Destroyed (Rockstar Romance) (Lost in Oblivion Book 3)

by Taryn Elliott

  Destroyed

  Taryn Elliott

  Cari Quinn

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  CONSUMED

  Join Us!

  Lost in Oblivion Series

  ANYTHING BUT MINE

  SHADOWBOXER

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2015 by Taryn Elliott & Cari Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Book Cover Design: Late Nite Designs

  For Mom, who kept giving me signs that everything was going to be all right. I miss you. Happy Birthday.

  For Cari Quinn who is, and always will be, a ninja.

  1

  Ahh, fuck.

  Simon Kagan swung his foot out and tried to slap it on the floor. His goddamn foot didn't reach. The track lighting above him spun like the lights on the Pacific Park Ferris wheel.

  He shut his eyes against the nauseating view and forced himself to sit up. He scrubbed his hands over his face and found at least two days’ worth of beard.

  He'd shaved for the promo show in Manhattan. He hated to be a slave to his electric razor, but he couldn't pull off the scruffy look as easily as the rest of the guys in the band. It took at least a week to grow a respectable level of scruff. And by then he was itching to get it off his face anyway.

  He lifted the sheet.

  Buck naked.

  Huh.

  That wasn't exactly a surprise. He rarely slept in clothes, but the problem was...he didn't remember getting that way.

  The cotton in his mouth wasn't from vodka. He glanced around the room to find a half dozen bottles of champagne.

  Nothing ended well for him when wine was involved. Including the head-clanging addition of bubbly.

  That was why he stuck to vodka. He knew exactly how much to drink to keep a steady buzz and only tip over into drunk when it was safe.

  At least his ass was on superior sheets. He spread his fingers over the suede-soft comforter and crisp high thread count sheets. A far cry from the ones on his bed at the house they rented in the Hollywood Hills.

  The pillow on the other side of the bed was dented.

  The pillow on the other side of the bed was dented.

  He brought it up to his face and smelled smoke and the powdery scent of something cloyingly sweet.

  Simon wrinkled his nose and tossed the pillow down. He stood on wobbly legs and leaned on the paneled room divider. The wood crumpled into an accordion style window shield and his gut rolled again.

  New York City opened up in front of him. He flattened his palm against the cool glass and evened out. Lights and the effervescent bounce of pedestrians scurrying across the streets made this city just a bit different from Los Angeles. Not that he’d give up L.A. to save his life—

  fuck no—but this city pulled at him.

  Filled with people and yet the sense of isolation resonated.

  He understood that.

  Lived it every single day.

  And the roller coaster of a tour would be starting in five short weeks.

  Part of him itched for it. He was restless and boredom had settled inside his brain midway through the last album. Not during studio time, but the endless drag in between.

  Hurry up and wait.

  Sit.

  Sit.

  Sit.

  Sing, monkey, sing.

  He pushed overlong bangs out of his face and stepped away from the cacophony of street noise that bled through the window.

  Were the windows tinted?

  He frowned and pulled the dark wood panel across the huge window. Even more effective than blackout curtains.

  He’d have to remember that.

  The room went silent again. He padded to the mini bar and found the distinctive bottle of his favorite vodka—Crystal Head. Two other unopened boxes sat side by side on the shelf.

  Nice.

  He splashed the clear perfection into a tumbler and swished his mouth with it. The burn around his gums and down his throat was comfortingly familiar.

  The slap of water in the shower finally penetrated his subconscious. He wasn’t alone—again, not a surprise with the scent on the sheets. Plush carpeting turned to marble floors the closer he got to the bathroom.

  The clear glass stall of the shower gave him an unencumbered view of his guest. Long legs led up to an ass that was definitely a regular visitor to the gym. Bitable to be sure. Dark hair full of suds snaked down her back.

  He frowned as she turned to dunk her head.

  No.

  God, no.

  He wouldn’t.

  He didn’t.

  A long neck flowed into an elegant collarbone, but he started breathing again when his gaze drifted down to her breasts.

  Not hers.

  He’d never forget the surprising fullness of her breasts or the peach tips matched her lips—both on her mouth and the exquisite cleft between her thighs.

  It wasn’t her.

  Wasn’t Margo.

  But Christ, she could have been.

  He dragged his palm against his jawline and down his neck. “Fuck me sideways,” he muttered when his dick lengthened.

  It was always this way.

  The second Margo Reece had come back into his sphere he’d been messed up about her. One goddamn night should not crawl under his skin. Women before and way too many women after her—but he’d never been so stupid as to go for anyone that looked like her.

  Like Violin Girl.

  And now she was on the album. He simply couldn’t get away from her. From the sad tones of her strings layered into “Finally”, to the surprisingly shred-worthy addition to “Torn To Pieces”, she’d burrowed into his head again. They lived in his chest and his head like any of the Oblivion songs. They all crawled in and settled. Some deeper than others.

  Hers settled in with hooks. The more he pulled on them, the more they shredded muscle and scraped bone.

  He’d gone out of his way to avoid her in the studio and he’d managed it until they’d called her in for another pass at “Finally” and he’d been in the box.

  The sucker punch of seeing her.

  Like nothing had changed.

  Like he’d been back in that fucking vocal closet at Trident’s studio. The smell of her in the chair, on his lips, in the goddamn walls. That honeysuckle scent with her musky essence burning on his tongue.

  Time bled away as if it had never been.

  For fuck’s sake, she’d even worn one of her high-collared blouses and black skirts.

  He’d gotten drunk for a week straight.

  But at least he’d been smart enough to fuck blonds or redheads. Nothing and no one that could remind him of her. Of the way she clasped him to perfection and tasted like a dream wrapped in a nightmare.

  He’d drank her
out of his system.

  Until he’d been told about the release party.

  And now he had a very pretty girl in his shower that didn’t deserve to be on the opposite end of his psychosis.

  Part of him wanted to follow the hard-on swiftly growing. Step into the stall and pour himself into her willing body.

  Snatches of their two nights of sex and champagne reminded him that she was very willing. Even if he couldn’t remember her name.

  She slicked back her hair and smiled.

  A perfectly nice smile.

  Just not hers.

  Not Margo’s.

  Being with second best when he was sober would never happen. He wasn’t that masochistic. No matter how hard his dick was.

  Before he could open his mouth, his phone bleated out a rooster’s cry. He winced. That would be Lila.

  She was usually his killjoy.

  He returned to the bedroom and swiped his phone alive. Instead of a call, her beautiful face and huge light eyes filled his screen.

  “Do you or do you not know how to use a telephone?”

  Simon sighed. “Yes, Lila. I do.”

  “Then tell me why it took you two days to answer?”

  He frowned and toggled out of FaceTime to the main screen of his phone. His eyebrows shot up. It really had been.

  Fuck.

  He switched back and slid his sheepish smile on. “Whoops.”

  “Don’t ‘whoops’ me, Kagan. We’ve been searching all over the city for you. The only reason I know where you are is that your credit card company contacted your account manager—namely me—to double check overactive spending.”

  It was a pretty swanky hotel. In New York City, in the middle of midtown if his view had anything to say about it.

  “Had to celebrate.”

  “Well, celebrate your way back home this morning. You have two radio shows to do this afternoon and the release party is tonight.”

  Simon’s gut twisted.

  She would be there.

  He glanced over his shoulder. At least this was one way to move the girl in the shower along.

  “Simon?”

  He nodded to Lila. “Got it, boss. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Now.”

  “Would you like me to pan down with the camera? I need to get ready.”

  “Nothing I haven’t seen before, Kagan. Not like you’re discerning where you show it off.”

  He smirked. “It’s show-off worthy.”

  “So you say.”

  He snorted. “All right, I’ll check out and make my way over there.”

  “Do you remember where we are?”

  He frowned. “Now that you mention it...”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ll text the address.” And then she was gone.

  “Simon?”

  The voice was higher than he was expecting. Almost child-like. He winced and turned around. No, nothing child-like about her.

  He loved women, loved their scents and sounds. But man, he hated a baby doll voice. “Hey, babe.”

  She sauntered in, an exaggerated swing in her hips. She wore the smallest towel possible, flashing half of her perfectly curved hip and a hint of breast.

  All enticing.

  Except one thing.

  Out of the shower, it was even more apparent.

  She had Margo’s look, minus the air of sophistication Violin Girl had.

  For fuck’s sake, she even had her bangs.

  She walked in front of him, her bold fingers sliding around his half hard cock. “I was hoping you’d wake up and come in the shower with me. We had fun in there last night.”

  He winced and couldn’t hold out against a groan as she stroked him masterfully. “Ah, babe. I wish I could.” He stepped back.

  It would be way too easy to boost her up and toss her on the bed with a laugh. Nothing different than any other night. A good time for her, one for him.

  Everyone went their separate ways with a few orgasms under their belts and a goodbye kiss at the door.

  Hopeful dark eyes went wary. “Oh, why?”

  “Work calls. That was just my manager on the phone. Time for me to turn into a pumpkin.”

  She giggled. “Midnight was a long time ago.” She dropped her towel and took advantage of his suddenly cemented feet. With far too much practiced ease, she twisted around the head of his cock playfully. He had a feeling that he’d lost most of the last two days with this beautiful woman.

  He was such a shit.

  But he didn’t want her to feel bad about what had probably been a fun Wednesday into Thursday combo. The first stirrings of memory hit him when she grinned at him with her crooked eye tooth. It was adorable. He always liked the inconsistencies of a beautiful woman. Why one woman could lure and another could repel.

  They’d met at a bar.

  The bar across from the iHeart Radio interview with the band. Where Lila had informed him that Margo was invited to the exclusive party they’d been planning and would be playing with them on the little stage.

  He’d been pissed and excited, but mostly pissed. Every time that woman got around him, he got twisted up. And it was the thought of Margo that got him all the way hard and why he pulled back.

  Fuck.

  He was a head case, but even he couldn’t use a woman like that.

  “I gotta go, babe.”

  “Just ten more minutes,” she said and rubbed her breasts against his chest. “I like you all clear-eyed. So you know it’s me.”

  Shame slicked up his spine and left a bad taste in his mouth.

  “We had a little too much fun the last few days. Now I have to go pay for it.”

  She sighed. “I guess spending two days with a rockstar is more than most get.” She took a step back, grabbed a stretchy black dress off the chair, and slid it over her head. Not a damn stitch under it and she was mouthwateringly tight in all the right spots.

  Fuck, Kagan. You are an idiot.

  He should be on that like syrup on pancakes—instead he felt a little ill. The dress hugged her from shoulder to knee. She clipped her hair up and turned to him and the kick was so hard, he actually staggered back a step.

  She could be Margo’s twin.

  Fucked. He was so goddamn fucked.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” He went to the bar and splashed another three inches of vodka into a tumbler before tossing back the liquid fire. “I just need a little hangover cure.”

  She came up behind him and stroked him from shoulder to ass. “I’d play hooky more often if this is what happened. How long are you in New York for?”

  “Just tonight. Then back to L.A.”

  “Too bad. I have to work tonight.” She tugged on his earlobe with her teeth. “I could call in again.”

  “No. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Tonight is going to be insane.”

  She pressed a surprisingly chaste kiss against his cheek. “Going back to her?”

  He turned his head. “What?”

  “Violin Girl.”

  He dropped his chin to his chest, his fingers digging into the bar.

  “It’s okay. I didn’t mind being your violin girl for a few nights. She’s a lucky woman.”

  “She’s no one.”

  “If you say so.” She trailed her fingers over his shoulders and stepped to the side. She gathered her things and left quietly.

  Simon swiped his arm across the bar. The shattering glass echoing after her.

  * * *

  Margo Reece slipped into her seat. She tucked her violin case under her feet and crossed her legs at the ankle. The familiar press of the case along her foot should have calmed her.

  The flying didn’t bother her.

  Even going on a job didn’t bother her. She’d been jetting from studio to studio for the last six weeks. Any studio work that came into her email or her agent called her about—she went to. She couldn’t afford to turn anything down right now.

  She smoothed the fabric of her skirt d
own and laced her fingers.

  No, she definitely didn’t have the luxury of turning down work.

  A woman with a diaper bag, purse, and toddler in tow dropped into the seat beside her. She invaded more than half Margo’s space. The little girl on her shoulder wrapped her chubby little fists around Margo’s braid. “No, Patsy. Sorry.”

  Margo tugged her hair out of the child’s hand with a wince and tucked herself back against the window. “It’s fine.”

  “She’s just discovered hair. It’s why I chopped mine off.” The harried mother sighed and transferred the child to her other side, but little Patsy had other ideas. Squealing at top volume until her mother set her back on her right shoulder, for instance.

  Margo pressed her lips together when a man that had to be pushing three hundred pounds paused at their row. Really? Because sharing the space with a baby wasn’t bad enough? Now the baby would practically be in her lap regardless.

  She reached into her pocket and took out her phone and Bluetooth headphones. Noise-canceling headphones to be more precise. She tucked the foamy plastic molds into her ears and flicked through her album list to the one she wanted. Wanted perhaps wasn’t the correct word. The album that controlled her lately. In her car, headphones, even the through the tinny speakers of her phone—it was always on.

  In the middle of the night, she curled into her pillow and held herself in a tight ball and forced herself to endure silence just to give herself a break. Only to stumble around in the dark like an addict to find a fix.

  Simon Kagan’s voice was her auditory affliction.

  Music had always been her savior. As a small child, Bach and Mozart had inspired her. The Reece house was cultured. Cartoons and children’s songs weren’t tolerated. Rachmaninoff had transitioned into Paganini and Vivaldi as the violin had become her life.

  There was passion in those composers. She knew this, and they’d ruled her life for so long. She was happy with them—or had been.

  Until him.

  One song had started her down this path.

  How many soundtrack songs had she played on? Too many to count.

  Being second chair—previously being second chair—in the Boston Philharmonic had afforded her a measure of status, but not exactly a monetary one. She supplemented with studio work. From movie scores to the occasional contemporary song, she’d sold her talent to fatten her bank account.