by Quinn, Cari
They’d met at a bar.
The bar across from the iHeart Radio interview with the band. Where Lila had informed him that Margo was invited to the exclusive party they’d been planning and would be playing with them on the little stage.
He’d been pissed and excited, but mostly pissed. Every time that woman got around him, he got twisted up. And it was the thought of Margo that got him all the way hard and why he pulled back.
Fuck.
He was a head case, but even he couldn’t use a woman like that.
“I gotta go, babe.”
“Just ten more minutes,” she said and rubbed her breasts against his chest. “I like you all clear-eyed. So you know it’s me.”
Shame slicked up his spine and left a bad taste in his mouth.
“We had a little too much fun the last few days. Now I have to go pay for it.”
She sighed. “I guess spending two days with a rockstar is more than most get.” She took a step back, grabbed a stretchy black dress off the chair, and slid it over her head. Not a damn stitch under it and she was mouthwateringly tight in all the right spots.
Fuck, Kagan. You are an idiot.
He should be on that like syrup on pancakes—instead he felt a little ill. The dress hugged her from shoulder to knee. She clipped her hair up and turned to him and the kick was so hard, he actually staggered back a step.
She could be Margo’s twin.
Fucked. He was so goddamn fucked.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.” He went to the bar and splashed another three inches of vodka into a tumbler before tossing back the liquid fire. “I just need a little hangover cure.”
She came up behind him and stroked him from shoulder to ass. “I’d play hooky more often if this is what happened. How long are you in New York for?”
“Just tonight. Then back to L.A.”
“Too bad. I have to work tonight.” She tugged on his earlobe with her teeth. “I could call in again.”
“No. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Tonight is going to be insane.”
She pressed a surprisingly chaste kiss against his cheek. “Going back to her?”
He turned his head. “What?”
“Violin Girl.”
He dropped his chin to his chest, his fingers digging into the bar.
“It’s okay. I didn’t mind being your violin girl for a few nights. She’s a lucky woman.”
“She’s no one.”
“If you say so.” She trailed her fingers over his shoulders and stepped to the side. She gathered her things and left quietly.
Simon swiped his arm across the bar. The shattering glass echoing after her.
* * *
Margo Reece slipped into her seat. She tucked her violin case under her feet and crossed her legs at the ankle. The familiar press of the case along her foot should have calmed her.
The flying didn’t bother her.
Even going on a job didn’t bother her. She’d been jetting from studio to studio for the last six weeks. Any studio work that came into her email or her agent called her about—she went to. She couldn’t afford to turn anything down right now.
She smoothed the fabric of her skirt down and laced her fingers.
No, she definitely didn’t have the luxury of turning down work.
A woman with a diaper bag, purse, and toddler in tow dropped into the seat beside her. She invaded more than half Margo’s space. The little girl on her shoulder wrapped her chubby little fists around Margo’s braid. “No, Patsy. Sorry.”
Margo tugged her hair out of the child’s hand with a wince and tucked herself back against the window. “It’s fine.”
“She’s just discovered hair. It’s why I chopped mine off.” The harried mother sighed and transferred the child to her other side, but little Patsy had other ideas. Squealing at top volume until her mother set her back on her right shoulder, for instance.
Margo pressed her lips together when a man that had to be pushing three hundred pounds paused at their row. Really? Because sharing the space with a baby wasn’t bad enough? Now the baby would practically be in her lap regardless.
She reached into her pocket and took out her phone and Bluetooth headphones. Noise-canceling headphones to be more precise. She tucked the foamy plastic molds into her ears and flicked through her album list to the one she wanted. Wanted perhaps wasn’t the correct word. The album that controlled her lately. In her car, headphones, even the through the tinny speakers of her phone—it was always on.
In the middle of the night, she curled into her pillow and held herself in a tight ball and forced herself to endure silence just to give herself a break. Only to stumble around in the dark like an addict to find a fix.
Simon Kagan’s voice was her auditory affliction.
Music had always been her savior. As a small child, Bach and Mozart had inspired her. The Reece house was cultured. Cartoons and children’s songs weren’t tolerated. Rachmaninoff had transitioned into Paganini and Vivaldi as the violin had become her life.
There was passion in those composers. She knew this, and they’d ruled her life for so long. She was happy with them—or had been.
Until him.
One song had started her down this path.
How many soundtrack songs had she played on? Too many to count.
Being second chair—previously being second chair—in the Boston Philharmonic had afforded her a measure of status, but not exactly a monetary one. She supplemented with studio work. From movie scores to the occasional contemporary song, she’d sold her talent to fatten her bank account.
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. Cashmere 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.
&nbs
p; “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.
