“Which she’ll say no to, like she has the other twenty times you’ve asked her.”
Simon arched a brow. “Who is this Zoe and why is she more important than the little fucker using my name? Mine. Get famous on your own, fucko.”
Nick held up a hand. “All right. Don’t blow a brain cell here. You don’t have enough to spare.”
“Eat shit.”
“Zoe is my cousin. She’s a photographer. Not a rock photog, but it’s a good opportunity for—” Lila shook her head. “Not important right now. I’ll make some calls,” she said again, flicking her fingers down Nick’s arm before striding out of the room.
Nick locked his hands behind his neck. “Well, the kid looks like you. Did your dad knock up some other chick, maybe?”
“How? When?” Simon dropped down on the bed. “Certainly not a British chick. He never left Carson even to work, for fuck’s sake. He went from the factory on the edge of town to the liquor store and back, man. Until the bastard dropped dead.”
He didn’t like to think about his old man. They’d never had a relationship to speak of. It had been more about Simon avoiding his mean right hook and big steel-toed boots than anything else. And the times he couldn’t avoid them, at least he’d managed to steal his dad’s cheap beer after the piece of shit passed out.
That was the beginning and end of their father-son relationship.
Simon stared at the screen long after this Ian dude walked off stage and the next Rhianna clone tried to sing her way around “Diamonds”.
Nick lifted the remote and turned the TV off. “I don’t know, man, but we have to be back at the venue in an hour.” He jammed his fingers in his pockets again. “Do you…I don’t know. Want to talk about it or some shit?”
“What? No. Fuck, no. I don’t even want to think about it.” Simon popped up off the bed just as Margo opened the main hotel room door.
“Hey, I’m sorry it took so long. My call…” Margo looked between the two men as her sentence trailed off. “What’s going on?” She frowned at Simon. “What happened?”
Simon held up a hand and stalked to the bathroom, slamming it behind him. He needed a goddamn minute.
A goddamn century to figure out how to wrap his brain around this.
He stared at himself in the mirror. A few more lines were etched into the corners of his eyes. Thirty was hunting him down like a feral cat went after a field mouse. No hope for evasion.
He whipped off his towel and climbed back into the shower. The sour stench of shocked sweat and anger permeated the air. He scrubbed at his skin before tipping his head up at the spray.
Brother.
How?
He’d gotten used to not having any family anymore, except the one he’d found. The one he’d made. But blood relations weren’t a part of his world.
Especially ones who were far too much like him…or how he’d been once upon
a time.
Back when he’d still had his edge.
“Simon?” Margo’s tentative voice made his fingers tighten up into fists again.
“It’s all right, Violin Girl. I just need a second.”
She stood outside the curtain. He could feel her uncertainty, but he didn’t have it in him to soothe or to ask for soothing. Surprise and fury were so clogged up in his head, he couldn’t see around them. Couldn’t breathe around them.
“I’ll be okay.”
She snaked her hand around the curtain and curled her long, slim fingers around his fist. “I’m here.”
He pressed his forehead to the tile. “I know.” His voice was too thick. He swallowed down the racing emotions. “I know.”
“I’ll be right outside.”