by Cari Quinn
Cars crowded the lawn and gravel driveway. So many people. Didn’t they understand a blizzard warning? As a Bostonian she was rather hardy about snow, but even this was a bit much for her. But car—actually, truck after truck came up the winding lane from the big hill that led up to the property. More than one grill was festooned with mini wreaths, and still more had shiny red noses a la Rudolph attached to their hood ornaments.
Amazingly, there was no grumbles. Just laughter. So much laughter and happiness pouring out of Happy Acres.
Part of her wanted to run right into the fray. To suck up that joy and hope it replaced the dread filling her chest. Just how many times was she supposed to pretend Simon wasn’t broken? That he wasn’t hurting inside? How was she supposed to keep the faith when the last year had been filled with nothing but glitter and false hope?
Okay, not all of it was bad, but enough that memories of that exuberant Simon were fading more and more with each passing day. Sex could only fix so much. In fact, that was her own way to hide.
To rely on that part of them that never failed. Even if their words had been doing a bang-up job for the last eighteen months at least.
So she turned away from the golden sparkle and headed for the much dimmer, but still welcoming glow of the main house. She could hide there until Simon left for the party. Until she could shore up her damn defenses and try again.
Because she wasn’t giving up on him, but she really needed to find another way to break through. For both their sakes.
12
Simon
Simon laced his boots, then tugged his jeans down over the Timberlands. Margo had been smart enough to throw his winter boots and gloves into his bag before they’d left California. Working in NYC had taught him that not only was his blood thin by northeast standards, but he was ill-equipped to handle layers. His idea of layers consisted of a lightweight jacket on a sixty-degree day.
This blizzard shit was beyond his scope.
And oh yeah, he was an asshole.
Couldn’t forget that part. Blizzard aside, he’d pulled some stupid shit this evening. Margo had come at him with full guns blazing tonight and he’d been so shocked he’d done the first thing he could think of.
Piss her off.
Fucking awesome.
Those huge, dark, shattered eyes had killed him, but still he’d kept on kicking.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
What the hell kind of lead singer was terrified to get on stage? A goddamn asshole, that’s what kind. He was reasonably sure he’d be okay in the studio. The sessions with Jerry had been okay. His voice had only warbled a few times.
Mostly because he was used to singing every blessed song but his own. The triggers were there every time he turned around. He could sing Springsteen, The Police, hell…even the crazy high notes of Guns N’ Roses were easy with all the lessons that Jerry had implanted in his head over the last eighteen months.
The opening chords of “Sugar Kiss” began and his hands trembled.
“The Becoming” started and he froze. He powered through a few times, and managed to get to the second verse, but it was absolute crap.
He sounded like an eighty-year-old crooner who should have hung up his hat three decades prior.
Even now, his pulse was throbbing in his head, and his palms were clammy just imagining singing that fucking song.
The song where everything had gone wrong.
Where blood clawed its way up his throat with greedy fingers and horror-filled eyes haunted his dreams.
He shook his head. No. No more. He had to put that shit away or Nick would be on him like a crow on a carcass. He didn’t really want to give him any more ammunition, or rib bones to pick at. He reached into his jacket and touched his ribs gingerly. Bear paw-sized hands for such a skinny fuck.
He wasn’t sure he could handle wild-eyed Nick in the middle of a Tasmanian Devil style beating again anytime soon. Actually, he was pretty sure he couldn’t take it anymore, period.
His gaze drifted to the sideboard table by the door. A crystal decanter with gold liquid sat beside two heavy tumblers. He curled his fingers into his palms. Just to take the edge off.
The edge of nerves, of pain, of facing Nicky one more time tonight.
The whisper of the frosted glass stopper and the sweet maple scent of bourbon. The good stuff. A touch of crisp apple hit his nose as he lifted the glass.
No burn.
Just the smooth slide of warmth and hint of that apple again. He picked up the folded card on the silver tray. “Aged in apple barrels. Well, that’ll do it.” He lifted his glass. “To Happy Acres,” he said as he knocked back the rest of the liquid gold. He refilled and it was just as good as the first one. The familiar warmth flooded his body and climbed up his neck.
It helped with the numbness, and the pain.
He resisted the urge to refill once more. He needed to go socialize, and that wouldn’t happen if he was shit-faced. Not only would he hear it from Nick and Lila, but Margo.
Of course, he’d already made a bed in the doghouse, he might as well enjoy it.
He splashed another two fingers in and went into the bathroom with his glass to rinse it.
No need for his Violin Girl to have an evidence trail to follow. When he was sure the tray looked the same as he’d found it, he patted his pockets to make sure he had gloves and his phone.
He checked his texts. Nothing from Margo.
Just a half dozen texts to come to parties in NYC and LA.
He locked his phone and shoved it back in his pocket. No glittery parties tonight. Well, unless you counted enough Christmas lights to see from a satellite.
More festivus was scattered around the lodge. Lights and pine garland hugged the rail overlooking the main living space. He was pretty sure he’d rather take a nap on one of those coffee-colored leather couches by the fire, but he had to make an appearance at the party.
He had to dig out of the doghouse somehow.
“Fucking lightweight,” he muttered when he had to use the rail as he went down the stairs and out into the brisk windy night. He had pull on the doorknob to get the damn door to shut. The wreath on the door jingled behind him.
More golden apples and ribbon.
In fact, the entire path from the lodge to the store was lit up like a runway. It said: Come this way. We know you want apple-laced confections. He did.
His belly grumbled. Okay, so he really did.
His trainer had ended up going with weight training to curb his love of sweets. He didn’t have the stage to burn off all his energy anymore.
The pang was quick and unexpected.
He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the urge to pick up his microphone.
The rolling laughter and warmth urged him into the storefront. He didn’t recognize a single soul in the room, but he was used to that. How many parties had he been dropped into? Either to show off Roman’s wares, or to schmooze for Audi. The model set knew how to party.
But then again, it looked like the orchard people knew how to as well. And theirs actually included food. He plucked a glass of wine off the tray of a passing waitress with a waggle of brows and a smile.
She spun around in a circle to get a good look at him again, her mouth dropping open.
He kept on moving as he sipped the crisp apple liquid. He scanned the crowd for dark curls, and found quite a few. But none with her elegant neck and flame-colored sweater. He smiled at each stranger who gave him a look, but didn’t stop to engage in conversation.
No, he had one goal in mind.
The table of tarts.
“Hell no, are you trying to get me kicked out of this house?”
Simon’s eyebrow rose at the familiar voice. Nick was crouched down in front of the mutt they’d chased earlier. Of course it was significantly cleaner and his fur was actually the same dark blond on Nick’s head.
And to be honest, the dog’s eyes were just a
s wary.
As Simon closed in, he saw the roll sticking out of the side of the dog’s mouth. Hmm. Those looked good too.
But he still wanted the tart. Especially the raspberry apple one. His stomach growled loud enough to make him reach for a napkin before he let Nick know he was there.
He bit into the flaky crust and moaned. Oh, yeah, that’s the way. He dabbed at the crumbs that had suddenly materialized on his chest.
He was pretty sure the dog was a boy, but the scraggly mutt was wearing a daisy collar with a matching green leash.
Oh, and was trying to pull Nick under the table.
Simon leaned against the doorjamb that divided this room from another and picked his way through the first small tart as Nick tried to have an entire conversation with the pooch.
The dog kept scrabbling under the table, and Nick kept dragging him out. When he couldn’t take the play-by-play any longer, Simon flipped a piece of his tart to the dog and he fell on it.
Nick spun on his heels, still in a crouch. His frown deepened. His fingers were layered up like a fighter as he held onto the leash. “I’m trying to teach him not to take food, asshole.”
Simon crouched next to him and gave the dog’s head a scratch. He peeked under the table and grinned. “Good luck with that.”
“What are you talking about? He’s doing great.”
Simon pointed toward the pile of food crowded around the table leg, half inside the shelving unit and half tucked behind a table leg.
Nick went down on all fours. “Jesus. How?”
“Nice look, bro.”
Nick tossed a sneer over his shoulder. His face went pale and his lips pinched in pain. Served him right.
Simon was pretty sure a rib was going to puncture a lung if he breathed too deep.
Upon a closer look, he didn’t see the deep grooves in Nick’s face that had been there the last time he’d seen him. His eye was purpling nicely, but the overall look of him was a whole lot more content than Simon ever remembered him being.
“Honey, what are you doing under the table?”
“What?” Nick banged his head. “Ow…” His words grumbled away to a muttered string of swear words.
Simon tried not to laugh.
“Umm…nothing. Just getting this scaredy cat to come out and see the people.”
Laverne lifted the edge of the tablecloth. “Poor baby. Come on.” If she noticed the pile of food, she didn’t mention it. The dog slowly crawled forward and let Lila’s mom scratch his ears. “I think he’s going to need a trip to the vet.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Nick said quickly. “He won’t be any more trouble. I don’t want to put him back out in the cold.”
Simon’s eyebrow rose. Deferential Nick and he was taking care of a dog? Who was this guy?
“I know, honey.” She patted Nick’s arm. “We wouldn’t turn a dog out into the cold. You just hang onto that leash. We don’t need a rehash of earlier.”
Nick’s ears went pink. “Right. Of course not.”
“The best pets make spectacular first impressions.”
“Story there,” Simon said.
“I’ll just take him outside. See if he needs to go or something.”
“Considering he just ate a plate of rolls, I’m pretty sure that’s a good idea.”
Nick stood and scowled down at the dog. “Really?”
The dog just looked back up at him with a tilted head, roll crumbs still on his muzzle.
Simon hid his grin behind a sip of wine.
Nick started walking away without another glance in his direction. Simon sighed and filled his plate before following him. He craned his neck one last time, but still didn’t spot Margo.
Simon jogged after Nick, the floor tilting a bit. He should probably cut it with the wine. The three glasses of bourbon were leaving him with a warm glow, but another glass of wine and he’d land on the slippery of drunk.
He popped a cookie in his mouth and stopped at the eggnog. He filled his cup to the brim and took a sip. Apple flavored rum, because why not?
But instead of putting it down, he dunked a sugar cookie into the confection and kept on his current trajectory. The barn doors were wide open, and it should have been cold, but it actually helped the space from overheating. The wind was brutal, but he liked the sugar too much to put his gloves on.
Nick nodded his thanks to a guy outside and his lighter flicked to life.
“Still bumming smokes?”
Nick’s eyes squinted through the wisps of white smoke. “What do you care?”
He shrugged. “I don’t, really. It’s your filthy habit. At least you learned how to buy whitening toothpaste.”
Nick grunted.
Simon held out the plate. Nick stared at it for a moment. He was pretty sure the shit was going to say no, but finally he snagged a peanut butter cookie with a mountain of chocolate fudge on top.
Bastard.
Had to pick the one he wanted.
The dog sat at his feet and Nick broke off a corner.
“No chocolate,” Simon said.
He scraped off the chocolate part with his teeth and gave the rest to the dog. He snapped it out of the air like someone was going to steal it.
Nick wiped off his fingers on his jeans, then dug out his phone. After a quick glance, he stuffed it back into his pocket. His cig danced around between his fingers. A sure sign that he was nervy or worried.
“Where’s Lila?”
“I don’t know.” Nick looked out into the snow, his brows furrowed. “Her folks said she needed to go into town.”
“In this?”
“Thanks. That’s helpful.”
Simon shrugged. “She’s a native. This is probably like us in summer smog season.”
“Yeah, probably.” His gaze strayed out into the rapidly growing drifts. Simon’s followed his path and swallowed down a niggle of his own. People that had just driven up the big hill to the place already had a blanket of snow on their cars and trucks.
The dog pulled at his leash. Nick grunted and hauled him back to his side. “No dying on my watch, mutt.”
“So, now you’ve got a dog to go with the soon-to-be-wife?”
Nick scowled. “I just don’t want the mutt to die.”
“Sure.” Simon sipped from his glass. The proposal thing had been a guess, but the way his hungry gaze had always followed Lila, Simon wasn’t surprised. “But the wife thing, no dispute?”
“I plan on putting a real ring on her finger. No fake shit like you.” Nick let out a lungful of smoke in Simon’s direction. “Then again, fake and plastic is your stock and trade these days, huh?”
Simon snapped his molars together. “At least I have something to fill my days. What are you doing? Sitting in that old house, staring at the walls?”
Another stream came out of his nose. “You know I live with Li.”
No, he hadn’t known. Maybe that ring on her finger wasn’t so far off, after all. “Oh, so you’re sponging then? Same old Nick.”
The light from his cigarette cherry flared hot against the shadows. “I don’t have to work another day in my goddamn life and you know it.”
“Oh, yeah? Is that why we got those shitty Christmas presents last year? I know interest rates suck, Nicky, but they’re not that bad.” When Nick just frowned at him, Simon sighed. “Living off the interest.”
His forehead cleared and he shrugged. “I don’t mess with all that shit. It’s in the bank, I pay my bills.”
“If you’re worried about security, you should have your money in with different financial planners.”
“No one touches my money but me.”
Simon downed the rest of his wine. “Shocker. Your way or no way.” One of the main reasons he stayed away. The minute he gave Nick an inch, they’d all be on stage again. All those old songs, all those old memories.
Simon dug his fists into his coat. All that pain.
“Everyone’s doing their own thing now. Didn’t
you get the memo?” Nick snapped his fingers and the dog scrambled after him, back into the laughter and the light.
Leaving Simon in the dark he’d gotten all too comfortable with since the spotlight on Oblivion had gone out.
13
Lila
Lila climbed out of her mother’s sedan and propped her hands on her hips as she stared at the front passenger tire. See what she got for being nice and taking her mother’s car in case Nick needed to use their rental while she was gone? For what, she had no clue, but she’d done the kind thing anyway and gone back in to get her mother’s keys. Her father had given her a look, but he’d handed them over with a warning: “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Yes, well, so did she. Now that it was done, and the box securely in the pocket of her wool coat, she just wanted to get home.
First, she had to change this damn flat tire.
She stomped through the snow to the trunk. At least she’d made it to the bottom of the big hill that led up to the house. Now she just had to get on the donut and pray that it would be enough to carry her up the steep incline in this frigging snowstorm.
Of course, she could always call her dad or Nick to come get her. But hello, she was an independent woman. She didn’t need to lean on a man—any man, even her father or possible husband. Besides, this was the night of the open house. She didn’t want to interrupt their night.
And yes, she might want to ruminate on what she was going to say just a few minutes longer. Though the snow and cold weren’t exactly conducive to peaceful musing, she could make do.
Before she hauled out the spare, she tugged out her phone and read the couple of messages from Nick. She hadn’t responded or even looked at them yet, mainly because she hadn’t wanted to chicken out. She’d focused on her task and only her task, and now that it was done, all she wanted was to be home.
Preferably in bed with a naked Nick, wearing her ring.
One of his texts made her blush. Another made her frown.
From pussy to Mr. Ed. What the hell?
With anyone else, she’d think he’d fallen headfirst into her mother’s special holiday punch. Not with Nick. Streams of consciousness with no segues were pretty much his trademark.