Destroyed (Lost in Oblivion, #3)(80)

Simon ran to his spot with seconds to spare. Deacon’s low thrumming bass set off the mood and Margo had out her cello.

Simon looked over his shoulder and had to breathe deep before he swallowed his tongue and f*cking choked on it.

Jesus f*ck.

She was in head-to-toe black—sheer black thigh-highs that stopped an inch from her ultra-short dress that hugged every curve. She had on stilettos that made her legs seem miles long and that ridiculously sexy cello against her shoulder. Her hair was up to show off her long, elegant neck and she had blood red lips that made his cock harden.

He wanted between those lips, to watch them stretch open and take him.

Starting a concert with a boner. Awesome.

The crowd lost their collective minds as the shroud dropped from the front of the arch. Because they were into late June, the days were long enough that the sun didn’t set until well into their set.

They couldn’t play with the lights for effect until later in the night. And because the crowd was as hot as the Indiana temperature, he jumped into the archway and sat cross-legged on the metal pieces to get a look at everyone.

The crowd was open to his antics and he used every one of them to let the guys do the heavy lifting on singing. He crawled along the arch and hung down into the side pit of people from the fan club.

And because he was feeling daring, he dropped into the pit and let them grope him. He played it up as if he was fighting to get out of the pit and back onstage.

Laying on the ramp, he peeled off his white t-shirt and hung it off Nick’s mic stand. “I give up.”

Nick flipped off his shirt and faux stomped on his ribs. “Get moving, Pretty Boy.”

Simon gasped and reached for his mic. He whispered for some help with the first verse of “Lit” and was rejuvenated with the sing-along song.

By the middle of the show, he was pretty sure he was going to make it without incident. The tickle lingered, but didn’t made a nuisance of itself.

He even pulled a lower register vibrato out of his ass for “The Becoming” at the end of the night.

When he ran around the ramps that circled the stage for the cover song of the night, he finally felt the first moment of panic.

As he opened his mouth for the last verse of “In the Still of the Night”, his voice shattered. Not broke, not cracked, it absolutely shredded itself in two.

Enough that Deacon came up and met him on the ledge of the stage, and Nick and Gray scooted to either side of him to sing the end a Capella.

For the first time in his entire life, he lip synced. Had no f*cking choice.

His face must have been as pale as he thought it was when Nick swiped his thumb over the corner of his lower lip and Simon automatically did the same.

And found blood on his thumb.

The house lights went down and he found Margo’s hand laced in his as she led him off the stage.

Shouts and scrambling roadies started the breakdown of the set like usual. The house music started and “The Final Countdown” was piped through the pavilion.

Christ, that was an ominous song.

A bottle of water was pushed into his hand and he was funneled into the backstage area and deposited onto a faux leather couch in the corner.

Lila was on her phone and pacing the length of the room. Food was piled up and the watermelon station went unheeded.

Everyone was crowded around him.

“Stop,” Simon said on a raspy voice. “I just overdid it all week. I’ll be fine.”

Lila whipped out an arm and pointed at him and made a shut-your-mouth gesture with her fingers and continued talking to the person on the phone.

Had to be a doctor.

He glugged down the water and the metallic aftertaste made him wince.

Lila’s voice raised. “I don’t care what his after-hours visit cost is. Get him here now.”

“Remind me never to cross her,” Nick said.

“Right,” Jazz said with a snort.

Simon curled his arm across his belly and stared at the wall as his friends all teased and taunted Nick and alternately tried to console him.

He didn’t want to hear it.

He wanted them all gone.

All he wanted to do was escape and drink himself into stupor where there was no pain. Drink until he blacked out and then he wouldn’t be able to speak for sure.

Then he could hide in the darkness and erase the looks on each of his friends’ faces. The ones that were too earnest, too concerned, and then even worse, the ones between each other when they thought he wasn’t paying attention.

He stood and broke through the love and support that felt too much like lead-lined blankets. He bounced against the wall like a pinball in fatigue and dehydration until he got to the bus.

The screams from those that had gotten beyond the ropes or around security reverberated in his head. He didn’t even turn around.

His sole focus was the stairs and the quiet. The bus was dark save for the running board lights and he left it that way.

He tripped his way into the showers and soaped off the grime and sweat of the show. He wanted to clear his throat, but even the thought of it made his eyes cross. No matter how much steam he used, he couldn’t fight down the tickle.

The only thing that battled it back at all was the cold water or hot tea. How much liquid could the human body hold?

It seemed like such a small problem, but the constant itch at the back of his throat was slowly driving him mad. And now, he’d f*cked up a song. What if that had been in the middle of the show and not the end?