by Cari Quinn
She rubbed against his chest. “I’ve got a hotel for the night.”
He could work off the adrenaline still spiking through his veins and enjoy a real mattress for once. Halle-fucking-lujah. “Works for me.”
* * *
Simon whistled happily as he did a quick turn around one of his favorite people on the block, a Latina woman in her sixties, just outside the door of the Fluff and Fold. Parts of his body screamed from even that little exertion, but he just didn’t care. “How are you doing, Mrs. Gonzales?”
“You’re up early, scamp.”
Simon shrugged. “Haven’t been to bed yet.” Well, not to sleep anyway.
She tsked at him, but couldn’t stop a smile. Comfortable lines dug grooves into a still beautiful face. “Someday you’re going to have to become a responsible member of society.”
Impulsively, he caught her hand and turned her out in a quick cha-cha step then dropped a kiss on her cheek. “That day is probably not today.”
She laughed and waved him away. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Marry me and have a dozen babies.”
“You only say that because I can’t do that anymore. When are you going to settle down with a good girl?”
“I haven’t met a woman that can compete with you.”
“Scamp,” she said again, but laughed as he intended. Just the idea of setting down made his scalp itch. “Have a good day, querido.”
Simon continued his quick salsa step on the way into the laundromat. “You too.” The night before had been wild. That blonde was probably a good decade older than him and had double, possibly triple his stamina.
There had definitely been a revenge angle working somewhere in her behavior. Hell, she hadn’t even told him her name.
“Finally. Don’t you answer your phone?” Deacon pounced, his green eyes flashing with anger and more. Was that anxiety?
Simon halted mid-samba. “It’s dead. I didn’t exactly have my charger on me.” Nor had he been able to think about his phone or his own name by the time she’d been done with him again this morning. He dropped into one of the seventies reject orange seats beside Nick, wincing as his ribs protested the all night workout and the unforgiving chair.
And his dancing.
Nick leaned over and sniffed loudly. “You stink like sex.”
The corner of Simon’s mouth kicked up. “Classy sex. The sheets were at least six hundred count.” The mattress had been as exciting as the sex, to be honest. His back felt awesome for the first time in months, minus the fact that he was still moderately broken from the fight.
“Manwhore,” Jazz muttered.
Simon nodded with a smirk. “You know you want a ride.”
“I’d need a full body condom.”
He stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “This body is pure and disease-free.”
“Oh, yeah, it’s a temple.”
He chose to ignore her sarcasm and smiled sweetly. “Exactly.”
Jazz rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched toward a smile. Nick, however, got still and silent. Gray sat across from them with his fingers laced behind his head. An empty chair separated him from Jazz.
Huh. That was unusual. Gray nearly had Jazz on his lap whenever they were in the vicinity of each other.
“If you’re finished?” Deacon asked.
Simon skimmed his hand under his shirt and pressed a hand to his ribs. “Yes, Dad.”
“Fuck off, Simon. You’re the one that wanted us to talk before we discussed the deal with Jackson.”
“Is that what this is about? And we’re on a first name basis with him now, Deak?”
“I called him this morning and set up a meeting. If you’d stop smirking and joking long enough to think about what kind of opportunity this is, maybe you’d get serious for the first time in your life.”
Simon stood slowly and walked up to Deacon until he could feel the ridiculous heat that always seemed to emanate off of the big guy. “I was serious last night when I said we should all talk about this first. You wrote the song with Gray and it’s not a band song.”
“It is—”
“No, we didn’t discuss that,” Gray said quietly.
Deacon took a step back and turned to Gray. “You’re in the band, the song becomes part of the band.”
“Really? Because I was reminded again last night that this whole deal was very, very temporary.” Gray’s eerily even tone was as effective as a shout. The room went silent.
Simon tipped back on his heels. They all thought he was an idiot, but he’d seen this coming from the very beginning. “And I give you exhibit A why we need to talk.”
Deacon gave him a withering glance then sat beside Gray. “I thought we were all good with working together. Our magic becomes more obvious each night we’re on stage.”
“Tell that to your bandmate over there.” Gray nodded toward Nick.
Deacon’s gaze swung to Nick. “Is that true?”
Nick shoved his fists into his hoodie. “This was always going to be temporary. Snake will—”
Deacon stood, the room vibrating with his growl of frustration. “Snake is going to bounce out of rehab and have a pipe in his hand or a line up his nose within seventy-two hours and you know it.”
Nick leaped out of his chair so fast it skidded into a washer with a bang. “You can’t just kick a man out of the band when we can’t even contact him. Where’s your fucking loyalty?”
Deacon stepped forward until their chests touched. He had at least four inches on Nick and all six feet five of him was strung tighter than synthetic guitar strings. “My loyalty is to the people that show up and care about this band. Snake hasn’t been loyal to the band since his first stint in rehab over a year ago.”
“Some of us can’t be as perfect as you are, Deacon.”
“And some of us live in a place called reality. When are you going to get it? This,” Deacon waved around the room, “is the band. This is what a band is supposed to be like. We all click. We sound good—hell, we sound fucking amazing. There hasn’t ever been this kind of chemistry in the band. I’m not going to throw that away for Snake.” His voice gentled. “I’m sorry, I’m just not.”
Simon winced and stepped beside Nick, unsure what his best friend was going to do. Christ. He was just starting to be able to take deep breaths again. He really didn’t want to fight anymore.
If Nick and Deacon went at it, he was going to have to step in. Deacon would mop the floor with Nick. There was a reason he was the peacemaker of the group. Deacon didn’t allow himself the luxury of a short fuse because he was far too adept at fighting.
Scary adept.
Jazz tucked her feet up under her on the chair. “Can I just say something?”
“No,” came a chorus of voices.
She popped up, obviously undeterred, perching her cute little butt on the back of the chair and planting her obscenely sexy boots in the middle of the seat. “Why don’t we just go and see the studio and find out what they’re looking for? Why get all bent? It might be a ridiculous joke, or they might want to turn our songs into techno-crap.”
Simon jerked back a step. “Seriously, Pink Pixie, did you have to go with techno?”
She shrugged and dug out one of her drumsticks to twirl. “While I’m enjoying the whole measure-your-dicks diatribe, what I really want is to see if this is a real deal. Then we can worry about joint custody of the song.”
“I agree.”
The posturing and chest bumping suddenly stopped at Gray’s quiet words.
Gray leaned forward, his elbows propped on his thighs. “I want to hear what they have to say. Then Deacon and I can talk about the copyright of the song if need be.”
Simon rose onto his toes and dropped back onto the balls of his feet. “Deacon, did you research this guy?”
“Of course I did.”
“And he’s legit?”
“I did a Google search on his name as well as checked in wi
th the company he works for. Miller’s in acquisitions for talent both on the musical score end as well as finding new bands. He’s worked with Aerosmith and Jay Z, for God’s sake.”
Simon’s eyebrows shot up. “Jay Z?” His taste in music was as eclectic as his taste in women. Jesus fuck. “Well color me informed. Who’s driving?”
Gray snapped a set of keys around his finger and into his palm. “I’ll drive.”
“Can you fit us all?”
“I’ve got my work car. We’ll fit.”
“Shotgun,” Deacon shouted.
“Asshole,” Simon muttered.
“Long legs, shrimp.” Deacon said with a shrug.
“Think I could take a shower?”
“I think you can stink like sex for a little while longer,” Nick said with a grin. He thumped Simon on the back. “Maybe it will be a deterrent for all the ladies at the studio.”
Simon frowned. He hadn’t thought of that.
“Oh, now don’t pout, Pretty Boy. You can take a few hours off, can’t you?”
Simon shrugged. “Probably a good idea. At least on the first impression.”
Jazz rolled her eyes and skipped after Gray. He didn’t give her a backwards glance. Christ, they were going to have to come up with a name for the soap opera this shit was becoming.
As the Oblivion Turns?
Nope—pretentious.
Days of Oblivion?
No…wait. Lost in Oblivion. That had a certain ring to it.
Simon grinned and followed Nick into the backseat of the swanky Lincoln Town Car. He sunk into the plush seats, smoothing his hand over the supple leather that was softer than suede and silk combined.
Now he could get used to this. “Who the hell do you work for, Gray?”
Gray didn’t stared straight out the window. “I work for a private mobilization company that specializes in high risk transports.”
“So, you’re basically a cabbie?” Simon asked.
“Something like that.”
Simon nodded and threw his arm out along the back of the seat. Jazz elbowed him in the ribs and he winced through the black spots. “Can you get your sex stink off me?”
“Doth protest too much, Pink Petals. You keep going on the way that you do and I’ll think you’re starting to like me.”
She snorted and drew her legs up under herself as usual.
“Jazz,” Gray said with an edge to his voice that wasn’t usually there when he spoke to her. Cool as an ice cube in a freezer, that was Gray.
She sighed and her boots thumped back to the floor.
Nick slouched down, slipping sunglasses on as he started swiping through his phone.
Freaking phenomenal. Two pouting man bitches, a manic pixie, and a guy one step away from going Hulk Smash. Simon dug his shades out of his leather jacket pocket and deposited them onto his face. He so didn’t want to deal with this car ride—so he didn’t.
As with any road trip, he blinked out within five minutes of being on the road. Los Angeles traffic blew.
He woke to a pair of drumsticks tapping away on his thigh. “Wakey-wakey, sleepyhead.”
Simon pulled down his shades and squinted at Jazz. “Honestly?”
She leaned over him to open the door, her cute butt in ridiculously tight jeans taking over his line of sight. Simon dragged his attention away from her infinitely cuppable ass in time to catch Nick’s Adam’s apple doing a hard bob, his gaze glued to her as well.
Simon quirked an eyebrow at his best friend, staring at him until Nick pulled his gaze away, opened his own door and clamored out.
Oblivious, Jazz pushed Simon out. He barely had time to catch himself before he hit the pavement. Instead of waiting, Jazz scurried out behind him and around the car to stand under the huge arches of one of Hollywood’s most famous recording studios. Two huge pillars were cemented into the sidewalk on either side of the road leading toward the movie studios.
Christ, he couldn’t believe they were actually at Ocean Way Studios.
She swung around, holding her phone out. “Simon, you gotta take my picture under the arch. Oh my God!”
Simon grinned, unable to resist her excitement. He snapped a few pictures, inviting her to strut her stuff. By the time all was said and done, Jazz had pictures with everyone in the band and they were all laughing as they stopped at security.
Leave it to her to break the ridiculous tension. Even if she’d helped cause more than her fair share of it.
She skipped ahead, flicking through the pictures. “I started an account on Instagram for us—you know, the band. I figured we could post stupid pictures from backstage and stuff.”
Simon laughed. “And who would care about our pictures, Pink Power Ranger?”
Jazz rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him. “Quite a few people, actually. I have about a hundred followers since the new vid went up this morning.”
“There’s another vid?” Deacon asked, turning away from the guard.
“Yep. We’re already at seven thousand hits this morning. They really like ‘The Becoming’ and ‘Taste of Candy’.”
“No shit?” Simon dug his own phone out and tapped into YouTube as they waited to get checked in from the very official-looking guard.
“We’re in.”
Simon looked up from his screen. “We’re actually on the list?” Deacon’s smug smile made him want to punch him, but Simon wasn’t entirely sure the Peacemaker wouldn’t break protocol and land him flat on the pavement. No thanks, he was just starting to feel better.
He stuffed his phone into his pocket, surprised they were heading away from the impressive gold and silver arches. He thought for sure they’d be going over to the movie studio part. With all its panes of reflective glass, the building in front of him made him wince under his shades. It was massive and seemed to be held up by peg-leg looking silver columns.
The Jetsons meet Hollywood.
Deacon led them toward a smaller, older building on the corner. There was a marked difference from the uber-modern one to this one with its warm wooden door and stucco walls. Side by side, the two structures couldn’t be more different.
Deacon opened the door and waved them through. Slick Mick—aka Jackson Miller—waited at reception. His beaming smile made Simon roll his eyes. And also be thankful he was still wearing his sunglasses.
Miller held out his hand to Deacon, pumping his palm like a car jack. “I’m so glad you called me this morning. Why don’t I show you around and then we can meet the music director for Pacific Coast.”
The stupid tingle was back. It coasted from Simon’s gut to his skin, leaving an itch he couldn’t ignore. He smiled at the pretty little receptionist, but instead of the usual grin he got in return, she stared him down with a blank face.
Well then.
Simon shrugged, flashing her a wider grin, pleased when her mannequin face changed and her gaze sharpened on him. Corporate tail would be a new addition to his repertoire. Interesting.
Jazz rapped his knuckles with a drumstick. “Simon, keep up.”
He frowned down at Jazz, her Pink Power Ranger name especially fitting today with her tight pink tank, blinding white jeans and huge silver belt buckle that looked like it should house an array of secret gadgets.
His gaze dropped away from her pert little ass and took in the long, lean lines of low couches and finally focused on the wall-to-wall framed pictures of prior artists that had worked in the studio. His own heroes Rebel Rage and Wasted Youth were crammed next to legends like Frank Zappa and…holy Jesus—Frank Sinatra?
Simon hurried to catch up, following the group down a long hallway. The walls were crammed with session pictures of Eric Clapton, Don Henley and Ray fucking Charles. Jesus fuck. Was this the real deal?
A moment later, they were pushed through a door and his heart simply stopped.
The control room contained acres of boards with knobs and dials, meters and a huge computer screen with far more complete versions of ProTools
than what Deak had to work with. Through the glass was a cavernous recording room. Even with fifty folding chairs littering the center of the space, it was massive. Microphone cords, discarded instruments and dozens of stands littered with songsheets attempted to fill the space. But it was simply impossible.
The room was imposing, awe inspiring and made his gut jitter so bad he almost bent over to take a huge gulp of breath.
He tried to tune in as Miller babbled on about the high end electronics and sonic this, equalizer that, but the white noise in his head just made it all sound like gibberish.
An honest to God studio with honest to God space. Hell, it even smelled like music. A little sweaty, a little dusty, topped with a thick, creamy dollop of pure heaven.
Without thought, he wandered through the door to the huge room.
“Simon.” Nick’s sharp command couldn’t stop him.
He had to see the room.
Had to taste it.
It smelled empty—like the lifeblood of the space had been hit with a pause button. Obviously, they had been doing a score. The discarded instruments consisted of high-end strings and brass from an orchestra. All of them lovingly tucked into velvet lined cases beside the chairs. Cases that weren’t plastered with stickers or broken locks.
Perfect and well cared for.
All save one.
The electric violin was a deep violet color and sat sideways on a padded folding chair. It had an otherworldly shape. It still had the shape and form of a violin, but it was cut out and streamlined with string knobs that looked more suited to a weapon than an instrument.
He brushed his knuckles over the neck lightly.
“Touch that and I’ll break your fingers.”
Simon’s head jerked at the smooth voice that came from his right. The owner was slim and tall in trim black pants and a crisp white button-down shirt. Her dark hair was scraped back in a severe tail, not a lock out of place. Huge, serious brown eyes pinned him to the floor. One perfectly arched brow was the only telltale sign that she’d even spoken to him.