’s right.” Beck grinned, obviously warming to the idea. “When two people want to go at it but don’t, the unsatisfied oomph makes a song sound better. Haven’t you noticed the way Kane and Jax look at each other during Lonely Road?”
Kane’s lips twitched, but for the sake of his take-no-shit reputation, his gaze narrowed to a threatening slit.
“Might need to knock you down a peg or two after the show, Beckett.”
Beck, as usual, wasn’t concerned. The guy was cool personified. Annoying as hell, but Kane loved the guy anyway.
“Are we agreed?” Jax waited, his blue eyes moving from bandmate to bandmate.
Though Kane and Jax founded Razor’s Edge long before they met Morgan and Beck, the group was run as a democracy. Nothing was done without a majority vote in favor or against.
Beck took his drumsticks from his back pocket and nodded.
“I guess one night won’t doom our careers,” Morgan reluctantly conceded.
“Go get her, son.” Kane shoved Jax toward the bar where Skye waited for an order to be filled. “We don’t have all night.”
Jax didn’t need any more encouragement and though Kane didn’t understand obsessing over one woman to the exclusion of all others, he wished his friend well.
“Think he’ll convince her?” Morgan asked.
“If anyone can, it’s Jax,” Beck said as he took a seat behind his precious set of drums.
While Morgan and Beck kept their eyes trained on the scene playing out near the bar, Kane made a show of opening another beer and taking a long, thirsty drink. But from the corner of his eye, he watched the sweet little blonde scribbling away in her notebook as a shaggy-haired college boy approached her table.
Kane didn’t know a lot about her, but he’d learned a few things over the past few weekends. First, guys were drawn to her like bees to honey. Second, blondie wasn’t interested in whatever line they chose to pitch her way.
Yes, she always looked at her would-be suitors in the face. Head tipped to one side, without a smile or a frown, she listened politely. Then, she said one word. No. Nothing more, nothing less.
Impressive, Kane thought each time he read the word from her lips. While something about her innately annoyed him, he admired the way she dismissed each attempted pick up with a brook no argument demeanor.
“Bet she’s a virgin,” Kane muttered.
“Who?” Morgan asked with an absentminded frown.
“Blondie.”
When Morgan and Beck exchanged confused looks, Kane gave up. Gulping down the rest of his beer, he crushed the can in his hand, allowed himself one more peek, then turned away from the blonde and turned his mind to more important matters.
Some called Kane reckless, a loose cannon with little regard for himself or th
ose around him. For the most part, the assessment was true. Yet, despite his self-destructive tendencies, when he cared about someone, something, his feelings ran deep and true.
Kane stumbled. Occasionally, he fell flat on his face. However, since the summer he turned eight, two things kept Kane tethered to the world. His friendship with Jax and his one true love, music.
Gripping the neck of his guitar, he closed his eyes and strummed the strings. All Kane’s life he’d searched for an elusive something he never expected to find. However, surrounded by his bandmates, the notes they played in perfect harmony forming a melody that sang in his blood, he figured each night on stage was as close as he’d ever come to a real home.
CHAPTER SEVEN
♫~♫~♫
ON THE OUTSIDE, Joplin was cool, calm, and collected. Head bent, pen in hand, recording her thoughts in an ever-present notebook. To a casual observer, she seemed oblivious to the people around her, the bar, the customers, the band about to begin their performance.
The truth was just the opposite. Because Joplin appeared to be in her own little cocooned world, she was able to take in everything without any distractions.
The bar catered to students from the nearby university and though someone stood at the door to check each customer’s age, Joplin would have bet her next year’s salary that more than a few revelers slipped through via fake I.D.
Joplin should know. Until her last birthday when she turned twenty-one, she used a perfectly executed driver’s license that added five years to her age. Illegal, yes. However, she considered the subterfuge to be worth the risk because her goal had never been to score alcohol. She was after the newest trends in music and the up and coming musicians.
For the last three years, Joplin spent more time on the road than in her tiny Los Angeles apartment. Unlike many of her friends, her weekends weren’t about scoring a date but scouting talent.
ALMOST HOME Page 5