Destroyed (Lost in Oblivion, #3)(42)

He hooked his thumbs along the straps of his suspenders and tried to give his cock a pep talk about the virtues of finding another * to fill.

That one was trouble.

Too bad his dick wasn’t listening.

It wanted that *.

That woman.

And the appendage was about as stupid as its owner.

“Holy shit.”

Simon stilled with his thumbs at the middle of the straps. Jesus.

The lead singer hopped down into the bar area and weaved his way around tables. “I can’t believe it.”

Ah, f*ck. He hadn’t been paying attention to his disguise. He’d just kept moving forward like a freaking lightning rod looking for its next power source.

“It’s Simon Kagan from Oblivion.”

The room started talking all at once and people got up from their tables.

Oh, shit.

Simon waved. The best thing to do was move forward and get to the safety of the stage. He’d never been afraid to jump into a mob of people, but they were usually making room for him, not crowding in.

The crowding thing was new.

He was still undecided if he was a fan of it or not.

He met the singer in front of a table right near the three stairs that separated the dais from the bar floor. “Hey, man.”

The ginger dude with a beard that put lumberjacks to shame held his hand out. Simon gripped his hand and the guy slapped his arm. “This is awesome. Would you sing with us?”

“I really shouldn’t.” He was supposed to be resting his voice tonight. He’d really overdone it that week with the morning gigs.

“C’mon. The crowd would love it.”

Simon’s gaze found Margo on the stage. He wasn’t used to the more classical-looking violin that she was holding. She usually played the purple Starfish one.

This was a small room and she didn’t need the amplification of the electric. Her long, graceful fingers were curled around the neck of her violin.

Was that unease he saw in her eyes?

He climbed the stairs and went right to her, crowding her in until his boots bookended her mile-high heels. She was nearly the same height as he was now and she didn’t back up.

He lowered his mouth until he was a breath away from her lips before detouring to brush his mouth over her cheek. “Nice to see you again, Violin Girl.”

Ginger Beard clapped. “Oh, shit. You know each other?”

Simon stepped back and slid an arm around her back. “Margo has done some studio work for us.”

“Wow. This is awesome. All right, well, we have to all play now, right?” The singer of the band turned to the crowd. “Right?”

Beers in hands and loud cheers hit the rafters. Simon leaned into the mic. “Think you have a guitar I can borrow?”

“Yeah, man.” The guy turned to a bandmate and an old Gibson acoustic was handed forward. Simon slid his fingers over the fret board with a grateful sigh. This was what he missed.

He loved running around the stage unencumbered, but some nights he missed his acoustic. With an adjustment to the height of the guitar against him, he settled the strap against his neck and across his body.

“I’m sad to say I don’t know a Flogging Molly song well enough to play. How about a cover?”

The crowd cheered and started shouting out songs. Simon took the mic stand and slipped the guitar around his back. “All right, how am I supposed to figure out what you’re saying?”

Margo stepped up beside him. “I have a request.”

His cock went rigid in an instant. He turned his face to hers. Her dark eyes dropped to his mouth before she licked her lips. “Vivaldi?”

“No, smart ass.”

His eyebrow winged up. “Did you just swear at me?”

“I did.”

“I like it.”

“You would.”

He nodded. “Pretty much.”

She sighed. “Request.”

“Listening,” he said into the microphone.

“Well, you are in Boston…”

He lowered his hand to the strings and plucked out a few notes. He stared at her as he opened his mouth and the first verse of Boston’s “More Than a Feeling” rumbled out of his chest.

She laughed and lifted her violin to her chin. An echoing set of strings matched his guitar note for note.

Ginger Beard picked up the electric guitar part, while Simon focused on the acoustic. He concentrated on his fret board so he could pick out the notes. It had been a damn long time since he’d fallen into a song.

Three long weeks at least.

Since her.

And because that was so close to the truth, he slung the guitar around his back and leaned into the crowd. They screamed back the words and he pulled the mic away from his mouth as he battled back a cough.

Damn that guy from Boston could sing the high notes. He cleared his throat and followed through with the last verse. And by the grace of Callahan’s loving crowd, they lifted their voices through the end of the song.

He laughed and clapped against his arm. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” He hauled the guitar back up in front of him and strummed the first few notes of a famous singalong song.

He waved to a roving waitress and motioned to the water bottle on the stool. She nodded and rushed to the bar. Way too much singing and talking this week. He lowered his pitch and wiggled his hips to take the focus off how shredded he sounded.