by Nina Lane
Though he was probably taking his car’s life into his hands, he locked it out front and jogged into the Fluff. Jazz popped up as if the seat had a spring and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“I’m so glad you wanted to practice. I’ve missed this place.”
Simon kissed the top of her head. He breathed in her fresh scent laced with baby powder. “Me too.” He stepped back and saw the worry living in her eyes. He waggled his eyebrows. “Lookin’ good, Pix. Dylan left behind quite the rack.”
She socked him in the arm. “Pig.”
He grinned a little easier when he saw her worry turn to disgust. “Always.”
She linked her fingers with his and dragged him inside. “Wait until you hear Gray’s new guitar.” She stopped and set her phone on the ledge and he saw the microphone icon come up. Time to record. “He found this insane Les Paul in Studio City last week. It’s rad.”
Gray looked up from the wicked purple guitar. “She’s vicious.”
Nerves flamed in his gut. “Then I bet it sounds perfect for ‘Lit’.”
“Hell yeah.”
Simon dropped into an orange chair. He’d done a thorough warmup on the way over so he was good to go. “Let me have it.”
Gray’s fingers flew down the frets and raced over the strings. He shredded the guitar solo and dragged the whammy bar up and the neck rose up as if he was at a show. Man, he missed that. Gray and Nick dueling over solos, Deacon’s metronome rocking through a song, and Jazz’s tireless beat.
Those basic pieces of a show that had been denied him for five months ached in his chest. He was so close. Christmas or New Year’s and he could finally let it rip on stage. Okay, well not rip, but at least get back into shape. Doing scales and voice modulations with Jerry was all well and good, but there was nothing like the stage.
Nothing like touching that madness and let it seep into his bones.
The bell on the door jingled and he turned. Nick came in with his battered guitar. He went acoustic and the Gibson was an extension of him in every way. He nodded to Simon and sat in the chair beside him. Simon popped the locks on his own guitar and drew out the battered black Takamine. He’d played a matching Gibson to Nick for a lot of years, but in the end the Takamine spoke for him and to him just a little bit more.
Simon settled it on his lap and tripped his way over the strings. Out of practice and nervous, he stumbled through the chord progressions that had been as easy as breathing for him for way too long. He’d been the voice for so long that he’d lost track of the simple music making aspect of his career.
He’d been so happy to sign over the guitar parts for a spot closer to the edge of the stage. Now Cherry or his acoustic wasn’t a prop. Everything was different. He quickly tuned the strings and the muscle memory kicked in. His voice was unsure as the lyrics tumbled out.
Nick stared at him, nodding encouragement and miming the words with him. The words bubbled in his throat and he started with an uneven whisper. The verse stuck in his back molars like a toothache and he finally unclenched his jaw. He kept his voice modulated and found his medium voice.
Jerry had explained that singing in his natural voice was healthy and good for him to do—to work up to his higher voices, and the chorus that made women scream. When his voice cracked, he fumbled with the water bottle sitting beside him.
No one looked at him. No one even noticed. But he did.
And he caught Nick’s golden eyes under a veil of lashes.
He strummed his way through the chorus and Gray doubled back to play it again. To lead him into the song once more. He struggled and the lines were flat, but he kept on going. Nick’s fingers tightened over a pick and he nodded to Gray and they changed from the harder “Lit” to a softer beat.
Had they chosen that song for him? To give him an easy boost?
He cleared his throat and gulped down more water as “Too Still” from the first album came out of the little amp. The words clung to the tip of his tongue, but he slowly maneuvered his way through the mid-tempo song.
Nick tried to smile at him, but it came out more of a grimace.
Simon sounded like ass.
Worse than the last practice.
Deacon transitioned into “Simple Man” and sang the song as he’d always done. It wasn’t a slight, even if Simon’s nerves frayed just that much more. His fingers thumped against the body of the guitar for that signature knock they’d always added. The song was as natural as sliding into Margo.
Familiar and warm.
The bell rang and he found Margo in the doorway. He tried to sing harmony to Deacon’s deep voice that was the epitome of his bass. It fit him like his huge body and huge hands. Everything was huge and resonant about the guy.
And Simon couldn’t hold up.
He was the voice. He was supposed to be the one that held onto the pulse of the song. Deacon kept them all in rhythm. Jazz was the powerhouse and Nick and Gray were the wild. He was the signature. And he was messy and busted up.
“It’s okay. We’re just getting our rhythm back.” Jazz thumped lightly on the smaller jam kit she’d started using at practice.
He clenched his jaw as they moved into “Monster”. The song was mean and low—it had been one of his favorites when they’d recorded. His wristbones popped as he raced through the progression of notes. The calming pressure of a hand on his thigh snapped him out of the anger.
Margo.
Her touch was soft and sweet. She simply let him know she was there beside him. He breathed through the frustration and found a soaring vibrato in the middle of the song. Nick’s foot tapped and he smiled as he lightly bounced in his seat. The song climbed and his wanted to follow the natural flow and did so with every mistake he’d ever made on the tour.
He felt his cords stretch and the crack.
Simon stood and his chair skittered back.
Gray stood. “Hey, it’s just us. We all hit the wrong key.”
“No, you don’t.” Simon tipped his head. “You never do, Gray.” Simon turned to Deacon. “And this one—stone. As sure as the tide crashing against a cliff.” He tipped his head back. “What was I thinking?”
“You were thinking this is your job. You were thinking you missed it. You were thinking you missed your goddamn family. So just chill out and let’s do this shit.”
Simon turned to Nick. “I did. I do. Every fucking day.” He curled his fingers into a fist around the neck of his guitar until the steel strings bit into his flesh, until the sting of blood made him feel alive. “I’m kidding myself.” He dropped his Takamine against the chair. The body cracked and he threw the chair out of his way.
Without looking back, he headed outside. He needed air.
“Simon, wait.”
Her voice.
The voice that soothed him, that made him ache, that was usually his salvation.
Not tonight. He didn’t want to hear it now.
Margo had been right there, and even her calming influence couldn’t help. He was utterly fucked. Useless.
She curled her fingers around his wrist. “Don’t,” he said with as much warning as he could put into his voice.
She held on anyway. She was so goddamn stubborn. “Come back inside. They’re worried about you.”
“About their meal ticket.”
Margo’s grip lessened. “You know that’s not true. There hasn’t been an ounce of pressure on you.”
“No.” He nodded. “You’re right. No pressure. They’re already moving on. Babies and food and studio time with you. I saw the looks on their faces. The pity.”
She pushed her bangs out of her eyes. “Now you’re just being a spoiled asshole. Everyone in that room cares about you.”
He laughed. “They don’t need me. No one needs me.” He tugged his wrist out of her hold. “You don’t either. You’re just waiting for a good time to go. Now’s as good as any. Go back to Boston, Violin Girl. Go back to the safety of your little house and your parents who have everythi
ng all mapped out for you.”
She stumbled back. “No. That’s not what we are.”
“Oh yeah? What are we? Awesome in bed? Obviously, you don’t think we’re anything more than that since you can’t even change your mail over to my address. To our address. That place—our place. I hunted for that house so I could look out there and see our beach every day—even when I couldn’t see you.”
Her dark eyes widened. “I…You did?”
He tipped his head back. God, he sounded like an idiot. A spineless, neutered idiot. “Just go. In fact, you know what? I’m going to go.”
“Come back inside. Talk to them.” Her lashes clumped with tears. They didn’t flow over. Why would they? That would mean she’d have to tell him something. To care enough to be upset.
“I’m sick of talking.” He laughed and the sound was brittle to his own ears. “I’m all talked out. And I’m definitely all sung out.”
“C’mon, Simon. Jerry told you to take it easy. You’re still healing.”
“Another month or so isn’t going to make that much difference. I’m done. Fuck, I’m done with everything.”
She stood there, her mouth hanging open.
Right here on a broken sidewalk, with his broken voice—why not have a broken heart to go with it? He backed away and stumbled down the curb to the road. He found the handle to his door and managed to get his palm on the window for the locks to disengage.
He was blind with anger as he roared up the street.
Face to face and practically begging for her to say something like a fucking whipped puppy. It was pathetic. Beyond pathetic. He was a goddamn pussy-whipped piece of shit.
He turned the corner and fishtailed out into the other lane. The blare of horns got him to even out as he powered down the street. This was his neighborhood and he didn’t even know where he was. Because of her. He screeched to a halt at a light and spotted Durso’s.
He laughed and wrenched the wheel until he went up on the curb. He dug out his wallet and stalked to the back of the store. He pulled the wide bottle down and headed to the checkout.
“Got, ID, son?”
Simon laughed and flipped open his wallet to his license. He was old enough to buy his own fucking whiskey. He traded a credit card for a signature and took his brown bag out the door. He tossed it into the passenger seat and headed home.
Alone.
CHAPTER SIX
Margo curled arms around her middle and rocked back on her heels.
He’d chosen the apartment for her? Not for himself, but for her? To be reminded of her again and again—to see their spot. The pier and the boardwalk. All the silence and joy that grew out of that single day. Pieces that had become her whole world and only strengthened once they got back from St. John.
He’d bought the apartment because of that one day?
And he’d done that without a promise from her. Just because he’d wanted to make her happy.
She brought her hand up to her mouth and held back the sob that threatened. She choked it down when Jazz peeked out, her huge blue eyes swimming with tears. The lump climbed higher.
“He didn’t leave, did he?” Jazz jammed her fingers into the front pockets of her overalls. “He wouldn’t.”
Margo nodded. “He was so mad at himself. So hard on himself.”
“But he’s still not ready. He’s still got a little over a month to go.” She frowned. “Why is he being so hard on himself?”
“He wanted to show you guys how far he’s come.”
“And he did.” Jazz twisted her fingers together inside the pockets. “We were trying to play to his strengths. He hasn’t sung much more than a few verses since we started practicing again.”
Margo swiped her hand down her face. “You don’t see how he is with Jerry. He doesn’t like when I’m there, but sometimes I can’t help myself.” She knuckled away a tear. “When I come home at night sometimes I hear him in the shower—I get chills.” He didn’t want to let anyone down, least of all these people who were his family.
“Oh, Margo.” Jazz pulled her hands out and didn’t seem to know what to do with them.
Margo understood that Jazz was a touchy feely sort. Margo never had been, nor did she know how to ask for the hug that Jazz was obviously trying to offer. Before Margo could walk into that awkward piece of awful, the door jangled again.
“Everything okay?” Gray asked and came up behind Jazz. He curled his fingers over her shoulder and drew her back against his chest.
Jazz peered up at him. “Simon’s gone. He’s really upset.”
Gray slid his arm around her shoulders and buried his face between her neck and shoulder. “It’s okay, babe. He just needs to calm down.”
Margo wasn’t sure about that. She wasn’t sure about any-damn-thing. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she took it out. Disappointment ratcheted up the knot in her throat until she could barely talk around it. It wasn’t Simon.
But it was the next best thing.
What’s going on over there?
Lila. Margo pressed the phone to her chest.
“Simon?” Jazz asked.
“No, it’s Lila.”
“Crap.” Gray sighed. “Is something up?”
“No, I think she’s texting about Simon.”
He frowned. “How does she know?”
“Because she’s a ninja,” Jazz said.
Gray gave a humorless laugh. “True enough.”
“Do I tell her?” Margo was torn. Lila had become one of her closest friends, but she was also a direct line to Donovan. He was being exceedingly generous with giving the band time to heal, but he was still the one holding all the contractual cards.
At least for the band.
She was still the outsider. Her only connection in all of this was Simon and he’d just shut her out.
She sniffled back the waterworks that threatened. She didn’t have time to cry. It wasn’t going to help anything. And hiding had done nothing but hurt everyone. She had to tell her.
MR: Simon’s gone AWOL. Practice didn’t go great.
LS: That explains the tweets about him tearing down Sunset.
MR: I don’t like the sound of that. And we had a big fight.
LS: What kind of fight?
MR: Don’t bother coming home kind of fight.
LS: I’m sending a car. You’re at the Fluff?
How the hell did she know these things?
MR: Yes. Do I want to know how you know this?
LS: I don’t divulge my secrets. Stay put.
MR: Do I salute?
LS: Yes.
Margo couldn’t stop the laugh. When she did, a few tears leaked to the surface and down her cheeks. She wiped them away, but they overflowed again when Jazz rubbed her arm.
“Come on. It’s okay.” Jazz gathered her in.
It was like hugging a child. Jazz barely came to her shoulder, especially with the heels Margo had on. When Gray’s arms came up and around Jazz to grip Margo’s shoulders, she lost count of the tears that tumbled down her cheeks.
Too many.
When she opened her eyes, Nick was standing in the doorway of the Fluff. His eyebrows snapped down before he backed inside once more.
Margo blew out a slow breath and slowly stepped back. “I’m okay.”
Jazz stepped back into the circle of Gray’s arms. “I know how shitty it feels to fight with your guy. I get knots in my belly when this one and I fight. I hate it.”
Gray pressed a kiss to her temple. “Never lasts. I can’t stay mad at you.”
Margo ached for that easy familiarity. She and Simon had moments of it, when she wasn’t looking for excuses to ignore it. Every single time Simon touched her, she had the urge to melt into him. And not just when they were naked.
Each morning she woke up attached to him in one way or another. At least the nights he was home—when he wasn’t flying across the world. And even then, he always made sure to FaceTime with her or leave her ridiculous verbal
texts over iMessage at odd hours of the day.
She still had all of them. A folder full of ridiculous things that she listened to late at night when he wasn’t home. Because she couldn’t stand to be without him no matter how hard she fought it.
God, she was so doomed. How would she ever survive without him?
When the black Mercedes rolled up, she gave a shaky sigh. “I’ve got to go figure out what to do.”
“You don’t have to do it alone.”
Margo caught Jazz’s hand and squeezed. “No, I’m not alone.”
Jazz’s face smoothed. “Lila?”
“Yes.”
“She’s good people.” Jazz let her go and linked fingers with Gray again. “More importantly, she’s your person. We all need a person, Margo. Don’t forget that. And I don’t mean our guy. A person to talk things out with. Sometimes our guy is good for that—and sometimes we want a safe zone for discussing all the other crap.”
“Why do you need a safe zone?” Gray sounded mildly affronted.
“Do you really want to know what’s going on when my emotions are strung out enough to commit murder? Usually when it comes to your mother?”
Gray shook his head. “Harper can be your accessory on that one.”
“Exactly.” Jazz gave a watery laugh. “Now, go. Lila was always the best at master plans. And hiding bodies,” she said with a wink.
Margo laughed and opened the car door. Lila was her person, there was no doubt about that. But she’d been holding Lila at arm’s length these days. Oh, they were both busy, but she could have made more of an effort. She was so focused on the what ifs she’d been ignoring the now. No matter how many times she’d told Simon she wanted them to focus on the now. In reality, she was pushing everyone away just in case they tried to do it first.
The driver went past Sunset and around into the heart of Los Angeles. They were heading further in than she thought and finally the winding streets ended in a modern, high-end apartment building. She thanked the driver and got out, texting Lila that she was there. She simply replied with L3 and a code.
