Owned (Rockstar Romance) (Lost in Oblivion Book 5) (11 page)

One
breath
at a time.

“My parents didn’t give me a lot to look up to,” Nick said into the silence. “Not making excuses, that’s just fact. I have no idea what it means to make a commitment to a kid for eighteen years. To begin to think I could have any answers for them.”

“But you have no problem making a lifetime commitment to my daughter.”

“It’s different. She doesn’t need me like that.”

Fred lifted a brow. “No?”

“No. Of course not. You’ve seen her. She’s ten times more organized and competent than I am. She handles rock bands, for fu—freak’s sake. Most rockers are basically overgrown man-children and she doesn’t even break a sweat when dealing with them. Do you know what I called her?”

“Hmm?”

“I mean before we got together. Dragon Lady. She’s so terrifyingly efficient. I’m pretty sure she could kill someone without damaging her manicure.”

To Nick’s shock, Fred let out a laugh. “That’s our Leelee.”

“A child is different. They want things. They need things. So many needs. I don’t know if I’m up to the job. To be honest, if Li wasn’t so dead set on having them, I’m not sure I’d ever even think about it.”

“But you are, because she is.”

Nick nodded.

“And you know this because you discussed it with her.”

“Sort of. We kind of dance around it. Martin was such a fucking bastard—sorry,” Nick said immediately.

Fred waved him off. “He is. I agree. Continue.”

“I just don’t want her to miss out on something that matters that much to her. I love her enough to give her whatever she wants.”

“Including your sperm.”

Nick jerked a shoulder. “I have extra.”

Fred laughed again. “I like you, Nicholas. I didn’t expect to.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you didn’t. I’m pretty much any father’s worst nightmare. I’d never let my daughter near a guy in a band.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yeah, that’s so. They’re a bunch of horny assholes. Pardon my French.”

“But not you, of course.”

Wisely, Nick remained silent.

“Here’s what I see. I see that you’re dedicated to my daughter and you believe in being honest, so you’re insistent on not saying you’re ready for something you may not be. But here’s a secret, son—none of us are ready. I wasn’t ready the day I bought this farm. I couldn’t see the length of the road ahead of me. That turned out to be a good thing. How many of us would turn back if we knew exactly how many bumps and potholes lay ahead? But that would be a mistake. The best journeys start with no destination.”

Nick exhaled. He was pretty sure a helluva lot of good information had just been tossed his way, but he’d only clearly heard one word. “You called me son.”

“I did. Make sure you’re worthy of it.”

“My dad died hating me. So that means…it means a lot, sir. So yes, I will.” He took a breath, and another. “I will.”

Nodding, Fred rose. “You intend on taking Lola’s collar off that rangy mutt?”

“Yes. Sure.”

“You plan on keeping him.”

Not a question. Maybe Nick was more transparent than he thought. “Yeah, he’s not so bad after you clean him up. Though he might need pie rehab.”

“Laverne’s pies are the best in the state.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that. She’s the best in whole northeast. Probably the country.”

Fred clapped his shoulder. “Now you’re talking. But you’re still not copping any more pie.”

Nick laughed and moved toward the mutt, who sidled that much closer to a peacefully snoozing Lola. “I think I’m good for a while.”

“Wait until she unveils her newest creation. Apple-mango.” Fred sighed in what could only be termed orgasmic ecstasy.
Yeah, gross, not going there
.

Though…pie.

“I’ll see if I can sweet-talk a piece.”

“You do that. And start thinking about land. Leelee wants a horse of her own out there in that California.” He said the word
California
as if it were a communicable disease.

“A horse? And a baby?” Nick couldn’t nod fast enough. “A horse is totally doable. Uh, you know what I mean.”

Fred chuckled and strolled out of the room, leaving Nick to deal with the dogs.

Instead he pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Li, who still was missing-in-action.

N
C
: I’m not naming our horse Mr. Ed.

“
T
ime to go
, Simon.”

“You go. I’ll stay here and recover,” Simon mumbled into the mattress.

Margo had a little extra spring in her step as she zipped up her boot, then reached for her belt on the edge of the bed. “No, we’re here to see our friends.”

Simon grunted.

“I can’t help it if you started with fists. Now, you have to say you’re sorry.”

“Like hell.” He rolled onto his side and propped his head on his hand.

“It’s Christmas.”

He collapsed onto his pillow. “Why does everyone think Christmas makes everything better?”

“Because it’s a time of forgiveness and family. And these people are your family. They’re my family. And I’ve let you wallow long enough.”

“Wallow?” He sat up. “What the hell does that mean?”

She pulled her cardigan closer as she crossed her arms. A second ago, she was feeling light and limber from a spectacular round of lovemaking, now…those accusing eyes were killing her buzz. The eggshells she’d been tiptoeing around were cracking all over the damn place.

She didn’t want this week to be any more strained, but she was so tired of this Simon. She wanted
her
Simon back. The one who lived life to the fullest, and swung from the lighting fixtures at a show.

This buttoned up one had glimmers of the man she fell in love with, but she was damn tired of him hiding. Even worse, she was tired of allowing it. No more.

Her stomach quivered, and her chest ached. “It means you need to get your ass out of that bed and fix things with Nick, and with the band. But we’ll start with Nick first.”

“I don’t need to fix jack shit.”

“Oh?” She touched her eye where his shiner was. “Really?”

“That’s how we work shit out.”

“Right. So, that means a ton more bruises? Or maybe a broken bone this time?”

“For fuck’s sake, Margo.” He swung his legs off the bed. A bouquet of bruises dotted his side and hip.

Part of her wanted to go and coddle. She knew he was hurting—could tell from the way he was moving. But she could see the mad in there too. This was why she hated to say anything. His reaction was always to get pissed off. But it looked like it was time for them to get into it as well. Past time.

She hated confrontation, but if she was actually going to get through to him, she was going to have to be the bad guy. To save them, to save the band, and maybe even save him from himself.

Because she was so afraid that he wasn’t going to get better. Not when she’d found that vodka bottle in the trash.

“You think I don’t see it? The way you stare out the window, and hate everything that you’re doing? That you hide in sleep and mindless photo shoots? Do you honestly think I’m that stupid?”

He stepped into a pair of jeans and hiked them up over his hips. “I’m doing my goddamn job. Keeps a roof over our heads, doesn’t it?”

The urge to take a step back and close off was right there. All of the things she worried about day in and day out, right there in a few words. “I’d rather live in the Fluff ‘n Fold off my salary than to see you so miserable,” she shouted.

“What are you talking about?”

“You hate this.” She lifted the Armani suit jacket. “You lived for leather and old concert T-shirts. You barely remembered to get a haircut half the time when I met you.” She dropped the jacket then stalked closer to him. “Now, you have designer underwear, jeans, shirts, and even your haircut costs more than mine.”

“I’m doing this for us.” His eyes were a little wild as he crowded into her.

“No, you’re doing this for
you
. You’re hiding in Roman’s line of clothes and the commercials. You’re bleeding because you won’t sing, goddammit.”

“I can sing just fine,” he roared into her face.

She pushed him back into the wall. “Then do it.”

He looked away from her, his chest heaving.

“Don’t do that. Stop shutting me out.” She dug her fingers into his skin. “Let me help.”

“No one can help,” he snarled.

She backed up, and let him go. “Everyone wants to help you,” she whispered. She would not cry. Not now.

He slipped away from her and into the bathroom. When she heard the lock snick, she closed her eyes against the blur of tears. She grabbed her jacket and left their room, running down the stairs to the front door and out into the snow.

She nearly stumbled down the stairs. The snow had crept up another six inches since they’d been outside. Now it was well past her knees and heading for her thighs.

The house was alight with warm white lights and a fat holly wreath on the side door. A huge snow-flecked gold bow snapped in the wind.

A few hundred yards next to it was the storefront. People milled out of the barn doors that were open and welcoming. Fred and another man were pushing snow away with wide, plastic shovels.

Cars crowded the lawn and gravel driveway. So many people. Didn’t they understand a blizzard warning? As a Bostonian she was rather hardy about snow, but even this was a bit much for her. But car—actually, truck after truck came up the winding lane from the big hill that led up to the property. More than one grill was festooned with mini wreaths, and still more had shiny red noses a la Rudolph attached to their hood ornaments.

Amazingly, there was no grumbles. Just laughter. So much laughter and happiness pouring out of Happy Acres.

Part of her wanted to run right into the fray. To suck up that joy and hope it replaced the dread filling her chest. Just how many times was she supposed to pretend Simon wasn’t broken? That he wasn’t hurting inside? How was she supposed to keep the faith when the last year had been filled with nothing but glitter and false hope?

Okay, not all of it was bad, but enough that memories of that exuberant Simon were fading more and more with each passing day. Sex could only fix so much. In fact, that was her own way to hide.

To rely on that part of them that never failed. Even if their words had been doing a bang-up job for the last eighteen months at least.

So she turned away from the golden sparkle and headed for the much dimmer, but still welcoming glow of the main house. She could hide there until Simon left for the party. Until she could shore up her damn defenses and try again.

Because she wasn’t giving up on him, but she really needed to find another way to break through. For both their sakes.

S
imon laced his boots
, then tugged his jeans down over the Timberlands. Margo had been smart enough to throw his winter boots and gloves into his bag before they’d left California. Working in NYC had taught him that not only was his blood thin by northeast standards, but he was ill-equipped to handle layers. His idea of layers consisted of a lightweight jacket on a sixty-degree day.

This blizzard shit was beyond his scope.

And oh yeah, he was an asshole.

Couldn’t forget that part. Blizzard aside, he’d pulled some stupid shit this evening. Margo had come at him with full guns blazing tonight and he’d been so shocked he’d done the first thing he could think of.

Piss her off.

Fucking awesome.

Those huge, dark, shattered eyes had killed him, but still he’d kept on kicking.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

What the hell kind of lead singer was terrified to get on stage? A goddamn asshole, that’s what kind. He was reasonably sure he’d be okay in the studio. The sessions with Jerry had been okay. His voice had only warbled a few times.

Mostly because he was used to singing every blessed song but his own. The triggers were there every time he turned around. He could sing Springsteen, The Police, hell…even the crazy high notes of Guns N’ Roses were easy with all the lessons that Jerry had implanted in his head over the last eighteen months.

The opening chords of “Sugar Kiss” began and his hands trembled.

“The Becoming” started and he froze. He powered through a few times, and managed to get to the second verse, but it was absolute crap.

He sounded like an eighty-year-old crooner who should have hung up his hat three decades prior.

Even now, his pulse was throbbing in his head, and his palms were clammy just imagining singing that fucking song.

The song where everything had gone wrong.

Where blood clawed its way up his throat with greedy fingers and horror-filled eyes haunted his dreams.

He shook his head. No. No more. He had to put that shit away or Nick would be on him like a crow on a carcass. He didn’t really want to give him any more ammunition, or rib bones to pick at. He reached into his jacket and touched his ribs gingerly. Bear paw-sized hands for such a skinny fuck.

He wasn’t sure he could handle wild-eyed Nick in the middle of a Tasmanian Devil style beating again anytime soon. Actually, he was pretty sure he couldn’t take it anymore, period.

His gaze drifted to the sideboard table by the door. A crystal decanter with gold liquid sat beside two heavy tumblers. He curled his fingers into his palms. Just to take the edge off.

The edge of nerves, of pain, of facing Nicky one more time tonight.

The whisper of the frosted glass stopper and the sweet maple scent of bourbon. The good stuff. A touch of crisp apple hit his nose as he lifted the glass.

No burn.

Just the smooth slide of warmth and hint of that apple again. He picked up the folded card on the silver tray. “Aged in apple barrels. Well, that’ll do it.” He lifted his glass. “To Happy Acres,” he said as he knocked back the rest of the liquid gold. He refilled and it was just as good as the first one. The familiar warmth flooded his body and climbed up his neck.

It helped with the numbness, and the pain.

He resisted the urge to refill once more. He needed to go socialize, and that wouldn’t happen if he was shit-faced. Not only would he hear it from Nick and Lila, but Margo.

Of course, he’d already made a bed in the doghouse, he might as well enjoy it.

He splashed another two fingers in and went into the bathroom with his glass to rinse it.

No need for his Violin Girl to have an evidence trail to follow. When he was sure the tray looked the same as he’d found it, he patted his pockets to make sure he had gloves and his phone.

He checked his texts. Nothing from Margo.

Just a half dozen texts to come to parties in NYC and LA.

He locked his phone and shoved it back in his pocket. No glittery parties tonight. Well, unless you counted enough Christmas lights to see from a satellite.

More festivus was scattered around the lodge. Lights and pine garland hugged the rail overlooking the main living space. He was pretty sure he’d rather take a nap on one of those coffee-colored leather couches by the fire, but he had to make an appearance at the party.

He had to dig out of the doghouse somehow.

“Fucking lightweight,” he muttered when he had to use the rail as he went down the stairs and out into the brisk windy night. He had pull on the doorknob to get the damn door to shut. The wreath on the door jingled behind him.

More golden apples and ribbon.

In fact, the entire path from the lodge to the store was lit up like a runway. It said:
Come this way. We know you want apple-laced confections.
He did.

His belly grumbled. Okay, so he really did.

His trainer had ended up going with weight training to curb his love of sweets. He didn’t have the stage to burn off all his energy anymore.

The pang was quick and unexpected.

He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the urge to pick up his microphone.

The rolling laughter and warmth urged him into the storefront. He didn’t recognize a single soul in the room, but he was used to that. How many parties had he been dropped into? Either to show off Roman’s wares, or to schmooze for Audi. The model set knew how to party.

But then again, it looked like the orchard people knew how to as well. And theirs actually included food. He plucked a glass of wine off the tray of a passing waitress with a waggle of brows and a smile.

She spun around in a circle to get a good look at him again, her mouth dropping open.

He kept on moving as he sipped the crisp apple liquid. He scanned the crowd for dark curls, and found quite a few. But none with her elegant neck and flame-colored sweater. He smiled at each stranger who gave him a look, but didn’t stop to engage in conversation.

No, he had one goal in mind.

The table of tarts.

“Hell no, are you trying to get me kicked out of this house?”

Simon’s eyebrow rose at the familiar voice. Nick was crouched down in front of the mutt they’d chased earlier. Of course it was significantly cleaner and his fur was actually the same dark blond on Nick’s head.

And to be honest, the dog’s eyes were just as wary.

As Simon closed in, he saw the roll sticking out of the side of the dog’s mouth. Hmm. Those looked good too.

But he still wanted the tart. Especially the raspberry apple one. His stomach growled loud enough to make him reach for a napkin before he let Nick know he was there.

He bit into the flaky crust and moaned. Oh, yeah, that’s the way. He dabbed at the crumbs that had suddenly materialized on his chest.

He was pretty sure the dog was a boy, but the scraggly mutt was wearing a daisy collar with a matching green leash.

Oh, and was trying to pull Nick under the table.

Simon leaned against the doorjamb that divided this room from another and picked his way through the first small tart as Nick tried to have an entire conversation with the pooch.

The dog kept scrabbling under the table, and Nick kept dragging him out. When he couldn’t take the play-by-play any longer, Simon flipped a piece of his tart to the dog and he fell on it.

Nick spun on his heels, still in a crouch. His frown deepened. His fingers were layered up like a fighter as he held onto the leash. “I’m trying to teach him not to take food, asshole.”

Simon crouched next to him and gave the dog’s head a scratch. He peeked under the table and grinned. “Good luck with that.”

“What are you talking about? He’s doing great.”

Simon pointed toward the pile of food crowded around the table leg, half inside the shelving unit and half tucked behind a table leg.

Nick went down on all fours. “Jesus. How?”

“Nice look, bro.”

Nick tossed a sneer over his shoulder. His face went pale and his lips pinched in pain. Served him right.

Simon was pretty sure a rib was going to puncture a lung if he breathed too deep.

Upon a closer look, he didn’t see the deep grooves in Nick’s face that had been there the last time he’d seen him. His eye was purpling nicely, but the overall look of him was a whole lot more content than Simon ever remembered him being.

“Honey, what are you doing under the table?”

“What?” Nick banged his head. “Ow…” His words grumbled away to a muttered string of swear words.

Simon tried not to laugh.

“Umm…nothing. Just getting this scaredy cat to come out and see the people.”

Laverne lifted the edge of the tablecloth. “Poor baby. Come on.” If she noticed the pile of food, she didn’t mention it. The dog slowly crawled forward and let Lila’s mom scratch his ears. “I think he’s going to need a trip to the vet.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Nick said quickly. “He won’t be any more trouble. I don’t want to put him back out in the cold.”

Simon’s eyebrow rose. Deferential Nick and he was taking care of a dog? Who was this guy?

“I know, honey.” She patted Nick’s arm. “We wouldn’t turn a dog out into the cold. You just hang onto that leash. We don’t need a rehash of earlier.”

Nick’s ears went pink. “Right. Of course not.”

“The best pets make spectacular first impressions.”

“Story there,” Simon said.

“I’ll just take him outside. See if he needs to go or something.”

“Considering he just ate a plate of rolls, I’m pretty sure that’s a good idea.”

Nick stood and scowled down at the dog. “Really?”

The dog just looked back up at him with a tilted head, roll crumbs still on his muzzle.

Simon hid his grin behind a sip of wine.

Nick started walking away without another glance in his direction. Simon sighed and filled his plate before following him. He craned his neck one last time, but still didn’t spot Margo.

Simon jogged after Nick, the floor tilting a bit. He should probably cut it with the wine. The three glasses of bourbon were leaving him with a warm glow, but another glass of wine and he’d land on the slippery of drunk.

He popped a cookie in his mouth and stopped at the eggnog. He filled his cup to the brim and took a sip. Apple flavored rum, because why not?

But instead of putting it down, he dunked a sugar cookie into the confection and kept on his current trajectory. The barn doors were wide open, and it should have been cold, but it actually helped the space from overheating. The wind was brutal, but he liked the sugar too much to put his gloves on.

Nick nodded his thanks to a guy outside and his lighter flicked to life.

“Still bumming smokes?”

Nick’s eyes squinted through the wisps of white smoke. “What do you care?”

He shrugged. “I don’t, really. It’s your filthy habit. At least you learned how to buy whitening toothpaste.”

Nick grunted.

Simon held out the plate. Nick stared at it for a moment. He was pretty sure the shit was going to say no, but finally he snagged a peanut butter cookie with a mountain of chocolate fudge on top.

Bastard.

Had to pick the one he wanted.

The dog sat at his feet and Nick broke off a corner.

“No chocolate,” Simon said.

He scraped off the chocolate part with his teeth and gave the rest to the dog. He snapped it out of the air like someone was going to steal it.

Nick wiped off his fingers on his jeans, then dug out his phone. After a quick glance, he stuffed it back into his pocket. His cig danced around between his fingers. A sure sign that he was nervy or worried.

“Where’s Lila?”

“I don’t know.” Nick looked out into the snow, his brows furrowed. “Her folks said she needed to go into town.”

“In this?”

“Thanks. That’s helpful.”

Simon shrugged. “She’s a native. This is probably like us in summer smog season.”

“Yeah, probably.” His gaze strayed out into the rapidly growing drifts. Simon’s followed his path and swallowed down a niggle of his own. People that had just driven up the big hill to the place already had a blanket of snow on their cars and trucks.

The dog pulled at his leash. Nick grunted and hauled him back to his side. “No dying on my watch, mutt.”

“So, now you’ve got a dog to go with the soon-to-be-wife?”

Nick scowled. “I just don’t want the mutt to die.”

“Sure.” Simon sipped from his glass. The proposal thing had been a guess, but the way his hungry gaze had always followed Lila, Simon wasn’t surprised. “But the wife thing, no dispute?”

“I plan on putting a real ring on her finger. No fake shit like you.” Nick let out a lungful of smoke in Simon’s direction. “Then again, fake and plastic is your stock and trade these days, huh?”

Simon snapped his molars together. “At least I have something to fill my days. What are you doing? Sitting in that old house, staring at the walls?”

Another stream came out of his nose. “You know I live with Li.”

No, he hadn’t known. Maybe that ring on her finger wasn’t so far off, after all. “Oh, so you’re sponging then? Same old Nick.”

The light from his cigarette cherry flared hot against the shadows. “I don’t have to work another day in my goddamn life and you know it.”

“Oh, yeah? Is that why we got those shitty Christmas presents last year? I know interest rates suck, Nicky, but they’re not
that
bad.” When Nick just frowned at him, Simon sighed. “Living off the interest.”

His forehead cleared and he shrugged. “I don’t mess with all that shit. It’s in the bank, I pay my bills.”

“If you’re worried about security, you should have your money in with different financial planners.”

“No one touches my money but me.”

Simon downed the rest of his wine. “Shocker. Your way or no way.” One of the main reasons he stayed away. The minute he gave Nick an inch, they’d all be on stage again. All those old songs, all those old memories.

Simon dug his fists into his coat. All that pain.

“Everyone’s doing their own thing now. Didn’t you get the memo?” Nick snapped his fingers and the dog scrambled after him, back into the laughter and the light.