FLOWERS ON THE WALL (21 page)

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.

"Why did you pack a pair of suspenders?"

"Don't you like them?" Ryder plucked at the black elastic as he would a string on his guitar.

Did she like them
? They were sexy as hell. Starting at Ryder's waist, traveling over his bare chest, over his shoulders and crisscrossing his sleek back, the suspenders drew attention to everything good about his upper body. Quinn knew for a fact that Ryder had a firm body. She had kissed every luscious inch—multiple times. Muscle without bulk. His arms alone were enough to make a grown woman weep with want.

"I like them just fine. But why do you need suspenders in Aruba?"

"So you can take my picture," Ryder said in his best smartass tone. When Quinn lowered the camera, staring, Ryder laughed. "Aruba wasn't our first destination. Remember? I packed for Indiana and a week at your father's house. Hence, suspenders."

How could she have forgotten? Their brief layover in Quinn's hometown seemed like months ago, not days. Her father hadn't called or left a message. Not even a terse text—his specialty. Except for the bar and Ryder's impromptu jam with the local band, Quinn had put the visit out of her mind.

"Hence?" She smiled, calling Ryder out for what he would have called
fancy talk
. "Nice word."

"I may be uneducated, ma'am," Ryder tipped his hat in her direction. "But I can sound as highfalutin as the next guy."

"Yes, you can."

Ryder loved to joke that he was a high school dropout. The fact was, he had read more and seen more than any man she had ever known. He might not have a piece of paper lauding his intelligence. However, no one who met him would ever call Ryder Hart
uneducated
.

"Are we almost finished? I feel like a swim and…"

"And…?" Quinn prompted. She had known Ryder long enough to know what
and
meant. She just liked hearing him say it. In detail.

"I want to take that sweet dress off your delectable body."

"Go on."

Quinn raised the camera. She hadn't known it when they began, but this was what she had waited for. The look on Ryder's face. The glint in his dark eyes. That half smile on his lips. These pictures would burn up the paper they were printed on.

"I think I will start at the top. I crave your mouth."

Quinn let out a slow breath. Ryder had a way with words. He didn't want her mouth. Or desire a kiss. He craved. It was a good thing she was already on her knees. The way he looked at her made her legs turn to jelly.

"You like when I take your nipple between my teeth, don't you, Quinn?"

Quinn cleared her throat. "You know I do."

"What is better? My mouth on your breasts or between your legs."

"I have to choose?" As Ryder moved toward her, Quinn somehow had the presence of mind to continue snapping pictures.

"Is that what you want?" Reaching for her camera, Ryder carefully loosened her fingers. Quinn hadn't realized how hard she was gripping it. "Do you want both, Quinn?"

Quinn licked her lips as she watched Ryder toss the fedora across the room.

"I want everything," she whispered.

Ryder dropped to his knees, his body close enough for Quinn to feel the heat radiating from his tanned skin.

"Everything?" Ryder said, his lips brushing hers. "I think I can handle that."

THERE WAS SOMETHING about the breeze in Aruba just as the sun set. Quinn took a deep breath. As she stood on the porch of their bungalow, it was easy to imagine that nobody else existed. Just Ryder and her. She let out a private laugh. Them—and the waitress clearing away their dinner dishes.

Dazzled, Quinn watched the colors in the sky change as though swirling in her own personal kaleidoscope.

"Will that be all, Ms. Abernathy?"

"Yes. Thank you, Pella," Quinn said to the young woman who worked at the hotel.

Ryder had gone for an after-dinner run on the beach. Quinn didn't know how he could exercise right after he ate, but it certainly worked for him. Quinn preferred a long swim in the early morning.

"Would you like me to add croissants to your morning order? Our pastry chef makes them fresh every Friday morning. He is famous for—" Pella's voice broke. She sniffled once before tears started running down her face.

"What's wrong?"

Quinn put an arm around Pella's shoulders, leading her to the sofa. They hadn't spoken more than a few words since Quinn and Ryder arrived, but Quinn knew the young woman was a native of the island and was saving to go to college. In spite of his teasing, Ryder was someone who appreciated higher education. Quinn knew that he planned on leaving her a
very
generous tip.