by Quinn, Cari
A ball of orange and blond fur came racing down the stairs after Nick. Simon grinned as his cat jumped on the windowsill and stared at him with her huge golden eyes. She twitched her tail and wound it around her front paws.
She was pissed at him for leaving her alone so long. He always won her over though. He dropped his hand arm down the side of the couch and made little c’mere gestures.
She just swished her tail.
“Oh. Nice to see you, Donovan,” Nick said. He lost all inflection and his smile fell away as he closed off.
Simon sighed and scrunched down on the couch. Here we go.
“We thought we’d bring Simon home,” Lila said. She stood in the middle of their relatively large family room. Her red heels sunk into the plush carpeting. Even on a simple house call, she was dressed to the nines. Royal blue power suit with one, fat red button emphasizing the cinched-in jacket and her epic curves.
Lila Shawcross was stupid hot. The kind of hot that actually subtracted IQ points from half the men that came in her sphere. Not him. She was probably one of the few women that he hadn’t wanted to bang. Not because she wasn’t hot—because, duh—but because she was too inside her head.
He didn’t need that kind of challenge. Not after his first encounter with Margo. She was more puzzle than he was prepared for, and he didn’t need another woman with that kind of work. Besides, he was fairly certain Nick was into her and he valued his friendship—and his nuts—too much to even contemplate poaching…even if Nick was clueless about his thing for their manager.
And now the shit was going to hit the fan and he didn’t have a thing to say about it. In fact, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it either.
Harper set the tray next to him. “You’re probably starving. All of this is on the approved list.”
Cheeseburgers and fries, probably not on the list just yet. He took her little cup of cottage cheese and thinly sliced melon. All perfectly healthy.
All perfectly bland.
More bland.
He lived for bland. It was what he’d been eating for the last day and a half. When his throat wasn’t on fire anyway. Or feeling like he was swallowing pieces that were trying to heal—God, he didn’t want to think about it.
Pieces of his career?
Pieces of his future?
Yeah, that was going to help. Nope. Positive thinking. He loved cottage cheese—said no one ever. He picked at the cup with the little dessert spoon. He really didn’t want to look like a bitch about it, but for fuck’s sake how was a man supposed to live on fruit and cottage cheese?
He wanted a damn slab of meat the size of his hand.
George leaped onto the arm of the couch and bumped his arm. He scooped up a tiny bit of cottage cheese and held the spoon up to the cat. She lapped at it daintily then made a cute little face and tried to get the cheese off her tongue.
Yeah, you don’t like it either, huh?
He set the cup aside and curled the cat into his chest and under his chin. He so didn’t want to watch the rest of his band react to the news that he’d been given. But he was stuck in this shitty silence he had to live in.
Running for the border was looking better every minute.
Donovan stepped up beside Lila. “As you know, things are going to change a little with Simon’s recent prognosis.”
Simon slumped lower in the couch. His belt was going to be in line with his nose if he kept going. George climbed onto his shoulder and curled into his neck, resting her little cat face under his hair.
“And with our impending families,” he gestured to Harper then to Jazz, “I think if we simply extend the hiatus to after the holidays, then we will have a better handle on things.”
Jazz let out a happy laugh. “I get more time with the kiddo?”
Donovan gave her an indulgent smile. “I know you were willing to get right back on the road this fall—as soon as the doctor okayed it, of course—but now you’ll have your first Christmas at home with your children. Both of you.” Donovan nodded to Harper and Deacon.
Simon wasn’t the big writer in the group like Gray and Deacon were becoming. Hell, they were probably already booking things to do around baby rattles.
“Naturally the baby brigade will be happy to have the extra time. What the hell am I going to do for six goddamn months?”
“Nick,” Lila said in a warning tone.
“No, I think it’s a legitimate question.” Donovan held up his hand. “I would lose my mind if I didn’t have anything to do for six months.”
Nick folded his arms. “Finally, someone sees my side of things.”
“I have a few ideas for collaborations.”
“Hell no. I only work with my band.”
Donovan dipped his hands into his pockets and fiddled with his phone. “And I’d be more than happy if you wrote another album while you were waiting for Simon to be able to sing again. But can you write one without his voice? Without knowing just how he’ll be able to sing when he’s healed? He’ll have to learn all over again.”
Simon curled his fingers around the pillow under his arm and pulled it onto his belly. He’d never had to learn anything when it came to singing. He opened his goddamn mouth and it all came out. Period.
Part of him figured that would be exactly what he did when he started over.
But the little part of him that had been trying to ignore the changes was now doing backflips in his gut. What if he opened his mouth and he sounded like someone else entirely? Or worse, he had no range. He’d instinctively known how to curl his voice around a song.
At least he’d thought he did.
Maybe he’d been singing wrong this whole time.
Had every splash of vodka been slicing off another note? Had every reach for a note been asking for trouble?
As the voices got louder, George got more skittish until she leaped off the top of the couch and disappeared into kitchen.
He scooted to the edge of the couch and buried his hands in his hair. Nick shot down every offer that Donovan had for him. His best friend was a gifted songwriter, but he didn’t want to work with anyone but them.
His loyalty was admirable, but honestly…Nick really would lose his damn mind if he didn’t have something to do. Donovan was right on target there.
Personally, Simon would kill him if he had to deal with Nick day in and day out—knowing that he couldn’t do anything to help him. Knowing that he was the cause of his best friend slowly going insane would drive Simon to the same place.
Especially if he had to do it sober.
He and Nick had never been any good at anything except music. They’d been the only songwriters until this last album.
They didn’t have hobbies. They were either singing one of their songs, covering a song, or writing a song. Beyond that they were usually talking about music with a radio station, magazine, vlog, or their own damn YouTube channel.
Or, in his case, fucking was his only hobby.
Nick might not know what he was going to do for six months, but Simon was in the same boat, except he didn’t have a paddle. Nick could at least play his axe.
Oh, Simon could still play a guitar, but that was just a conduit for his voice. He didn’t lose himself in the strings. He lost himself in the words.
Simon looked up. Nick was pacing the length of the living room, his cool whiskey colored gaze was focused on Simon.
He stood and held out his arms.
Nick slammed drawers until he found his emergency pack of cigarettes. “Fuck off, Simon, I’m not punching you now.”
“You want to,” he mouthed.
“No, I don’t.” Nick hunched his shoulders and flipped the filtered cigarette between his fingers.
Simon walked over to him and stood toe-to-toe with him.
Nick lifted his chin. “Don’t.”
He simply stared at Nick. He knew Nick wanted to hit something. Or smoke a pack of cigs.
Simon sure as fuck wanted to crush something. Nic
k would do. If they beat the shit out of each other then maybe he could think again. Hell, maybe they’d both feel better.
Donovan hauled Simon back by the scruff of his neck. “No. I don’t need you two scrapping like fucking boys.”
Simon shrugged him off. Donovan’s crisp British accent had gone deeper with another flavor he didn’t recognize. Maybe if he rattled the Brit’s cage, he could clear the whole goddamn room in three seconds.
Or lose every contract that might have a chance of being signed if—when—he got better. When he could sing again.
Nick paced back to the door and opened it. He jammed the filter between his lips, then scrubbed his fingers over his face and through his hair. He stood at the door, his back to the room for so long that Simon wondered if he was a statue. But no, there was no such thing as a statue that vibrated with anger.
Nick slammed the door and swung around, snapping the cigarette in half. “Why couldn’t you just follow directions?” Nick asked with an explosion of anger. “Now we have nothing.” His eyes were wild and his upper lip was curled into a snarl.
Finally.
Simon flexed his fists. Yes. It was his fault. He looked around the room. Everyone standing or sitting in this living room knew it was his fault. He needed someone to say it. C’mon Nicky, don’t disappoint me now. He’d been too proud to let Gray sing for even one night.
If he’d just backed off.
Harper and Jazz moved forward. “No.” The simple word was an echo between both of them, one after the other.
Harper shook her head. “I talked to the doctor—it didn’t matter if you’d rested one more night. The cyst was hidden by the swollen chords. It would have blown out the next night.”
“Maybe,” Nick said on a low voice.
Simon stepped back. He bumped into the couch and careened around it, clipping the lamp with his shoulder before he finally righted himself.
Maybe.
Maybe he would have hung back and caught the safer notes.
Maybe he would have held off for the next three shows. All he’d needed was to get through those three shows and he would have had a rest.
Maybe this never would have happened.
Fury drove him up the stairs. With himself, the situation, the stifling room.
He couldn’t watch another person pity him.
It was in their faces. The ones that couldn’t quite look at him, the sympathy of the baby brigade, the snapping anger from Nick. The stoic silence from Gray and Deacon.
“Simon, get the fuck down here.” Nick’s voice floated up the stairwell.
He didn’t listen. He closed his ears to the voices in his head, the voices downstairs, the suffocating silence that followed him into his room. All of it was driving him insane.
He grabbed his duffel bag from the end of his bed. His road clothes were unpacked, probably already in the laundry. Their efficient housekeeper came through and did laundry and cleaned the house.
He opened a drawer and sure enough, clean socks and tanks were there. He grabbed a pile, then slammed through to find T-shirts and jeans.
He dropped the pile next to the one constant in his life. No matter where he landed, he had this one duffel. He just needed to fill it and go. The battered black canvas with its scarred red handles. Each and every inch of the straps was full of marker drawn skulls.
He opened it and stuffed the pile of clothes into the bottom, one of his sketchbooks from the side table, two moleskins for lyrics. He stared at the little notebooks that had been part of his life for so long. He had dozens of them. All of them scribbled in, drawn in, highlighted with ideas.
Words.
All of the words he couldn’t say right now.
He snatched them off the top of the pile and threw them on his bed.
He kept the sketchpad. Sketching would have to do, but there was no place for words inside of him. He dumped the fineline pens he’d bought in New York City into his bag, a half dozen pairs of socks and his flips.
The room was his and with these few items packed, it became anything but his. A stranger’s hotel room had more flavor than the bedroom he’d stayed in for the last year.
This was the indelible mark he left.
None.
He backed out of the room and into Deacon. Simon nudged by him. He didn’t have it in him to listen to a lecture from Saint Deacon. Not now.
“You know Nicky didn’t mean it.”
Simon turned to Deacon and tipped his head, his eyebrows climbing incredulously.
“We need you to stick around. Figure shit out.”
Simon unearthed his phone and shot out a text to Deacon. He needed to get out of there. Needed to breathe somewhere that didn’t include so many bodies.
He needed home. His real home.
He flicked to another contact on his phone and texted Lila. She gave him the answer he needed.
Yes.
Yes, she’d take him home.
Three
Margo’s knee bounced as the cab driver pulled onto Hancock Street. A good few blocks away from her parents’ home and she could already see the oak tree spreading into the sky. The oak that her grandfather had planted when he bought the house sixty years ago. The old oak that was celebrated more than even she and Juliet on milestone birthdays.
Because that was a sign of Beacon Hill’s aristocracy. Of the longevity of the Reece name.
She hated that tree.
Hated the brick three story brownstone with the jet black dormers that were painted every two years whether they needed it or not. Because this was the status that her parents clung to, even more than the two daughters they’d created.
The cabbie pulled up to the pristine walkway and the wrought iron gate that protected the little plaque at the base of the tree. Heaven forbid anyone not know the age of the tree and the lineage of the house on Beacon Hill.
She pinched the bridge of her nose under the black shades she wore in deference to the nonexistent sleep that had ravaged her face. No amount of makeup would fool her mother, but the rest of her was impeccable.
The driver opened her door and helped her out. The moment her sensible black pumps touched down on the sidewalk, her back snapped into perfect alignment and her shoulders straightened. Margo smoothed her hand down the demure black skirt until the forgiving lines fell below her knees. The linen and silk blend didn’t cling, didn’t show off the curves that Simon had shown her how to love.
Curves that Simon seemed to worship with his lips and and a rough, addictive touch. The way he pulled her close and wrapped himself around her, the way he tried to climb inside her—no part of that Margo was standing here in Beacon Hill.
That Margo—Violin Girl—was on a surprisingly decadent bus with a pair of boys that squawked at each other as much as they laughed. Violin Girl pulled on skin hugging clothes and embraced a different kind of black. Sexy, both because she’d found a way to enhance her curves and because their music called to a lush, lusty side of her that she’d never known.
Violin Girl felt very far away.
Just a few months away and she felt horribly out of place.
She didn’t want to be Margo, daughter of Professor Jayne Reece, anymore.
“Miss?”
“Sorry.” She pulled a bill out of her wallet and handed it to him. “Thank you very much.”
“Do you want me to wait?”
God, yes.
She gave him a small smile. “No, I’ll be a little while.”
His bright, friendly blue eyes sparkled. “I don’t mind waiting.”
For a moment, Violin Girl slipped out. She smiled up at him with his All-American Ken doll look. The earnest eyes that promised more than just a cab ride. A year ago, she wouldn’t have even noticed.
“Here’s my card. Call me when you’re ready to go home.”
She took the card and tucked it into her jacket pocket. “Thank you.”
Now, she knew what it was like to be desired. It was a heady experience e
ven if this particular man didn’t heat her blood. It was nice to see that glimmer of appreciation in another man’s eyes. It bolstered her spirit enough that she pulled her hair out of the sleek tail she’d pulled it into. That little bit of freedom was enough to remind her that this didn’t have to be her life anymore.
She was here for Simon.
She opened the iron gate and closed it behind her. Before she could climb the steps to the double door, it flew open.
“Miss Margo.”
A genuine smile pushed a little more of the brittle Margo back. “It’s nice to see you, Truman.” She climbed the last stair and pressed a kiss to his smooth, papery cheek. Linseed oil and beeswax mixed with the perpetual scent of coffee that clung to her parents’ majordomo.
He’d run the Reece household for her entire life. He’d been the one to sneak her a toasted English muffin with cream cheese and jam when she was on one of her mother’s starvation diets. He’d always known when the hunger was simply too much to even sleep through.
Funny how she should remember that of all things.
“Your mother is in the parlor and Dr. Reece is on a phone call. He’ll be down soon.”
“Thanks.” She squared her shoulders and moved into the hardwood foyer with the gleaming woodwork framing out colonial blue walls and curving around to the ornate staircase that led to the second floor where her mother would be.
The downstairs was for guests. Formal dining and entertaining, the atrium to her mother’s famous gardens, and Truman’s domain. She slid her hand along the balustrade and followed it up the stairs to the second level of the brownstone.
Her mother’s domain. Her rooms, her office, and her sitting room. The heavy wooden theme was softened slightly by cream walls and a soft cream and navy runner that lead to the sitting room that looked out on Hancock Street. It fed her mother’s need to oversee her kingdom—at least her perceived one.
Jayne Reece stood at the window. She wore a vanilla silk blouse tucked into a navy pencil skirt that accentuated her thin frame. Her chestnut hair was rolled into a chignon at the base of her neck. Not a single thing was out of place.
“You’ve been ignoring my calls, Margo.”
