by Cari Quinn
She braced her hands on the top of the chair and grinned over her shoulder. “What are you waiting for?”
The clink of his buckle and the snap of latex were a mere afterthought under the thunderous bass of Deacon’s solo. The song crashed around them. As he slid into her, the lyrics had never been more ominous.
I own your soul, the night has just begun.
The becoming claims with a whisper and ends in a scream.
He groaned as her walls stretched for him, accepting every inch. She let out a hissing sigh. He peeled out of his own shirt, his nerve endings alive now that he’d unleashed the monster that had grown larger and meaner with every moment of patience it had taken to bring Margo around.
Guitars wailed and Margo moaned at the way he pounded into her. The chair legs scored the carpet as the strain of his muscles and the piston of his hips drove her and the chair across the room until they had nowhere left to go. The speakers pulsed with their song. The chase for pleasure and release felt like a marathon instead of a sprint. Making him work for it.
Just out of reach, teasing the edges of his consciousness was the need to come. He blocked it out. Instead he cupped her breasts. The silk of her bra cup filled his palms and the tips of her stiff nipples peeked over the top, burning into his flesh. He pulled her back against him, one hand spearing down between her legs.
He felt the stiffness of her muscles and the panic in her breath as he rubbed over her clit. He needed her to come again, needed that bracing scream. Why she resisted her pleasure was a mystery, but he needed to get her past it. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did.
She reached back, grasping a handful of his hair and dragging him in until they were flush in every way. Until he was buried inside her so deeply that there was no Simon and Margo, there was only mindless pleasure, sweat and honeysuckle spice. Only this moment with this woman and the song that would change his world.
And when the orgasm slammed into him, it took everything.
She took everything.
Thirteen
Nick: Unsteady Beat
Ask me to leave and I’ll beg you to let me stay…demand that I remain and I’ll just walk away.
An hour until sunrise, and where was he? Standing outside the studio and wondering what the hell he was doing. Only crazy people got up before the sun.
He should be home in bed. Not that he’d be able to sleep. It had been a couple days since he’d done more than toss and turn. And smoke. He kept quitting in fits and starts, but last night’s after-work cig break had been it for real. He’d finished his last pack and hadn’t bought another. The stink on his clothes made him remember his weakness too damn much.
Juggling his guitar, he dug out the pack of gum he’d stuck in his back pocket next to the lucky lighter he didn’t need anymore. He folded a piece into his mouth.
Oral fixation? Nah. Not him.
He’d had enough oral to last him for a while, actually, both given and received. At least with one certain woman who came with a full suite of baggage.
Before Jazz hijacked his brain yet again, he jogged inside and took a quick trip to the john. He washed his hands in cold water in the futile hope it would wake him up. No go.
He stared at his image in the mirror. Crimson spiderwebs fanned out from his brown eyes. Pretty soon the whites would be red completely and he’d look like the loser he knew he was. Others knew it too. His reputation preceded him.
Or at least it had. He was tired of being that guy with a shitty past and not much better future.
The time had come to wipe the slate clean. In every possible way.
He picked up his Taylor and strode down the hall to the studio he’d seen Simon in the night before. The place was deserted except for the cleaning crew hustling down the hall with mops in hand. They must’ve not made it in here yet, because the place looked destroyed.
The big leather chair from studio B was sitting in the center of the room like someone had gotten up suddenly and taken off. A box of tissues lay on its side on the floor and a flask Nick suspected was Simon’s sat on the desk. He leaned closer and took an experimental sniff.
Vodka? Yep, nailed it in one.
Nick set aside his guitar and bent to pick up the item peeking out from under the wheel of the chair. A woman’s hair clip. Jazz’s, maybe? He examined the subtle brown pattern. Tortoise-something-or-other. Jazz would never go for that kind of thing. If it didn’t have glitter and sparkles, she wasn’t interested.
So what the hell was she doing with him and Gray? They were some pair.
Bitter and Pill reporting for duty, sir.
Though she wouldn’t be with him, not after today. Whether or not she chose to work out her shit with Gray was her decision. He was bowing out.
Even assholes could do the right thing. What difference did it make that he was doing it for self-preservation as much as to be honorable? It all added up to the same result.
Him alone.
He set aside the clip and reached for his guitar. Well, not totally alone. He had his music. And his fucking band, such as it was. Looking back was a waste of time. Snake was gone and might stay that way. In the meantime, he’d focus on what he had now.
His stiff fingers crept over the opening chords to the song that had come out of him yesterday. He’d written it during the long hours of studio time they hadn’t needed him. Between Gray the virtuoso, Demon Deacon, Jazz the genius and the orchestra, what’d they need him for? Not much. So he’d played for himself. And then that dude Blitz had been all over him when Gray had started getting sloppy.
Forget flavor of the month. It was flavor of the minute in this joint. He really had no desire to be licked and spit out on the sidewalk.
Eventually his fingers limbered up and he closed his eyes, losing himself in the melody. It was slower than his usual stuff, caught between a ballad and a full-out rocker, combining elements of both. Hey, he’d loved Poison and Cinderella and all the hair metal bands of the eighties for good reason. The song was instrumental at this point because he didn’t have any words yet. Except the title.
He’d just be keeping that to himself.
Heavy footsteps clunked on the floor and jarred him out of the music. He glanced up to see Simon dragging a hand through his hair and yawning wide enough to show off his tonsils. The Taylor he’d gotten at the same time Nick had bought his was slung across his chest like a badge of honor. Didn’t matter if he never got to touch the strings in the studio, Simon never put down his guitar security blanket.
The day they’d bought those matching Taylors seemed like yesterday in his mind. Shuffling into the guitar shop near the Delta apartments, clutching the money they’d saved through a few summers of washing cars and mowing lawns. Simon had been limping after that morning’s go-round with his dad, and Nick had stunk of weed from his sister smoking up in the room across the hall. Their apartment reeked so badly from pot that someone could get blitzed just from passing the front door.
No wonder his mom had found another guy. Even less of a wonder she liked her new family better and only called Nick on holidays.
But that day, none of that had mattered. They’d emptied out their meager saving accounts to buy their guitars then sat on the curb outside the projects, smoking and strumming.
Back then, the dream had been like a light inside him, one he shared with his best friend. He wouldn’t let that light go out.
“Mornin’,” Simon said as if it wasn’t the least bit strange that Nick had arrived before him.
Yeah, no big deal, except he hated mornings. Hated sitting around for his turn. Hated playing second string to a guy who seemed destined to get everything he wanted. So why not show up at the buttcrack of dawn to get ready for all that fun?
Sometimes—all the time—Nick wished he could be as easygoing as Simon. He hadn’t even been that laidback when he’d been saying “goo goo gaa gaa” and hitting Ricki in the head with his rattle.
“Hey,” Nick replied, sliding
back into his song. “Rough night?”
“What makes you say that?” Mr. Sleepy’s voice was way too sharp.
Huh. So there was a story in this, somewhere. Nick gestured toward the wrecked room. “You stayed late last night, didn’t you? Looks like someone got fucked up in here.”
“Fucked maybe.” Simon’s mouth crooked into a grin as he reached for his flask. He tipped it back and swallowed greedily. “Why, hello breakfast.”
“In here? Really?” Nick cocked his head. “Who?”
“You gonna bust my balls over that? Least I didn’t put on a show for everyone.” Simon licked his lips. “Though it was performance-worthy, I gotta say. None of those little whimpers like Jazz. We’re talking screams, dude. Screams.”
Nick smirked. “You back doing that high-pitched shit? I thought you had that under control.”
“Asshole.” Simon grinned as he pulled off the Taylor and boosted himself up on the table. “Speaking of control, how’d you handle little Miss Pink Piglet after you royally pissed her off with your mic trick the other day?”
“She’ll rip off your nuts before she eats them if she hears you call her ‘piglet’.”
Simon reached across the desk and picked up the hair clip Nick had found, turning it over between his nimble fingers before tucking it into his jeans pocket. “Gonna tattle? Though I gotta say, her eating my nuts doesn’t sound like a hardship.” Simon waggled his brows in his usual lascivious way, but the lewd comment didn’t hold its typical bite.
Something was up with their resident manwhore. If he didn’t have his own issues, Nick might’ve pushed him to find out what. But he was full up on problems at the moment.
“Nah, your secret’s safe with me.” Nick went back to strumming the song that had slammed into him like a hurricane and wouldn’t let him out of its grip.
He still hadn’t worked out the end. Right now he was stuck on the bridge. He hadn’t made it over the hump yet.
“So, she still pissed at you?” Simon swung his legs and drank his vodka like the oversized man-child he was. His occasional winces let Nick know he was still feeling the aftereffects of their brawl a couple of weeks back. At least it wasn’t just him. “I haven’t seen you guys near each other lately. Guess that YouTube from the encore at the Rhino show makes up for it. I’ve seen her tongue in your mouth so much that I practically know what she tastes like.”
No, you don’t. Not even close.
“Jesus, are people still commenting on that? I was hoping it’d die down.”
Simon pried out his phone and swiped a thumb over the screen. “Vid’s up to seven-thousand-plus comments as of this morning. Most of them about wishing you’d take off your shirt and wondering how long you and Jazz have been making sweet, sweet love. In more creative terms than that.” Simon arched his eyebrow and widened his eyes comically. “Way more creative. Dude, where’s my notebook? I need to write some of this down.”
“We did.”
“You did what?” After a second, Simon glanced up. Frowned. “Ah. No good?”
“Incredible.” Nick dug his nail into a well-worn groove on his beloved guitar. “Until she called me Gray.” Simon was so silent for so long that Nick finally dared to glance at him. Simon had his fingers cupped around his flask, but he wasn’t drinking. Or looking at anything in particular. “Just say it. I’m a moron.”
“Not gonna say that.”
“Then?”
“This is going to seem like a really insensitive question, and it probably is, but does he know she’s into him?”
Nick turned his chair so he could sit on it sideways and put his back to the wall. Cradling the guitar in his lap, he let his fingers climb the strings. They pulled out a series of notes that matched his resigned mood. “For all I know, he heard.”
He hadn’t spent much time checking out Gray’s reaction to the proceedings. His attention had been all for Jazz until she’d left him reeling.
“Aww, Christ. A threesome? No wonder Gray looked effed up yesterday.” Simon shook his head. “Why would you go there with them? What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Nick had to laugh as he stared at the pinprick lights in the ceiling with eyes blurred from lack of sleep. “For once, it wasn’t my idea.”
“Jazz’s?”
“Actually, I think it was Gray’s.”
He and Simon didn’t say anything more. When the silence got to be too much, they did what they always did. Whether Simon’s ribs ached from his Dad’s latest beating and Nick felt like an outcast in his own family, or one of them had a girl problem and the other was just commiserating, they always had that shared outlet.
They played.
Eventually the soft snick of the door opening drew them out of the music’s spell. Gray lingered in the doorway, his eyes hollow. His already spiky hair looked like he’d trimmed it with a weed trimmer, and the thin white T-shirt he wore under a pinstripe vest hung off his shoulders.
If that was what love did to a guy, Nick wanted no part of it. He’d go back to indiscriminate screwing and die happy.
“Hey Gray,” Simon said, glancing from Gray to Nick and back again, clearly gauging if he’d have to referee a fight.
Nick drew back his spine. Nope. Not from him. Gray and Jazz could hammer out their problems or not, but he was officially stepping back. And officially rejoining Simon in the pussy of the week club.
“Hey,” Nick chimed in, earning a raised brow from his best friend. Yeah, well, Simon would just have to get used to it. His priorities were back in line.
He cared about one thing and one thing only—Oblivion. All the rest was just noise.
“Hey.” Gray gave Simon a half smile and ignored Nick entirely. “Early call for you too?”
“Just him,” Nick said. He could feel Simon’s and Gray’s stares burning into his forehead as he picked up his guitar and did the only thing he knew how to anymore.
For a couple of minutes, he played alone. That was okay. He was used to being on his own. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gray and Simon dragging over chairs to form a loose semi-circle.
Snapping snakes of fear coiled in his gut, eager to grab what they could. Today he wasn’t giving them a damn thing.
Nick focused on the song, on the music that sanded his rough edges smooth. Losing himself in the beat, in the emotion behind the notes. He couldn’t say the words to her aloud, probably didn’t even know how to articulate them if he could. In the song he had no reservations. No ego to protect. It always came down to his freaking pride.
Either it would save him or be the death of him.
Together, they created their own rhythm. Simon strummed the lower chords and added his own humming harmony. He always had to use his voice in one way or another. Gray brought his usual flair, not overpowering the melody, just extending certain notes and layering them together until they became something different. Better.
Without discussing it, they hit the bridge and kept going, the three of them easing through the part that had given Nick the most trouble. The chorus of a song was what made something a hit or caused it to be forgotten. Somehow, between them, they managed to fumble their way into exactly what he’d been trying to do on his own. And failing.
It wasn’t perfect. The three of them were still getting to know each other. If anticipating the finger progressions of guys you’d played with for years could be a challenge, doing the same with near-strangers was damn near to climbing a mountain blindfolded. He and Simon had a rock-solid foundation, but Gray was new—and wicked talented. His presence made him and Simon work for it. But God, the struggle felt good. Right.
Every time the snakes coiled tighter in his stomach, Nick ignored them. His fingers flew faster. His breath came quicker, making him lightheaded. And hungry. The magic crackled through his fingertips, sore already without his lucky pick. He’d forgotten to bring it today, but nothing could touch him when he got in the zone. The adrenaline rush carried him, smothering the nerves. Fanning the
need to just play.
When they hit the end of the song, they simply started over again, refining what they’d done and filling in the gaps with the quirks that would make it theirs. Would make it Oblivion’s.
Not just his anymore.
Not just him, and Simon, and Deacon.
After jamming for a while, Simon sighed and scraped back his chair. “Almost five-thirty. Gotta warm up the pipes.” He set his guitar between his knees and glanced between Gray and Nick. “Good session, guys.” With an extra look at Nick—filled with a warning he didn’t need—he got up and ambled out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Leaving a whole lot of silence and words unsaid in his wake.
Nick tipped back his head until his skull hit the wall. “She’s yours, dude.”
Gray turned red-rimmed irises toward Nick and said nothing. Nothing at all.
“I’m backing out of it. You knew her way before I did, and it’s obvious you two have—”
“What do we have?” It was a shock to hear Gray’s voice. He was so used to Gray barely speaking, at least to him. “As far as I saw, she was with you and I pushed my way in. The second I closed my eyes, she was on your lap.” He coughed out a laugh that sounded like glass breaking. “Doesn’t seem like we have much.”
From the way Gray was grinding his palms against his eyes, Nick wagered the guy hadn’t heard Jazz say the single word that echoed constantly in Nick’s brain. Gray. Over and over again, set to the sound of her moans.
Even if he wanted to be the bigger guy, the noble one who played matchmaker and swaggered off to find his own bliss between some other babe’s thighs, he couldn’t do it. He’d already said he was turning his back. He didn’t have it in him to do anything more.
“If that’s not enough, every time I go online to check out the Oblivion page Jazz set up, the Instagram’s blowing up with pictures of her tongue-fucking you. Everyone thinks you’re together. You want to be with her, I can practically smell it on you.” Gray kicked out his mile-long legs and snarled in his direction. “Why don’t you take her and be done with it?”
