CHAPTER THREE
“Can’t what?” Simon grasped her upper arms. He felt her pulling back and he didn’t know how to stop it.
“I’m tired and still a little drunk. I can’t hold up to this right now.”
He hated when she got cryptic like this. Was he really badgering her? Was it all in his head? It didn’t feel like it. “Hold up to what?”
“The inquisition. I’m not going anywhere. Are you?”
“Hell no.”
“Then why are we analyzing this to death? I love you.”
The surge of relief was embarrassing. Because that was exactly what he was worried about. That any time she could just walk. Or worse, would walk. He brought his hands up to cup her cheeks. “I love you, too.”
“Then believe that and stop worrying about the small stuff. Besides, us having a place to crash in Boston is a good thing. I’m going to have to bring you home to meet my family and we definitely don’t want to stay there.”
He swallowed down the lump that had crystalized in his throat. “You want to?”
“God, no.” He stiffened. She gripped his sides. “Not because I’m ashamed of you, but because I’m ashamed of them.” She moved into him and he looped his arms around her shoulders.
So much had changed and so much was in flux because of him. The band, her career, his career taking a completely new track—all of it was confusing and frustrating.
She wrapped her arms around his waist. “This is the only thing that makes sense. You and me. This life we’re building. It’s good—so good.” She pulled back enough to meet his gaze. “Right?”
He lowered his mouth to hers. “Right,” he murmured against her mouth.
She went up on her toes and lined them up perfectly. Margo and champagne. “Now can we go to bed?”
He sighed. “After you drink a glass of water.”
“Then I’ll be up peeing all night,” she said with a whine.
“Believe me, you’ll thank me.” He urged her back to the bathroom and filled and refilled the little Dixie cup by the sink until she’d finished off four of them.
“I’m going to float,” she said and pushed his hand away.
“All right, that should be enough.”
She rubbed her nose and her huge dark eyes were a little glassy. She’d pushed past her drunk and horny and was coming down into sleep time. He wasn’t used to seeing her inebriated. It was a rarity on tour, and certainly since his…situation had changed—there really hadn’t been any alcohol around them.
Between babies, mothers, and neutered husbands, drinking definitely wasn’t on the list for most of the gatherings. Nick had never been a big drinker either, so…it was just easier. Boring, but easier. And this woman took care to keep things lively for him. His schedule certainly did the rest.
He led her back to their room and into bed. She was going to be one sorry woman in the morning. When she curled into the center of the bed instead of her side, he grinned and conformed around her. Her honeysuckle scent pushed him into dreams.
He peeled his eyelid open when his phone bleated out the annoying techno beat Roman had put on his phone. He reached over and tapped snooze. Sometime in the night—the spare few hours that he’d been asleep—Margo had gotten into her favorite spot. Suction-cupped to his side, her cheek resting on his back. Only his girl would prefer the reverse spoon.
A day full of work. Awesome. And today would be full of leather and baby powder, too. His favorite, said no man ever. At least it was November instead of July, though it didn’t make much difference in Malibu. It would be hot as fuck today.
He played with Margo’s elegant fingers, drawing them up to his mouth. He dragged the pads across his lower lip then dropped a kiss on her knuckles, and slipped out of bed. Before the phone could scream out the latest Selena Gomez song again, he scooped it up and turned it off.
Margo flopped onto her back, her arm outstretched. He huffed out a low laugh and headed for the shower. When he finished getting ready and returned to their bedroom, she still hadn’t moved. He sat beside her on the bed. He wouldn’t be back until late and she would be off for practice. Another day that they didn’t see each other.
He skimmed her eyebrow, pushing back a lock of coffee-colored hair. When she didn’t move again, he sighed. He’d just write her a note.
And…no notebook. He opened the bedside drawer, grinning at the toy she’d ordered last month. His girl was definitely getting more adventurous. He rather liked the remote that she’d given him to go with it.
That had definitely been an interesting weekend.
No notebook in the drawer, but there was a marker. Freaking things were all over the apartment from his voice surgery. He tapped it against his lips. Margo would just have to be the paper. He pulled off the cap with a grin.
At least it wasn’t a Sharpie.
When she didn’t move, he kissed her forehead and backed out of the room. Yeah, she was definitely going to feel it today. He grabbed his keys and day’s worth of electronics tucked away in his leather messenger bag. Roman would even put him in leather underwear if he allowed it. It was going to be a long ass day of doing nothing and he was out of Dresden books, dammit.
He scrolled through the audio books he’d tagged as he waited for the elevator. A flag popped up on the top of his screen.
Listen to your girl.
Simon frowned and tapped the text. It was from Gray, and a music file was attached. He hit play and her violin and Gray’s guitar hit him low. Passion burst from his shitty speaker on his phone. It was her—all there in Technicolor. All the things he missed about her on the stage. Missed about them on the stage.
Fuck.
The door opened and he slapped the button for the parking garage. He collapsed against the wall of the elevator. He was working his ass off with Jerry to get back on the stage, but he was nowhere near ready—mind or voice.
What if he fucked up?
What if he got on stage and he opened his mouth and nothing came out?
The nightmares had eased since he started the vocal lessons with Jerry, but he still stared at the ceiling at odd moments in the night. Margo breathing beside him always eased him, but when he wasn’t home? When he was in a hotel room in Paris, or New York, or London? Those nights she wasn’t with him, he’d wake in a cold sweat more than half the time, the faint taste of copper in his mouth again.
Like that night on stage all over again.
He bounced his head against the plush blue wall and pushed off when the doors opened again. It was early—fucking early, was more like it. He’d dropped out of the music life only to become a fucking drone like the rest of the world. Out to work as the sun was rising. It wasn’t right.
But it was work. And that’s why he woke up every day and went. Rolling over wasn’t an option.
Not with the six-month time clock ticking down every day. Most days it felt eternal, but then others—like today—the minute hand sounded like a gong in his head. End of December was coming for him with a vengeance. Donovan was holding their contract for now. Even with the uncertainty of him being able to sing—Donovan wasn’t pressuring them. No, the guy was being very cool where most labels would have left them to swing.
The worst part was the fact that the entire band was holding their ass because of him. And Margo. He knew she missed the stage like a limb that had been hacked off without warning. She tried not to show it, but he knew.
And now with the proof right there on his phone, he couldn’t deny it if he wanted to.
That was what she’d been created for. Not the symphony. As talented as she was, it was the stage that made her shine. Their stage with the band. Not the string section—unless you wanted to call Gray, Deak, and Nick a string section.
He unlocked his car and dropped into the seat. He texted Gray back, telling him it was amazing. Not that he needed to, Gray knew it. That was why he’d sent it.
Simon curled his fingers around the wheel until his knuckles went white.
Fucking voice.
He threw the car into gear and roared out of the parking garage. Traffic was murder and it left him far too much time to think. He snapped on the radio, but Shinedown’s heavy guitar riffs chafed. He slapped the power button until there was nothing but silence.
“Fuck,” he growled. He pressed the Bluetooth function on the steering wheel. “Call Jerry.”
“Calling, Jerry the Fuckhead.”
Simon snorted. It had taken some doing to get Siri to swear, but it was pretty funny.
“What?” Jerry’s voice was winded.
“I didn’t interrupt…something, did I?”
“Reps, you shit. If I was fucking, I wouldn’t have answered.”
“Even for me?”
“Especially for you, asshole.”
Simon smiled for the first time in the last hour. “So, I was thinking.”
“Always trouble for me when you say that.” The clank of weights and voices in the background made Simon wince.
“What do you think about me actually singing at practice?”
“Haven’t you already?”
“A little. But I only sang one song.”
“I wouldn’t advise doing more than a handful of songs. Keep it mid-tempo. I don’t want you reaching yet.”
Simon bounced his head against the headrest. “Got it.”
“What’s the rush?”
I hate that my girl has to play in a studio? Yeah. Definitely not the right thing to say. “I just miss it, man.”
Jerry sighed. “I know you do, but we’re making progress. I don’t want you to fuck it up.”
“I won’t. I just need to sit with my band and not hear my guitarist sing for me. He’s got a good voice, but…”
“Gray’s not you.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Then go for it.”
“Cool. I’ll check in after the practice.”
“Tape it and send me the video or I’ll hound your ass.”
“Will do.”
“I’m serious, Simon—even if it’s shit. I need to hear it.”
“I got it.”
“Fucker, I’m texting Jazz.”
Simon sighed. “Again with the trust?”
“Pretty boy singers who don’t want to look bad are my stock in trade. I just work around you.”
“Asshole.”
“You know it. Later.” And the call went dead.
Simon drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. If he called Nick now, he’d get killed. Or he simply wouldn’t answer. He inched forward in the gridlock parking lot called the Pacific Coast Highway. He picked up his phone out its holder and texted him quickly.
When the instant reply of a bubble text came up, Simon shrugged and switched to a phone call.
“What the fuck are you doing up?” Simon asked.
“Haven’t been to bed yet.” Nick’s voice was gravel-filled and guarded.
“Insomnia or a woman?”
“I sure the fuck wish it was a woman, but no. Dylan has an earache. I can’t wait for Duffy to finish that goddamn house.”
He laughed. “You have plenty of money to get your own place.”
“I like this one.”
Simon sighed. Nick would never change—or rather, he hated change. It was bad enough they’d moved from the Fluff into the LA penthouse then into the little house in the Hills. Way too many different places for his best friend.
“Is there a reason for this unholy hour of a call?”
“Think you can get the gang together for a practice?”
“That’s what we’re doing, jacknuts.”
“No, I mean a real practice—with me singing. Not just fucking around tonight.”
The ruffle of something and the snick of a lighter made Simon laugh.
“I’m sorry, did you say sing?” Nick inhaled and slowly exhaled. Smoking again this week, evidently.
“Yeah. I’m going stir-crazy.”
“You?” Nick snorted. “I’m in baby hell. Fuck, yes, I’ll get them all to practice. At the Fluff?”
Simon tightened his fingers around the wheel until it squeaked. “Yeah.”
“Tonight?”
Simon cleared his throat. Tiny pricks of irritation urged him to step on the gas. Too bad there was a car in front of him. He really needed to move. To drive. To not worry about sitting in with his friends. There was no pressure.
Yeah, right.
“I’m in Malibu for a shoot.”
“Leather pants again, Pretty Boy?”
Simon snorted. “I live in the things these days. At least I’ll be ready to go back on stage.”
Nick blew out smoke, the familiar hiss coming through the speakers. “I can’t wait.”
“Yeah, me neither.” He swallowed down the tickle. “How about nine?”
“I’ll make it happen.”
“Cool. See ya tonight.”
“Yeah, definitely,” Nick said and shut off.
The excitement in his best friend’s voice was exactly what he needed. He’d made it through more than two-thirds of his incarceration. He deserved a little fun.
He straightened up as the line of cars started moving.
He could do this.
He would do this.