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down the second the last encore is finished."
    Quinn tuned out the rest of the conversation. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? Obviously, they were talking about Ryder. And it tied into the band playing Chicago. Ryder and Zoe's hometown. And the source of Ryder's demons?
    It was another piece of evidence that the sweet, funny man that Quinn had met in New York wasn't as easygoing as she first thought.
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    RYDER NEVER DRANK to excess. It was an unbreakable rule forged in the memories of the evil alcohol could bring out in a normally placid individual. He had flirted with drugs. At sixteen, it had seemed like an easy way to get through his nights on the street. But he learned fast that when he was jacked up on cocaine, he lost his edge. And without an edge, the street could eat him up hard and fast.
    Music became the answer. It gave Ryder a high better than any drug. And it helped him mask his demons until he no longer had to pretend that everything was okay. Happiness became a reality—not a concept. Ryder no longer began his day with dread or ended it in fear. Life was good. Damn good.
    Until he remembered Chicago. The home of his nightmares. The city where he was born and wished to die. Then—miraculously—was reborn. The demons still lurked in the darkened alleys. Waiting for Ryder to join them. So rather than wait for them to come knocking, he sought them out. That meant including Chicago on their tour schedule. Every time. Sometimes—like this year—they landed here twice.
    His bandmates argued. His manager cajoled. Even the tour crew put up a token protest. But Ryder would not be swayed from his path. He had a theory. To enjoy heaven's delights, now and then he had to remind himself what it was like in hell.
    "I get why you won't top off the beer with a shot of Kentucky's finest." Ashe took a swig from the bottle of bourbon. "I even admire your restraint. But you need to take the edge off. For the love of God, and my sanity, find a willing woman and get yourself laid."
    "We go on in less than an hour," Ryder pointed out.
    "What's your point?" Looking confused, Ashe raised the bottle to his lips.
    "You shouldn't be swigging bourbon, and I don't have time to get laid."
    Heeding Ryder's words, Ashe lowered the bottle. "Blowjob?"
    "Are you offering?"
    "Over half the people in this arena are women. Give Linc the word and he will have a veritable smorgasbord of choices waiting outside your door before you can break the seal on a box of condoms."
    "Sounds tempting." The lack of enthusiasm in Ryder's voice said otherwise. He reached for his old, beat-up guitar case. "I think I'll pass."
    "I get it. I've lost my taste for the random screw. It was exciting at nineteen. Now?"
    "Not so much." Ryder nodded. He couldn't remember his last random screw. If he weren't careful, any kind of sex would become a distant memory.
    "There is always the beautiful Quinn. Unless I'm mistaken—and I never am—the interest goes both ways."
    "No."
    Ryder didn't want to talk about Quinn. She was light. Her smiles lit up a room, making him feel that hope still existed. Right now, he welcomed the darkness. He took his guitar from the case and plucked seven chords. Ryder took a deep, resigned breath. Instead of running from the acrid fog that always dogged his steps, he stopped to let it swirl around him.
    "Not that song." Ashe screwed the lid on the bottle of bourbon. When Ryder casually began to tune the instrument, Ashe slammed the bottle onto the table. "Don't do it, Ryder."
    Ryder didn't pay attention. Content that the guitar sounded right, he plucked the first few familiar notes again. Closing his eyes, he began to hum along.
    "You promised that number had been retired."
    "I promised I would never play it in public." As his fingers warmed up, Ryder increased the tempo. In spite of the words—and the memories they invoked—it was a peppy tune. "We are in goddamned, fucking Chicago, my friend. This song is a given. To quote the