Consumed (Rockstar Romance) (Lost in Oblivion, 3.5) (4 page)

For the rest of the ride, Donovan talked about the reviews for the shows and the revenue they had pulled in for the two months they had been touring. Right now they were set. The money they’d brought in far exceeded what they were hemorrhaging out.

Except for those fines that may or may not happen.

By the time they’d pulled up to the Hollywood Hills house, his gut was still knotted but he didn’t quite feel strangled by it any longer. He got out of the truck before the driver could come around and open his door. He was sick and tired of people in his face.

The house was normal. He hadn’t seen it in months. In fact, he’d been counting down the days to actually seeing his bed. And maybe talking Margo into spending some time in it.

Ever since the bus things had been different. Before he could get a handle on what was really going between them—how to deal with the aftermath of actually spitting out, “I love you” to someone and shocking them into silence—he had to deal with this mess. And he really wasn’t sure what to do. According to Donovan, they were fine monetarily, at least for now.

That was just as shocking as the love thing.

He’d never
not
struggled. Even when they’d had the Los Angeles apartment, it hadn’t really been theirs. He’d had some pocket money, but nothing with as many zeroes as his current accounts.

That didn’t even feel real.

But at least it was a buffer. Right now that was all he could focus on. They’d been prepared to go on hiatus for a few months, but not to have him completely out of commission. He figured he’d keep busy with Nick. Do a few one-off shows that would keep them in the public eye while the baby makers were doing their thing.

Now what?

He got to the front door and couldn’t quite put his hand on the doorknob. Walking in there was suddenly bigger than he could handle. Would it be better to just disappear? Head out and lose himself for a month?

Just buy a car and drive away? Even away from Margo?

He curled his fingers into his palm but the door opened up anyway. Pix was standing in front of him. Her ridiculous overalls covering an eye searing green T-shirt that said
Yes, I’m knocked up.

Simon couldn’t stop the laugh as he ogled her rather huge breasts. Jeez. Pregnancy certainly enhanced the boobage.

“Quit staring at my tits, Super Slut.”

He smiled for the first time that day. How could he not? The outrage in her voice was exactly what he needed. She grabbed him by the front of his shirt and dragged him inside then went around to his back and pushed him through the foyer into the living room.

“Everyone get down here!”

Simon winced at her bellow. And because he didn’t have a choice but to follow the directive of the Greenasaurus Rex preggo lady, he landed on the couch. He pulled one of the half dozen throw pillows that were scattered over the huge brown couch in front of him and wrapped his arms around it.

It was better than picking at his cuticles.

Nick came bounding down the stairs with an ancient yellow towel around his neck, his hair still dripping from a shower. A fucking millionaire and he still kept the towels from the laundromat. That was Nicky. Never throw a damn thing away.

Harper came out of the kitchen with Deacon trying to take a tray away from her.

“Lawless, could you just let me—”

“If you don’t back off, you’re going to lose an inch off an appendage,” Harper snarled.

“Deak, you can’t handle a three-inch dick. Back up, bud.”

“Fuck off, Nick.”

Nick smirked and rubbed at his hair. “What, you couldn’t wait for me to come pick up your sorry ass?” he asked Simon.

Simon waved at the doorway. Lila and Donovan had followed him in.

A ball of orange and blond fur came racing down the stairs after Nick. Simon grinned as his cat jumped on the windowsill and stared at him with her huge golden eyes. She twitched her tail and wound it around her front paws.

She was pissed at him for leaving her alone so long. He always won her over though. He dropped his hand arm down the side of the couch and made little
c’mere
gestures.

She just swished her tail.

“Oh. Nice to see you, Donovan,” Nick said. He lost all inflection and his smile fell away as he closed off.

Simon sighed and scrunched down on the couch.
Here we go.

“We thought we’d bring Simon home,” Lila said. She stood in the middle of their relatively large family room. Her red heels sunk into the plush carpeting. Even on a simple house call, she was dressed to the nines. Royal blue power suit with one, fat red button emphasizing the cinched-in jacket and her epic curves.

Lila Shawcross was stupid hot. The kind of hot that actually subtracted IQ points from half the men that came in her sphere. Not him. She was probably one of the few women that he hadn’t wanted to bang. Not because she wasn’t hot—because, duh—but because she was too inside her head.

He didn’t need that kind of challenge. Not after his first encounter with Margo. She was more puzzle than he was prepared for, and he didn’t need another woman with that kind of work. Besides, he was fairly certain Nick was into her and he valued his friendship—and his nuts—too much to even contemplate poaching…even if Nick was clueless about his thing for their manager.

And now the shit was going to hit the fan and he didn’t have a thing to say about it. In fact, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it either.

Harper set the tray next to him. “You’re probably starving. All of this is on the approved list.”

Cheeseburgers and fries, probably not on the list just yet. He took her little cup of cottage cheese and thinly sliced melon. All perfectly healthy.

All perfectly bland.

More bland.

He lived for bland. It was what he’d been eating for the last day and a half. When his throat wasn’t on fire anyway. Or feeling like he was swallowing pieces that were trying to heal—God, he didn’t want to think about it.

Pieces of his career?

Pieces of his future?

Yeah, that was going to help. Nope. Positive thinking. He loved cottage cheese—said no one ever. He picked at the cup with the little dessert spoon. He really didn’t want to look like a bitch about it, but for fuck’s sake how was a man supposed to live on fruit and cottage cheese?

He wanted a damn slab of meat the size of his hand.

George leaped onto the arm of the couch and bumped his arm. He scooped up a tiny bit of cottage cheese and held the spoon up to the cat. She lapped at it daintily then made a cute little face and tried to get the cheese off her tongue.

Yeah, you don’t like it either, huh?

He set the cup aside and curled the cat into his chest and under his chin. He so didn’t want to watch the rest of his band react to the news that he’d been given. But he was stuck in this shitty silence he had to live in.

Running for the border was looking better every minute.

Donovan stepped up beside Lila. “As you know, things are going to change a little with Simon’s recent prognosis.”

Simon slumped lower in the couch. His belt was going to be in line with his nose if he kept going. George climbed onto his shoulder and curled into his neck, resting her little cat face under his hair.

“And with our impending families,” he gestured to Harper then to Jazz, “I think if we simply extend the hiatus to after the holidays, then we will have a better handle on things.”

Jazz let out a happy laugh. “I get more time with the kiddo?”

Donovan gave her an indulgent smile. “I know you were willing to get right back on he road this fall—as soon as the doctor okayed it, of course—but now you’ll have your first Christmas at home with your children. Both of you.” Donovan nodded to Harper and Deacon.

Simon wasn’t the big writer in the group like Gray and Deacon were becoming. Hell, they were probably already booking things to do around baby rattles.

“Naturally the baby brigade will be happy to have the extra time. What the hell am I going to do for six goddamn months?”

“Nick,” Lila said in a warning tone.

“No, I think it’s a legitimate question.” Donovan held up his hand. “I would lose my mind if I didn’t have anything to do for six months.”

Nick folded his arms. “Finally, someone sees my side of things.”

“I have a few ideas for collaborations.”

“Hell no. I only work with my band.”

Donovan dipped his hands into his pockets and fiddled with his phone. “And I’d be more than happy if you wrote another album while you were waiting for Simon to be able to sing again. But can you write one without his voice? Without knowing just how he’ll be able to sing when he’s healed? He’ll have to learn all over again.”

Simon curled his fingers around the pillow under his arm and pulled it onto his belly. He’d never had to learn anything when it came to singing. He opened his goddamn mouth and it all came out. Period.

Part of him figured that would be exactly what he did when he started over.

But the little part of him that had been trying to ignore the changes was now doing backflips in his gut. What if he opened his mouth and he sounded like someone else entirely? Or worse, he had no range. He’d instinctively known how to curl his voice around a song.

At least he’d thought he did.

Maybe he’d been singing wrong this whole time.

Had every splash of vodka been slicing off another note? Had every reach for a note been asking for trouble?

As the voices got louder, George got more skittish until she leaped off the top of the couch and disappeared into kitchen.

He scooted to the edge of the couch and buried his hands in his hair. Nick shot down every offer that Donovan had for him. His best friend was a gifted songwriter, but he didn’t want to work with anyone but them.

His loyalty was admirable, but honestly…Nick really would lose his damn mind if he didn’t have something to do. Donovan was right on target there.

Personally, Simon would kill him if he had to deal with Nick day in and day out—knowing that he couldn’t do anything to help him. Knowing that he was the cause of his best friend slowly going insane would drive Simon to the same place.

Especially if he had to do it sober.

He and Nick had never been any good at anything except music. They’d been the only songwriters until this last album.

They didn’t have hobbies. They were either singing one of their songs, covering a song, or writing a song. Beyond that they were usually talking about music with a radio station, magazine, vlog, or their own damn YouTube channel.

Or, in his case, fucking was his only hobby.

Nick might not know what he was going to do for six months, but Simon was in the same boat, except he didn’t have a paddle. Nick could at least play his axe.

Oh, Simon could still play a guitar, but that was just a conduit for his voice. He didn’t lose himself in the strings. He lost himself in the words.

Simon looked up. Nick was pacing the length of the living room, his cool whiskey colored gaze was focused on Simon.

He stood and held out his arms.

Nick slammed drawers until he found his emergency pack of cigarettes. “Fuck off, Simon, I’m not punching you now.”

“You want to,” he mouthed.

“No, I don’t.” Nick hunched his shoulders and flipped the filtered cigarette between his fingers.

Simon walked over to him and stood toe-to-toe with him.

Nick lifted his chin. “Don’t.”

He simply stared at Nick. He knew Nick wanted to hit something. Or smoke a pack of cigs.

Simon sure as fuck wanted to crush something. Nick would do. If they beat the shit out of each other then maybe he could think again. Hell, maybe they’d both feel better.

Donovan hauled Simon back by the scruff of his neck. “No. I don’t need you two scrapping like fucking boys.”

Simon shrugged him off. Donovan’s crisp British accent had gone deeper with another flavor he didn’t recognize. Maybe if he rattled the Brit’s cage, he could clear the whole goddamn room in three seconds.

Or lose every contract that might have a chance of being signed if—when—he got better. When he could sing again.

Nick paced back to the door and opened it. He jammed the filter between his lips, then scrubbed his fingers over his face and through his hair. He stood at the door, his back to the room for so long that Simon wondered if he was a statue. But no, there was no such thing as a statue that vibrated with anger.

Nick slammed the door and swung around, snapping the cigarette in half. “Why couldn’t you just follow directions?” Nick asked with an explosion of anger. “Now we have nothing.” His eyes were wild and his upper lip was curled into a snarl.

Finally.

Simon flexed his fists. Yes. It was his fault. He looked around the room. Everyone standing or sitting in this living room knew it was his fault. He needed someone to say it.
C’mon Nicky, don’t disappoint me now.
He’d been too proud to let Gray sing for even one night.

If he’d just backed off.

Harper and Jazz moved forward. “No.” The simple word was an echo between both of them, one after the other.

Harper shook her head. “I talked to the doctor—it didn’t matter if you’d rested one more night. The cyst was hidden by the swollen chords. It would have blown out the next night.”

“Maybe,” Nick said on a low voice.

Simon stepped back. He bumped into the couch and careened around it, clipping the lamp with his shoulder before he finally righted himself.

Maybe.

Maybe he would have hung back and caught the safer notes.

Maybe he would have held off for the next three shows. All he’d needed was to get through those three shows and he would have had a rest.

Maybe this never would have happened.

Fury drove him up the stairs. With himself, the situation, the stifling room.

He couldn’t watch another person pity him.

It was in their faces. The ones that couldn’t quite look at him, the sympathy of the baby brigade, the snapping anger from Nick. The stoic silence from Gray and Deacon.

“Simon, get the fuck down here.” Nick’s voice floated up the stairwell.