by Cari Quinn
What if everything blew up in her face and she pushed Gray even further away? Then what? It wasn’t like they could take some time apart and let the wound scab over. They had to see each other every day and night. Had to work as part of a cohesive unit.
If any of the band members were having issues, it affected everyone—as they’d seen right before they had made the decision to leave Trident for Ripper Records. Oblivion had come scarily close to breaking up, and they still weren’t totally back to rights.
“What’s wrong? You’re not acting like yourself.” Harp wrapped an arm around Jazz’s shoulders and guided her to the food table, loading up her plate with an assortment of yummy-looking appetizers and snacks. “Sometimes you just need to dish with a girlfriend. Until I arrived, you were stuck in a testosterone trap twenty-four/seven. So c’mon, spill.”
Jazz had to laugh. Truer words… “Speaking of men, where’s your long, tall drink of testosterone tonight? I haven’t seen him all evening.”
Harp grinned widely, as any newlywed should. “He’s actually helping me out in the kitchen. The country club was short-staffed if you could believe it, and they were happy to have us help. Some crazy flu bug took down most of the staff in one fell swoop.”
“Oh, great. Now I really need my Lysol wipes.” Jazz tugged Deak’s phone out of her pocket and offered it sheepishly to her friend. “I, ah, borrowed your hubby’s phone. Mine’s drying out in Fu Wong’s pork special.”
Harper let out a snort. “So, let’s go back to the super-hot, broody guitarist.”
“Which one?” Jazz hedged, so wishing she had the prop of her iPhone to hide behind. With all of the music people in attendance, tonight’s party would be prime Instagram and YouTube material. A few impromptu jam sessions would probably break out before night’s end, and she’d have to hope Simon was on the ball in recording some of them and not getting balled.
Fat freaking chance there.
Harper picked up a section of Clementine orange and daintily sucked on the end. “You are so transparent I can practically see your heart beating. You know who.” Harper leaned in and batted her eyes. “Gray.”
Jazz wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed that Harper had figured out her feelings so easily. “I was afraid you were going to say Nick.”
“Nick’s your frosting, Gray’s the whole cake. Both taste good, but one’s mostly sugar and the other’s real sustenance.”
“Yeah well, right now, I’m starving to death,” Jazz muttered, glancing around as a low hum in the room indicated some VIPs had arrived.
In strolled the Rebel Rage boys, led by their swaggering lead singer Johnny Cage, who was outdoing Simon by not just doing two chicks in an hour, but at one time. They hung off each of his arms like cheap body ornaments, their fingers clutching his belt buckle while they whispered in his ear. All the while, Johnny seethed.
“What were you saying about brooding?” Jazz asked Harper, earning a peal of laughter that Harper cut off sharply once Johnny swung his stony gaze their way.
Johnny was not a fan of Oblivion, though in recent months some of the animosity had cooled down. That was due in no small part to the fact that Lila would put up absolutely no guff from anyone, especially two bands that she’d brought to the label. Since Oblivion was too new on the scene to have beef with anyone, it hadn’t been a big deal for them to shelve any issues, at least until Deak had put a deserved hurting on Johnny and Killian when they’d gotten in his face one too many times.
After that, Johnny hadn’t made a secret of his wanting some O blood. He just kept a lid on it around Lila.
Apparently he’d tied a few on tonight or else he’d given up giving a fuck about record company politics for the holidays, because he abandoned his brigade of females to stalk toward Harper and Jazz. And he did not look happy.
“Good evening, ladies. I see you’ve got some mighty good looking things to offer.” He leered at Harper’s body before giving Jazz the same treatment. Eventually his gaze landed on Jazz’s plate and his mouth ticked up in a chilly smile. “Good enough to eat.”
“Sorry, buddy, don’t think you could handle what I’d offer you. It’d start with two fingers in the eye and my knee in your nuts. Assuming you have some.”
Johnny chuckled at Harper’s response. “Does your husband enjoy it rough, sweetheart? Is that why you have such a mouth on you?”
Jazz stepped forward until she was between Harper and Johnny. “I think the main problem is that her mouth will never be on you, so why don’t you back the fuck up and go find some other hydrant to piss on?”
“Ooh, big talk from such a little thing.” Johnny flicked one of Jazz’s braids and licked his lips. “Bet it doesn’t take too much to quiet you down, huh, baby?”
Rage bubbled up inside Jazz so fast that a haze of crimson briefly obliterated Johnny’s distractingly attractive features. She was about to respond when a hand landed on each of Johnny’s bullish arms and yanked him back.
“I suggest you watch what you say, fucker.” Gray jerked Johnny’s arm.
“Or else we’ll wire your jaw shut permanently,” Nick echoed from the other side, his grip every bit as tight as Gray’s.
Jazz looked between them, bewildered. Where had they even come from? She hadn’t realized they were being observed. All they needed now was for Deak to—
“Boys, boys, boys.” Deak cut through the crowd, strolling slowly but determinedly toward the group that had gathered near the food table. “Johnny, are you causing trouble again? I thought I handled it the last time you decided to say more than you should.”
“You didn’t handle shit, you steroid-popping motherfucker.” Johnny spat between Deak’s boots as he came to a stop, but instead of that pissing Deak off more, he just smiled.
Scary-smiled, so that even Jazz shivered. Deacon was not the kind of guy you wanted to piss off, especially when his wife was involved. He’d eat you for breakfast and not bother picking you out of his teeth before lunch.
“Honey,” Harper began, stepping forward to lay a hand on Deak’s wrist. Obviously she sensed the same trouble that anyone with a pulse could. “He’s so not worth it.”
“Oh, I think you’d say otherwise after a night with me, sweetheart. Wanna try a swap? I’m game.” Johnny’s gaze swung back to Jazz and lingered until it felt like tiny ants marched inside her veins. “Although I have to say, I think pink is more my color.”
“You even think about touching her and I’ll fucking break your arm and shove it down your throat.”
Before Johnny could react to Gray’s low threat, Nick tossed in one of his own. “Want to die, Has Been? Because we can get you there faster. Just try it and see.”
“Enough.” The sharp command sliced through the tension in the air, reverberating like a slap. Lila strode up between the guys and skewered her nail into Nick’s chest. “Let him go and step back.”
Nick stared at Lila as if she were a strung-out methhead. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Go cool off somewhere and keep this nonsense off my property.”
“Your property? You own a country club I don’t know about, Strawberry?”
Lila turned away from Nick without responding to his taunt, but from the pinch around her mouth, she was about ready to land some punches of her own. “Johnny, is this really necessary? It’s Christmas.”
“Tell them that. Those two started laughing at me the minute I showed up.” Johnny jerked a thumb at Jazz and Harper.
“We did not,” Harper protested. “We were laughing at, uh—” Her mouth curved and she sent a sparkling glance at Jazz. “How sexy brooding men can be. The right brooding men anyway.”
“I don’t brood.” Deak curled a protective arm around Harper’s waist and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Much.”
“Not you, darling.” Harper patted his chest and winked at Jazz. “Others who won’t be named.”
Jazz fought back a grin and turned her gaze toward Lila, only to get
snagged by Gray’s intense, probing stare first. Holy hell, she felt the power from that single look thrum through her entire body, starting at her nipples and steadily working downward. All at once she was too hot, and the fuzzy scarf around her neck became a boa constrictor that cut off all her air.
“Brooding, hmm?” he asked quietly, his gray eyes centered on Jazz in a way that made her smile vanish entirely. And not because she was sad.
God, she wanted him. So much that logic didn’t even have a place in her world anymore. If he would’ve gone along with it, she would’ve just snatched his hand and dragged him off to some shadowy corner. The small, inadequate taste of him that she’d gotten last spring hadn’t even begun to take the edge off her longing.
And she was beginning to wonder if it would be all she would ever get.
Want more of Gray and Jazz’s story? Check out TWISTED, book 2 in the Lost in Oblivion series, available NOW.
Nick and Lila: Rings and Things
A Lost in Oblivion Extra
This bonus extra takes place just before Gray and Jazz’s wedding in Untwisted, Lost in Oblivion #2.5.
The catering truck jerked into a space at the curb with a squeal of brakes that made Lila Shawcross narrow her eyes. A moment later, the door swung open and out stepped the jackass of her worst nightmares—
Probably because he starred in way too many of her fantasies, if she allowed herself to have such.
Because he was all wrong.
Wrong.
Hell, it wasn’t that he was bad looking. Far from it. His shaggy blondish-brown hair hung over his forehead and teased his collar. Somehow the sunlit strands were both wavy and straight, and when he pulled off his shades, his amber eyes were almost the same color. Not quite gold, not quite brown, but caught in between.
The man himself was never so agreeable.
“Was this really necessary?” Nick Crandall asked, hooking his glasses in the front pocket of his jeans. He stepped onto the curb and arched a brow. “Surely you could’ve had Donovan or one of your lackeys do this for you.” His lips thinned into what passed for a smile. “Or maybe your husband?”
There was no mistaking the faux innocence in his question. Since he’d overheard her discussing her husband with Gray a few months ago in the hospital, he’d done his level best to slide it into casual conversation whenever he could. Not to be friendly, she was certain. More like he enjoyed needling her, though why that particular jab hurt more than most wasn’t something she was about to confess anytime soon.
“My husband has more important tasks to handle than worrying about fitting the wedding bands of members of rock bands I manage.” She tried to sound aloof and above reproach, but it was hard. Hard around Nick, period, harder still when her husband was the topic du jour.
Nick and her husband didn’t belong in the same sentence, ever, for too many reasons to count.
“Oh, and I don’t have anything better to do than to help Gray get hitched? Gray, of all people?” Nick tucked his fists under his biceps, still surprisingly visible under the beat-up leather jacket he wore.
Sometimes he wore an equally distressed denim one, most likely something he’d had for years. He refused to throw anything away and lived like a miser in spite of his money. The members of Oblivion weren’t millionaires yet, but they were on their way. Still, Nick behaved just as he had when he’d been poor. His meal of choice was bologna sandwiches and he didn’t even own a car, choosing to bum Jazz’s or Harper’s catering truck though he could very well afford his own. Oblivion’s band van from the old days had finally stopped running, and so Nick had resorted to grabbing rides.
Basically, he didn’t resemble anyone she’d ever known—in any way.
“Yes, I know you have a past with Gray.” She made a show of unclasping and reclasping her purse rather than meeting his eyes. She really had no desire to think about Nick’s threesome days with Jazz and Gray.
Threesomes. Who did stuff like that?
Rock stars. It was a very rock star thing to do.
The fact that her own sex life was much more staid didn’t hold much bearing. She wasn’t a musician. She’d never even held a guitar. Oh, they fascinated her. They held such power and magic. But she knew her own skill set lived in planners and behind a desk. She hadn’t been born to make music, just to corral and help hone those who had.
Like Nick, of the quick, talented fingers and sulky mouth. He had magic, all right. Too much for his own good. And hers.
She also hadn’t been born to have threesomes, judging from her very lackluster sexual past. Her future wasn’t looking much better.
That was just fine. She didn’t need to have threesomes to be satisfied. Sure, she had some curiosity, but she also had curiosity about skydiving and had never sought to participate in a high rise jump.
Long shafts of any sort were best to be avoided at all costs.
Nick cleared his throat. “Well, not with Gray so much, but with Jasmine, yes.”
There was that too, how he referred to Jazz as Jasmine with that huskiness in his voice, as if he was reliving fond memories every time. Likely fond naked memories.
She was probably just imagining things, just envisioning ghosts where none existed. Jazz was about to get married to Gray, and Nick certainly didn’t seem to be nursing a broken heart.
Still, she wondered.
She wondered about that storied threesome, and how it was they could’ve come together so explosively and yet broken up with relatively little fanfare—minus the tabloid action, which continued to this very day. But all press was good press, especially for a band on the rise, so she didn’t attempt to squelch it. Not that she could. Love triangles were the fuel to everyone’s fantasies. Messy, dirty, but lots of women didn’t mind the idea of being the eye of two very sexy guitarists’ storm. At least in theory.
“Yes, well, Jasmine is getting married, and you know, that means the past is buried and dead.”
That lone brow lifted one more time, though his smirk never faltered. “Thank you for that update. And here I was still carrying a torch for the preggo bride-to-be.”
“If that’s so, sucks to be you.” Lila turned away and opened the door to the jeweler’s shop.
His hand—stupidly large, with ridiculously long, dexterous fingers—pressed against the glass door and shut it with a decisive click. He loomed over her, taller by a good half a foot, but she wasn’t used to feeling dwarfed by anyone of any size. She walked tall, stood taller. Never let herself be cowed by anyone. Outwardly anyway.
But Nick was an exception. She wouldn’t say he intimidated her, with his size or otherwise. No, he never made her feel afraid.
Just very, very aware.
“I’m not into old flames. They burn you more often that not.” He spoke close to her hair—close enough she could tell he’d been smoking again. He quit every other week, but the smell wasn’t repugnant as it should have been. On him, the scents of leather and smoke became a sultry tease, a reminder of all she couldn’t have.
Had never had, in any real capacity.
“Current ones can do that too,” she said, oddly breathless, staring through the glass to where a man in a suit and a woman in a teal dress showed customers their finery. But they might as well have been miles away, trapped inside an antiseptic moneyed world while she was locked out.
With him.
His ridiculously gigantic hand flexed against the door just above her head. “Oh, I’m sure. I don’t have any of those, myself. What about you, sweetness? Is your husband your current flame?”
“You need to back up,” she said, resisting the urge to turn and poke her finger in his chest. Not because he didn’t deserve a good hard poke, but because she wasn’t about to put their faces in close proximity. No way. “You’re overstepping.”
“Am I? Is that because you’re technically my boss?” He flicked his fingers over the ends of her hair and she was pretty sure her spine shivered. “Or is it because you’re a married woman?�
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“No. It’s because if you don’t, I’ll step so hard on your foot that you’ll end up with a stiletto heel protruding between your toes.”
“Hmm. Threats of violence. So unlike such a civilized sort as yourself.” Though he waited another beat, he finally eased back enough for her to reach for the door. Before she could open it herself, he did the honors, gesturing for her to go inside. “After you, Mrs. Shawcross.”
Inhaling sharply, she strode inside and smiled at Mr. Phelps, the man she’d spoken to on the phone. “Hello. I’m Lila Shawcross, and I called to pick up—”
“The Duffy rings. Yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry they weren’t correctly sized. Normally we have procedures in place to ensure that something like this never occurs. Unfortunately, Stacey is new, and—”
“It’s fine.” Lila waved it off. She just wanted to get this over with as fast as humanly possible. “I have a hand you can use to ensure the rings will work.”
Mr. Phelps frowned. “Well, yes, you’re a woman, but for Mr. Duffy’s…”
“Use his,” she said, jerking a chin in Nick’s general direction. He slouched at her side, staring anywhere but at the miles of diamond rings in the case. She imagined a wedding band would be like a ball and chain around Mr. Commitment Phobe’s throat.
“He’s approximately the same size as Mr. Duffy?”
“No. Not even close. Add about three in—”
“Enough,” Lila barked, hating that she could feel her cheeks heating. He would know how well Gray was built too, because he’d seen it up close and personal. Though she didn’t doubt he was just posturing about his own endowments.
She so wasn’t considering what three inches more would be like, since Jasmine hadn’t hesitated to tell her that Gray wasn’t exactly the size of a cocktail shrimp. Irrelevant information in all ways. She was Oblivion’s manager, not their personal physician, for God’s sake.