Wicked Serenade: a Lost in Oblivion Rockstar Collection

by Cari Quinn

  “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.”

  He pressed his lips together and stuffed his disappointment down. He wasn’t sure what he’d been hoping, but the cautious meh he’d gotten out of the doc didn’t feel like he was in a great spot.

  “Look, Mr. Kagan—”

  “Simon,” he said automatically.

  “Simon.” She folded her hands. “I don’t want to discourage you. I’m just being cautious because your job is your voice. If you were a radio personality, or even a speaker, it would be the same. You use your voice for a living, so you have to rest it like you would if you got knee surgery. You’re not going to go run a 5K the day after you fix a torn ligament, right?”

  “I’m not running a 5K, period. I’ll save that for my friend, Deacon.”

  “C’mon. It’s good for you. I ran my first marathon last year.”

  Simon knew she was trying to make him feel better. Part of him appreciated it. The rest of him just wanted to get the fuck out of there. “I don’t run unless zombies are chasing me.”

  “Or fans,” Margo chimed in with a cheeky smile.

  He mustered up a smile.

  “I know you’re discouraged. I can see it in your face. But you’re young and I confess I’ve gone on YouTube to see how you sing. It’s impressive, but I can tell you’re straining. I think working with a vocal coach and doing vocal therapy will help a lot.”

  Had he been straining all his life? Was he fooling himself into thinking that he’d get to do what he loved?

  She pulled a drawer open and took out an envelope. “These are a few of the coaches I like and recommend. If you don’t like them, or want to do your own research, I completely understand. But finding one is important. And start now, because getting an interview takes time. Especially in this town.”

  He took the envelope. “Thanks, Dr. Connor.”

  “Remember, limited voice usage. No phone, no yelling, and no whispering. I know it sounds weird, but it’s no good for you.”

  “Do you want to keep him on the low acid diet?”

  The doctor looked at Margo. “It’ll help for this next month. Alcohol is definitely still off the menu. It’s just not good for your cords. Especially now as they’re healing. I want you back here in three weeks.” She stood.

  He got up as well. “I’ll be here.”

  “Good.” She shook his hand and then held it out to Margo as well. “I’m glad you have someone in your corner, Simon. Healing your voice is up here,” she tapped her temple, “as much as here.” She tapped her lower throat. “I included my email if you have questions. I’m busy, but I answer email later at night.”

  “Thanks.”

  The doctor opened the door. “Okay. I’ll see you in three weeks, and we’ll assess it from there.”

  The long walk down the hallway seemed a lot shorter now. They stopped and dealt with insurance and payments and appointments. He plugged the date into his calendar and stuffed the envelope into his back pocket.

  All he wanted to do was grab a bottle and blink out. All while he’d been in St. John, he’d rarely thought about drinking. He’d been too focused on the moment and Margo. Now all he saw were people staring at him.

  He wished he’d thought to wear his hat. All he had were his shades. He put them on as they walked toward the front of the hospital.

  “I texted the driver to come by and get us.”

  He nodded.

  “Simon?”

  He turned to her.

  She moved in front of him and slid her hands along his sides. “Do me a favor?”

  He shrugged and nodded.

  “Say my name.”

  His lips twitched. “Which one?”

  She smiled. “Your favorite.”

  “Violin Girl?”

  She tipped her chin up, her lips spreading into a wider smile. “Oh, yeah.”

  As much as he wanted to throw a chair through a window with the rage building in his gut, he actually found himself laughing. Not just smiling at his girl like he’d done for the last two weeks, but allowing a laugh to come out. Some of the anger dissipated as he lowered his mouth to hers. “Margo,” he said in a low voice.

 
; She bit her lower lip. “Definitely. I missed that.”

  “Me too.” He pressed his forehead to hers. A horn made him look to the street. He took her hand and drew her across the sidewalk to the curb.

  “Where we headed?” the driver asked.

  He rattled off the address to the house in the hills. Margo settled beside him and hooked her arm through his, but she seemed to understand that he wasn’t up to talking, even if he was allowed to. He stared out the window as the city flew by. Once they got onto the interchange, his pocket buzzed.

  He pulled it out, expecting to see Nick’s number. Instead it was Roman. And all it included was a hyperlink.

  He pressed it and the page unfolded. Turquoise ocean, a cloudless sky, and his face filled the screen. One of Roman’s shots from the ocean floor up to the crazy throne-style chair he’d posed in. His signature smirk gave an arrogance to the shot.

  Badass shot.

  Of him.

  On the front of Roman’s site. And when he entered, there was a gallery of shots and the page views were staggering. In the thousands.

  “Um, Simon?”

  He glanced at Margo.

  “You’re trending on Facebook.”

  “What?” He leaned over to look down at her phone.

  “Yes. Roman put a few teaser shots on his page just to say he’d done a special shoot and…wow.”

  Simon opened his Facebook app and did a search for Roman’s page. “One-point-three-million likes? Are you kidding me?”

  She made a tut-tut sound. “Modulated.”

  Fucking modulated voice, his goddamn ass. What in the fuck?

  A green text message popup flagged at the top of his screen from Nick. Simon swiped it alive.

  Are you fucking shitting me? You go on vacation to supposedly chill and now your face is every-goddamn-where? Fuck off.

  Simon blew out a slow breath. He couldn’t tell if that was a pissy text, or a snarky one. He kinda figured it was a 50/50 deal.

  Before he could answer the texts, he got a new one from Lila.

  I’m not your secretary. Deal with this. I’m forwarding you the 53 agent emails I got between last night and this morning. I set up an email account for you. SK@SimonKagan.com. For now they’ll forward to your regular email.

  You’re lucky I didn’t give that one out. It was a close thing.

  “Well, shit. It looks like I have to hire a fucking assistant.” He looked over at her. “Want the job?”

  “God, no.”

  He laughed and slung his arm around her neck. “Welcome home,” he said with a sigh.

  Twenty-One

  Simon sat at the dining room table at the Hollywood Hills house. An iPad, new Mac Air, and his phone were in one cluster and he had a freaking planner in front of him.

  A planner.

  He’d never had a calendar in his life. Oh, he’d had one on his phone that was always dinging at him for some appointment or whatever, but Lila had been in charge of that. And before Lila it had been the annoying Gordo on their first tour.

  Now he was actually responsible for keeping track.

  He sucked at it.

  “Do you even know what all those things do, Super Slut?”

  He looked across the table where Jazz and her very pregnant belly sat. She had a pile of yellow and green envelopes in front of her and a roll of stamps. And glitter. A lot of glitter.

  “I know that they’re all annoying and want me to answer things.”

  Her bubbly laugh poured out. “Oh, man. That’s what you get for being pretty.”

  “Yeah, pretty.” He forced himself not to snort. Not to do anything voice-ish was gonna fucking kill him. He nodded to her. “You don’t have this problem.”

  “Was that a backhanded compliment?”

  Simon grinned at her. “Maybe.”

  She stuck out her tongue and tossed a coil of empty plastic onto her discard pile. That was her second roll of stamps. “I don’t want that problem. I keep our YouTube channel up to date with the Bellamia.” She patted her belly. “Harper and I started doing a little natural foods segment for babies.”

  Jesus fuck. How had they gone from the height of sold out shows to baby food?

  Oh, that’s right—he couldn’t sing.

  He and Margo had been home for three weeks and the baby brigade was in full steam ahead mode. Harper was almost ready to pop and Pix was right behind her. There was much bitching about swollen ankles, boobs, and the inability to get out of chairs without assistance. Hovering husbands, formerly known as a guitar god and a demon bass player, had lost their manhood.

  A surly Nick was the only thing unchanged in the whole house.

  He had to get out of there. The house felt even tighter than it used to. It might be the explosion of baby shit that had taken over the living room and the garage, but it was more than that. He used to love the chaos. Now it just felt like everyone was staring at him.

  Was he talking too much?

  Why didn’t he talk to anyone?

  Was he looking for a voice therapy coach?

  How are you feeling, Simon?

  He wanted to scream that was feeling fucking hemmed in. But he didn’t—because he wasn’t supposed to fucking scream. Though it was almost worth it.

  An email notification popped up on his computer. Jazz was still babbling about carrots and peas as he opened the email. The realtor he’d been talking to had found an apartment he wanted Simon to see.

  “Fuck, yes,” he said.

  “I know, right? Broccoli is gross when you use a food processor. Only those florette things with cheese. Then it’s delicious.”

  “Hmm?” He looked up from his screen.

  “You weren’t listening.”

  “Carrots?” he asked.

  “I hate you.”

  He closed his laptop, grabbed his phone and stood up. He moved down to her end of the table and kissed her forehead. “No, you don’t.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Another meeting.”

  She pressed her lips together.

  “What?”

  “You’re not talking too much, right? I mean…like within reason.”

  He nodded. “Yes, Mom. I let them do all the talking and just stand there and look pretty. Right?”

  She frowned. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  He sighed. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”

  “Yeah, Margo wasn’t here last night. You’re moody when she’s not around.”

  He didn’t sleep well without her, that was for sure. She didn’t like staying at the house, which was one more reason for him to get off his ass about getting an apartment. She’d gone back to Boston to take care of some things with her house and would be back at the end of the week.

  If he could get moving on a few things, he might have something to show her when she got back.

  “I’ll be back tonight. Not sure when. You okay here?”

  “Yes.” She patted her belly. “More thank you cards and Gray will be home for dinner. He’s out working with a few new bands that Donovan set him up with. You know, you could do that. You don’t have to sing. You and Nick were the writers for almost all the songs before we came along.”

  Simon fisted his fingers around his phone. Writing songs he couldn’t sing? No thanks. “Roman is keeping me busy. And I have a dozen more jobs on my calendar. I’m booked through September.”

  “The camera does love you.”

  “Helps pay the bills.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. That’s why Gray is writing so much. But it keeps him busy. He’s not really great at being bored. And with the baby coming, things are going to get crazy.”

  “How’s the house coming along?”

  “It’s running neck and neck with my due date. I’m pretty sure Gray is going to break his kneecaps. At least that’s what he keeps telling me during pillow talk. And if he tells us that one more thing is going to cost extra, it’s going to happen.”

  “Have fun glitterfy
ing the world, Pix.”

  “It makes the thank you note extra special.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He grabbed his keys to his new car on the way out. He’d done a photoshoot for Audi when their last spokesperson had to be replaced for shooting someone in a club. Getting that deal had been the ringer for his new agent, Stefan Wesley.

  The guy was a beast. He had him booked for five gigs barely a day after Simon had hired him. But he was well on his way to a decent payday. And his baby present to Jazz and Harper would be paying their end of the suit.

  He wasn’t going to have any of that over his head. No way were his friends paying for his mistakes, or his shortcomings.

  The trip into the city was snarl-inducing. He’d started listening to audio books in the car to calm him down. Just the idea of music made his stomach churn. And he had to listen to techno bullshit at most of his jobs.

  It was enough to make him want to shoot himself in the head. And because he wasn’t really allowed to talk to anyone anyway, he had wireless Bluetooth headphones for the photoshoots. He liked the Dresden Files. The dude that played Spike on Buffy, The Vampire Slayer was the narrator. A fuckup magician was just the thing to get him through the long, boring days.

  When he got into the city, he plugged the address into the dash GPS. He sort of knew where he was going, but Venice Beach had a million side streets. He pulled into the parking garage of a rehabbed high rise when his girl told him he’d arrived at his destination in her smooth British accent.

  Simon checked his phone and texted back the realtor that he was in the building. The bombshell redhead met him at the front desk.

  “You made it.” Her voice was warm caramel. She held her hand out for a shake. She was like Lila only slightly more Playboy channel. She wore the same curve-worthy suits, except she used her feminine wiles to push him into opening his checkbook.

  He let her do her spiel about security and the upgrades made to the apartment building. The main desk had a burly security dude and the lobby had a special key for every tenant. It only went to their floor.

  Simon liked that aspect.