by Cari Quinn
Margo tried not to smile at their antics, but they were like a bunch of puppies tumbling around and on each other.
Lila opened her door and sagged against the jamb. She had on a large pair of amber sunglasses. “It’s too early for them to be so loud.”
Margo walked with her down the hallway. “I assumed they would all be dragging their way to the airport.”
“Jazz and Harper catnap like no one’s business. They’ll be out before we get off the runway. Simon probably hasn’t gone to bed yet and Gray and Nick will end up at the back of the plane with guitars and headphones or playing a video game.”
“And Deacon?”
“Deacon will herd them in and herd them out, watching over them the whole time.”
“So, you liken Deacon to a border collie?”
Lila gave a tight smile. “If the hair fits.”
Margo nodded. “Interesting group.”
“They grow on you. Mostly against your will, but they grow on you nonetheless.”
“Well, thanks for letting me on the plane with you guys. It’s better than flying coach.”
“I’ll remind you of that when Nick and Gray are arguing over lyrics and Jazz is tapping on every surface because she can’t sit still unless she’s unconscious.”
“Or making a baby,” Margo said under her breath.
Lila laughed. “Or making a baby. They are bunnies, but thankfully our social media queen is usually too busy with interviews and research or reading baby books to bounce off the walls quite as much as she once did.”
“How are you guys going to work the tour?”
Lila waved to them at the end in the elevator to go ahead. The car was full.
Simon stood in the middle of the car, his fingers wrapped around his suitcase handle in front of his crotch. His eyebrow winged up as the doors closed.
Margo swallowed down nerves and the irrational need to drag him out of the elevator and toss him off the building. He knew what he did to any woman. That cocksure attitude was as attractive as it was annoying.
“We’re splitting the tour into two legs as we usually do. The first will be abbreviated, of course. Their timing could be better—the ticket sales are amazing and the record is getting way more downloads than we thought it would. Hell, Rise got four stars from Rolling Stone.”
She rarely agreed with Rolling Stone magazine’s critics, but Margo had to concede this one. Considering the album was in her ears every time she stuck headphones in, it was a fair assessment.
“And you couldn’t get someone to fill in?”
Lila stopped and turned to her. “Have you met these people? If I dared to give them that as an option, I might get stoned.”
“Business is business.”
Lila slid her shades down her nose. “It’s nice to hear that from another person in this crazy group, but it just shows that you’re on the outside like me. No one could replace Jazz. Not even if Stuart Copeland said he’d sit in.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Margo reached for the elevator button set into the Art Deco plate. “That would be a sight, though.”
“That it would.”
They waited in companionable silence as the elevator made its way back up to them.
“I got the idea you were enjoying yourself on stage last night.”
Margo curled her fingers around her handle. “I did, yes.”
“A much different dynamic than the philharmonic.”
“It is.” Margo resisted the urge to fidget.
“You’re off for the summer?”
“The season is over,” Margo answered vaguely.
The doors opened. “So it is.” Lila walked into the elevator and didn’t say another word on the ride down.
Margo recognized the tactic. It was one that her mother used often. Dangle the carrot and get her to ask or offer up her services for whatever they were looking for.
She was tired of reaching for carrots.
If Lila wanted to ask her something, she could damn well ask her.
Margo strode off the elevator and across the lobby to where the band was gathering for the shuttle. Deacon and Harper were already down in the lobby and a carton of orange juice in Harper’s hand told her they’d actually gone down for breakfast.
She wished for coffee but followed everyone onto the huge white shuttle van that the hotel provided. There were two bucket seats at the front and three benches. Gray and Jazz took up one bench, Harper and Deacon the other.
Lila dropped into one of the bucket seats in the front, speaking to the driver about which part of the private airport they were leaving from.
Before Margo could get into the other chair, Nick took it.
Fabulous.
Simon was sprawled along the last bench seat with his arm along the top. So similar to their Town Car ride and yet so much different now.
Before they could forget that there had been skin and moans between them, now they were far too fresh.
Even if she wasn’t the one that had her flesh licked and sucked at. She lifted her chin and sat down on the far end of the bench.
“You like to be close and yet not too close, don’t you, Violin Girl?”
She stared straight ahead. She would not let him bait her. No way, no how.
He flicked the end of her braid. “Aw c’mon, Violin Girl, I’m just playing.”
“Leave her alone, Singer Boy,” Jazz said on a yawn.
Simon’s eyebrow lifted.
“See, how’s it feel to be called your instrument?”
“Terms of endearment, Pink Penis Eater.”
“Can you punch him, G? Just once. I promise I won’t ask again.” Jazz waited a beat. “Today.”
Gray sighed. “Don’t make me bruise my knuckles so early in the day, Simon.”
“Man, it’s gang up on Simon day.”
“Deserve it,” Jazz said with a hand flourish over her head.
Twenty minutes into the drive, Margo started to relax. Simon looked out the window but didn’t interrupt or engage with the rest of the band while they halfheartedly teased one another.
It was early even by Margo’s standards. By the time they pulled onto one of the exchanges toward the airport, the van was quiet. They all shuffled off, grabbing their suitcases from the side storage.
A young guy not much older than Jazz was loading the undercarriage of the plane with their gear and everyone left their suitcases to him.
Just before the cargo person took her suitcase, she rescued her violin case.
“Not good enough to go in with our gear?” Simon tucked the tips of his fingers into the tight black jeans he was wearing.
“It doesn’t leave my side.” Margo knew she was being a little territorial, but her instrument was an extension of her. She never let anyone handle her Starfish.
Ever.
She climbed the stairs after Gray helped Jazz inside. Definitely not a prop jet. This was plush and worth a few million in her estimation. Gray and burgundy leather stretched across couches and captain chairs. The back of the plane was transformed into a bar with a large television, with game consoles discreetly tucked under the speakers.
Everything a man could want. And incongruous to what she thought Donovan Lewis would be about. The television, yes—he probably watched the stock market like crazy.
But the games?
Was that just for the boys? Because the men of Oblivion were definitely more boys than men. In some ways they were hardened with life, but in others they were still very much guys in their twenties.
Nick and Simon made a beeline for the back of the plane and had the television on before their onboard bags were stowed. They just dumped them into what had probably become their space after a few flights.
Simon on the couch, Nick in the captain’s chair.
That was interesting in itself. Nick seemed to need a space all of his own. She’d noticed it on a few different instances now. He very much liked to be a part of the group and in the center of it.<
br />
“You watch them like a science experiment.”
Margo jumped. “I...”
“It’s okay. It’s how I was when I first started managing them.”
“How did that happen, anyway? Don’t you work for Donovan Lewis? Not the band.”
“We like to cultivate our clients. These guys need a little more hands-on than Donovan was comfortable with.”
Margo tipped her head. “You went to bat for them.”
Lila’s face smoothed into an expression that didn’t give one iota away. “I did what the company needed.”
Hmm.
Margo wasn’t entirely convinced. And part of her liked Lila all the more for it. It wasn’t often that she met a woman that she could identify with.
Before Lila could back up, Margo touched her arm. “It’s good they have you to look out for them.”
Lila looked away and lifted her chin. “Ready to go?”
The band had gotten themselves situated. The pregnant women were set up in reclining chairs with blankets over them. Harper was already half asleep. Deacon was reading on his tablet and Gray was fussing over Jazz.
The pilot advised them that they would be leaving in ten minutes. Tired didn’t seem to be a strong enough word for how Margo was feeling, but she was too wound up to settle.
Again, this was completely the opposite of how she normally was. Travel and killing time was a large part of her life. She was good at traveling.
Determined to settle down, she tucked herself into the corner of one of the couches. With the ledge behind her, she tucked her case into the small space and took out her phone and headphones. It seemed wrong to listen to her music of choice when they were right across from her.
But part of her problem was that she hadn’t indulged in her rituals. She rolled her sweater into a ball under her head, put her headphones in, and started the album from the beginning.
Seven
Simon rolled to his feet. Three hours of zombies was enough. He’d gotten most of his aggressions out on the murder and mayhem that video games provided.
Gray and Nick were in it for the long haul. He guzzled one of the half dozen bottles of water that Lila had stashed on the plane for them. Hydrating was a new thing. He was used to either hungover or drunk, with not much in between.
This album was much more taxing on his vocals so he had to actually remember to take care of himself. The last song of the night last night reminded him of that.
“Kashmir” was tough for anyone, even Plant, to sing. He’d felt the crack during the last verse and had pulled his mic away before it had gone out to the speakers and to the people.
He’d rather look like he forgot the lyric than his voice couldn’t hack the song.
He finished the one bottle and immediately opened another. Which of course made him realize he’d been sitting too long. He made his way to the front of the plane for the bathrooms.
He’d all but forgotten that she was on the plane.
Right, like you could forget.
Simon curled his fingers on the bottle until the plastic, and the water dribbling down his fingers, let him know to dial it back. She was curled into a ball on one of the couches.
His couch to sleep on, usually.
With her sweater under her cheek and her phone clutched against her chest, she looked like a little girl. Until he got a better look at that lush mouth.
Nothing about that made him think of a girl. No, that mouth was all woman and incited far too many thoughts about his cock. He walked past her and closeted himself into the bathroom.
Get a hold of yourself, man.
After the first pressing concern was taken care of, he washed his hands and cupped water over his face. Even unconscious, she coated his skin like a sunburn. Hot, sensitive to the touch, and goddamn annoying.
Getting his hands on another woman should have cleared those cobwebs, but he’d let Melissa go without taking what she was so eager to give him.
Because of this woman.
One more day.
Then he could put her back into her place. A memory. A memory far too entrenched into a song he had to sing every goddamn day, but still a memory.
A soft knock at the door pulled him out of his funk. “Just a sec.”
“Sorry.”
Fuck.
He knew that voice.
He opened the door and because she was inhabiting his brain and his sleep, he figured it was quid pro quo to make her just as uncomfortable.
Margo with her back up kept him focused and put her in her place in his head.
He lifted his hands to the top of the doorway and leaned out. “Couldn’t wait your turn, Violin Girl?”
Her huge dark eyes were heavy-lidded with sleep. Her defenses were down and he immediately wanted to pull back. This Margo was one he’d never seen before. Curious Margo, impassioned Margo, music Margo—all of those lived in his brain. But all of those facets of her were enhanced with emotion.
This was a woman who hadn’t put on her layers and shields yet.
Her gaze drifted to his neck and his mouth then to his eyes before she curled her lower lip behind her teeth. Then she seemed to realize what she’d done and she retreated against the wall of the small cubby that made up the bathroom area.
He stepped out and rested his hand on the wall beside her head. “Nervous?”
“Why would you get nervous from me being half awake?”
“Not me. I meant you.” He chuckled. “Why else would you back up a step?”
“To let you pass.” Her chin lifted. “You know that archaic thing called manners.”
“Yeah, we don’t know much about those now do we, Violin Girl?” He lowered his head until his cheek brushed hers. “Uncouth rockstars and all.”
She shivered and he wanted so much to bury his face in her neck. The honeysuckle scent of her urged him closer, clogging his brain and dissolving any better judgement.
His knee slid between her thighs. When she laid her hand on his belly, he stilled. Instead of pushing him away, her thumb slipped under his shirt and through the arrow of hair above his zipper.
“Playing with fire,” he said into her ear.
She turned her face so her lips brushed his ear. “Which of us is the flame?”
He drew back and looked down at her. She didn’t try to look away, didn’t veil her eyes, and didn’t even try to hide behind her many cool masks.
No.
There was naked need there.
The kind that he remembered from that day and even more damning...the kind that echoed inside of him. As if there was no other option, they moved closer. There were only a few inches difference between them. She was tall and stacked in ways that made him itch to possess.
He drew her minted breath in and their lips hovered between touch and tease. Part of him didn’t want to connect. The almost kiss was strung so tight between them.
He flicked his tongue along the divot of her upper lip and the shaky breath could have been hers or his own. When her fingertips curled into the top of his jeans, the light scrape of her nail along his lower belly made him groan.
“Christ, get a room.”
Nick’s disgusted voice had her ducking under his arm and flying into the bathroom.
“Well, shit,” Nick muttered. “I needed to go in there.”
Simon thunked his forehead against the wall. “Jesus.”
“You think it’s smart to go there again, man?”
No. Nothing about what he’d just done was smart. His iron-hard cock had other thoughts, but the head on his shoulders was trying desperately to drag his thoughts away from anything that included Margo and a kiss.
Because they never stopped at a kiss.
Hell, they rarely kissed. The one time they’d gotten together they’d been too aggressive to actually kiss much.
But fuck, he’d wanted to taste her.
He brushed by Nick and dropped onto the couch. Her phone lay on top of her sweater, the headphone
s trailing over the seat. His fingers itched to lift one of the earphones.
Was she listening to some classical masterpiece, hip hop, or rock? Enya?
“Fuck it.” He lifted one of the earphones to his ear and jammed his thumb into the bottom button of her iPhone and pressed play on the screen that lit up. Even in a locked position, music would play.
“The Becoming” filled his head. He flicked out the earbud and stood.
Why the hell was she listening to that? The new stuff he could understand. She needed to learn it for tonight. They were adding more violin to the pieces that hadn’t required it from the studio sessions.
This song, they knew.
Had she been drowning in memories, too?
He moved back to the big screen where Jazz was playing Mario Kart with Harper. Both women maneuvering their controllers with a belly in the way.
As far removed from his yo-yoing feelings about Margo as possible.
“I play winner.”
“You’re going down, Super Slut.” Jazz’s eyes were wide and had a maniacal gleam in them as she passed the finish line with her bonus points stacking up.
Harper tossed her controller at Simon and he caught it right before plastic met his inconveniently hard dick. He sat down and pulled his shirt out to pool in his lap.
“You’re going down, Pix.” Harper gave him a small frown but he just grinned up at her. “I’m going to smoke your rather pathetic score.”
Harper’s face smoothed. “Rematch.”
“You got it.”
Margo dug through her bag at the hotel in Los Angeles. It had been a long ride into the city from the airport and again they’d taken over a floor of a swanky hotel.
This one was glass and steel without the old world flair of New York. Much more slick and glossy like she was used to in Los Angeles.
Ripper Records had spared no expense on the hotel. It was luxury at its best with sheets that boasted high thread counts and down feather pillows and comforters.
White over gray with a pinstripe wall in the darker gray. Leather and chrome, marble over glass in the bathrooms.
Beautiful.
Cold.
It seemed even more jarring because she’d been on a slow burn for hours now. She could still feel the silky hair of his belly, the warmth of his skin, his cinnamon breath filling her mouth.
