by Cari Quinn
“It’s really nice to see.” Lila smiled and hoped she didn’t sound as wistful as she felt.
On the love score, she had no complaints. Nick loved her without reservation. She just didn’t know if he’d love their baby. Or worse, if he said he did, and she always had to wonder if it was true.
It wasn’t all his fault. He’d been very open with his lack of role models growing up. He’d seen nothing that made him want to procreate merrily. Their upbringings couldn’t be any more opposite.
She didn’t blame him for anything. She just didn’t know how to bridge the gap.
“I’m lucky. So lucky. It was a long road getting here, but once you get where you’re going, it makes all the steps worth it.” Jazz sat on the arm of Lila’s chair and touched her hair. A year ago, Lila would have shied away from the contact. She had to maintain her boundaries with the bands she worked with.
Now she wanted to hug Jazz tight.
“Hey, you can talk to me, you know. I know I’m not Margo, and she’s your person and all, but if there’s something…if you need a friend, I love you too.”
Lila bent her head, but not fast enough to hide the tears that escaped.
“Hey. Hey. What is it?” Jazz tipped up her face. “Is it Nick? Do you want me to kill him? I know pressure points that can bring him to his knees.”
In spite of the lump in her throat, she laughed. “No. We’re fine.” For now.
That was the part that she always circled back around to. It was so much harder to be afraid to lose something wonderful and perfect than it was to let go of the farce of her first marriage.
“Then what is it? I know it’s been tense in the studio, and you’re under pressure from Donovan and the record company. You have a narrow line to walk. Dealing with temperamental artists, facing down corporate sharks.” Jazz brushed Lila’s hair away from her cheek, another of those casual, tender gestures Lila had loved so much growing up and had learned to do without.
She’d been on her own for so many years. A lone wolf, just like Nick. Separate out of self-preservation.
She’d eventually convinced herself she didn’t need to be held or kissed or touched. But when Nick had come into her life, and the band itself, she’d been like a sunflower in the sun. Yearning for so much.
“Can I touch your belly?” Lila whispered.
Another woman might have shifted away. Even for Jazz, who probably let just about anyone steal a snatch of her joy and rub her ever-expanding belly, it was an intimate thing
“Sure.” Jazz didn’t hesitate to grab Lila’s hand. “Most people don’t ask, just go in for the grab. Of course it’s hard to miss.”
The instant Jazz placed her hand on that mass of warmth, of life, Lila’s tears ran freely.
“Goddammit,” Nick shouted from across the studio, followed by a crack that was probably his hand on a table. “I told you that bridge needed work. Fucking idiots never listen to me. We need another take.”
Jazz sighed. “No wonder you’re crying. You’re a strong woman, Lila Shawcross. I mean Ronson.”
Lila’s lips twitched. “He’s a little possessive of the music.”
“Just a tad. Look, we can go for a walk, if you don’t want anyone to overhear—”
“No. I’m okay. I’m okay.” She dashed away the tears and leaned back until the pinprick lights in the ceiling swam in and out of focus with the pounding in her head.
The pain reminded her quick that she had no time for sentimentality. As did the insistent buzz at her hip. She wasn’t surprised that Donovan was calling. He’d been surprisingly quiet and given Nick the requested space. But the weeks were passing, and he had budgets to make balance and his own people to answer to.
As did she.
“I have to take this. It’s Donovan,” she said apologetically to Jazz. “But thank you. I needed a Jazz-and-baby break.”
“Anytime. My babies are your babies. You can take them anytime you want. Preferably when Gray and I can shack up somewhere and defy the laws of gravity.”
Lila laughed and squeezed her hand, then waited until Jazz headed back into the lunacy before taking the call.
“Donovan.”
“Lila. How are you?”
Hot. Exhausted. My ankles and hands are swollen, and my head is killing me. Oh, and I think my skirt may be cutting off my air. Otherwise, peachy, thanks.
“Good.” She blinked away the last of the wetness in her eyes. “I assume you want a status report.”
“I do. In the old days, the ones where you were not intimately involved with Oblivion’s lead guitarist, I could be assured of having those reports on a regular and timely basis. Now I find they often don’t appear unless I remind you of their importance.” He waited a beat. “Consider this your reminder.”
She rattled off a sanitized version of where they were progress-wise on the album. Donovan was no dummy. He’d been in bands himself in days of yore, so he knew how it worked with most creative teams. Every step forward was marred with shouting and insults that hopefully never made it outside the box.
With Oblivion, one could never be certain.
“So then the opportunity I was presented with today will mesh perfectly with all this forward momentum. Glad to hear it.”
Her stomach pitched. Not terribly shocking, since she might’ve guessed she was on a rocking ship if not for the fact her low heels were planted firmly on the floor. But she couldn’t tell if she was nauseous or hungry or just sick. Talking to Donovan was not helping.
She needed that doctor’s appointment to happen fast.
“What opportunity?”
He outlined plans for a rooftop concert in March at a building in downtown LA. Some photography contact of his wanted to make a big splash, and what better way than to have his favorite band playing their first concert on top of his building?
On top of his building. In mid-March. Welcome to California.
“That’s not long from now.” A month and a half, give or take since January was nearing its end.
“No. But Oblivion will be ready. From that report you just gave me, they’re making epic progress.”
She shut her eyes on her view of Simon holding up his hand in Nick’s face inside the booth across the room. She didn’t want to know if Nick decided to break any of his best friend’s fingers.
Ex-best friend. Current best friend. Who even knew anymore? Not her.
“They are. I’ll tell them.” Quickly, because it looked like she’d be taking a few hours of comp time this afternoon. She tried to flip through her mental database of what she had scheduled but it was like trying to decipher hieroglyphics. The dates and times she always had memorized—her lifeblood—just weren’t there. “Is there anything else?” she asked, gripping the arm of her chair until her knuckles were white.
“No. Lila, are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Maybe if she kept telling herself that, it’d be true.
Just need to eat something. Lay down for a while. The headache will pass.
“You don’t sound like yourself. Are you ill?”
“I’m fine. Goodbye, Donovan.” She hung up and set aside her phone.
She started to rise. It was like moving a mountain through syrup, except the mountain was her. Halfway up, she just sank down again.
Just need a minute. One more minute.
Across the room, Deacon’s deep bass voice echoed through the space. “If you two morons don’t stop bickering like the Golden Girls on testosterone pills, I’m out of here.”
Nick said something. She couldn’t hear what. For an instant, his face came into stark, brutal relief. All that fury and frustration, his golden hair sticking up in every direction from his restless hands. The guitar strapped to him like armor, used to keep everyone at arm’s length while he claimed to want them close.
“Every place you’ve ever gone, everything you’ve ever seen or thought or done matters. It’s all part of the whole. And the whole is more than I’d ever hoped f
or.”
She’d had hope too. Hope for so much. He’d opened up a new universe for her, and stepping inside had been the biggest leap she’d ever taken.
The biggest, and the best.
She stared at him for as long as she could. If she’d had a voice left to call out, she would have. His name was on her lips. That vitality so close, just out of reach.
He would make everything okay. If only she could get to him.
She made it up out of her chair. Sheer will, because everything was shaking. Her arms, legs. She couldn’t control them. Panic seized her, cutting off her air, swimming through her head. The lights danced in her vision. But not just lights. There were gaps in what she could see. Water spots growing bigger, obscuring everything.
Darkness crept in from the corners, and she didn’t fight it. She was so tired. So completely exhausted.
The worry, the pain, the fear. She could let all of it go.
Just…stop. Everything would finally stop.
She felt herself sway, her legs give way. She gripped her belly and cried out at the pain that slammed through her, spine to feet.
And she closed her eyes.
37
Nick
Nick gripped the neck of his guitar. Right now, it was the only thing keeping him from swinging at the asshole crowding him against the mixing board. “Seriously, Kagan, if you wave your hand in my face one more time—”
The cry cut through the voices and music, somehow quiet and barely distinct yet loud enough to make everything stop.
Including his heart.
Even before he turned, he knew. Knew that when he looked over his shoulder out to where Lila had been sitting on the phone, looking pale and a little tired but okay—Goddammit, she’d been okay—that what he saw would forever change his life.
What had mattered before, even a moment ago, just didn’t anymore.
“Guys, come quick! Lila fainted!”
Jazz’s voice was what got him moving. Simon had gone still with his hand still in the air, as if he’d frozen like a statue. Nick ripped the guitar strap over his head and tossed the instrument aside, then shoved Simon back. He did the same to Gray who was attempting to get around Deacon to wrench open the door to the booth. The three of them tried to push through, until Nick managed to push them back and get himself clear.
He was across the room in a shot. So fast that when he dropped to his knees at Lila’s side, the others hadn’t even all made it out of the booth.
“Call 911,” Deacon’s calm, level voice cut through the din in Nick’s head. The roar was so loud that he didn’t hear Jazz’s response, could barely discern the feel of her warm fingers closing around his wrist before she pushed herself to her feet to grab Lila’s phone.
She’d been holding her phone, but now it was just sitting on the table. And she was on the floor, as pale as the white blouse she wore, her lips a light pink as if the color had all bled away.
In front of him, she was fading. Disappearing right in front of his eyes.
He was barely aware of leaning forward to clutch her shirt, of pressing his face to her chest to hear that steady beat. It wasn’t steady. It was supposed to be strong and steady, the heartbeat that carried him into sleep every night.
Not thready and erratic. Not faint.
“Lila.” He tried to speak, to get the word past his frozen lips. He couldn’t breathe. His shoulders, his back, everything was locking up. “Lila.” He groped for her hand, found it cool and clammy. He shook her, dug his fingers into skin that went white from the pressure.
No color. No reaction.
“Nicky, move back. Give her some air.” Simon was at his side, his hand like a steel clamp on his arm. “C’mon, man. Let Deacon look at her. Let her get some air.”
“Goddammit, what happened? Who did this?” Nick reared back and shook off Simon’s hold. Wildly, he searched around for Jazz, quietly speaking on the phone. “You talked to her. What did you say to her? What did you do?”
Jazz shook her head, a tear spilling out of her eyes as she turned away.
Incensed, he looked for a new target. Someone was to blame for this.
Someone. Anyone. He would make them pay.
You’re to blame. You fucking caused this. You said you loved her. Why did you hurt her?
His gaze latched onto Simon. Simon with the regret in his eyes, and the fists he’d braced under his arms as he watched Deacon check Lila’s vital signs as if she was already dead.
As if they’d killed her.
Nick jerked to his feet. “We did this. Always fucking fighting.” He gripped Simon’s shirt in his hands, and Simon didn’t fight him off. Just let him shake him and drive him into the nearest wall. He saw Margo step forward, her face ashen, then just stop and bow her head.
“It’s okay. Nicky, it’ll be okay. Look at me.”
Eyes shut, blind with tears, he shook his head. He couldn’t look at her that way. She wasn’t meant to be on the floor, so still and quiet. She was supposed to be running herd on all of them, barking out orders and keeping them in line.
Without her voice, the room seemed empty. Broken. Devoid of life.
“Nicky. Help’s coming.” Arms came around him, and the familiar scent of Simon, fancy cologne and sweat and detergent, was enough to make him press his face into his shoulder long enough to get his bearings. To stop the world from spinning so he could push him back and find her again.
They all loomed around her protectively, circled close. Jazz speaking softly, Margo holding her hand. Deacon was scooping her up, Gray petting her hair.
“No. I’ll do it. She’s mine.” He nudged Deacon out of the way and lifted her carefully into his arms. She didn’t stir. “She’s mine,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her damp forehead.
Deacon clamped a hand on Nick’s shoulder, walking with him. “The ambulance is coming, but there was a major accident on Rivers. It’s clogging traffic for miles.”
The words blended, became an endless jumble in his head. All he cared about was getting her outside into the air. The sun. She needed the sun. She was so cold.
He had to get her out of this soulless dark box.
“Here, let me help—” Gray began.
“I’ve got her.” Nick didn’t even look at him. “Open the doors.”
“I’ll drive. I have Harper’s van. We can lay her down in back. I’m sorry, man, it’s not ideal in any way but I don’t know what’s wrong. I think she should stay lying down. The van has room.” Deacon’s voice was low, soothing. So infernally calm.
Inside Nick’s head, he was raging. But he kept moving, one foot ahead of the other. He couldn’t help her if he broke down.
If he broke down again.
“Someone needs to call her parents.” His voice held no inflection. He was amazed he could even speak over the fist squeezing his windpipe. “The number is in my phone. Back pocket.” He rattled off his password as Simon pulled it out of his pocket, then started typing into the phone.
Their voices combined into a hum. Instructions, banal shit he didn’t care about.
One foot in front of the other.
Stay with me, Lila.
He was scarcely aware of anything else as they finally reached the catering van and Deacon hauled open the doors.
The back was full of food shit. Utensils, pans, stuff he didn’t even recognize. He was about to bark out for someone to make room for her when Jazz hustled forward to do the honors.
“Not you. For fuck’s sake, she’s pregnant.”
“Thanks for the reminder. Pregnant isn’t dead.” But Jazz didn’t make a fuss when her husband moved forward to shove things out of the way.
Then Deacon was easing Lila out of his arms. Taking her away.
He jumped into the back to crouch beside her, though there wasn’t room. He didn’t care. That was where he intended to be.
Could be nowhere else.
There was talk of splitting into separate cars. Then the doors slammed shu
t, and the darkness covered them both. Closing them in together.
Another slam of the doors and the van lumbered forward, leaving Nick alone with Lila in the silent dark.
He pushed crap out of his way, elbowed to make room. And squeezed in until he could lay down beside her and press his cheek to hers. He would’ve given her his air, his very life.
Squeezing her hand, he rubbed his damp eyes against her hair. So soft. Always the apples. They filled his head, made him find words when he’d been certain they were gone.
“I’ve been looking at land. Lots of land.” He cleared his throat, tried again. “One of the places has a real paddock. Room for a couple horses. I know we only have the one, but it’s a start. This way we can grow.”
He moved his head to her breasts, desperate to hear her heart. If he could hear her heart beating, he could keep breathing. Keep talking.
But he had to stop crying. She could hear him. She could hear every word.
He had to believe it.
“I know you think I’m this complete asshole who doesn’t care about anything. Who doesn’t want anything but the music and the band. I used to be that way. Not anymore. Now, if I had a choice…if I had to choose…” He broke off and rubbed his leaking eyes against his sleeve. “I would always choose you. I would never play again if I can just keep you.” He lifted his head and focused his bleary eyes on the ceiling of the van. “Please, God. Let me keep her.”
In his hand, her fingers moved. Just the slightest wiggle, but it was enough for him to whoop for joy and bring her hand to his mouth. “That’s it, baby. I’m right here. You’re going to be fine. Open your eyes for me. Let me see those beautiful blue eyes.”
She shifted beside him, just the slightest movement. She turned her head toward him and he bent closer to hear whatever she was trying to whisper. Her voice was barely breath. Just the softest hoarse word.
“Baby.”
“Yeah, I’m here. I’m right here.” She never called him baby, but she was sick. “Not going anywhere. You’ll be better soon.”
She made a frustrated sound, twisting toward him. “Hey, hey. Careful. Don’t move.” He sucked in a breath, nearly dizzy with gratitude. If she was moving and impatient, she was going to be okay.