by Quinn, Cari
Determination and the blush of alcohol on her cheeks combined into a force that could only be called Margo. It was the only reason he’d lasted as long as he had.
Her hands on his body, the music, the need to stamp himself over her, inside of her—to make her his. He’d lost it.
And now in the crashing aftermath, he’d gone too fast. He hadn’t even realized the words were bubbling inside of him. Denial had been his friend for too many months.
He couldn’t breathe around the stupidity.
The only reason he hadn’t stumbled out of her bunk was because of the gentle glide of her fingertips along his back. She hadn’t spoken, but she hadn’t pushed him away, either.
He pressed his forehead into her shoulder, inhaled their combined scents and her more prevalent honeysuckle, and just let himself own the words. Even as his belly quivered with nerves and fear, he held them close.
In the silence of the moment, the slap of skin and the sounds of Nick and Tori intruded. His body reacted to the sounds and his constant need for her.
He rolled to the side of her bunk, the insulating material at his back as he tucked her ass against his front. He licked along her neck and dragged his nose through her hair to the nape of her neck.
He stroked his hand down over her heavy breasts, plucked at her nipples until she rocked back against him. He tried to put himself back into the box she’d owned since the release party.
The need to give her pleasure, to take her pleasure. To smooth over the huge words that had changed this thing between them. Words that should never have been uttered—both because he was ordered into silence, and because he knew she wasn’t ready to hear him.
Maybe she would never be ready.
He fell back on the things that did make sense. The utter destruction that they raced for each time they got their hands on one another.
The noises outside taunted him.
Nick was making up for lost time, for his self-imposed dry spells that Simon never understood. If he was single, then why would he deny himself?
Each moan from the neighboring bunk seemed to make Margo more fitful. The rustle of sheets, the moans, the slap of flesh. Imagination was a far better aphrodisiac sometimes.
Gauging the culmination of sounds from outside and how they were syncing up in the heated space between them, he knew it wouldn’t take much to bring Margo over.
Maybe that would even overshadow his words for a moment.
He wouldn’t deny them, couldn’t now. Once they were out of the secret spaces inside of him, he couldn’t shove them back. But he wouldn’t use them as a weapon.
They were precious, because he honestly hadn’t thought he had the capacity for them. He’d never known softness. A belt, a backhand, a fist—those were things he understood. The occasional slap on the back from his friends had sustained him for so long.
He hadn’t realized how greedy he was for something bigger than that. Something more.
She was restless against him, her belly and hips undulating to bring his fingers lower. He knew once he touched her silky liquid he’d be done.
He was only a man and the real live sexcapades outside the curtain had pushed him further than he realized.
Margo fumbled above her head and he covered her hand, realizing she was looking for the hidden pocket along the bunk walls. There were no headphones, no iPod, no stash of mints in her hideaway. No, it was far more important.
His fingers found the plastic wrappers of condoms and palmed one. He ripped and fumbled to cover his dick. His one focus had become delving into her warmth. He wanted to hold on to this moment. One that wasn’t taking place in some stairwell or against the wall or acting as a quick fix.
He reached around her and brought her knees up against her body, groaning into her ear as she clung to his arms, her breathing shallow in readiness.
He tucked the head of his cock into her waiting body, hovered there at the precipice of her fisting around him. Knowing that the instant he drove inside he’d be gone, he held them there.
The small, keening noise that escaped her and ended in his name was the catalyst. He thrust inside of her, holding her tight against him as his hips took over. Sweat and the ache of overused abs and thigh muscles frayed the pain centers of his system, but the intense pleasure trumped all of that.
He curled his fingers between them to find the slick, stiff clit that crowned over their joined bodies. Her pussy so swollen and sensitive that she tried to twist away.
He hushed her as memories of their first time together and her struggle against the pleasure made him hold her tighter. She shook and nearly hyperventilated, but he held her and fought against the blackness that was creeping around his brain and threatening to end this moment.
He wasn’t ready to come yet.
He wanted to ride this release that she was fighting against. Her sob turned into a hiccupping moan of his name and then she trembled.
He buried himself deep and let go. The soul-destroying pleasure wrapped around him, shredded him, then reformed him into something else entirely.
A man who loved this woman.
Completely.
When he woke, he didn’t quite know how the night had ended. They’d been so drained—literally—that they’d both just slipped into sleep.
He was facedown in the bunk, Margo’s chest plastered to his back, one leg between his and the rest of her curled around his side.
He could happily wake like that for the rest of his life. And that was too serious to think about first thing in the morning.
Simon dug under their tangled bodies to find his phone in his pocket. The battery was on its last fifteen percent, but it was enough to check in. He tucked his chin onto his arm and scrolled through the messages on the one huge band chat thread.
He smiled at the argument between Gray and Deacon on what was the finer foot pedal brand. That was as individual as a pair of shoes.
He wandered over to the itinerary for the day and the list of interviews that he was actually free from for once.
The fact that relief warred with jealousy showed just how fucked up his life was. He was growing to hate interviews with his last breath, but now that he wasn’t included, he itched to sit in on them.
He’d be bored in about three minutes, but he still hated being excluded.
Margo stirred against his back. Sleeping with her was new. He liked how she sort of just dropped like a doll that had lost its animation. She wasn’t restless, wasn’t a snorer, wasn’t even overly clingy. She was just completely out.
She rubbed her cheek against his back and stretched then jumped a little.
He turned his head and gave her an easy smile. Her eyes were wary, but she relaxed against him again.
“Anything doing in Oblivion world?”
He flicked the screen so her itinerary got larger and passed his phone over to her. She groaned and slid off him.
He rolled until they were face to face.
“I’m going to be gone all day.”
He took his phone back and flicked to his note application.
She snorted. “Oh yeah, I bet you’re going to hate not being on the second student panel.”
Since the venue was on a college campus and they’d been on the front lines of using social media to build their image, they’d been asked to answer questions.
Pix and Nick would just love to be in the center of that. Well, Pix would, but Nick would probably rather scoop out his own eye.
She folded her hands under her cheek. “Are you going to be okay today?”
He nodded. It was going to suck, but he’d live through it.
Margo fluttered her fingers through his hair then climbed over him. He halted her escape, dragging her astride him. He pushed up her T-shirt—she’d lost the bra long ago—and tongued around her nipple, sucking it until he was sure her eyes were on the verge of rolling back in her head.
He smiled around her hot raspberry flesh and let it pop free. Then he drop
ped back onto the pillow and stacked his arms behind his head.
He wanted her to think about him, but he wasn’t going to give her a morning orgasm. He wanted her to remember how hard he’d sucked and plucked at her and when she moved, she’d remember.
And she’d want more later.
“That smug smile doesn’t impress me.”
He just smiled wider and waggled his eyebrows. She climbed off him with a disgusted grunt and let the curtain fall back.
Because the thought of being awake and alert with a side of quiet was questionable for his sanity, he plugged his phone into her charging station in the bunk, rolled over, and went back to sleep.
When he woke again, his stomach demanded food and his throat was dry as dust. With showtime less than an hour away, he wandered out to the trucks where Harper’s crew would be with his white board under his arm.
Annie was taking care of most of the cooking since Harper’s reach was similar to a turtle’s. She was all of the pregnant and cranky with it.
He waved at the redhead.
“Hey, Simon. Chicken, beef tips, or turkey burgers are on today’s menu.”
He walked over to the steno stations and filled a plate, plowed through it, then a pot of his tea and finally felt human.
Jazz and Gray laughed on their way into the eating area.
“Hey, Super Slut. You finally decided to join us?”
He made a fishing rod windup action with one hand and a slow middle finger raise with the other.
“Nice.”
He scribbled onto his marker board and flipped it around.
“Rehearsal went great. Gray knows all the songs. Tonight will be great.”
He nodded and tried not to let the fact that Gray was essentially replacing him tonight matter too much. He didn’t want it to be easy, dammit.
“All right, people. It’s time to get on stage. They’re ready for you.”
Jamie and Lindsey, from their opening band, came in looking like a couple of college girls themselves. Jamie in a ripped shirt and cutoffs that were an inch away from indecent, Lindsey in one of her girly dresses.
Lindsey hooked her arm through Jamie’s. “I don’t think we’ve ever played such a cool stage. You’re going to love it out there, Simon.”
Jamie elbowed her in the side and Lindsey’s huge blue eyes went even rounder. “Oh shit.”
Simon waved her off and gave her a thumbs up.
Fucking coolest venue ever and he was a mute. Fantastic.
He followed the sounds of the crowd, his gut clenching and unclenching in nerves he’d never had going on stage.
Excitement, sure—that was a given in his world. Nerves? No, there’d never been nerves in the mix.
He shook out his jangle of silver bracelets, cracked his neck, and tugged his Red Cross shirt into smooth lines. As he was going up the stairs, he stalled.
A roll of silver duct tape was on a trunk. Destination names were always marked on the equipment for protection.
Knowing he was about as likely to stay quiet now as he’d been while balls deep in Margo, he ripped off a strip and slapped it on his mouth.
Maybe that would help.
He charged onto the stage. Didn’t let himself think about the fact that he was just a face tonight. If he was going to be a clown or a fucking monkey, he was going to be an amazing one.
As he skidded into the center of the massive stage, he lost his breath. The crowd was like a neverending bowl of faces. The stage was endless and they were almost insignificant to the perfection of the treeline and tradition of the campus.
Holy shitballs.
Deacon, Nick, and Gray came forward and Simon grabbed his box mic. As they surrounded him, he let the cord out until his mic dangled down between his legs. He looked down at it as it swayed then looked at Deacon, then at Nick, then back at the mic.
The crowd laughed and screamed.
Simon tapped his throat, then his taped mouth.
“See, this is the only way we can make him keep his mouth shut. Simon’s lost his voice because he doesn’t know how to shut up.”
Simon gave Nick a side eye glance and put his mic into the stand before setting his hands on his hips with a huge sigh.
“So, do you think it would be all right if this guy sang tonight?” Deacon asked in his super deep voice.
Gray stepped forward and zipped his fingertips along the brim of the Fedora he wore most nights—at least for the first few songs until it grew too fucking hot. He peered up from the shadows of the hat and gave a shy smile.
The crowd lost it.
Simon’s belly jittered at the reaction. Jealousy gurgled like a geyser ready to blow. Forcing it down, he went behind Gray and clamped his hands on his shoulders, giving him a shake.
Jazz jumped off her kit, ran forward and gave Gray a kiss on the cheek, then handed Simon his marker board.
Simon looked down at the board and scrawled out three words. He looked around for the camera that followed them around for the big screens and held it up for the lens.
Don’t fuck up.
The words filled the screen and the crowd ate it up. Gray bent at the waist and curled his fingers around the head of a regular mic. Not Simon’s mic. That one thing would not be allowed.
“No pressure,” Gray said in a low voice.
Simon shrugged and leaped into the archway above them as they went into the opening song. He climbed, he ran, he sweated under the lights.
He played the monkey.
He played the clown.
He died a little inside as Gray handled song after song.
Natural talent shone through the long, lean lines of him. Gray didn’t quite know how to handle singing instead of playing lead guitar. Nick had to pull extra solos and Margo was all over the stage with her cello or her violin.
She even pulled out her acoustic violin for the ballad “Finally” that suited Gray’s smooth voice. The utter quiet of the crowd as Gray sang his words, the ones he’d written and molded to fit Margo’s strings, drove him mad.
When they started the Renegade and Monster combo piece, Simon lost it. He launched himself into the general admission pit in the front.
The leap of faith left his heart exploding in his chest. They passed him back and forth from one end to the other. Security scrambled and he caught Lila’s shriek of outrage as she came off the side stage.
He waved at the band on stage. Jazz was standing at her kit, her eyes huge. Margo’s hand fell to her side with her bow dangling from her fingertips.
Then she lifted her violin and slid back into the song, but her eyes never left him. Three burly security guys came to the edge of the pit and helped him down. Simon ran up the stairs and waved at Lila as he bulleted to the middle of the stage and back up on his perch.
He shaded his eyes and looked out on all the perfection, hating that he couldn’t add his voice to the slice of history.
This place that showed just how far they’d come from the tiny clubs on The Strip to sold-out shows. This venue should be in the palm of his hand. Not Gray’s. It was his job to bring this all home.
The lights went down as everyone scrambled for instruments and towels, water and sports drinks. Anything to soak up energy for the encore.
They didn’t bother going down off the stage. Instead they all congregated into the center around him and dragged him into their circle.
This band.
This moment.
His life.
His dreams right here.
They waved and the night curled around him as they all went back to their stations. Simon ripped off his tape and switched on his mic.
Deacon’s moody bass flowed out and the cue taunted him. His cue.
The song that had been his since the studio. The one that had given him Margo.
The one that had taken her away.
Now, here in this perfect night, he opened his mouth and let instinct take him.
Gray and Nick looked between them. Nick ran
to the side and snagged his other guitar. The layered and guitar-heavy song sounded exactly the way it was supposed to.
Nick and Gray passing back and forth between rhythm and lead, Deacon’s bass, Margo’s strings, and Jazz’s beat.
And his voice.
He kept it steady and didn’t go for the high notes, controlled it and felt his way through the verses and chorus, fought his way through the bridge, but he owned it.
As the epic end rushed forward, he followed it. And then something burst.
His throat. Everything going tight. The pain. Jesus Christ.
The flood of blood choked him and he hit his knees.
He tried to breathe, tried to find his way through it as the silence descended and the crowd surged forward. He coughed and the splatter down his white shirt made him waver. Was that his blood? So much.
And then the stage came rushing for him.
His cheek hit the floor and he jerked as everything fuzzed out at the corners and became a narrow path.
A girl in the front with her hands up over her eyes, the horrified screams. And then the whole stage went black, the shriek of his name was the last thing he heard.
Twenty
Margo rushed forward. Had she shouted his name? Was she shouting or was it everyone else? When he’d started to sing, she wanted to shut him down, but he’d sounded fine.
Until he didn’t.
The blood. God. Someone pulled her back and she fought.
“They’re helping him.”
Security surrounded him. And because it was a general admission show, there was a paramedic on the campus.
Thank God.
He handled Simon. The white latex scarlet-tipped as the paramedic rolled him and cleared his airway. Blood puddled on the stage, splashed over Simon’s shirt, and streaked across his cheek.
She swayed.
“No you don’t. C’mon, you’re not that girl, right?”
Margo looked over her shoulder at Jamie DuCaine from Brooklyn Dawn. They were eye to eye, both of them tall compared to the other women on the tour.
Margo shook her head and swiveled to watch them again. A plastic tube flashed and she watched in horror as the medic forced it down his throat.
