by Cari Quinn
He made her want more than stilted pleasure in stairwells and dark corridors. The fact that it took this long for it to sink in made her want to kick her own ass. Everything had started changing on the bus a few nights ago.
And now there was a part of her that was aching because he wasn’t by her side. Instead she was in this soul-sucking house with her mother’s disapproval perfuming the air.
“Don’t just stand there with a slack-jawed look, Margo. Were you actually on stage with him in a bar?”
“Yes, that night’s band invited me to sit in with them. Simon joined in later.”
Her mother sat on the edge of her ivory settee. “You’re not some common bar band musician. You do realize you have a reputation to uphold.”
“Actually my reputation is growing all over again. I’ve got dozens of offers for studio work.”
“What about the symphony?”
Margo looked away from her mother. She gravitated to the window, letting the sheers slip through her fingers. “That’s not part of my life anymore.”
“It should be. You’re wasting your talents.”
“Enhancing. Every day I stay with them I get better. I know you don’t understand that, but it’s true.”
“The name—”
“Mother, I’m not just a name. I’m a musician. I like creating. And you know what? I am making a name for myself. But I’m not here about that. The choices I’m making are my own, and I’m good with that. I’m here to ask a favor for a friend.”
“And what would that be?”
“I’m sure you’ve seen the reports. Simon’s hurt and needs time to recuperate. He needs the St. John house.”
Her mother didn’t answer. In fact, the silence was growing. “And I suppose that means you’ll be going off with him?”
Margo turned from the window. “Yes.”
“Are you involved with this…musician?”
“I care about him very much.”
Her mother narrowed her eyes. “That’s a non-answer.”
“I’m an adult. I don’t need to give you the ins and outs of my love life.”
“So that means you are involved with him.”
“I don’t know what we are. But he’s hurting and the press are all over him.”
“If he’s so important, I’m sure his management can take care of him.”
No. It should be her. She fisted her shaking hand at the thought. Because there was no doubt in her mind right now that she should be the one taking care of Simon. And even more astounding, she wanted to take care of him. She wanted to be there for him right now.
“Of course they could find something for him, but no one knows about our house. It’s not even in our name right now. It’s still under Grandmother Dawson. It’s perfect.”
“And what if we were going to use it?”
Margo lifted her chin. “Are you?”
“No. We probably won’t find time to use it this year. Your father is very busy.”
Relief was as acute as the nerves alive in her belly. “It’s our family house, so I am reserving time at it. Please.” The last word killed her. But her pride didn’t mean anything compared to what Simon needed right now.
She could hide him easily. Jazz had texted her with reports of the paparazzi hounding him. The link to TMZ and a dozen other alerts had followed her texts. He’d been mobbed. And it wasn’t likely to stop.
Donovan could hide him away, but this she could control. She knew the house and where it was, knew it was on a secluded bit of land on the island.
“Under one condition.”
Margo forced her hands to unclench and hang at her sides. She didn’t want to give her mother any ammunition. But God, why did she have to do this? Couldn’t she do this one thing without bartering?
Because her mother didn’t deal fairly. At all.
“What condition?”
“I got you an audition for the Los Angeles Philharmonic.”
Margo’s jaw dropped open. It was one of the most progressive and forward thinking orchestras in the United States. And thanks to her less than sterling focus, she definitely didn’t have the backing of her former conductor. “How?”
“Your name came up at a symposium. Evidently your stage antics have attracted some attention in a good way, Margo. They were impressed with your work.”
The symphony wasn’t what she wanted anymore. She liked what she was doing with Oblivion.
But what if Oblivion was gone?
What if Simon didn’t recover?
She shut out those malicious voices. She didn’t have the luxury of thinking about herself right now. But God, the Los Angeles Philharmonic?
“And the audition wouldn’t be until September.”
Well after Simon would be on the road to recovery. Auditioning wouldn’t hurt and if that got her the house, then Simon would understand. “Fine.”
Her mother’s face eased into the smooth lines she was used to. The expressionless serenity that she chose to show the world. Her happy face.
One that Margo had mimicked for too many years to count.
“Once you audition, you’ll see that’s where you belong.”
She would saw her teeth through her lips before she agreed with her mother. The orchestra wasn’t where she belonged. Even a progressive symphony didn’t allow her to tap into that creativity that had awakened with Oblivion at a live show.
They were becoming her people.
But she’d go through the motions to keep the peace.
Her mother took her silence for acquiescence. She turned to her window again. “Have Truman get the key for you.”
Dismissal. That, she understood.
Margo left the emotionally stifling room and went downstairs to Truman’s domain. The huge kitchen was sparkling white with black and nickel accents. Stainless steel appliances didn’t dare have a fingerprint smear, and the room smelled like cinnamon.
How many times had she and Juliet sneaked into this kitchen for midnight snacks? How many times had Truman sat with them and finished a pint of ice cream?
She traced her fingertips over the glossy doorframe. “Truman?”
“Miss Margo. Can I get you some tea?”
The temptation to get an honest to God perfect cup of tea was tempting, but she shook her head. “Do you have the key for the St. John place?”
His eyebrows jumped. “The beachfront house?”
“Yes.”
He whistled. “No one’s been up there for two years now.”
And of course her mother had given her absolute shit about it. “I could use some R&R and what could be more perfect?”
“That house will certainly fill the bill. I’ll call ahead and have it readied for you.”
“Perfect.” She dropped a kiss against his papery cheek. “I’ve missed you, Truman.”
“Feeling is mutual, Miss Margo.”
“I need to get back to my house. I have a flight back to Los Angeles tonight.”
“I’ll have Richard drop you.”
“Thanks.” She sat next to him. “But maybe I’ll have that tea first.” She needed a little something for herself. Then she’d go back and take Simon away from all the insanity.
Four
“Are you sure you want us to drop you here?”
Simon nodded. The moment he opened the door to Donovan’s luxury SUV, he could hear the people and the ocean. Sounds that meant home. The grease from the food vendors on the strip, suntan lotion and the undeniable sweetness of cocoa butter—all of it was home.
Venice Beach.
Lila frowned. “There’s a lot of people here.”
Simon pulled his white fedora down and shoved shades on. He had on a shabby Led Zep T-shirt and pair of faded board shorts. He looked like any other bum kid on the strip.
No one would look at him twice.
He leaned back in and bussed Lila on the cheek. Her huge china doll eyes got even wider then she shoved him out the door. He grinned. Worried Lila didn�
��t suit her, he preferred the Dragon Lady. He grabbed his battered duffel bag and gave Donovan a salute.
Two minutes later, he was down the sidewalk and melting into the foot traffic of Venice Beach’s huge cement pathway. The skateboard park was alive with kids, new graffiti sprawled over painted half-walls between the businesses and huge winding network of sidewalks.
The end destination for some was the Santa Monica Pier, while others aimed for the beach. He wanted a taste of both. But first he needed the water. He bought a soft pretzel from a cart and slathered on cheese sauce, happily munching on the stale bread.
How many nights had this been his meal? A pretzel to fill the hole and a beer chaser until he’d found the harder vodka. That did the job faster until he’d started building up a tolerance to that as well.
And now, none.
His gut jittered a bit and he filled the shakes in with a large bottle of water. He wanted the sugar and fizz of soda, but that was also off the list. Everything he liked to drink was off the damn list. But for the first time all day, it didn’t seem to matter. Not when the Pacific was rolling up the beach with its lacy foam.
He finished his pretzel, kicked off his flips and shoved them into his bag. The hot sand heated the soles of his feet and pushed him down to the shoreline. A barrage of bikini-clad women made him forget his troubles for a little while.
A smile didn’t require words. By the time he was ankle deep in the water, a permanent grin was spreading across his face. Not his signature smirk. He didn’t want to bring attention to himself.
Instead he allowed himself the wide goofy grin that he’d trained himself not to make. He hooked the shoulder strap around his neck and arm so his bag slid around to his back. He crouched and let the water flow between his feet and over his fingers.
A perfect day.
Three years ago, he would’ve been down here scoping out women for fun before rehearsal in the evenings. Or the occasional show they’d been lucky enough to book. It had been a far simpler life and he was almost ashamed to say he missed it.
He’d barely had ten bucks in his wallet most of the time, but everything made a fuck-ton more sense. Now, there was nothing but doubt and confusion.
He wandered under the barnacle-clad pier until the tide started to come in and soaked him to his waist. He trudged up to the shoreline and wandered through the sea of faces on the promenade. Fortune tellers and psychics lured with their purple glittering booths and elaborate tables. Various artists guarded their real estate with snarls as much as smiles. Painters, illustrators, and caricature artists sat shoulder to shoulder with jazz saxophone players and guitarists.
The faces and the people were loud and imperfect, but at the same time it was the most relaxed he’d been in months. This was his town. Every smelly, graffiti-strewn inch of it had contributed to his childhood and formative years.
He’d been away from it for too long. The glitter of Los Angeles and the Hollywood Hills were too tame. This was more gutter rat with little pockets of beauty. This was where he’d found his sound, where he’d fumbled his way into a semi-decent guitar player.
This was home.
He made his way off the walking path to the grittier west side, where he’d run with Nicky and Deacon. The broken sidewalks of Carson and the broken down apartment complex he’d lived in. Gang tags were taking over more of the buildings here and as he turned onto their old street, he spotted The Fluff and Fold. There was a new crack in the sign and Mrs. Martine had lost the double F of the Fluff. A pang under his rib made him rub his chest absently.
It had gone to shit without them. Well, more like without Deacon. He was the one who had taken most of the time with the renovations. He had a skill at taking apart the drum of a dryer and finding the broken pieces to make them work again.
“I thought I’d find you here. I almost caught you on the beach.”
Simon shoved his thumbs into the tiny pockets at his hips. He tipped back on his heels once before he turned around. Nicky stood there wearing ratty cutoffs and a Megadeth T-shirt that was as old as half the teens on the beach. Simon tipped his aviators down and gave him a look.
“You walk pretty fast now that you’re not half cocked all the time.”
Simon raised a brow then flashed his middle finger.
Nick grinned. “Fuck you, too.”
Simon nodded to the door and shrugged. Nick gave him the same gesture and they walked inside. The once eye-searing orange seats were now heavily tagged with spray paint and Mrs. Martine’s white walls were a canvas for artwork that had some gang flavor.
He was glad to see that it wasn’t completely lost to the seedier element of Carson. He folded his arms and stared down a fourteen-year-old that was trying to sell drugs right next to the massive dryer.
The kid’s shifty eyes gave him away and he nudged his buddy and they both split.
“Jesus. What the hell happened in here?”
Simon dug out his marker board from his bag and scrawled gang shit before swiping the white surface clear.
Nick sighed. “Man, we haven’t been gone that long.”
He scribbled long enough on the board and dropped into one of the orange bucket chairs. Where Venice Beach had been nothing but the same, Carson was getting worse by the year. He didn’t like seeing the Fluff and Fold in dire straits.
“Think the basement is still full of our shit?”
Simon grinned. They’d left in such a hurry that they’d barely done more than grab their clothes and haul ass. Broken furniture had been hauled out and thrown in the dumpster, but he didn’t know about the rest of it.
He pointed to the door and made a breaking gesture.
Nick’s eyebrows shot up. “You want to break in?”
Simon shrugged and stuck out his lower lip. He held up a finger and moved to the door. It was locked. He dropped his duffel and rummaged for his wallet. He opened the billfold and dug his fingers into the top slot for credit cards.
Did he still have it?
He felt the little bobby pin and smiled, holding it up.
“Oh, shit. You still have that?”
Simon grinned. There may have been a few times where their misspent youth gave them a few lessons that weren’t exactly legal. He flashed the bent wire at Nick and pointed two fingers at his eyes and then out.
“You suck at picking locks,” Nick whispered. “You were always too slow.”
Simon flicked his fingers under his chin.
“You know you are,” Nick answered. “You be lookout.”
Really? Simon tossed his sunglasses into his bag and looked at Nick with a tip of his head to the side. He waited for that statement to sink in and Nick rolled his eyes.
“You could snap your fingers or something.”
He mouthed, “Just watch,” and crouched in front of the doorknob. Snaps from at least two pairs of jeans were ticking in the dryer and an unbalanced washer was rattling.
How the hell was he supposed to hear the tumblers? He focused until he could feel each tick as he pushed through then slowly back out.
“C’mon. Some mother with three kids is coming.”
Simon ignored him and felt the give as he turned the handle. Ha. Not that slow, jackass. He pushed open the door and waved him over.
“Well, fuck me you did it.”
It hadn’t been that long since he’d broken in. He and Nick used to break into some of the houses for sale in the hills when they wanted to impress a girl. Usually he pulled off the lie a bit better than Nicky.
His buddy kinda sucked at the smooth gestures with chicks. It was a miracle he got laid at all. Good thing they were famous.
Nick shut the door behind them and they crept down the slatted stairs. Nick’s torch app from his phone lit the pitch black basement. When they got to the bottom of the stairs, Simon slid his hand along the wall where the light switch usually was.
A single bulb snapped on and showed most of the space was cleared out. An end table and one of the club
chairs that hadn’t been destroyed in their brawls sat in the far corner.
Their large screen television was still there by some miracle.
Simon found the remote in the drawer of the table and clicked it on. It blipped and fuzzed then came clear.
“Ha. Our cable steal job still works.”
Simon grinned and walked around the perimeter of the room. A purple beanbag chair was stuffed in one corner. He kicked it out into the middle of what used to be the living room. He heard Nick collapse into it. The slushy hiss of the Styrofoam beads and Nick’s groan of pleasure made Simon grimace.
Way too happy to have his ass in a pile of Styrofoam.
He walked down the hall and found his old pallet with the futon mattress still there. The heavy scent of dryer sheets permeated the moist heat that never seemed to leave their sleeping area.
He followed the maze of a hallway to the back bedroom and found Nick’s battered boxspring and mattress stacked against the wall. The room had been swept out, but no one bothered to take the beds.
Probably Jazz or Deak. Only they would make an effort to clean up.
Simon slapped his hand against the doorjamb. He heard the television cycle through channels at light speed, Nick’s version of a channel surf. Simon had no idea how he knew what he was seeing when he went that goddamn fast.
He slapped the flat of his hand on the wall twice.
“For fuck’s sake, what?” Nick stomped through the doorway. His face went from a frown to a smile. “Oh, shit. It’s still here?” He smoothed his hand over his mattress. “I can’t believe it.”
The ownership gleam in his eyes made Simon shake his head. The guy didn’t let anything go.
“I can’t believe Mrs. Martine didn’t rent this out.”
Simon shrugged. Hell, she hadn’t really rented it to them either. It was more of a please keep the place up and I won’t kick you out kind of thing. But it was nice to see one thing in his life that hadn’t changed. Venice Beach was one thing, this…this was his. Theirs. And it was almost untouched. Absolutely insane.
The solo to “The Devil Came Down to Georgia” bleated from his bag. He grinned and slid around Nick. He moved into the front room and reached in for his phone. Violin Girl’s name slid across his screen.