by Cari Quinn
“Thank you.” How did they know her name?
The tall man slid a slim envelope across the marble counter. “Ms. Shawcross has left your itinerary. When you’re ready, please call down to the desk. She’s made a car available to bring you to the venue tonight.”
Lila thought of everything. She was one of the most professional managers that Margo had ever worked with. It was as refreshing as it was odd. Lila should be running a company, not herding twenty-something rockstars.
“I will, thank you.”
“You’re in Room 604 with a terrace view.” He set a key on the envelope. “The rest of the guests have made their way to the venue.”
She spared a glance at her watch. She had an hour before she needed to be there, but traffic was murderous in the city. “If you could have the car ready in thirty minutes, that would be satisfactory.”
“Excellent.” He inclined his head. “Welcome to the WestHouse, Ms. Reece. I’m Frank. If you need anything, please let me know. We hope you enjoy your stay. “
She nodded with a smile. “Thank you, Frank.”
He held his arm out. “Lewis will help you with your bags.”
“That’s fine. I only have the two.”
“Very well, then.”
Margo had been in plenty of beautiful hotels before. Being the child of a lawyer and doctor afforded her a world of culture beyond the symphony. She tapped the ornate button to the elevator. The bronze doors, designed in the typical lines and curves of the Art Deco movement, slid open silently and more silk-tufted walls came into view.
For such an old building, everything was remarkably quiet. The ride was smooth and when she arrived on her floor, the silence was pervasive.
She slid her itinerary out of the envelope. In a world where emails and copy paper were the norm, the elegant silvery gray stationery with Donovan Lewis’s corporate seal along the top was an anomaly—much like the entire situation. Discreetly-spaced letters underneath the raised seal were the only clue to the fact that it was for a record company.
A company that was very hands-on with their clients.
She didn’t quite know what to make of the company or Lila Shawcross and Donovan Lewis. Margo was a classically trained violinist and twice now she’d been invited to work with a band that was as rough around the edges as a garage band.
And yet her strings blended seamlessly with them.
It didn’t make sense.
Like that night with Simon made sense? Like your obsession with this garage band made sense?
Her grip tightened on the paper and she had to drag in a breath and force her fingers to relax. No, she wasn’t going to think about that. Instead, she focused on the letter.
The entire floor was reserved for the band and Ripper Records, which explained the quiet. Everyone was already at the venue for the festivities. She had to go to rehearsal then was expected to sit for a few interviews with the band.
Music Life was going to film the entire release party and there would be a special airing that Saturday with footage from the New York City and Los Angeles parties.
Why did they want to involve her? She wasn’t specifically mentioned in anything on the itinerary.
She slipped the sheet back into the envelope and into her purse. She leaned her suitcase against the wall but before she could open the door, it swung open.
Framed in the doorway stood a five-foot-four burr up her butt. A lovable one—usually—but thorny just the same.
“Hiya, sis.”
Margo searched for her voice. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Two
Simon fit the key into the door. Who the fuck still used keys? The door didn’t even bang effectively against the wall. He’d been nursing the mad since he’d checked out of the hotel on Park Avenue.
He was never going to hear the end of it from that little bout of excess. He’d used the sacred corporate card that was only supposed to be used sparingly.
The fact that he’d actually winced at the hotel bill he’d found by the door was saying something. What the hell had he been thinking?
Oh, right.
Blackout drunks didn’t think.
Fuck.
As usual, the ever efficient Lila had his suitcase in the corner and his schedule on the bar with a bottle of his vodka of choice. If only it was because she didn’t mind him drinking.
She’d learned long ago to put anything she wanted him to see within range of alcohol or food. He hated that she knew him so well, even if it did make him smile.
He opened the bottle and splashed an inch into the crystal glass and read his orders. Interviews by the dozen, about three seconds to warm up, and then rehearsal.
At the bottom in her elegant script was a personal note.
If you show up drunk, I will put itching powder in all of your favorite leather pants.
Simon’s lips tipped up into a grin.
He had to give her points for style. He knocked back the glass and pulled off his shirt. A shower was desperately needed. He hadn’t quite been able to think after that woman had spilled the words Violin Girl. His shoulders were still itchy.
Enjoying himself with a random woman was one thing—replacing another was a whole level of crap he couldn’t look at too closely.
Ever since he’d worked with her in the studio, he’d been losing time. For fuck’s sake, he didn’t even have to actually work with her in the studio.
But he sure as shit hadn’t been able to walk away once he’d seen her in that cozy little booth. The memories from the huge studio from the first album juxtaposed over the more eclectic studio that Ripper Records owned.
Both times she’d been the proper little miss with her shoulders and back tightly squared off. Her entire posture screamed repressed, but then she lifted that bow and tucked her violin under her chin and it didn’t matter that she could make a coal into a diamond with how tight she was clenched.
Magic flowed out of her fingers. She’d closed her dark eyes, then she was lost in the song. The strings were her conduit.
And he’d been so goddamn hard he’d had to walk it off.
Connection to music was something he identified with. It was the only thing that had kept him together in that shitty apartment with his father. It had been his ticket out of Carson and into Los Angeles, and now it was the only thing he had to focus on.
He didn’t want to see that same desperate longing in her face. It reminded him of that night with her and “The Becoming” crashing all around them. Of losing himself in her sweet, clasping body. It reminded him that sex wasn’t just scratching an itch, and no matter how many different people he’d bedded over the years, she’d been the only one to make him crave more.
Not just an orgasm.
Not just anonymous arms that would slip away once the sweat cooled.
She’d actually quieted the voices that usually only faded with alcohol or a song. Then she’d walked away without a backward glance.
And seeing her again had dredged all that shit up.
Why they’d added her to the album, he just didn’t know. It wasn’t like she was going to be on tour with them. It was a layer that Gray and Nick had to try and recreate on stage.
It sounded amazing on the studio track—and they were getting known for that little bit of extra. If that pulled them away from the herd of other artists out there, he’d take it.
He just wished he’d missed her visit.
He’d been doing just fine. He’s put her out of his mind. And now he’d have to work to do it again.
With the water set on scalding, he stepped under the spray and let it beat along his neck.
When he was pink as a baby and squeaky clean, he hung a towel at his hips and checked his phone. A list of messages he didn’t have the energy to read scrolled by. Then came the texts from Lila and Nick. Just as he was about to click off, Jazz filled his screen.
He sighed and answered the FaceTime request. “Purple Penis Eater, I’m naked. D
id you want an extra show?”
A pair of long, purple lashes and wide violet eyes filed the screen. “Ugh. You know my pregnancy stomach isn’t up for that kind of thing.”
“Because the thought of my manhood would negate Gray’s baby mojo, of course.”
“You are delusional, my friend.”
He pursed his lips and brought the camera closer. “I only speak fact.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re late. Lila is going to have your balls for a dinner mint.”
“Whoa, whoa. Let’s not insult the boys here.”
Her raspberry lips curved into a broad smile. “Then get your ass here, Super Slut.”
Because the words were hitting a little too close to home right now, he forced his lips up into the smirk she’d been expecting. “I must beautify. Some of us can’t add some glitter and be perfect.”
“This is true.” Jazz’s laugh tinkled over the line and he didn’t have to pretend when he smiled back that time.
She really was the only one in the band who made life bearable when the road got too endless.
“I’ll be there in a few. Charm that Kim chick until I get there.”
Jazz rubbed her hands together. “I’ll tell her that story about when your pants ripped open in Colorado Springs.”
Simon poured another two inches of vodka in his glass to stave off the wine hangover and grabbed his pants off the bed.
“You mean when I got the standing ovation?” He winked and ended the call.
“Is that any way to talk to your favorite little sister?”
Margo’s jaw clenched. Wherever Juliet Reece was, chaos followed. “How did you even find me?” She pushed inside and stopped in the middle of the room.
Not because of the pure elegance and beauty of the space. No, she’d have to enjoy that later. But because her room currently had about fifteen different outfits strewn across every surface.
She curled her fingers tighter around her handle. “How long have you been here?”
“About an hour.”
Margo shut her eyes. “Again, how did you find out where I’d be?”
Juliet curled into a high-backed chair that was tucked next to a large desk. “Hacked your email.”
“You what?”
“You really have to pick harder passwords.”
The thought of redoing her makeup was the only thing that kept her from rubbing her eyes in frustration. After a mental bookmark to redo all her passwords, she turned around to face her little sister.
“I thought you were in Paris with Tomas.”
“Boring.”
Only her sister would call Paris boring. And only her sister could go through men as quickly as she changed her shoes. Juliet crossed her long legs, bouncing her foot to her inner beat—the one that was never still for long.
“Of course I did get a little tidbit of information while I was with Tomas.”
“Oh?” Margo set her violin on the desk and gathered up Juliet’s strewn clothing to drape it over a chair.
“Naughty sister dear. As if it wouldn’t get out that you weren’t really on hiatus from the Philharmonic.”
Margo froze. The conductor was supposed to give her a few weeks before he’d let that information out. So much for that promise.
All she needed was a little bit of time to line something else up before her parents found out she wasn’t good enough. Before her name was struck from the programs and her photo banished to the bottom of the former artists section.
Louis Renard, the conductor of the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra, had never been a saint, but at least he understood lies of omission. At least she’d thought so. It wasn’t public knowledge yet, but the string section was particularly gossipy. Especially Tomas, the little snake.
All her years of work gone in a half measure. Now there would be the sly, smug smiles behind her back. The half dozen other people that would be fighting for her place smelled the blood in the water. But all of that should have been a few weeks away.
“Because it’s none of your business.”
“I’m here for moral support. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“You’re here for the release party. Let’s not get all sibling support system here.”
“You wound me.” Juliet rose from her chair, making her way slowly and methodically to the pile of clothing Margo had made. She picked up a slinky silver top. In a blink, she pulled off the siren red shirt she’d been wearing and wiggled into the silver. “I’m here to make sure you take advantage of this time. I don’t know how you landed the gig with Oblivion, but you’ll waste it on actually performing.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Ever the straight arrow.” Juliet sighed. “You have a Manhattan A-list club at your fingertips and you’re going to simply go there and do your job.”
Margo’s spine snapped straight.
“See. I can see it in your body language. And that hideous pair of stovepipe pants. So last year.” Juliet hauled Margo’s suitcase onto the bench at the end of the bed and popped it open. “Black pants, black skirt that goes to your freaking calves, black pants, more black pants. God, do you even have a clue about shopping?” She looked up and skimmed her gaze over the jacket.
“What?”
“Color. It’s a good thing. Makes you look not so stuck up.”
“I’m not stuck up.”
Juliet’s eyebrow rose and a slim copper hoop danced from the arch. “Please. Your picture is on the wiki page.” She yanked out a pair of tights and short wraparound skirt Margo only used as a cover up for when she used the pool. “Aha! This will do.”
The fact that it was exactly what the man from the store had advised her to wear only made her seethe—internally, of course. Letting Juliet see that she was getting to her was a surefire way for more abuse.
“I wear those for comfort, not for going out.”
“Look, I know you’re a bit thick in the leg, but it works for your whole hourglass thing.”
“Wow.”
Juliet rolled her eyes and tossed the tights at her. “You know you are. You just didn’t get the perfect metabolism. Only one sister gets that per family.”
She snatched the pants out of the air and kicked off her heels before locking herself into the bathroom. Even that had Juliet’s stamp. Cosmetics were strewn across the beautiful marble counter and powders from eyeshadow, bronzer, and something full of sparkles stained the sink.
Margo had left home to get away from this chaos and now it was following her to New York? She’d wanted this one thing to boost her visibility and now her sister would probably screw that up, too.
She gripped the edge of the counter and looked up. The deep pink of the jacket pushed her back a step. She’d seen herself in the mirror at the boutique, but it was still jarring. The black and white uniform had been her life for so long that any other color felt foreign.
Even off the stage, it was easier to use the monochrome palette to blend in. To stay unnoticed and safe.
There was nothing safe about a color like this. She shrugged off the jacket and drew in a deep breath. This was no better. She’d learned to hide her curves under the right clothes. Not to show them off.
The tailored slacks didn’t accentuate her hips, they were bought specifically to hide them. Sure, it made her look a size larger, but her mother had showed her how to dress for her problem areas.
And she always did what was best for her family.
Except when you lost your chair because you couldn’t concentrate.
Because she hated it.
She stood straighter, and threw back her shoulders until her breasts lifted. The camisole didn’t allow for the minimizers she usually wore to downplay her cup size. Before she could talk herself out of it, she unbuttoned the slacks and let them puddle at her feet.
Lush hips and a slim waist filled the mirror. No matter how many medicine ball exercises she did to strengthen her core, or resistance exercises she did to firm up her
arms, or miles she ran on the treadmill, or the carefully honed diet she kept to—nothing would ever reduce her hips or the curve of her ass.
Your unfortunate shape can be concealed, Margo.
She shut her eyes against her mother’s voice in her head. Her perfect size two mother that had the elegant chill of England in her skin and her blood.
Margo got the bloom of pink under cream skin and the heart-shape face and rear end to match. One glass of wine and she was flushed. She couldn’t be more opposite from her mother if she tried. Juliet got all that tall, slim perfection.
If only she’d gotten the skill with the violin, she could have been the one aimed toward the stage. But no, Juliet had no love of the classical music that ruled their house. She had all the aptitude with instruments and dance, but she would rather die than let their mother know there was any true love for it in her heart.
Her sister was stronger than her in that regard. Juliet didn’t care what anyone thought. Margo cared too much.
What a pair they’d made in that mausoleum of a house.
Juliet pounded on the door. “It doesn’t take that long to change. Get out here, I have places to go.”
Oh, thank God. Did that mean she wasn’t going to push her way into an invite to the party?
Maybe she’d be able to enjoy herself with the anonymity of a crowd and the music she’d been dying to hear again. The studio album kept her demons at bay, but the live music sated the prickly feeling that was only growing with each successive night.
She lifted her sister’s bronzer brush and highlighted her cheeks, then darkened her eyes. She slicked a pale nude color over her lips to play up her eyes.
Juliet usually went for glamour eyes and lips with a dark stain, but it was too much for Margo’s face. Her bee-stung lips were too much for the look she wanted. If any night was one that she could finally be a different person, it was tonight.
Margo stepped into the silky tights and draped the barely there skirt over her hips. She kept her eyes averted from the mirror and resisted the urge to pull down the skirt.
She felt naked.
