by Cari Quinn
She arched, her braids tumbling over her creamy shoulders, her face contorted with bliss. He burrowed deeper, but it wasn’t deep enough. He couldn’t get there, couldn’t find the spot he was looking for. The one that would make her his, even if only for this minute. He was used to sharing everything. His place, his band. Hell, he’d even shared his mother’s goddamn womb.
For one fucking minute, he wanted something to call only his. Someone. Her.
But then she was coming, her body exploding around his, her wild shudders dragging him along. She moaned and his instant of satisfaction shattered at the single word she gasped into his ear.
“Gray.”
Twelve
Simon: Crystal Clear
Crystal clear perfection in a bottle…my vice,
my seductress, my pain
Vodka.
The word on the label on the bottle in front of him blurred. Simon’s eyes drifted out of focus as he lowered his chin to his arms. It didn’t really matter the brand, or even the quality. His throat longed for the burn, but even more important was its ability to turn off his fucking brain.
The song was locked inside him. The stage was the key and Simon knew that, but the little box he was supposed to perform in was a shitty substitute for a live show. Each day the microphone kept getting larger and larger, and the booth felt smaller and smaller. The excitement of working in the studio was now filled with dread. The mic was a monster that reached down his throat and snatched words, only letting the off-key, warbled or flat ones free.
Mouth guard, no mouth guard, chair, no chair, open window, closed curtain. Drunk, sober, exhausted, rested—none of it mattered. None of it worked.
His voice had always been his salvation. No matter how much he fucked up, no matter how many times he let people down, at least in this one thing he’d been able to come ahead. And now everyone was staring at him, whispering about him, steering clear of him.
Simon spun the empty bottle on the table he’d commandeered in the corner of the break room. He stood and pitched the travel-sized bottle in the recycler and wandered back into the control room. He took two steps inside and stopped.
The dizzying array of controls and lights drew his ADD brain down and around the deck. Up on the screen was the visual feedback of Deak and Gray’s instrumental parts of “The Becoming”.
Deak’s meaty bass sounded amazing. Heavier than it was in most of their music, it thrummed through the background of the song like a heartbeat one minute and crashed to the forefront the next. It coated the room and pulled at the gut. Hell, even the tingles along the back of his neck were back. Son of a goddamn bitch they really had something here.
Gray’s guitar layered under the bass one minute, then took center stage the next. Gray wasn’t self-taught like he was. He had the kind of technique that usually meant hours of instruction. But the guy’s talent was about more than his precision with the strings. Beyond that was the creative way he blended attention to detail with his own style.
Simon rubbed his eyes. Nick may want to gut him with a rusty spoon for giving Deacon the green light to talk about a restructure of the band, but it was probably the best move he’d ever made. Now he just hoped Nick would forgive him one day. As much as he missed playing co-lead guitar with Nick, he couldn’t dispute the utter magic coming out of that speaker.
Another layer hummed through the room.
“Guitar 2” was the simple label on the screen.
But there was nothing simple about the sound. Simon took another two steps into the room and saw Nick sitting in the cavernous recording area that adjoined the control booth. He’d curled over his guitar and hunched his shoulders as if to hold every note to his chest. But there was no holding back the gritty anger he manipulated out of that fret board.
Simon’s eyebrows shot up. Nick had gone off the rails from “The Becoming” into another song. One of the producers moved to the control room microphone to stop him, but the musical director, Blitz, held up a hand. “Let him go.”
Gray came up beside Simon. “Do I know that song?”
Simon didn’t move his gaze away from Nick. His best friend might be the silent, lone wolf eighty percent of the time, but he never could hide his emotions when he got his hands on a guitar.
“Simon?”
He shook his head. “No idea what that song is.”
“Well, shit.”
Finally Simon looked away and again he was surprised. The usually clean-cut Gray was at least two days deep into a beard and his eyes were rimmed in scarlet. Not just bloodshot, but a painful red. “Jesus, Gray. When’s the last time you slept?”
“Not sure. I worked last night and had to come in today to redo the end of the song.”
Simon glanced over to the flurry of fingers working the board. The producer, Nelson Geier, had an IM window up on his laptop and Blitz had his cell to his ear. Nick was still playing, the guitar work nearly frenetic now.
Nelson flipped the microphone on and spoke into the recording booth. “Tell me you can do that again.”
Nick looked up, his eyes unfocused. Yep, pure emotional hangups laced through that room like weed at a concert. Nick’s gaze tripped over Gray then darted back to Nelson. “Yeah. I’m sorry, man—I got lost. I fucked up.”
“No—well, yes you fucked the recording of Becoming, but whatever you were doing there at the end. I want it again. Do you have more?”
Nick frowned. “It’s just something I’ve been messing with.”
“Do you have more?” Nelson asked, this time minus the patience.
“Yeah.”
“Good, give me five and then take it from the top.”
Gray shrank back and gripped his neck. His body could’ve been made of granite, he was so tense. Gray’s rain-colored eyes bore through the glass and probably would have singed Nick on contact.
“What’s with the laser beam stare?”
Gray turned to Simon as if coming out of a trance. “Nothing.”
Awesome, both of them were tripping on some sort of emotional minefield. Simon had a feeling the minefield was filled with pink and purple-colored explosions. Double fuck.
This was why girls shouldn’t be in a band. Pussy should be for after work—AKA after a show or practice. Bringing it into work was just asking for trouble. Too bad the Pink Pixie was so damn good behind her kit.
Simon folded his arms until he matched Gray’s stiff posture. Gray blinked then relaxed his shoulders and dropped his arm, the tension seeping from him like a faucet had been turned on to wash away the emotion. Gray’s face went carefully blank. He really needed to learn that trick. But it was still a trick. “Yeah, nothing my ass,” Simon muttered.
“Leave it.”
Simon cocked his head. “Now I can’t. You really should have went with a better excuse.”
Gray looked around the room. “Taking over for Deacon? Trying to keep the peace?”
Simon quirked his eyebrow. “C’mon, man. It’s not nice to insult just for the sake of it.”
Gray’s lips twitched, but his icy eyes went back to flat, as did the expression on his face. “It’s nothing anyone can fix.”
“Hook up with a chick. Works for me. Sometimes you just need to get under another girl to get the first one out of your system.”
“For once I wish that were true.” Gray scrubbed the top of his head where his hair stood on end. “Hey Nelson, you need me any more today?”
Nelson looked up from his laptop where he was furiously tapping. “I’m still not happy with that ending, Grayson. Come in at eight tomorrow.”
Gray winced, but nodded. “Will do.” He unhooked the shades from his cargo pants pocket. “Good luck.”
Simon dropped into the overstuffed leather couch that snaked along the back of the room. He was so past the luck stage. Wing and a prayer with a side of mercy killing was more like it.
He tipped his head back, letting the background noise shift and settle around him. He’d lost the best part of
his buzz. All that was left was a headache and the need to take a nap. The hydraulic hiss of the door behind him followed by the scent of honeysuckle and spice teased him awake.
Violin Girl.
That scent had been driving him crazy all week. As elusive as the brunette had been since his first day in the studio. He’d watched her play her purple violin a few times, but she always disappeared before he could talk to her again.
“Ah, Margo. There you are.”
Simon shifted into the corner of the couch, swinging his legs up so he could sprawl out and enjoy the scenery. So, her name was Margo. He’d been too preoccupied with his less than stellar results in the recording booth to remember to ask around for her name. But since he didn’t want to think about just how much he sucked, he focused on the delectable Margo instead.
She wore a skirt today, high-waisted with a tiny ruffled slit at the back of her knee. Combined with black stockings and boring black flats, the outfit shouldn’t have been appealing. Sky high black heels or boots—that would be his usual style. And still, he wanted to drag his knuckle over that little hollow behind her knee. To see if he could coax a reaction out of her deep dark eyes.
She wore another one of her crisp white blouses. Honestly, didn’t she have another color in her wardrobe? He was having a helluva time focusing on anything but her long neck when she was in the room. Today, he had an extra treat. A hint of her collarbone peeked from the single button she’d left open. She stood motionless, listening to Nelson give her a few directions about Nick’s song.
Nelson waved to Nick to start again. She slid silently into to the rolling chair that Blitz had vacated to pace around the room. As if ingrained, she slipped one ankle behind the other, keeping her knees tight together and her spine straight as a schoolteacher.
God, would she sit just as straight if she straddled him?
He shifted on the couch and she quickly turned her head. In profile, she was striking. Perfectly elegant and lovely with her high cheekbones and sweep of bangs framing her dark eyes. Too lovely. He wanted to rip the clip out of her chocolate-colored hair and see if the strands were as perfect and straight as her spine or a riot of fistable curls.
Her eyes skimmed his body, but he couldn’t tell if the ripped to shit jeans he wore were her to liking or not. She hid her reaction beneath heavy lashes and an impassive face.
When Nick started up again, she turned her attention to the recording room. Simon stood and moved behind Margo. If it was at all possible, her spine snapped straighter. In an effort not to unbind her hair—seriously, he wanted at that clip—he dipped his hands into his pockets. The spicy undertones to her scent were going to end him.
Determined not to get a hard-on behind her, he focused on Nick. Today they were using a smaller room. The orchestra had partitioned off the larger side for practice. The versatility of this studio continued to astound him as much as it made his balls shrink up with nerves. Session chairs were scattered in a messy trio. Nick’s blond head bowed over his guitar again as his fingers slowly climbed the fret board. He flicked dials and tapped his pedalboard to fracture the echoing notes.
The neck tingle was back and stronger than ever.
Where the frig had Nick been hiding this song? Simon cracked his neck and paced to the back of the room. Nothing for months. Nothing with him anyway, and then Nick pulls this out of his ass on his own.
Phenomenal, but not the band—yet again.
Solo crap.
Nothing cohesive to pull them in as a unit. Deak and Gray versus Nick. On the plus side, they’d finally realized Simon was the singer, not Gray, even if he was singing everyone else’s songs but his own since they’d stepped foot in the studio. Oh, they’d tried a few Oblivion songs, but they’d gotten one take down before the producer had dismissed it as unworthy of his time.
But this was different. Simon could see the interest lighting Nelson’s eyes and Blitz was tapping along happily with a huge smile on his crinkly face. At least Simon assumed it was a smile twitching his huge handle bar mustache.
“Think you can play with him?”
Simon glanced at Nelson, but it was obvious he was talking to Margo.
She nodded and picked up the case that sat at her feet. “I can wing it.”
“Excellent. I knew you were the right choice to help out. I need you to do another track too.”
Margo pulled sheet music out of her case. “I learned ‘The Becoming’ this morning.”
“Good, I want your electric violin as another layer.” Nelson turned to Simon. “And you are in the booth again tonight.”
Simon’s jaw clenched. Again being the operative word. He’d been in the booth every single day this week—except when they’d decided to try out Gray in his place—and not a single track was usable.
“Simon, I really need a good session tonight. Or we’re going to have to go with Deacon and Grayson’s vocals.”
Simon nodded, sparing a look at Margo. Her attention was on her instrument, not the fact that he’d been dressed down by the producer in front of the very professional, very hot chick. Well, at least that was one thing in his favor.
Then she looked up and he saw a flash of pity in her dark eyes before they went carefully cool again. She stood and slipped through the door to the recording room. A few minutes later, the haunting tones of Margo’s violin sliced through his chest.
Simon crossed the room and headed out the heavy door, then continued down the hall to the empty lobby. The front desk was unmanned and there were no minions running around. A red light pulsed from the back studio, but otherwise the world had hung it up for the night.
And he was just beginning.
Crashing out the front door, he dragged in a breath he hadn’t realize he needed. He stripped off the loose fitting button-down shirt he wore. Even that felt too tight. Crouching down, he dragged in another deep breath. The cool spring air tightened his lungs.
Is this how Nick felt on stage before they started? Like a vise around his chest restricted the very air he breathed? Forget a vise, it felt more like a steel cage.
“You’re going to hyperventilate if you don’t calm down.”
Simon swore and fell on his ass. He looked up to see a girl who couldn’t be more than fifteen staring down at him.
She lowered herself to the pavement, sitting cross-legged in front of him. “I’m Lex.”
“Of course you are.” Simon sucked in another shard-riddled breath. He couldn’t even freak out in peace.
“In through your nose—”
Black dots danced around his vision. “Look, kid, I’m sure you’re sweet and all, but—”
“Singer or instrument?”
Simon frowned at her. “Singer.”
“Me too.” She pressed a hand to her belly and dragged in a breath through her nose.
He tightened his jaw, but did as she said. The black dots faded and a few more breaths had him sitting upright to mirror her.
“Didn’t your voice coach teach you this?”
“What voice coach?”
She shook her head, a dimpled grin curving her mouth. “If you were working with Blitz, you have a vocal coach.”
Simon shrugged. “He gave up.” More like the guy thought he was a lost cause and not worth his time.
Lex narrowed her eyes at him. “Never been in a studio?”
“Virgin in a box all over again.” He winced, realizing too late that she was way too young for that kind of comment.
Her huge blue eyes sparkled. “You have to ignore the room, ignore the people and ignore the need to show off. Pretend you’re in a shower, just warming up your chords.”
“If I could ignore my surroundings, I wouldn’t have a problem.”
Her small hands covered his and pressed them into his knees. “The producers can fix anything, but then again you don’t want just a slick American Idol song, do you?”
“Fuck no. Dammit. I mean—” God, just shut up.
“I’ve been in the s
tudio since I was twelve.”
“And what, you’re fourteen now?”
“Sixteen next week.”
“Color me impressed.”
She shrugged. “I do voice work for cartoons and television.”
“Why?”
Lex grinned. “Why not? It’s good money and will put me through Berkeley.”
“Do you play an instrument?”
“Violin,” she said with a sigh.
Simon’s gut twisted. Violin Girl. “You know Margo?”
Lex’s eyes lit up. “Oh yeah, Margo Reece she’s with the Boston Symphony. I’m going to do what she does someday. And that violin she has?” She let out a sigh. “I’d happily kill for a Starfish.”
He was unfamiliar with violin manufacturers, but he’d bet Cherry that was the unique purple instrument Margo never let out of her sight. Plenty of other violinists were used in the studio, both male and female. All of them seemed so stiff and formal, and none of them had a purple violin quite like hers. Blitz seemed to target Margo for a more specific use. Slightly edgier pieces suited her, regardless of the symphony uniform she wore.
Lex’s nails bit into the tops of his hands. “Are you listening to me?”
“Sure. Starfish is rad.”
She sighed. “Yes, the violin is awesome, but no. I meant about singing. You need to picture yourself somewhere else. Your favorite place.”
“The stage.”
Her sweet, freckled face brightened. “See, that’s good. It’s no different than on stage—”
Simon crossed his arms. “Yes, it is. The energy is missing. The sweat and the gritty smoke in the air, the screams, the feedback. All of that is gone.”
“I can almost guarantee you don’t miss the smoke when you’re singing.”
She had him there. “Well, no…but—”
“No buts. Go back in there and pretend it’s the damn shower. It’s easy to sing in the shower.”
Her earnest—and entirely too pure—face made him feel like a wimp. Here she was, a complete stranger trying to give him pointers. And what did he do? Whine like a bitch. Pathetic.
