Fused (Lost in Oblivion #4.5) (4 page)

She swung her legs off the windowseat. “How do you know I didn’t buy it?”

“She’s wearing pasties,” Nick muttered, tracing the statue with a fingertip. “For fuck’s sake, he didn’t even get a proper nude statue.” He shook his head and set the statue down. “And no, you did not buy it. You actually have taste. He’s a poor kid gone wild.”

“Maybe he was once, but he’s not poor anymore. Neither are you.” Margo came up to stand beside him and wrapped her hands around the back of one of the ornate cane chairs at the table. “He also figured out how to man up and do the big gesture to win the girl. You should do the same thing.”

“I can’t win someone who doesn’t want to be won. And who’s also fucking still married. I’ve been the second fiddle position before, and I got out of that shit. Now you’re telling me I should campaign for the role too?”

“I’m telling you that her last name doesn’t have a thing to do with who holds her heart.”

He couldn’t deal with that tonight. Even a masochist could only face rejection so many times.

Especially since he had another form of rejection on tap.

Nick braced his fists on the edge of the table. “Where is he?”

“Sleeping now, probably. He had a rough night.” Margo pushed a hand through her hair, and the big ring his best friend had given her caught the meager light and turned it into a goddamn rainbow. That was some fucking sparkler.

Was that what he was supposed to do to keep Lila in his life? Buy her some gigantic rock, pledge all eternity and promise to go down on her every day before breakfast, lunch and dinner?

At least one of those things he could promise without hesitation.

“I’d like to talk to him.”

“It’s not a good idea. Trust me on that,” Margo said, raising her voice over his objections. “We got into it pretty good on the way back from the show. Whatever he’s going through, there’s no reason for him to destroy equipment and pitch a mantrum like that, especially when he knew very well how important this show was for everyone.”

“What he’s going through? He’s just dealing with some vocal issues. It happens. He’s always been flawless on stage, and now he’s struggling a little and can’t deal. Simon’s had it too easy.”

“As easy as you’ve had it?”

Nick fell silent.

“He hasn’t had it easy, he just hides how he’s feeling. You know, like a man. Though I’m sure you think you put everything on your sleeve, insulting people doesn’t count as deep emotional involvement.”

“Fuck off.”

“My point exactly.” She sighed and pressed her fingers into her eyes. “Then he started hearing chatter about Molly taking over for him. How did that happen?”

“Ask your BFF,” Nick suggested. “She and Donovan were the ones who pushed that little idea.”

“And it turns out they were right, weren’t they? She nailed it. Along with all the tweets expressing worry for Simon, social media was blowing up with people going crazy over that ‘incredible new singer’ who took over for him at the show.” Margo withdrew her phone from the pocket of her silky sleep shorts and tapped her thumbnail against the screen. “I read through some of it for a while until I couldn’t anymore. He was too mad and I didn’t want to give him a reason to keep ranting.”

Nick frowned. “He’s not a ranter. That’s me. He goes mute and takes off if his charm can’t get him through.”

“Yeah, well, maybe your influence rubbed off, because he was ranting tonight.” She dumped her phone back into her pocket. “She’s really good, isn’t she? Molly. She’s pretty like Jazz, but she’s not the type to stay behind a drum kit. She’s ready for prime time.”

“She looks nothing like Jazz.”

“Maybe not, but she’s not exactly hard on the eyes. And she has presence. I could see that even on the grainy clip I found on—”

“Seriously, Margo, are you trying to edge your man out of the band? Because I don’t think Molly McIntire needs anyone else on her side tonight. She was already getting all the offers she could handle when I booked the fuck out of there.”

“I’m not edging anyone. Everyone knows Simon is the core of Oblivion.”

“Does he?” Nick tossed back. “Because he seemed damn determined to break out of that role tonight.”

It was Margo’s turn to remain quiet.

“Yes, Molly’s good. I play with her every damn night at the house. She’s got chops on the guitar, and she can sing. But she’s not Simon. And I’m not helping anyone else get a toehold on kicking him out of the band he helped to form.” He tucked his fists under his arms and said the words he’d never imagined he would say. “If he goes, I go too.”

Margo studied him without speaking for a long moment. “You really love him.”

“He’s my brother,” Nick said simply. “Even when I didn’t have a family, I had him. I won’t forget that.”

Margo nodded. “He loves you too. Just the same way.”

Nick snorted. “Not sure if you heard what he said to me on stage tonight, but it sure as fuck didn’t sound like love.”

“No, it sounded like he’s drowning, and someone needs to throw him a life preserver.” Margo glanced away before returning her gaze squarely to Nick. “But that doesn’t mean you should blame Molly. She loves music too. That was as obvious as the fact that she knew what she was doing. And she’ll only get better.” Shaking her head, she let out a little laugh. “God, if Juliet sees tonight’s show, she’ll want to know how she can get in on the action too.”

“Let me guess. Is she another wunderkind musical prodigy? They seem to come in pairs these days.”

“You could say that.” She straightened one of the lacy placemats at the table. “She was always the gifted one at music. I mean, I do okay. But I had the violin and then later, the cello and pretty much stayed in my lane. Juliet was into everything. She played the flute in school, then the French horn and guitar. She also did a bit with the drums before drifting toward playing bass. She’s crazy talented.”

“Sounds like she can’t make up her mind.”

“She can’t. That’s the only reason she hasn’t gotten a steady gig yet. She’s not like you or Gray, or even Jazz. Jazz plays everything too, but once she tried the drums, they were her instrument. Juliet has no focus. She can master anything she puts her mind to, but the problem is her mind is everywhere.” She winced. “She also likes boys a little too much.”

“The downfall of many a talented artist.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not a downfall for her. Yet. She’s traveling around San Fran right now with some friends she picked up God knows where, and I just know I’m going to get a phone call.”

“She sings too?”

“She does everything.”

“We still talking about sex too?” He laughed when Margo jammed her knuckles into his hip. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. Look, I’m not begrudging that Molly has talent. It’s not that shocking, considering. My sister used to kill me on the strings. If she hadn’t decided she liked toking better than playing, she might be the one in Oblivion and I’d be in a corner somewhere, scribbling shit lyrics about my existential angst. But I’m more concerned about Simon right now. If I could just talk to him—”

“He’s not in a place to hear you. Not you, and not me.” She toyed with her big ring then let her hand drop. “He asked me for space, and I gave it to him because words weren’t helping. Whatever is going on, we need to let him come to us.”

“I’m going to call tomorrow.”

She tipped her head back and chuckled. “Are you sure your middle name isn’t pit bull?”

“He accused me of pushing him too much. So did you. Well, guess I gotta live up to the mantle.” He stunned himself by leaning forward to kiss her cheek. “Thank you for taking care of him. I’m glad he has you.”

He was, he realized. Sure, there was some bitterness that Simon had grabbed the brass ring when it came to relationships while he was still getting strangled by his hula hoop. But he was happy for his buddy too.

When it came right down to it, neither one of them had come up with anything. And Simon deserved someone in his corner just like anyone else did.

Even you too?

“I…thank you.” Margo blinked, clearly taken aback. “Um, I’m glad he has you too.”

“No, you’re not.” It was easier for Nick to laugh than he expected, and for once, it was genuine. “But maybe you will be, someday. I gotta earn that, right?” He saluted her and backed away, giving himself one extra moment to enjoy the pure astonishment on her face.

Then he let himself out and went down the street to buy the biggest fucking carton of cigs he could find.

L
ila pulled
into her underground parking garage, turned off her car and dropped her forehead to the steering wheel.

She had officially reached the end of her very short rope.

It was Friday night, four days after the show from hell. The latest show from hell, since there had been a few lately. All had been quiet on the husband front, and the appointment she’d had with the lawyers had gone over well with no mention of incriminating pictures.

To say she’d breathed a sigh of relief was an understatement. Oh, she’d still had more than her share of bad moments over the situation during the past week. Those pictures felt like a loose thread that could wrap around her throat and do some serious damage when she least expected it. Someone had taken them, and someone had sent them. Just because they weren’t coming forward yet didn’t mean they wouldn’t.

In the meantime, she was keeping on keeping on.

At least the Nick situation had been put to bed. She’d barely seen him this week, thank God, as she’d decided not to push for a meeting with Oblivion just yet. Better to let Simon get his bearings in private, since strong-arming him hadn’t worked in the past. Her days had been full enough with the other bands she managed, as well as ones who had been newly signed to label, like Hammered. They weren’t one of hers, but she was helping out while Donovan’s new protégé, Dex Munroe, was learning the ropes at Ripper Records. She’d also taken meetings with Donovan as she usually did, but she had to admit she hadn’t minded one bit when he had to leave town at the end of the week.

Things hadn’t exactly gone to plan. Molly hadn’t just played hardball, she’d used Lila’s head as the projectile she slammed across the court. And with Donovan’s warning echoing in her ears, she had approximately zero bargaining room. Somehow she’d agreed to not only get Molly a gig as the lead singer of a band within the next week, but evidently she’d taken Raymond’s admonition to heart. Any old band would not be good enough. No, Molly wanted to front a fully-formed band that was already on the rise if not already completely risen. No ifs, ands or buts.

Where the hell was she going to come up with a band who needed a singer on such a short basis? She could work miracles with a bit longer timeline, but a week was ludicrous. Not that she even had that left. The week was already almost up—she’d gotten a weekend reprieve, whoop-ti-do—and she was no closer to pinning down a possible gig for Molly.

And you’re the one who intimated you could get her a band opportunity. Brilliant move, Shawcross.

“Ronson,” she corrected herself aloud, the words muffled against the leather-wrapped steering wheel. She wasn’t going to be a Shawcross for much longer, and it was time she got used to being herself again. The likelihood was strong that she would never marry again, and she’d be happy to be a Ronson until the day she died.

Being single was awesome. Truthfully, she couldn’t wait. Who needed men or sex? Actually, having a steady diet of orgasms just made you complacent. Much better to be a honed edge of deprivation like she’d been for so many years, the past few weeks aside.

Still slumped over the steering wheel, she moaned. She had only been five days orgasm-free, and she was already on the ropes. If need be, she could probably do without some of the other things. She got hot in her sleep, so spooning wasn’t always necessary. She didn’t need to hold hands all the time, on account of sweaty palms. But no more orgasms?

She wasn’t at all certain she would survive.

The rap of knuckles on her window made her jerk up hard enough to hit her head on the roof of her car. Wide-eyed, heart rocketing, she stared at the bearded face pressed to the glass and tried to find her voice.

“Michael?” She narrowed her eyes. “Is that you under the facial hair?”

Her stepson didn’t laugh. His eyes were shadowed, his mouth grim. “I’ve been waiting for you. Can we talk?”

She motioned him back and pushed open her door. In a flash, she rose. “What is it? What happened? Are you sick? Is it your mother?”

She didn’t mention his father, because she didn’t care. Oh, that probably wasn’t true. She could at least be concerned for Martin out of fondness for some of the early—very early—days of their relationship. But beyond that? She wouldn’t cry him a river, that was for sure.

“No, no, everyone’s fine.” He skimmed a hand over the back of his buzzed close hair. Almost in defiance of his beard, he had the exact opposite thing going on upstairs. The top was spiky and dark, the rest shaved close. “You might hurt me after we talk though.”

She laughed and swept him into her arms, giving him a hard hug. “Impossible. I’ve missed you, you big lug.” She pulled back and leaned up on her tiptoes to cup his cheeks, just as she had when he was a boy. “You don’t call, you don’t write, you don’t Skype. You have a new lady in your life or something?”

“Or something,” he agreed.

“A man then?” She winked. Michael had a way of making her feel better like no other. Well, no other than—

Not thinking of him. Nope. Not going there again tonight.

He chuckled. “Nope, still like the ladies.” He glanced around. “Can we go upstairs?”

“Sure thing.” She slipped her arm in his and together, they walked toward the elevator. She typed in the key code, then they stepped inside and watched in silence as the numbers above the door climbed. “So I’m guessing you’re not here just for a chat.”

“I wish I was here under better circumstances.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his peacoat. He had an odd style. Jeans with large enough gashes that skin showed through, heavy boots, laces undone, a thick belt with a buckle of skull and crossbones, an old T-shirt, then the faintly fussy—and nearly too small—peacoat over the rest.

Probably something his mother bought him and he felt obligated to wear. That was Michael. Somehow he’d been born with every ounce of sweetness and generosity of spirit that his father lacked.

And his older brother, Malachi, for that matter too. Though in all fairness, some of her uncharitable feelings toward Malachi probably stemmed from the fact that he hated her with a passion and had since the first day she’d laid eyes on the boys.

She tried to make small talk with Michael, but he was oddly reticent. For the nearly ten years she’d known him, they’d been close like a mother and son—ones who just happened to be unusually close in age. Still, he had his own mom and she’d always been careful not to step over the line and usurp Renee’s role.

Tonight he wasn’t saying much, and none of her tricks to draw him out were working.

Probably a girl, she decided. Women troubles tended to shut him down quick. She hoped he didn’t think she could help him. Her own love life was practically the poster child for fuckedupness.

Once they entered her apartment, she set her purse and briefcase on the counter between her kitchen and living room. Without asking if Michael was thirsty, she walked into the kitchen and took out the two bottles of alcohol she’d recently restocked strictly for him. The first time she’d made the drink for him, he’d been underage. He’d spent the previous night getting drunk and stupid, and he’d called Lila to pick him up at a friend’s party because he knew his parents would read him the riot act. She’d done as he asked and brought him to her place to sleep it off.

The next morning, she’d wanted to make sure he got the urge all the way out of his system. To do that, she’d made the most disgusting drink she’d ever tried—a gin and tonic, with extra lime. She liked the lime part. The rest? Blech. Unfortunately, Michael had loved it.

So much for one of her maiden voyages as a parent.

He’d been legal for a couple of years now, and he was more of a spirits drinker than beer or wine. She refused to take the blame for that, but she did make him the drink he preferred when he came over.

“Okay, here’s your truth serum,” she announced, setting the short glass on the coffee table in front of her stepson. He’d taken his usual spot at the end of the sofa. “Now talk.”

He didn’t smile, but he did pry out the wedge of lime that she’d added as he always did. This time, he didn’t pop it into his mouth and do the stupid lime-wedge smile he normally did to make her laugh. He just gripped the slice of fruit and swallowed hard enough to make his Adam’s apple bob.

“Falling for a rock star? Really? I thought you were smarter than that.”

She didn’t sit down in the club chair beside the couch so much as sag into it. The strength in her legs simply gave out.

There was no point in searching for spin or a ready lie. Not with her boy.

“How do you know?” she whispered.

There was also no point in denying she’d fallen for Nick. Anyone who saw those pictures won a one-way trip into the reality of how far she’d fallen. But she’d gotten back up. One way or another, she’d found her way back to standing on her own.

She wasn’t going down again.

Michael dropped the lime back in the glass and liquid splashed on her coffee table. She’d forgotten to grab a coaster. She started to rise, but he reached out and grabbed her hand to keep her seated. “I hired a PI to have you followed.”

Suddenly she was very glad she hadn’t managed to gain her feet. “You what?”

“It wasn’t a real PI.” Michael let go of her hand and pushed his fingers through his hair. It stuck straight up in some spots. Must be some product he was using.

Curious. Since when did he use hair product at all?

She shook herself.
Focus
.

“I had a buddy back in school, Jerzee. He was kind of a jerk, but he was always into everyone’s business. Used to be on the school paper, then ended up slapping up his own shingle to be a private investigator. You were, um, his second case.”

“Case?” She couldn’t keep her voice from going shrill. “I have a case?”

“No, I just mean you were the second person he had to…track.”

“Who was the first?”

“Skittles. My missing beagle,” Michael explained, sounding more than a little sheepish. “Good news is he found her.”

“You hired a PI to find a
dog
? The same person you paid cash money to have me followed?”

“Actually no, I didn’t pay him monetarily. I let him sit in with the band. He thinks he can play drums, but he really can’t. But you know how guys always want to be on stage.”

She held up a hand. “Stem the information deluge until I get caught up.”

Nodding quickly, Michael sat back and folded his hands in his lap. “Yes. Sorry.”

“You let him sit in with what band?”

“Mine.”

In spite of herself, a frisson of interest prickled under her skin. Goddamn instincts. She hated them as much as she loved them sometimes. “You have a band? Since when?”

“I’ve been playing for years,” he said, affronted. “You know that.”

“I do. I also know that you staunchly refused to be anything but a solo basement guitar player. Claimed it was your hobby, nothing more. Has that changed?”

“Listen, that’s not the point. I
saw
you with him.” He blew out a breath. “Or he saw you with him, and he took pictures—”

She went very still. “You had him take pictures of me in intimate moments.”

“God, no.” His face blanched. “If by intimate you mean—” He made a finger gesture that caused her to bury her face in her hands. “Not like that. No way. Jerzee didn’t break in anywhere. He didn’t have to. Jesus, you two were making out right on the street.”

“We were not making out, and whoever taught you that disgusting gesture deserves to have their mouths washed out. And their hands washed off. Or whatever.” She heaved out a breath and shoved herself to her feet.

She needed to move. Possibly to run a mile or two in her heels until she broke something. Maybe then the pain would diminish the horror that was infiltrating her entire body via her ears.

“Christ, L, I’m twenty-two. Do you honestly think anyone has to teach me hand gestures? I’ve had sex, I’ve watched porn, I’ve even smoked a few—”

“Enough.” She sliced a hand through the air. “As of right this instant, you are to stop talking.”

He pressed his lips together and did as she asked.

She paced for another couple minutes until the worst of the haze began to clear. Then she gripped the back of the club chair and squarely faced her stepson. “Did you do this to report to your father?”

He flushed to the roots of his dark hair before jerking to feet. “
No
. Absolutely not. You know I’d never rat you out to that prick.”

“Michael,” she snapped. “You know better than to talk like that about your father.”

“Really? Do I? I should treat him with nothing but respect when he first ran around all over on my mother, then on you?” When Lila turned away, he continued. “I’m not supposed to know about that, and I admit I stayed ignorant far too long. I’m sorry for that. I didn’t want to see, I guess.”

Tears swam into her eyes for the second time that night and she gripped her elbows as she stared hard at the wall of windows. “I didn’t want you to know. You never should have had to. You were a child—”

“I’m not a child now, and I haven’t been for a long time.” Gently, he gripped her shoulder and turned her toward him. His face immediately softened. “Oh God, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“You didn’t. You never have, and you won’t start tonight.” Furiously, she dashed at the tears she’d just denied out of existence. “I just want to understand. Help me to understand, Michael.” There was no helping the plea that entered her voice.

If she lost one more thing she lo—cared about, she was going to fall apart. Just shatter like a pane of glass.

“Sit down.” He cupped her shoulders in his big hands—when did they get so big?—and turned her back toward her chair. “I’ll get you a drink.”

“I hate gin,” she muttered, obliging him enough to take a seat again.

What difference did it make if she stayed on her feet? She could lose her balance just as easily sitting down.

“I know. I know more about you than you give me credit for.” At home in her kitchen, he opened cabinet doors and took out what he needed. A moment later, he returned with a wine glass filled to the brim with pale gold liquid. “Drink some of that,” he ordered.