His name was a sigh and a prayer on her lips.
He wanted to say hers back. Wanted to tell her how much he loved her—even more now when she’d been nothing but his rock. He sealed their lips and breathed her in. Honeysuckle and ocean and cocoa butter.
And his.
Undeniably his. He wanted to take all of it back with him, protect it like the Hope-fucking-diamond. Protect it like he hadn’t protected his voice. Cherish it like he’d never cherished anything before.
Because there had never been, and would never be, anyone like Margo.
She shuddered over him, held onto him, and gave him everything.
When he couldn’t hold off any longer, he pressed his mouth to her neck, and mouthed, “I love you,” against her skin.
They collapsed in a heap and he managed to curl around her in the mound of pillows and sheets and the cover thing that was almost as monstrous as the mattress.
“This is exactly how I want to remember the island,” she said quietly.
He kissed her neck and wrapped his arms around her middle until her back touched every part of is front. He tucked his chin into her shoulder and watched as the sun slowly slid into the ocean. With every minute after that, the night crept over the water, leaving only the night sounds and the lapping water.
He wasn’t sure if they drifted off or not. He’d been living in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness where time had no meaning.
She turned in his arms and traced the pad of her fingertip across his bottom lip. “I know tomorrow is going to be a little crazy. Between the flight and your appointment the following day, things are going to change.”
He nodded.
“I’ll be glad to hear your voice again.”
He closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that either. This, he understood. It was frustrating and crazy-making, but if he didn’t open his mouth, didn’t make a sound, then it could stay the same. It couldn’t be any worse.
She cupped his face. “Look at me, Simon.”
He opened his eyes. The little white lights that illuminated the room left her mostly in shadow, but he could see enough to know she was going to say something he probably wasn’t going to like. He sighed, and mouthed, “what?”
“We’ll get through this together. I promise.” She nibbled on her lower lip. “I was going to wait to give this to you, but I think you need it now.” She wiggled free and situated her bathing suit so it covered her again.
He hadn’t even taken it off of her. She distracted him so much that he hadn’t even undressed her before he’d pulled her on top of him. She went to the corner of tent and dug inside a huge straw bag. She scooped up his shirt on the way by and dropped it over her head.
“Hey,” he mouthed.
She stuck out her tongue. “No sun, it’s a little chilly. Sue me.” She crawled onto the bed and sat cross-legged in front of him. She jingled something in the palm of her hand, then let it unfurl. It was a chain with some sort of medal and stone at the end. “This is St. Jude.”
He frowned. She was giving him a saint?
“Don’t give me that look. This is a special saint. It’s the protector of lost causes.”
Did she think that’s what they were? A lost cause?
She held up a finger. “Before you get offended, St. Jude gives the fates a little push. All those battles we have to wage on the world, during those moments we feel lost. This is the guy who tells you to remember that things will get better.”
She unhooked the clasp and brought it around his neck. He relaxed as she twisted the clasp so it wouldn’t come undone. “Special clasp. A durable one,” she said with a wink. She smoothed her hands down his skin and over to his nipple rings. “Silver to match.”
He grinned and lifted it to look at it.
“The stone is for our water, and the sand dollar to remember this spot.”
It was surprisingly thoughtful. A trifecta of protection. And for the first time, his fingers itched for paper. The words and melodies that usually crowded his brain had been so silent since the tour. Even before he’d lost his voice, it hadn’t been living inside him like it used to.
He rose off the pillows and cupped her face. “Thank you,” he mouthed. He kissed her and repeated the thank you twice more for each charm. Then he dragged her back down on the bed to thank her the rest of the way.
Chapter Twenty
Margo listened to the captain tell them about the average temperature in Los Angeles. August in California was heat and water shortage. That was about it. Not tropical heat. Just smog and hazy days. She missed the island already.
The flight had been uneventful. Tension had started filling the cabin the closer they got to LA.
Simon was quiet—well, even quieter than usual. Fidgeting and staring off into space, then followed by obsessive scrolling on his phone. She didn’t know what he was looking at. Quite frankly, she was afraid to ask.
He’d crawled on the pull-out bed with her in the mid-morning and they’d ended up fucking. It wasn’t even close to how they’d been in St. John. It had been more of a focused frustration that he’d tried to beat away with his cock and her body. And because she was just as frustrated, she took it out on him as well.
By the time they were done with each other, the bed looked like a wrestling match had occurred and Simon was sitting on the floor, his shoulders heaving.
She flipped onto her stomach and dragged a travel pillow under her cheek. “You know, you’re not supposed to be doing anything that makes you breathe heavy.”
He flashed her his middle finger.
“Yeah, already did that.”
He huffed out a breath that sounded like a laugh. He rolled onto his knees and pointed to the bathroom and grabbed his jeans. She nodded and reached for her phone. She flicked it on and noticed that they’d changed into Pacific Time. They’d left at dawn so Simon could make his afternoon appointment with Dr. Connor.
They probably should have left the day before, but neither of them had wanted to cut their trip short. Running from this kind of reality was something they both shared. And now, they had two hours to land and get him into the city.
She tugged on her shirt then checked her texts and found one from Lila.
LS: Have you two come up for air yet? If you kidnapped him, we’re going to have words.
Margo grinned and typed back that they were landing soon. When the reply bubble started before she’d even put her phone down, she waited for an answer.
LS: How is he? Surly? Baked? Silent?
MR: All of the above.
LS: How are you?
MR: You will be jealous of my tan.
LS: Considering this lily-white skin has never seen sun without SPF 9000, you are correct.
MR: We didn’t do much but relax on the beach.
LS: I’m sure body language filled in the gaps of the silence.
MR: Possibly.
LS: Uh-huh. Please do NOT give me details. I’ve had a shitty day as it is. N is driving me nuts. He needs a goddamn hobby.
MR: Should I pick him up some knitting needles? Maybe a paintbrush? Coloring book?
LS: LOL Knitting needles, totally.
MR: Well, dexterous fingers…I’m sure he’d be good with his hands no matter what he did.
LS: I wouldn’t know what you’re inferring, Ms. Reece.
MR: Of course not. We’re landing in a few. Gotta get dressed.
LS: Seriously?
MR: Can check that off the bucket list. Twice…or is that three? No, four times.
LS: I’m taking Lysol on the plane.
Margo laughed and said her goodbyes. Simon came out of the bathroom and gave her a raised eyebrow.
“Lila checking in.” She stood and skipped out of his reach when he tried to lift her shirt. “We’re landing in a few minutes.”
He snapped his fingers and made a sad face.
“You’ve been preoccupied the whole trip, now you want to play?”
He shrugged and mouthed, “nervous.”
She crossed to him and put her hands on his hips and rested her head on his chest. “I know. But you’re going to do great.”
He pressed his cheek to the top of her head. They stayed like that until the captain came over the speaker. She lifted onto her toes as he told them that they they had five minutes to get into their seats. She snatched her discarded clothes off the couch that they’d landed on and rushed into the bathroom. She freshened up with the stash of glory that was Donovan Lewis’s bathroom.
She quickly tugged her hair up into a knot and headed back. She stopped at the entrance to the cabin and leaned against the wall. Simon was stripping the sheets away and returning the area to its former status.
He was surprisingly domestic when he wanted to be. He did his own laundry and even helped her cook a few times on the island. She’d had him pegged as a lazy, spoiled eternal child. Of course she’d never seen him so clear-eyed either.
He hadn’t had a drink in over two weeks. There could be a correlation or he could be burning nervous energy. She had a feeling it might be a little of both. She hip-checked him and helped him tuck away the bed. They put away the few electronics they’d pulled out for the flight and settled in the large chairs at the front of the plane.
Simon’s knee bounced throughout the landing and his fingers tapped on arm of the chair. As soon as they came to a stop, she unbuckled and went over to him, then straddled him on the chair. “I know you’re nervous, but Dr. Connor is a professional and she’s going to do whatever is necessary to get you back to that microphone, okay?”
He scrubbed his palms up and down her thigh and nodded.
“C’mon. Positive vibes.”
She saw the joke forming in his eyes and slid off him. “Perv.”
They got off the plane and a driver was waiting for them. The ride to the hospital was slow as hell. Afternoon gridlock was in full force. Luckily, they made up time as they’d come across the time zones. They used every one of the extra minutes and had to run the last block.
Another five frustrating minutes of finding her office and finally, they landed in a waiting room for twenty-five minute anyway.
“Mr. Kagan?”
Simon popped off the couch. She stood with him. “Do you want me to come in with you?”
He cracked his knuckles and she could see the debate going on in his head, but he finally nodded.
“It’s okay, if you want to go on your own.” She tried to tamp down the disappointment, but it was his life. He didn’t have to share all the intricacies of his prognosis with her.
He looped an arm around her shoulders and dragged her forward. She relaxed into his arms and breathed out her own sigh. She really wanted to be in there with him. He stepped back before linking their fingers together.
“Right this way.”
#
Simon followed the nurse down the hall. He eased his grip on Margo’s hand when she lightly patted his hand with her free one. It felt like the entire day had been a runaway train. He’d gotten texts from Nick about the lawsuit—again.
He’d blamed crappy reception on the fact that he hadn’t been replying much, but honestly he just didn’t know what to say to him. To any of them, really. And then came the questions about his doctor’s appointments. He knew Nick meant well. And Jazz, Deacon and even Gray had texted him asking the same thing.
Fuck.
Wouldn’t he be screaming it from the rooftops if he had an answer?
He didn’t fucking know the verdict yet.
The pretty nurse in her pink scrubs opened the door. “Dr. Connor will be right in. Her afternoon surgery ran long.”
Simon nodded and looked around the sterile little room. There was no bed, but there were a ton of monitors and a lot of instruments lining the counter. He could count the number of times he’d been to a doctor’s office on one hand. In fact, most of them included an emergency room instead of a full-fledged office visit.
Margo sat on the chair in the corner and set her purse on the floor. His phone chirped in his pants and he pulled it out.
Nick.
He shut off the ringer without looking at the text and stuffed it back in his pocket as he paced the room. Six steps wide and eleven steps long. A small goddamn room. He tried to sit on the little stool with a weird arm, but couldn’t settle.
“If you pop out of that chair one more time, I’m going to go find rope.”
He sat down again and picked at the fraying threads of his ripped jeans. He should have worn black dress pants.
No.
Fuck that.
This was him. He wore ripped jeans and concert T-shirts, dammit. That was his wardrobe. He didn’t have to change for anyone. Least of all a doctor. Especially when that doctor was going to come in here and tell him his goddamn life was over.
“Simon.” Margo pressed her hand onto his knee to stop it from bouncing. “Relax. You’re going to start hyperventilating if you don’t take it down a notch.”
He rolled his eyes. When the door opened, he sprang up again.
“Mr. Kagan. You look much better than the last time I saw you.”
He held his hand out and she shook it.
The doctor zeroed in on Margo. “Was he quiet the whole time?”
Margo nodded slowly.
“I don’t like that nod. Did he talk?” Dr. Connor sat down and spun her chair to face Simon. “Did you talk?” She dragged the little black stool next to him.
He shook his head.
“Sit.”
He sighed and sat.
“You can lie to me or I can see it in the scope.”
Margo stood and set her hand on his shoulder. “No, he didn’t talk at all. Very few noises, we probably weren’t as…calm and relaxed as you requested.”
“Ah.” The doctor grinned. “Lots of sex?”
Margo flushed and Simon grinned. He cracked his knuckles and finally settled his hand on his thighs.
“We went to St. John.”
“I’m jealous. I’ve had about fourteen surgeries since you guys left. Maybe twenty. I get fuzzy by the end of the week.”
Margo laughed. “We definitely kept to the dietary plan you gave. No acidic foods and no alcohol. At all.”
Definitely no alcohol. Was it so wrong to just want a beer? A glass of his Crystal Skull with those huge balls of ice that filled a glass. So what if they were for whiskey. Hell, he wanted whiskey too. Bourbon, even better.
“Excellent. That’s what I like to hear.”
Simon tuned in as she pulled a screen forward and an instrument with a long scope and a small can.
“First of all, your cyst came back benign. It formed mostly from the vocal strain. I had to cut into your vocal cord to get it, which is why I asked you to keep quiet.”
He frowned.
“We have a remarkable ability to heal. Especially in the mouth. But vocal cords are a special animal. The smallest things can lead to irritation and the folds overcompensate. That’s when you get the itching and you’re clearing your throat.”
Simon remembered exactly what that was like. Forever wanting to cough or take a piece of sandpaper to his freaking throat.
“Let’s take a look, shall we?”
He nodded.
She picked up the can. “I’m going to spray your nose cavity and go through that way.”
He sat back. The other guy hadn’t done that.
“The other doctor went through your throat?”
He nodded.
“Well, I need to see everything, and it’s easier if I go this way. A lot less stressful.”
Simon rolled his neck and sat up straighter. He looked down as Margo hooked her pinkie through his. He smiled at her and pulled the little arm around in front of him and leaned his right forearm on it. “Go for it,” he mouthed.
“That’s the spirit.” Dr. Connor held up the spray. “It’s hurricane spray. Will pretty much just numb you up so you won’t notice the scope. I don
’t want to spray down your throat if I can help it.”
He gave her a thumbs up. The blast of cold made him squint and gasp, but then everything was numb. She flipped on the screen and put a headset on him. “So I can get the best register of your voice.”
The scope was odd. He couldn’t actually feel it, but the pressure of it going through his nose and down the back of his throat made him stiffen. Margo’s finger tightened around his pinkie and he forced himself to relax.
“Okay, open your mouth and breathe normally. Now say ahh.”
He did as she asked. It felt weird to make a sound after forcing it down for so long. It sounded even weirder. Like he’d gone on a three-day bender and screamed for every hour of it. She took him through scales and sounds.
Finally, she drew out the scope. She hit a few keys on her keyboard and played it back. She made a few notes and then turned the screen to him. “Well, the cyst site healed pretty well. Not as fully as I’d hoped, but not terrible either. You’re an overdoer.”
He frowned.
“You can talk. The lower registers of your voice are the least stressful. Keep it modulated and no yelling. Just your everyday voice so I can see how it sounds.”
“What’s an overdoer?” He sounded raspy and his voice was deeper.
“You’re a singer, right? So you’re going to use your voice a lot more than the average bear. But when you want to reach those big notes, you’re holding your vocal cords farther apart. Stretching them wide so the cords are banging together so you can hit those higher register notes. The irritation then makes even more of them happen.” She held her fingers up. “So it’s banging in the middle and getting aggravated. Then you crack because it’s open at the top and bottom.”
“So what can I do?”
“You need to heal. Keep your talking to a minimum. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk—but no extra talking. No phone, definitely no yelling, no singing yet. Ideally, no more than two hours of talking in the entire day.”
“Okay. So, pretty much shut up unless I have something important to say?”
Dr. Connor laughed. “I’m not being a warden here. But the less you cause them to vibrate, the more they heal. If you go back to doing what you used to, they’ll just make another nodule or worse, you’ll lose your range. Not so good for your livelihood.”
Consumed Page 20
