by Cari Quinn
“Why do you always ask that? You do see what I’m built like, right? I can take anything you dish out, Kagan.”
He slid a hand down her hip and stepped away from her enough to gently turn her around. “Because I literally fucked you into a wall.”
She rolled her shoulders, her eyes drowsy. “You did. And it was just what I needed. What we both needed evidently.” She glanced down, then pushed her hair out of her face. “You gotta stop ruining my stage tights though.”
He grinned. “What can I say? They make me crazy.” He tucked her hair around her ear. “Let’s put you in the shower then we can crawl into that coffin-sized bed. Is everyone in this country used to such small beds?”
“I don’t mind cuddling. I miss George,” she said with a cute little pout.
Their cat took up an astounding chunk of their bed. But they both loved the little idiot. And maybe if Simon curled in with her, he could actually shut off.
For a few blessed hours at least.
He shuffled her into the bathroom and they both swayed sleepily against each other under the hot water. The adrenaline drop after the show and spectacular sex was definitely taking its toll on his lovely wife. It should have done the same for him, but his brain was already filling with questions about Ian. The impossibility of him looming ever larger in his mind.
He blocked out the noise by playing caretaker to Margo. He so rarely was allowed to take that role. She was ever vigilant about taking care of her friends, as well as him. How many nights had she sat up with him while he was freaking out about his voice?
Too many to number.
He dried her off and settled her favorite sleep shirt over her head.
One of his.
Even through his own exhaustion, his cock stirred a little at seeing his very proper wife wearing one of his ripped-to-shit T-shirts. The soft curve of her breasts showed along the sides and her ass was…fuck. If she wasn’t about to literally fall asleep against his shoulder, he’d try to persuade her to go for another round. Maybe even sneak his way into her glorious ass.
That was usually reserved for their raunchiest nights, or the slow and soothing ones. Polar ends of the spectrum, that was them.
He snapped the sheet back and helped her into bed. He followed her down, curling around her back. When she pulled his arm into his shirt and between her breasts, he groaned into her wet hair.
“Are you okay?” she asked sleepily.
“Of course, why?”
She made a little humming sound. “I was worried about you tonight. After the show. Lila will find out what that’s all about. Promise.”
He tucked his chin over her shoulder and slowly stroked her neck. After a handful of years together, he knew just what she needed to go to sleep.
Because he definitely wasn’t ready to talk about Ian. Or the strangling anger that tightened up his shoulders to match his clenched jaw.
Not after such an incredible night.
“I love you, Simon. So much.”
He sucked in a breath. It still amazed him when she said those words. It hadn’t been an easy thing for her to come to grips with. It hadn’t been for either of them, but most especially Margo. Love had always been a twisted affair in her family. Duty disguised as love and fidelity. And then she went and fell in love with him, a man who never thought monogamy would be a word in his vocabulary.
With her, he not only wanted it, he’d been the one to initiate attaching a ring to it. She’d been understandably freaked out. Waiting her out had been a true lesson in patience.
“I love you too.” He breathed in her honeysuckle scent as she slowly relaxed against him and into sleep.
She was worth it. Beyond measure and then add in another lap of infinity.
But the stuff inside of him right now wasn’t about her. He had his own messed up feelings about family. But this didn’t compute. His old man had lived and died exactly the same way—mean. Simon had sucked it up because he had to, and now this little piece of shit wanted to use his name?
Not only use it, but to say it with such an offhand smirk. As if the little fuck hadn’t just set off a bomb in the musical corner of the fucking internet.
Simon’s head pounded. The soft light in their room fuzzed and black dots sprang up before he took a damn breath. Fucker.
He slowly withdrew his arm from Margo’s shirt. He had to know what the hell was going on after that stupid TV show. Was he putting more importance on what had happened than it deserved?
Only one way to find out. He reached back for his cell on the end table.
Margo turned in her sleep, following him to settle against his chest as he propped himself up on the pillow. “Simon?”
“Shh. I’m just checking messages.”
She blinked up at him with heavy eyelids. “Anything important?”
“Doubtful.”
“You need your sleep,” she said sleepily against his chest.
“Still a little wired. You go back to sleep. It’s okay.”
“Mmm-kay.”
He stroked her hair until her breathing deepened once more, then refocused on his phone. He forced himself not to go full-on insane as his screen filled with YouTube clips and speculation posts. Unable to stop himself, he fell down a rabbit hole of tweets and blogs until his heart was racing.
When he found the interview clip, he had to listen to it. His stupid earbuds were packed in his bag. Carefully, he wiggled out from beneath Margo. She’d been asleep long enough that she barely stirred. Tucking a pillow next to her was just enough to get her to wind around it and settle once more.
He padded across the room and into the bathroom.
“Was what you said true? You’re related to Simon Kagan, the lead singer of Oblivion?”
The punk’s eyebrow spiked. “Yeah. We’re not close. I’m sure he’s a lovely guy, but the only thing we really have in common is our voice. Well, sort of. I got a few extra octaves and the better looks, yeah?”
The woman laughed. “And British blood? Simon Kagan is distinctly American.”
“We don’t hold that against him too much, right?” Ian’s voice was smooth, but distinctly British. Not the cockney accent Simon was used to hearing in the city, but something else.
“You weren’t born in America?”
He smiled and gave her a wink. “My mum was American, but I was born here. Smethwick boy, but London has my heart. I moved here as soon as I could.”
Mother? Simon’s fingers shook around the phone. His mother? Fuck, was she still alive?
His gut twisted and his vision went fuzzy again. He didn’t think of her much. For all he knew, she’d died in a fucking gutter. She’d left him in that shit-box of a condemned building with his father to do what? Go off and live in England? What the flying fuck?
Who went from Carson to England?
The interview was a quick one and wrapped up a moment later. The interviewer wished him luck on moving up in the competition. Because of course, he was a finalist.
Simon clicked off that interview and did an internet search on him. How had he never heard of him before? The kid hadn’t dropped from the sky singing. But the deeper Simon dived, the less he found.
If he was smart, he’d wait for Li to find him. She was a fucking ninja.
But he didn’t want to wait.
Couldn’t wait.
He followed Ian’s name through public records and found two addresses in London itself. One was within walking distance of the Tube. He glanced at the time on his phone and groaned. It was nearly three in the morning.
But he couldn’t put this off. Not after he knew this guy was out there.
Simon dragged on his jeans and a shirt from his bag before stuffing his feet in his boots. He paused at the end of the bed. Margo was curled under the blankets, her hand reaching out for him even in sleep.
His chest ached as he rubbed his jaw.
But then he was grabbing his jacket off the chair and his keycard off the dresser before c
losing the door quietly behind him.
He should wait.
He should do a lot of things.
But he couldn’t.
Five
Something was scraping the fuck out of the inside of my brain.
I’d stumbled into bed sometime ago. Pretty sure I hadn’t been alone. And I wasn’t alone now, if the flowing blond hair draped over my chest was any indication.
Oh, and the brunette curls strewn haphazardly over my belly, attached to a body that was huddled under my painfully thin comforter. I didn’t blame her. April in London was a cruel mistress, and my bank account didn’t run to fancy threads.
Yet.
The important word was yet.
But I had bigger concerns than my flat not being up to a spread in Architectural Digest. Such as the slanted window above my bed slowly, carefully being slid open.
Panic made my throat close. Was this about my jumping the gun earlier? I’d moved faster than we’d planned, but my instincts had never failed me.
Another yet.
But no, this wasn’t Jerry’s style. He would come at me straightaway, not sneak in.
I jerked up onto my elbows and tossed my hair out of my eyes as a dark shadow crossed over the bed. Buggering bastard was actually going to try to make a go of it with me laying right here? Me and two undoubtedly sated women, who would go to their certain deaths happy if not old.
Not going to happen.
I nudged aside the blond—Natasha, I was almost sure—with some soft words of comfort. I was tempted to tell her to get some clothes on over what had to be glorious curves, though that was supposition at best. I couldn’t quite remember every step of the events that had led to this place. There had been music. Always music. Some singing on stage in a dank little pub. A round of drinks, bought by me though I could ill-afford them. Then these two lovely ladies had approached me, circling me with such precision that I’d half wondered if they were picking my pockets while charming me with their coy, cunning tongues.
And not just in their words.
The brunette lifted her head and pinned me with sleepy eyes of unknown color in the murky light. I was almost positive we hadn’t had sex, despite the time spent in my cups. So maybe the idea of them being sated was a lie.
Not the first I’d told, even in my own head. Also would not be the last.
I did not remember the brunette’s name. Maybe Tammy? Tamara? Something like that. I hadn’t invited her to disrobe, but when she rose up on her knees and looked up at the window above us, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I heard angels sing.
And lookee there, the shadow disappeared from the window.
I smiled triumphantly and sat up to grab a handful of the brunette’s hair. “Chased him off right quick now, didn’t you?” I gave her a hard kiss, breaking it off at the sound of footsteps outside my door—and the unmistakable growl coming from the other side of my bed.
Natasha apparently didn’t appreciate me showing my gratitude to her mate.
“I’m just thanking your friend for distracting that bloke up there. Didn’t you see him in the window?”
Now he was probably lurking in the hallway, but she didn’t seem to care.
“She’s not my friend. She’s me sister!”
Oh. Oops.
I smiled at the brunette and moved back up the bed, a good sight away from them both since the blond was now splitting her glare between me and her sister. She was also naked.
Good Christ, had I gotten supremely lucky last night and was too wasted to even remember it?
Sated, not sated, I couldn’t make up my mind. And my memory wasn’t helping.
I’d celebrated after the talent show, then the late night impromptu set at the bar. Drinking and fraternizing. I’d smoked a spliff or two, but I shouldn’t be this confused. I could hold my liquor and handle my smoke. At least I could before the Olson twins.
Were they fraternal? My dick stirred despite the awkward situation and my possible demise. Lord save me, that was hot.
“You can’t be serious.” Natasha’s annoyance was painfully clear as she stared down the sudden flag waving from my bedsheets.
I shrugged. What did they expect? Breasts and cunts all over the place. That they were angry—well, Natasha was, Tammy just looked confused—just made it all the more exciting.
I was a sick motherfucker.
“What is that?” Tammy gasped, grasping for a sheet at the loud banging that erupted through my flat.
Now the shadow was at my door, rattling it off the hinges with the force of his knocks.
Fuck. Me.
I nudged Natasha out of the way so I could swing my legs over the side of the bed. Where were my jeans? My shirt? I couldn’t go out to confront the would-be robber—though what I’d take as a weapon, I had no clue, unless I wanted to use my guitars or my soiled bedsheets—without my pants at the very least.
“Looking for these?” Tammy smirked and leaned over to pluck my jeans off the floor on the other side of the bed, dangling them from her hot pink nails. So pink I could even see them in the moonlight.
I winced and snatched them, rotating my shoulders at the burn along my back. Nail marks. I vaguely remembered being between the blond’s legs. Not to fuck her, I didn’t think. My best guess was I’d stayed there just long enough to get her off while she mangled my back and made going without a shirt a lot more interesting.
Handy that my shirt was currently missing in action.
We must’ve knocked back quite a few drinks, though strangely I didn’t remember consuming all that much. Other than that flash of a sex memory, the rest of the night after the set at the pub was a blur. It wasn’t coming into any sharper focus the longer I was awake either.
And my head was vibrating like the floors at a rager.
The door was still shuddering from the fist denting it. Lovely. At least he wasn’t hiding his intentions, the wanker.
More proof that it wasn’t Jerry. Jerry was far more subtle—and dangerous.
I hauled up my jeans and shoved both hands through my unruly hair. I wasn’t meeting someone for tea. Good enough.
“Can you two, I don’t know, put some clothes on? Look presentable?”
When Natasha just skewered me with her eyes and Tammy giggled, I shook my head and moved to the ladder that led down to the main part of my flat. The loft level that held the bed was barely big enough for the mattress and a dresser, but I hadn’t picked this place for entertaining. My guests usually showed themselves out before dawn.
Clearly, I had to develop a better way of dealing with fans, now that I was finally beginning to have some. Sharing my dick with a pretty girl had worked when I was playing two-bit clubs, but my fortunes were changing.
My ship was about to sail the fuck in.
I descended the ladder, jumping down the last two rungs. My bare feet hit the floor and I glared at the door as it practically rattled from the man’s insistent rapping. Assuming it was a man. I didn’t know of any woman with that much force.
Though if there was one out there, I’d sure like to meet her.
“Mind the fists,” I shouted, undoing the locks and yanking open the door. “People live here, you know—”
I fell silent, my heart doing a slow roll before settling in my chest. “Well, then.” My fingers cramped around the edge of the door as I took in my brother’s face.
My brother. In the flesh. Hell of a way to meet for the first time.
So my little call-out on TV had worked. Which meant if Simon had gotten word, Jerry probably would as well.
Too late to cry about spilt milk now. And besides, Simon was here, wasn’t he?
Phase one underway.
“I wondered when you’d show yourself.” My voice sounded rusty and broken, but Simon wouldn’t know that.
He couldn’t know that simply seeing the person who had occupied so much of my thoughts and so many of my plans could rock me to the core.
Simon stared at me with enough malice th
at I wondered how the floor didn’t go to ashes beneath my feet. “Is that so, brother?” Derision dripped from his voice as he shoved past me into the flat.
Cocky American bastard.
I hung onto the door, more to give myself support than out of a desire to push Simon back out. I’d waited for this day. Planned for it, even if I’d sped up the timeline. Now that it was here, I couldn’t line up my thoughts.
That’s the weed, son. Not your unexpected family reunion.
Not wholly unexpected. When I had tossed out my last name on TV, I’d hoped for exactly this, especially knowing Simon was in the country. Made a potential ass-kicking that much easier. Because, of course, that was what Simon had come for. His fighter’s stance and the way he was cracking his knuckles pretty much said it all.
I wouldn’t have expected anything less from my older brother.
Or anything more.
“How did you find me?” I asked when Simon didn’t speak, just glanced around derisively.
My back went up. The place wasn’t much, but it was mine. No one had handed me anything. I’d gotten this far all on my own.
Give or take a few bonuses for exemplary work.
But obviously, the place wasn’t quite up to Simon’s standards. Mr. Fancy Rockstar. Mr. Fancy Model. And here he was slumming in my cramped flat, with takeaway containers still stacked on the table and a days-old coffee cup congealed to the floor beside the board-like fold-out sofa.
“Never mind how I found you.” Simon waved that off as if the question wasn’t worth his time. “Let’s cut the shit and get straight to it. What do you want?”
Even though I’d braced myself, Simon’s sneer punched through me. I had a similar one on my own face after all, honed from years of making a study of my older brother. Simon was a success, and he had what I wanted.
Fame.
Money.
Women—or he had, until he’d chucked it all to get married. Simon’s wife was a smokin’ piece, I couldn’t deny that. The wife thing was unnecessary. Sex was plenty. Shackles? No, thank you.
Fame.
That was the most important thing. Because fame brought money, and money brought freedom.
No more being indebted to anyone. All ledgers even, all outstanding balances paid.
