FLOWERS ON THE WALL (18 page)

"Is that anything like a kink? Because I can live with that."

Despite herself, Quinn snickered. Ryder had a quick mind and a quirky sense of humor. At least she thought he was kidding.

"Get your thoughts out of the bedroom for two seconds."

"It will be difficult." Ryder slid a hand along her thigh, though his touch was comforting—not provocative. "Go on. I'm listening."

"I can't start something and not finish it. Not that I'm obsessive. I can walk out in the middle of a movie or start a book and not hit the final chapter. However, if it's a biggy? It is impossible for me to walk away."

"Law school was a biggy?"

"Huge. It preyed on me that I had gotten so close to the finish line. I could see it—tantalizingly close. I should have known better than to think it wouldn't bother me." Quinn closed her eyes, raising her face to the warm, soothing light. "I could have completed my degree without the intention of practicing law. People do it all the time. It didn't take much soul-searching to figure out why I quit."

"Your father."

"Ding, ding, ding," With each ding, Quinn tapped Ryder on the hand. "Give the man a prize."

Ryder lifted her hand to his lips, then brought it to his chest without letting go. "What made you decide to go back?"

"It was never a question of would I or wouldn't I. Though I will admit that I fooled myself into thinking I could walk away without looking over my shoulder in regret. That lasted six months."

"Not bad. When did you start getting antsy? Month three? Four?"

"How did you know?"

"I suffer from a similar trait." Ryder chuckled. "An unfinished song is my bugaboo. Even if it will never see the light of day. Even if it turns out to be the worst thing I've ever written. I can't leave it alone until it's done. Sometimes it turns out to be a good thing. I took a piece of music that I thought was pure crap and it became
Night Wanderer
. Lemons to lemonade."

Quinn felt a little catch in her throat. God, she loved that song. Soulful and poignant. It made her sad and happy at the same time.

"I would call you a genius, but your ego gets enough stroking."

"My ego," Ryder waggled his eyebrows, "loves all the stroking it can get,
honey
."

Quinn didn't rise to the bait. Honey, her ass. Ryder never called her that unless he was teasing. "Again with the sexual innuendo?"

"I'm a man. I love sex."

"I'm a woman. So do I. But I can carry on a conversation without referencing the act, or a body part involved."

Moving a little closer, Ryder rubbed his arm against hers. "I'm a pig. All men are."

"So true." Though so far, Ryder was proving to be a big, lovely, unexpected exception to the rule.

"Tell me the rest of the story."

"Well,
Paul Harvey
." Ryder snorted. The fact that he got the reference was another reason they had clicked so quickly. "The inevitable happened. I couldn't ignore that little voice in the back of my head urging me on."

"I know that little voice well."

Quinn nodded. Of course, he did.

"The most important thing was to get my degree without my father finding out. It was one thing to have him bug me to finish school. If he knew I was an accredited attorney, he would have been on me night and day to move back to Indiana and join his firm."

"I know this is your story. But you keep throwing in pertinent details—rushing over them. You are accredited? As in legally, you can practice the law?"

Surprised, Quinn realized that was exactly what she had been doing. She liked to tell a linear story. Beginning. Middle. Ending. Ryder had a strange influence on her. Her mother would call him a
brain muddler
. It wasn't a complimentary term. However, Quinn wondered if, in her case, that was a bad thing. She could be a little rigid. Not anal—but set in her ways. If Ryder shook up the status quo, she could live with that. Especially when his
muddling
was accompanied by kisses—and so forth.

"I found a school that had no affiliation with my father. Not as easy as you might think. He keeps his ear to the ground so he can recruit the best and brightest. Fresh, eager newbies are the bread and butter of a large firm. They work for peanuts and are so grateful just to have the job, they don't complain about the horrible hours or overload of grunt work."

Quinn had been destined to be one of the masses. She knew her father well enough to understand that he would have balked at giving her preferential treatment. Not that she would have asked. If she had chosen the law as a career, she would have wanted to learn from the ground up. One of the masses, so to speak. Luckily, she came to her senses before it was too late.

"Peanuts. Does that make them monkeys?"

Quinn nodded. "Intelligent, but ultimately slaves to their master. If they work hard and are trainable, there is a ladder to step up. Slowly. The rungs are miles apart. I get hives just thinking about it."

Ryder kissed Quinn's shoulder. Such a small gesture, yet blissfully comforting.

"Once I chose the under-the-radar law school, the rest was easy. I graduated. Took the California bar exam. And poof. I was a lawyer. Then I went back to hustling to further my photography career full time. Did that cover everything?"

"One more thing. Why photography?"

"Why music?"

"Question answered."

Ryder rolled until his chest covered hers. The smile on his face took her breath away. Like the sight of a sunrise. Or the first snowfall. Where was her camera when she needed it?

"Passion can't be picked out of the ether. You feel it," Ryder took her lips in a long, slow kiss. "Or you don't."

Quinn's moan originated from her core. Soft, yet emotion packed. Her eyes locked with his, she took Ryder's growing erection in her hand. "Oh, I feel it."

"The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

While seeming to ponder his question, Quinn absently ran her hand up and down his cock. She had ideas. Too many to count. From the wild to wacky to the downright dangerous. In the end, she went with the tried and true. Why tamper with something that had worked since man—and woman—began to walk upright? Hell, probably before that.

Smiling slyly, a promise in her eyes, Quinn leaned down and took Ryder into her mouth.

Air hissed through Ryder's teeth. He slid his fingers into her hair, anchoring her in place.
There you go
, she thought, thoroughly enjoying the taste of him. He was happy. She was happy. Try as one might,
nothing
could beat a classic.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"STOP STARING AT my mouth."

"I wasn't." Ryder protested calmly.

Ryder's eyes zeroed in as Quinn took a drink of beer.
Well, shit
. He
was
staring. It wasn't his fault that the bottle was the same general shape of his dick. About as long, but nowhere near as thick. Seeing her put it in her mouth took him back to the beach. Had it only been an hour ago? As Quinn raised the bottle again, he felt his body heat. Damn, when had he morphed into the horn dog of his youth? Ryder chuckled silently. Easy answer. Thirty seconds after he met Quinn.

Quinn returned the beer to the table. Without a trace of annoyance, she sent Ryder a smile. "I don't mind. I'm glad you enjoyed my… efforts. If we were alone, you could add a little color commentary. A woman likes to know how she can improve her technique—as long as the criticism is constructive. But your gaze leaves little doubt what you're thinking about."

"Nobody has any idea what is going on in my lascivious brain," Ryder assured her.

"Lucky for you."

Ryder laughed. He knew he was right. For now, nobody cared who he was, why they were there, or what they had gotten up to on that beach two miles down the coast. However, for Quinn's peace of mind, and his own, Ryder gave the room a surreptitious glance. Nope. The crowd was interested in two things. The food on their plates and the booze in their glasses. Happily, they had received barely a glance since entering the restaurant. Not that Ryder had been particularly worried about drawing attention. Quinn had been the one to express her concern.

Since their arrival, he and Quinn hadn't left their bungalow to do more than a stroll on the beach and wander through the small town a few miles away. Ryder wore a hat and dark glasses—his usual incognito attire. Having dinner in a crowded restaurant was a different matter. Though it was mostly frequented by locals, the occasional tourist wandered in. Quinn had the idea that wherever he went, hordes of rabid fans followed.

To be fair, Quinn wasn't that far from the truth. It was a fact. His face. His voice. His music. The public persona he had spent years perfecting. Where he went, they followed closely behind. From Iowa to Indonesia. Tallahassee to Timbuktu. Early on, he could still get away with playing the
regular guy
. However, there was never a rhyme or reason to when he would be recognized.

One day he walked down the streets of New York by himself. No entourage or security. For three hours, he didn't hear a single,
Oh, God. It's Ryder Hart
. Eventually, he was recognized, but the freedom of those three hours had been bliss.

On the other hand, on a visit to Istanbul, he decided it would be fun to visit one of the street markets. Hat and glasses covering his famous face hadn't helped him that morning. Five minutes. That was the ETA.
Estimated time of attack
. One person called out his name and he had been mobbed. If it weren't for an alley and a kind shopkeeper, Ryder might still be fighting off his
loving
fans.

That experience had changed Ryder's approach to the outside world. He hadn't become a recluse, locked away in a room like Howard Hughes collecting bottle after bottle of his own urine. What he
had
become was much more pragmatic. Ryder Hart was famous—worldwide. Walking around as though that was not the case was unrealistic and irresponsible. His friends—his bandmates—relied on him. Not just as their lead singer and founding member, but as the group's bedrock. It sounded egotistical, but it was no less true.

Ryder had no doubt they would survive without him. However, why test that theory? He had found other ways to exert his personal freedom without putting anyone he loved in the position of having to worry about his wellbeing.

Naked sex with Quinn on a secluded beach in Aruba was a perfect example.

"Lucky for me, you have the most beautiful, luscious, talented mouth it has ever been my privilege to enjoy." Ryder wasn't certain, but he thought he saw a tinge of pink riding high on Quinn's cheeks. The woman was filled with surprises. "And FYI? Don't change a thing. You were perfect." He carried her hand to his lips. "You,
all
of you, are perfect."

Quinn's smile took Ryder's breath away. Bright. Happy. It showed him what spring should look like. Blazing with beauty and the hope of what was ahead. If he were a different man—one who wasn't too damaged to think a woman like Quinn could be his forever—he would tell her every thought about her that entered his head. Tell her—everything. The problem was, if he did that, the bright and happy would fade faster than the last note of a heartbreaking ballad.

"What's the matter?" Quinn asked. "A second ago, you were smiling."

"And now? What do you see, Quinn?"

Ryder searched Quinn's eyes, curious if any of his inner turmoil spilled over. He hoped not. Most of the time, his hidden anger and bitterness stayed exactly where such shit-assed thoughts belonged—deep, deep in his bowels. However, he had to release the ugliness every now and then. It was why he insisted on booking Chicago—the last place on Earth he would step foot, except when they were on tour.

And
Flowers On the Wall
. Between the town and the song, it was the only time Ryder allowed himself to wallow. Not too long. Just enough to blow off steam and keep himself sane. Or at the very least, sane enough.

"I see the pain that I would do anything to take away."

To Ryder's amazement, Quinn brushed away a tear. It should have appalled him. Sympathy in any form angered him. He was a strong man. A survivor. No, he had done more than survive. He had thrived. It didn't matter that the demons lurked—sometimes in the shadows, sometimes nipping at his heels. The world saw a strong, confident man. And ninety-nine percent of the time, that was exactly who Ryder Hart was.

"I'm a waste of your tears, Quinn." Rather than harsh and distant as Ryder expected, his rebuke was soft. Almost tender. Another tell that Quinn was beginning to mean more to him than was wise. "Save them for lost puppies and Hallmark commercials."

"Fuck you, Ryder." Quinn angrily swiped at her cheeks. "And I don't cry over lost puppies. I find them homes."

"I don't need a savior."

"Yes, you do. But it won't be me," Quinn assured him. "I know a lost cause when I see one."

Quinn pushed away her half-finished tamales.

Ryder wanted to apologize for ruining her meal. But for the life of him, he didn't know what had happened or how to fix it. One second, they were teasing and flirting. The next he found himself wandering down a lane of memories he wished would fall into a giant sinkhole.

If Ryder said he were sorry, Quinn would expect an explanation. That wasn't going to happen—for her sake as well as his. Instead, he remained stoically resigned. She was pissed—rightfully so. And there was nothing he could do about it.

"Where are you going?" Ryder asked when Quinn shot to her feet.

"I have a choice. Dump my food in your lap or splash some cold water on my face. Luckily for those expensive linen pants, I also have to pee." Quinn turned toward the back of the restaurant and the bathroom. Pausing, she said over her shoulder. "This could take a lot of water. Don't expect me back anytime soon."

Ryder watched Quinn walk away with an increasingly heavy heart. Her flowered dress that swirled so prettily around her shapely legs. The happy colors were another sign of the spring she represented. He knew she was coming back, but something told Ryder that she was walking out of his life.