Maybe not here but tonight she’d been ready for something to happen between them. He couldn’t even say why that pissed him off, but it did.
Because he’d seen her itinerary and knew she was on a flight tonight. Knew she was leaving again. And he’d tried not to give her the satisfaction. Tried to walk away before he did something stupid like this.
But she’d been standing there alone and the endorphin rush from the show was still bubbling under his skin.
She’d still been under his skin from the show.
And he’d pushed her buttons. The anger from wanting her as if no time had passed had landed him here. His cock still wet from her. It didn’t matter that latex was between them, her silky heat was on his fingers, had transferred onto his leathers, and the scent of them together was back in his head.
He tied off the condom and backed away. Because he couldn’t take the thought of her walking away from him again, he stuffed himself into his pants and turned away from her.
He got three steps away.
“Simon.”
He stopped. He didn’t turn back. Couldn’t have any more of her in his head right now.
“I...”
He fisted his hand at his side. When she didn’t say anything more, he strode across the catwalk to the stairs. He slid down the railing and pitched the condom in the garbage.
“There you are.”
“Not now, Pix.”
“We have a photo op.”
“Fuck the photo op.” His voice broke on the shout and he swallowed the need to cough. His goddamn throat was on fire.
Jazz backed up a step, her hand instantly covering her baby bump.
“Fuck. I’m sorry.”
She held up a hand. “It’s fine.” But the wariness didn’t leave her eyes.
“Just give me a minute. I’ll be out in a few.”
She just nodded.
He turned away. “Jazz, I’m sorry. It’s not you. I just...need a minute, all right?”
“Sure, Simon.”
He took the stairs at a dead run and crossed the sea of people like a shark in the water. Whomever was in his path seemed to know that he wasn’t to be fucked with.
Lila waved him over in his periphery, but he ignored her. Just before he hit the bathrooms, a woman stopped in front of him. Slim and an almost colorless blond, she was the antithesis of Margo. The urge to snarl at her was like a living thing inside him.
Instead he flashed the wicked smile he used in interviews at her. “Do me a favor, get me a vodka tonic, hold the tonic and meet me back here in five minutes.”
“Can do.”
“Christ, I hope she’s old enough to order,” he muttered as he slammed the door open. He went right to the sinks and dunked his head under the stream. Icy cold and cleansing was the key to getting his head back in the game.
He cupped handfuls of water and rinsed his mouth. He hadn’t even gotten his mouth on hers, but that honeysuckle and mint scent had infiltrated every part of him.
He flipped his hair back and hissed at the cold rivulets of water that soaked his T-shirt. He scrubbed away the remnants of the black liner he wore on stage until his skin was pink and raw.
Awesome for pictures.
He gripped the sides of the sink and stared into the mirror. “It was just sex. Just fucking. Nothing else. Pull it together.”
Resisting the impulse to smash his fist into his reflection, he left the bathroom. The blond was waiting for him.
“Well, hello sweetheart.”
“Your vodka tonic, no tonic,” she said with a giggle.
He took the tall, thin glass from her. “You have my eternal gratitude.”
“I’ll take a kiss instead.”
Simon laughed and leaned down to brush her cheek. The young woman turned her face and he got a very thorough, very tongue-intensive kiss for his trouble.
When he pulled back, he caught a movement in the crowd. Margo’s eyes locked on them. This was nothing like the moment in the corridor from New York.
There wasn’t a wild, voyeuristic flavor between them tonight.
She backed up and the crowd of dancers and minglers swallowed her before he could take two steps after her.
He wanted to chase her, to explain, and because he wanted to do that so very badly, he stopped in the middle of the crowd.
What would be the point?
She’d still be on a flight in a few hours. She’d still be one more memory he’d have to fight to find sleep.
He drained the vodka on the rocks and pushed the glass into the first outstretched hand he could find and made his way over to the crush of cameras.
That was exactly where he should be. Not chasing a woman who didn’t want to be caught.
He smiled for the camera that zeroed in on him and dug his phone out of his pocket to take a picture back. And because his job was to post selfies and stupid pictures, he opened his Instagram program and winged the picture off into the ether with a quippy little comment about photos.
“Where’s Margo?” Deacon asked. “We’ve got to do those pictures.”
“She had to run to catch a flight,” Lila chimed in.
His smile faltered for a minute before he hung his arm around Nick’s neck. “Helluva show tonight, huh?”
Nick allowed the affection for about three seconds, then shrugged Simon off. “C’mon, man.”
“Just giving the photographers what they want.”
“Why are you hugging up on me? Nobody wants to see that.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Jazz piped up.
“I do not want to know,” Nick said.
“Good, because you don’t have time for that.” Lila raised her voice. “Everyone line up.”
It was time to work.
* * *
Margo dropped her keys into the bowl on the table inside her door. It felt like forever since she’d been inside her house. Between the studio gigs and the trips into Los Angeles and New York City, she hadn’t seen her own bed in well over two weeks.
She opened to door to her music room and set her violin into its slot between her Stradivarius and her 5-String Realist. Which, in hindsight, she should have brought with the Starfish. She’d honestly thought they would bring her out for the three songs she’d worked on and that was it.
The fact that the band had utilized her as an asset, not just a guest star had been thrilling. Deacon seemed to be their mastermind at putting the songs together cohesively.
To an impressive level. So much so that the little part of her that had been composing in her head got really loud.
Not good.
That wasn’t her job. She was an accomplished violinist who was hired on because she was skilled in learning songs in a very short time. Not for her composing skills.
Even if she’d had a lot of input for the three songs she’d done with them.
No.
She closed the door firmly on her music room and moved to her living room. Her far too quiet living room.
Quiet had never bothered her before. She picked up her phone and sent off a text to her friend Siobhan. Maybe she could go out to lunch with her tomorrow.
Her phone rang in her hand.
“Hey, Siobhan.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Of course.”
“It’s after one in the morning. You never text that late.”
Margo closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. You were probably sleeping.”
“No, I’m actually out with some people from the orchestra. Do you want to come out and meet us?”
“I...yes.”
“You do?”
The fact that her friend sounded so surprised cinched the decision. She was tired of holing up and working more than having fun. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Great. We’re at Callahan’s off—”
“I know it.”
“Well, we’ll see you in a little bit then.”
“Thanks for calling to check on me, Siobhan.”
/> “Of course I would. We’ve been friends for a long time. I worry about how isolated you get.”
She swallowed hard. Things like friends and socializing had never been on her radar. At least socializing beyond the kind she did for networking.
Being around Simon and the band had been eye-opening.
Everything about Simon had been eye-opening.
She cleared her throat. “I just got in from Los Angeles. I don’t have time to be isolated.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
“I know. Well, let’s make some changes then, huh?”
“Excellent idea.”
Margo hung up and went to her closet. She pushed aside the sweater sets and skirts that made up her wardrobe for the symphony.
At the back of her closet, she found the high-waisted pencil skirt that she wore so rarely. She could hear her mother’s voice lecturing in her head that it was too revealing, hugged her too-curvy figure, and sexualized her.
It was the skirt she’d been wearing when Simon had taken notice of her over a year ago.
Flashes of the studio and now the catwalk wrapped around each other until her skin flushed. If that’s what it felt like to be wanted, then she couldn’t find a reason to put that Margo back at the back of the closet.
Dammit, she was tired of hiding who she was under frumpy clothing. Maybe it was time to use a little of her savings to update her wardrobe.
Maybe it was time for a lot of changes.
10
Simon spun his glass on the itinerary page. The sweat rings from his ever present bottle of water smudged out the city. Not that it really mattered. They’d been trotted out to every major city for the last few weeks.
But they were finally in week four.
Acoustic gigs, small garage band gigs, hell, they’d even played a converted armory for a late spring festival. Anything to get their name out there and build buzz for the tour.
Tickets were selling out.
For them.
On a freaking headline tour.
It was insane.
Just last year they’d been the opening act and this tour they were in talks to be one of the most sought after tickets of the summer. The album had actually hit the top three on Billboard for two weeks in a row, only falling off to the stay in the top ten.
He walked to the window. On the street below there was a crowd of people—mostly women. Every city had the same scene. With increasing numbers, they were getting stalked at every hotel. He was still trying to comprehend it all.
What the hell had changed? Was this album so very different from the last one? It didn’t feel like it. And still, this was so incredibly nuts.
Jesus fuck, it was just weird to have a room to himself. He’d been living in Nick and Deacon’s pockets for years now. Once the tour started, they’d be back to the buses, of course, but even then it would be a big change. They had the married and babies bus, then the one for himself and Nick.
The budget for the tour was increasing as well. If he got one more update from Lila about what the stage was going to look like, he was going to bust his hand through a wall. All he cared about was his mic and a place to run around.
Okay, so the ramps that they’d had built were kinda cool. He had complete access to the stage from back to front, and around Jazz.
They were going to look at a set-up at the end of the week and then they’d have a week to rehearse and figure out the setlist, what worked, what didn’t, lights, and all that happy horse shit.
Singing to an empty amphitheater wasn’t his idea of a good time, but he’d do it. The fact that he didn’t have much choice was only part of it. With each successive mini-show they did, he was learning that he couldn’t just scream out a song and bounce back.
It was fucking annoying.
He glugged down another bottle of water and watched the people wander into the street. The bar across the street was either taking the overflow or creating it, he wasn’t quite sure.
He wanted to be out there. They were in freaking Boston, for fuck’s sake. The bar capital of the damn world and he was stuck here.
He had an early radio show to rest up for. Between the shows and the interviews, he was constantly talking or singing. He hadn’t been able to just chill out and drink a beer.
Or sing a cover song.
He loved singing their stuff, but man…there was something about the way a room lit up with an old tried and true song.
He’d been mostly singing to ugly carpeting and soundproof glass. The inspiration factor had been about minus five hundred. The little shows were good, but they were rushed through five or six songs then pushed on to the next city.
Right there, with those people down on the street is where he wanted to be. He uncapped another bottle of water and tipped his head back.
“Fuck it.”
He grabbed his leather duffle that he’d been living out of and dug through to find a shirt. He grinned when he found the burgundy rolled up T-shirt. Not one that he could wear to the radio shows Lila had set up for them.
But damn well fun for a night out. He unrolled the once black pants that had faded to a charcoal gray with a million washings. His favorite non-stage gear. Before he could talk himself out of it, he stripped off the ratty sweatshorts he wore around the hotel and dressed.
He scooped his hair back and grabbed a condom, his wallet, and his phone. Maybe the pussy fairy would like his shirt and get him laid. He paused before he went through the door. Maybe a little bit of a disguise to at least get outside.
Or at least through the lobby.
He snagged the Fedora off the desk, thought better of it and went to grab his suspenders. No one would recognize him.
Maybe.
Fuck it. Who cared if they did? He needed to get out of his room.
He snuck out. On the way down the hall, he heard the low murmurings of Deacon and Harper talking, Nick’s music, and Lila on the phone as always.
He just might make it to the elevator without anyone paying attention. The doors opened and he slid inside. Just as they were closing, Nick stuck his head out of his room and gave him a “what the fuck” look.
Simon waved and grinned.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out.
Where the fuck are you going?
Simon grinned and typed back.
Escape. If you don’t see me by dawn, send a search party.
Before he could even send back his text, he saw the reply coming through.
And I’m not invited?
Sure you want to incur the wrath of Dragon Lady?
She’s not my keeper.
Simon grinned. Nick so wished Lila was his keeper. At least of his dick. The boy had a serious case of blue balls over her.
Not that he was one to talk.
He hadn’t been able to seal the deal with a chick since he’d gotten his hands on Margo again. Maybe tonight would finally turn that around.
A bar, too much vodka or beer to be smart, and the streets of Boston might be just what he needed.
I’m headed to the bar across the street. If you dare to wade through the groupies, meet me there.
You couldn’t wait?
Right, so both of them could try to hide who they were? Was he high?
Your disguises suck.
And yours don’t? The hat doesn’t work for anyone, jackass.
Simon grinned and typed back.
Just has to get me out the door, son.
He jammed his phone in his pocket and hurried through the lobby. He stopped at the desk. “Hi. Is there a side door out of here that won’t set off the crowd?”
The girl behind the counter’s eyes went wide. “Um. Hi, Sim—Mr. Kagan.”
“Simon is fine, sweetheart.”
She cleared her throat. “Right. Um, sure. If you go down that hallway to where the pool is, there’s a side door. You’ll have to go around the building, but at least there’s no one back there. At least last
time we did a walk-through.”
He drummed his fingers on the counter and waggled his eyebrows at her. “Awesome.” He looked down at her tag. “Thanks, Ashley.”
Before she could stammer out a reply, Simon moved down the hallway to the scent of chlorine and the unnatural humidity of the indoor pool area. He might just take a dip on his way back in.
Sure enough, there was a side entrance at the end of the hall. If he was stalking someone famous, he’d go for the side door, but private property practices were probably enforced. And that was where he cashed in.
Ca-ching. Empty of screaming fans.
He skirted the edges of the parking lot and snuck across the street. There was a shit ton of people out. And on this side of the street, it definitely wasn’t for Oblivion.
Well, at least not all of it.
He slipped into the crowd and pulled down the brim of his hat, keeping his chin down. He jammed his hands into his pockets to look like a college kid. The closer he got to the bar, the more he realized it was an honest to God pub.
He knew Boston was full of them. Had seen them out the windows on the drive in. And now he could get in there and enjoy a pint or whatever the fuck you did in an Irish pub.
Whatever it was, he was game.
He stopped when a pair of very scuffed, very large black boots came into his line of sight. “Nice Docs.”
“Ten bucks, college boy.”
And Nicky said his disguises sucked. Simon dug a crumpled bill out of his pants. He wasn’t used to carrying cash anymore. Everything was expensed lately.
Bingo. A twenty from his allowance yesterday. Ahem—per diem. As far as he was concerned, it was a goddamn allowance. Not that he’d ever had one as a kid, but he got the reference.
He didn’t tip his hat up, just forked over the cash. The dude grunted and gave him two fives back. Simon tried to go around him but the guy clamped a hand around his arm.
“ID,” he mumbled.
Ah fuck. Maybe Mr. No Neck wouldn’t recognize his name. He fished out his California license and handed it over. The guy’s eyebrows rose then looked from him to the license and then back. Instead of saying anything, he just grunted and gave him back the license.
Destroyed (Lost in Oblivion #3) Page 12
