FLOWERS ON THE WALL (20 page)

"Yes, you. You scared the shit out of me."

"Join the club, asshole. First, you play Houdini—nice disappearing act, by the way. Then I find you skinny dipping in a pool of ink."

"It's water." Ryder ran the water through his fingers.

"I'm aware, dickwad. My question stands. Suicidal? Stupid?"

"I will never kill myself." Even if Ryder had the desire to end his life, which he didn't, he would never do that to Zoe.

"Stupid it is." Quinn sent a shot of water into his face. Unlike last afternoon, there was nothing playful about her. "I could kick your ass, Ryder Hart. See that?"

Quinn pointed to the top of her head, but all Ryder could see was wet hair.

"Help me out. What am I looking at?"

"I don't know. I thought there might be a gray streak. Fright will do that, you know."

"Quinn?" Ryder patted her shoulder to make certain she was really there. This had taken a bizarre turn. If he were on drugs, it had sent him on one crazy-assed trip.
Thank God
, he thought when his hand encountered solid flesh. "What are you doing here?"

"Saving you. Or something to that effect."

"Do I need saving?"

That was a stupid question
. Ryder needed it more than most. However, to save him, Quinn would get covered in the grunge of his childhood. He would not be responsible for dimming even a smidgen of the light that shined from her.

"How was I supposed to know this was a whimsical midnight swim?" In the moonlight, Ryder watched as a myriad of emotions traveled across Quinn's expressive face. "First, you left without a word. Then…"

"Then?" Ryder urged.

"I heard the song."

Ryder hadn't seen that coming. Somehow, he had forgotten that Quinn was witness to his Chicago self-flagellation. He didn't know whether to feel embarrassment or distress. As a man who had always liked to go big or go home, he wasn't surprised when both emotions rushed through him.

"I don't know what to say, Quinn."

"Yes, you do. Unfortunately, you don't trust me enough."

"That's—"

With a shake of her head, Quinn stopped Ryder before he could respond. What he would have said? He had no idea.

"It's your story to tell—or not." Ryder couldn't help but catch the flash of sadness in Quinn's eyes. "All I ask is that you don't do this," she motioned to the water, "again."

Quinn started back toward shore, her pace unhurried. Silently, Ryder fell in beside her.

"Hey. Is everything okay?" a voice called out from shore.

"You brought Alvin with you?"

"He was the only one who knew which way you headed."

Ryder sensed when they were close enough to stand. That was when he realized that Quinn was naked—at least from the waist up.

"Jesus, Quinn." Taking her by the shoulders, Ryder turned her away from Alvin's eagle-eyed interest.

"I'm certain Alvin has seen a woman's breasts before, Ryder."

"Not yours." Ryder knew how it sounded—especially under the circumstances. However, it didn't change the way he felt. The sight of Quinn's beautiful breasts was not for public consumption. "Stay here."

"Don't you care if Alvin gets a look at your bare essentials?"

"No." Ryder walked up the beach to retrieve his shirt. "The show is free, Alvin. At least my part of it. Ogle my woman, and I'll knock you on your ass. Understand?"

Alvin gulped. Without a word, he proved that he had learned a thing or two from growing up in New York. Wisely, he turned in the opposite direction as Quinn.

"Smart man."

"Your woman?" Quinn snatched the shirt from him, not in the mood to let him help. "Since when?"

"As long as we are here—together—you are mine. And I don't share. Not even the view."

"That is a chauvinistic heap of steaming crap."

"I won't argue. But it doesn't change the way I feel."

Grumbling, Quinn pulled on Ryder's shirt. It hit her at mid-thigh—not shorter than a lot of hemlines that passed his way every day. It would do until they were safely at the bungalow.

"By the way," Quinn said as she walked to the beach. "I need to borrow five hundred dollars."

QUINN HAD TAKEN her shower and was sitting on the deck when Ryder exited the bathroom. He would have suggested they share, however, didn't think Quinn was in the mood to have his hands on her at the moment. She hadn't spoken on the walk back except to veto his offer of motorized transportation. It wouldn't have taken long for Alvin to round up a car.
No, thank you
. Ryder gave points for politeness, but the tone of her voice was colder than a mid-December day at the North Pole.

Ryder raided the refrigerator, taking two bottles of water from the shelf, before joining Quinn.

"I paid Alvin." Ryder handed her the water. Quinn took it without looking his way. "It wasn't a loan, Quinn. If you try to pay me back, we will have words."

When Quinn didn't answer, Ryder frowned. From their first meeting, he couldn't recall her staying silent for long. She wasn't afraid to share her opinion. A silent Quinn made Ryder uncomfortable.

"Quinn. I—"

The sound Quinn made stopped Ryder cold. It sounded like something between a hiccup and a sniffle. The sound someone made when they were crying.

"I'm sorry," Quinn whispered, taking a shaky breath.

"Why?" Ryder dropped to his knees in front of her. Cupping Quinn's face with his hands, he wiped the wetness from her cheeks with his thumbs. "I messed up, not you."

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 there. 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.