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One
Simon Kagan turned on the television for background noise before he dropped back on the full-sized bed in his hotel room. Water droplets slid down his neck, pooling behind him on the duvet. His towel loosened as he sprawled out his legs, feet dangling off the edge.
Soundcheck had been shit. The show the night before had been good.
Not great.
No, he definitely wouldn’t call it great. Not for lack of trying. The crowd had been with them and the band was tighter than ever. Hell, even Nicky was all over the stage with an almost euphoric light inside him.
Happy to be back.
Happy they were back as a band.
Not the band’s fault in any way. It was him. Even his usual solo with Margo, his wife and all-around goddess, couldn’t get him to that perfect plane he’d been searching for since…well, since the beginning of the end.
Since his world went to shit when he bled out onstage.
Some days he thought he was getting there. Then others, like last night, it seemed as if a film had dropped between him and the audience and he was fighting to break through. They screamed for him. For them.
They were right there.
Why the fuck couldn’t he connect? What the hell was wrong with him?
Thank fuck it wasn’t the same off stage. He and the band were all good there. Margo? Now there was his holy grail. They were in sync in a way he hadn’t believed was possible with another human.
And not just fucking. Though he couldn’t complain on that front. His wife—man, still weird to say it—was like bottled lightning. Just a touch and his skin crackled and his mind sizzled. She revved him in every way.
It was the stage that was his Everest. His voice was solid. Rock steady, to be honest. He’d done his warmups in the shower twice, for fuck’s sake. Perfect. And still…fuck.
Just fuck. It covered it all.
And he couldn’t even get a pre-show bang to get himself settled. Usually, Margo was more than up for it. Hell, sometimes she was the one climbing on him. But she’d split after her shower, saying something about a phone call. There had been a damn lot of phone calls lately.
He knew his wife though. Sometimes she needed a little time to let stuff rattle around in that too-active brain of hers before she came to him. It had taken him a long time to figure that one out. He was still navigating the time between let-her-simmer-and-think and then being an asshole who wasn’t paying attention. Fine line, that one.
Right now, he had to put his own brain on ice. He’d be a hot mess on stage. Then the domino effect would start. If he fucked up, then Nicky would get himself all twisted and there would be chaos across the land.
He did not need that tonight.
He raked his fingers through his wet hair and stacked his hands behind his head. Time for a cut soon. Or maybe, fuck it, he’d let it grow. Would that make him feel more like a rockstar again?
He tuned into the television in his room. He tried to keep up with the music on the radio, but most of it was such shit. Case in point, the wannabe on the showcase playing on Channel One.
Jesus, did this kid have an original anything or was he just parroting Sam Smith like all the other drones on this fucking show?
It was the second night of their special three-day residency at the O2 Empire. But they’d been in town for a week and Simon found himself strangely drawn to their weird version of American Idol.
Not that he had much choice. The UK evidently only had a few main channels unless the hotel sprang for satellite. Theirs did not.
The dude on the screen right now sounded as if a cat was having sex with an accordion. What in the actual fuck?
“Thank you so much, Louis Conroy, that was…unique.”
“Polite for get the fuck off the stage,” Simon answered the host.
“We’re here for the fifth night of finals at The Next Best Thing. We’ve got a real treat for you next. This bloke has been steaming up the clubs with his song, ‘Move Me’. Welcome to the stage, Ian Kagan.”
Simon slowly rolled up to a seated position. He couldn’t have heard that right. The stage was dark and a banner ran across the bottom of the screen with the name of the singer: Ian Kagan.
His last name wasn’t exactly original, but it sure as shit wasn’t common. As the house lights slowly rose, so did Simon. The dude on TV had a huge Gibson strapped
across the front of him and his ringed fingers quickly plucked out slow, sexy notes.
Simon couldn’t see the kid’s face. His long, inky hair tumbled forward as his intro seemed to go on for freaking forever. Simon’s shoulders tightened as the song moved into indulgent territory, but the singer wouldn’t fucking look up.
Finally, he stepped into the light, his lips crowding the microphone as startling eyes lifted to stare into the camera. The punch was visceral and undeniable. Simon stared at the TV as his own eyes filled the screen, thanks to the cameraman’s tight close-up.
Simon stumbled back a step. His towel unfurled and he caught it against his hip with a snarl.
“What the fuck. What the flying fuck?” He adjusted the towel, then flew across the room and pounded on the connecting door. “Nick, open this fucking door. Now!” He used the flat of his palm to slap the wood until it rattled on its hinges.
He took a step back when the doorknob turned. Lila Crandall’s huge, cornflower blue eyes peeked around the edge of the door. She glanced down at his state of dress. Not that he cared. He’d lost count of how many times his band—and sometimes their spouses—had seen him naked. “Are you out of your mind, Mr. Kagan?”
Simon pushed the door open and slid by her. “Where’s Nick?”
Lila, Nick’s wife, folded her arms over her chest. “He’s in the bathroom. What is wrong with you?” Her slim, blond eyebrows snapped together. “It’s not Margo?”
