Wicked Serenade: a Lost in Oblivion Collection

by Quinn, Cari

  Carving out the heart she burns so deep.

  Instead of flame it’s ice that remains

  Simon bounced off of Stacy’s curvy butt and into the cement wall. He crowded in again and stroked the indent of her spine. “What’s with the pause on the forward momentum?”

  “Demon stopped,” Stacy said with an obvious pout in her voice. She shimmied higher on Deacon’s back, rubbing said firm ass into Simon’s belly at the same time. “But still the best piggyback ride ever.”

  Simon groaned. He wasn’t quite sure how they’d managed to get through the Fluff and Fold with her clothes intact. His eyes were still rolled back in his head from round one at the skate park and round two on the industrial sized dryer. She was insatiable—exactly what he and Deak needed tonight.

  “Oh, shit.”

  “What?” Simon ducked down to see through the railing. “Why are you stopping?”

  “Sorry, man.” Deacon’s voice was barely contrite. There was too much laughter and volume for Deacon to be saying sorry to Simon.

  Furious whispers filtered out to them from downstairs. Mostly expletives. Inventive ones.

  Simon winced. Man, out of all of them, Nick definitely needed one-on-one time with a babe the most. Crappy timing. “Sorry, dude. There was nothing on the knob. Hell, you didn’t even throw the bolt. We didn’t know you had someone down here.” He backed up a step, but even blurry-eyed with beer, he saw a flash of pink that made him pause.

  Simon strained forward.

  No.

  He wouldn’t.

  But the distinctive purple and pink hair couldn’t be denied.

  Simon slid through the open railing and dropped down to the ground floor of the basement. He stumbled a bit but the haze of red had him tearing through the doorway into the living room. He gripped Nick by the throat and slammed him against the wall. “You dumb piece of shit.”

  He looked over his shoulder to make sure it was who he thought it was. Jazz backed into one of the crates, almost losing her balance, swiping the back of her hand over her mouth.

  Her well-used mouth. The kind of mouth a woman has when she’s sucked off a man well and truly.

  “What the fuck?” Simon couldn’t hold on to the rage. It flooded his beer-soaked brain, clearing out everything as effectively as ice water. He swung, his knuckles connecting with Nick’s mouth. “There was a bar room full of chicks that would have been on their knees in a nanosecond and you go for her?”

  “Her is right here,” Jazz tossed back, kicking the crate out of her way.

  Simon turned his gaze to her. “I’ll deal with you in a minute, Stevie Nicks.”

  Nick took the moment’s distraction to slam his fist into Simon’s ribs. Simon doubled over, a flash of stars rocking his vision as Nick brought up his knee and it glanced off his cheekbone. The pain was so intense he found himself on all fours on the floor, shaking off black spots.

  Nick stumbled to the side, his hands at his own throat. “You crazy drunk maniac. What is it to you?”

  Simon stared up at him. Well, he tried to. He was fairly sure his eye was going to explode out of his socket. “You’re going to ball the chick that just joined the band. The chick that Gray wants?”

  “That chick is right here, asshole.”

  “So? I was only doing my part for band relations,” Nick said with a cocky grin as he dabbed at his bleeding lip.

  Jazz and Gray were here to save them from obscurity and Nick had to screw it up on the first freaking night? Simon knew he didn’t want the new band lineup, but they were so close—so goddamn close to something real—and he was going to blow it all to hell and back for some tail?

  “Son of a selfish bitch.” Simon hauled himself to his feet and shoved his shoulder into Nick’s gut, driving him back onto the couch. Nick grunted when they both went down hard.

  Simon felt the couch give, but he didn’t care. He jammed his knee into Nick’s ribs to pin him down and swung at Nick’s face until he could feel blood slicking his fingers.

  Nick came up with an openhanded slap against Simon’s left ear. His already precarious balance shifted with the ringing in his ears and he crashed through the two crates that made up their coffee table. Flat on his back, Simon dragged a lungful of oxygen into his lungs.

  “C’mon, pussy, is that all you got?” Nick loomed over him, bent at the waist, hugging his ribs.

  Simon rolled onto his knees and used the only thing that didn’t hurt—his shoulder—as a battering ram. Nick darted out of the line of fire and he scraped his shoulder down the cement wall.

  “Do something!”

  Vaguely, Simon heard Jazz’s screech from across the room. But she was the least of his worries. He and Nick had gotten into it before, but the earlier hammer blow to Simon’s ribs was more than them just blowing off steam.

  Simon looked up. Blood streamed down Nick’s face and his eyes were wild with anger. But it was more than that. Wild didn’t even cover it. Simon threw up his hands, but they were beyond a time out.

  Nick swung and Simon managed to duck. Again, he used his shoulder. He and Nick were evenly matched in weight and height, but Nick was a far better fighter than he was. He was also a lot more mean.

  They tore through the place like animals, leaping furniture to get at each other. Leaving one hell of a mess in their wake.

  “Not the amp!” Deacon took both of them by the shoulder and threw them across the room, but he didn’t try to break them up.

  Not good.

  If Deak wasn’t playing peacemaker Nick would pound the holy hell out of him for sure. But Simon couldn’t…wouldn’t back down.

  “Deacon, do something, dammit.”

  Jazz again. Simon snarled and brought a knee up into Nick’s ribs. The fight had started because of Jazz, but even he knew it was just the catalyst. He just hoped he survived the fight without a broken limb.

  “They’ve been on the edge of this for days. Obviously they need to get it out of their system.”

  No help coming there. Phenomenal.

  Nick grabbed Simon’s knee and upended him. They both landed hard on the floor. Simon swore and pushed at Nick, but it was like trying to shove a boulder. Fucker would not move.

  “Son of a bitch,” Jazz hissed, leaping back in a blur of pink.

  “Get out of the way, Jazz.”

  Simon dimly heard Deacon’s sharp command. He was too busy dying to check and see if anyone else got nailed from a flying fist or foot. Or debris. The carpet already looked like they’d been in a ticker tape parade, except their confetti was cigarette butts, a broken crystal ashtray and other assorted junk.

  Nick finally rolled off him, the sole of his boot giving him one last stomp before he stood. “Stay the fuck down.”

  Simon curled into a ball. Pride be damned. He didn’t want to end up in the hospital. “I give.”

  Nick flipped his hair back and wiped at his bleeding lip, then lowered his face to Simon’s. “Of all of us, you’re the one that’s going to give me a morality check? Give me a break.”

  Deacon moved in, grabbing Nick’s arm. “Back off.”

  With reflexes that would do any self-defense instructor proud, Nick rounded on Deacon, pulling his punch at the last second. Deacon reared back, but not before fist connected with bone.

  Deacon grabbed Nick at the back of the neck, his huge hand spanning the entire width, and shoved him at the couch. “Sit down.”

  Simon rolled to his knees, his ribs screaming. Hell, every part of his body was screaming. From what he could tell bruises, cuts, and possibly a busted rib or two were on his tally sheet. But all of that was fine—it was his goddamn face he was afraid to look at.

  “Jesus.” Stacy squatted in front of him. Her hand hovered just over his cheekbone. He craned his neck out of the way and she winced, curling her fingers into her palm. “Got any ice?” Her voice was soft. “I think you’re gonna need it.”

  “Fantastic.”

  Stacy looked over at Nick, then bac
k to him. “You both need ice.”

  Simon closed his eyes. “You think?” The chances of them having ice were about as good as him marrying royalty.

  Deacon muttered something about idiots and broken skulls before disappearing into the kitchen. He came back out with three bags in one hand and peroxide and bandages in the other. He tossed the yellow one at him.

  Simon missed and the bag of bullets—aka corn—hit him square in the ribs. “Son of a—” He reached down for the bag and pressed it gingerly on his cheek. Definitely swollen. “Did you have to go for the goddamn face?”

  “I could ask you the same,” Nick said flatly.

  Simon dropped back on his butt, covering his entire face with the frozen veggies. “I’m the face and the voice, you fucker.”

  “Oh please, spare me the marketing speech. No one cares about you or your face.”

  “I do.”

  Simon pulled down the bag enough to smile at Stacy. “Thanks. We have a damn gig next weekend,” Simon added since no one seemed interested in talking but him. Nothing new there. “I bet I look like I went three rounds with Holyfield.”

  “Worse.”

  “Thank you, Stacy.” Simon leaned on the couch and placed the corn back over his eyes.

  “I’m not the one that came in swinging, Pretty Boy.”

  Simon aimed his middle finger at the ceiling.

  “Real mature.”

  Simon dragged the sweating bag off his face again and opened his good eye to stare down Jazz. “Really? You’re going to open your mouth now?” He smirked. “Think it’s already been at maximum capacity tonight anyway.”

  She gave him a look of pure malice. “You’re lucky I’m not prone to violence, or I’d clock you in your other eye.”

  Nick snorted out a laugh, but Simon ignored him and focused, sort of, on Jazz. “Go back home, little girl. You’ve caused enough trouble for one night.”

  “I’m not a little girl.”

  “Only little girls pull stupid stunts like trying to pit two men against each other.”

  Jazz clenched her fists. It made her look like a toddler having a tantrum. “I’m not with Gray. Why does everyone keep saying that?”

  Simon squinted at her. Was she that dumb, or really that much in denial? He didn’t have it in him to open that Pandora’s box.

  “All right, enough.” Deacon’s voice boomed. “Jazz, sit still.”

  She sat and stuffed her hands under her thighs. “Don’t fuss.”

  “Shut up and turn your head.”

  She lifted her cheek to Deacon, who dabbed at her cheek with a saturated cotton ball. Well, that was just great. They all looked like they’d taken a crash course in MMA training.

  Too tired and hurt to care, Simon put the bag back over his face with a groan. “Stacy, I think tonight’s officially a bust,” he muttered, corn still firmly in place.

  “I’ll take you home.” Deacon must’ve stood up. His voice sounded a lot higher above him.

  “You don’t have to,” Stacy replied, sounding pouty.

  If Stacy thought he was able to perform at this point, she was sorely mistaken.

  “It’s all right, Deacon. I’ll drop her off on my way out.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Jazz’s voice drifted around him in the haze of pain and leeching endorphins from the fight. Simon opened his mouth to say goodbye, but the cut on his lip pulled and blood slid along his tongue. Veto that.

  He really should drag his ass into the shower before he couldn’t move. He shifted against the lumpy arm of the couch and his side sang well into the eighth octave.

  Nope, that wasn’t happening.

  Maybe in a minute.

  Okay, maybe ten minutes.

  * * *

  Ambient noise and familiar scents teased Simon into consciousness. The ever present strum of an acoustic, the rumble of washers and dryers, the over-sweet scent of industrial grade detergent and the moist air that chugged in through the vents and clung to his skin.

  Home.

  His bed.

  His phone buzzed against his dick. He groaned. It was way too much effort to dig into his pocket.

  Not to mention that if he moved, the hurt would come.

  He floated on the too thick air, hoping that sleep would roll him under again. Three pulses and two short bursts vibrated against the side of his morning wood. A few more texts and he might have to roll into the shower just to finish himself off.

  Another three pulses and he lifted his hips. He couldn’t hold back the groan.

  Stiff muscles and sharp stabs of agony combined into the ugliest duet of his career. Now the vibration of his phone was a lightning strike of pain. He dug his phone out to launch it across the room. A dozen blue text bubbles stopped him.

  He dropped back on the bed. Panting, praying, trying not to breathe.

  Memories of the night before assaulted his brain. Kicks, jabs, punishing fists and blood.

  “Goddamn Nick,” he growled.

  His phone buzzed again in his hand. Shit, even that hurt. He looked down at his swollen, split knuckles.

  “Jesus.” He hadn’t been in such a vicious fight since…well, since the last time he and Nick went at each other. Thank God they didn’t do it often. He’d happily wait another four years before he weathered this kind of beating again.

  The bleat of a fog horn—his ringer—screeched out of the phone. He flicked his thumb over the accept button and put the phone on speaker. “What the fuck, man?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour.”

  Simon squinted at the display. “It’s ten in the goddamn morning on a Sunday. Someone better be dead.”

  “Better.”

  Simon rolled his forehead on his forearm. Even that hurt. “Whaddaya want, Trevor?”

  “Did you go to the site? I sent you the link.”

  “What site?” He bit back a squeal of pain. Do not scream like a girl, you fucking fuck. Even if this hurts more than one of Dad’s beatings. Jesus, Nick had Thor’s hammers for fists.

  “Look at your phone, asshole.”

  Simon tipped the phone up and flicked to the texts.

  “Do you see it?”

  “Jesus, Trev. Wait a second. I don’t even have my eyes open yet.” Well, the one eye that he could open anyway. He tapped the link in the text. Blue Rhino’s YouTube page came up. He got a shit signal in his area of the basement, but he read the title.

  “No shit. That’s awesome. Who taped us?”

  “I did.”

  “Very cool.”

  “It’s not just the video, Simon. Look at the hits, man.”

  Simon flipped his phone sideways and scrolled over. That couldn’t be right. He rolled on to his side and swallowed the shout of pain. “Holy crap.”

  “I know! Isn’t it friggin’ awesome?”

  The screen blurred thanks to the red film that shimmered through his vision. He took a long, slow breath and focused. That number wasn’t in the single digits like he expected.

  As he was sitting there, he refreshed and a couple hundred more hits ticked up.

  “Are you messing with me?”

  Trevor laughed. “When the blue lights came up last night and Deacon started this song—I had the right title?”

  “Yeah. ‘The Becoming’.”

  “I only had my iPhone, but shit, man. I searched for it this morning and it was up on the Macon Minute.”

  Simon stumbled off his mattress and swore when every bruise made itself known. He couldn’t quite hide the gasp as the agony in his lower ribs on the right side caused the room to go black.

  “You all right, dude?”

  “Yeah,” Simon managed to get out. He braced himself on the doorjamb and slid along the wall of the small hallway. “Deak,” he croaked out.

  Deacon flew out of his seat. “Jesus, Simon.”

  “I’m fine.” Simon pointed at Deacon’s laptop sitting on the coffee table crates. Mirac
ulously, the room seemed to have suffered few ill-effects from the night before. Unlike him. “Check out Macon’s page.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Just do it.” The order came out harsher than he intended. He had to bend at the waist and drag in a few breaths.

  “Are you all right?”

  The question came from the phone and Deacon at the same time. He waved off Deacon.

  “Hey Trev, let me call you back. Thanks for calling me—I owe you big for this one, my friend.”

  “Sure.”

  Simon jammed his phone in his pocket and gingerly lowered himself onto the saggy couch. He tried to shift over so he wasn’t sitting on top of Deacon, but gave up and propped his forearm on Deak’s shoulder. “Hurry up.”

  “I’m opening the page. Give me a sec.” Deacon tilted his head so Simon got an eyeful of the bruise that shadowed his cheek and jaw. Nick had one hell of a right hook.

  Simon released a long, slow breath as his ribs panged in agreement.

  Deak tipped his head away. “Christ.”

  “Believe me, my morning breath will be worth it in a minute.”

  “Doubt it.” At the insult, Simon dug his elbow into Deak’s neck, only to get a sharp shove in return. “Don’t make me toss you on the floor.”

  “Wouldn’t take much.”

  Simon craned his neck at the voice. Nick sat in the club chair just behind them, his acoustic resting across his belly. He took some satisfaction that Nick looked almost as bad as he felt. “You might want to take a look too, wiseass.”

  Nick gave him a long look, then dug into his pants pocket for his phone. “Macon’s site?”

  “Yeah.”

  They all had Jerry Macon’s page saved in their favorites. He covered the Strip’s music scene. Getting on his blog was fucking-A major.

  “Blue Rhino is barely a blip on my radar, but one of my interns was at a show last night. He sent me a text early this morning going on and on about this band he saw last night.” Deacon’s deep voice filled the room. “So, because I’m always on the lookout for new blood—and I was too hungover to do my usual research on the big clubs—I hit up Blue Rhino’s site.”

  “Nice compliment, douchebag,” Nick muttered.