Authors: Mary J. Williams
"When do you leave?"
Leave it to Zoe. She put on a tough,
I don't give a shit
, persona to the rest of the world. She would tease and bicker and throw as much crap as she took. But when it came to her brothers, she was as sensitive and caring as they came.
"Maggie isn't returning my calls."
"Is there a problem?" Frowning, Ryder set aside his guitar. "You spoke with your sister the day after the rags ran the story. Why go silent now?"
"I smell a rat," Dalton said. "Namely Norris. He's taken Maggie to visit his parents. I keep getting a message saying she'll call me as soon as they get back. Since we finished recording the new album, I thought I would take a few days and fly out to see her. What I have to say will go over better in person."
"There's no phone service in…? Where do his parents live?"
Reluctantly, Dalton met Ryder's gaze. "Arizona. Midas, to be exact."
"Hell, no." Ryder crossed his arms over his chest.
"Are you crazy?" Mid-drink, Ashe almost spit the mouthful of water across the room.
"Absolutely not."
Zoe stood in solidarity with Ryder. Even in heels, she was at least four inches shorter. Her hair was blond, Ryder's almost black. But there was no doubt they shared the same gene pool. The strong, stubborn chin. The set of their mouths. The shape of their eyes. And the way they barreled over any opposition with the sheer force of their will. That determination had kept Dalton going through the darkest months of his life.
"It's only a place," he reminded his friends. Then singled out Ryder. "Like Chicago."
Ryder's eyes narrowed. Not too long ago, referencing Ryder's hell on Earth would have gotten Dalton a punch in the face. Change can take a lifetime—or it can happen in a blink of an eye. In Ryder's case, it was a little of both. He had always been strong. Loving Quinn made him stronger. His demons hadn't disappeared. But, according to the man himself, they were no longer lurking around every shadowed corner, waiting to pop out without warning. Quinn was the light. Dalton wondered what it was like to feel that way about someone. He wondered if he would ever know.
"I will admit that I may have given one city more power than it deserved," Ryder said calmly, though there was a tell-tale tightening of his jaw. "Arizona is bad enough, Dalton. But Midas? Is that an unhappy coincidence or is Norris trying to fuck with your head?"
"Maggie met Norris there while I stood trial."
Ryder and Ashe exchanged surprised looks. "You never told us that."
"I just found out." Dalton ran a hand over his head, tugging at his hair. "I don't know why we get so hung up on this crap. Like I said, it is only a place. It's not as though I'm planning on a return trip to the state pen."
Dalton had been arrested and stood trial in Midas. Not too far away, he did his time in Goodyear. The irony of the name was never lost on him.
Goodyear
? The fucked-up year was more like it. He had learned a lot. Had more than a few sleepless nights. Took his share of lumps. And wouldn't wish the experience on any but his worst enemy. Hell, for his worst enemy, Dalton's wishes were much darker than eleven months behind bars.
Now, he was pushing thirty. He could look back without breaking into a sweat. Dalton had served his time. Worked off his parole. He was an upstanding citizen. He voted on Election Day and paid his taxes. The only visible proof of his time in prison was the tattoo located on his back—just below his right shoulder blade. The image of a chained tiger breaking free of its bonds had seemed symbolic at the time. Now, Dalton thought it a bit pretentious. But it was part of him. A reminder that no matter how good his intentions, bad shit happened.
Time—and good friends—had settled Dalton but he hadn't lost his edge. It was there in the way he played his drums. Controlled chaos, as one critic put it. That chaos was born in frustration. Fueled by anger. Pushed by fear and ambition. None of those factors were relevant to the man he was today. But the passion for the music? That would never die. It kept the songs he wrote fresh. It made his performances focused. It gave his life purpose.
It was a good life. Damn good. However, until this crap with his sister and her husband, Dalton hadn't realized that he had some unfinished business.
"Why do you need to do this?"
It didn't take any thought to answer Zoe's question. Dalton looked at Ryder.
"I have a few demons to chase out of the shadows."
A half smile formed on Ryder's lips. Without a word, he shook his head.
Zoe stepped forward. "I'm going with you."
"No, you aren't."
"Yes, I am."
"Do you want to add fuel to the rumors that we're sleeping together?"
The rumors ebbed and flowed. Sometimes it was Dalton and Zoe. Sometimes Zoe and Ashe. Occasionally, it was all three of them.
"When have I ever cared what people think?"
"Don't worry. I have this."
"Jesus, Ashe," Dalton laughed. "If I'm not fucking Zoe, I'm fucking you. I love you, man. Let the rumor mill grind someone else's ass for a little while."
"I'm hurt," Ashe pantomimed wiping away a tear. "Am I not good enough to be your imaginary lover?"
"If I flew that way, you would be at the top of my list."
"Thanks a lot," Ryder snorted. "What am I, chopped liver?"
Dalton rolled his eyes. Women loved Ryder. Men loved Ryder. Gay. Straight. Everyone in between. Hell, their manager, Alden Christopher carried a torch bright enough to light up one of New York City's smaller boroughs. All kidding aside, Dalton wasn't going to jump on the bandwagon that fed Ryder's ego.
"You're too pretty."
Frowning, Ryder stroked his chin. "You think so? Maybe I should have kept the beard."
"Are you saying I'm
not
pretty?" Ashe tried his best to appear concerned.
For the first time in weeks, Dalton laughed. Full-on, from his belly, no holds barred, laughed. His friends. How had be gotten so lucky?
"When are you leaving?" Zoe asked, her blue eyes direct as always.
"First thing in the morning."
"Take the plane."
"I don't think so," Dalton said, shaking his head.
Ryder loved their private jet, using it whenever he got the chance. Dalton appreciated the convenience when they were on tour, but whenever possible, he preferred to keep his feet on the ground. Or in his brand new sports car. He didn't want to hear statistics. Flying was safer than driving. Tell that to his stomach.
Besides, in a car, Dalton was in charge. Behind the wheel, he controlled his destiny. Midas was a six-hour drive. Less, depending on traffic. He didn't know how long he would be there. A day or two. Maybe a week—though that seemed like a stretch. Dalton liked the idea of having a car at his disposal—
his
car.
Dalton wasn't particular about many things. He could play any drum set. From crap to high end, Dalton could make them come to life. Home was better, but when he was tired, any bed would do. However, there were three things on which he would not compromise.
Drumsticks.
Dalton had his custom made. They fit his hands perfectly. The right length. The right weight. He carried a set wherever he went. When Dalton played, his sticks were essential.
Shoes.
Dalton was not a fashion plate—he left that to Zoe. A good haircut. Clean jeans, a soft t-shirt, and whatever jacket happened to fit the weather. Labels didn't matter. He didn't care about the price. Cheap. Expensive. As long as his clothes were comfortable, that was all that mattered. However, when it came to what he put on his feet, Dalton liked high end and custom made. Not flashy. The black boots he wore today were simple in design. Classic. They cost more than his first car—and were worth every penny. The fit was perfection. A man had once told Dalton,
if your feet feel good, you feel good
. Words of wisdom never to be forgotten.
Last, but not least, alcohol.
Bourbon was his drink of choice. Dalton rarely indulged. He grew up with a mother who liked her hooch the way she liked her men—cheap and plentiful. Sylvia Shaw began most nights with a bottle of vodka—economy size—and the first guy she could pick up. The next morning she reeked of both. It was a sad picture Dalton had carried with him all his life. He drank in moderation. And then, only the best.
As for sex? There was a time when it looked as if Dalton would follow in his mother's footsteps. After a gig, he used to screw hard, fast, and indiscriminately, letting his dick dictate his actions. On occasion, it got him in trouble. One time, it landed him in prison. Lesson learned. He hadn't fallen into his old pattern after he served his time. There was sex. Plenty of it, thank you very much. However, Dalton had developed a discerning palate. Quality over quantity.
Speaking of which. Dalton had a date with a lovely tax accountant. She had legs that went on for days and smelled like a meadow after an April rain. He couldn't think of a better way to kick off a trip he wasn't looking forward to than a night spent in the arms of a beautiful brunette.
"Keep in touch." Ryder pulled Dalton in for a hug. "Call me—every day."
"What am I, twelve?" Dalton grumbled.
But Dalton knew he would do as his friend asked. Ryder took his job as leader seriously. He was a rock. And truth be told, Dalton would have been disappointed if Ryder hadn't shown his usual concern.
"Take care." Zoe took Ryder's place. She wasn't as naturally demonstrative as Ryder. One of her hugs was to be savored.
"You know I will." Pressing his luck, Dalton kissed Zoe's cheek. When she simply hugged him tighter, he
knew
she was worried about him.
Ashe gave his hand a firm shake. "If you need us—need anything—just say the word. You know we'll be there."
Dalton
did
know.
This
was his family. Professionally. Personally. They had his back. Not everyone had one person he could count on like that. Dalton did—times three.
"We have a charity gig on the fourth of September."
Dalton didn't need reminding. The money went toward helping children. Abused children. It was a problem that had touched them all—some more than others. Knowing Dalton would never miss the concert, Ryder gave his friend a time frame to follow. A week from today. Seven days was more than enough time to deal with his family drama, exorcise his demons, and get back to Los Angeles—to them—where he belonged.
Nodding, Dalton grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. Looking around the room—seeing the love and concern—he smiled.
"See you in September."
THERE WAS SOMETHING about a stretch of highway at dawn. Deserted, it felt like his personal roadway—built for him and him alone.
Dalton set out from Los Angeles just as the sun began to light the morning sky. He felt loose, relaxed and satisfied.
"If you stay, I'll fix you my famous waffles," his bedmate purred.
With genuine regret, Dalton slid from the warm bed. He liked the woman. Becky was fun, smart, and knew her way around a man's dick. But he wasn't interested in more. There was something terribly intimate about a morning after breakfast for Dalton, almost as intimate as being inside her welcoming body.
"I have to get on the road." Zipping up his pants, Dalton leaned over, brushing his lips across hers. "Thank you for last night."
"Will you call me when you get back?"
Well, shit
. It would have been so easy to tell Becky yes, though Dalton knew the answer was a resounding,
I doubt it
. It might seem cold. However, in his book, raising false hopes was worse than brutal honesty.
"It was fun, Becky. But no. I won't be calling."
"Fuck you." In a huff, Becky rolled away, presenting Dalton with her back.
It wasn't the first time those words had followed him out a woman's front door. He doubted it would be the last. At least Becky had been satisfied with cursing him. Now and then, breakables were thrown at his head. It seemed with some women, when it came to post-coital goodbyes, honesty was better in concept than practice. They claimed to want the truth, but only when that truth matched their expectations.
Dalton didn't understand that kind of thinking. However, a few bad experiences hadn't changed the way he conducted his life. More often than not, when he was upfront with his bed partners, it worked out fine. Thankfully, Becky, and the pottery tossers, were the exceptions, not the rule.
It hadn't taken Dalton long to shake off what he considered a minor blip in an otherwise fine evening. He thought he and his sex partner were on the same page. If she expected more, that was too bad. Dalton had enough problems waiting for him in Arizona.
For now, there was nothing but open road. Hitting a button on the dashboard, Dalton smiled when Hank Williams filled the car. Classic. Mournful. Brilliant. The country legend had been one of his first big influences. Though stylistically, Dalton had gone in a different direction, it was the love of old time country that had drawn him, Ryder, and Ashe together.
Sometimes it felt like a lifetime ago. Or, like this morning, a blink of the eye. They were three kids—teenagers. Dalton could remember the feeling of desperate ambition. Ryder and Ashe understood. They met in a bar just outside of Chicago, each having traveled down very different paths.
Dalton had been wary. He had joined—and quit—three different bands in the past year. This felt different. And it was. Their styles meshed from the first jam session. Ryder's lead vocals were strong and distinctive. Ashe could play any instrument, but his specialty was keyboard and saxophone. Dalton added the beat. It was three years before Zoe joined the band—the added spark that sent them from locally in demand to international superstars.
They were
so
young. Cocky idiots who believed they were destined for greatness. Dalton opened the window, breathing in the cool morning air. Only time could judge such things. When it came to
The Ryder Hart Band
and the music they made? It was too soon to tell. But whether he and his friends left a lasting legacy or drifted away into oblivion, they were having a hell of a good time getting wherever it was they were going.