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 straps 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. All right, well, we have to all 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.
Fool.
She pushed through the door marked deliveries and found an alley. No sign of Simon. The door shut behind her before she could catch it. “Dammit.”
“Following me, Violin Girl?” The eerie blue of a phone lighting up cut the dark. Simon stood against the brick side of the building, his hawkish features and the shadows from the Fedora accentuated by the low light.
“I wanted to see if you were all right.”
“And why would you care?”
The zing of danger in his voice caught her off-guard. Simon was usually sarcastic and playful. He was the definition of the guy who had walked in the bar with his T-shirt slogan, Pussy, the most expensive meal you’ll ever eat, emblazoned over his chest.
Tongue-in-cheek.
Nick was the guy who was more sardonic. His comments a little more biting.
“Of course I care.”
“Funny, I don’t ever get that vibe from you. The only thing you care about is my cock. Is that why you came out here? I’m in the same town as you so you want a bounce? Not sure you’d like what you got tonight, Violin Girl.”
“That is not why I came out here.” Her clit pounded like a heartbeat at the tone in his voice. And that simply wasn’t allowed. She’d finally gotten herself back to an even keel since she’d played with Oblivion.
Finally had been able to turn the sound down on her overactive dreams that included a mashup of stage time and Simon’s hands on her.
Oh, they still came nightly. And even some nights she found herself with her hand down her panti
es to ease the ache, but she was dealing with it.
“I’m in a dark mood tonight, Margo.”
She closed her eyes at the way he said her name. Not the sly Violin Girl. No, this was his lips and rough voice curling around her given name. He used it so rarely that her system burned in reaction.
“Why?”
His phone light extinguished, leaving them in the dark. “Because I’m pissed that I still get hard when you’re within three hundred feet of me. Because I’m tired and miss my cat.”
She huffed out a laugh. “Your cat?”
“I miss my bed.” She heard the scuff of his feet over the debris of the alley. “I miss my sanity. I miss banging a random woman to ease the tensions of the day.”
She frowned. What did that mean? She’d seen YouTube videos of his exploits in the towns he’d visited. A weakness she couldn’t seem to get a handle on, but seeing him in a video eased the late night visits in her dreams.
As if her mind’s eye could be sated with a taste of him and let her rest.
Sometimes.
It didn’t always work.
If she touched him again, she knew it wouldn’t work for a good long time.
But she’d seen him with women. Seen his hands on them, his mouth—even right after he’d had sex with her, he’d had his mouth on another woman. This wasn’t a man that would ever be able to be faithful.
It didn’t matter. She’d gotten what she needed from him and they’d both known it wasn’t going to be anything more than a few stray minutes on that catwalk.
She’d gone after him because it felt wrong to end it like they had. But seeing him with that woman had sewn up her regrets and second thoughts.
She’d been able to walk away again.
This alley with him and that dangerous voice certainly would set her back for weeks. When Simon touched her, everything inside her came alive. She couldn’t deny that she wanted it again.
But she could control herself.
“I do believe that you could walk into that bar and get your wish.”
“I can get a woman whenever I want, Violin Girl.”
She clenched her jaw. “Then why are you bitching about it?”
“Oh, the ice princess has a little fire in her belly.”
Destroyed (Rockstar Romance) (Lost in Oblivion Book 3) Page 13
