Destroyed (Rockstar Romance) (Lost in Oblivion Book 3)

by Taryn Elliott

  Working with Oblivion shouldn’t have mattered.

  It was just another job.

  She’d told herself that when she’d taken the job for another album. To prove to herself that they were just another job.

  Now it was so much worse. Untried and filled with testosterone more than talent, “The Becoming” had been an anomaly. That first song had been child’s play. The rest of the songs on that album were good—more than good. She’d listened to “Burn” on a number of occasions.

  Watched live performances that had instantly constricted her lungs like a corset that was laced too tight. Nothing had prepared her this time.

  Nothing.

  Their album Rise had ruined her.

  Their music shouldn’t be a guilty secret that had bloomed into a far reaching sickness. It had awakened something inside her that she didn’t understand or want to face.

  But she had little choice now. She’d tried to hold onto her life with her fingernails and no amount of rosin could smooth out the frayed ends of her career.

  A hiatus could be explained. Losing her chair...

  No.

  She wasn’t thinking about that now.

  The plane began to taxi and the woman beside her tried to calm her shrieking child. Margo concentrated on the sandpaper over silk voice of the man who’d ruined her with a song. She pulled her sweater tighter around her.

  It didn’t matter where she was, didn’t matter how inconvenient it was, her body flushed at the first chord. The lyrics to “Monster” wound around her senses, pushing her nipples against her bra and making her clit pound with the bassline. The feedback echo of Simon’s voice under each chorus was like a caress as her spine pressed back into the seat and the plane lifted.

  Another time, another chair back...

  She curled her fingers around the arms of her seat.

  He’d looked up at her with those unearthly silvery blue eyes as he held her against the velvet chair. He didn’t know it, but his hand across her belly hadn’t been necessary. The first lash of his busy tongue had chained her to that chair. No matter how much she’d railed against it, she’d been lost to him.

  She’d never even liked oral sex before that night in the booth. Before he’d shown her what sex was. What pleasure could be.

  The same way he showed so many others.

  She yanked her headphones out and opened her eyes. She stared into the headrest in front of her, stared until the nubby texture of the material came in clear and she breathed through the memory.

  “Hate flying, too?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. She hated the flying that she did in her dreams, and when she got caught up in the music. That was accurate enough.

  This was going to be the longest short flight in the history of life.

  She tucked her phone away into her pocket and pulled out the magazine she’d purchased at the airport. Celebrity gossip and the inane antics of the faux celebrities that social media created had always been fascinating to her. It was so far removed from her life in the orchestra—what had been her life in the orchestra.

  No.

  She wouldn’t—couldn’t think about that right now.

  Guilt clawed at her neck and base of her skull, letting loose enough poison to make her second-guess every decision for the last year. But she wouldn’t let it taint this week.

  She would feed the swirling obsession that flowed through her blood like adrenaline and be done with Simon Kagan and Oblivion.

  Lila Shawcross had invited her to the party and to play on the small stage with them. To rehearse this afternoon and help make the release party a social media explosion.

  She’d get her name out then she’d move on to the next phase of her life. This, she could control. And she would. There was no other option.

  She pulled her phone out again and launched her thunderstorm and rain app before tucking her headphones in again.

  Sleep.

  Just an hour.

  Resolution made, she forced her mind to quiet.

  And because she was a master at catnaps, she did. By the time the attendant made the announcement that they were landing, she’d managed to find a quiet corner of her mind.

  When they came to a stop on the runway, she reached for her violin case. The little girl was tucked onto her mother’s shoulder, her thumb in her mouth. Both child and mother were beyond exhausted.

  Margo couldn’t help herself. Quiet and sweet, the child lured her closer. She stroked her finger down her arm to her hand. The child curled her pinkie around Margo’s finger, took her thumb out of her mouth and spewed.

  “Oh, my God.” The woman grabbed the diaper bag and pulled out three baby wipes in a blink. “I’m so sorry.”

  Margo held up her hand. “Just hand me the wipes.” This is why she didn’t interact with kids. It never ended well.

  She tried to blot out the worst of the mess, but gave up and stripped off her sweater. She handed it to the mother. “If you can get the stain out, you’re welcome to it.”

  “Cashmere?” The woman was dumbfounded.

  Margo shrugged. It was all she wore. “Yes.”

  “I couldn’t. I—”

  “It’s fine. You deserve it as combat pay, ma’am.”

  The woman laughed. She slumped back into her seat and laughed in a way that made Margo cringe. Taking care of another person was a level of responsibility she’d never had.

  Independence, yes. That she understood. It had been instilled in her from the moment they’d laid a rosined bow into her hands. Being someone’s everything?

  That was too much.

  The mother turned her face to Margo’s. “Tell me at least one of us will have a good time tonight?”

  “I’m going to try.”

  “Do me a favor?”

  Hesitant, Margo nodded.

  “Kiss a hot guy tonight and remind yourself that you are an unencumbered woman in New York City. I had that once upon a time.”

  Instantly, Simon’s face registered as clear as if he was standing in front of her.

  “That guy—whoever gave you that look.”

  Margo veiled her eyes with lashes and her bangs. She didn’t have a look.

  “You’re young and beautiful. And cripes, I wish I had your body.”

  She fussed with the thin strap of her camisole. She wasn’t used to showing so much skin. The orchestra had a uniform. Her whole life had been a uniform. She hid her curves under skirts and sweaters. She always felt too lush compared to the slim and perfect women in the string section. They were dainty and elegant.

  She had to consciously work to keep up the same appearances. All too often her parents had pushed her into diets and monochrome colors to make her belong.

  “I hope your little girl will feel better.”

  The man that kept them squashed in like sardines stood and the line started moving.

  “Thanks,” the mother said and stood, gathering her things. She tucked the sweater into the bag and slipped out into the aisle.

  Margo sat there for a moment longer. A man moved down the aisle. He was attractive, in the suited-up businessman-like way that she usually was interested in.

  His eyes widened and he stopped. “Can I help you with a bag or anything?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  His gaze skittered down her neck and shoulders, stalling at her breasts before bouncing back to her face. “Are you sure?”

  She suddenly missed her sweater very much. “Positive.”

  He moved on, with a backward glance then a shake of his head.

  She slung her purse over her shoulder and hefted her case. With her head held high, she walked down the aisle and into the terminal. Instead of going right for JFK’s departure gate, she ducked into the shopping area.

  This was not in her budget but she couldn’t walk around the huge airport like this. No matter how much bravado she thought she had.

  She drifted toward the classic styles of a designer store. Cashme
re twin sets were her stock in trade. Maybe she’d get a color—that was different. Not the grays and blacks she was used to. Maybe a navy?

  “That’s not you.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Margo turned to the voice. What was it today? Everyone knew what she should be doing except her.

  The tall, well-dressed man came over with a short cranberry jacket. “This.”

  She shook her head. “Too small.”

  He held it up in front of her. “Indulge me.”

  With one eyebrow raised, she stared him down.

  “That’s impressive, doll. Save it for a man that it would work on. I’m not hitting on you. I just want to dress you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Well, not that I wouldn’t hit on you. You’re as hot as a Maxim shoot in August, but my wife would have my nuts in a vise. And while that’s fun on occasion, I’m not in the mood today.”

  Margo blinked. Not at all sure what to say to that, she turned around and let him slip the jacket over her arms and drape it over her shoulders.

  He spun her around. “See?”

  She went still as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Surely that wasn’t her. The black pencil skirt and camisole hugged her and gave her an hourglass shape. The short jacket hit her right at the midriff. Instead of making her look boxy as she’d expected, it accentuated her curves and took off five years from her face.

  She jumped when he held up a pair of four-inch raspberry-colored ankle breakers. She only paused for a moment before kicking off her sensible pumps.

  “That a girl.”

  Her arches screamed and her calves tightened, but it was exactly what she needed. She didn’t recognize this woman in the mirror. She matched the Margo she wanted to be.

  A little bolder.

  A little surer.

  She pulled out her credit card and held it up. “Don’t even tell me what it costs. I don’t want to change my mind.”

  “I knew it.”

  “Hope you work on commission.”

  “I do.”

  At least he got compensated for his genius. He came back with the slip and she signed it. He clipped off the tags and dropped them into a bag.

  “Kick it in the ass.”

  She turned to him. “How do you know I need to kick anything in the...ass?” The curse word felt alien on her tongue, but she kind of liked it.

  “You’re all lit up. Something is up tonight.”

  She inclined her head. She nodded toward the case on the chair outside the dressing room. “Yes.”

  “Then it definitely applies.”

  Her phone buzzed in her purse. She pulled it out and found a text from Lila with the address of the club and time for rehearsal. “I have to get going.”

  “The skirt is amazing, but if you have a pair of leggings, it would work for this outfit as well.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t really wear anything that tight out of my house.”

  “You should.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Own those curves. I know far too many women that pay for them.”

  “Don’t they usually pay to have them sucked out?”

  He grinned. “Heroin chic is going out of style.”

  She was pretty sure skinny would never go out of style, but she smiled anyway. “Thank you...” She glanced at his discreet tag. “Thomas.”

  “You’re welcome.” He held up her case. “What do you play?”

  “Violin.” She slid her fingers over the handle. The grooves fitted into her palm as perfectly as the fret of her Starfish.

  “Your hot factor just jumped about fifteen percent.”

  “Dare I ask where that put me?”

  “Triple digits for sure, Ms. Reece.”

  “Margo.”

  He smiled. “Elegant and sexy.”

  Someday she might get away with just the sexy.

  Maybe.

  She walked out of the store with an extra sway in her hips. She didn’t even have to try to put it there, the heels did it.

  Maybe she would fit in tonight with the band.

  She reached the baggage claim for her flight and claimed her herringbone pink suitcase before making her way out to the line waiting for cabs.

  New York City was dirty and noisy, but there was a level of excitement that Boston didn’t have. As if the air was infused with something that wouldn’t allow sleep.

  By the time she’d made it up the line to a cab, she was almost adept at walking in heels again. It had been a while. She stepped inside and gave the driver the address. She tucked her case on one side and her suitcase on the other. The city was a logjam of cars and pedestrians. The closer they got to Broadway, the slower the approach.

  Finally, old world elegance edged the hyper-neon that peeked from down the street. A doorman opened the cab and helped her out.

  “Welcome to the WestHouse, Ms. Reece. We’ve been expecting you.”

  “Oh.” She blinked. Lila sure knew how to pull out the stops. “Thank you.”

  He took her suitcase and walked her to the gilded door. “Your guest has already arrived and Frank is waiting just inside to take your things.” He popped her telescope handle and Margo slid her specially made case along the length.

  “Would you like me to bring this to your room?”

  “No, that’s fine. Thank you.” She didn’t let her violin out of her sight—ever.

  Her guest? Was Lila waiting for her? “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Did people really smile like that? Did his face hurt by the end of the night? She knew hers did when she was playing and was supposed to smile at the end of each song.

  The lobby was amazing. Crystal, hardwood, and silk everywhere. The dark elegance was touched with cool white marble and a touch of Art Deco design in the front of the check-in desk.

  A charming antique key system was still used there and they were displayed behind the desk in lit boxes. A tall man with an austere face and perfectly cut suit came out from a small room behind the desk display.

  The moment he caught sight of her, he smiled and his face completely changed. So much so, that Margo found herself smiling back.

  “Ms. Reece, so glad to see you made your flight in.”

  “Thank you.” How did they know her name?

  The tall man slid a slim envelope across the marble counter. “Ms. Shawcross has left your itinerary. When you’re ready, please call down to the desk. She’s made a car available to bring you to the venue tonight.”

  Lila thought of everything. She was one of the most professional managers that Margo had ever worked with. It was as refreshing as it was odd. Lila should be running a company, not herding twenty-something rockstars.

  “I will, thank you.”

  “You’re in Room 604 with a terrace view.” He set a key on the envelope. “The rest of the guests have made their way to the venue.”

  She spared a glance at her watch. She had an hour before she needed to be there, but traffic was murderous in the city. “If you could have the car ready in thirty minutes, that would be satisfactory.”

  “Excellent.” He inclined his head. “Welcome to the WestHouse, Ms. Reece. I’m Frank. If you need anything, please let me know. We hope you enjoy your stay. “

  She nodded with a smile. “Thank you, Frank.”

  He held his arm out. “Lewis will help you with your bags.”

  “That’s fine. I only have the two.”

  “Very well, then.”

  Margo had been in plenty of beautiful hotels before. Being the child of a lawyer and doctor afforded her a world of culture beyond the symphony. She tapped the ornate button to the elevator. The bronze doors, designed in the typical lines and curves of the Art Deco movement, slid open silently and more silk-tufted walls came into view.

  For such an old building, everything was remarkably quiet. The ride was smooth and when she arrived on her floor, the silence was pervasive.

  She slid her itinerary out of the envelop
e. In a world where emails and copy paper were the norm, the elegant silvery gray stationery with Donovan Lewis’s corporate seal along the top was an anomaly—much like the entire situation. Discreetly-spaced letters underneath the raised seal were the only clue to the fact that it was for a record company.

  A company that was very hands-on with their clients.

  She didn’t quite know what to make of the company or Lila Shawcross and Donovan Lewis. Margo was a classically trained violinist and twice now she’d been invited to work with a band that was as rough around the edges as a garage band.

  And yet her strings blended seamlessly with them.

  It didn’t make sense.

  Like that night with Simon made sense? Like your obsession with this garage band made sense?

  Her grip tightened on the paper and she had to drag in a breath and force her fingers to relax. No, she wasn’t going to think about that. Instead, she focused on the letter.

  The entire floor was reserved for the band and Ripper Records, which explained the quiet. Everyone was already at the venue for the festivities. She had to go to rehearsal then was expected to sit for a few interviews with the band.

  Music Life was going to film the entire release party and there would be a special airing that Saturday with footage from the New York City and Los Angeles parties.

  Why did they want to involve her? She wasn’t specifically mentioned in anything on the itinerary.

  She slipped the sheet back into the envelope and into her purse. She leaned her suitcase against the wall but before she could open the door, it swung open.

  Framed in the doorway stood a five-foot-four burr up her butt. A lovable one—usually—but thorny just the same.

  “Hiya, sis.”

  Margo searched for her voice. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  2

  Simon fit the key into the door. Who the fuck still used keys? The door didn’t even bang effectively against the wall. He’d been nursing the mad since he’d checked out of the hotel on Park Avenue.

  He was never going to hear the end of it from that little bout of excess. He’d used the sacred corporate card that was only supposed to be used sparingly.