Quinn leaned into his touch. The look in her big, dark eyes almost tore Ryder's heart out. How could she feel so much for him? What had he ever done to deserve her empathy?
"That song." Quinn kissed the palm of his hand. Ryder wondered why it felt as though her lips reached toward his heart. "I knew there was something wrong the second I heard it. All I wanted was to find you to make sure you were okay. And what did I do when I saw you? I yelled. Bitched, would be more accurate. That hadn't been my plan."
Quinn had no idea what her concern meant to him. Ryder had spent so many years where nobody cared if he lived or died—except Zoe.
"You came after me. That's all that matters."
"But—"
"I overreacted."
"Did you?"
Ryder saw the doubt. How could he blame her? There were times when he wondered if his childhood had become an insignificant blip. Horrible at the time but so much had happened since. So many good things to counteract the bad. Then something would happen—like hearing that song—and Ryder was reminded with a blinding punch to his gut that the past was never buried. Not when a little thing like notes strung together could bring a man to his knees.
"I left because it was unexpected. When I was younger, I would have found a hole to crawl into. Someplace dark and moldering to match my mood."
Another tear escaped down Quinn's cheek. "Sounds lovely," she said, her angry tone belying her words.
Quinn scooted over, silently inviting Ryder to join her on the padded bench. Grateful, he sat, his leg brushing hers. After his shower, Ryder had pulled on a loose pair of shorts. The temperature hadn't dipped enough to require anything else. Quinn had twisted her damp hair onto the top of her head in one of those messy, sexy knots every woman seemed to know how to fashion. Her white shorts were paired with a t-shirt that proclaimed her love for cookies. The dancing chocolate chips made Ryder's lips twitch.
"Nothing about those days was lovely."
"After your father…"
Ryder knew the moment had come. It was either tell Quinn everything or change the conversation. This moment felt big. Important. If he didn't do it now, he never would. But would it change everything? Would Quinn's perception warp when she heard the ugly, twisted details?
"How do you want to do this, Quinn?" Ryder lifted her legs until they draped over his. Instead of leaning back, Quinn cuddled close, resting her head on his shoulder. "We can forget about tonight—pretend it didn't happen."
"And forget about the elephant in the room? I don't think I can do that."
"It's not so hard," Ryder assured her. "I did it every time I went to school. Or swapped doing chores for guitar lessons with the retired teacher who lived a few blocks away."
"Was she nice? Did she serve you lemonade and brownies?" Quinn asked hopefully.
"She was a mean old harridan with a sharp tongue and no patience for sloppy playing." Ryder lifted her chin. "Don't look so desolate. Mrs. Finch made my life bearable. Without her and those lessons to look forward to, I don't know what I would have done."
"How old were you when you started?"
"Eight."
It had been so long since he had thought about it. At the time, music was the enemy. It meant pain. It meant slapping and whipping and kicking. The day Ryder found out there was more had been nothing but chance. If he had gotten to the corner of that street a few minutes earlier—or later—his life might have turned out very different.
"I was on my way home from school. I didn't like to be late because—"
"Because you were afraid to leave Zoe alone with your father?"
Ryder shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. "Have you heard this story?"
"I've seen the way you are with Zoe. You take your job as big brother seriously. It wouldn't have been any different when you were little."
"He never hit her." It was hard to control his shudder. Wondering when their old man would turn his wrath on Zoe had kept Ryder awake at night. "Why it never happened, I don't know."
"Don't you?" Quinn hugged Ryder's arm, letting him know she was there for him. "You made yourself into a target, didn't you?"
Ryder wouldn't let Quinn turn him into a heroic martyr. It hadn't been like that.
"I made certain Zoe traveled under the old man's radar. But if he had wanted to hit her, nothing I could have done would have stopped him." Not then. Ryder used to dream of the day when he would be strong enough to rip that belt from his hands and turn it on him. But his father never gave him a chance.
"Tell me about your epiphany."
"Epiphany, college girl? That's a mighty big word."
Quinn pinched his arm. Not too hard, but it had some bite.
"You can't play the uneducated card with me. I've seen the books you read. I've heard the way you speak." For emphasis, Quinn tapped the side of his head. "You have a good brain up there, Ryder. Besides, I don't have sex with stupid men. At least, not on purpose."
"When did you accidentally have sex with a stupid man?"
"That is a story for another time. Tell me about finding music."
Ryder settled them both, Quinn snuggled close. Funny, he never told this story. There had been one semi-drunken disclosure to Dalton and Ashe when they were high off a stellar performance. They passed around a bottle of cheap bourbon and talked about why they did what they did. Their beginnings had been different—very different. However, the love of playing. The passion of making a song soar. Those were the first things that bonded them as a band and as friends.
The public—his fans—didn't know. Outside of Zoe, and the guys, nobody did. Yet it felt right to tell Quinn.
"As I said, I was rushing home from school. I took the same way—the shortest from point A to point B. It was hot. I remember that so clearly. Late April and it felt like July. There was a man who was always on the same corner, playing for tips. He had an old guitar and a beat-up case that sat open. There was never more than a few bucks in there."
Ryder rarely gave the man a second look. He had more important things on his eight-year-old brain. Like if there were enough food in the trailer for Zoe's dinner. And if the old man had spent all his money on booze—again. Some fool playing for peanuts held no interest to Ryder.
That changed—quickly. Ryder stood, impatiently waiting to cross the street—the light at this crosswalk was always slow. The guitar guy sat under an awning, out of the direct sunlight, when he called out to Ryder.
"Hey, kid."
Ryder pretended he hadn't heard. He didn't talk to many people. Never strangers. Especially ones that sat around on the dirty city sidewalk all day.
"Skinny kid. You with the dark, shaggy hair."
The man raised his voice enough to get Ryder's attention—and the people closest to him. Several sets of eyes turned his way as if to access the musician's description. They saw a boy who was tall for his age. It was easy to see that he was too slender. What they couldn't know was that Ryder was always hungry. He ate when he could, but he made certain his sister ate first. The dark hair came from his father. Its tendency to curl? Who knew. Maybe the mother who left when Zoe was a baby? A distant relative? What did it matter? It was Ryder and Zoe against the world. He didn't know what genetics were, let alone care how they worked.
Ryder squirmed, wondering why the light didn't turn. He didn't like being the center of attention. The fewer people who noticed him, the better.
"Boy, has that changed," Quinn teased lightly.
Ryder smiled, his hand absently caressing her smooth, bare thigh. "I have become an attention whore."
"On stage," Quinn clarified.
His smile widened. This woman got him.
"What did the guitar man want?"
"To show me my future."
Not that the man, or Ryder, understood the significance of their brief meeting. But it changed Ryder's life. As for the man? Who knew. Ryder returned to the spot years later, but the man wasn't ther
e. Not surprising. However, Ryder had hoped to thank the man. To let him know that he had saved an aimless boy—given him a dream.
"Hope."
"Yes," Ryder agreed with Quinn's simple yet profound interpretation.
Hope. A small word, but so often it could be the difference between giving up and finding something—no matter how small—to hold onto.
The man called out to him again, but this time, he spoke Ryder's language.
"I'll give you five bucks if you go across the street and buy me a mega bottle of water."
He was young and inexperienced, but Ryder knew when something sounded too good to be true. Five bucks? It was a fortune.
In spite of himself, Ryder drifted a little closer. "Why don't you go yourself?"
"This is my best time of the day. Lots of foot traffic. I underestimated how hot it would be. Hydration is key in my business, kid."
Ryder ignored the big word. He didn't know what it meant—nor did he care. Five bucks. The amount zinged through his brain. He could buy Zoe a hamburger off the dollar menu at Mickey D's. And the rest, hide from the old man. The money meant food, something that was always in short supply around the Hart residence.
He calculated the risk—almost none in broad daylight on a busy street. And the reward—huge. The answer was a no-brainer.
"I want the money upfront."
"I'll bet you do," the man laughed. "I'm taking a chance on you, kid. What if you take my money and never come back? No, buy the water, get the five bucks. That's the deal. Take it or leave it."
Ryder didn't have time to argue. He agreed. His long legs helped him complete the task in a flash and to his amazement, the man kept his word. Five bucks. Paid in crumpled one dollar bills. It was more money than Ryder had ever seen. To his embarrassment, he felt close to tears.
Then he heard the music and his tears were forgotten. Ryder was drawn to the melody and the rhythm. The syncopation unique to this man—though he had no idea what that was until years later.
"Like what you hear?" The man's fingers flew over the strings. "For a buck, I'll play you a song."
It sounded like a trap. Pay for a lousy song? If Ryder had ten dollars, he wouldn't waste it on something so ridiculous and unimportant. Clutching his money, Ryder slowly backed away, certain that at any moment, the man would attempt to snatch it from him. Then he turned and ran.
The money didn't last as long as Ryder would have liked, but it made a difference. However, the music. That stayed with him forever. It played through his mind. Sang through his blood. It became such a part of Ryder's life; he began playing records when his father was out. He knew what would happen if the old man found out, but he didn't care. He had to hear more.
"Music opened the world to me. Literally. I dropped my blinkers, the ones that took me from our trailer to school, and back. I began to look around. To listen. Songs are everywhere, Quinn. In the traffic. In the air. In our breath."
Ryder took Quinn's hand, laying it at the base of his throat. He drew air in, then let it out. In. Out.
"Feel that?"
"I do," Quinn nodded. "And it's unique to each person, isn't it?" When she brought his hand to her neck, she kissed the palm before laying it against her skin. "What do you feel?"
Holding her gaze, Ryder let Quinn's natural beat travel down his arm and into his body. His head began to bob. Slow. Steady. The melody—Quinn—came to him and he started to hum.
"Is that me?" Quinn asked in wonder.
"Sweet. Sexy. Complex." Not stopping, Ryder covered her lips with his, letting his impromptu song flow from him to her.
"That's me?" Quinn asked in wonder.
"That's how I see you."
The pleasure in her eyes made Ryder want to write a symphony. Maybe, he thought. One day.
"What do you call it?"
"I don't know yet."
Quinn was too easy. Like the woman, the title of her song needed more thought and consideration. And like this—what was happening between them—it needed fleshing out. This was the beginning. Ryder didn't know how it would end.
"How did you get your first guitar?"
"You are determined to hear the rest of this, aren't you?"
Ryder had hoped to talk Quinn into bed. He found the idea of exploring her body much more appealing than mucking through the shit pile of his childhood. Yet something strangely unexpected was happening. As he recounted the events, Ryder realized that there had been moments—small but memorable—that had been good. Even happy.
Taking Zoe for that hamburger had been one of those moments. Until now, he had almost forgotten. There was so little to laugh about in her short life. But seeing her face light up when she unwrapped that sandwich. Hearing her giggles when Ryder blew bubbles with his straw, making the Coke in his glass bubble like a mad scientist's lab experiment. He would have blown the entire five dollars if it meant giving his sister a rare chance to be a little girl.
"You want to know about my first guitar?" Ryder asked. His emotions for Quinn were bubbling like that newly remembered Coke, making it hard to think clearly of anything else. When she nodded, he closed his eyes for a second until he pictured the instrument and smiled.
"It was that good?"
"It was that bad." Ryder shook his head. "I found it in an alley. I cut through that place all the time. It smelled like… an alley, I guess. Old garbage and fresh excrement. There was always a drunk propped up against the wall and stray cats rooting around for something to eat."
Ryder hadn't meant to make it sound so Dickensian. If he added Fagan and the Artful Dodger lurking in the shadows, the portrait would have been complete—but inaccurate. It had been his life. Period. It wasn't scary or upsetting. It just was. He was grateful when Quinn didn't comment. She took his hand in hers. The gesture said more than words ever could.
"It doesn't sound like your typical guitar emporium."
Once again, Quinn made him smile.
"You sometimes find a gem in the least expected places. Or if not a gem, a warped, broken stringed facsimile. My hands actually shook when I picked it up."
There had been no doubt why the guitar had been thrown out. It was a piece of junk. The neck was broken. The wood scratched. But to Ryder it was beautiful. He picked it up, looking around—just in case—then rushed home with his newfound treasure.
Ryder hid the guitar under the rusty trailer where nobody—especially his father—would look. Some duct tape borrowed from a neighbor took care of the broken neck. After that, he was stuck. Having a guitar was one thing. Figuring out what to do with it was another. Ryder tried to imitate the street musician but quickly discovered his untried fingers wouldn't move that way.
Finding Mrs. Finch had been a fluke—the luckiest of Ryder's life.
"She lived near us, though the difference in her street and ours was like night and day. Pretty flowers grew in her yard. Her grass was green. Her windows were clean and shiny. I knew people lived like that, but I didn't know them. One day I saw a Help Wanted sign in her window."
Ryder figured he would earn enough money for guitar lessons. Little did he know, his lessons were waiting behind those clean, shiny windows. Mrs. Finch had been reluctant to hire someone so young, but the desperation—the want—must have been obvious. She took a chance. And Ryder made certain she wasn't sorry.
"Mrs. Finch let me bring Zoe after school."
"I think I'm in love with Mrs. Finch."
"She never asked why or what happened behind our battered trailer door. I don't think she wanted to know. But in her way, she looked out for us. She fed us cookies and taught me the guitar. Later, I taught Zoe."
Ryder laughed at his own joke. Taught Zoe? His sister was born knowing how to play the guitar. It hadn't taken her long to surpass him. Soon, she was showing him.
"A star was born." Quinn touched the callouses on Ryder's hand. "Is Mrs. Finch still around?"
"She was at the Chicago show."
"Really?"
"I leave tickets for her whenever we're in town. She comes. Watches. Then leaves. I've asked her backstage, but she never takes me up on it."
"She must be very proud," Quinn said. "Of you and Zoe."
"I like to think so."
Quinn didn't ask anything else, and Ryder was happy to hold her close. The air smelled sweet, ripe with night sounds unique to Aruba. A calmness settled over him. He liked talking to Quinn. He liked the way she listened, occasionally injecting a question to either focus his story or lighten a heavy moment. She seemed to understand that he wouldn't be pushed. His words had to come from a natural progression—or not at all.
"About my father." Ryder felt a twinge of tension enter his shoulders. "About Flowers On the Wall."
"Not tonight," Quinn whispered. Again, she seemed to understand. "Another time. When and if you're ready."
"Thank you, Quinn." Ryder kissed her forehead.
"Anytime."
Ryder lifted Quinn into his arms, heading inside. Tenderly, he undressed her, touching her soft skin reverently. So beautiful. So kind. Ryder went to his knees, placing his head over Quinn's heart. If he were a different man, he would wish for more than he deserved. Perhaps—if he were very lucky—she would give it to him.
"Do you want me?" he asked, looking into her eyes.
"Yes."
Smiling, Ryder stood. A woman like Quinn wanted him. For tonight. For tomorrow. For a little while. Did he deserve her? Probably not. But he would be a fool not to enjoy what she offered. For as long as possible.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
QUINN KNELT ON one knee to get the perfect angle. She knew what she was looking for. Because her subject was incapable of taking a bad picture, it was the mood—the emotion she wanted to capture.
"I can't believe you took this from the plane," Ryder sat the fedora on his head at a cocky angle.
Quinn shrugged, snapping another shot. "I thought it might come in handy."
The truth was, the instant she saw the hat on Ryder's plane, Quinn had pictured him just like this. Dark pants, no shirt, and the fedora. The suspenders and the attitude came directly from Ryder.
FLOWERS ON THE WALL Page 16