Fused (Lost in Oblivion #4.5) (7 page)

Lila stepped over a board with a bunch of nails sticking out and rued her choice of business suit and icepick heels. But family or not, she had to play the part. Michael’s band members didn’t know her from Adam, and she was representing Ripper Records.

Not to mention this was important business, and that required a suit, her iPad and an appropriately stern expression lest her stepson think she was granting him special favors.

Or worse yet, that he would be granting
her
one by signing with her company.

Still, she couldn’t help commenting on Michael’s rehearsal space. “I’m assuming your father doesn’t know about this building. He wouldn’t be happy with your choice of venue.”

“Fuck him. He doesn’t run my life anymore.”

She blinked.
Okay, then
.
Another fan of Martin Shawcross, present and accounted for.

She followed him into another area that was tricked out for serious music-making with Oriental rugs on the floor to cover up the trails of wires, ornate wall hangings depicting artists from Morrison to Marley to Hendrix—and, curiously, Big Bird—as well an an impressive set-up of equipment. This spread rivaled one of Ripper’s smaller recording rooms, and that was really saying something.

“Holy shit. I think I just came.”

Lila narrowed her eyes on the mouthy guy with long dirty blond hair behind the keyboard. He’d managed to speak without removing the charcoal pencil clamped between his teeth.

“Ignore him,” Michael muttered, but she was already on the move.

She marched over to Michael’s keyboardist and stuck out her hand. “Lila Shawcross, representing Ripper Records. And you are?”

“Oh shit. Shawcross.
This
is the MILF?”

“Technically no, because I am no one’s biological mother. Change that to BILF and you’d be closer to the truth.” She smiled thinly. “Businesswoman, if you please.”

“I’m sorry. Total wrong foot here. I swear I’m only an asshole a third of the time.” He took the pencil out of his mouth and stuck out his hand. “West Reynolds. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Same here. As long as you don’t enjoy it too much, we should be good.”

He grinned. “My boy Mike’s told me lots about you. I’ll admit to being jealous he had a hot, young stepmother—” He cleared his throat. “He didn’t say you were that hot, I swear. I probably mentally exaggerated, but whoa, you delivered.”

“So now your way of making it up to me is by inferring Michael said I wasn’t attractive?” She sighed. “You’d be surprised how much experience I have with young males who use guitars for penile substitutes. I also have plenty of experience with men who run their mouths in the hopes of keeping everyone else off-guard. Would you like to know my record with those kinds of men?”

“You chew them up and eat them for breakfast?”

“Accurate.” She glanced toward the other guy, who was stationed behind a drum kit with his ball cap pulled low over shaggy brown hair. Upon noticing her inspection, he rose and held out a hand. She moved forward to clasp it. “And you would be?”

Michael strode forward, his long legs eating up the ground. “Lila Shawcross, this is Ryan Waters. Ryan, Lila. And don’t call her a MILF or BILF or anything else.”

“Mrs. Shawcross, so nice to meet you.” His shrewd eyes raked over her face before he turned toward her stepson. “Michael has said lovely things.”

“Lovely things from this country, discussions of my MILF status from that one.” She lifted a brow and jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Sounds like my reputation precedes me. As does yours. Warning Sign, is that correct?” She moved toward the closest amp. A crudely drawn—but eye-catching—logo for the band had been plastered to the side. “Nice logo.”

“Ryan did it,” West said. “He’s our PR guy.”

“I don’t just do PR. But yeah, I’m smart enough not to piss off the first record company rep who’s bothered to speak to us.” Ryan flipped a drum stick out of his hand and West caught it above his head, grinning.

“Piss her off? Come on now. She likes me. She thinks I’m charming.”

“Charming is a stretch.” Lila walked over to the open composition journal on the small table beside West’s keyboards. “You write?”

“I do. Lyrics mostly, with that guy.” West nodded toward Michael. “Ryan handles melodies and arranges. That song right there is our newest one.” He rubbed his hand over his mouth. Charcoal was smeared around his upper lip, but at least he’d finally let go of the pencil. “We can, ah, play it for you, if you’d like.”

She scanned the scrawled lyrics. The song was named “Killer”, but luckily seemed to refer to a relationship that was like no other, rather an actual murderer. The lyrics needed some work, but they were good. Really good.

“I would, very much.” She glanced at Michael. “Where’s Jimi?”

He grinned and loped over to a rack along the back wall that held another assortment of instruments. He took down the deep pink electric guitar she’d given him as a teenager, much to his shock and consternation. She could still remember his question.

“Aw, man, would Jimi Hendrix ever play something like this?”

Then he’d tested the sound of the vintage Takamine and boom, he’d been sold. Ever since, he’d called the guitar Jimi and fallen back on it in spite of all the others he’d collected over the years.

He pulled the strap over his head, glanced toward Ryan, then West, and something unspoken passed between them. A spark of energy and a wealth of knowledge born from years of being friends. She didn’t know how long they’d known each other—though she’d know everything but their shoe size and astrological sign soon—but that look spoke of years of friendship and shared experiences.

Michael moved toward an amp, plugged in, and hit the pedal as he let out a blistering riff that nearly blew the roof off the place. Another nod at Ryan and the drums crashed into the song, complimenting Michael’s fast fingerwork. She didn’t have a clue where West would fit in, until his strong bass voice filled the room and the keyboard followed, layering subtly with the other two instruments. West wasn’t a bad singer, but his skill on the keys really set him apart.

They were all fucking incredible. With what she had in mind, they’d become even more.

Lila took a deep breath and slipped her hand into her jacket pocket. Discreetly, she flipped screens, then pressed record on her phone.

There was one other person’s opinion she wanted about what she was hearing.

God help her.

B
reaking and entering
on a Sunday afternoon was good for the soul.

Somehow it seemed particularly fitting that Nick had chosen the Lord’s day for this venture. That his first partner in crime from way back was by his side was just sweet irony.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this. We’re going to get nailed.”

Nick snorted and nudged the pin a little deeper into the lock of the basement to the Fluff ‘n Fold. Breaking in there required a series of steps. First, he’d broken into the laundromat where Oblivion had once practiced, back when they hadn’t had a dime to spend on securing better rehearsal space.

Now they had plenty of dimes, and their band couldn’t seem to hold it together long enough to practice.

“You realize my best friend owns this place now?”

“Oh yeah? Then why you gotta break in?”

Nick ignored his sister’s practical question. Because that was another sweet irony. Simon, who was practically his brother, couldn’t be bothered to return his calls. And Ricki, who he’d had a tenuous relationship with at best for years had turned out to be the only one he could bear to spend time with today.

As awkward as it had been to run into her at the hospital again after their fight—if the drama in the hospital waiting room before he’d flown to New York with Lila could even be called that—it had been a relief to see her bright-eyed again. She’d sworn up and down that she hadn’t touched anything since that day, and like the sucker he was, he’d accepted it.

Being clean for a little over a week was a hell of an accomplishment. So was not going over to Simon’s and demanding he explain what the hell his damage was. And as for not returning to Lila’s to check if the mouthy guy with the hungry eyes and the preference for terrycloth as lounge wear had split—well,
that
was a task of Herculean proportions.

Since he had a ton of excess energy and nothing to expend it on of the fucking or fighting variety, he’d settled on bringing Ricki with him to the Fluff. It was time his twin found a new obsession other than drugs. Or rediscovered an old one, since she’d had chops on the guitar even before he had.

“Shine that penlight down here, would you?”

She did as he asked, biting her lip all the while. For someone who had sold pharmaceuticals on and off for the past few years as a vocation, she was awfully scared to break the law. “Nicky, this is making me nervous. I can’t afford to get busted.”

He went still, pin still in the lock. “Do you have anything on you?”

“You mean weed? Or blow?”

“Either one. Anything.”

“No.” She hissed out a breath. “I haven’t done anything but pot in months, and I’m done with that too. Tossed out all my stash. I couldn’t keep it around and get through. I do have these though.” She dipped a hand in her pocket and he was afraid she’d withdraw pills of some kind. Instead she thumbed a LifeSaver off the roll and popped it into her mouth. “I suck on these things by the case. I might need one of those club memberships soon, just so I can buy a truckload of these damn things.”

He laughed. And for a moment, he just breathed. All he wanted was for her to get better, and he’d do whatever it took to make that happen. If he had to buy her a whole shipment of candy, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

“Whatever you want,” he said quietly. “Just let me help you.”

She stopped crunching into her candy long enough to meet his eyes. Then she gave him a sheepish smile too much like his own. It creeped him out now as much as it had when he was a kid. But now another emotion rode shotgun.

Gratitude that he wasn’t completely alone on this planet, even if more times than not lately he didn’t believe it.

“You turned into a good guy, Nicky. How’d that happen?”

He laughed again as he returned to his lock. “So she says as I’m performing a little daytime B and E.”

“It’s your best friend’s place,” she reminded him as the tumblers clicked into place and he turned the knob. “That gives you a kind of squatter’s rights, doesn’t it?”

He rose and opened the door, then motioned her inside. “To my way of thinking, yes. Besides, this place belonged to all of us.”

“Oh.” She stepped into the old basement apartment, her mouth falling open. “Oh wow. You guys really lived here? Not for long, I hope.”

“A while. We didn’t see it how it really was. All we cared is that it had a door that locked, a place to store our gear and beds where we could f—” He broke off and frowned. “Sleep.”

“Right.” She shook her head. “That’s exactly what you were going to say.”

“Gotta feed the muse,” he said lightly, grinning as she shoved him away.

She stepped over the piles of crap still scattered all over. They hadn’t done the best job cleaning up before moving out, and no one had rented the place from elderly Mrs. Martine before Simon had bought the ramshackle building. Tattered magazines and the occasional crushed cigarette butt still covered the floor. The rugs that covered the gaps in the planks weren’t much better than junk themselves. They’d been ratty and dusty before even they lived there.

“How long’s it been?” Ricki asked quietly, crouching to pry out an old copy of Guitar Maestro that had been rolled up and shoved under a chair leg. The minute she moved the magazine, the chair leg hit the floor and stirred up a cloud of dust.

She coughed and tried again. “How long’s it been since you lived here?”

“Almost two years. Seems like a million.” He dropped to his haunches to pick up a cigarette butt that surely was his. Unless kids had broken in during the intervening years, and how would anyone know? “God, we were pigs. I was a pig,” he amended. “I didn’t give a shit about this place, or myself either. All I cared about was making music.”

“And you made it, little brother.”

Smiling faintly, he glanced up at the pride in her voice. “Two minutes hardly makes me younger.”

“Yeah, well, you got to be the wiser one, so I might as well get the bennies from being older.” She walked over to the window that Simon had always insisted on prying open, though it had been nearly painted into the wall. She traced a fingertip along the casing. “It says Kagan number one in the dust,” she said, glancing back with a smile.

“Of course it does.” Shaking his head, Nick dropped down into the broken chair and sighed in bliss at the familiar lopsided feel of the cushions. He’d missed this chair. Maybe he should bring it back to the apartment? He could stuff it in his room and Gray and Jazz would never know.

They’d be moving out soon anyway, starting their real life in their new house. Molly would go with them too. Leaving him alone.

Better get used to it, buddy.

“And look at these.” His sister moved toward the guitars Nick had stashed there last Monday, when they’d decided to revel in their past and rehearse again at the Fluff. They didn’t have to anymore, but there was something about the place that always rejuvenated them. Took them back to their roots. “I can’t believe you left them here all this time. Look at these beauties.”

He didn’t correct her, just watched as she stroked the turquoise Les Paul and battered sunburst Gibson. He had half a dozen guitars, and these two were his least favorite. But that was like picking children. He still loved them, it was just he had others that meant more to him for whatever reason.

“Which one do you like?” he asked.

“Duh. As if it’s even a question.” She grabbed the turquoise one and slipped the strap over her head. “I remember this weight,” she said softly. Dreamily. “The comfort of the strap around my neck.”

“You loved playing. You schooled me more than a time or two.”

“It was a long time ago.” But her fingers were already sliding over the strings, playing faint notes that reverberated through him in spite of the fact she wasn’t plugged into an amp. “I barely remember.”

“Oh, I bet you could if you tried. Remember Lucy?”

She nodded, plucking out the first few chords of “Lucy in The Sky with Diamonds” as if barely a moment had passed since the last time. Her full name was Richelle Lucille, and their mother had always called her Lucy and sung this song to her. It had been the first thing they’d learned to play on their own.

Lightly, he gripped the arm of the chair and waited, hoping like hell she wouldn’t stop. Every muscle in his body was stung tight. When she faltered, he rose and grabbed the Gibson. He jumped into the song with her, his fingers finding the correct strings without conscious thought. Together, they went all the way through the melody, fumbling a few times, hitting a few off notes, but never stopping. She hummed along, the smile on her face as potent as the simple joy at sharing this with his sister again.

He’d never truly given up hope that they would. And now it was a reality.

At the end of the song, her fingers fell still. She frowned, a little wrinkle forming between her eyes.

He cleared his throat and frantically flipped through his memories, trying to figure out what song would be best to try next. Nothing too difficult, but no cake song that she wouldn’t enjoy either. This was about helping her remember all the happiness the guitar had given her. Hell, maybe they should play Lucy again, see if they could refine it a little more—

His phone buzzed in his jeans pocket with an incoming text. He ignored it, but it buzzed again and again.

“Just a second. I gotta see who this is,” he muttered, pulling out his cell.

Simon maybe? Or…yeah, he wasn’t even going with an “or”. There was being hopeful and then there was being ridiculous.

The name on the readout stopped his heart.

Lila Shawcross
.

Just business, most likely. She’d texted him in the past. Though her preferred mode of communication was a phone call, because she didn’t want to chance anyone wiggling out of a meeting through claimed communication issues. She’d happily run one of her artists to ground.

God, his fucking finger shook as he swiped the screen.

L
S
: Need your thoughts. Listen to this clip.

F
rowning
, he pressed play. A wailing guitar burst from his iPhone’s speakers, along with the rhythmic backbeat of drums and the oddly melodic bridge of a piano. Just a few keys at first, then more and more until each of the three instruments seemed to blend in a perfect storm of sound.

He replied before he considered why she’d asked.

N
C
: It’s fucking incredible. Who’s the artist?

“
W
ho was that
?” Ricki asked, still cradling the guitar. “That song…it was kickass and haunting, all at once. And those guitars—”

“I don’t know who it is.” He stared at the screen. She hadn’t replied yet. Maybe she wouldn’t.

Hope could flare to life—and be dashed—so easily.

“Who sent it to you?”

“My girl—” He stopped and exhaled. Not his girl. She’d made that clear. “Lila sent it. My manager.”

“That’s not what you were going to say,” she teased. “Besides, silly, you already told me about her, remember? The girl you swept off to New York for a romantic weekend. Or else she swept you.”

“We swept each other.” He swallowed and shut his eyes so he wouldn’t have to gaze at a blank screen. “She’s married, and she doesn’t want me anymore.”

Aw, Christ, he hadn’t meant to say that. Not to his sister, not to anyone. Bad enough he even thought stupid, pathetic shit like that.

Truth was, he had no idea if her husband had anything to do with what had happened. He didn’t have a clue. As much as he’d tried to hold back and pretend he could wait her out, he needed to know. Even if it was a shit reason, he had to have one.

It wasn’t like he’d busted up that stage and ruined her event. He’d done his fucking job, as much as he hadn’t wanted to. But something had happened between band rehearsal that day and Simon’s breakdown. Maybe it wasn’t her husband at all. Maybe it was that smug, pompous ass Donovan, trying to make her life difficult.

“I don’t believe that.” Gently, Ricki laid a hand on his arm. “She wouldn’t be texting you if that was so.”

“We work together. She has to talk to me for band stuff.”

“So that was band stuff?”

He frowned again. “Well, no, not exactly. She wanted my opinion.”

“Ah ha! See, she totally values your brain, which is way more important than her just thinking you’re a stud muffin. Which you probably are, though of course to me, that seems patently impossible. But we do share a gene pool and I happen to be fabulous.”

He had to laugh when she pretended to fluff her hair. “Guess we share a flair for modesty too.”

“Well, duh.”

His phone buzzed in his hand and he glanced at the screen.

L
S
: Band’s called Warning Sign. Think I’m going to sign them.

N
C
: Good. You should. They’re incredible.

O
ne glance
at Ricki’s encouraging smile made him indulge the devil on his shoulder.

N
C
: But not as good as me.

W
hen she hadn’t replied
by the time he and Ricki picked up the guitars again, he figured he’d overplayed his hand. Shocker. He tended to do that oh, always.

He led Ricki into “Yesterday”, another one of their mother’s favorite songs, and as he strummed, focused on his own fingers moving through the chords so he wouldn’t focus on hers. If she didn’t want to do this, he wouldn’t force her. His goal was to give her something to concentrate on other than her addiction, maybe even remind her of the good times associated with playing in her past. It was a long shot, but what wasn’t in his life at the moment?

They laughed about her fumbling through the bridge on “Yesterday” and he started singing the lyrics to help her find her way through it. Not that he remembered every word, but he recalled more than he expected.

She tilted her head, a soft smile curving her lips. “You never sing anymore.”