by Cari Quinn
“Yeah, you’d be surprised.” Simon rolled up his shirtsleeve to his elbow and shook out his bracelets. “This hot twenty-year-old outside had no idea who I was talking about.”
“Yeah, I heard you were stealing my video thunder out there, Super Slut,” Jazz yelled from behind her kit.
“What can I say? They all wanted a piece of me.” He moved to his mic stand. He always had two on the stage. One back by Jazz’s drums with a regular mic on it and his retro box microphone from their club days. When he was on stage, he needed it cupped in his hand. The age of it added a little distortion to his voice that was part of his sound at this point.
He’d had the damn thing rewired three times since the last tour. Hank, his tech guy, was pretty much the only one who could fix it. And it was pure perfection right now.
He cupped his hands around the cool metal. “Start from the top.”
Margo lifted her violin and the notes soared. He closed his eyes and let the song take him. The lyrics filled his head and spilled out effortlessly. He usually downplayed his voice during rehearsal—saving the real deal for the crowds.
But they were doing an abbreviated set so he didn’t have to worry about it. The idle chitchat and scrape of dishes and glasses faded to the background as the song rolled him under.
He paced the stage and unearthed slinky Robert Plant memories. Margo’s violin elevated the song. Gray and Nick played back-to-back and Deacon was doing his metronome sway.
Jazz twirled glowing green sticks as she kept the beat, watching Deacon for clues for the pace of the song. Everything was as it should be.
Save for Margo.
She matched him in all black except for the bright pink that drew the eye to her spectacular breasts. So much her and yet not. A new breed of prim musician just waiting to bust out of her mold.
And because the song seemed to cry out for it, he stalked her around the stage. They held eye contact as the song built and his voice got raspier with each chorus. He swayed forward and she arched back until they were one unit in the song.
Like the ebb and flow of thrusting inside of her. They matched up so effortlessly. By the time the song ended, the room was silent and the cord of the mic was wound so tightly around his wrist his blood throbbed with the restriction.
Much like his fucking pants.
The wolf whistle and claps brought him back and he shut down that heady connection with her. Those dark eyes slayed him and moved him. He turned with her at his side and they both bowed.
He itched to curl around her so he crossed the stage to Nick instead. They rolled through the new songs and then one more cover. He coughed through the middle of “Closer to the Edge” from Thirty Seconds to Mars so he pulled back to keep it fresh for the show.
It was a crowd pleaser and a sing-a-long song. They wrapped up rehearsal with “Nailed” and “Sugar Kiss” from the new album.
“Don’t you want to do ‘The Becoming’?” Jazz asked. “Margo hasn’t done it live yet.”
“That’s fine. I know it by heart,” Margo answered before he could.
“It’s different live,” Nick chimed in.
Simon pushed up his sleeves. “Let’s wing it. See if the magic happens. If not, we’ll practice double time for tomorrow night.”
Margo nodded and uncapped a bottle of water and took a long drink.
He had to turn away from her long, graceful neck beaded with sweat. Even with the lights at a minimum, it was hot on stage. He’d be swapping out the dress shirt for a tank for the show that night.
But for now, he took the front stairs to the floor. “I have to do a few more interviews.”
Anything to get away from the stage. He turned up the wattage on his smile as a redhead crossed to him.
“Amazing rehearsal. Tonight will be epic.”
“I hope so, darlin’.”
“I’m Bobbi Matthews with Z100.”
“Oh, right. We did an acoustic set on your show two weeks ago.”
“Yes. It was such a hit that we wanted to come down and cover your release party.”
“Happy to have you.”
“I have a few questions, if that’s okay.”
He looked over his shoulder at Margo still on the stage talking quietly to Lila. She was blotting her neck with a towel. He turned back to Bobbi. “Absolutely.”
Anything to get his mind off that stage.
Margo’s chest was still tight and her heart was in her throat. This stage made the philharmonic feel small and boring. The mishmash of instruments and the way Gray and Nick swapped out guitars like there was an endless supply in their trunks fascinated her.
She had a half dozen violins herself, but she’d only thought to bring her Starfish. If she’d had the wherewithal, she would have brought her classical as well.
“Kashmir” lent itself to the classic style she used on the Boston stage—had used on the Boston stage.
No more.
This was her only stage for the foreseeable future.
And already she didn’t want to let it go. The adrenaline and endorphins were still bubbling under her skin. She’d never felt more alive or free.
“Amazing stuff, Margo.”
She turned to Lila. “Thanks. I didn’t know this would work. I had my doubts.”
“Just wait ‘til you feed off the crowd. You and Simon already have magic.”
“No. It’s just the music.”
“Music is sex and sexual power. And you both exude it all over the stage. I can’t wait to see it tonight.”
No pressure. Margo tucked her violin in its case. “Let’s hope the crowd doesn’t think it’s too weird.”
“I was surprised you didn’t do ‘The Becoming’. It’s their biggest hit. Though ‘Sugar Kiss’ is definitely gaining strength there.”
Margo concentrated on the snaps to her case so she wouldn’t have to look her in the eye. “The Becoming” was too much. After the Zeppelin song, her body couldn’t handle that along with the memories.
Once tonight would be enough.
“I think Simon wanted to go for an organic groove there. Not to rush it.”
Lila made a noncommittal noise.
She had a feeling that this woman’s bullshit meter was about as astute as her mother’s. Her mother was going for a gold medal and Lila was definitely in her league.
“It feels good.” She hadn’t meant to own up to it. In fact, she didn’t really want to even think it. But Lila had amazing contacts and if she was going to make a life as a studio musician, she wanted one of the most influential women in the music scene to be in her corner.
Ripper Records might be small, but Donovan Lewis was a force in the business world. What he was involved in was noticed, whether it was music or brokering a deal. She’d do well to remember that and getting on Lila’s good side was a necessary evil.
No matter how much her belly jittered with it.
“I had a feeling.” Lila hugged her iPad to her chest. “Your magic in the studio was translatable to the stage with just a nudge.”
“I’m not sure about that.” Margo’s gaze followed Jazz and Gray as they came together like polarized magnets. As a unit, they moved to Nick and Deacon. The four of them were so easy with each other. Like the instruments were just a conduit for them to have a reason to be in the same space.
Add in the fire of Simon’s voice and nothing could stop them as a group. Simon was the front man that all bands wanted. He owned the stage and could interact with each and every member of the band individually without breaking stride.
But it was how he connected to the crowd that was awe-inspiring. Even here when it was the jaded industry people with tech people crawling around doing their job.
She’d watched them stop and turn to the stage. His magnetic personality and innate sexuality drew the eye whether you were male or female.
And when he’d faced her and turned that power on her, she’d had no choice but to come out of her shell. Her music reached for him
just as she had. That night in the studio had been similar.
The bass that exuded sex and the giving power of two bodies overrode any protective instinct she’d had. “Kashmir” had done the same. The symphonic composition had been created for strings—both classical and electric.
But his voice was the truth that the song required.
Led Zeppelin’s truth had always been in the music. Regardless of egos and drugs, there had been a core talent. And Oblivion had that with each successive album. Each one was more special than the last, but the truth was the stage.
She’d sneaked into more than one show since she’d contributed to “The Becoming”. Never letting on that she was there, never intruding on that dynamic.
But now that she’d tasted it, she wanted it.
On a level that she’d never known with the symphony. Shame should have followed that thought, but it just couldn’t.
Music was music, whether it included a conductor or a lead singer that owned the crowd. There was no sense of camaraderie in her old world. Only who was better, who would be remembered, who would bump another from the top spot.
This was a relationship. If Gray took the lead, Nick would follow it up with a duel. Not to only one up each other—though she had a feeling there was a little rivalry there—but because he wanted in on the action. Wanted that song to sink into him, too.
That was what she’d missed in all her years with the Philharmonic. And she’d soak it in tonight and tomorrow and hope it was enough.
To have just a small moment of that magic in her life was worth it.
Five
Simon gargled with salt water—heavy on the salt—with a vodka chaser waiting for him. He’d talked himself blue with the last of the interviews. He’d tried to take a backseat in the band interview, but the shenanigans had been too heightened with excitement as the club filled.
Lila kept interjecting numbers and the overhead screen was a live feed from the iHeart Radio’s release party coverage from the club. All of it was feeding the frenzy.
Nothing like their last album.
This was much more fluid and fun. And the stark difference between Ripper Records and Trident was even more obvious. Lila and her staff had created the perfect venue for them. The lights and the murmur of people was the buzz he lived for. As much as he loved the bigger stages they’d been playing as of late, the clubs would always speak to him on a visceral level.
He braced his hands on the side of the sink as the door opened behind him.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
Margo’s huge dark eyes met his in the mirror. Her hair had been smoothed down around her shoulders again and her ample cleavage trapped the shorter strands that fell forward.
Hair that he wanted to wrap around his hand and use to drag her mouth to his.
The fact that he wanted it so badly had caused him to knock back his drink and snap the glass down on the porcelain a little too forcefully. “Ready for the stage, Violin Girl? Think you can keep up with the adults?”
“If there was an adult in the room, I could answer that question.”
He turned and untucked his tank from his back pocket. Her eyes skimmed down his chest once before arrowing back up to his face. “Like what you see?” His buckle was open for him to tuck the shirt in. Well, for as long as it lasted on his body. He hated when shirts bunched up. Hated wearing clothes on stage, period. They were too tight and restrictive when he wanted to prowl around.
But it was much more effective to take them off for the crowd and to play to the screams. He knew how to play the game. Hell, he lived for the game. The other twenty hours in the day were merely killing time so he could get on the stage.
He needed to tour again.
Needed to feed that addiction.
They’d been off the road for too long now.
But the way he felt around Margo could mirror that. And he hated her for it. Those moments in her arms had been as thrilling as the stage. Enough that he’d offered himself to a woman for more than a night and she’d run as far and fast as possible in the opposite direction.
He hated her even more now that he’d seen how affected she really was. Here she couldn’t hide it. When they were alone, she couldn’t hide behind a cool mask.
He moved closer until her honeysuckle scent teased his nose and tried to draw him closer. Mixed with smoke from the machines and the spice of something else. Cloves.
He leaned into her hair where it clung.
“Why, Violin Girl, did you sneak away for a clove cigarette?”
She flushed. “Of course not.”
He walked around her and sifted his fingers through her hair until it fell down her back. “I haven’t smelled that scent in too many years to count. I didn’t know anyone actually still smoked them.”
She tried to move out of his space, but he curled his arm around her waist and spread his hand across her midsection. In the mirror they lined up, her shoulders easily tucked in against his upper chest. So similar in height that his cock brushed against her high, rounded ass.
He kept his grip loose enough that if she really wanted to get away, she could.
But she didn’t.
And he knew she wouldn’t.
She closed her eyes against the way they looked together in the glass. Because she lied. She knew just how good they were together.
What he wanted to know was why she felt the need to lie.
“You see this, right? Know it’s good.” He brushed his lips against the shell of her ear. “And yet you walked away without a second look.”
“It would have been just another few hours of sex. What would that have accomplished?”
“Why did it have to accomplish anything? Why couldn’t it just feel good and right?”
“Is that all that matters to you? What feels good at the time?”
His hand drifted higher to the cup of the corset and the heavy breast he knew filled his hand to perfection. But he didn’t go there. There wasn’t time, no matter how much he wanted her right then and there.
Hated that he wanted it, but God, he did.
“There’s nothing wrong with feeding that side of you, Margo.”
Her eyes flashed open. He said her name so rarely. Because it tasted like salted caramel under dark chocolate on his tongue. And now he added the heady scent of cloves to her sensory memories.
“I don’t have the luxury of feeding that hedonistic side. I have obligations.”
“And those feelings are too messy, aren’t they?” He stared at her in the mirror. “Wouldn’t want to deal with messy feelings, right?”
“It was sex.”
Her posh voice almost had a British edge to it. And the way she spit out the words like she’d never say them unless forced helped to control his runaway dick.
A fundamental difference between them.
He’d do well to remember that.
He slid his hand away and zipped up his leathers. “And sex is bad, right, Violin Girl?”
“No, but it has its place.”
“A dirty moment in time that needs to be erased?”
“No.”
Her emphatic no made him meet her gaze again. “Then what was it?”
“A fantasy.”
And that’s all he was good for. He pulled the cotton tank over his head and tucked it in before buckling his pants. It was surprising how much he needed to be reminded of that.
“Well, then let’s get out there and let me do what I do best.”
“Simon, I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, but you did.” He opened the door and rolled his neck as he headed out. The stage was dark and house lights were beginning to dim.
He put Margo in her place. At the back of his mind where dreams and memories got to rest under the reality of his function in the band. He was the face, the body, and the voice.
He met up with Lila where she stood at the bottom of the stairs. “You’re late.”
“I had to warm up.”
Lila looked over his shoulder as Margo came out of the bathroom. “So I see.” Margo walked up. “Have a good show.”
Simon hit the stairs at a dead run. Adrenaline replaced the want of a single woman. This mistress he knew and could trust. Some nights were rougher than others, but she was always there for him.
The stage.
The music.
He slapped Nicky on the back as he passed and took a quick look to make sure his friend was set. Stage fright was a reality in Nick’s life, but a controlled one for the most part.
The first shows were always the hardest for his best friend. He was a little glassy-eyed, but there wasn’t the leading edge of panic. Determination won out tonight.
It would be a good night.
When he passed Gray, the houselights went completely down and the murmuring crowd broke out into applause. Gray and Nick exploded into “Renegade”. One of the first songs that they’d all collaborated on. The song was loud, powerful, and unapologetic.
Simon wrapped his hand around the mic and used the stand to dip down as the lyrics curled in his belly and out his mouth. He smiled for the legion of cameras, the faces, the guests both famous and not. Like the A-listers from the Tribeca scene and social media storms with their dead eyes and interest in only what the cameras could provide.
Those were his target tonight.
He always had one.
To win over the jaded and self-involved was his goal. He wanted every arm up and all eyes on him. The low hanging lighting rig was his playground.
When the guitar solo started, he scooted to the back of the small stage and tapped Jazz’s cymbals before taking his other mic.
“Simon,” she said with that air of warning.
He waggled his eyebrows. “Gotta give them something to remember.”
Lila tried to catch his attention from the side stage but he kept his eyes on the prize. He ran to the front of the stage and leaped for the rig.
The crowd gasped and two security guys scrambled from the back. Thankful that he’d started using Deacon’s pull-up bar when he was bored, he lifted himself up and monkeyed his way onto the farthest arm of the rig.
