Wicked Serenade: a Lost in Oblivion Collection

by Quinn, Cari

  “Chicken, please.”

  Annie turned to her. “Sure. Just one?”

  “Yes.”

  Simon pointed to the end of the line. “I’ll just go get at the back of the horde.”

  “You’re already here.” Margo pulled him toward the table and handed him a plate.

  “Right.” The thought of the spicy pork that he so loved was enough to push him toward the milder chicken. He wondered if it was a bad idea to beg for ice cream.

  Probably. Milk products never boded well for his voice. But man, it would probably feel good.

  “Simon? No spicy pork? Are you all right?”

  He laughed and wished the tickle would go the hell away. “Used too much Rooster on my eggs this morning.”

  Annie shrugged and put two pieces of chicken on his plate. He moved down the line behind Margo, but didn’t say a word.

  Vocal rest—thank you.

  He sat with Nick and Margo moved on to sit with Lila. Before he could even pick up his fork, Nicky launched into his thoughts on “Lit” and making a bridge between “Ricochet” and “Monster” to make it one epic song.

  Guess he didn’t have to worry about not talking.

  Especially when Deacon sat next to Nick and they started squabbling over which guitar to use where. All Simon could focus on was that “Ricochet” and “Monster” were both lower register songs.

  “They’d be perfect in the second hour.”

  Nick pulled out the notebook that wasn’t ever far from his hand and scribbled in a note. The page had scratch outs and some sort of shorthand that only Nick understood. “Yeah. Good point. Some headbanging to revive the crowd in the middle.” Deacon and Nick put their heads together over the notebook.

  Simon finished enough of his chicken to fill the hole in his gut to get through the rest of the day and tossed the rest.

  While everyone was talking and laughing, he just needed to get out of the group and clear his head. He slipped out into the hall and up to the stage.

  He thought about taking a run. But that much alone meant he needed his head examined.

  Instead, he took his Taylor out of the trunk and settled down in the first row of seats with the familiar weight of his acoustic in his lap. Strumming usually calmed him down.

  He picked out a few chords he’d had battering around in his brain. The urge to sing along with the words in his head was tough to ignore, but he kept singing them in his head.

  The melody was perfect for his midrange voice. Is that what he’d need to do? Write songs in the midrange like some old rocker?

  Fuck.

  He stood and dumped his guitar on the stage with a hollow crash of sounds. He climbed over the orchestra pit seats and then up the middle aisle to the sunshine of the day.

  He pulled his shades down and made his way across the bridge to the parking lot. Gravel and uneven pavement led to a grassy picnic area. He kept going until he found the main road and crossed to the gas station and liquor store he’d found the first night.

  Anger and that tickle in his throat kicked up. All he could think about were ways to numb both.

  He walked in, bought a flask-sized bottle of shit vodka and ran back across the street to the parking lot. Like the old days when he was a kid and he’d sneaked a bottle in and listened to bands from outside.

  Only this time, it was his band playing.

  His phone buzzed and he ignored it. He was sure Nicky was looking for him to start the afternoon process of picking apart songs.

  He uncapped the vodka and flooded his throat. It stung like a bitch and tasted like ass, but the numbing had begun. He kept taking belts from the bottle until he didn’t care.

  When the first call came in, he finally headed back into the venue. He wasn’t drunk, but the buzz was enough to get him through the day without tearing anyone’s head off.

  He jogged across the bridge and grabbed a water from the cooler Harper had set up at the back of the pavilion. He waved as he came down the main aisle. “Re-fucking-lax. I just needed a walk.”

  “You don’t walk,” Nick said with his hands on his hips, his Gibson hanging between his shoulder blades.

  “Sure I do.” Simon lifted his knees and marched his way to the stairs.

  “Fuck off. This is serious, Simon.”

  “And I said I needed a fucking break.”

  “All right, that’s enough.”

  Simon zeroed his gaze on Deacon. “No need to get all marriage counselor-like.” He tripped on the last step and caught himself. “What are we singing?”

  Jazz stood up at her kit. “Are you drunk?”

  “What? No.” He snorted and unhooked his mic from the stand.

  “Did your walk include a trip to the liquor store, you shit?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Save that for after rehearsals.”

  Simon walked over to Nick very slowly. “Since when did you become the boss?”

  “Since you started half-assing the songs.”

  Simon swung before he could even think about it. Nick’s head snapped back and he staggered back a step.

  “What the fuck?”

  “I don’t half ass anything. I’m saving my voice just like I always do in rehearsals, you fuck.”

  “Really?” Nick lifted the strap over his head and put his guitar in the stand behind him. He wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and advanced on Simon. “Because you haven’t reached for one of the higher notes since yesterday. How do you know what the four other songs we’re rehearsing are going to sound like?”

  “It won’t sound the same, anyway. It changes when the house is full of people and you know it.”

  Nick tongued the inside of his mouth and frowned. “What the hell is your problem?”

  “You’re pushing us for hours a day. I’m trying to make sure my voice isn’t fucked before we even begin.”

  “That’s never been a problem before.”

  “Yeah, well I don’t usually sing for six hours a day and do interviews for half the night.”

  Nick frowned. “Oh.”

  “Yeah. So fucking cut me a break if I don’t scream out a song to an empty room.”

  “Yeah.” Nick scratched the back of his head. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

  “Not like you hear anyone these days, son.” Simon threw up his hands. “You’ve got your nose stuck in that notebook and the rest of the time you’re barking orders. We don’t work for you, we’re a band.”

  Nick turned to the others. “Is that right?”

  Jazz plopped down on her seat. “I could use a few extra breaks. Kiddo is kicking me every song. My ribs are fucking killing me.”

  Deacon shrugged. “I’m fine.”

  “Of course you are. You’re just as obsessed as he is.”

  “Some of us want this to be the best tour ever.”

  Simon widened his stance to stop the slight sway. “And like I don’t?”

  “I don’t know, do you?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Nick advanced on him and Simon lifted his chin in direct challenge. Maybe if he pounded on Nick, a little of the anger simmering under his skin would dissipate.

  “All right, separate corners.” Gray stepped forward. “We’re all working hard, but we don’t have to sing the whole time unlike Simon.”

  Nick’s chest heaved as he clenched his hands into fists at his sides.

  Simon crowded in on Nick until they were chest-to-chest. “C’mon, Nicky. Hit me. I can see you want to.”

  Nick’s lip curled. “I should. You deserve it for that jab.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?”

  “What? So you can go back to the bus and sulk after I kick your drunk ass? Nope.” Nick took a step back, paused, and then Simon couldn’t duck fast enough for the fist coming his way.

  He went down on one knee at the pain exploding from his cheek.

  Nick bent down to him. “Now we’re even, asshole.” He rose to his full height
. “Let’s take it from the top.”

  Simon blew out a breath. When he felt a hand at his elbow, he shrank back.

  “Stop being a prick,” Gray said and helped him to his feet. He slapped a water bottle against Simon’s middle. “Hydrate up.”

  Simon took the water and because his damn throat felt like there was a bee stinging the fuck out of his vocal chords, he finished that bottle and the one he’d dropped on the way up the stairs.

  The rest of the afternoon was a slog of songs he couldn’t even remember. The heat and the liter of vodka put him into the ground.

  He knew every word because that was how he was built. Lyrics stuck in his brain. Singing them a million times in the studio helped, of course, but it was the same for any song he heard on the radio or at a show.

  The way they sounded—that he had no clue. And right now he didn’t care.

  When dinner was called, Simon staggered back to the bus. He didn’t need any more band time today. He wanted to just crash and start over tomorrow. He’d slept like shit the night before. Head full of Margo and the monument in different incarnations.

  All of them were full of her heated moans and then leaving him in the octagon alone.

  “Simon.”

  He paused at the rear panel of the bus. “What is it, Violin Girl? As you can see, I’m not exactly in an accommodating mood.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m always okay.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t fucking care if you do or not.” He flattened his hand over the gold and black swirls of the trunk and stared at the gravel until it solidified.

  She ducked under his arm and he pressed her back against the bus.

  “What?” He locked his gaze with her. “You want to see how fucked up I am today? Want it up close and personal?” He curled his fingers around the back of her neck, twisting them into her hair. “I don’t think you want any part of me tonight, Violin Girl.”

  “I’m not here for that. I’m just…”

  “Just what? You give a shit about me?” He slid his hand down her back and to her ass, dragging her to his dick that was hard no matter his mood.

  Because she was there.

  Because she fucking breathed.

  Because she was within thirty feet of him.

  “All you care about is my dick and how it makes you feel. Whatever entertainment I can provide before you get off and disappear.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “It’s what I know.” He ground his pelvis into her. “I see it in your eyes right now.” He pulled down the front of her shirt until the tops of her breasts showed over the wide, round neckline. “Here in your tight as a diamond nipples.” He flicked open the button of her black shorts. “If I pushed my hands into your panties, I’d find you dripping for me.”

  She lifted her chin. “Do it then. Use me. Put that anger to some good use.”

  “Fuck, Margo.”

  She slid her hand under his shirt and tugged on his nipple ring until he hissed. “I want it.”

  “What if I don’t want to give it to you?”

  “Is that what your hard cock says?”

  His belly jumped at her words. She rarely swore, and she sure as shit didn’t call his dick a cock on a normal day. “It doesn’t matter if I’m pissed off or happy, my dick always wants inside your hot pussy.”

  If he was crass and cruel, maybe she’d walk away. He wasn’t entirely sure he could handle a fuck-and-run from Margo today. Not when he was already so goddamn raw.

  But she was right.

  He wouldn’t say no.

  He wanted her even as his anger collided with the leftover vodka in his veins. And he was fairly positive he’d leave marks on her. He wanted to brand her.

  He didn’t care that he could still hear staff moving around, or that daylight was still peeking in between the dense trees back near the busses.

  She moved down his chest and belly to fumble at his zipper, then her hand was inside and he bowed his head as she circled the base of his cock.

  He pushed her hand away and turned her around. He reached in front of her to cup her breasts and pushed them out of the top of her bra to get a hold of one as he shoved his hand down her pants. “Is this what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hands up against the bus.” When she did so, his voice went darker and lower with the aftereffects of singing that day. He’d reached for the high notes and hit a few of them if his throat was any indication. “Hang on.”

  She trembled for him and he crouched down behind her, peeling her shorts down enough for him to get to her ass. He slipped his hand between her thighs from the back and she wasn’t just wet. She was soaked.

  He pressed open her thighs as far as they would go with the shorts on and tongued her. Her scent filled his head and her taste exploded in his mouth.

  He used his fingers from the front and the back until he was crowding inside of her, spreading her open to get every groan and shudder out of her.

  Relentless fingers on her clit from the front, two fingers from the back and he pressed his thumb against her rosette.

  He owned them all right now.

  Choked moans were followed by her trembling thighs. And he didn’t stop. He took all the liquid heat from the front of her and spread it to her back until he could breach her with the pad of his thumb.

  Her thigh shook so bad, he had to hold her still with his arm. He rimmed her with his tongue as her taste and her scent filtered into his vodka-soaked brain. He held her there at the edge, not letting her go over. He needed to hold onto that for his cock.

  Had to have her spasm around him until there was nothing left of him.

  When her gasps turned to whimpers, he let her go and stood. He suited up and fit himself against her swollen lips. “This is what you want?”

  She reached back and he grabbed her hand to put it back on the bus. “Don’t move.”

  He slipped his shaft along her lips and bumped his head under the hood along the front until he brushed her clit again and again.

  She pressed her forehead against her hands and rose on her toes. “Simon,” she said with a begging tone.

  He reached between them and tucked his head inside her. The grasping warmth seared through the condom as he slowly slid inside.

  She pushed back on him, lifting onto her toes to get him closer.

  He crowded in on her and flattened his hands against the bus above hers and he snapped his hips against her ass.

  “Yes.” Her voice was low as she repeated the word again and again as he plowed into her. He didn’t let up, didn’t gentle, didn’t allow himself to worry about her pleasure.

  He took.

  And he took.

  And when she vised around his cock with a moan flavored scream that traveled through her back into his chest, he threw his head back and came.

  He came so hard lightning filled his head and shorted out his brain. He came so hard that his spine went numb.

  She was shaking and curling in on herself when he came back to himself. He wanted to hold her, wanted to curl around her and promise her everything, but he just pulled out and tied off the condom.

  “Hope you got what you wanted.” He zipped up and backed away from her.

  The anger was back tenfold.

  That kind of fucking should end with his arms around her to calm down. But the thought of her wiggling out of his hold and walking away burned his ass and fried his brain.

  So he walked away first. He went straight to the door of the bus and to the showers to get her off him.

  Because what he really wanted, she wasn’t offering.

  Fourteen

  Simon pulled his shades down over his face and settled back into the folding chair in the orchestra pit. It had been a much better day for rehearsals. They tried out the setlist as a whole and timed the show at an hour and thirty-five minutes.

  With the commentary he ran through and the night
s that things went long, it was looking like they would give people a good show. That didn’t include their covers and whatever crazy songs ended up on the docket thanks to their legion of Twitter followers.

  Jazz and Nick were upping the ante for the YouTube channel by doing interviews with the fans once a week.

  Part of him was jealous. Those are the things he used to do, but now the thought of spending even ten more minutes in interviews was enough to make him cranky.

  Hell, Jazz was getting endless amounts of name suggestions for her baby on Twitter. It was one kid, man. He couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about.

  Deacon and Harper were much more private about their impending parenthood, and Simon was glad he didn’t have to hear their baby crap all day long in Twitter-land, too.

  Lila came onto the stage. “Thanks for coming in, guys. I know you’re fried from practice, but I thought you might like a little treat.” She nodded to someone at the soundboard behind them. A huge screen came down and the logo for the local NBC channel filled the screen.

  “Now that is a theater setup,” Nick said and kicked out his feet in front of him. Their little blowup from the day before had been forgotten by morning, as usual.

  Hell, they’d come to bloody blows and ended up laughing through a drink within the same hour. It was just their way. They’d been scrapping since before they were legal to drive.

  Deacon sat behind him, his arm curled around Harper’s shoulders, Jazz and Gray in a similar clutch. The marrieds and the other.

  That’s what they’d become. At least the magic on stage hadn’t changed, even if the smug married people had different plans after rehearsal or a show. Those plans usually included rubbing pregnant feet.

  Ugh.

  Margo sat on the other side of him, her face impassive. She hadn’t really talked to him today, but she hadn’t not talked to him, either. She was a cagey one on a good day.

  “Two things,” Lila said as she walked across the stage. “We’re going to do a special fan club only show on Thursday night to get some reactions, see if we need to do any tweaks.”

  Jazz clapped behind him. “That was me and Nicky’s idea. That way if something doesn’t work, then we still have a day to replace a song.”