Destroyed (Lost in Oblivion, #3)(83)

He was so very done with the day.

Maybe he could sleep twenty-four hours straight and save himself the muzzle.





18





“Up and at ‘em, Simon. We’re pulling in.” Nick’s voice boomed into the silence.

Or it had been silent.

Simon covered his eyes with his arm. His head was pounding. He’d watched Netflix on his tablet for about twelve hours straight. He just hadn’t been able to face anyone.

Margo left him a pot of tea every few hours. She’d attempted to pull back the curtain once, but then had let it swing closed again.

Her honeysuckle scent teased him every time she moved around the back of the bus, but neither of them seemed to know how to approach the other.

Sleep and nocturnal raids on their freezer when everyone else was sleeping covered the rest of the hours on the road. He knew it was cowardly, but he just didn’t give a shit.

If he wasn’t allowed to speak for three goddamn days, that was the perfect time to watch every episode of Daredevil.

Matt Murdock beating the ever-loving shit out of every bad guy in Hell’s Kitchen was enough to keep his rage in check.

He lived vicariously through the character.

And no one else had tried to bother him. The few times he’d pulled out his earbuds, he’d heard Margo and Nick working on a song or watching Charmed.

He didn’t have it in him to play nice. Not when he’d have to for the next thirty-six hours. He rolled out of his bunk and because he was rank, he closeted himself in the bathroom for a hot shower.

He knotted a towel at his waist and looked out the window. The spire of the University of California’s bell tower came into view as Bobby pulled around to The Greek Theater.

They’d played the smaller venue of the same name on the Rebel Rage tour. Los Angeles was, and would always be, home turf. That had given him a boner for days, but this park...

This was bigger and was fast becoming the place to play. The mere fact that Lila had gotten them in with only a request from him and Nick was just out of control.

And he couldn’t f*cking sing.

He flattened his hand on the window. Before he could do something stupid like smash his fist into the glass, he stepped back. The overhead compartment came into his eyeline and he flipped it open.

Hello old friend.

He pulled down one of the Crystal Skull bottles. He downed a bottle of water, ripped off the label, and refilled it with the crystal clear vodka.

That would be one way to get through the day.

He took a hit from the eerily smiling skull and tucked it back on the shelf.

“You’re alive.”

Simon swallowed down a sound that was half groan and half seething sigh. He turned to her and lifted his eyebrows in answer. Christ, she was fresh-faced and beautiful.

Onstage, she had perfected the vamp look with her all black outfits and screaming-colored electric violin and cello. She’d taken to the rockstar skin as if she’d been born for it.

But here, she was short white shorts and tanned legs. A striped T-shirt showcased her tiny waist and amazing tits.

All he wanted to do was haul her into his arms and wrap that lush body around him. He wanted to forget that his voice sucked, that the world sucked, that his life sucked.

But he didn’t.

Because that luscious mouth of hers was pinched with worry, and her dark eyes were searching for a way to ask him if he was okay.

He wasn’t f*cking okay. And he didn’t even want her to make the pretense of asking him.

As if she somehow read his mind, she rose onto her scarlet-painted toes and nipped his lower lip. “We have the whole evening to escape this bus. Since you can’t do the interviews and they’re going to play up the sick card instead of the voice card, you’re mine.” She palmed his dick through the towel then snaked her hand under the flap. “Tell me, do you think you can play college co-ed with me today?”

He resisted the urge to groan and tipped his head back as she stroked down his shaft and slipped her thumb around the crown of his cock.

She nibbled his Adam’s apple and he jerked away. Instead of looking repentant, she smiled and released him. “Get dressed.”

He grabbed the bottle and slid on his oldest pair of jeans under his towel. The knee was ripped out on one leg and there was a huge hole in the thigh of the other. An equally abused Ozzy shirt finished his college look. Half hipster douche, half irony. Sunglasses and an Angels’ baseball cap hid his overlong hair and eyes.

“That’s quite the ensemble.”

He pulled his phone out and texted.



Hey, I showered. More than most college kids.



She shook her head and looped a wide canvas purse over her head and settled it cross-body. “Want me to hold your water?”

He shook his head.

“Okay, ready?”

He gave her a thumbs up with his most sarcastic smile.

“Look at that. You don’t even need a voice to convey *.”

He sighed.

“We will have fun. It’s an amazing word and we shall find the true meaning today. Then tonight we’ll meet up with everyone and you can stop pouting.” She held up her hand. “Don’t even deny it. I let you pout for a day and a half. That’s all you get.”

He tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling.