by Nina Lane
“Fuck you.”
“Simon, that will not get our session done any quicker. And besides, you’re not my type.”
“If you think that’s going to make me smile, you’re wrong,” Simon muttered.
“What’s that stupid smirk I see, then?” Jerry said.
“Me, coming up with a Joker style death. Possibly out my window.”
“Nah. You couldn’t find a vocal coach you like more than me. And I give you a two-fer.”
Simon balanced on the stupid exercise ball that Jerry brought to each and every goddamn session. It forced him to keep his posture completely straight and his shoulders level so he didn’t roll off the stupid thing and land on his ass. He was going for three times down today. Fucking masochist.
The perfect posture also made him focus and not widen his cords. He was conscious of air flow and not straining as he went through Jerry’s paces.
Oh, and the stupid ball tightened his core up like a mother fucker. He was rocking a six pack of abs that would make Deacon jealous.
Okay, not jealous, but at least impressed.
“Again.”
Simon blew an even breath out and started over. Why was breathing and singing so goddamn impossible at the same time? He’d been singing since he figured out how to string words together.
“You know what’s awesome about you, Simon?”
“My eyes, my hair, my abalicious abs?” He flattened his cross trainers on the hardwood and went rock still on the stupid ball.
“The only person that cares about that crap is your agent.” Jerry backed away from the piano and walked around him, his footfalls as measured as his deep bass of a voice.
“And my girl.”
“I sincerely doubt it. Margo has more class than that.”
Simon buried a smirk. She’d licked caramel off his abs last night. “So, then tell me, oh swami, what’s so awesome about me?”
Jerry gave him what Simon thought as The Rock eyebrow. It climbed and climbed into that ridiculous forehead of his. He wouldn’t be at all surprised to see it jump into his shiny melon of a bald head one of these days. “Your Adam’s apple tells me exactly when you’re fucking up.” He bent to look Simon in the eyes and reached for the keyboard. The fucker never looked at the keys and always seemed to know where to put his hand. “Do it again. And don’t growl. It’s shit for the cords.”
Simon tipped his head back and counted to five. It was either that or swing at his vocal coach. He went through the nonsensical words as his jaw worked and he followed the notes.
“Better.”
Freaking finally. He reached for the next pitch and curled his fingers into fists as he cracked. “Dammit.”
“We’ll get there. Now do eight sit ups.”
“Evil bastard,” Simon muttered.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
When they finally finished the session, Simon needed a shower. His shoulders were tight as a drum and he was pretty sure there was a secret rubber band strung between his shoulder blades—and it was about to snap.
“Good job today.”
Simon wrapped a warm towel around his throat. “I do believe you told me I sucked a thousand times today.”
“I said good job, not great job, didn’t I?”
“I hate you.”
“Nah. You love me.” He swiped his huge paw of a hand over his bald head. “When’s your next practice with the band?”
Simon dabbed at the bead of sweat that had rolled into his beard. He’d be happy to finish the photo shoot he’d been commissioned for. The beard thing sucked. “Tomorrow.”
“Cool. Record some of it if you can. I want to see and hear what you do.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, swami.”
“And don’t you forget it.” Jerry thumped him on the back and Simon grunted as he walked him to the door. The guy was as big as Deacon and sang like the angels had dipped him in gold. And he was probably the best damn coach in the state.
Simon paid out the ass for the privilege of his company, too. It was worth every dime. Jerry had given him a shot at getting back on the stage. Five months into his six month stay of execution, and he could at least get his hand around a guitar fret without breaking out into hives.
He’d even managed to listen to the Lit album in its entirety in the car. Okay, so it had taken four days to get through it, but he’d done it.
“I’ll see you next week. Practice, douchebag.”
Simon wrapped his hand around the doorjamb. “You say the sweetest things.”
Jerry snorted.
“Don’t trust me?”
“No.” Jerry waved absently as he walked down the hall.
“Nice.”
“Good night, Simon.”
“Good night, John Boy.”
Jerry lifted his middle finger. Simon grinned and before he ducked back inside, the pounding of feet stopped him.
“Hi, Jerry. Bye, Jerry,” Margo said breathlessly.
Simon folded his arms and leaned against the wall in the hallway. “And what are you doing here?”
“I forgot my violin. Can you believe it?” She jogged as fast as her pencil skirt allowed.
“I saw you leave with it this afternoon,” he said as he followed her inside.
“I know. I had my Starfish to write with Deacon at the studio today, but I totally flaked and didn’t bring my Strat.”
Simon grinned. He’d called her Stradivarius violin a Strat so many times she’d stopped correcting him and joined in. His grin faded. “Studio?”
She crouched in front of the bookcase that she kept her case in. “Yeah. Deacon got tagged to do a soundtrack song for the new Michael Bay movie. He asked me to come in and see if we could get anything down.” She looked up. “I told you, right?”
Simon shook his head.
“Oh.” She stood. “I meant to. We were FaceTiming when you were in London.” Her lips pressed together and a grin spread slowly. “Then we started doing Dirty Mad Libs. I think we got a little distracted.”
“You have a very dirty mind. How was I supposed to concentrate when you told me what you were going to do with your underpants in France?”
She laughed. “You’ll just have to take me next time and find out.”
He slid his arm around her hip and dragged her in. “Well, I have to go there soon.” He couldn’t remember his damn schedule, but he knew it was sometime in the winter. “You should come.”
She sighed and pressed her hand to his chest. “You know I would love to, but…”
“But you have practice and concerts.”
Margo slid her hand along his shoulder and into his hair. “I know it’s been tough lately.”
He pressed his forehead to hers. She was killing herself lately with practice and shows three times a week. And also doing the studio work whenever she got a call. “You know you don’t have to work this hard.”
She eased back. “Simon, don’t start.”
“We never get to see each other lately.”
“Then stop taking every single job Stef offers you.”
“I can’t. The minute I say no, then they won’t ask again.”
Margo bent to pick up her case. “And I can’t turn down studio jobs for the same reason.”
“You’ve got the symphony.”
“Yeah, but I…” She looked down at her ballerina flats. Her usual symphony uniform. Even when they were just practicing, the conductor wanted them in stage clothes.
“You what?” He stepped closer to her.
“I want to do the studio stuff, Simon. I can play Chopin in my sleep, but the stuff I’m doing—especially the work with Deacon—it’s way more me. I get to play and help compose. He likes my ideas.”
“Of course.” He swiped a hand down her back and let her go. How many times had he itched to pick up his guitar this week? How many times had he ignored that feeling because he had to leave for a job?
It wasn’t like he could bring the guitar with him. There was do
wntime galore on a photoshoot, but then there were the questions and the advice. And the stares. Like he was going to perform a damn concert for them.
When they’d handed him a guitar as a prop for Roman’s new leather line, that’s all he’d heard. There was no way he could deal with that all day.
She rushed to the door. “I’m not sure when I’ll be in tonight. Some of the girls want to take Bridget out for drinks. She got engaged.”
He sighed.
“If it wasn’t the engagement thing, I wouldn’t go.”
He held up a hand. The fact that she was making friends with people at the symphony was huge. Just because he didn’t have any friends to hang with lately wasn’t her fault. “Tell Bridget I said congrats.”
“I give it three years if she even gets to the altar.” She shook her head. “I’ll never understand the squeeing and screaming when a girl gets that question. Where’s the panic? It’s just not natural.”
Simon dropped into the leather couch. “Yeah. Who’d want to get married?”
“Right?” She shook her head. “That’s why we’re perfect. Marriage isn’t for people like us.” She smiled wide. “I’ll see you tonight.”
And then she was gone.
Simon reached above his head for the black decorative box. He opened it and pulled out the jeweler’s box he’d been holding onto for the last three weeks. He wasn’t sure where she’d gotten the idea that he didn’t want to marry her. They may have started off a little less than traditional when they’d first gotten together, but now…
He popped open the ring box. A sapphire so deep and blue it bordered on navy sat inside. Diamonds twisted under it creating a unique setting that curled up and anchored two corners of the sapphire. Chaos and tradition merging into one.
The perfect ring for her.
For them.
And one that would probably stay in the box. He snapped it shut and stuffed it back into the keepsake box. He shoved it back on the shelf and slumped down until the back of the cushion cradled his head.
He couldn’t imagine a day without seeing her, or talking to her, or leaving stupid notes for her. He missed her when he was in the endless hotels, or taking another plane out of the country.
Modeling wasn’t supposed to be the way to get all these frigging stamps on his passport. He’d thought it would be with the band. Even if they had to play dive bars across Europe—that had been the dream. Seedy London was made for jamming and the intimacy they excelled at. And now Margo fit in their circle.
He pictured a smoky bar and ridiculous covers of Rolling Stones songs to go with their own. Not the white hot lights of studios that looked no different than the ones in Los Angeles.
Sure, the photographers did some on location shoots, but he couldn’t remember the details. It was all too mind-numbing and endless. Dump him in a trailer for hours on end, people poked and prodded him. For fuck’s sake, he wasn’t modest in any way, but the way the clothing people worked was daunting to say the least.
And now he’d been home for three days and his girl was too busy to give him even a drive-by kiss. And he had to work tomorrow.
Today sucked ass.
CHAPTER TWO
“No, I’m not going to tell you what Simon’s like in bed. Quit asking.”
“Come on.” Bridget tipped her glass of champagne up, making sure everyone in the room could see just how big her rock was. How was she was going to hold her bow up with that? Bridget waved for the waiter. They were on bottle number three.
Were they supposed to pay for all this? She wasn’t used to having people to go out with. Since Simon was gone all the time, she’d ended up going out with the strings section after practice a few nights a month.
She liked the girls well enough. Bridget and Delia were transplants from Boston also. It seemed fitting they’d all glommed together. This orchestra was a lot different than Boston. Things weren’t so cutthroat and practice was actually fun.
Their conductor loved to throw a crazy song in the mix—sometimes it was a show tune, sometimes a rock song, sometimes it was Taylor Swift song. It certainly kept things a lot more fun than her last gig.
Gig.
Cripes.
Job.
A gig was Simon and the guys on a stage with Jazz keeping them pumped with a driving beat. The Los Angeles Philharmonic was not a gig.
She tried to remind herself to be thankful for the opportunity. She could be scrounging for studio work like some of her contemporaries. This was supposed to be the ultimate place for a violinist.
But lifting her bow to her Stradivarius had nothing on her Starfish lately. The purple violin, her crazy upright bass—those were the ones that sang for her. Not the chamber music. Even if Evan Bronson, their conductor, made it as fun as possible.
Her heart was with Deacon and Gray in the studio.
Her soul was on stage with her back to Simon as she soared through the chords, following his voice. Was she ever going to feel that again?
“Margo, you can’t sit there looking off into the distance like you’re having mental sex with that piece of male perfection.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Bridget said.
They wanted the salacious and the dirty details of her rock-star-slash-model boyfriend. If they knew the truth, they’d be sorely disappointed.
Mostly.
Okay, so the caramel thing last had been inspired, but that was because she’d dripped ice cream on her thigh and things had gone…distinctly less innocent from there. She had just enough champagne in her that she smiled and Bridget pounced.
“Give.”
“We’re here to celebrate your impending wedded bliss. Why do you want to know about Simon?”
“Look, I love Brant…and I’m going to love being Mrs. Richmond, but that’s real life. You’re living every woman’s fantasy.”
At least she wasn’t a Bridget and Brant. Ugh. “Simon’s a regular guy.”
“No, I’m sorry. Regular guys are not on billboards,” Delia said and downed the rest of her glass.
When the waiter came by with another bottle, all three women held up their glasses. Margo definitely needed another drink.
No, if she was honest, being with Simon wasn’t normal. It wasn’t awful by any stretch of the imagination. Except when they tried to go to dinner and people constantly came up to the table. Or when they’d gone on a bike ride together to get out of the city, they’d still ended up with a fan chasing them down.
But there were the awesome things too. Her phone buzzed and she looked down. A text picture came through of the little Beanie Baby elephant that Simon had taken to bringing everywhere with him on his trips. She had a whole folder of the random pictures he’d taken with the smiling blue guy. This time it was sitting on Simon’s belly with the sheet rather low.
We miss you.
She snorted.
“Are you getting dick pics?” Bridget snatched her phone.
“Hey!” Not exactly a naked shot, but damn, it was a close one.
Bridget held it up, out of reach and angled it down. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
Margo leaned over and took it back.
“Why don’t I get to see?” Delia asked.
“Because the snapshot was for me.” Margo tucked her phone into her bag. She’d really wanted another peek, dammit.
“He’s got one helluva body,” Bridget said with a sigh. “Not that Brant is anything to sneeze about, but I’ll tell you right now, he doesn’t look like that.”
Margo shook her head. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Sure. Is he really packing an elephant trunk in his pants?”
Margo took a huge gulp of her champagne. “Next question.”
Bridget nudged Delia. “That’s a yes.”
“That’s a none-of-your-business.”
The two women just laughed and Margo poured more champagne.
“You’re way too light on the gossip,” Delia said with
a pout.
Because there was more than enough of it in reality for her to want to discuss anything about her relationship with Simon. “Because there’s not much to tell. He works a lot, I work a lot—when we get to see each other…”
“You fuck like bunnies.” Bridget slid down in her seat a little. “God, I do miss that part. Brant’s been so focused on work lately that I barely get a fuck, let alone a nice long session where he actually goes down on me.”
Margo’s eyebrows shot up. She was used to the language and way too much sharing from the tour bus, but not here in a swanky L.A. club. And not the clubs she’d been in on the Strip. More like the moneyed and the elegant. For God’s sake, they were sitting on a curved booth in a pearl grey velvet that could be in her mother’s sitting room in Boston. All right, so the curved was a bit much, but it was still classy.
“Don’t give me that look.” Bridget pointed at her with her glass. “You’re twenty-six, not ninety-six. There should be wild details about you wearing strap-ons at sex clubs.”
“The chances of me wearing a strap-on are about as slim as me giving you details on my sex life.”
Delia’s eyes bugged out. “Oh my God, does he suck in bed? Is he a total shit? Like, you know, selfish?”
“God, no.” The quick denial put a smile on both Delia and Bridget’s faces. Damn. “Look, I’m hardly unhappy in the bedroom, but I don’t know why you want the details.”
Both girls tipped their heads to the left and stared at her. “Seriously?” they asked in unison.
“He’s just like any other guy.”
Bridget poured another glass. “So, he’s just like any other guy you’ve been with?”
“Well, no.” Definitely not. There were hardly a handful of men that she had to compare Simon to. And in all honesty, there would never be another man like Simon. Period.
Mine.
Mine right now, she corrected herself.
Delia elbowed Bridget. “See that look. That’s an I-get-an-orgasm-every-time look.”
“You don’t?”
“Oh, God.” Delia thumped her head against the back of the booth. “See? Magic dick to go with those magic, unreal eyes. Tell me, are they really that blue? Or does he wear contacts?” When Margo opened her mouth, she held up her hand. “Never mind. I don’t want the fantasy ruined. You’re doing a well enough job, girl.”