Wicked Serenade: a Lost in Oblivion Collection

by Quinn, Cari

  “Stupid, foolish romantic heart,” she said under her breath. She hurried into the bathroom and shed her clothes before she could be tempted to dig out Molly’s letter again. She would open it when she was ready.

  She would be soon. Maybe. Possibly.

  She carried her bath stuff to the tub, then added a bunch of bubbles before slipping into the water. The surprisingly cool spring day had make her fantasize about a hot soak all evening. Naturally she’d wished Gray would be home to join her, but as that wasn’t in the cards, she was going to have a fine time on her own.

  After sighing her way through the first few steamy minutes, she fumbled for the expensive pair of waterproof headphones she’d bought for this very purpose. She turned on her waterproof radio, setting it to the classical channel before shifting around so her belly poked through the bubbles.

  “You ready for the nightly concert, kiddo? Sorry about the noise earlier. Mommy screwed up her part so she had to keep doing it over and over. I bet you probably hate ‘Monster’ now. Me too, but it’ll be kickass live. Uh, I mean kickbutt.” She cast a glance skyward and sent up a quick apology. Lord, this parenting thing wasn’t easy, and she hadn’t even gone through childbirth yet. “Anyway, this music is much more suitable for bedtime. If it doesn’t put you to sleep, I don’t know what will.”

  Carefully, she placed the padded headphones on either side of her slightly rounded belly and turned up the volume until she could just barely hear the strains of Chopin. Supposedly babies who were exposed to classical music in the womb were much more likely to be prodigies. She didn’t care if her child was a prodigy. All she wanted was for him or her to be smart and happy and know how much he or she was loved. So very loved.

  If the kid happened to be born loving music, that would be a plus.

  She tipped her head backward against her little inflatable bath pillow and closed her eyes. God, she was so tired. Exhausted. Worrying all day about the Molly thing and then the stupid not-quite-an-argument with Gray and his subsequent radio silence had worn her down. She knew he was probably just working. He’d told her he was, and she believed him.

  She’d believed him before too.

  Goose bumps flared over her pinkening skin and she rubbed them away, unwilling to go down that path. He’d kicked the drugs. He’d gotten treatment and he was committed to his sobriety. Borrowing trouble never did anyone any favors.

  Maybe if she slept for a bit, when she woke up, Gray would be there.

  But what if he wasn’t?

  Two

  Gray walked into the bedroom he shared with Jazz at Oblivion’s rented house in the Hollywood Hills, his head buzzing with chords and lyrics. That was his favorite part about all-day and night sessions. If he kept at it, eventually the music hijacked his consciousness and everyday life became superfluous. Problems faded away. Paying bills and forgetting to pick up a card for a birthday or to drop off the dry cleaning—ha, as if the band got stuff dry cleaned—all ceased to be important.

  Luckily he’d found that was still true for him even when he wasn’t creating the music on his guitar, but with his pen. In the short time he’d been farming out his songs to artists, he’d already begun to note differences. Some didn’t want what he was selling and intended to fight him at every turn. Others wanted to make sure he knew they needed to put their own mark on his lyrics. Some said it confrontationally, as if they expected him to be a diva about the whole process.

  He truly didn’t give a shit. He understood a band needing to add their own flair to the lyrics he came up with. Actually he preferred that. He didn’t want his songs sung by robots just collecting a paycheck. Music mattered.

  When the group he worked with was like today’s band, The Grunge, collaboration became seriously fun. They’d let him into their practice space and treated him like one of them, rather than an unwanted emissary sent over by a hostile record company as some groups tended to do. By the end of the night, they’d worked on two solid songs and were halfway to a third. He’d even gotten to jam with them, because they were Oblivion fans. How cool was that?

  He started to call out for Jazz, then noticed the bathroom door was cracked open and light beamed out from underneath. He grinned and shucked his T-shirt, ready to make up for their sort of argument earlier. He’d been driving without his hands-free headset when her second call had come through, and though he’d fumbled for the phone anyway, he hadn’t gotten it in time. As tempted as he’d been to call her back, he’d known that they would probably get into it again and he needed to keep his head in the game.

  Somehow he had to figure out how to express to her the importance of him logging some serious songwriting credentials. If he could crack that nut, they wouldn’t have to worry financially for a damn long time, but she didn’t seem to understand that. So he would keep trying.

  In the meantime, he’d make it up to her for their fight the best way he knew how.

  His hand lowered to the button of his jeans as he licked his lips and walked toward the partially open door. He could already tell she’d used that watermelon body wash again, and the scent instantly made him hard. Nudging the door open with his foot, he leaned inside, ready to drop his jeans and boxers in about five seconds flat if she seemed interested.

  Instead he froze, the greeting on his lips turning into a long exhale.

  She was asleep in the tub. The frothy water lapping around her belly and breasts didn’t hide the headphones on her stomach. Tinny classical music played while she slept. Her cheeks were rosy from the heat, her lashes heavy and dark on her porcelain skin. The warmth had pinkened her up, increasing the flush on her throat and nipples.

  He shifted. Fuck, he shouldn’t look at her nipples right now. Not when he had a goddamn lump in his throat from the simple sight of her with those headphones, cradling their baby. She’d mentioned playing music for the baby but he’d never actually seen it. He had no choice but to drop to his knees beside the tub to rouse her with soft fingertips on her damp cheek.

  “Hey,” he murmured when her lids lifted drowsily. “I’m sorry to wake you.” He slipped his hand into the water and frowned at how cool it was. “Come on, let’s get you dried off and into bed.”

  “Nuh-uh.” She sat up and nudged away his hand. “I’m fine. What time is it?” Then she slumped back down, sending the headphones plopping into the water. “You’re here.”

  “Of course I’m here.” He fished out her headphones and shook them off. “Not sure these will be here for much longer though.”

  “They’re waterproof. I paid a mint for them so the baby could listen to music while I napped.” She yawned. “Turns out napping is something I want to do a lot lately.”

  He frowned, noticing the paleness of her cheeks now that the warm water flush was fading. “You’re working yourself too hard. Did you finish in the studio?”

  “Yeah.” She turned her cheek toward her inflatable pillow, her eyes already closing again. “Now give me my headphones and I’ll just doze a little longer.”

  “Nope. You’re headed to bed. Non-negotiable.”

  “But—”

  “Non-negotiable,” he repeated, setting the headphones aside before rising and lifting her out of the tub in spite of her sputtering. Foamy water splashed everywhere, dripping from her body as he carted her into the bedroom and laid her down on their bed. “Stay,” he said when she leaned up on one elbow.

  “I’m not a damn dog.”

  “No. But you’re incredibly beautiful and I want to towel down my wife. Is that okay?”

  Watching her face soften eased the irritation flaring to life inside of him. He wanted to put her in a bubble and keep her and the baby safe from all threats, whether they were financial difficulties or cold bathwater. Was that so wrong? Wasn’t that his job?

  “I’m not your wife yet,” she said quietly. “Not technically.”

  He headed into the bathroom to grab a thick purple towel and returned to sit beside her on the bed. He lifted her arm and
began to dry her, slowly and methodically. Not leaving a solitary spot on her arm untouched until she let out a laugh. “What is this? Death by terrycloth?”

  He didn’t smile. Nor did he stop drying her off. He moved down to her hip, studying it intently to avoid gazing at the rosy pink slit between her legs. “I’m going to be overbearing with you, and you’re just going to have to deal with it, Edwards. I know you’re a strong woman. You’d have to be to put up with my stupid ass. But when it’s you and me and we’re alone, I need to take care of you. It’s this…urge inside me.”

  “Is that so?”

  The amusement in her tone made him turn his head. Her annoyance had disappeared as fast as it had come, leaving her smiling and gorgeous and damp. Suddenly, not discovering if she was wet all over seemed like a terrible waste. “It’s so,” he said, moving forward to catch her laughter with his mouth.

  “I’m not supposed to complain about this.” Easing back, she tilted her head, one dark curl slipping into her eyes. “I’m supposed to just lie here and take it.”

  Taking her statement for the invitation it was, he tossed aside the towel and shifted on top of her, careful to lift his torso off hers as they settled into the pillows. As usual, she realized what he was doing and grabbed his ass, pulling him down on top of her hard enough that his lips crushed onto hers. He gripped her hair in both hands, losing himself in the sensation of her tongue sliding sensuously over his. Tangling, teasing. His breathing hitched when she wrapped her leg around his hip and arched against him, rubbing her bare pussy over the rigid length trapped unforgivingly in his jeans. “Missed you today,” she whispered, biting his lower lip. “Don’t want to ever fight again.”

  “I do.” He saw the hurt flash into her drowsy gaze before he grinned and licked a path down her throat. “Because I sure as hell have no problem with the makeup sex.”

  “Jerk.” She laughed and smacked his shoulder before wiggling out from under his body. She sat up and grabbed the towel, briskly drying her hair.

  “Jeez, shut me down, why don’t you?” Without bothering to hide it, he adjusted himself. Touching his cock through the denim added a new layer of torture. “I never realized you were into punishment, Mistress Jasmine.”

  Her lips barely twitched. “I’m not. We just need to talk.”

  “That sounds ominous. Are you leaving me for a Nordic ski instructor named Sven?”

  “You know I can’t ski. Besides, I have this thing for emo rockers.” She gave him a flirty smile over one shoulder that didn’t quite reach her eyes and rose to her feet when he made a grab for her. “I need you to see something. Then you’ll understand why I was so out of sorts today.”

  “I’ve already seen plenty, and now you’re walking away. Christ.” He flopped down on the mattress and indulged in an extended moment of masochism by watching her cross the room to the dresser.

  Her body had started out as a damn work of art, and now that her curves were becoming fuller, she was even hotter. That tiny baby bump was going to do him in. He was probably developing a fetish.

  Damn, he wanted to kiss and lick every square inch of her, then do it all over again.

  “An envelope?” he asked as she turned back.

  Saying nothing, she rejoined him on the bed and handed it to him. The name in the corner didn’t register at first. When it did, he glanced at her in surprise. “Your sister?”

  She nodded, her eyes too bright.

  He turned the envelope over, intending to pull out the contents, only to see it was still sealed. He flipped it over again. “Why haven’t you opened it?”

  “Because I can’t.” She pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them, and for a second, he was thrown back into the past. Their past, when she used to come into his bedroom at his parents’ house and they’d talk and laugh and play their guitars for hours. She looked just as young and innocent now as she had all those years ago, though she’d lived through more difficult shit than he would wish on his worst enemy. But it hadn’t hardened her. Somehow the beautiful streak of vulnerability he’d noticed the day they’d met still shone through her blue eyes and made his hands ball into fists against any unseen threat.

  She was his, and he would protect her no matter the cost.

  “Why?” He forced his voice to remain level. “Has she contacted you before?”

  “No. This was the first time. But I needed to talk about it with you.” She lowered her head until the long hanks of her wet hair fell down over her cheek. “Maybe that makes me weak or foolish or sappy, but I needed you to tell me it would be okay no matter what. That if she wants to see me, it’s going to be fine. That if she never wants to see me, it’s not going to break me any more than I’ve already been broke.”

  “And I blew you off,” he said, clenching his fist around the envelope for an all new reason. The thin paper wrinkled, and he smoothed it with his thumb.

  “No, you didn’t. You were working and I was being a selfish brat. I’ve spent so many years without you that I guess part of me doesn’t believe this is real. That you’re really here and you really love me. That this baby is going to arrive and he or she is going to be whole and perfect and hopefully will pick the drums over the guitar, because he or she has true taste.” Her mouth quirked up on the last bit, but she still didn’t look at him. “This letter—it felt like the beginning of our end,” she whispered. “Here’s the other shoe. Now watch it drop.”

  “Jazz, look at me.” When she didn’t, he cupped his hand under her jaw and lifted her head until they were eye-to-eye. “This isn’t our end. We don’t have one. We might have had the longest beginning in the history of life, but now we’re on the road to our future. No detours. No back alleys. No fucking shoes.”

  “Why is she contacting me now? It’s been so long.”

  “I have some ideas,” he said, wishing he could snatch back the words when she closed her eyes.

  “You think she wants all the money I don’t have,” she said, sounding utterly exhausted. “Harper thought the same.”

  “You talked about this with Harper first?”

  “She was available,” she said, twisting the knife and leaving him to bleed.

  He moved back and set the envelope on the mattress between them, hating its presence almost as much as he hated this endless loop they’d gotten caught on since this afternoon. Had they been overdue? Things had been going so well. In the weeks since he’d been back from rehab, they hadn’t fought once. All they’d done was talk, and laugh, and make love. And yes, there were times when he caught her looking at him too long and hard, as if she were waiting for minute cracks to form in his armor. Once an addict, always an addict some said, and he wasn’t naïve enough to think she never wondered if he’d fall off the wagon.

  But that was one concern in the middle of a hell of a lot of happiness. They were finally building their lives together, and nothing else could intrude on their bubble of bliss.

  Until this. And the work that had unintentionally taken him away from her when she needed him most.

  “You should’ve told me,” he said, buttoning his jeans. “I can’t read your mind.”

  He expected her to argue. Not to say softly, “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.” He heaved out a breath and wrapped his arm around her, tugging her against his chest where she belonged. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, baby.”

  “It’s not your fault. You were just taking care. You know, because of that urge you have.” Her lips curved but it didn’t take a genius to see her heart wasn’t in it. She toyed with the button on his jeans, flipping it open again and nearly making him groan. “I have urges too.”

  “Yeah, and yours aren’t helping mine when you’re sitting around naked and I have the hard-on from hell.”

  Her giggle acted as a balm to his soul. He’d cheerfully kill to hear that sound every hour of every day for the rest of his life.

  “You know, there’s one way we could stop debating what Moll
y wants,” he said, brushing a kiss over the top of her head. She smelled like soap and watermelon, as fresh and pure as a summer’s day.

  Nodding, she picked up the envelope and pushed it at his chest. “You open it.”

  “Is this a variation on how you open your Christmas gifts as if someone is giving you a poisonous snake rather than a good surprise?”

  “Yes. Open it for me. Please.”

  With one glance into those big, pleading eyes, he was sunk, and they both knew it. He slid his finger under the flap of the envelope and tugged out the single sheet of lined notebook paper, reading the words written in fat, loopy swirls as dispassionately as a trial judge presiding in court.

  Jazz nudged his arm. “Well?”

  He refolded the paper and slid it back in the envelope. Amazing how within a few moments, plans could begin to take shape in your mind, and then swiftly become so solidified that there seemed to be no other option. None you wanted to take anyway.

  “She wants to meet with you. Us,” he clarified, because there would never be anything but an us in reference to either of them ever again. They were a team that had been benched for too long. “She’s heard good things about the band. Thinks we’re kickass.”

  Jazz winced and cupped her hand over her belly. “Shh.”

  He had to laugh. He swore all the time, from fuck to damn to shit and everything in between. But it was kickass that stirred her fledgling mothering instincts.

  “God, I love you.” Her head came up and he could tell by her expression that he’d taken her by surprise. Good. He needed to do that more often. She needed to learn that not all boxes with pretty bows contained hissing, snapping creatures inside.

  She deserved to be spoiled, treasured, and he intended to start now.

  “Even though I’m occasionally witchy and try to give you a hard time for just being a decent guy?” She screwed up her mouth and toyed with the button on his jeans. “I get the money thing, I do, but I gotta say, it doesn’t matter to me.”