FLOWERS ON THE WALL
♥♥♥ ♫ ♥♥♥
HART of ROCK and ROLL BOOK ONE
MARY J. WILLIAMS
© 2016
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Writing isn't easy. But I love every second. A blank screen isn't the enemy. It is the opportunity to create new friends and take them on amazing adventures and life-changing journeys. I feel blessed to spend my days weaving tales that are unique—because I made them.
Billionaires. Songwriters. Artists. Actors. Directors. Stuntmen. Football players. They fill the pages and become dear friends I hope you will want to revisit again and again.
Thank you for jumping into my books and coming along for the journey.
HOW TO GET IN TOUCH
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MORE BOOKS BY MARY J. WILLIAMS
Harper Falls Series
If I Loved You
If Tomorrow Never Comes
If You Only Knew
If I Had You (Christmas in Harper Falls)
Hollywood Legends Series
Dreaming with a Broken Heart
Dreaming with My Eyes Wide Open
Dreaming of Your Love
Dreaming Again
Dreaming of a White Christmas (Coming in December)
(Caleb and Callie's story)
One Pass Away Series
After the Rain
After All These Years
After the Fire
Hart of Rock and Roll
Flowers and Cages (Coming in September)
Flowers are Red (Coming in October)
Flowers for Zoe (Coming in November)
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
COUNTING FLOWERS ON the wall. That don't bother me at all. Playing solitaire 'til dawn. With a deck of fifty-one.
He hated the song. It was the music that nightmares were set to. When the first familiar note pounded through the broken-down trailer, he knew what it meant. Their fragile peace was at an end.
Smokin' cigarettes and watching Captain Kangaroo. Now, don't tell me. I've nothin' to do.
When he was younger—still innocent enough to believe that this time would be different—he would cover his head with his pillow and pretend the music hadn't started. He didn't have to worry about his sister. At least he knew she would be fine. She was practically a baby and blessedly, the monster left her alone.
He was the one it sought out. He was the one who felt its wrath.
Was it a joke that the walls of his tiny room were covered in daisies? The faded wallpaper made his skin crawl. Taking it down wasn't an option. He had tried. The scars in his hand had been his punishment. Or—as the monster put it—his reward for being such a clever little boy.
Counting flowers on the wall. That don't bother me at all.
"I need my little boy." The voice was sing-songy, and though the words were slurred, they were unmistakable.
The bedroom door slammed open.
"There he is." The monster grabbed his arm, jerking him out of bed. His breath was foul. Sour from cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes. "Come keep Daddy company."
"I have school tomorrow."
He knew the slap was coming. Not across the face. Teachers noticed when he showed up for class with a swollen lip. The monster knew better. He aimed low where a mark would be covered by long-sleeved shirts or blue jeans.
"What good is school? Don't I teach you everything you need to know? How to pour a drink. How to light my stogie?" The monster took his cigar from his mouth, blowing on the end until it glowed red. "How to put it out?"
The hot tip hovered near his face. Closing his eyes, he waited for the pain.
"Nope. I'm not done with it yet." The monster threw him through the door, his teeth holding the cigar as he unbuckled his belt. Eyes narrowing, he slowly slid the leather from the loops around his waist, then slapped it against his hand.
"Why?" Asking never helped. The answer didn't hurt as much as the belt. But it was close.
"Why?" the monster jeered, slowly advancing. "Because I can."
CHAPTER ONE
THE KNOCK ON the dressing room door was firm and decisive. Whoever it was seemed to know what they wanted. He sighed. Pushy or tentative—it seemed someone always wanted something. All he wanted was a hot shower and a few blissfully uninterrupted hours of sleep. He should have gone straight to the hotel instead of collapsing on the sofa. After all these years, he knew better.
He didn't answer when the pounding got louder. With a sigh, he slung an arm over his eyes and hoped against hope that whoever it was would take the hint and go away.
"Mr. Hart?"
Shit. Hadn't he locked the door? He heard the doorknob turn. Nope. He definitely hadn't locked the door.
"Mr. Hart? Ryder? Do you mind if I come in?"
Ryder didn't bother to look. She had a nice voice. A little husky. But his interest was zero. Neither his brain nor his dick was in the mood.
"Sorry, sweetheart. I don't fuck groupies. Try two doors down. I hear the opening act isn't picky."
"They might not be, but I am. Don't worry, Mr. Hart, your virtue is safe. I'm not looking for bragging rights. My name is Quinn Abernathy. We have an appointment."
"I don't think so, honey."
"It's Quinn. Not sweetheart. Not honey. If you can't remember my name, I occasionally answer to hey, you. But keep the sugary platitudes for your adoring fans."
Interesting. In spite of himself, Ryder raised his arm enough to get a look at the lady with the acid tongue. Well, shit. He had hoped she would look like somebody's aunt. Instead, Quinn Abernathy was a knock-out. He felt a stir of interest. But not enough to do more than roll over so his back was to her. It was meant to end the conversation.
"I spoke with your manager, Mr. Hart. He—"
"Jesus H. Christ." Ryder whipped around. "I don't give a fuck. My head is pounding. My knee has swollen up to twice its normal size, and I need something to eat besides the crap they put out in my dressing room. Whatever you want, can it wait until morning?"
"Sure." Concerned, Quinn's blue eyes lowered. "What happened to your knee?"
"Old war injury."
It wasn't far from the truth. Ryder's entire childhood had been lived in a war zone. He survived because he learned how to avoid the ever-present landmines. One time, when he was ten, he wasn't fast enough. The result had been a baseball bat to his knee. It had healed. But now and then—like tonight—it flared up.
Ryder didn't know what the lovely Quinn thought of his explanation. She had a mighty fine poker face.
"I won't keep you. Get some ice on th
at knee. And I would recommend a steak. The hotel where you're staying serves a mean ribeye."
"How do you know?"
"I had one for dinner."
"Wait." All of sudden, Ryder wasn't as anxious for her to leave. "Are you staying at the St. Regis?"
Quinn nodded.
"What floor?"
Shaking her head, her lips curved. Nice lips tinged with a touch of red gloss. Ryder wondered about the flavor.
"Not yours." Halfway out the door, Quinn paused. "I'm a photographer, Mr. Hart." She patted the bag that hung over her shoulder. "Not a groupie."
"I don't have sex with groupies."
"I remember." Quinn laughed. "I'm not immune, Mr. Hart. And maybe—somewhere down the line—we'll see what we see. But for the time being, let's keep this professional."
"I didn't proposition you." Ryder wasn't used to women setting boundaries. That was his prerogative.
"You were going to." With that closing shot, Quinn shut the door.
Refusing to let her have the last word, Ryder hurriedly limped across the room.
"Hey, you," he called out. Quinn was already at the end of the hallway, but she heard him. To his delight, she stopped. Slowly, she turned toward him. In the glow of the harsh fluorescent lighting, Ryder could see that she tried not to smile.
"You bellowed?"
"Why do I need a photographer?"
"Because I'm the best."
Ryder loved a woman with confidence. "That doesn't answer my question."
"I guess you'll have to wait and find out."
"Lunch? One o'clock? My room?" When Quinn hesitated, Ryder laughed. "I promise… your virtue is safe. For now."
"I don't know your room number."
There were at least a dozen women roaming the hall. Ryder already had their attention. When his room number was mentioned, they practically began to salivate.
"Call my manager. He'll give it to you."
Ryder watched until Quinn was out of sight, then closed his dressing room door. This time, he made certain it was locked. He hadn't noticed the other women. At this point in his life, he rarely did. Before he became famous, when he and his band played one-nighters for peanuts, the women were always around.
It was the music. Rock and roll. Country. Jazz. Classical. If a guy could play an instrument, he could get laid. It was a truth as old as time. Ryder imagined back in prehistoric days, the first caveman who figured out how to carry a beat with a stick and rock found himself beating the women off with his club.
However, everyone had their saturation point. Ryder liked sex. Hell, it was one of life's great pleasures. But after over a decade of countless anonymous women, he no longer went for quantity over quality.
Nobody would call Ryder Hart a monk. He simply liked to know a woman's name before he stuck his tongue down her throat. Or any other place on her body.
Quinn Abernathy. It was a nice name.
"I DON'T KNOW, Dad. I just started a new project. However, I will try to get there for Cora's birthday."
"How often does someone turn thirty?"
Quinn wondered if that was a trick question. Cora, her father's third wife, had celebrated her thirtieth birthday last year and the year before. At this rate, it wouldn't be long until her stepmother magically became younger than Quinn.
"How are you doing?" There were times when a change of subject was the only solution. "Are you sticking to your diet?"
"No caffeine and one small whiskey a day? Don't get me started on the steamed vegetables. Have you ever tried to live on broccoli and kale?"
Quinn could almost see her father shudder. Michael Abernathy was a man who had always lived life on his own terms. He made his own rules and lived with the consequences. That attitude had made him one of the most successful corporate lawyers in the country. Which meant he was reviled as much as he was admired. Just ask his ex-wives. One hated him—with good reason. The other loved him—despite the extramarital affairs and the divorce.
"The doctor and Cora are trying to keep you alive. Those chest pains you suffered last year were a warning sign, Dad. I would like you to stick around for another thirty years or so."
"Your mother would have snuck me a little hollandaise."
"My mother would dance on your grave."
Michael laughed. "Belinda had passion. Still does. I miss her, Quinn."
Then you should have treated her better when you had her. Her father had a habit of rewriting history. In his mind, he hadn't destroyed his first marriage with lies and betrayals. It had simply been a series of unfortunate misunderstandings. The fact that her mother hadn't spoken to him in twenty years was a minor matter he chose to overlook.
"Mom is happily remarried, and you have Cora." Whether her father was happy was up for debate. "Be glad you have someone who cares enough to make sure you eat properly."
"Cora is sweet. But she doesn't challenge me the way your mother did." Michael sighed. "Speaking of which. How's the job?"
That was her father's less than subtle way of saying, like his wife, her job was fluff, and she never should have dropped out of law school. He was wrong on both counts. However, Quinn knew it was a pointless argument. There were only so many times that she could knock her head against that brick wall. It resulted in nothing but harsh words and headaches.
Not today.
"I was on my way out the door when you called. Give Cora my best. I love you."
Her father didn't make it easy, but Quinn did love him. It helped that they didn't speak often and saw each other even less. There had been a time when pleasing him was all she cared about. She had been a year from getting her law degree when she had come to her senses. She didn't want to be a lawyer. Working at her father's firm would have ended in disaster—Quinn had no doubt.
Convincing her father was another matter. He was convinced that photography was a frivolous whim. When she was ready to return to the real world, he promised not to say I told you so—more than every other day for the rest of her life.
Photography was her passion. Her joy. The reason she spent long hours in her studio only to drop exhausted into bed. Quinn had a reputation as a perfectionist—something her father would appreciate in anyone else. She never settled for a shot that was almost right. She pushed herself to be the best. Nothing was going to stand in her way. Not her father. And not a rock star with an inflated idea of his own appeal.
I don't fuck groupies. Ryder Hart had said it with such disdain. As though the women who threw themselves at him were beneath contempt. He might not fuck them now, but Quinn would bet he had at one time. And hadn't blinked at doing so. How had he spoken about them then? Not much better, she imagined. Arrogant prick.
She had hinted that she would sleep with him because it would feel so good when she turned him down. After he gave her what she wanted.
Quinn checked the clock. Quarter to one. She slid her feet into her boots before checking her reflection. The heels brought her to just under six feet tall. Her long legs were encased in her favorite pair of jeans. They were soft from frequent wear and washings. Her leather jacket was a pale gray and underneath, she sported a bright yellow t-shirt. Her look was casual but trendy. She loved when comfort and fashion meshed.
Quinn had kept her makeup to a minimum. A little mascara. Some blush and a touch of color for her lips. She left her shoulder-length auburn hair loose. A pair of silver hoops in her ears and she was ready to go.
This assignment was going to lift her career to the next level. A full spread in Rolling Stone. It was a coup for any photographer. Covering the final weeks of Ryder Hart's wildly successful world tour was the chance of a lifetime. He and his band were notoriously publicity shy. Access to the inner circle was harder to come by than a ticket to one of their concerts.
Grabbing her camera bag, Quinn took a deep breath. Whatever it took, short of using sex as an inducement, she was determined to win over Ryder Hart.
CHAPTER
TWO
"SHE'S A GODDAMNED photographer, Ryder."
"I'm aware."
"Why are you going to so much trouble? She's here to do a job. If she impresses you. Not the other way around."
"Room service went to the trouble, not me." Ryder shifted the salt shaker, aligning it with the pepper. "I picked up the phone and placed the order. And what is wrong with adding a little class? Would you prefer I had a pizza delivered and popped the top on a couple of beers?"
"Rather than lobster and a five-hundred-dollar bottle of wine? Yes."
As managers went, Ryder supposed that Alden Christopher wasn't any more protective than the next guy. But how would he know? Alden was his first and only.
Ryder had hustled his first paying gig when he was sixteen years old. A few bucks under the table and a couple of hot meals had meant the world to a kid struggling to get by. Things got better. But it had been a slow, hard fight. Alden had been the first person who believed in Ryder's talent. For that reason alone, he would have put up with a lot.
"Relax. Aren't you the one who convinced me to meet with her? I don't like anyone hanging around the band. And for two weeks? I want to get a feel for Quinn Abernathy. A nice, relaxed lunch will be a good start."
"Why didn't you invite the rest of the band?" Alden frowned as Ryder fussed over the place setting. "Vote like you always do. Either she's in or out."
"Nothing will be decided until everyone has a say." Satisfied that everything looked the way he wanted, he gave the chilling wine a turn around the ice bucket.
"Ashe won't care one way or the other. Dalton will say no. And Zoe will be a wild card. Nothing changes. We always end up on the same page eventually. Otherwise, it's a no. Simple as that."
"You want to sleep with her."
"All discussion of my sex life is off limits, Alden. Always was, always will be."
It was a sore subject with Alden. It rankled because he knew that Ryder never thought about what had happened all those years ago. And Alden thought about it all the time.
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