Seduced

by Cari Quinn

  Contents

  Title

  Reader's Note

  About this book

  Dedication: Cari

  Dedication: Taryn

  Nick: Losing It

  Simon: Black Magic

  Nick: Taste of Candy

  Simon: The Becoming

  Nick: How Bad Do You Want It?

  Simon: Twice the Heat

  Nick: Hard Target

  Simon: Burn

  Nick: Balls To The Wall

  Simon: Ruined

  Nick: Breaking It Down

  Simon: Crystal Clear

  Nick: Unsteady Beat

  Simon: Too Still

  Epilogue

  Rocked

  About the book

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Links & More

  Cari Quinn

  Taryn Elliott

  A Note to Our Readers

  This isn’t your typical love story. We wanted you to know that before you even get to page one. So if you’re reading a sample and really want to know just what you’re in for…here it is.

  This is a story of love, of music, of friendship, of heartache and of loyalty. Take all the emotional baggage of knowing people since your teen years and add in new friendships, oh and then add in the creative element of music. What you get is passion and disagreements, friendships and jealousy, magic and chaos.

  Seduced is the love story of the band Oblivion.

  Oh, and don’t worry…everyone gets their own story with a righteous and fitting happily ever after. We know cliffhangers make people stabby because we’re readers too.

  We hope you take a chance on them.

  A prequel to the NA rock star series Lost In Oblivion.

  Warning: Get ready for a testosterone overload. The guys are in the driver's seat in Seduced, and the ride's gonna rock.

  Twenty-three year old Nick Crandall has one focus in his life: Oblivion, the band he formed with his best friend Simon Kagan. With gigs coming up and the band members lacking focus after losing their drummer to rehab, they're out of ideas. Until Oblivion's bassist, Deacon McCoy, poses a surprising suggestion.

  Bring in someone new. Two someones.

  One You Tube video gone viral later, Oblivion is poised on the brink of stardom. With their new hot drummer chick, who comes in a package deal with a talented guitarist who happens to be head over pick in unrequited love with her, it seems like everything's falling into place. Or will the band Nick and Simon have fought to keep together disintegrate before their eyes?

  Four guys & one woman + more success than they ever bargained for = trouble, of the sexiest kind.

  Get Seduced by this novel-length introduction to the band Oblivion. This preview occurs before the four forthcoming books about each of the band members. Sometimes getting lost means finding yourself...

  CARI

  To my mom, who never thinks I’m insane when I dream up my latest crazy scheme.

  To Taryn Elliott, who changed my life for the better when she came into it. Magic comes in all kinds of forms, and this is ours.

  And to Michael Hutchence from INXS, who was my first rock star crush at twelve and has remained my most enduring one since. Ted Nugent’s “Stranglehold” said it best about never having to die—if any rock stars truly achieve immortality, I think Michael has.

  TARYN

  To Mom: Look Ma, I got to have the art and the writing after all.

  To Dad: Here’s to singing off key on a bright summer day with all the windows down…thanks for sharing your love of music with me. Even if neither of us could hold a tune to save our lives.

  To Cari: For what’s meant to be, for doing it our way, and for the love of all things music. I’m so glad we did this together. May the boyz be the first of many projects together.

  Chapter One

  Nick: Losing It

  She’s my last hope, when hope can’t be found.

  “Holy shit, Lita Ford had some nice tits.”

  Nick Crandall set his guitar on the plaid monstrosity behind him and yanked the unlit cigarette out of his mouth. No wonder he couldn’t get in the right headspace. He’d been working on this song for days—okay, weeks—and the few lines of chicken scratch he’d come up with wouldn’t win any awards, that was for damn sure. “Seriously, Simon?”

  “That’s not Lita Ford. Hot, but definitely not Lita.” Deacon manipulated his tuning keys instinctively, his eyes focused on the television.

  “You sure?” Simon continued staring at the plasma TV, happily oblivious.

  Nick scowled. So much for actually writing some freaking songs. Flash a pair of silicone boobs in some Day-Glo netting and the guys were gone.

  There was only one thing that would get them in the right frame of mind.

  He stalked over to the flat screen and yanked the cord out of the wall. The platinum-haired woman in the video onscreen with her legs spread like a damn wishbone wailed into silence as the screen went black.

  Groans sounded behind him. “Jesus fuck, really?” Simon pushed a hand through his dark hair and flopped on the couch beside Nick’s guitar. He shoved it aside harder than Nick preferred, but hey, a guy denied eye candy couldn’t be expected to be gentle with their goddamn equipment, right?

  The same equipment that would maybe, just fucking maybe, someday lead to them getting a deal that would get them out of this shithole basement. They lived beneath a frigging laundromat, of all things. He’d woken up with the smell of flowery detergent burning his nostrils more times than he could count. Not that Simon seemed to care about that, since he spent many of his nights elsewhere with his latest woman of the hour.

  Nick clambered over Deacon’s outstretched legs, currently propped on the coffee table, and shoved his cigarette back between his lips before he snatched his guitar. He kicked Simon’s leg out of the way, earning a grunt and a kick in return. “What’s your problem, dick?”

  “My problem is you. Both of you,” Nick added. “Can’t you get some focus? And not on that screen. We have a gig this weekend.”

  “What gig? We don’t have a drummer.” Deacon dropped his head on the back of the sofa. His shaggy brown hair fell away to reveal the scruff that drove the ladies wild.

  Assuming they ever got in front of ladies—or anyone else—ever again.

  “So what? We just roll over and play frigging dead? We’ll learn what we need to. And we have songs that don’t rely on—”

  “Ballads.” Simon leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stabbed his fingers into his eyes. His bloodshot eyes. The ass hadn’t stopped drinking since yesterday, which didn’t help that whole attention-span thing. “You want us to sing damn harmonies like we’re some fuck-all choir?”

  Nick bit down on the cigarette clamped between his teeth. He hadn’t smoked for six months and six days, but if he was going to break his streak any night, tonight would be it. “You got a better idea?”

  “I do.” Deacon scrubbed his cheeks with both hands and sat up. “Cancel the gig until we figure this shit out. Maybe Snake will get clean. Or maybe we’ll find someone else.”

  Nick stared at his two best friends as if he’d never seen them before. Right then he didn’t recognize the defeat on their faces, that was for damn sure. “Snake’s not getting out of detox for a while, which you damn well know.”

  Simon unfolded himself from the lumpy sofa and strode across the room. He climbed the wooden step stool shoved against the wall and slammed open the window. The cool March breeze blew into the stuffy basement until Simon pushed his head and half his torso out. His naked stomach scraped the sill but he probably didn’t even feel it. Drunk motherfucker.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Nick asked.

  “Getting some goddamn ai
r. Problem?”

  “You’re letting all the heat out.”

  Simon ducked back inside. “Quit your bitching. You don’t pay for it.”

  “Mrs. Martine does,” Nick muttered. The old lady who owned the Fluff and Fold let them live there for free because they helped look out for things for her. At least he and Deak did. Simon didn’t look out for anything that didn’t begin with ‘S’ and end with ‘n’.

  “It’s hot as hell in here. I swear those dryer vents are aimed right over my bunk.” Deacon crossed the room and dragged Simon off the stool. “Get in here, idiot.”

  As usual, Deacon diffused the tension between him and Simon. Or tried to anyway. Every time Nick looked at Simon lately he wanted to bury his fist into his too-pretty face.

  Simon stumbled down and veered into the chipped crates they used for a coffee table. Only Deacon’s quick reflexes kept him from pitching head first onto the floor.

  “Jesus.” Nick breathed in deep through his nose. “I pay the rest of the bills. I’m sorry if that makes me too responsible for you fuckwits.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whine some more, why don’t you?” Simon dropped onto the purple club chair jammed into the corner, propping his foot on a Marshall amplifier. He pushed his hair out of his face. “You’re the only one who cares about the band. The only one who makes money to pay our bills. Deak and me are just the jerks who’re holding you back. Blah fucking blah. The song is as tired as your lyrics lately.”

  Nick jerked up from the couch. “If you’re so fucking gifted, where are all your new songs then? Looks like you’re about as dry as I am.”

  Simon staggered to his feet. “You got a problem?

  Nick took a step forward and flashed a tight smile when Simon swayed. He’d enjoy giving his best friend a good pounding. It was a nice way to vent some frustration, and hell, it wouldn’t be the first time. “Maybe I do.”

  “So get gone then. See if we give a flying fuck.”

  Despite Nick’s own anger, Simon’s quick, careless response cut him deep. “So that’s how it is? You want me to go?”

  Simon shrugged. “Don’t give a shit.”

  “Want me out? You gotta kick me out.” Nick set his cig on the end table—he wasn’t wasting his last one—and flexed his fists. “Bring it, Pretty Boy.”

  Deacon charged between them and slapped a hand on Simon’s chest. “Ease up. Both of you,” Deak added when Nick stepped into his space. “We’re all just on edge.”

  “He’s being a dick,” Simon whined.

  “Suck it,” Nick suggested, grabbing his crotch before hissing out a breath at Deak’s quelling look. Goddamn mediator. Nick forced himself to take a step back. “You know, if you let us tear each other up once or twice, things might get back to normal ‘round here.”

  Simon flashed a cocky grin. “Plus the babes love scars.”

  Nick sprawled on the sofa and grabbed his cig, flipping it through his fingers like the pick he’d thrown God knows where. “Maybe we should call Cinder.”

  They couldn’t really spare the practice time on one of their marathon group sessions—more him and Simon than Deak, since their tenderhearted bassist preferred it one-on-one—but it’d be better to get their excess energy out that way rather than listening to all the constant bitching. Anything was.

  Besides, it’d been a while since they’d had a woman over. And Cinder knew exactly what they all liked. The importance of a chick getting each of their unique preferences couldn’t be overstated. Plus Cin was low-maintenance. She’d fuck and she’d leave. Sometimes she even grabbed them breakfast on the way out.

  Nick rubbed his growling stomach. A sausage and eggs special from The Rusty Spoon sounded damn good, matter of fact. If not for the lack of funds on his debit card, he would’ve told them both to go blow themselves and gone down to the diner to get some work done. One of the waitresses always gave him free refills on his coffee, saying she was supporting a budding artist.

  Artist, yeah right. He just wanted to figure out the right key to turn to get some frigging notice for Oblivion. Well, notice beyond the occasional greasy pseudo manager-type that wandered through the Rhino and Kaleidoscope waving green. Luckily they’d never been dumb enough to take any of those dudes up on their offers.

  “I’d be up for that tonight, actually.” Deak smirked. “Cinder likes variety, right?”

  “Sure thing. Three for the price of one.” Waggling his brows, Simon returned to his club chair and reached for the remote. Apparently remembering Nick had unplugged the TV, he lurched back up and crossed the room to plug it back in. “Besides, unlike you two, I’m always up for a round. Or several.”

  “Jesus. You never quit.” Deak pitched a pillow at Simon and flopped next to Nick. “Never mind. No can do. I forgot I heard she’s seeing someone.”

  Simon sighed. “That sucks. She was perfect.”

  The retro video channel popped back on screen. Nick shook his head at Joan Jett belting about rock and roll. No money for food and beer, but on demand eighties’ babes? Couldn’t risk losing those.

  “Can’t you two clowns find anything better to do than watch women old enough to be your mother?” Nick demanded.

  Simon grinned and plopped down on his stool. He spread out his long legs and leaned forward, his blue eyes riveted on the screen. “Older women know what they’re doing in bed, man. Let me have a crack at that sweet strip between her legs. I wouldn’t come up for air for like a century.”

  They watched the rest of the video retrospective in silence, not counting Simon’s occasional reverent groans. By the end of it, Nick was definitely distracted, a fact that bugged him to no end. His mind needed to stay on business, not on rocker chicks in leather and lace. He couldn’t deny the truth—put a pair of drumsticks in a hot woman’s hands and he was putty on toast.

  “I was good until Sheila E,” Nick muttered, fighting a grin as Simon clicked off the TV.

  “You sure we can’t call Cinder?” Simon pouted, setting off a new round of laughter.

  “No.” Deacon walked out and came back in, three beers held by the necks between his fingers. “But we can drink.”

  “Last three, huh?” Simon asked, popping the top on his.

  “Fridge is empty, bro,” Nick said, swallowing a slug of beer. “Which means we need to get busting our asses if we want to fill it with more than your moldy bologna and Deak’s eggs.”

  Deak saluted them. “I need the protein.”

  “Bullshit. How long you been saving yourself for your right hand again?” Simon tipped back his head, draining half his beer in one gulp.

  “Excuse me for being more selective than you manwhores. Both of you would drill a tree trunk if the hole was big enough.” Deacon saluted them with his bottle. “And in both your cases, it could be a pretty small hole.”

  “Oooh, he’s a comedian.” Nick kicked Deacon’s battered, humongous boot—and yeah, okay, the guy was packing, but he and Simon weren’t slouches—and drained the rest of his beer. “Can we possibly talk work now for all of ten seconds? In case neither of you Neanderthals noticed, I was trying to write a song until you launched your pussy marathon.”

  “I wish I could launch a pussy marathon,” Simon muttered, groaning as he caught Nick’s stare. “Fine, fine. Shutting up now. Whatcha got, Boy Genius?”

  The nickname rankled Nick, mainly because if he’d ever felt like a boy genius it sure wasn’t lately when he couldn’t seem to get a single song on paper that he didn’t think sucked large. Sometimes they went down okay during the writing, but sure enough, after he’d sobered up and gotten some sleep, his middle of the night poetic ramblings seemed trite and bland. And worse, not commercial enough.

  He hated those three fucking words, and what they meant for his checkbook situation.

  “I have nothing.” Nick dropped the empty bottle beside his hip and shut his eyes as it rolled off the sofa and onto the threadbare carpet with a barely audible clink. “I’m so damn blocked even an enema couldn’t
unclog me.” The soft sounds of Deak’s bass made him open his eyes to find both of his bandmates steadfastly not looking at him. Simon was playing with his phone, Deak his instrument. “Hello? Either of you listening? I could use your help here.”

  “Really? Since when? Every time we try to sit down and brainstorm with you, you shut us down. Then you claim we’re not focused.”

  Nick stared hard at Simon and contemplated how Oblivion’s lead singer would look with half his head shaved. Simon had taken to tying back the top half of his long dark hair to keep it from turning into a rat’s nest, but right then Nick was appreciating the style for how quickly he could disfigure the bastard. Simon’s hair was his prized possession, other than his Gibson.

  And his cock.

  “You haven’t tried to write with me in how fuckin’ long?” Nick asked in a low voice. So maybe it wasn’t that long, and he’d probably been obnoxious the last time Simon had tried to get something going. But they’d been all out of sync and the guys never seemed to want to put in the time he did. “And you know Deak doesn’t write lyrics—”

  “Why don’t you stop assuming you know everything and ask us what we can do?” Simon shot back, tossing his phone on the coffee table and jamming his fists under his biceps until they bulged. “The whole Snake situation proved you wrong there. You didn’t have a fucking clue what he was putting up his nose because you were so busy policing the music. That’s all that matters to you.”

  “Damn straight that’s all that matters to me, and it should to you too. Do you two fuckers really want to be living beneath a damn laundromat for the rest of your lives?” Nick snapped his last cigarette in half. Like hell he’d use that as a crutch as he used too many other things. “And we wouldn’t even be here if Mrs. Martine didn’t have a soft spot for broke ass bastards with dreams. Newsflash, Bret Michaels wannabe, dreams don’t pay the bills.”

  “We’ll start booking bigger clubs on the Strip soon. You gotta give it time. We—”