by Cari Quinn
Before he could even send back his text, he saw the reply coming through.
And I’m not invited?
Sure you want to incur the wrath of Dragon Lady?
She’s not my keeper.
Simon grinned. Nick so wished Lila was his keeper. At least of his dick. The boy had a serious case of blue balls over her.
Not that he was one to talk.
He hadn’t been able to seal the deal with a chick since he’d gotten his hands on Margo again. Maybe tonight would finally turn that around.
A bar, too much vodka or beer to be smart, and the streets of Boston might be just what he needed.
I’m headed to the bar across the street. If you dare to wade through the groupies, meet me there.
You couldn’t wait?
Right, so both of them could try to hide who they were? Was he high?
Your disguises suck.
And yours don’t? The hat doesn’t work for anyone, jackass.
Simon grinned and typed back.
Just has to get me out the door, son.
He jammed his phone in his pocket and hurried through the lobby. He stopped at the desk. “Hi. Is there a side door out of here that won’t set off the crowd?”
The girl behind the counter’s eyes went wide. “Um. Hi, Sim—Mr. Kagan.”
“Simon is fine, sweetheart.”
She cleared her throat. “Right. Um, sure. If you go down that hallway to where the pool is, there’s a side door. You’ll have to go around the building, but at least there’s no one back there. At least last time we did a walk-through.”
He drummed his fingers on the counter and waggled his eyebrows at her. “Awesome.” He looked down at her tag. “Thanks, Ashley.”
Before she could stammer out a reply, Simon moved down the hallway to the scent of chlorine and the unnatural humidity of the indoor pool area. He might just take a dip on his way back in.
Sure enough, there was a side entrance at the end of the hall. If he was stalking someone famous, he’d go for the side door, but private property practices were probably enforced. And that was where he cashed in.
Ca-ching. Empty of screaming fans.
He skirted the edges of the parking lot and snuck across the street. There was a shit ton of people out. And on this side of the street, it definitely wasn’t for Oblivion.
Well, at least not all of it.
He slipped into the crowd and pulled down the brim of his hat, keeping his chin down. He jammed his hands into his pockets to look like a college kid. The closer he got to the bar, the more he realized it was an honest to God pub.
He knew Boston was full of them. Had seen them out the windows on the drive in. And now he could get in there and enjoy a pint or whatever the fuck you did in an Irish pub.
Whatever it was, he was game.
He stopped when a pair of very scuffed, very large black boots came into his line of sight. “Nice Docs.”
“Ten bucks, college boy.”
And Nicky said his disguises sucked. Simon dug a crumpled bill out of his pants. He wasn’t used to carrying cash anymore. Everything was expensed lately.
Bingo. A twenty from his allowance yesterday. Ahem—per diem. As far as he was concerned, it was a goddamn allowance. Not that he’d ever had one as a kid, but he got the reference.
He didn’t tip his hat up, just forked over the cash. The dude grunted and gave him two fives back. Simon tried to go around him but the guy clamped a hand around his arm.
“ID,” he mumbled.
Ah fuck. Maybe Mr. No Neck wouldn’t recognize his name. He fished out his California license and handed it over. The guy’s eyebrows rose then looked from him to the license and then back. Instead of saying anything, he just grunted and gave him back the license.
Simon fought his way to the bar, but it was like moving against a tide with six feet swells. The prize was a beer. And it damn well better be a good beer.
Music swelled out of the back of the bar. A deep baritone of a male voice that made the hairs at the back of his neck stand up. That was some Barry White shit right there.
He sung of the hardships of Boston, the life, the streets, and of course, the Irish. Because what would an Irish pub be without the stories of the people? And under it was a sad bit of strings. Guitar and fiddle layered until there was nothing but emotion.
As he was standing to pay, the song moved on into a lively tune. He tapped his foot to the alt-country sound. He liked all sorts of music, even if rock was his purest love.
After taking a healthy sip of his beer, he wandered the room. College kids eight shot glasses deep on what should have been a four maximum night were being a little rambunctious, but not enough to warrant a bounce just yet. Four blonds in a row were dominating the secondary bar at the corner of the room. They were all tanned legs and short shirts or shorts—hell, even by his standards, he hoped a few of them were actual shorts. Have mercy.
But the rest of the room was fixated on the small stage at the far end of the room. A redhead with the most freckles he’d ever seen was belting it out on the mic. That was the Barry White-sounding dude?
Damn, son.
And beside him was a girl in a skintight fawn-colored skirt. She had hips that made a man want to grab on and take a ride for hours and hours. And she moved with the music like it was feeding an inner part of her.
Goddamn, finally. He thought his dick had taken a vacation on him. No one had gotten him revved since Margo.
His gaze traveled up to the sleeveless white bit of lace that hugged her tiny waist and generous breasts and he froze.
Dark hair tumbled forward and covered half her face, but he knew that mouth. Had lusted after that mouth for weeks. For fuck’s sake, years.
No, goddammit.
She sawed her bow across her strings so fast that her heavy, usually pin-straight hair was full of loose curls that hid her beautiful face.
What it couldn’t hide was the passionate way she lost herself in the song. As if it was going to come out of her damn soul.
Like when she was on stage with him.
He recognized that drugging pull of Margo in the middle of a song where the melody had taken hold. The singer barely kept up with her fiddling. Because no way was that the smooth, sad song of the violin he was used to.
This was hyper and folksy with just a little bit of grace. Fuck, she was amazing.
The song ended and she flipped her hair back, her chest heaving as if she’d run a mile.
Or fucked him blind.
Dammit.
No.
He was not going to picture her naked again. Fuck all, he didn’t even have the full naked in his memory, anyway. They were too busy pushing clothes out of the way to get to the pleasure.
Like a drug.
A drug that would have a million dollar street value. Anyone would want that endless loop of lust, fuck, release, and repeat.
He sure as shit did.
No matter how much she messed with his head when it was over, he wanted inside her again right now.
Damn the consequences.
“That was our new friend, Margo. Man, we do love when she comes in to play with us.”
The crowd clapped and hooted. And the flush of happiness on Margo’s face hit him low. As amazing as she’d been on stage with them, he’d never seen that smile before.
Pure enjoyment.
With him, it was intensity and just like they were having mind-blowing sex in front of thousands of people. Here, it was the simple glow of enjoying her instrument and a crowd.
Why the hell did he want to do just about anything to see that smile on her face?
Such a fool, Kagan.
He finished his beer as they did another song. The band flag behind them touted them as a Flogging Molly cover band. The crowd seemed to love them.
Christ. With all the cities they’d been to, why did he have to find her in the one random bar he’d escaped to?
He hooked his thumbs along the str
aps of his suspenders and tried to give his cock a pep talk about the virtues of finding another pussy to fill.
That one was trouble.
Too bad his dick wasn’t listening.
It wanted that pussy.
That woman.
And the appendage was about as stupid as its owner.
“Holy shit.”
Simon stilled with his thumbs at the middle of the straps. Jesus.
The lead singer hopped down into the bar area and weaved his way around tables. “I can’t believe it.”
Ah, fuck. He hadn’t been paying attention to his disguise. He’d just kept moving forward like a freaking lightning rod looking for its next power source.
“It’s Simon Kagan from Oblivion.”
The room started talking all at once and people got up from their tables.
Oh, shit.
Simon waved. The best thing to do was move forward and get to the safety of the stage. He’d never been afraid to jump into a mob of people, but they were usually making room for him, not crowding in.
The crowding thing was new.
He was still undecided if he was a fan of it or not.
He met the singer in front of a table right near the three stairs that separated the dais from the bar floor. “Hey, man.”
The ginger dude with a beard that put lumberjacks to shame held his hand out. Simon gripped his hand and the guy slapped his arm. “This is awesome. Would you sing with us?”
“I really shouldn’t.” He was supposed to be resting his voice tonight. He’d really overdone it that week with the morning gigs.
“C’mon. The crowd would love it.”
Simon’s gaze found Margo on the stage. He wasn’t used to the more classical-looking violin that she was holding. She usually played the purple Starfish one.
This was a small room and she didn’t need the amplification of the electric. Her long, graceful fingers were curled around the neck of her violin.
Was that unease he saw in her eyes?
He climbed the stairs and went right to her, crowding her in until his boots bookended her mile-high heels. She was nearly the same height as he was now and she didn’t back up.
He lowered his mouth until he was a breath away from her lips before detouring to brush his mouth over her cheek. “Nice to see you again, Violin Girl.”
Ginger Beard clapped. “Oh, shit. You know each other?”
Simon stepped back and slid an arm around her back. “Margo has done some studio work for us.”
“Wow. This is awesome. Well hell, we all have to play now, right?” The singer of the band turned to the crowd. “Right?”
Beers in hands and loud cheers hit the rafters. Simon leaned into the mic. “Think you have a guitar I can borrow?”
“Yeah, man.” The guy turned to a bandmate and an old Gibson acoustic was handed forward. Simon slid his fingers over the fret board with a grateful sigh. This was what he missed.
He loved running around the stage unencumbered, but some nights he missed his acoustic. With an adjustment to the height of the guitar against him, he settled the strap against his neck and across his body.
“I’m sad to say I don’t know a Flogging Molly song well enough to play. How about a cover?”
The crowd cheered and started shouting out songs. Simon took the mic stand and slipped the guitar around his back. “All right, how am I supposed to figure out what you’re saying?”
Margo stepped up beside him. “I have a request.”
His cock went rigid in an instant. He turned his face to hers. Her dark eyes dropped to his mouth before she licked her lips. “Vivaldi?”
“No, smart ass.”
His eyebrow winged up. “Did you just swear at me?”
“I did.”
“I like it.”
“You would.”
He nodded. “Pretty much.”
She sighed. “Request.”
“Listening,” he said into the microphone.
“Well, you are in Boston…”
He lowered his hand to the strings and plucked out a few notes. He stared at her as he opened his mouth and the first verse of Boston’s “More Than a Feeling” rumbled out of his chest.
She laughed and lifted her violin to her chin. An echoing set of strings matched his guitar note for note.
Ginger Beard picked up the electric guitar part, while Simon focused on the acoustic. He concentrated on his fret board so he could pick out the notes. It had been a damn long time since he’d fallen into a song.
Three long weeks at least.
Since her.
And because that was so close to the truth, he slung the guitar around his back and leaned into the crowd. They screamed back the words and he pulled the mic away from his mouth as he battled back a cough.
Damn that guy from Boston could sing the high notes. He cleared his throat and followed through with the last verse. And by the grace of Callahan’s loving crowd, they lifted their voices through the end of the song.
He laughed and clapped against his arm. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” He hauled the guitar back up in front of him and strummed the first few notes of a famous singalong song.
He waved to a roving waitress and motioned to the water bottle on the stool. She nodded and rushed to the bar. Way too much singing and talking this week. He lowered his pitch and wiggled his hips to take the focus off how shredded he sounded.
The group of people cheered and three girls stood on their chairs in the back, pumping the air as they sang “Jessie’s Girl” back to him.
As if they’d been playing for years, Ginger Beard came up to the front and played the solo. Simon picked up the rhythm section of the song and brushed his lips against the microphone. Not his mic, but it did well enough, especially for a bar. He smiled broadly when Margo leaned in and shouted out the words to the song.
Simon leaned over to Ginger Beard and said the first Journey song that came to mind. The guy threw a startled look his way, but nodded.
He followed suit when the guy went for the long, distressing notes. Simon curled his fingers around the mic and as his voice cracked, he pulled his mouth away and held it out to the crowd. When the waitress came back, he wiggled his fingers at her for the bottle.
Margo gave him a look before she touched his arm.
He shrugged her off and uncapped the bottle as the bar sang the well-known lyrics to “Don’t Stop Believing” for him.
He didn’t want to look weak or incapable in front of this woman. Pouring every ounce of energy into hamming it up for the crowd, Simon strutted down the stage and then turned to find Margo in his space. Her expressive dark eyes searched his face.
When he crowded her space and curled his arm around her back, worry turned to heat. She lifted her bow again and he turned them in a circle.
Margo’s bow bounced and her gaze never left his. The classic rock song was so entrenched in his brain that he didn’t even have to think about the lyrics. They just fell out of his mouth.
Their feet moved together as if they’d done this forever. Too intense, too perfect—just another reminder of how good they were and how quickly she ran off.
He dragged his hand across her lower back and cupped her ass before he moved to the other side of the stage. The tickle in the back of his throat was back and he held up his arms for the crowd to sing.
Thank fuck they were right there with him. He clapped against his arm, then fit the mic back into the stand and clapped for real. “You guys are awesome.”
They thundered to their feet and cheered, whooped, and hollered.
“I gotta go.”
The resounding no from the crowd made him smile and stack his hands over his heart. Another song and he’d crack for sure.
He scanned the crowd and spotted Nick at the back. “But I spy with my little eye someone who might like to take over.”
Nick’s arms fell to his sides. He mouthed, “You fucker,” and waved. “Only if I don’t have to sing
Journey.”
Ginger Beard waved him up. “Guys, Nick Crandall from Oblivion is here too.”
Nick trudged through the crowd and tried not to shrink away from all the people pawing at him. He had a black ball cap on that covered his blond hair, but he hadn’t bothered with that much else disguise-wise.
Simon lifted the guitar off his head and placed it around Nick’s neck.
“You prick.”
Unrepentant, Simon waggled his eyebrows. He downed half the bottle of water before burying his face in his elbow to cough.
“You aren’t getting sick, are you?”
Simon shook his head. “Just tried to reach too hard for the Steve Perry notes.”
“You and your stadium rock.”
Simon slapped his arm. “You love it. They don’t make guitar solos like that anymore.”
Nick lifted a shoulder. “True.” He turned to the mic and tipped his head. “You guys know how to rock?”
They screamed back an affirmative and Simon jumped off the stage.
Nick leaned away from the mic. “Where are you going?”
Simon turned around and mimed that he couldn’t hear him. His best friend’s eyes blazed fire and he held his arms out in the universal gesture of what the fuck.
Simon did a thumbs up with each hand and Nick smiled weakly at the crowd. And because he didn’t have time to stress about it, the song took him over and Nick had the first verse of “Back in Black” pouring through the sound system before Simon escaped to the side exit.
Margo tucked her violin into her case and placed it under her chair at the back of the stage. She scanned the crowd, catching Simon heading outside.
The frustration in his eyes tugged at her. She’d only seen him struggle with his voice once, but there was no doubt it was happening again. He’d covered it well enough by making the crowd sing louder and longer, but she knew the signs.
She just wanted to make sure he was all right. Like any good musician would. Like any friend would.
Not that she could exactly call Simon a friend. A few good orgasms didn’t exactly put them on a friendly basis. Not when all they did was walk away from each other after said orgasms.
