Chapter 1
Cain Black hadn’t been home in ten years.
At the age of twenty he’d packed his guitar—a beat-up Gibson Les Paul—said his good-byes, and left. Always a rebel, he’d had no trouble disappointing half the town, and as for the other half? Hell, they’d expected it of him.
Cain Black—the star quarterback who’d had the arrogance to turn his nose up at a full ride to Michigan State University. The nerve, some said, after everything the town had done to support him and his mother. He’d left for Los Angeles one hot summer night in July and hadn’t looked back until now, and—truthfully—he’d rather be anyplace other than Crystal Lake.
He ran fingers through the thick waves atop his head and cracked his neck in an effort to relieve the tension that stretched across his shoulders. Damn, but his muscles were tight, his legs stiff. He placed a booted foot on the top step of the Edwardses’ porch and paused. He’d been traveling for hours and would just about kill for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, except he was fairly certain it would knock him on his ass. He was dead tired and knew he’d either crash hard or catch his second wind.
He smoothed his hair, trying to tame the waves a bit. It wasn’t as long as it used to be, barely touched his shoulders these days. With the earrings and the nose ring long gone, he was almost respectable.
Or, at the very least, as close to some kind of respectability as he was ever going to get.
He glanced at his forearm. The edge of an elaborate tattoo peeked out from under the hem of his sleeve. It was the only thing left over from his hell-raising days, and that was way before LA Ink and Kat Von D had brought tattoos into the mainstream.
Now everyone and their mother had one.
Cain blew out hot air, tugged his shirtsleeve down a bit more, and glanced around. It was surreal, standing here after all this time. How many nights had he and the boys hung out, shooting the shit and dreaming of a future that would rock their reality?
He shook his head, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Too many nights to count.
His thoughts darkened, and he clenched his teeth tightly as the reason for his return hit him in the gut. Not everyone’s future had turned out as planned. The unimaginable had happened, and it was a sobering reality check.
One that had brought him full circle. Back to Crystal Lake.
Back to this porch.
He glanced up at a pristine blue sky and a plane caught his attention—its drone a melancholy sound that echoed into the stillness. A warm breeze caressed his cheek, bringing with it the smell of summer—of freshly mowed lawn, flowering bushes, and warm lake water. He closed his eyes and the scent took him back. Memories rushed through him: Fourth of July celebrations that lasted the week. The annual boating regatta that filled the lake with hundreds of revelers. Christmas out at Murphy’s sugar shack. Tailgate parties and football. Beach nights with the boys, a guitar, a couple of girls, and a case of beer.
He saw the kid he’d been—the teen who’d dreamed large and let nothing stand in his way. Hell, none of them had. The twins, Jake and Jesse, had realized their dream to serve their country, while Mackenzie had fought his way out from beneath his father’s fists to make a life in the Big Apple.
Ten years gone and it seemed like yesterday. Like nothing had changed.
The Edwards family abode was a large, redbrick Georgian with a long rambling driveway lined with petunias in varying shades of violet. At the moment, every available space of blacktop was occupied. There were at least thirty cars parked in the driveway, and several had pulled onto the grass near the road.
He’d left his rental on the street, because if memory served, Mr. Edwards was pretty anal when it came to his lush green lawn.
Cain reached for the door, but something held him still. His fingers grazed the cool burnished-steel handle and he faltered. He hated hypocrisy, and at the moment it felt like his throat was clogged with its bitter taste. He was so far off the grid, he felt like he didn’t belong anymore.
He took a step back instead. Christ, could he do this?
Less than twenty-four hours ago he’d been on stage in Glasgow. BlackRock—the band he fronted—had snagged the opening slot on the Grind’s latest tour and had performed in venues all over Canada, the United States, and Europe. It had been the chance of a lifetime—one he’d been waiting years for—and the exposure had been more than a gift, it had been a godsend.
The tour had been a grueling, eye-opening experience with more than its fair share of drama, yet every drop of blood had been worth it. The record label was happy, and the buzz was incredible. BlackRock was a band on the rise, and after years of sacrifice, his dream was within reach.
It was a dream that had taken him from this town ten years ago, and sadly, it had taken a funeral to bring him back.
The door opened suddenly, and a small boy ran out, yanking it closed behind him. He skidded to a halt, barely missing Cain, his shiny shoes sliding across the well-worn wooden planks. He looked to be about six or seven and had a mess of russet curls, and large blue eyes that dominated his face. The child was dressed for church—black dress pants, white button-down shirt—and he clutched a bright piece of fabric in his hand that was a shade darker than emerald green. The boy’s eyes widened as his gaze traveled the tall length of Cain.
“Who are you?” His yo
ung voice wasn’t so much surly as defiant.
Cain cracked a smile. The kid had spunk. “I’m Cain.”
“Oh.” The boy’s brow furled. “I don’t know you.”
“No, I suppose you don’t.”
The kid angled his head, peered around him, and frowned. “Why are you standing out here by yourself?”