Wicked Serenade: a Lost in Oblivion Collection

by Quinn, Cari

  “So tell me, when did Lila invite you to the festivities?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  “I see.” Simon’s tapping grew in speed.

  She’d said no at first. The season was over at the Boston Philharmonic Opera. Even before she’d lost her spot, she’d have been able to do the guest spot. But playing in the studio was far different from the stage. She was a puzzle piece from a Monet, locking in with a cityscape from Los Angeles. They weren’t even the same genre, let alone time period.

  She didn’t belong.

  But her obsession with the music had to be handled. This seemed like the perfect way. Two days and she could kill the curiosity and burn the remains.

  She could get back to auditions and the life she’d been born for.

  This fairytale could end.

  “I only said yes a week ago. Lila sent me another request.” More like a command via a FaceTime call. A sleepless night and a weak moment were all someone like Lila needed to get her way.

  And here she was, in New York City to play with a rock band.

  “She gets what she wants.” He turned to her, the fingertips of his stretched out hand brushed against her hair. He dragged a lock away from her shoulder, the calloused tip flicking across her skin before he gently rubbed the stick-straight strands between his thumb and first two fingers. “It usually works out in my favor.”

  She cupped her hand around her neck and tugged her hair out of his reach to let it fall down her opposite shoulder and the front of her corset. “We can use this time to decide on a cover song for the set. You can use me.”

  He tipped his shades down. “Oh, Violin Girl, I’d love to use you.”

  A flash of memory choked her. Her fingers wrapped around the back of that wide-backed velvet chair as he took her from behind. She crossed her arms under her corset—she didn’t exactly have a choice there—and gave him a bland stare.

  He made a little twirling gesture with his finger. “Dirty Violin Girl had a thought. I knew the ice princess thing hid a freak.”

  The way he said freak—emphasizing the k until it was its own word, its own exclamation—made her bury any reaction. The wild dreams and ache she fought against every night was too close to the surface.

  “I’m here to work. My job is to enhance the sound you have and give it another layer. To make tonight and tomorrow night special. No more, no less.” She drew her phone out of the small pouch she had near the handle of her case. “There’s your songs, of course, but Lila thought I could add to a fun cover song—the strings in ‘Kashmir’.”

  “Yes. Yes, that needs to happen. Nick and Gray would kill that and Pixie wouldn’t mind a break on the drums. All preggo and such. But it has a big build—long song, though. We’ve played it a million times when fucking around. You know, Zep and all.”

  “Won’t take much rehearsal then. It’s a good one to fire up the crowd. Open with it.”

  “Not sure the crowd we play to will be as appreciative of the glory that is Led Zeppelin.”

  “Yes, but your...” She bit her lower lip. How did you tell a man like Simon that his sex appeal on stage was another instrument? Especially without stroking his ego until he puffed up like a peacock. She was fairly sure he knew that it was his instrument. He’d let go of the guitar and embraced that aspect of himself.

  “But my...” He scraped his fingers through his messy head of inky hair. “Spit it out.”

  She sighed. “You have the sexual nature to pull off the song.”

  “The sexual nature?” He crossed his arms, tucking his hands into his jacket. “Are you trying to tell me I’m sexy? I like it.”

  “You are well aware of your strengths, Mr. Kagan. I don’t need to tell you about them, nor to stroke your healthy ego.”

  “Not the only healthy thing on me. But then again, you know that.”

  Her spine stiffened and she glanced up at the driver. As with all drivers, he didn’t blink, didn’t even have a facial expression beyond bored. But he heard Simon. She knew that for sure.

  “What happens between two consenting adults is not what we’re talking about here.”

  “Consenting adults? That’s what you call it? ‘The Becoming’ lured you into the singing booth and what we did couldn’t be labeled with something as mundane as consenting adults. We fucked and you liked it.”

  They pulled up to the club. The neon and box light marquise looked garish in the waning sunshine. This was a place for the slick dark of New York under the cover of night. A lot like them.

  That studio had been a moment in the dark and with day came realizations. Namely that they didn’t fit outside of music.

  “It was pleasant, yes.”

  “I remember you screaming.” He turned to her, his fingers digging into her hair to grip her scalp. “I remember that you couldn’t get enough.”

  Her nipples tightened and the ache that curled into her belly awakened like a cherry blossom in April. Achingly beautiful and awe-inspiring, but ultimately, only lasting a short time. That’s what they were.

  And she needed to remember that.

  She curled her fingers around his wrist. The tension there was like her violin when she tightened the strings too much. They’d break and the sound resonated on a sour note.

  She needed to loosen that strain. “And then it was done.”

  The tension receded and she almost smiled in relief. There, that wasn’t so bad. Until she saw his face. The almost snarl was gone. In its wake was nothing.

  No smug smile, no flirtatious liquid movements.

  He drew away and stepped out of the car when the driver came around. He didn’t stay, didn’t help her from the car. Didn’t crowd her at all.

  He simply detached.

  And her ache came back triple time.

  Four

  Simon passed the small group of people at the door. They yelled his name, some even screeched out that they were Sirens. He had a part to play and he was fucking good at it, but he just couldn’t. Not now.

  Not with that vanilla ice cream-cool voice in his head. And then it was over.

  He’d do well to remember that. That it was well and truly over. No part of them had been more than a memory. A hazy bit of lust.

  How many times had he had just the same moment with other women? Fleeting lust and once he’d gotten to the naked and sweaty stage, there was no other allure. Shitty but true. The semi-pretend moment between two bodies that fed off pleasure and the rush of endorphins.

  Then it was over.

  She’d been just like he was with so many other women. The taste of it was as bitter as the dregs of a cheap bottle of whiskey.

  One of a thousand reasons why he was a vodka drinker.

  Clarity to the bottom of the bottle.

  It was never anything more than it looked. Just like him.

  He was a face.

  A body.

  A voice.

  Most of the time that was enough. He had his friends and he had fame that had snowballed with every passing month. The scent of honeysuckle made him a little stupid, that was all.

  So he’d fill his head with something else. Something that he did understand. He turned back to the doorway and saw her there. Filtered sunlight backlighting her until she was just a mouthwateringly curvy shadow.

  A shadowy memory—as she should be.

  He stalked toward her. The surprise on her face almost made him change direction. Her fingers curled tighter on her case. He didn’t stop, didn’t even look at her as he breezed by her and out the door.

  He planted his smile on his lips and studied the twenty women and one bouncer through amber lenses. “I’m sorry, Sirens. I had to go check in with the boss lady. We have a big party planned tonight.” He rubbed his hands together. “Who wants a special pass?”

  The small crowd bleated out a chorus of “me”s and he opened his arms. “Phones. I need to see ‘em!” Smart phones were whipped out and he tipped his shades down. “Think you can take a video?�
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  A blond at the front of the pack squealed. “I’d make any video with you.”

  “Now that is an offer I cannot refuse.” He took her hand and lifted the ropes. The crowd surged forward. “Uh-uh. Wait your turn. Each of you can get a two minute video with me. Post it to our page and the five of you with the most comments will be my guest tonight.”

  He could feel the gaze on the back of his neck. It burned like hellfire. “Hello, boss.”

  “Simon, we have a schedule to keep,” Lila said.

  He hugged the pretty blond fan into his side. “I think we’ll be doing a few videos and then I will do everything on your To Do list. Let the guys know we’ll be doing ‘Kashmir’ as the cover tonight.”

  The crowd behind him whooped and hollered. The bouncer crossed his arms and nodded.

  Simon grinned at the crowd then down to the fan currently squeezing his ribcage. “Think I can channel a little Robert Plant tonight, sweetheart?”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, darlin’. We need to educate you on the finer songs of the past that have created the future.” He looked over his shoulder. “Someone find that shit on YouTube.”

  The bouncer took out his cell. “I have it on my phone.”

  Simon smiled, his lead singer veneer slipping. “That is why you are a cool cat. Turn it up.”

  The epic song played in the background as he hauled girl after girl into his side and took the time to listen, to smile, to give them a moment. He remembered what it was like to love a band enough to stand out and wait for a show.

  He’d even charmed his way inside on more than one penniless occasion. This was why he loved the fans. The skin-to-skin contact, the moments.

  The crazy.

  He glanced at the door and Lila was still there, but her face was thoughtful now and her iPad was out. Boss lady was on the job. She would play up the spin.

  When everyone had their videos and Lila had collected names and usernames and numbers, they both walked back into the dark room.

  “By all rights, I should skin you for being over an hour late at this point, but your sales of the album just surged with that little stunt. ‘Sugar Kiss’ just went from number four to number one on iTunes. Congrats, Kagan, you won’t be flayed today.”

  “Ah, c’mon, Lila. I love when you roast me over the coals. It gets my nipples all tingly.”

  “Keep you and your nipples to yourself. You have four interviews lined up and thanks to that rather delicious bit of social media prowess, we are very behind. And if you tell anyone I called it delicious, I’ll kneecap you.”

  “Geez, kneecap me, put itching powder all over my manly bits...so evil, Dragon Lady.” He covered his lips. “I mean, Lila.”

  “I know you morons call me Dragon Lady. Daenerys always got what she wanted. I’m okay with the moniker.”

  “You were watching Games of Thrones with us in the studio.”

  “I couldn’t help it. You played it at top volume.”

  Simon bumped her arm. “You love it. Power, sex, kingdoms, and decapitations. It’s all bloody good fun. You’d rock the queen status.”

  “Damn right.” She tapped on her tablet.

  He grinned. Lila Shawcross liked to pretend she was a badass, but the band had grown on her. Mostly like a fungus he was sure, but they’d grown on her nonetheless.

  He looped his arm around her hip. “So, how many interviewers do I need to slay?”

  She unhooked his arm and he heard the whoosh of an email being sent from her tablet. “I just sent you an updated list of people. Now bring your A-game to the party, Simon. You have work to do.”

  “I’m always playing the game, darlin’.”

  “That’s the truth,” she said under her breath. She pointed to a leather booth on the far side of the room under cherry lights. “First up is Music Life. Kim and her crew will be filming all night so I figured a bookend of interviews would be best. The rest of the band has already done their work.”

  “Save the best for last, baby.”

  She merely gave him a side eye. “Then rehearsal and more interviews.”

  “Good thing I warmed up in the shower.”

  She hugged her ever present iPad to her chest. “Oh, and thanks for being sober. I didn’t want to have to kill you. There are far too many interviews to reschedule.”

  Her deadpan deliveries always tickled him. Enough that he’d made it his mission in life to break her. “I had to protect my junk, right?”

  Lila just shook her head and headed over to the stage. Simon waved to Deacon and a very pregnant Harper on the stage. He was doting on her as usual. She was sitting on one of the trunks with a bottle of water in her hand as her husband checked over the equipment.

  No matter how many minions and roadies they had these days, Deacon still needed to approve the layout. And in a club setting Simon appreciated Deacon’s Boy Scout nature. No matter how swanky—and this place was swanky—there was always quirks to a venue. This place was more suited to a DJ, so he imagined the acoustics were going to be a bit of a challenge.

  He dragged his fingers over the leather covered frames of the wide U-shaped booths. The perky and delicious Kim Forrester was sitting in the far booth with her camera crew scattered around her. A roving cameraman was following Jazz as she waddled around the bar and took over the space. Probably making a virgin version of some drink from the mixing book that she’d stolen from Harper’s stash of recipe books.

  Jazz was forever making juice concoctions and putting umbrellas in them. Their Pink Princess had never been a big drinker to begin with, but since she’d grown more pregnant, she was obsessed with frilly drinks.

  Simon waved to Kim, the interviewer, and stopped off at the bar. He slapped the counter. “Bartender, I need a drink.”

  Jazz slid over to him. “Finally decided to join us?”

  Simon waggled his eyebrows. “Miss me?”

  “Like a rash.”

  “Aww.” He crossed his hands over his chest. “You wound me, Pix.”

  She rubbed the side of her belly. “What can the kiddo and I make you, Lush?”

  “Make me two pretty drinks with vodka.”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course,” he said with a sly grin. “I have to go entertain Miss Forrester.”

  “Well then.” She pulled out two martini glasses. A worker bee at the end of the bar started to come their way, but Simon held up a hand.

  The guy balled his fingers into a fist and stayed still. Jazz Edwards knew her way around a bar. All of them had spent so much time in bars that bartending was second nature—and often a second job—for most of them.

  Simon preferred drinking to building a drink, but he’d done a few stints as busboy over the years. He usually ended up in the backroom with a patron, but he started off the night working well enough.

  Jazz poured cranberry juice and vodka into a shaker over ice and did a little shimmy. Her wild violet and green sparkly dress moved over her bursting curves.

  “Pregnant or not, Pix, you are a picture.” He leaned on the bar. “A damn sexy one.”

  “Put it back in your pants, buddy.”

  He looked down at his leathers. For the first time that day, all was well and under control. “Look at that, everyone’s behaving today.”

  Jazz rolled her eyes but her lips were twitching. She poured the bright raspberry drink into the glasses and splashed lime into each before tucking little curls of lime rind along the lip. She found two umbrellas under the counter and speared one in each. “There.”

  He leaned across the counter and made to kiss Jazz but she lifted the vodka bottle in front of him first. He laughed and kissed the bottle for the camera and sauntered off with a glass in each hand.

  “Mz. Kimberly Forrester. It’s been awhile, sweetheart. I brought you libations.”

  “Oh, Simon. You are not getting me drunk again.”

  He slid into the booth and set hers down in front of her. “Are the cameras on?”
r />   “Always.”

  “I’ll behave then.” Simon grinned and lifted the glass to her. “A little.”

  She clinked hers against it. “Congrats on the new album. I’ve heard the numbers are awesome.”

  “Gotta love iTunes. We did that preorder party last week and had a bunch of fun.”

  Kim turned her game face on. “Yes, you did. In fact, the whole album streamed and actually leaked out into the world. Did that kill sales?”

  Simon relaxed back against the cool leather. “You know how it goes. People like to find stuff online and listen. I was a poor kid too, so I know how it goes. That’s why we kept the album cheap. Our label understands that getting it out there is more important.”

  Kim being Kim, latched onto the poor kid sound bite. He knew these questions by rote. He gave charming stories about his childhood. Lies. Lies were so much easier to believe.

  They didn’t want to know that his father beat him black and blue most nights. They wanted the Disney version. That he scraped and saved and got out. That music saved him.

  At least that part was true.

  Music had saved him. Nick and Snake had saved him. The scarred and broken cement parking lots on the fringes of Los Angeles that they’d escaped to with their skateboards and bottles of stolen beer.

  And eventually the winding, graffiti-strewn benches of Ventura Boulevard and the beach saturated with people that loved street musicians had saved him. Playing until he was too drunk to care about going home saved him.

  Singing saved him.

  But she didn’t care about that.

  No one cared about that but him. So he smiled and told colorful stories about the Blue Rhino and all the dive clubs they’d begged to play in. And when their twenty minutes was up, he had finished another drink—a purple one this time.

  Warm with the alcohol and Kim’s easy flirting, he went still as Margo’s sad violin soared into the huge room. All eyes trained on the stage as Nick and Gray played on either side of her. The familiar strings of the opening from “Kashmir” surged the warmth into an epic heat.

  His cock stirred immediately and he downed the last drops of the drink. “Looks like that’s my cue. Time to rehearse.”