Destroyed (Lost in Oblivion, #3)(61)

Simon finished enough of his chicken to fill the hole in his gut to get through the rest of the day and tossed the rest.

While everyone was talking and laughing, he just needed to get out of the group and clear his head. He slipped out into the hall and up to the stage.

He thought about taking a run. But that much alone meant he needed his head examined.

Instead, he took his Taylor out of the trunk and settled down in the first row of seats with the familiar weight of his acoustic in his lap. Strumming usually calmed him down.

He picked out a few chords he’d had battering around in his brain. The urge to sing along with the words in his head was tough to ignore, but he kept singing them in his head.

The melody was perfect for his midrange voice. Is that what he’d need to do? Write songs in the midrange like some old rocker?

Fuck.

He stood and dumped his guitar on the stage with a hollow crash of sounds. He climbed over the orchestra pit seats and then up the middle aisle to the sunshine of the day.

He pulled his shades down and made his way across the bridge to the parking lot. Gravel and uneven pavement led to a grassy picnic area. He kept going until he found the main road and crossed to the gas station and liquor store he’d found the first night.

Anger and that tickle in his throat kicked up. All he could think about were ways to numb both.

He walked in, bought a flask-sized bottle of shit vodka and ran back across the street to the parking lot. Like the old days when he was a kid and he’d sneaked a bottle in and listened to bands from outside.

Only this time, it was his band playing.

His phone buzzed and he ignored it. He was sure Nicky was looking for him to start the afternoon process of picking apart songs.

He uncapped the vodka and flooded his throat. It stung like a bitch and tasted like ass, but the numbing had begun. He kept taking belts from the bottle until he didn’t care.

When the first call came in, he finally headed back into the venue. He wasn’t drunk, but the buzz was enough to get him through the day without tearing anyone’s head off.

He jogged across the bridge and grabbed a water from the cooler Harper had set up at the back of the pavilion. He waved as he came down the main aisle. “Re-f*cking-lax. I just needed a walk.”

“You don’t walk,” Nick said with his hands on his hips, his Gibson hanging between his shoulder blades.

“Sure I do.” Simon lifted his knees and marched his way to the stairs.

“Fuck off. This is serious, Simon.”

“And I said I needed a f*cking break.”

“All right, that’s enough.”

Simon zeroed his gaze on Deacon. “No need to get all marriage counselor-like.” He tripped on the last step and caught himself. “What are we singing?”

Jazz stood up at her kit. “Are you drunk?”

“What? No.” He snorted and unhooked his mic from the stand.

“Did your walk include a trip to the liquor store, you shit?”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Save that for after rehearsals.”

Simon walked over to Nick very slowly. “Since when did you become the boss?”

“Since you started half-assing the songs.”

Simon swung before he could even think about it. Nick’s head snapped back and he staggered back a step.

“What the f*ck?”

“I don’t half ass anything. I’m saving my voice just like I always do in rehearsals, you f*ck.”

“Really?” Nick lifted the strap over his head and put his guitar in the stand behind him. He wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and advanced on Simon. “Because you haven’t reached for one of the higher notes since yesterday. How do you know what the four other songs we’re rehearsing are going to sound like?”

“It won’t sound the same, anyway. It changes when the house is full of people and you know it.”

Nick tongued the inside of his mouth and frowned. “What the hell is your problem?”

“You’re pushing us for hours a day. I’m trying to make sure my voice isn’t f*cked before we even begin.”

“That’s never been a problem before.”

“Yeah, well I don’t usually sing for six hours a day and do interviews for half the night.”

Nick frowned. “Oh.”

“Yeah. So f*cking cut me a break if I don’t scream out a song to an empty room.”

“Yeah.” Nick scratched the back of his head. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

“Not like you hear anyone these days, son.” Simon threw up his hands. “You’ve got your nose stuck in that notebook and the rest of the time you’re barking orders. We don’t work for you, we’re a band.”

Nick turned to the others. “Is that right?”

Jazz plopped down on her seat. “I could use a few extra breaks. Kiddo is kicking me every song. My ribs are f*cking killing me.”

Deacon shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“Of course you are. You’re just as obsessed as he is.”

“Some of us want this to be the best tour ever.”

Simon widened his stance to stop the slight sway. “And like I don’t?”

“I don’t know, do you?”