She closed the door to Michael's room and followed Cain into her living room. His back was toward her and he was talking rapidly into the phone, though his words were muted and she had no clue whom he was talking to or what it was about.

He slipped the phone into his pocket and turned. His dark eyes were serious, his mouth set tightly, and Maggie got the feeling that his mood had just done a complete 360.

"Is everything all right?" she asked finally.

"It's good." Cain exhaled and rolled his shoulders. "Sorry we're so late. We just kinda lost track of time."

"Oh, don't apologize. I'm sure Michael had a great day." She shrugged. "Beats cleaning houses with Mom."

Silence fell between them. She heard the ticking of the clock from the kitchen, the slow, steady beat of it getting louder and louder as Cain stared at her, his expression unreadable.

"I gotta..." he began, and he swore under his breath as he shook his head. "I gotta go, Maggie. I got this thing...to take care of, and I..."

"Oh." She nodded quickly, swallowing a lump of disappointment as she moved to the door. "Of course, don't worry about it. Michael's out for the evening anyway, so..."

"I hope you didn't go to any trouble."

"No, not at all." She shook her head and glanced away. "I didn't really have time to do much." She shrugged. "Don't worry about it."

He was there, inches from her, his crisp, male scent teasing her nostrils as he took another step closer. He hesitated, but she kept her gaze lowered and moved aside. "I'm tired myself, so..."

"We'll do this again, okay?" His voice was gentle, cajoling, and for some reason that p.i.s.sed her off.

She remained silent but nodded.

An awkward moment pa.s.sed, and then Cain walked through the door and was down her front steps faster than a wino downing a bottle of booze.

He ran to his SUV and yanked the door open, grabbing for his cell again as he did so. He looked up as if it were an afterthought and crooked his head. "I'll be in touch." His phone was buzzing in loud, rapid bursts, and he hopped into the truck before she had time to answer.

Maggie closed the door, not sure what the h.e.l.l had just happened. A shiver rolled over her arms and she wrapped them around her midsection, squeezing what bit of warmth she could before heading to the kitchen. She was suddenly cold, which was odd, considering the temperature was still in the high seventies.

The slow ticktock of the clock grated on her nerves. She glanced up at it and frowned. It was so...ominous. A sliver of sadness rippled through her, and she angrily shoved it aside. What was the point? And why did she care so much?

She sighed and crossed to the small table that had been set for three and stared down at the place settings. What an idiot. She'd even folded purple napkins into hats.

On the counter beside the dessert that had long cooled stood a bottle of white wine-an impulse purchase. She considered pouring herself a gla.s.s but carefully corked it instead and then cleared the dishes before tossing her now-limp salad into the trash.

Her appet.i.te was long gone.

She turned out the light and stood in the early-evening shadows, lost in the silence that was her life.

Chapter 10.

Cain pulled into the parking lot behind the Coach House, Crystal Lake's only bar that featured entertainment, and not the dancing kind either. Sal was too cla.s.sy to have girls in there during the day, strutting their stuff, even though, surely, he'd make a killing. The Coach House was a large, rambling building on the edge of town that had absolutely nothing to do with its name. There was no coach and there was no house. There was only brick, mortar, and an aging expanse of blacktop. It had been a dive years ago, and as he glanced around he noted it hadn't changed at all.

He ran his hand across the roughness of his chin, thinking the five-o'clock-shadow look was getting old.

The Coach House had been the local watering hole they-the Edwards twins, himself, and Mac Draper-had claimed as a home base of sorts. It had an unlimited supply of booze, was sketchy enough that the atmosphere rocked, and most importantly, had live entertainment every weekend.

This was where Cain had honed his skills, both as a guitarist and a performer. It was the site of his first-ever live gig, the first place he'd gotten drunk, and the place where he'd lost his virginity to Sh.e.l.li Gouthro. It had been a quick and amorous act performed behind the big oak tree on the far side of the parking lot.

He scratched his chin. It had been a hot summer night not unlike this one.

Christ, it seemed a lifetime ago.

He slid from the truck and stood for a few moments as his mind wandered to Maggie and the evening that could have been. d.a.m.n, he'd looked forward to spending the night with her.

His cell phone vibrated, shaking him from his thoughts, but he ignored it and made his way to the entrance. He knew who was on the line and quickly disappeared inside the bar, wondering how bad things were.

It was dark, but the smell of grease and beer hit him in the gut with all the subtlety of a brick wall. Cain could have been blind and deaf or half-asleep, yet he'd know where the h.e.l.l he was. His mouth watered at the thought of a cold beer, burger, and fries. It was hours since he'd eaten.

"Cain Black! Holy s.h.i.t, it's been a while."

He turned and shook the enthusiastic hand offered to him by Salvatore Nuno, owner of the Coach House. The man's head was as bald as he remembered, though his belly had grown...a lot. The jovial glint in his eye and the warmth that was reflected in his voice, however, was the same.

"It's good to be home, Sal."

The man's smile fled as he nodded toward the back of the bar. The place was half-full, a bit of a dinner crowd before the band took to the stage in a few hours.

"He's back there."

Cain's eyes narrowed, but he couldn't see s.h.i.t. The dark corners were impenetrable, had always been, which was why they'd generally ended up hidden among the shadows. Old habits die hard.

"I'll bring you a cold one and some food, no?"

"Thanks, that sounds great." He patted Sal on the back and moved past him. Whispers followed in his wake, eyes clung to his back, as he threaded a path through the chaotic mess of tables that really had no rhyme or reason. Somehow it all worked.

By now his eyes had adjusted somewhat, and his mouth tensed as he made his way over to the last booth. Jake glanced up, and Cain slid in across from him.

"Sorry to tear you away from the little redhead." Jake's tone was teasing, but Cain ignored him, his eyes settling on the p.r.o.ne body next to him. Mac's head rested on his arms, though he faced the wall and Cain couldn't see s.h.i.t.

"How is he?"

Jake took a long drink from his beer and carefully set the now-empty bottle on the table. He stared down at his hands and shook his head. "Not good. Though from what I hear, his father looks way worse."

"He got into it with Ben?" Cain grimaced. "He should have gone back to New York on Monday like he'd planned."

Jake winced. "No kidding, but he wanted to see his mother one more time. I guess his dad came home unexpectedly, and that's when all h.e.l.l broke loose. The cops were called in, but Nick... You remember the running back from our team? Nick Torrent?"

An image of a large teenager with bad skin and an even badder att.i.tude tugged his memory. The guy had been built like a Mack truck.

At Cain's nod, Jake continued. "Well, he was called to the scene, and Mackenzie convinced Torrent to bring him here instead of the hotel he's been staying at." Jake frowned. "That was around noon, and from what I can tell, he proceeded to get loaded until he pa.s.sed out. Sal called me an hour ago."

Sal set a beer on the table in front of Cain. "Food's on its way." The bar owner's gaze rested on Mac. "His old man is the worst kind of b.a.s.t.a.r.d there is. I don't understand why Lila won't leave him. The kids have been gone for years."

Mac groaned and turned toward them. His eyes were still closed, but Cain saw that the right one was nearly swollen shut. Cuts and bruises marred his buddy's face, and he looked more like a prizefighter than an architect. Cain shook his head. The man was about as far away from Armani as you could get.

Seems the sins of the father weren't something Mac could outrun.

Cain took another swig from his bottle and glanced around. Equipment was set up on the stage-cla.s.sic Marshall stacks, a Pearl drum kit, and three microphone stands. It was bare-bones, but seriously, all you needed.

"Who's playing?" He felt the itch deep down and eyed the stage with a hunger that surprised him, considering he'd just come off a ten-month tour.

"Don't know the name, but from what Sal said, a local band of pimply faced teenagers. Country rock maybe?" Jake shrugged, a smile crossing his face. "You wanna play?"

Cain finished his beer and slid back in his chair. He couldn't deny the thrill that shot through him at the thought. "Nah, I'd hate to intrude on their night."

"Intrude? h.e.l.l, if you got up there and played a song or two, they'd probably c.r.a.p their pants, which is something they'd gladly do in order to brag that they shared a stage with the dude from BlackRock."

Sal brought over a plate filled to the brim with a large burger and fries-total heart attack on a plate-and Cain dug in hungrily while Jake ordered a couple more beers. What the h.e.l.l, he was on vacation. Sort of.

"So, how did it go with the kid? You guys have better luck than we did?"

Cain nodded, swallowed, and washed down his food with a large gulp of cold brew. "It was good. We caught a full bucket of perch." He smiled. "For a little guy, he has stamina. Lasted nearly the entire day out on the water."

"Yeah, and his mother looks great in a bikini."

The rough voice came from nowhere, and they both looked at Mac in surprise. The entire right side of his face was swollen, while his chin was a mess of purple and black. Dried blood coated the corners of his mouth and crusted near his nose.

He stretched out his arm and groaned, then cursed when his frown caused even more pain. "I feel like s.h.i.t," he announced to no one in particular.

Jake c.o.c.ked his head and laughed. "Sorry to say, buddy, but you look even worse."

Mac leaned back into the corner of the booth and scowled at them. "I need a drink."

Cain arched his eyebrow and grinned at Jake as he motioned toward Mac. "You sure you want to go down that road?"

"h.e.l.l, yeah." Mac signaled to Sal. "I'm still drunk, so the way I see it, the only direction is up."

"That makes no sense whatsoever." Jake snorted and called for the bartender too. "But I think I'd like to go wherever the h.e.l.l you're headed." He grinned at Cain. "When was the last time we got out of hand?"

"h.e.l.l if I know. It's been so long, I don't remember."

Mac leaned forward, his face dead serious. "It's time to make some new memories, my friends."

Salvatore came over with some cold ones, a look they knew all too well on his face-a cross between fear and trepidation, with a bit of anxiety tossed in for the ride.

"Now boys," he began as he set the beers on the table.

They echoed his words in perfect harmony but weren't able to coax a smile from the round Italian.

Sal cleared his throat and stood, arms crossed, eyebrows furled. "Let's not have a repeat of the last time you were together, all right?"

"Last time?" Jake glanced at Mac, and the two of them burst into laughter. It took a few seconds for the fog to lift, and when it did, Cain threw his head back and joined in. The memory wasn't exactly clear, but he did recall Jesse and Jake riding into the bar on the back of a black-and-white Holstein cow.

"I'm serious now. If I think things are going south, your b.u.t.ts are outta here." He turned to Cain. "I don't care that you're all Hollywood these days."

"Don't worry 'bout us, Sal." Jake winked. "We'll make sure to clean up any mess we leave behind."

Sal's eyes narrowed, though the ghost of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "Sure you will...but I swear, if I step into anything that remotely resembles a flaming pile of s.h.i.t..." Sal shook his head and muttered all the way back to the bar.

The three of them sat in silence for a few moments, each lost in a memory that was both comical and bittersweet. Cain shoved his empty plate away and grabbed his drink.

He stared at Mac, marveled at the mess that was his face, and lifted his beer in salute. Blood wasn't everything. He and Mac knew that better than most. As far as Cain was concerned, these two men were his family, and it felt d.a.m.n good to be home again. Jake followed suit, and then Mac.

"To Jesse," Jake said softly. "May there be lots of beer, whiskey, Holsteins, and a big-a.s.s pile of s.h.i.t wherever the h.e.l.l he is."

They emptied their bottles and ordered another round.

The sound of a drop D slid through the night and drew Cain's attention. It was a heavy note, an aggressive punch that signaled the band was definitely not country music. As always, it electrified him-the sound of a guitar-and his body thrummed with energy.

The band was on stage, setting up their guitars, making sure their mikes were in place, and generally doing a last check before showtime. A large mountain of a man had slid in behind the sound board set up behind the dance floor, and they did a quick sound check-nothing intense, just enough to get the levels right.

The band was a young bunch-Shady Aces, the banner behind them said. They were decked out in skinny jeans that hung halfway down their a.s.ses, a look Cain just didn't get. Who the h.e.l.l walked around with their boxers on display? Their hair was greased up something good, their ears and faces covered in piercings and their arms adorned with tattoos. Total bada.s.s.

Their c.o.c.ky att.i.tude and arrogance fit the whole rock thing, but he knew from experience all the posturing in the world wouldn't help if the talent wasn't there.

Cain watched from the shadows, enjoying his relative anonymity and the easy comfort of Mac and Jake. Five minutes later, when the band struck the first note of a raunchy, rocking blues tune, he was right there with them and down for the ride.

The kids had talent, and as their set progressed, their confidence grew, and it was reflected in the music. They played a good forty-five-minute set, and when it was over, the furtive glances in his direction told Cain they knew he was in the club.

He walked over to the boys, wanting to let them know how much he'd enjoyed their performance, and twenty minutes later found him onstage, a beat-up Fender slung across his chest and a grin that spread ear to ear on his face.

This was where he belonged.

He struck a chord, a bluesy, hard-rocking note that rang out into the crowd. It took everything the boys had to keep up to him. Cain was a pro. He'd been around the block more than once, and when he played his music, it was like an extension of his very soul. He knew how to work the crowd, and his larger-than-life personality took over the stage. There was no one else up there but him.

He caressed and cajoled runs, pulled heavy vibratos from the strings like all the legends before him. He was a mix of Hendrix and Van Halen and Stevie Ray. His whiskey-soaked voice soared and then came back to earth with the subtle nuances that only he could do. It was obvious to everyone the boy belonged onstage.

Cain and Shady Aces played for hours, and by the end of the night, the Coach House was standing-room only. The news had spread via cell phones and text messages, and a lot of old familiar faces showed up.

The high was one that never got old, and later, much later, he and the boys continued to bond over a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Or two. They'd moved from beer to the hard stuff with ease, and Cain knew he'd pay the price.

Which he did.

Raine made sure of it.

He woke up with harsh light sliding across his face and rolled over, groaning as his head thwacked against the wall. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton, and his cranium wanted to explode.