Destroyed (Lost in Oblivion, #3)(34)

“Yeah. We’re moving up ‘Jet City Woman’ too since it was the Twitter winner. Blast the social media shit out of the sky tonight.”

“Buzz, buzz, buzz.”

“You got it.” Nick shook out his hands. “I’m gonna go throw up. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Simon shook his head. Nicky was not kidding. He probably was going to go heave out whatever they’d had for lunch.

He scooted backstage to the dressing area and grabbed the Crystal Skull bottle on the dressing room table and a small stack of Dixie cups.

When he got back out there, he snagged a bottle of pineapple juice from the stash Lila had waiting for them between songs.

“Okay everyone, band huddle.”

“One minute, Simon. You don’t have time for speeches,” Lila said.

Simon set out seven cups on Deacon’s bass trunk.

“If you splash booze on my bass, I’m going to kick your ass.”

“Chill out, Demon.” Simon splashed a little more than a shot in six of the cups then pineapple juice in the seventh.

“What if I wanted pineapple juice?” Deacon asked.

“Too bad.”

Deacon sighed and picked up his cup.

Simon nodded to the last cup. “You too, Violin Girl.”

“I’m not part of the band.”

“You are tonight.”

She set her bow down on the trunk and picked up her cup.

“Everyone in. You too, Lila.” Simon lifted his cup and they all tapped paper together. “To the next phase.”

“The next phase,” everyone repeated.

Lila tossed her shot back without a hiss or a wince. Her sac was a helluva lot more impressive than Gray and Deacon, who both made faces.

“Cups.” Lila held hers up and everyone tucked theirs into hers and grabbed their instruments.

He poured another for himself and grinned when Margo held her cup up for another. “Need a little liquid courage tonight?”

“I like vodka.”

“Ever a surprise, Violin Girl.” He splashed two fingers in her cup and they both tossed it back.

“Give me that.” Lila took the skull-shaped bottle from him. “Go. Get on stage.”

“Ready for one more night with us crazies?”

Margo nodded. “More than.”

“Then let’s do this.”





* * *



Margo drew her bow across her strings as Simon curled his entire body around the microphone and his stand.

The man never stayed still. He slithered against the chrome like it was a lover. She remembered how those hips had moved, the innate fluidity of his inner rhythm. And she wished for a little more of the vodka.

Maybe that would take the edge off.

Because watching Simon all damn day had left her skin too tight for her body. The heavy air under the lights seemed oppressive. Screams rending the air seemed shrill and over the top.

Or maybe it was just her.

As “The Becoming” hit its peak, she came out to the spotlight with Simon as she’d done the night before. The first time she’d been in a trance. Simply existing in his sphere and following his cues.

Tonight she played up the push and pull game they’d played the first time. This time she slid behind him until they were shoulder-to-shoulder, her hips following his as the song got darker and sexier.

Deacon’s bass was her central line into the song. He was the constant, Simon was the wild card. The song ramped up, Nick’s guitars came to the forefront and then Gray’s blew them both out of the water.

She tried to melt back into the darkness. This song was going out into the internet ether with their rabid fans soaking up each chord. But Simon didn’t allow that.

He dragged her in front of him, and his hips never stopped the slow seduction against her. His arm banded across her midriff and they moved as one. The crowd below lost their collective minds.

Maybe she had as well.

She had no choice but to stay in the moment. Was entirely sure she couldn’t do anything else anyway. She felt the stiff length of him bumping against her and tried to resist his voice in her ear.

They created a darkly sensual dance between them, and her violin answered his words as if the conversation was on a different plane.

He swung her out as the song ended and then dragged her in tight until she had no choice but to let her violin dangle against her thigh.

As if in a distant time and place, the crowd screamed in reaction.

He palmed the back of her neck and dipped her. His nose and the barest hint of lips trailed up her neck before he put her back to rights and the heavy bass of “Jet City Woman” filled the room.

She escaped his touch, the madness that had bespelled them, and managed to play her part in the layers of the epic cover song. Simon prowled the stage and pulled the crowd in like a lover.

As easily as he’d dragged her under, he left women mesmerized in his wake. His old-style microphone became an extension of him. His lips caressed the guard, and his moans translated to screams from the crowd.

And as the song ended, he dropped to his knees and mimicked the pain of the narrator. It was his gift. Their songs were catalogued in a different part of performance for Simon. No less powerful, no less entrancing in their own right, but when he sang someone else’s song, he became a chameleon.