by Cari Quinn
At least the hits wouldn’t be from his side of the table anymore.
“Close enough. A lot closer than you’d been before.” He screwed his eyes shut and finished it out. Whether it was altruism or masochism motivating him now, he didn’t know. “You took the first step. Now you take the next and keep going.”
“Like it’s that easy?”
“Easy?” Laughter exploded out of him. “No. Fuck no. Do you want easy or do you want it to be worth it?”
She shifted to look at him, her eyes glassy. He couldn’t tell if it was a trick of the light or unshed tears making them shine. “I didn’t have sex with him. I had it with you.”
“Yes. You had sex with me.” He swallowed the lump in his throat that tried to force the rest of the words down. “With him, it was more.”
Jazz stared across the parking lot. Even this early, it was starting to fill up. People entered the main doors in a steady stream. Soon some of them would be sneaking out the same exit he and Jazz had. As if it was that simple to escape.
“He still won’t talk about it with me. I tried. He just blew me off and said he had to go to work.” She toyed with the drumsticks she’d produced from her back pocket. “I hate that he drives around all these rich lowlifes and druggies all night long. And he won’t quit, no matter what I say. He claims the money is too good.”
Bingo.
“My job’s hiring,” she continued, her voice faraway. “It’s just the stupid wafflehouse, and my tips suck, but at least he could work during the day like I usually do.”
Nick scratched his jaw and tried to ignore the ice creeping down his spine. Before he started confessing secrets that weren’t his to tell, he needed to finish this conversation. “Look, I’m going to just lay it out there so we don’t have any misunderstandings.”
Her earnest expression stole his breath. “Okay.”
Sure. Now she had to be understanding.
He pivoted away, paced to the curb. Swiveled on his heels, paced back. He tugged off his thin button-down shirt, stripping down to the sleeveless T-shirt he wore beneath. Jazz’s eyes widened and he couldn’t help preening a little. His body didn’t seem like much when stacked against the pure muscle mass of Deak’s, but considering he didn’t have the patience for much beyond a run a few days a week and some time on the weight bench, he was pretty cut.
Lifting his chin, he met her gaze. God, her beauty blinded him, even out there where she was competing with the sun. Wavy purple hair tumbled over small, defiant shoulders, red glossed lips quirked up in anticipation of whatever he would say. Big eyes, back to blue and as calm as a lake, stared into his. The sheen of stillness barely hid the riot of emotions Nick knew lurked beneath.
“I told Gray he could have you.”
For a moment, there was only silence. That moment ended quickly.
“Gray can have me? Like I’m a damn pork loin?” She tapped her drumsticks against her thigh. “Maybe I should try to find my sister, see if I could get him a two-for-one?”
He wanted to laugh. Almost did too. The fury that flashed over her face like a wildfire warned him it wasn’t a good idea.
As for her sister, she’d mentioned she had one before, but she’d said it in such a strange way he hadn’t even been certain she was serious. Apparently she was.
He moved closer and bent his knees until he spoke against the soft swirls of her hair. She smelled like hairspray and grape bubblegum, with that light overlay of brown sugar and vanilla that reminded him of pie. And darker, dirtier things he would never forget.
“You said his name in my ear.” He couldn’t stop himself from licking hers around the tiny hoop that pierced her lobe. “While my dick was inside you, making you come. Kind of hard to ignore a message like that, sweetness.”
She shoved him back, and he’d have to thank her later. Because it was so easy for him to slide into the heat of her and stay right there while everything that mattered to him broke apart.
“I know, I’m sorry. It was just an accident. I didn’t mean to. With both of you there—”
“Are you really going to stand here and lie to me, Jasmine?” he interrupted softly. “If so, one of us definitely qualifies as an asshole. And this time it’s not me.”
Her chin trembled as she turned her face away.
“You can’t run forever. Whether it’s me in the middle or some other guy, you’re never going to be happy until you handle this. Someday you’re both going to have to face what you feel for each other and figure out what you want to do about it.”
“There’s nothing to do.”
The resignation in her voice, in her posture, made him want to give her a good shake. That wasn’t the Jasmine Edwards he knew. They hadn’t known each other long, but still. She wasn’t some defeated animal who hunched up and hid to avoid being struck.
Or was she?
Was that paralysis just part of wanting something too much? The shows at the Rhino and the first practice sessions with Gray and Jazz—and the bone-crunching panic that came with them—flashed through his mind. Guess so. At least sometimes, for some people.
That didn’t mean he needed to feed into her fears. Or his own.
Nick shook his head and whistled. “Damn, whatever you two are on, slip me some, would you? Must be some trippy stuff to make you both so freaking clueless.”
She slapped him before he could catch her hand. Not that he would have. The crack of her flesh against his woke him up.
All the way. No going back.
He resisted cupping his face after she stepped back, but it wasn’t easy. The girl packed a wallop. “I’m not doing this any longer.” He circled his fingers between them. “I said that at the beginning, but you kept pushing.”
“Oh, right, it’s all my fault.” She turned over her palm and stared at the reddened imprint from his cheek. “I took advantage of you.” Her exaggerated eyeroll didn’t match the tight pucker of her lips, as if she couldn’t decide whether to scowl or frown.
Or, even worse, cry.
“Never said that. But it’s done now. We’re in a band together. You’re the fucking best drummer we’ve ever—” He fell silent as the truth dawned through his weary brain.
He hadn’t betrayed Snake by nudging him out of the band. He’d betrayed him by thinking that. By knowing it was true.
She drew in a ragged breath. “You’ve never said that before.”
“Yeah, well, now I did.” He scrubbed a hand over his head. “If I can only have you one way, in my band or in my bed, you know what I’d pick.”
“No, I really don’t. And I don’t think you know either.” She strode to the door, then called back over her shoulder without looking at him. Treating him the same way Gray did. “They need you inside in five for a take of ‘Her’.”
His grunted “I’ll be there” was accompanied by the slam of the door.
Even after she’d gone, he stared at the spot where she’d been. He’d taken her already. And he’d lost.
Now he was going to fucking play with his band. Without Snake. Without her at his side to distract him if he got overwhelmed and his panic shut down the music.
It time for him—and Oblivion—to become what they’d been meant to be all along.
Chapter Fourteen
Simon: Too Still
Restless and aching, I miss her taste, her breath, her skin
Simon tucked his flask into his back pocket. His hands shook so he jammed them under his arms. The vocals booth was no big deal. Simple. Easy. Just like last night.
A flash of tumbled hair and molten dark chocolate-colored eyes kickstarted his dick, pushing his fear into the background. Margo staring down at him as her rich flavor stole over his taste buds was a far better memory than the endless failures stacked in his brain.
You know this song.
Damn fucking skippy he knew it. He’d breathed it for hours last night. Okay, so part of that breathing included the classy perfume mixed with the heavy honeysuckle afterbur
n of Margo on his tongue. And the clasping perfection of her body taking him deep.
He groaned around the pulse of his hard-on and opened the door to the vocals booth. The high backed leather chair was still there. In the center of the room—cell, whatever—with the mic hanging over it like sweet, low hanging fruit. He sat down and phantom wisps of her scent curled around him.
“Ready, Simon?”
He jumped at Blitz’s voice. “As I’ll ever be,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
Simon picked up the headphones, fitting the tight cans over his ears. “I’m good, Blitz.”
The song dragged him under. Her silky thighs around his ears, her purrs for more, her fingers fisting in his hair. His voice strengthened and rang through the room with a vengeance. When he got to the end, he held his hand up for another run.
Blitz obliged and Simon opened his lungs, dragged in a healthy gulp of Margo-scented memory and pulled the best performance of his life out of the sex-soaked space. Having her in the singing booth with him last night had changed the space from a sterile, creativity-sucking space into four walls now brimming with life and vitality. He let the song in and melded with it on a cellular level.
“Where the hell has that been for the last four days?”
Simon felt the smile spread across his face. Nailed it. He jumped up and jerked back down as he ran out of cord on the headphones. Flipping them off, he opened the door and flew into the control room. “That was it, I know it.”
Blitz said nothing and Nelson grunted. Simon smiled at Blitz and the old guy’s mustache fluffed into a matching grin.
“Hell to the fucking yes, it was it,” Simon said again.
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 di
dn’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?”
