FLOWERS and CAGES Page 2

  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."

  CHAPTER TWO

  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.

  THERE WERE DAYS when sweat poured down Colleen McNamara's body. When she smelled like someone had dipped her in gasoline and there seemed to be more motor oil under her fingernails than in the car she worked on. Days when her boss bellowed for her to speed it up. When she arrived at the garage at the crack of dawn, leaving well after the sun had set.

  It was on days like that—like today—when she wondered if her mother had been right. The very thought sent a chill down her overheated spine. But there it was. Perhaps Colleen should chuck her job at Dole's Auto Repair and apply for beauty school. In less than six months, she could be elbows deep in hair spray and permanent wave solution.

  No more dirty garage floors, stifling heat, or permanently stained coveralls. Colleen could trade it all for air-conditioned comfort surrounded by pink… everything. From the salon curtains, the tiles on the floor, and her mother's hair. Pick a shade. Everything inside the Cut and Curl looked like an advertisement for cotton candy.

  And that was the problem. There was nothing frilly or sweet about Colleen McNamara. And, for the love of God, she hated pink.

  "Move your ass, Mac."

  "If you say that one more time, Dole, I swear I will shove this spark plug up your ass."

  "Shit," Dole huffed. "Is it that time of the month again?"

  Because Colleen respected her tools, she carefully set down her screwdriver before calmly turning toward her lunk-headed boss.

  "Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing."

  "Men don't get PMS, girly."

  "Then why are you bloated and bitchy?" Colleen looked him up and down. The beer belly. The bloodshot eyes. The nose that would have put Rudolph out of his reindeer job. Shaking her head, she heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Oh, that's right. It isn't PMS. It's Wednesday. And Thursday. And Friday. And…" Colleen trailed off. She made her point, no need to run it into the ground.

  "You better watch your mouth, Mac."

  "And if I don't?"

  His face the shade of an overripe eggplant, Dole took a threatening step in her direction. Colleen simply raised an eyebrow, crossed her arms over her greasy coveralls, and planted her feet as if to say, take your best shot. I dare you. Dole didn't dare. It wasn't that he had a problem with knocking women around. His wife knew what the back of his hand felt like. He fantasized about putting Colleen in her place—on her knees, sucking his dick.

  There was one major problem. Dole wasn't certain he could take her down. He outweighed her by two hundred pounds—at least. But it was ninety percent blubber. Before his first cup of coffee—which he chased down with a box of Entenmann's—Dole was already four cigarettes into his first pack of the day. There was always someone hanging around the garage. It was bad enough that Colleen spoke to him like he was trash under her feet. He would never live down the humiliation of her besting him physically.

  "I'm still your boss," Dole muttered. Sending Colleen one last glare, Dole shuffled back to his office.

  Colleen waited until Dole was out of sight before returning to work. She knew that she intimidated the hell out of him. But she never made the mistake of turning her back on him when he was angry. If that mass of man fell on her, it would be game over.

  With a sigh, Colleen lay down on the old wooden dolly, rolling herself under a jacked-up Blazer. This was her job, and she needed it. It would be smart to keep her mouth shut, but sometimes she had to let off steam or explode.

  Dole was an uneducated, misogynistic pig whose father, the original Dole of Dole's Auto Repair, had left him a thriving business. Five years later, he had all but run it into the ground. Then Colleen came along. It didn't take long for word to spread. She had the magic touch. And that touch was going to get her out of Midas—soon. The stash of money she had been saving since her first job sweeping hair at her mother's salon was almost where it needed to be. Barring a disaster, in less than a year, Colleen would be gone from Midas.

  Unfortunately, there always seemed to be some kind of disaster. Six years ago, Colleen had her bags packed when her mother had been diagnosed with lung cancer. Two packs of Camels a day finally caught up with her.

  Unpacking her bags, Colleen did what anyone would have done—she stayed. The beauty parlor needed a manager, and her mother needed a caretaker. Months of radiation and chemotherapy followed by a long recovery of her general health and the cancer was gone. Thank God. But so was Colleen's money. Bills had to be paid.

  More determined than ever, Colleen started from scratch. She worked with single-minded devotion. Long hours putting up with Dole and crap equipment. Doing jobs on the side. It had finally paid off. Colleen could see a future away from Midas. Where didn't matter as long as it was bigger and better. In other words, any place but here.

  Colleen rolled out long enough to turn up the volume on the old radio. For a second, she closed her eyes, letting the song and its pounding rhythm soothe her mind. Soon, she promised herself. Closing her eyes, she pictured her favorite fantasy. Behind the wheel of her restored fifty-five T-Bird, the wind blowing through her dark red hair. Straight ahead was an old sign. Faded, bent on the tips and riddled with bullet holes, it was the most beautiful sight on Earth.

  Two words that made her heart beat with hope. Leaving Midas.

  SMOKE ROLLED FROM under the hood of Dalton's Porsche. Then the car coughed. Sputtered. Shit. The car was practically brand new. If it couldn't survive a little six-hundred-mile road trip, what good was it? Naturally, it had to happen as he pulled into Midas. The sense of doom and gloom that began its descent over him about an hour ago grew heavier.

  Was this a sign? A portent of things to come? There was no law that said Dalton had to stay. He could call a tow truck. Phoenix was about fifty miles east. Civilization beckoned.

  As his car limped along, Dalton glanced to his right. Dole's Auto Repair. Now that was a sign.

  Unless things had changed, it was the town's one garage and not equipped to deal with a high-performance sports car. However, it was conveniently located—right in front of him, to be exact. At this point, he didn't have an option. Dalton had come all this way to see his sister—and exorcise of a few old ghosts. If he had to do it in a borrowed car, so be it.

  Dalton stopped beside the one gas pump. If he were lucky, the problem was a dry radiator. But in his experience, Midas and luck did not go hand in hand. Then again, he wasn't the same man he once was. Perhaps Midas had changed, too.

  As soon as the thought popped into his head, Dalton broke out laughing. Who was he kidding? Deep down he was the same. A little more polished but there were enough rough edges left that the old Dalton would have easily recognized the new one.

  And Midas? The town looked exactly the same. Scratch that. It looked like an older, dirtier, more rundown version of the old, dirty, rundown town from seven years ago. Back then, the place needed a makeover. Now, it needed a bulldozer. Time changed everything. Not always for the better.

  The longer Dalton waited, it became apparent nobody was coming to find out if he needed help. He could sit in his car until hell froze over—or in this case, Midas—or he could move his ass and search it out on his own.

  There was no preparing himself for the blast of inferno-like heat. Great, another hell reference. Dalton needed to change his attitude. He wasn't here by force.
It had been his decision. Yes, it was hot. He had sweated through worse. The last time being a July concert in Texas. By the end, there was a pool of sweat under his chair the size of a small lake—though hot and much saltier. If he could survive that, he could manage to walk twenty feet from his air-conditioned car to the open door of the garage.

  Admittedly, neither Los Angeles nor Texas carried the added memory of having his face shoved in the scorching dirt while two police officers held him down and another cuffed his hands behind his back. Only Midas had that particular distinction.

  Shaking the image off, Dalton adjusted his sunglasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. Half a dozen steps and his black boots were coated with dust, dulling the shine of the expensive leather. The sight didn't help to raise his spirits. The sound of a bell ringing was a welcome distraction. A short, solidly built young man—Dalton would have guessed him to be in his late teens—exited the office, a can of Coke in one hand, a set of keys in the other.

  "Excuse me," Dalton called out. "Is there a mechanic on duty?"

  Without breaking stride, the kid jerked his head toward the right. "You'll find Mac in there."

  It wasn't the rudeness that surprised Dalton. It was the utter lack of curiosity. Midas was a small town. How often did a stranger in an expensive sports car engage this guy in conversation? There was money in the area. But that was on the north side of Midas. Those families didn't frequent places like Dole's Auto Repair.

  Wiping the sweat from his upper lip, Dalton's stride ate up the few feet between him, the open garage door, and a merciful patch of shade. Music was the first thing that greeted his entrance, a song he recognized immediately. Wild Jasmine. After all the years of success, it still gave a Dalton a thrill when he heard his band on the radio. It wasn't that long ago when it happened for the first time. The four of them swore they would never take it for granted. And they never had. An extra jolt came from the fact that the song was one of his. A rare solo effort. His words. His music. Ryder's voice. Dalton grinned. It was a good thing. If it had been left up to him to sing lead, the band would have died a quick, painful death.