FLOWERS and CAGES Page 8

  In the back, their instruments were carefully packed beside four suitcases and some camping equipment. There were nights when the budget didn't include money for a motel room.

  The Ryder Hart Band was at the end of a drive-through summer tour that had taken them through the Southwest. Their manager insisted this would be the last time. After their album hit in October, it would be first class all the way.

  Dalton wasn't getting his hopes too high. The album was good—borderline great. The hard work was finally paying off. He joined Ryder and Ashe because they shared a vision. The sound they wanted to produce. The music they wanted to make. Yes, the name out front was Ryder's—something he and Ashe fully endorsed—but in every way they were equals. Writing partners, business partners. Most of all, friends.

  To say it had been a struggle put it mildly. Three eighteen-year-olds with barely a pot to piss in. What they earned went toward expenses. Dalton sent as much as he could to his mother. Ryder did the same for his sister. Ashe came from money, but they cut him off when he chose music over conformity.

  Slowly, they built a following—a reputation. When Ryder's sister joined the band last year, she brought an attitude and a killer lead guitar. The Ryder Hart Band had a unique sound that distinguished them from the pack. And Zoe was a big reason.

  "Why don't you sweat?" Dalton asked the woman sitting cool, calm, and collected in the backseat.

  "Heat—and the sweat that goes with it—is a state of mind," she answered with a deadpan expression. "I chose cool to be cool. It's as simple as that."

  Zoe's long, blond hair sat atop her head in a messy, yet somehow put-together bun. The loose lilac-colored summer dress she wore brought out flecks of purple in her normally deep blue eyes. At eighteen, she had more poise—and snark—than a woman twice her age.

  Zoe Hart was a beautiful young woman with talent to burn. Dalton loved her the same way he loved Ryder and Ashe. They were the family of his heart. However, those who didn't know the real Zoe found her intimidating as hell. Much to her delight.

  "I hate you." His grin belying his words, Ryder lightly jabbed his sister in the arm. "Hand me a bottle of water before I melt away completely.

  Zoe complied, tossing him a bottle from the cooler behind her seat. Ryder poured half the contents over his head. It was warm—the ice they started out with had melted about twenty miles ago. But their lead singer sighed with relief as the liquid ran down his face. He was a damn good-looking man. Dalton could admit that with no jealousy— or fear of denting his well-documented heterosexuality. Facts were facts. Ryder's face drew the ladies. And where there were pretty women, men followed. When they started out, it was a formula that put bodies in the bars where they played. They still came to see Ryder. But now, their music was as big a draw—if not bigger.

  "Where are we playing tonight?" Ashe asked. In the rearview mirror, he sent Zoe a smile when she passed him a bottle of water.

  "Midas," Dalton answered.

  Ashe groaned. "Who is she?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about." Dalton tried to look innocent, but he hadn't been able to pull that off for years.

  "Shit, Dalton." Ryder kicked the back of his seat. "If you aren't bragging, there's something wrong with her."

  "Even money says she's married." Zoe scoffed. She rarely cursed—it wasn't necessary. One raised eyebrow conveyed the contempt of a string of f-bombs.

  Dalton could have protested, but these people knew him better than anyone. Why bother to lie?

  "Bonnie and her friends were in the crowd last Saturday."

  "That's where you went during our break. And after the last set."

  "She had one of those older model Cadillac sedans. The backseat was huge. And, the air conditioner was in perfect working condition."

  "I get it," Ashe nodded. "A bored housewife and sweat-free fuck."

  "You never play a return engagement. Not with women," Ryder pointed out. "What makes Bonnie so special?"

  "A big… personality?" Zoe left no doubt what she meant.

  "Bonnie lives in Midas. A fact I didn't know when I mentioned the town was next on our itinerary. I know." Dalton held up a hand before anyone could comment. "It's my fault. When she asked, I didn't think."

  "Men." Zoe shook her head. "There isn't enough blood in your body to power your dick and your brain at the same time."

  "It isn't a big deal," Dalton shrugged.

  Glancing down at his crotch, Zoe chuckled.

  "Bonnie isn't a big deal. Get your mind off my dick."

  Unfazed by the taunt, Zoe put on a pair of sunglasses, humming as she stared out the window. But the lurking smile rankled.

  "Your sister is a pain in the ass."

  "I know." Ryder's smile echoed Zoe's. "She's also right. The last thing we need is trouble. Groupies are one thing. Married groupies?"

  "Trouble with a capital Hell No," Ashe chimed in.

  "One more night, brothers and sister. Tomorrow we head back to civilization. What can happen in a little town like Midas?"

  AFTER THREE MONTHS of endless shithole bars and music festivals, The Thirsty Raven wasn't the worst place they had played. But as they set up their instruments, it was difficult to recall one that ranked lower.

  "There is a gaping hole in the ladies' room. And no door on the stall. If I were so inclined, which I am not, I would have a scenic view of the parking lot while I peed."

  "If you need to go, I'll stand guard outside the men's room. It's filthy, but the walls are solid."

  "I appreciate the offer, Dalton, but I'll wait."

  "Let me know if you change your mind."

  It turned out to be a good crowd. A little rowdy, but the band had seen worse. During their last break, Dalton had stopped looking for Bonnie. The truth was, he was relieved. He had hoped she wouldn't show. It wasn't Ryder's warning or Zoe's ribbing. It was him. Women were fun. Sex was necessary. However, there was a reason why Dalton moved on after one night. He refused to make promises he wouldn't keep—and women expected promises.

  Bonnie had a husband. That had been part of her appeal. It hadn't occurred to Dalton that she would want to see him again. And in her hometown? It would be a relief if he never saw the little brunette again.

  Dalton took a deep breath of air. The crowd had thinned, making it easy to find a little peace before he had to go inside. The heat had lingered, giving the night an oppressive feel. He was ready to go home. Ready for a change. Only twenty-two, it felt like he had been on the road most of his life. It wasn't far from the truth. His mother had no interest in keeping track of her children. Where he wandered and what he did when he got there had been his choice for as long as he could remember.

  Playing in pick-up bands had been easy. Nobody asked his age, so at fifteen, his weekends became devoted to music. It brought focus to his life—and a few bucks so he could help with the bills at home. A year later, he quit school. The drums became his life—and paid enough to keep him off the streets.

  For the first time, Dalton's dreams had become a reality close enough to touch. When they were back in Los Angeles, they could scrap the old van and concentrate on taking the band to the next level.

  "Dalton?"

  Shit. Dalton recognized Bonnie's breathy voice. So much for clean and easy. He would have to man up and tell her the truth. One night was fun, two was not going to happen.

  When Bonnie stepped out of the shadows, Dalton's planned friendly greeting vaporized from his brain.

  "What the hell happened to your face?"

  Dalton's words were harsh. When Bonnie flinched, he silently cursed himself. Taking her hand, he pulled her farther into the light. Carefully, Dalton took Bonnie's chin between his fingers, tipping her head.

  "It's not as bad as it looks," Bonnie hiccupped.

  "It looks like someone used your pretty face as a punching bag."

  Bonnie's bottom lip had swelled to twice its size, the split crusted over w
ith dried blood. Several bruises began to form on her face, the most prominent on her left cheek. In the morning, her right eye would be impossible to open.

  "It doesn't matter. I wanted to see you before you left to let you know—" Bonnie's voice caught.

  "Take it slow."

  Dalton led Bonnie to an old log. Sitting next to her, he gently took her into his arms. He didn't consider himself a volatile man. It took a lot to set him off. But when it came to the abuse of women and children, Dalton's boiling point was low—minuscule. His first instinct was to protect the victim. His second—destroy the abuser.

  "I needed to see you one last time." Dalton took a black bandana from his back pocket. He used it on stage to keep his hands dry, but it would do so Bonnie could wipe her tears. "That night in Winslow was very special to me. I wanted you to know that I'll never forget you."

  "Does your husband hit you often?" It was a stupid question. One time was too many.

  "Collier isn't a bad man. I know it's my fault. When he drinks, I say stupid things."

  "Honey, there isn't anything you could say that would give that bastard the right to lay a finger on you."

  "He's always sorry. Tomorrow he'll bring me flowers."

  "That isn't going to happen."

  "Why not?" Bonnie asked in a small, pitiful voice.

  "Because tonight, I'm going to put him in the hospital."

  "No!" When Dalton tried to stand, Bonnie clutched at his arm. "He'll hurt you. Collier was captain of his college boxing team."

  Now instead of beating up on other over-privileged idiots, Collier pounded on his wife. And nobody stopped him. What about her family? Or his? They had to know.

  "I can take care of myself."

  "I—"

  "Jesus, Bonnie. I look the other way when you go slumming out of town. But this is unacceptable. A musician? What the fuck?"

  "Collier!" Bonnie cringed. "It isn't how it looks."

  Collier. The name suited him, Dalton thought. Tall, blond, and arrogant. He looked trim, but he must have outweighed his wife by at least seventy pounds. Standing, Dalton planted his feet in front of Bonnie's cowering figure.

  "Make a move toward her and I will crush you."

  Crossing his arms, Collier smirked. "Nice, Bonnie. You found yourself a tough guy. But is he tough enough to take down me and my friends?"

  Out of the shadows stepped two men. As they flanked Collier, Dalton thought that if those thugs were his friends, Dalton was next in line to the British throne. There was no doubt who they were. Hired muscle. It was their job to make certain Collier didn't muss a single strand of his perfectly styled hair.

  "Typical," Dalton spat. "You beat your wife. Why not? She can't fight back. I bet your daddy fixed all those fancy boxing matches of yours. He knew you couldn't win a fair fight. And so does everyone else."

  Taunting Collier into losing his cool turned out to be easier than Dalton expected. Apparently, that daddy dig hit close to home.

  "You think you can take me down? Give it your best shot."

  "Mr. Langley," one of the bruisers put a hand on Collier's arm. "I don't think this is a good idea."

  Shaking him off, Collier snarled, "You aren't paid to think, Wilcox. I'm warning you, if you want to keep your job, do not interfere. Understood?"

  Wilcox and the other man exchanged looks. With identical shrugs, they stepped back.

  His entire life, if he wanted something, Dalton had to fight for it. Sometimes with his fists. Sometimes with his brains. Either way, his skills were honed by years of hard living—something Collier would never understand. Where Dalton came from, he didn't survive unless he learned to fight dirty. With one or two blows, he could have ended the fight before it began. However, that would have been too easy. Collier thought he would win because he was socially, intellectually, and physically the better man. Dalton didn't give a shit about society. When it came to brains and brawn, he was about to teach Collier a lesson he would never forget.

  Collier put up his fists as though waiting for the opening bell. Mistake number one. The Marquis of Queensbury had no place in this fight. Dalton easily dodged the first punch, countering with one of his own to Collier's mid-section. He followed with a quick jab to his chin, and Collier hit the ground like a ton of bricks.

  "Fucking glass jaw," Wilcox muttered.

  Disappointed that it was over so quickly, Dalton turned away in disgust. He wanted to do some damage, but he didn't hit a man who was down for the count.

  "Do you want me to take you someplace?" Dalton asked a weeping Bonnie. He didn't know who her tears were for, and he didn't care. All Dalton wanted was to get out of this crazy town as quickly as possible.

  "Where would I go?" Bonnie asked, genuinely puzzled. "Collier is my husband. I live with him."

  Dalton wasn't surprised by Bonnie's answer. She hadn't left Collier before. Why would tonight be any different? He gave her an option. She turned him down. It was no longer any of his business.

  "Watch out!"

  Instinct and quick reflexes were all that saved Dalton from a smashed skull. He dove to his right, before rolling to his feet. As it was, Collier managed to clip Dalton's shoulder with the fist-sized rock.

  "You got lucky, asshole. You won't take me down again."

  "This won't end well." Slightly crouched, Dalton waited for Collier to make his move. "Walk away while you still can."

  "Hey, punk. Are you feeling lucky? Because that's the only way you're getting past me again."

  Dalton didn't know if Collier had purposely paraphrased Clint Eastwood. Time wasn't on his side, or he would have called the idiot out. But Collier chose that moment to swing. Dalton went low, swung his foot around, and took the other man's legs out from under him. The air knocked out of him, he lay on his back gasping for air.

  Dalton was pissed off by the entire situation—especially Bonnie who was enjoying the fight way too much for a woman who just minutes earlier had been a weeping, cowering, traumatized mess. Her eyes seemed to glow with a sick kind of excitement. He didn't know what the hell was going on there.

  Dusting off his jeans, Dalton winced. Damn, his shoulder had taken a harder hit than he realized. All he could think was that it better not fuck up his drumming. He had already put Collier and Bonnie in his rearview mirror. As far as Dalton was concerned, it was over. Case closed.

  Unfortunately, Collier had other ideas. Humiliated. Taken down by a man he viewed as inferior in every way. He needed to vent his frustration and rise from his humiliation. Reaching for the only weapon he had, Collier slung the rock at Dalton.

  Dalton wheeled around seconds after the rock sailed past his head. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

  Seeing red, Dalton lost every ounce of cool he possessed. It was the moment that changed his young life forever.

  PRESENT DAY

  "I BEAT THE shit out of him. I like to think I would have stopped at that, but I'll never know for sure. Collier's muscle men pulled me off before I could do permanent damage."

  "Do you honestly think you would have killed him?" Colleen asked. She sat with her arms wrapped around her pulled-in knees, her cheek resting on top.

  "Maybe."

  "That is total bullshit." Colleen didn't move, but her eyes narrowed. "You had your chance to take him out. Twice. You barely did more than dirty his rich-boy clothes. The third time you vented. It's understandable. But murder? Please."

  "My fists punching the smug expression off Collier's face felt damn good."

  "I'll bet." Colleen shook her head. "I know Collier. I'm afraid the smug came back. Tenfold."

  "He came to court. Everyday. Smirking."

  "You were railroaded."

  "I was guilty."

  Colleen turned her head until she looked out on the lake.

  "Money can do so much good—in the right hands. Collier's father used his to make certain you paid for his son's crime." She frowned. "It's like a slight of
hand trick. The magician draws the attention of his audience one way, distracting from what is really happening. That is what Judge Langley did."

  "I was the distraction?"

  "Exactly. Collier beat his wife. He started the fight. When you tried to walk away, he found a way to keep it going. In a world not ruled by Langley power and money, you wouldn't have been charged, let alone convicted. I read the newspaper stories. They played up the fact that you didn't have a scratch on you while Collier looked like he had been hit by a large, fast-moving truck."

  Dalton remembered. His lawyer had tried his best to counter the accusations, but the three witnesses backed up Collier's side of the story. It was his word against theirs. When Bonnie took the stand, she claimed Dalton had beaten her because she refused to sleep with him.

  "By the end of that trial, Collier and Bonnie came off as the perfect couple. You were the evil outsider trying to destroy their love." Colleen made a gagging sound. "When I read that, I almost lost my dinner."

  "How do you know it wasn't the truth?"

  "Living in Midas all these years, I know Collier's and Bonnie's reputations."

  "Ah." Dalton was deciding how to take that when Colleen laughed.

  "Did you expect me to proclaim my absolute faith in you? We've known each other for less than forty-eight hours, Dalton. I think you are a good guy. But I don't know it."

  The good guy label was tough for Dalton. He wanted to do the right thing. He lived his life in a way he hoped would have made his mentor—Silas Freed—proud. However, good equated boring. He pictured a rocking chair and Saturday nights watching PBS and drinking hot cocoa. Someday. Maybe. Not now. He certainly didn't want Colleen to think of him that way.

  As if reading his mind, Colleen met his gaze. What he saw took his breath away. That was not the look a woman gave a man she found boring.

  "You are sexy as hell, Dalton Shaw. I don't have to know you to sleep with you. Or trust you. However…"

  "Yes?" As far as Dalton was concerned, Colleen could have stopped with sexy as hell.