Wicked Serenade: a Lost in Oblivion Collection

by Quinn, Cari

  “So, you’re basically a cabbie?” Simon asked.

  “Something like that.”

  Simon nodded and threw his arm out along the back of the seat. Jazz elbowed him in the ribs and he winced through the black spots. “Can you get your sex stink off me?”

  “Doth protest too much, Pink Petals. You keep going on the way that you do and I’ll think you’re starting to like me.”

  She snorted and drew her legs up under herself as usual.

  “Jazz,” Gray said with an edge to his voice that wasn’t usually there when he spoke to her. Cool as an ice cube in a freezer, that was Gray.

  She sighed and her boots thumped back to the floor.

  Nick slouched down, slipping sunglasses on as he started swiping through his phone.

  Freaking phenomenal. Two pouting man bitches, a manic pixie, and a guy one step away from going Hulk Smash. Simon dug his shades out of his leather jacket pocket and deposited them onto his face. He so didn’t want to deal with this car ride—so he didn’t.

  As with any road trip, he blinked out within five minutes of being on the road. Los Angeles traffic blew.

  He woke to a pair of drumsticks tapping away on his thigh. “Wakey-wakey, sleepyhead.”

  Simon pulled down his shades and squinted at Jazz. “Honestly?”

  She leaned over him to open the door, her cute butt in ridiculously tight jeans taking over his line of sight. Simon dragged his attention away from her infinitely cuppable ass in time to catch Nick’s Adam’s apple doing a hard bob, his gaze glued to her as well.

  Simon quirked an eyebrow at his best friend, staring at him until Nick pulled his gaze away, opened his own door and clamored out.

  Oblivious, Jazz pushed Simon out. He barely had time to catch himself before he hit the pavement. Instead of waiting, Jazz scurried out behind him and around the car to stand under the huge arches of one of Hollywood’s most famous recording studios. Two huge pillars were cemented into the sidewalk on either side of the road leading toward the movie studios.

  Christ, he couldn’t believe they were actually at Ocean Way Studios.

  She swung around, holding her phone out. “Simon, you gotta take my picture under the arch. Oh my God!”

  Simon grinned, unable to resist her excitement. He snapped a few pictures, inviting her to strut her stuff. By the time all was said and done, Jazz had pictures with everyone in the band and they were all laughing as they stopped at security.

  Leave it to her to break the ridiculous tension. Even if she’d helped cause more than her fair share of it.

  She skipped ahead, flicking through the pictures. “I started an account on Instagram for us—you know, the band. I figured we could post stupid pictures from backstage and stuff.”

  Simon laughed. “And who would care about our pictures, Pink Power Ranger?”

  Jazz rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him. “Quite a few people, actually. I have about a hundred followers since the new vid went up this morning.”

  “There’s another vid?” Deacon asked, turning away from the guard.

  “Yep. We’re already at seven thousand hits this morning. They really like ‘The Becoming’ and ‘Taste of Candy’.”

  “No shit?” Simon dug his own phone out and tapped into YouTube as they waited to get checked in from the very official-looking guard.

  “We’re in.”

  Simon looked up from his screen. “We’re actually on the list?” Deacon’s smug smile made him want to punch him, but Simon wasn’t entirely sure the Peacemaker wouldn’t break protocol and land him flat on the pavement. No thanks, he was just starting to feel better.

  He stuffed his phone into his pocket, surprised they were heading away from the impressive gold and silver arches. He thought for sure they’d be going over to the movie studio part. With all its panes of reflective glass, the building in front of him made him wince under his shades. It was massive and seemed to be held up by peg-leg looking silver columns.

  The Jetsons meet Hollywood.

  Deacon led them toward a smaller, older building on the corner. There was a marked difference from the uber-modern one to this one with its warm wooden door and stucco walls. Side by side, the two structures couldn’t be more different.

  Deacon opened the door and waved them through. Slick Mick—aka Jackson Miller—waited at reception. His beaming smile made Simon roll his eyes. And also be thankful he was still wearing his sunglasses.

  Miller held out his hand to Deacon, pumping his palm like a car jack. “I’m so glad you called me this morning. Why don’t I show you around and then we can meet the music director for Pacific Coast.”

  The stupid tingle was back. It coasted from Simon’s gut to his skin, leaving an itch he couldn’t ignore. He smiled at the pretty little receptionist, but instead of the usual grin he got in return, she stared him down with a blank face.

  Well then.

  Simon shrugged, flashing her a wider grin, pleased when her mannequin face changed and her gaze sharpened on him. Corporate tail would be a new addition to his repertoire. Interesting.

  Jazz rapped his knuckles with a drumstick. “Simon, keep up.”

  He frowned down at Jazz, her Pink Power Ranger name especially fitting today with her tight pink tank, blinding white jeans and huge silver belt buckle that looked like it should house an array of secret gadgets.

  His gaze dropped away from her pert little ass and took in the long, lean lines of low couches and finally focused on the wall-to-wall framed pictures of prior artists that had worked in the studio. His own heroes Rebel Rage and Wasted Youth were crammed next to legends like Frank Zappa and…holy Jesus—Frank Sinatra?

  Simon hurried to catch up, following the group down a long hallway. The walls were crammed with session pictures of Eric Clapton, Don Henley and Ray fucking Charles. Jesus fuck. Was this the real deal?

  A moment later, they were pushed through a door and his heart simply stopped.

  The control room contained acres of boards with knobs and dials, meters and a huge computer screen with far more complete versions of ProTools than what Deak had to work with. Through the glass was a cavernous recording room. Even with fifty folding chairs littering the center of the space, it was massive. Microphone cords, discarded instruments and dozens of stands littered with songsheets attempted to fill the space. But it was simply impossible.

  The room was imposing, awe inspiring and made his gut jitter so bad he almost bent over to take a huge gulp of breath.

  He tried to tune in as Miller babbled on about the high end electronics and sonic this, equalizer that, but the white noise in his head just made it all sound like gibberish.

  An honest to God studio with honest to God space. Hell, it even smelled like music. A little sweaty, a little dusty, topped with a thick, creamy dollop of pure heaven.

  Without thought, he wandered through the door to the huge room.

  “Simon.” Nick’s sharp command couldn’t stop him.

  He had to see the room.

  Had to taste it.

  It smelled empty—like the lifeblood of the space had been hit with a pause button. Obviously, they had been doing a score. The discarded instruments consisted of high-end strings and brass from an orchestra. All of them lovingly tucked into velvet lined cases beside the chairs. Cases that weren’t plastered with stickers or broken locks.

  Perfect and well cared for.

  All save one.

  The electric violin was a deep violet color and sat sideways on a padded folding chair. It had an otherworldly shape. It still had the shape and form of a violin, but it was cut out and streamlined with string knobs that looked more suited to a weapon than an instrument.

  He brushed his knuckles over the neck lightly.

  “Touch that and I’ll break your fingers.”

  Simon’s head jerked at the smooth voice that came from his right. The owner was slim and tall in trim black pants and a crisp white button-down shirt. Her dark hair was scraped b
ack in a severe tail, not a lock out of place. Huge, serious brown eyes pinned him to the floor. One perfectly arched brow was the only telltale sign that she’d even spoken to him.

  His cock got hard so fast he had to bite back a grunt from his zipper’s unhappy stranglehold.

  “Did I stutter?”

  He curled his fingers into his palm. “No, you didn’t.” Trying a charming smile, he held out his hand. “Simon.”

  Her lashes lowered, giving her eyes a feline tilt. She tipped her head to the side, but didn’t reach for him. “Who are you?”

  “I think I just said my name.”

  That eyebrow arched again. “You could be John Smith for all I care. Who are you?”

  “I’m with the band, baby.”

  “Please.” She turned on her heel and walked back out the door. The trail of honeysuckle teased a groan out of him.

  Simon rocked back on his heels, then stared at the ceiling and laughed.

  Deacon ducked his head in from the control room. “Would you get in here?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Hold your balls.” And because he could, he touched her violin before following the sounds of his bandmates through the cracked door.

  Eleven

  Nick: Breaking It Down

  You build me up,

  take me higher, only to break it all down.

  Nick spun his cell one way on the table in front of him, then spun it the other. When it clattered onto the floor, he sighed, reached down to retrieve it and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he started tapping out a new song he was working on with the studio pen and pencil he’d snagged. Free stuff was always a good thing. His cupholder at home proved it. He wouldn’t have to buy a Bic until he was in the old folks’ home.

  God, he was bored.

  Being in the studio was completely different from being on stage. Three days in and he hadn’t really adapted yet. There were no crazy spotlights, no smoke machines, no fans chanting or snoring depending on the show. It didn’t matter, since the same ol’ nerves surfaced about practicing with people he didn’t know that well.

  Add in the various musical voyeurs who wanted to take a piece of them financially—if they decided Oblivion was worth the effort—and Nick had a permanent itch between his shoulder blades. Too many people. He couldn’t keep still while the orchestra members tuned up in the adjoining rehearsal room.

  The first couple of days had been about explaining a whole fuck ton of shit he would never remember about the sound board and the soundtrack and the big ass movie the score would be attached to. Then they’d started rehearsing some of Oblivion’s most popular songs, just to ease them in. Over and over again. He didn’t consider himself a genius at reading people, but even he could tell they’d yet to start impressing anyone.

  Huge surprise there. The five of them had been working together for a few weeks. They were still struggling to anticipate even the most basic of key changes from each other.

  The good part was this wasn’t about how they usually did things. Jackson Miller had brought Oblivion in to fulfill a specific need. And the guys behind the boards were pulling their strings under the guise of getting the perfect sound.

  And the perfect song, which apparently wasn’t one of Oblivion’s. That was Deak’s and Gray’s little ditty, “The Becoming”.

  Becoming Shit, from the sounds of it right now.

  Deacon seemed to be his usual calm, unflappable self, cracking jokes with the sound engineers and chatting with the dude that brought them coffee—mineral water with lemon for Simon, who claimed his voice needed “babying”—as if he’d known them forever. Gray went through the motions with silent skill, doing whatever was required with his own inimitable style. The control board people took to him immediately, sensing he was a technician like them. One who did what was required with no fuss.

  And they glared a lot at Nick.

  He’d probably never be at ease playing around people he didn’t know well, and that flaw had made itself known the few times they’d actually needed him in the studio. But oddly enough, the last time he’d played for Blitz, none of the nerves had surfaced. Maybe because the studio was such a contained bubble that once he’d gotten used to it, he could pretend he was alone? Whatever the reason, he knew Nelson and Blitz had been more impressed with his last take than any of the others, though that hadn’t led to increased playing time. Yet.

  As for Jazz…she blindsided Nick every time he saw her. Her pink and purple hair was in a mass of braids that clinked when she moved, and she’d popped in purple contacts that matched her tight jeans and tit-baring top. Her breasts weren’t totally on display, but damn close enough. He could practically see her nipples.

  Fuck, he wanted to see her nipples. Taste them. Soak her skin in whiskey and watch the liquid bead and trickle down the pale slope of her belly.

  But that would have to wait until they got through this BS.

  Now it was Thursday, their third day in the studio—the first day had been for the building tour and the spiel and the gladhanding—and it was all more of the same. Mixing and matching harmonies to beats, trying the song with different arrangements, different lead singers. Not always Simon, since he seemed to be having trouble reaching the higher notes without screeching. The lemon hadn’t done anything but make the studio reek while Simon sulked and watched Gray take his place for this go-round.

  Fucking Gray.

  “This is all your fault,” Nick said to his best friend while Gray and Deak sang their song. Jazz banged away on the drums in an isolation booth. The guys were rehearsing to a scaled-back demo of the song done on the keyboards, sans guitars, played by the virtuosa herself, Ms. Jasmine Edwards. Now she was adding the percussion layer.

  Those three hadn’t had a free minute today. Him and Simon, on the other hand, were real busy doing nada.

  “I could sing that better than him.” Simon jerked his juiced-up water at the glass that separated them from the main rehearsal room. “Gray’s a guitarist, not a singer. That’s my job.”

  “Not today it’s not.” Nick leaned his head on Simon’s shoulder. “How does it feel to be nudged out of your own band? To be handed your nuts by a guy who’s just barely old enough to crank out some chin pubes?”

  Simon shoved him away. His face was turning into a mosaic of sickly colors. They matched the patchwork of yellow and green on Nick’s torso. At least their cracked lips had mostly healed. “Gray’s only a year younger than us. Doesn’t seem to bother you when you’re fucking Miss Barely Legal behind her kit.”

  Nick grabbed Simon’s water and took a long pull. Tart lemon blasted his tongue. “Jeebus, that’s nasty. Sure you haven’t shriveled up your cords? Could be why they ain’t working.” With a grin, he handed back the water. “And I haven’t fucked her. Yet.”

  “Matter of time.”

  Nick kicked his feet up on the desk, wincing only a little. Most of his bruises had healed enough that he wasn’t hobbling around like a senior citizen who’d missed his morning ex-lax. “Aww, want to have a chat about girls, Pretty Boy? I’m down. I saw that iced-up brunette in the orchestra giving you the eye, though she looked like she wanted to nail you with her bow—”

  “Shut up.”

  Nick scratched his jaw and decided pissing off Simon was a fine substitute for being pissed off himself. Why should it bother him he was warming a chair instead of rehearsing with his own freaking band? No reason.

  “I could think of some fun things to do with a bow, actually,” Nick said in an undertone. “Imagine if you tied up that prissy babe’s wrists and—”

  “Can it, would you?” Simon stalked out and slammed the door, shaking the glass hard enough that Gray glanced up. He sneered at Nick, his expression saying more than a string of curses.

  Loser. Who’s in there and who’s out here?

  Oh, really. So that’s how they were playing things now. And Nick had actually been feeling guilty enough since the Frenzy show to steer clear of Jazz.

  For the most p
art. A few kisses heavy on tongue and a couple of boob grabs behind the soundboard didn’t count. She had grade A tits, and he wasn’t a saint.

  He dropped his feet to the floor and rose. So much for trying to hold himself in check. Gray wanted to act like a dick about something way more important than a little slap and tickle? He’d reciprocate.

  Time to see who was really the loser when he had Gray’s little pink princess panting through an orgasm feet away from him.

  Nick cracked his knuckles as he made his way to the isolation chamber. Jazz was taking a break for a couple minutes while the vocal coach worked with Gray and Deak, so it was a good time to give her a break as well.

  He opened the door and slipped inside the darkened booth. Jazz’s head whipped toward him from where she was leaning against her kit. She’d been drinking, but the sight of him made her stop. The plastic bottle slipped from her hand and bounced on the floor, trickling water over her toes. Her bare toes. She didn’t like to wear shoes while she was behind the drums.

  If she got any more delicious, he’d be on his knees with his tongue stuck up that slick pink crevice between her thighs.

  Would be anyway soon enough.

  She bent to wipe up the water and he leaned forward to grab another tissue—and to nonchalantly turn on the mic.

  “What’re you doing in here, Nick?”

  “You’ve been working really hard.” He crouched to blot up the water. Lots of expensive equipment in this place. Lots that he wasn’t getting touch.

  He’d get to touch the prettiest piece of all in about thirty seconds.

  “It’s fun.” She flashed her trademark grin. “Nothing really fazes me.”

  Yeah, and that was another knee in the gut. Jazz rolled with the musical punches better than any boxer he’d ever seen. She played every instrument they threw at her well. If he, Gray and Simon gave up the guitars, she could probably take their place. The only thing he’d yet to see her do was write songs. Evidently words weren’t her favorite thing.

  Right then, they weren’t his either. It was time for a live action sequence.