by Cari Quinn
Nelson tugged at the brim of his Angels cap. “We’ll see.”
“C’mon, Nelson, you know it’s got the juice.”
“Maybe.”
Simon rolled his eyes. His entire body vibrated as the two men flicked over the control board and the wide screen above it pulsed and bounced with different colors for each of the layered displays—the guitars, the bass, the percussion and finally his fucking vocal track.
As he heard the click of the door behind him, honeysuckle blasted his senses. Before he could turn to catch a glimpse of Margo, “The Becoming” blared into the room. Nelson’s fingers moved over the board, equalizing and merging all the separate tracks of the members of Oblivion into one perfect piece of music.
His voice held a throaty quality he’d never let out before. Sex-charged emotion combined with the echoing reach of Deacon and Gray’s lyrics. When the song ended, no one spoke. Simon sawed through his bottom lip, tasting blood.
Nelson spun in his chair to face him. “Where the fuck have you been all my life, boy?”
Simon laughed. “At a laundromat basement apartment in Carson.”
“Ha.” The bark of Blitz’s laughter rang through the room.
Simon turned to find Margo, slim as a reed of grass in another of her pencil skirts. This one reached mid-calf and made her look even more unapproachable. She wore a high-necked blouse buttoned tight against the elegant length of her throat.
Had he left a mark on her last night? Was she trying to hide the scrape of his stubble and teeth?
Fuck, he wanted to rip those buttons open. He wanted to hear that muffled groan when air kissed her skin. Better yet…the deliberate intake of breath when he put his mouth on her. But most of all, he wanted to watch her come apart again. She’d fought it to the end and when he’d broken through he’d never been so high. On her taste, her scent, her surrender.
She lifted her chin. The neon danger sign above her head was brighter than the marquee at Frenzy. Instead of deterring him, he lifted her up and swung her around. Honeysuckle and a hint of apricots stirred in the air between them. Christ, that scent was going to be burned into his brain.
He wanted drag the fussy little tie out of her hair and bury his nose in the silky strands. Shampoo and the undeniable freshness that only women seemed to exude beckoned him closer. God, he couldn’t get enough. “Did you hear that?”
“I think everyone did.” She dug her fingers into his shoulders, but instead of going with the free-floating swing, she went rigid. His arms circled her waist to keep her from getting tossed into the production board. Her face was expressionless, her dark eyes too still.
Nothing like the woman that had fallen apart in his arms the night before.
She pushed out of his hold and took two steps back. “I’m glad you finally got a good take.” Her voice lacked inflection. The swoop of that finely arched brow was arrogant and dismissive.
Wait. Finally? The quick bolt of pain slipped between his ribs and struck deep. “You helped last night.”
Margo averted her eyes. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Well, whatever she did, I’m about ready to hug her too,” Blitz said with a wink.
If it was possible, Margo stiffened more. Where was the woman from the night before? Passionate both about the music and his touch.
“We’ll need to do a few voiceovers for backing tracks, but we should be able to finish this up by Monday. And we’re already set up for the instrumental with Deacon, Gray, Jazz and Nick.”
Simon nodded, finally tearing his eyes away from Margo. “Sure, just tell me when you need me.”
“Go take a break. You earned it.”
Simon nodded, forcing a smile on his face. He turned to go to the break room and faltered when Blitz kept talking.
“Thanks for stopping in before your flight, Margo.”
Simon swiveled on the balls of his feet. “You’re leaving?” When Margo didn’t react or seem to be inclined to answer him, he slid his fingers around her wrist. “Margo.”
She looked at him finally. “I’ll speak to you in a moment.”
His eyebrows shot up. Wow. He took a step back, his hands balling into fists. He didn’t fucking need this from a chick. They’d had a fun night, but that was all. The burn in his chest dissolved any pleasure he felt from being with her or from getting the song out of his gut and into a usable track.
He slammed through the door and into the break room and dragged his flask out of his pocket, replacing one burn for another. The searing punishment of vodka on his battered vocal chords was comforting.
His brain filled with jumbled images—of her gripping the chair arms, of his fingers sliding into her wetness, of him replacing them with his tongue while her taste fused to his taste buds. He drank deeper until the flask was empty and his stomach roiled.
The studio was a hive of people. Overflow from other recording sessions spilled into the break room. Musicians and producers waiting for their turn on the board or in the fish tank booths. He could feel eyes on him as he jammed the dented flask back into his hip pocket. Like he was the only one that had vodka for breakfast in this group.
Desperate to escape, he stalked through reception and out the front door. The shadowed portico gave way to the pillar that held up the arch of the studio gate over the street. Glass and mirror, steel and concrete to his right, wood and stucco, greens and life on his left.
Left. Definitely.
Huge planters filled with greens and sassy yellow blooms soaked in the endless Los Angeles sun. He climbed onto the stucco half wall and sucked in the familiar smog-scented air. With his chin tipped up to the sky, he forced himself to quiet the memories and float on the numbing balm of alcohol.
He wasn’t sure how long he was outside when he heard the clipped, no-nonsense walk. Margo Reece. Margo of the Boston Symphony. Margo of the fussy blouses and incongruous purple electric violin. Elegance with an untamed side. He’d tasted that reckless side of her and he wasn’t ashamed to say he’d wanted more of it. Who was the woman who played with such passion yet kept her knees and ankles locked together like she was bound?
And a bound Margo was not what he needed in his brain. Even worse was the idea of her wide open for him again. Because he knew exactly what that looked like. The bitch-face and icy tone didn’t lessen the want either. Perversely, he wanted to draw out that other Margo even more.
But instead of slowing down, she stood with an arm outstretched to hail a cab.
Just like that, without a backwards glance? She would have just gone? The urge to magically refill his flask was staggering. “Not even a goodbye, Violin Girl?”
She jerked and whirled around. The telescopic handle of her suitcase clattered along the pavement. But not her violin case. No, there was definitely a death grip on that handle. The slim, elegant fingers that held it were white at the knuckles.
“I looked for you inside.”
He hopped off the half wall. “Sure you did.”
She lifted her chin. That long column of her neck worked as she swallowed. “I hope the single does well.”
“Do you now?”
Margo righted her suitcase, snapping down the handle. “I do. We all worked hard on the song. Of course I want it to do well.”
“Some harder than others.”
“Don’t be crude.”
“I live to be crude, Violin Girl.”
“Margo.”
Simon closed the distance between them. His smirk spread into a sly smile. “Going to step back and put me in my place again, Violin Girl?” A tiny muscle jumped in her jaw and her eyes dilated. Oh, no, not so immune to his charms. His gaze dipped to her mouth. Soft. So fucking soft. The divot at the center of her top heavy lip was distracting. All he could remember was kissing that mouth, swiping the tip of his tongue along the rich fullness.
He brushed his nose along the spot where her jaw met ear. “Leaving?”
“I have a flight to catch.”
“Boston?”
She tipped her head so that he could get closer. He smiled against her skin before scraping his teeth over her earlobe. The tiny pearl earring clicked against his teeth. He would never look at pearls quite the same way again. Then she suddenly scrunched up her shoulder. “Don’t.”
He flicked his tongue along the racing pulse at her neck. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
He drew her free hand to the front of his jeans. “Too late.”
She curled her fingers into her palm, pulling away from him. “Are you listening, Rockstar?” She tugged her wrist from his hand.
Simon drew back and met her gaze. “I’m listening.”
“I’m leaving.”
“What time is your flight?”
“Noon.”
He resumed his path down her throat. “You still have time.”
“I’m not willing to make the time.” He felt her thick swallow just before her words. He slid his hand around her back to find that dip in her spine he’d loved so much last night. The curve just before her tailbone at the top of her heart-shaped ass.
He wanted to watch his cock disappear inside her from behind again. Again and again with her slick, tight walls clasping him. “Why not?”
“God, you are stubborn. Listen with your ears. I’m not doing this. I’m getting on a flight and I’m going back to my life. You were fun and you sure know how to give good orgasm, but that’s all it was. A good orgasm.”
“Change your flight to tonight and I’ll show you just how good my repeat performance is. I like to change up the setlist a bit though.”
She twisted out of his hold. “This isn’t a game.”
Simon’s chest tightened. He didn’t want her to leave. He wanted another shot at making her say his name in that throaty way. Another hour with her taste in his mouth. Maybe then it would be enough. “I never said it was. I don’t want you to go. Is that so wrong? I think you need some fun in your life, Violin Girl.”
“I had my fun and now it’s time to go back to my responsibilities. You wouldn’t know about those, now would you? I can smell alcohol on your breath at, what?” She peeked at the slim gold watch on her wrist. “Not even nine in the morning.”
“I went in that studio this morning and kicked ass.” So what if he took a hit from his flask to cover the nerves?
“After we defiled that room last night.”
“Defiled?” He took the step back this time. “Didn’t sound like you had a problem with it last night when you aimed that pretty ass at me and told me to take you from behind.”
Margo looked around then stared at her shoes as a pair of executives passed them on the sidewalk. “Keep your voice down.”
“Ashamed, Margo?”
“Yes.”
The hiss of her choked assent nailed him square in the solar plexus. All the oxygen evacuated his lungs. She was ashamed? Of him? Of them? Of what they’d done? Or maybe all of the above.
She wouldn’t look at him. In fact, her attention was on the street and the cab she flagged down. The snap of her telescopic handle boomed in his ears. She opened the door, slid inside. The green and white checkered design burned itself on his retinas. Number 8787.
She didn’t pause, she didn’t look back. And then she was gone.
“Where’s Cherry?”
Simon settled his heavy buckle in the center of his low-slung jeans. The fat block letters spelled out fuck—his favorite word. He was used to wearing it to the side so it didn’t clang against his guitar, but things were changing tonight. He shook out his bracelets until they fell where they always did. “I don’t need her anymore.”
Nick swallowed hard. “You don’t? Since when?”
“Since tonight.” Cherry was a security blanket for Nick as much as she had been for Simon.
Nick’s whiskey-bright eyes flashed through a dozen emotions. His gaze drifted up the rafters, down to the floor, out to the stage.
“Look at me, Nicky.” His best friend’s eyes stopped darting around and focused on him. “You got this.” Simon held out his hand and Nick took a deep breath. His calloused, dry as dust hand met Simon’s. The hard clasp of palms curled into a shoulder bump. Man hug. As easy as it needed to be on a night full of nerves for both of them.
They’d played at Frenzy once before, but there was nothing ordinary or usual about it. This wasn’t the back alley piss-scented Rhino. Frenzy was two thousand writhing bodies and a slick glass bar backdrop spattered in neon and top shelf liquor. They’d only been invited back because they’d nailed their first show. Another band backing out at the last minute hadn’t hurt either.
This was the start of it all.
“Tonight’s important.” Simon said as Nick’s eyes started to cloud again. “We’re still proving we belong here, but it’s just a show. This is us, this is Oblivion doing what we do. Every song we play is us no matter who wrote it. Remember that and play the holy fuck out of all of them. Period. Got that?”
Nick’s gaze steadied and his mouth curved into a cocky grin. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was halfway there. “Play the holy fuck out of ‘em. Got it.”
The house lights went down and the screams lured Simon out. Jazz was already behind her kit, her purple and silver sticks glittering in the low lights. The tic-tic-tic of them against the drums slammed in time with his heart against his ribs.
Nick jogged around him and took up his spot on the left hand of the stage. Deacon followed, a quick squeeze on Simon’s shoulder letting him know he’d heard their exchange. If he was currently wearing a dent from Deacon’s thumbprint in his shoulder blade that was okay too. That meant he still felt something. He’d been numb since the recording studio two weeks ago. Since she’d left him on the sidewalk without a backward glance.
This was where he belonged. With his band and the music. With the world ahead of him and the chance to finally get out of the shit-box existence in Carson. And with people that had been with him since the beginning. Even a couple of new friends that had become just as important.
Gray followed his cue to the stage. A flash of glassy eyes and skin stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones sent a shiver down Simon’s spine. That love shit was something he wanted no part of if it fucked a guy over like that.
His situation wasn’t the same. Soon he wouldn’t smell honeysuckle everywhere he went. Eventually, the vodka would burn off the last memories of her taste.
Taking his own cue, Simon followed Gray onto the stage. The house lights pulsed down on his shoulders and the growl of Nick’s guitar settled into his blood like anti-venom. Transforming him, dragging him back from the ledge and into the skin he understood.
Nick and Gray played on opposite sides, their eternal duel coalesced into layered perfection one moment and a power play of screaming strings the next. And Simon was in the middle of it all. Deacon settled him and kept time and Jazz pounded out Oblivion’s heartbeat.
Simon wrapped his hands around his heavy boxy mic. The polished metal fit in his palm, and the cracked screen under the grill was a little like him. Warped, but it sounded better for the wear. He cracked his neck, then pulled the mic and the stand into his body and leaned on it for support. “Well, well, well…I see some sexy bitches in this crowd tonight.”
A half dozen girls in the front of the pack screamed, “Take off your shirt.”
Simon grinned down. “Wow, no foreplay at all, ladies? Straight to naked time?”
The scream back was a resounding yes. He laughed. “I feel like such a piece of meat.” He waggled his eyebrows and dipped low to a blonde in the center of the crowd. Her blue eyes lit with interest and the first stirrings of lust. “I like it.” He swung back with a teasing laugh. “We’re Oblivion and we’re here to rock your faces off.”
The familiar banter and infusing energy from the crowd buried the sissy bitch that had taken over his brain for the last two weeks. He wrapped his fingers around the stand and crouched down, dip
ping the mic to his lips. He felt lighter without Cherry. Less encumbered.
He closed his eyes and let the words to “Taste of Candy” churn in his brain. The songs were such a part of him now that he had only to open his mouth and let them fly.
By twenty minutes into the set, he’d already lost his shirt to the heat and the feedback of actual fans screaming for them—for him.
Song after song, he bounced off of Nick and leaned on Deacon. With every bit of interaction, the audience got rowdier and more interested in their set. Each song brought more people to the front and into the fray.
Simon stalked to the back and jumped up on the riser that held Jazz’s kit. She slammed the skins, her strong arms and legs glistening with some sort of sparkly powder and sweat. “Purple Pixie, you enjoying yourself back here?”
Jazz stole his mic. “You know I am.” She stood and twirled faster until the glittery sticks whirled into a blurry arc. Man, they needed to get her light up ones. That would be so cool. “I don’t know about the crowd though. I can’t really hear them back here.”
Simon snatched his mic back. “You hear that shit? My pint-sized drummer says she can’t hear you back here.” He prowled to the front. “Are you having a good time out there?”
They screamed back at him and he staggered back comically. “Well, fuck, you told her.” Simon looked over his shoulder. “You hear that, Jazz?”
She held up her hand and made a sign for so-so.
“Wow. Rude.” Simon turned back around. “I thought you were pretty loud, but I guess I’m just too easy on you guys.” He cupped his hand around his ear. “Tell me one more time.”
The crowd surged forward, even more people coming in from the street. Like the Rhino, Frenzy opened their front doors to the street traffic on the Strip. Unlike the Rhino, Frenzy had a line of people waiting to get in.
Simon gave Deacon a sidelong glance then snapped his corded mic in its stand and stole Nick’s cordless one before hopping down into the crowd. Hands brushed over his skin, nails raked his back and catcalls followed Simon as he pushed his way through the swaying bodies to the door. He stuck his head outside. “Excuse me, there are far too many people outside.”
