ALMOST HOME

by Williams, Mary J.

  “Careful with the ancient cultural references, old man,” Quinn said with a snort. “You’re aging yourself.”

  Amused, Ryder winked at Kane.

  “Check your birth certificate, my love. We were born in the same year.”

  Kane chuckled. Somehow—he couldn’t say just when—he’d morphed from a tongue-tied fan to Ryder Hart’s friend and musical collaborator. Jax could say the same. As could the other members of Razor’s Edge.

  The transition had been seamless. One second, they were shaking hands with certified rock legends, the next, they felt at home, welcomed like members of the family instead of the strangers they were.

  Even now, Jax, on a rare break, was in the middle of raiding the kitchen as though he’d known the Hart family for years instead of days.

  Starstruck as the rest of them, Beck gravitated toward fellow drummer, Dalton Shaw. The two started talking about the best brand of sticks and hadn’t come up for air since.

  Morgan, quiet even for him, found common ground with The Ryder Hart Band’s keyboard player, Ashe Mathison. Though to be fair, Kane thought, Ashe did most of the talking.

  Zoe Hart took Skye under her wing. Soon, the women were inseparable. Shopping for new clothes—at Zoe’s insistence—to wear on stage, seemed to top their list of activities.

  As for Joplin, she seemed a perfect fit wherever she landed. Kane had to admit that her ability to converse on any subject from music to fashion was impressive. And annoying as hell.

  No one was perfect, yet Joplin Ashford came close. Her one foible—the only one Kane had identified—was that she cared too much. She worked twice as hard as anyone else.

  When he and the rest of Razor’s Edge wrapped for the day, she logged in extra hours to make certain their schedule went off without a hitch. From recording their first single, to rehearsal time for the concert tour, to media interviews, and reservations at trendy restaurants, all they had to do was show up, Joplin took care of the rest.

  The music is what matters, Joplin told them on the ride from the airport to their hotel. They were to concentrate on recording the best songs possible and performing on stage. Her job was to make the in-between things—the boring stuff—run so smoothly, they didn’t notice her doing what she was paid to do.

  Kane’s bandmates already took their uber-efficient manager for granted, as though she’d always been a part of their lives. They were wrapped up in their own lives, their personal drama. Because Joplin made everything look easy, she gave them carte blanche to think only of themselves.

  Even boy scout Beckett, who Kane suspected had developed a bit of crush on Joplin, didn’t think twice about asking her to mail a package home to his mother even though the little favor added another thirty minutes to her already jam-packed day.

  No one seemed to notice that Joplin somehow managed to be everywhere at once without complaining or breaking a sweat. But Kane noticed, damn her. His need to follow her with his eyes, to watch her every move, had become a compulsion, one that didn’t sit well.

  Even now, when his attention should have been focused solely on his music, he was aware of Joplin as she spoke on the phone, nodding, making notes. The room smelled strongly of freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon cookies with the faint overlay of furniture polish. Yet as Kane took a deep breath, he caught the scent of lemon—Joplin’s scent.

  “You with me?” Ryder asked, the faint lines around his blue eyes deepening as his gaze narrowed. “Do you need a break?”

  Kane sent one last look in Joplin’s direction, gave himself a mental shake, then refocused his attention.

  “I’m good,” he said.

  Ryder glanced at Joplin. His lips curved into a knowing smile but, thankfully, kept his opinion to himself.

  “Zoe? Will you come here for a second?”

  Ryder’s sister stood and walked across the room.

  “Trouble?” she asked.

  “I need you to show young Kane how his song should sound.”

  With a shrug, Zoe exchanged places with her brother.

  “Listen,” Ryder said. “And learn.”

  Kane owned every album recorded by The Ryder Hart Band. He was familiar with Zoe Hart, knew she was an anomaly in the rock world, a female lead guitar player. There were many fine musicians with estrogen flowing through their DNA who could hold their own on any stage.

  However, rock music was still dominated by men, and few had the insight, or the balls, to let a woman take the spotlight. Kane watched as Zoe’s fingers drew notes from the guitar he didn’t recognize. Her skill and finesse were humbling, and he came as close to tears as he could ever remember. She turned his little song into a freaking revelation.

  “Okay,” Kane said when he regained the ability to speak. “Slower is better.”

  Zoe could have gloated. After twenty-plus years at the top of the music world, and the masterclass she’d just given him, she’d earned the right. Instead, she set aside the guitar, winked one big, brown eye, and walked away without a word. Proof when you’re a living legend, you let your music speak for itself.

  “You’re talented, Kane,” Ryder told him, patting him on the shoulder. “More important, your sound is unique. No matter what anyone tells you, hold onto your vision. But don’t limit yourself. Keep an open mind.”

  “I hear you,” Kane said.

  “Good.” Ryder nodded toward Kane’s guitar. “Try it Zoe’s way.”

  Eager, though a little nervous his fingers weren’t as talented, nor as dexterous as The Ryder Hart Band’s lead guitarist, Kane bent his head. His hair fell across. Frustrated, he growled. Joplin appeared out of nowhere.

  “Here,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “I don’t like rubber bands,” Kane muttered, hoping she would go away.

  “A band, but not rubber.”

  Before he could react, Joplin moved behind him and scooped up his wayward hair. In a few turns of her wrist, she’d tamed his unruly mane.

  “Did you tie my hair into a ponytail?” Kane demanded.

  “More of a man-tail. Very masculine.” Joplin assured him.

  As quickly as she appeared, she was gone, leaving Kane bemused.

  “Don’t bother to argue.” Ryder let out a snort, half laugh, half cough. “Besides, the man-tail is a practical solution. Unless you want me to set up an appointment with the guy who cuts my hair?”

  “No.” Kane sighed. “Joplin Ashford is a menace.”

  “And you can’t keep your eyes off her.”

  Kane stifled a groan. He hadn’t realized anyone noticed.

  “Joplin is a beautiful woman. Can’t blame a man for enjoying the view.”

  “I sympathize,” Ryder said. “When I met Quinn, all I wanted was to get her into bed. Lucky me, she felt the same. Unfortunately, she was on assignment for Rolling Stone. We agreed, while she photographed the band, we’d keep our distance.”

  Rather than deny the obvious attraction he felt for Joplin, Kane decided to be smart for once and ask for advice.

  “How did you survive?”

  “Longest two weeks of my life,” Ryder said.

  Kane closed his eyes as his chin hit his chest. Two weeks? Really?

  “The tour is scheduled to last a year,” he reminded Ryder.

  “Tough break.” Ryder’s lips twitched. “Hey, men have survived longer without sex. And, you have other alternatives?”

  “Jacking off isn’t the same.”

  “True,” Ryder said. “However, I meant if you can’t have Joplin, pick someone else. Brunettes, redheads, tall, short, thin, curvy. The choices will be endless.”

  Kane didn’t want anyone else. Only Joplin. Certain the aberration would soon pass, he kept the fact to himself.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said as he plucked a random chord. “Joplin has rules—strict and non-negotiable. She doesn’t mix business with pleasure. Even if she did…”

  “Even if she did, you think
she can do better?”

  Puzzled by Ryder’s prescience, Kane’s head shot up.

  “How do you know?”

  “I remember the feeling.” Ryder sighed as his gaze traveled to his wife, the love of his life. “Quinn was, is, and will always be the love of my life. But for a long time, I didn’t think we could make our relationship work.”

  Kane wanted Joplin’s body—one night—not a relationship. Still, he couldn’t help but ask what made Ryder Hart—the coolest, most together man he’d ever met—hesitate to take what he wanted; a future with Quinn.

  “You loved her. She loved you?”

  Ryder nodded.

  “What was the problem?”

  “Me.” The blue of Ryder’s eyes darkened. “My childhood was more horror story than fairytale. Quinn brought a radiant light into my life. I was afraid if she was around me for long, my dark side would win. The thought of watching her love turn into hate was more than I could stand.”

  “Yet, here you are. You and Quinn, still together. Still in love.” To Kane, the idea of one woman through one lifetime seemed impossible. “How?”

  “Someday, when you really need to know, ask me again.” Ryder rolled his head in a slow circle. “Getting late. You ready to lay down a track?”

  Kane nodded, but he couldn’t stop thinking about their conversation. He had questions, but according to Ryder, he would only get the answers when he needed them. In other words, never.

  Moving to the microphone, Kane placed the headset over his ears. Without thinking, his gaze landed on the woman he couldn’t stop thinking about and cursed himself. He didn’t need the secret to a long relationship. He didn’t need to know how to make a marriage work.

  Kane desired women. He wanted one in particular so much just thinking about her made his mouth water. But did he need her? No. He didn’t need anyone. Especially Joplin Ashford.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ♫~♫~♫

  KANE STEPPED INSIDE the hotel elevator. Three women, tourists, he imagined, back from a night on the town and a little tipsy. Middle aged, attractive, dressed in their glittery best, they looked him up and down and smiled. The invitation was unspoken but impossible to miss.

  Not so long ago, he would have smiled back, asked them to join him for a drink, retired with one, two, or all three of them for the night. Instead, he kept his gaze on the doors as they opened. The women slowly exited without him.

  Jax would say the fact Kane hadn’t acted on the obvious invitation was a sign of his growing maturity. Kane would say, fuck you, Jax. He was tired, that’s all. After almost a month of rehearsals and the hours spent in the recording studio, all he wanted at the end of the day was some time alone to wind down and sleep. Plenty of sleep.

  Perhaps he had matured, Kane thought as he waited for the elevator to stop on his floor, though he wasn’t sure how he felt about trading in his wild ways. He was a young man. Then again, he’d done enough hard living in his twenty-three years to fill several lifetimes.

  Hell, once Razor’s Edge began their stint as the opening act for The Ryder Hart Band World Tour, he’d find time to sow a few more wild oats. But for now, he was off the random hookups and limited himself to a few beers during the day and a couple of straight shots in the privacy of his room. Not the rotgut tequila he was raised on, but a two-hundred-dollar bottle of liquid gold meant to be sipped and savored, not swilled as his father taught him.

  Kane swiped a hand over his mouth as his taste buds wept in anticipation. Under his arm, he carried a brand-spanking-new bottle. Breaking the seal, a virgin voyage. He grinned.

  The bell on the elevator dinged, the doors swishing open, and Kane’s smile froze. Speaking of virgins, Joplin waited, one hand swiping at the screen on her phone, the other clutching the strap of a huge leather tote.

  To be fair, Kane had no proof of Joplin’s sexual experience. She was a contradiction. A self-assured and highly capable young woman, one minute she exuded sensuality, the next an air of innocence. The combination drove him crazy.

  Without looking up, Joplin adjusted her ever-present horn-rimmed glasses and entered the elevator. She and the members of Razor’s Edge had rooms on the eighteenth floor.

  “Going to your room?” Kane asked. “Or should I push a different button?”

  Joplin’s head popped up, her green eyes showing her surprise. Kane smiled. He rarely saw her at a loss for words and didn’t mind that he was the reason. His good humor faded when her gaze dropped to the bottle of tequila. A good four feet separated them, yet he could feel every inch of her disapproval.

  “I’ve been a good boy, Joplin. Walked the straight and narrow. Deprived myself of what I really want.” Kane sent her a telling look. “Worked my ass off. If I want to take a drink or two in the privacy of my room, who are you to judge?”

  “I didn’t say a word.”

  Which made the undeserved tickle of guilt even worse. Joplin’s silence hung over him like a lead weight. Worse, her green eyes spoke volumes.

  “You could join me,” Kane offered, knowing she would say no.

  “Sure,” Joplin said with a shrug as the elevator doors opened on their floor. “Why not.”

  Kane waited for her to step from the car before he followed. He took his keycard from his pocket, flicked the edge with his thumb, and frowned.

  “You don’t drink.”

  “I do,” Joplin corrected him. “Not often, and not a lot. Like you, I’ve worked hard since we arrived in Los Angeles. Don’t I deserve to relax for a few hours?”

  Of course, Kane thought. However, he was surprised by her choice of activities.

  “Figured you would grab Skye, Zoe Hart, Quinn, and head for a spa.”

  “Zoe and Quinn are at home with their families. Skye wants to be with Jax. Since she promised her father not to fraternize, she’d rather sulk in her room.”

  Kane opened his hotel room door.

  “Sounds like Jax. Sits. Sulks.” He chuckled. “Writes depressing songs to sit and sulk by.”

  “Two people who want to be together. Old enough to make their own decisions. Instead, they’re alone.” Joplin placed her bag on the table and sighed. “Frustrating.”

  Kane sympathized with his best friend and wanted to shake some sense into Skye. But the couple’s rift on Romeo and Juliet wasn’t any of his business—as Jax reminded him the other day when he tried to put in his two cents worth.

  Besides, Kane had his own problem. Long legs, curves in all the right places, shiny blonde hair, and a pair of green eyes designed to haunt a man’s dreams.

  Frustrating was the word, all right.

  “Drink?” Kane asked as he wiggled the bottle.

  “Sure.” Joplin slipped out of her jacket. Her sky-high heels came next. “Do you mind? My feet need a break almost as much as my brain.”

  “Make yourself at home.” Kane’s gaze followed the line of Joplin’s bare calves to the arch of her feet and lower. “Your toenails are painted red.”

  “Passion’s Plaything,” Joplin said with a laugh. “Silly name, but I liked the color.”

  Where women’s bodies were concerned, Kane enjoyed the whole package, never concentrating his desire on one feature. However, he had a sudden urge to fall on his knees, take Joplin’s foot in his hands, and kiss every inch. Next, her slender ankle, the curve of her calf, and the dip behind her knee. His hand would slide beneath her skirt as he discovered if her skin was as soft and silky as he imagined.

  “Kane?” Joplin’s voice broke into his musings. “You okay?”

  “Sure.” Turning away, Kane cleared his throat. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I asked you a question, but you zoned out on me,” she said. “You’re certain nothing’s wrong? Nervous about the tour? Whatever the problem, you can tell me.”

  Kane wasn’t nervous, and he sure as hell couldn’t share with Joplin his sexual fantasies. She would either slap his face—which he deserved. Or, sh
e would kiss him—which he craved. Both scenarios spelled potential disaster.

  Breathing in, then out, feeling his equilibrium return, Kane lifted the bottle of tequila and turned the cap.

  “Hear that?” He sighed. “Nothing like the sound of the seal breaking.”

  “If you say so,” Joplin said with a shrug.

  “Then there’s the first scent of alcohol as you pull out the stopper.” Kane placed the rim of the bottle under Joplin’s nose. “Don’t take my word. Breathe in. Slow and steady.”

  “Smells like tequila.”

  “Yes, it does,” Kane said as he drew the scent into his nose. “My old man didn’t teach me much that was worth remembering. However, he knew how to savor the moment before his first drink from a virgin bottle.

  Of course, his father couldn’t afford the good stuff. Reading the label, Kane’s lips quirked into a humorless smile. Coleccion. Very nice. Niles Harrison would have wept over the exclusive brand. Then knocked Kane on his ass just out of habit.

  “Don’t you want a glass?” Joplin asked as she watched him go through the sacred ritual.

  Shaking his head, Kane took a sip. Unlike his father, he didn’t guzzle. Then again, he had company. Without Joplin as a witness, he liked to think he’d take his time, that the progress he’d made while in Los Angeles would hold for another day. He knew himself well enough to admit the thread of good behavior he’d woven over the past few weeks was thin. One careless tug, and snap, he’d fall back into his old ways.

  But not tonight. Not with Joplin by his side—the good woman who made him want to be a better man.

  “Question.” Kane sent Joplin a speculative look. “Every now and then, a trace of Southern twang creeps into your voice. I thought you were a California girl, born and raised.”

  “After my parents died, Uncle Danny was the only relative left—or the only one willing to take in an orphaned little girl,” Joplin explained. “Since he was gone so much of the time, he hired a nanny. Anita Preston. She was a Georgia girl, born and bred. When I’m tired, or stressed, her influence comes flooding back.”