Ryder (A Merrick Brothers Novel)

  Ryder

  A Merrick Brothers Novel

  by

  PRESCOTT LANE

  Copyright © 2020 Prescott Lane

  Kindle Edition

  Cover Design by RBA Designs | Letitia Hasser

  Photo by: JW Photography and Covers

  Model: Dan Rengering

  Editing by Nikki Rushbrook

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Music icon made by Freepik from www.flaticon.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  Also by Prescott Lane

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  Ryder

  A concert is a lot like love. There’s an opening act. The person that comes before you, either leaving the audience cold and distant, or wanting for more. That’s when you take the stage, front and center.

  In love, like any good show, the beginning starts hot, full of passion, sparks, electricity. You’re on your best behavior. The middle tends to slow down, you settle in, get comfortable—introduce the band, sing a ballad. The end comes in a fury, a heat. You want to go out with a bang, leave them waiting more, leave with the last word.

  But then the inevitable happens. The lights go out, everyone leaves, and you’re left alone with nothing but memories hanging in the air, like the faint echoes of notes strummed from your guitar.

  My eyes land on the last seat in the first row. That’s her seat. Always will be.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THREE MONTHS AGO

  New girl in a small town

  You were sixteen and so was I

  Ryder

  “I love you,” someone screams from the audience. I’ve lost count how many declarations of love I’ve gotten tonight. I’m two-thirds through the show, so there’s no telling.

  In a stadium of seventy thousand people, I only get a vague sense of where it came from. Smirking, I look toward the direction of the voice, the blinding stage lights preventing me from seeing past the first few rows. Most performers would yell back, “I love you, too,” but not me. I use a lot of four-letter words, but love isn’t one of them.

  Thousands of people yelling how much they love you, holding up signs asking you to marry them—it’s something you never get used to. Ten years into my music career, and it’s still bizarre. Wish I could say I’ve never fallen for the trappings of their love, but I have—too many times, too many nights.

  A pair of panties lands on top of my shoe, causing me to chuckle. Shaking my head, I wonder how many of these young ladies in the crowd are without underwear. Those are the trappings I’m talking about.

  “Ryder,” the crowd chants.

  My band starts the next song, and I kick away the thong, the soft strum of my guitar drowning out all the other noise. Women, music, and the road go hand-in-hand, but the curves of my guitar are all I’ve ever really needed. Some call me a loner. Country music didn’t initially know what to make of me. I don’t fit the typical mold—no boots or cowboy hats. Jeans, t-shirts and my guitar—that’s it.

  Magazines have dubbed me as brooding. Truth is, everything I need to say comes out in my songs. I write my own stuff, always have. For some reason, it’s always been easier for me to say what I want in a song. Want to know me, then listen to the lyrics, because the stage show, the star, the “Sexist Man Alive” isn’t me. It’s all bullshit.

  I was late coming into music, didn’t start until I was seventeen, but now, at almost thirty, I can play most any instrument, at least a little. But the guitar is my favorite. The curve of the wood reminds me of that beautiful curve of a woman’s body between her tits and her ass. My favorite spot. My fingers stroke the strings. Playing the guitar is like playing with a woman. Depending on how well you stroke, the sounds that come out could be soft moans or loud screams. The biggest difference between a guitar and woman is I keep my guitars around forever, and a woman is always gone the next morning.

  Tonight’s show is the last of the tour. Over two hundred shows across three continents, and it ends tonight. The set we are playing tonight, I’ve played so often I could do it in my sleep. It’s all scripted—from the “how you doing tonight” to the “encore” performance. Same shit, different day. I might sound like an ungrateful asshole. I’m grateful. I know I don’t deserve what I have, but I don’t do what I do for the money, the fame. I don’t even do it for the fans. I do it because I have to. I could never write another song, do another show and retire today, but it’s not about the money. It never has been. It’s about salvation. Music is the place I find some peace.

  Still, I’m ready to take a break, write, get back in the studio. We’ll still be doing a smattering of shows here and there, but on a smaller scale—charity gigs, awards shows, that sort of thing.

  I hit the chorus of the song, my eyes scanning the first few rows of the crowd. I recognize a pair of blue eyes staring back at me. Has she been there the whole time? She’s not singing along. Her hands aren’t waving in the air. Her body doesn’t sway to the beat.

  Kailey.

  No last name.

  Only Kailey.

  Only one night.

  The only girl I ever wanted another night with. The one that got away. The one I let get away. We hooked up in New Orleans, nowhere close to L.A., but I do remember her saying she was from California. I know stalking is illegal, but for her I might allow it.

  Smiling through my lyrics, I wink at her. The girl next to her starts screaming, but Kailey’s eyes cast downward. Not missing a beat of my song, I follow her gaze.

  To the little bump in her belly.

  Shit! My heart thunders against my chest, and I’m not sure whether I’m dying or coming back alive. The noise of the crowd fades away. I know my band is still playing, but I can’t remember the song. Slowly, her hand runs over her stomach.

  My eyes dart back up to hers. A guitarist moves up beside me, and I realize I’ve missed two verses. “Sing with me,” I yell, holding the microphone out to the crowd, letting them finish out the song while I say a prayer to God that she’s just gained weight.

  The song ends, and I motion to the band that I
need a minute. Every musician has a set of signs they use just in case they have an emergency on stage, and if this isn’t an emergency, I don’t know what is.

  Walking off stage, I try to calm my mind, but it’s impossible. Is this why she’s here? She wouldn’t show up at my show to tell me she’s . . . I left her no choice, not leaving her my phone number or any way to contact me. I left her alone in an empty hotel room.

  I find one of the road crew and ask him to get Kailey, giving him her seat location and a brief description, and instructing him to put her in my dressing room backstage. No one questions me. Let’s just say this isn’t the first time I’ve had them bring me a woman from the crowd for a little meet and greet.

  I return to my place center stage, my eyes in her direction. Any performance jitters are usually gone after the first few chords, but what I’m feeling right now makes that seem like child’s play. My palms are so sweaty, I can barely hold the guitar, but my heart is racing like a thoroughbred horse in the Kentucky Derby. The band kicks off the next song and somehow, I manage to sing, my eyes glued on hers, as I see someone from my crew whisper in her ear. She nods, glancing at me, then she’s escorted away.

  I’m two songs away from the end of the show. Well, two songs away from the fake ending, before I come back out for my predetermined encore, which isn’t going to happen tonight. Two songs until my life changes. Two songs until I hear the words from her lips. Two songs—that’s all I’ve got.

  I can’t even think the words. It can’t be. Maybe I’m wrong. It was one night, for fuck’s sake. Multiple times, but still? I should sue the damn condom company!

  The rest of the show sucks. I’m distracted, missing lyrics. The crowd doesn’t seem to notice, still screaming. Sometimes I think they’re here just to see me, not hear me sing. That’s good tonight, because I’m out of it. I know it, and I feel horrible about it. People pay big money to come to concerts these days, they deserve an amazing experience, and that didn’t happen tonight, but I’ve got more pressing issues to deal with.

  Walking off the stage, the crowd still chanting my name, I hand my guitar to a roadie, who gives me a towel in exchange. I don’t stop to thank anyone. I don’t stop for a drink or a piss. Normally, I would, especially because it’s the last show of the tour, but none of that matters at the moment. Instead, I head straight for my dressing room.

  I reach the door. It’s closed. What waits on the other side is going to change everything.

  Sweat dripping from my skin, I push the door open. She’s standing there in the middle of the room all alone, twisting her hands together. She’s in a tank top and loose shorts. Her dark blonde hair is down, and her blue eyes just stare at me. She looks equal parts relieved and scared shitless. “Kailey.”

  “So you remember me?” she asks.

  What the hell? Of course, I remember her. How can she think I wouldn’t remember? I haven’t been able to take another woman to my bed since her. I give her a little nod, still consumed by her belly.

  “I wasn’t sure you would,” she says quietly.

  The door flies open, my publicist, Maggie, waltzing in. She’s all business in her black pants and shirt, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. Without looking up, she starts her speed of lightning talk. “No meet and greet tonight. You have the late-night talk show scheduled to discuss the end of the tour. We have to go.”

  “Cancel,” I say without taking my eyes off Kailey.

  “We can’t cancel,” Maggie says, stepping to my side, her eyes rolling over Kailey like she’s an annoying bug to be squashed.

  Kailey shakes her head a little, telling me, “Go.”

  “No, you came here to see me, to tell me . . . Hell, you were in the first row. How’d you even manage that?” I know my concerts sell out months in advance. Buying that seat from a scalper must have cost her a shitload of money.

  “Credit card,” she says. “I’ve been at the last five shows, but could never get your attention. Since this was the last show of the tour, I had to get front row. It was my last shot.”

  I move closer, but Maggie steps between us and leans into me. “You don’t know this girl. Don’t let her suck you in. She wants your money. That’s it.”

  “I don’t want anything,” Kailey says. “Only for you to know. That’s all I wanted. I’ll sign papers or whatever, saying I waive my right to child support.” She looks me in the eye. “I just couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t tell you.”

  “You need to go,” Maggie says, yanking at my arm.

  I pull away, locking my eyes on Kailey. “You could’ve gone to the press, but you didn’t. Why?” Her head just shakes, and I step closer again. “Why?”

  She looks up at me from under her lashes. “It never even occurred to me.”

  My hand reaches out, hovering over her belly, afraid to touch her. She watches me then steps away, saying, “I meant what I said. I don’t want anything from you. I only wanted you to know that I’m pregnant, and there’s no doubt that it’s yours.”

  I knew that already, but hearing her say the words makes my stomach drop and my chest ache all at the same time. I wonder how many times she practiced saying that. Her voice firm, controlled, like she’s reciting a manual, not announcing she’s pregnant. With that, she turns and walks right out of the door.

  What the fuck?

  The voices in my head whisper, “You know she’s better off without you.”

  We all have voices in our head. Some wise person once said we are what we think. Think good things, and good things will happen. Think horrible things, and be sad, angry, and depressed.

  The voices in my head are ghosts. Ghosts of those gone before me, those I’ve hurt, haunt me. No exorcism will work, no amount of alcohol can chase them away. Only I hear them. Only I know, and when my ghosts talk, I usually listen, but against my better judgment, I ignore them this time.

  “Kailey,” I call, heading after her.

  Maggie grabs my elbow again. “Let her go. You have no idea whether that’s your child.”

  “Then I should find out,” I snap, but in my gut, I already know. It doesn’t make sense that I’m sure, but something in my gut knows she’s telling the truth.

  “You have a responsibility to your fans, the show.”

  “I have a responsibility to her,” I bark, rushing out the door. Luckily, she hasn’t made it far, and I step in front of her, blocking her exit. “Wait,” I say, my words coming out breathless. My fingers rake through my brown hair. I know I needed to catch her, but I’m not sure what to do now. She just stares at me, her eyes making me feel the need to hurry. “We need to talk, but I have this thing right now.”

  “I know.”

  “Come with me,” I say. Her head starts to shake, and I reach for her hand, but don’t touch her. It’s weird. I’ve seen her naked, been inside her, but can’t bring myself to touch her now.

  “You don’t need to do this,” she says. “Really, I’m okay doing this alone.”

  “I’m not,” I say.

  “You can’t possibly mean that. You’ve known for like half an hour.”

  “Right, so cut me a little slack. You’ve had what? Two months to get used to the idea of being a parent? Give me at least tonight.”

  Her head tilts. “How’d you know I’ve known for two months?”

  “We slept together in May, so I just figured.”

  “You remember that night?”

  “May sixth,” I say, smirking. “And the morning of the seventh.”

  The air leaves her chest in a little tremble, her eyes growing wet. “Walker,” Kailey says, starting to walk away. “That’s my last name. Figured you should know.”

  I shrug and call out to her, “Your last name will be Merrick soon enough.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Your momma warned you ’bout me

  My daddy did the same

  Ryder

  Kailey disappears among the sea of backstage crew and equipment. Frozen to my spot, I just sta
re in the direction she went, our night together rushing back.

  *

  I heard her voice before I ever laid eyes on her. More accurately, her scream.

  I was accustomed to hearing women scream—at my concerts, when they spotted me on the street, when I took them to bed, but hers wasn’t any of those. Hers was the sound of a woman caught in a downpour—half shocked, half laughing.

  It was the last weekend of Jazz Fest in New Orleans, Louisiana. I was in town headlining the last act of the two-weekend long festival beginning at the end of April and ending the first week of May. They’d been inviting me to play for a couple years, but I was always touring overseas or had other shows booked. This year, I made sure my tour manager fit it in. I’d been trying to get to New Orleans to play for years. You can’t walk down a street without feeling the rhythm of music under your feet.

  The spirits of great jazz legends roam these streets, keeping my own ghosts company.

  Every city I visit, I usually sneak out, ditch security, and try to be “normal” for a few hours. That day was no different. Dressed in a baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, I braved the crowds of the music festival. It’s not hard to blend in with that big of a crowd. I wasn’t there to see any of the big-name artists. I wanted to check out the local scene.

  Ironically, it was the gospel tent that drew me in. The fact that it was a Sunday wasn’t lost on me. That was the closest I’d gotten to church in years. There isn’t enough holy water in the universe to cleanse my soul of its sins.

  From the back of the tent, I listened to the soulful sounds belting through the crowd. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. That’s when you know a song is right. This is where music started—hymns. This is what music is meant to do—move you.

  The dude singing looked like he was older than Methuselah, but you wouldn’t know it from his voice or the way his body glided across the stage, looking like he had no bones. I don’t have that gift. I can play almost any instrument, my voice deep and rich, but if you’re looking for an artist that can dance, you’re better off in the gospel tent than a Ryder Merrick concert.