Destroyed (Lost in Oblivion, #3)(41)

Well, at least not all of it.

He slipped into the crowd and pulled down the brim of his hat, keeping his chin down. He jammed his hands into his pockets to look like a college kid. The closer he got to the bar, the more he realized it was an honest to God pub.

He knew Boston was full of them. Had seen them out the windows on the drive in. And now he could get in there and enjoy a pint or whatever the f*ck you did in an Irish pub.

Whatever it was, he was game.

He stopped when a pair of very scuffed, very large black boots came into his line of sight. “Nice Docs.”

“Ten bucks, college boy.”

And Nicky said his disguises sucked. Simon dug a crumpled bill out of his pants. He wasn’t used to carrying cash anymore. Everything was expensed lately.

Bingo. A twenty from his allowance yesterday. Ahem—per diem. As far as he was concerned, it was a goddamn allowance. Not that he’d ever had one as a kid, but he got the reference.

He didn’t tip his hat up, just forked over the cash. The dude grunted and gave him two fives back. Simon tried to go around him but the guy clamped a hand around his arm.

“ID,” he mumbled.

Ah f*ck. Maybe Mr. No Neck wouldn’t recognize his name. He fished out his California license and handed it over. The guy’s eyebrows rose then looked from him to the license and then back. Instead of saying anything, he just grunted and gave him back the license.

Simon fought his way to the bar, but it was like moving against a tide with six feet swells. The prize was a beer. And it damn well better be a good beer.

Music swelled out of the back of the bar. A deep baritone of a male voice that made the hairs at the back of his neck stand up. That was some Barry White shit right there.

He sung of the hardships of Boston, the life, the streets, and of course, the Irish. Because what would an Irish pub be without the stories of the people? And under it was a sad bit of strings. Guitar and fiddle layered until there was nothing but emotion.

As he was standing to pay, the song moved on into a lively tune. He tapped his foot to the alt-country sound. He liked all sorts of music, even if rock was his purest love.

After taking a healthy sip of his beer, he wandered the room. College kids eight shot glasses deep on what should have been a four maximum night were being a little rambunctious, but not enough to warrant a bounce just yet. Four blonds in a row were dominating the secondary bar at the corner of the room. They were all tanned legs and short shirts or shorts—hell, even by his standards, he hoped a few of them were actual shorts. Have mercy.

But the rest of the room was fixated on the small stage at the far end of the room. A redhead with the most freckles he’d ever seen was belting it out on the mic. That was the Barry White-sounding dude?

Damn, son.

And beside him was a girl in a skintight fawn-colored skirt. She had hips that made a man want to grab on and take a ride for hours and hours. And she moved with the music like it was feeding an inner part of her.

Goddamn, finally. He thought his dick had taken a vacation on him. No one had gotten him revved since Margo.

His gaze traveled up to the sleeveless white bit of lace that hugged her tiny waist and generous breasts and he froze.

Dark hair tumbled forward and covered half her face, but he knew that mouth. Had lusted after that mouth for weeks. For f*ck’s sake, years.

No, goddammit.

She sawed her bow across her strings so fast that her heavy, usually pin-straight hair was full of loose curls that hid her beautiful face.

What it couldn’t hide was the passionate way she lost herself in the song. As if it was going to come out of her damn soul.

Like when she was on stage with him.

He recognized that drugging pull of Margo in the middle of a song where the melody had taken hold. The singer barely kept up with her fiddling. Because no way was that the smooth, sad song of the violin he was used to.

This was hyper and folksy with just a little bit of grace. Fuck, she was amazing.

The song ended and she flipped her hair back, her chest heaving as if she’d run a mile.

Or f*cked him blind.

Dammit.

No.

He was not going to picture her naked again. Fuck all, he didn’t even have the full naked in his memory, anyway. They were too busy pushing clothes out of the way to get to the pleasure.

Like a drug.

A drug that would have a million dollar street value. Anyone would want that endless loop of lust, f*ck, release, and repeat.

He sure as shit did.

No matter how much she messed with his head when it was over, he wanted inside her again right now.

Damn the consequences.

“That was our new friend, Margo. Man, we do love when she comes in to play with us.”

The crowd clapped and hooted. And the flush of happiness on Margo’s face hit him low. As amazing as she’d been on stage with them, he’d never seen that smile before.

Pure enjoyment.

With him, it was intensity and just like they were having mind-blowing sex in front of thousands of people. Here, it was the simple glow of enjoying her instrument and a crowd.

Why the hell did he want to do just about anything to see that smile on her face?

Such a fool, Kagan.

He finished his beer as they did another song. The band flag behind them touted them as a Flogging Molly cover band. The crowd seemed to love them.

Christ. With all the cities they’d been to, why did he have to find her in the one random bar he’d escaped to?