Destroyed (Lost in Oblivion, #3)(79)

She scraped her nails up the nape of his neck and along the top of his head, gasping his name as she came. He didn’t stop, never stopped.

Never let up until she heard the tiniest moan through his chest as it crawled into her and she shook through the aftershocks of his release and a second one of her own.

She couldn’t let go. She cursed herself, but her arms wouldn’t unwind. She needed to breathe in his mint and ginger scent a little while longer.

All the ginger and honey tea he’d been drinking had changed how he smelled, even the taste of his skin. It infused her with the new Simon that the tour had created.

The open wounds she felt getting just a little bit bigger as each week passed. She tried to hold him together as much as she could in these small moments when words were lost to her.

To them.

Where his heartbeat and hers knew how to communicate, when the rest of them didn’t.





17





Simon pulled the towel over his head and crouched over the sink. His pores were completely blown out from the steam of the day, the steam in the goddamn room, and the hot tea he had to drink.

On a ninety-seven degree day. Sweet f*ck.

He’d joked his way through the acoustic show, keeping to the midtones that didn’t tax his voice, but the talking did him in. Like it always did.

He tried to stay quiet, to let everyone else do the heavy lifting, but every single freaking question was for him. Hell, he waited for the band to grouse and bitch that everyone wanted to talk to him, but the round robin snark and sarcasm that came after whatever comment he made fueled the fire.

And then there was nothing but laughter. And the joy of it was there, staring at him, surrounding him. This was what the tour was supposed to be about. These little fun moments between everyone.

He wanted to participate. He knew he’d pay for it every damn time, but he wanted it—couldn’t f*cking shut up. And now he was steaming his throat to moisten it and hope to shit the tickle would settle back.

The click of someone putting down his metal pot on the next sink made his heart plummet.

“You can hide under that little steam tent you’ve made yourself, but you’ll still have to talk to me before you go on stage.”

He dug out his phone.



Talking is the problem.



Lila sighed. “You’re an ass, but this is fine. I don’t care if you answer me in text.”



Good, because that’s what you’re getting.



“Is it that bad?”

He thumbed back a quick answer, then erased it and started over.



Definitely not doing a double encore tonight, Dragon Lady.



“I’m glad you can still joke. Hope you will tomorrow too when you see Dr. West.”

Simon flipped off the towel and met her impassive gaze.



I don’t need a doctor.



“Oh, I beg to differ, singer boy. If you’re having trouble, you should get checked out before it gets worse.”

He blew out a breath. It was smart, but for f*ck’s sake, he didn’t want to know. He just wanted to keep doing what he was doing. It was working.

For now.

Simon ignored the little voice and poured a cup of his tea, wincing at the first shot of ginger taste before the honey chased it down to a semi-decent flavor. He replied to Lila.



Who is he?



“He’s an Ears, Nose, and Throat doctor. They specialize in this kind of thing. And he comes highly recommended.”

Just the thought of scopes and lights down his already abused throat was enough to kill whatever buzz he was feeling earlier. He wanted a drink, but he’d done some reading and alcohol made things worse when it came to vocal problems.

And then he’d closed every goddamn window on his browser because everything else was terrifying.

Nodes. Polyps. Hemorrhages.

WebMD was the goddamn devil. But all he had was a tickle in his throat. Everything else seemed so huge. It couldn’t be what he had.



Maybe we can look at getting me a coach?



“Yeah, definitely. That’s a great idea. I’ll get on that, all right?”

He nodded. A coach he could deal with. He’d always sucked at school and having someone tell him what to do, but this was important. This was his career.

He just needed to get through this show and then he had two whole days that he could just shut up and rest. Maybe he could even get away from everyone and hole up.

That idea was both exhilarating and horrible. He hated to be alone. But he didn’t want everyone staring at him with sympathetic eyes, either. That was one step away from pity.

Lesser of two evils was to disappear for a bit.

Nick slapped the doorjamb. “Ready, Prima Donna? On in five.”

Simon nodded and flipped him off.

“You wish,” Nick shot back.

He stared into the mirror and groaned. He looked like hammered shit. He slapped the palm plate on one of the hand driers and flipped the vent up to blow the wet out of his hair.

It wouldn’t last long on stage, but at least he’d have a few songs and the tour photographer had a few minutes to catch him looking almost decent.

As long as they didn’t look too closely.