Destroyed (Lost in Oblivion, #3)
Taryn Elliott & Cari Quinn
For Mom, who kept giving me signs that everything was going to be all right. I miss you. Happy Birthday.
For Cari Quinn who is, and always will be, a ninja.
1
Ahh, f*ck.
Simon Kagan swung his foot out and tried to slap it on the floor. His goddamn foot didn't reach. The track lighting above him spun like the lights on the Pacific Park Ferris wheel.
He shut his eyes against the nauseating view and forced himself to sit up. He scrubbed his hands over his face and found at least two days’ worth of beard.
He'd shaved for the promo show in Manhattan. He hated to be a slave to his electric razor, but he couldn't pull off the scruffy look as easily as the rest of the guys in the band. It took at least a week to grow a respectable level of scruff. And by then he was itching to get it off his face anyway.
He lifted the sheet.
Buck naked.
Huh.
That wasn't exactly a surprise. He rarely slept in clothes, but the problem was...he didn't remember getting that way.
The cotton in his mouth wasn't from vodka. He glanced around the room to find a half dozen bottles of champagne.
Nothing ended well for him when wine was involved. Including the head-clanging addition of bubbly.
That was why he stuck to vodka. He knew exactly how much to drink to keep a steady buzz and only tip over into drunk when it was safe.
At least his ass was on superior sheets. He spread his fingers over the suede-soft comforter and crisp high thread count sheets. A far cry from the ones on his bed at the house they rented in the Hollywood Hills.
The pillow on the other side of the bed was dented.
The pillow on the other side of the bed was dented.
He brought it up to his face and smelled smoke and the powdery scent of something cloyingly sweet.
Simon wrinkled his nose and tossed the pillow down. He stood on wobbly legs and leaned on the paneled room divider. The wood crumpled into an accordion style window shield and his gut rolled again.
New York City opened up in front of him. He flattened his palm against the cool glass and evened out. Lights and the effervescent bounce of pedestrians scurrying across the streets made this city just a bit different from Los Angeles. Not that he’d give up L.A. to save his life— f*ck no—but this city pulled at him.
Filled with people and yet the sense of isolation resonated.
He understood that.
Lived it every single day.
And the roller coaster of a tour would be starting in five short weeks.
Part of him itched for it. He was restless and boredom had settled inside his brain midway through the last album. Not during studio time, but the endless drag in between.
Hurry up and wait.
Sit.
Sit.
Sit.
Sing, monkey, sing.
He pushed overlong bangs out of his face and stepped away from the cacophony of street noise that bled through the window.
Were the windows tinted?
He frowned and pulled the dark wood panel across the huge window. Even more effective than blackout curtains.
He’d have to remember that.
The room went silent again. He padded to the mini bar and found the distinctive bottle of his favorite vodka—Crystal Head. Two other unopened boxes sat side by side on the shelf.
Nice.
He splashed the clear perfection into a tumbler and swished his mouth with it. The burn around his gums and down his throat was comfortingly familiar.
The slap of water in the shower finally penetrated his subconscious. He wasn’t alone—again, not a surprise with the scent on the sheets. Plush carpeting turned to marble floors the closer he got to the bathroom.
The clear glass stall of the shower gave him an unencumbered view of his guest. Long legs led up to an ass that was definitely a regular visitor to the gym. Bitable to be sure. Dark hair full of suds snaked down her back.
He frowned as she turned to dunk her head.
No.
God, no.
He wouldn’t.
He didn’t.
A long neck flowed into an elegant collarbone, but he started breathing again when his gaze drifted down to her breasts.
Not hers.
He’d never forget the surprising fullness of her breasts or the peach tips matched her lips—both on her mouth and the exquisite cleft between her thighs.
It wasn’t her.
Wasn’t Margo.
But Christ, she could have been.
He dragged his palm against his jawline and down his neck. “Fuck me sideways,” he muttered when his dick lengthened.
It was always this way.
The second Margo Reece had come back into his sphere he’d been messed up about her. One goddamn night should not crawl under his skin. Women before and way too many women after her—but he’d never been so stupid as to go for anyone that looked like her.
Like Violin Girl.
And now she was on the album. He simply couldn’t get away from her. From the sad tones of her strings layered into “Finally”, to the surprisingly shred-worthy addition to “Torn To Pieces”, she’d burrowed into his head again. They lived in his chest and his head like any of the Oblivion songs. They all crawled in and settled. Some deeper than others.
Hers settled in with hooks. The more he pulled on them, the more they shredded muscle and scraped bone.