Rocked

by Taryn Elliott

  He dug out his phone, the message reminding them of an interview with a local radio station in an hour. Personally, he wondered why they even bothered to have him in the interviews. Simon and Jazz took over the conversation with their snarky commentary and one liners.

  He was relegated to the, “Oh and what do you think, Deacon?” questions after everyone else gave quippy answers. That was about as fun as using lime eye drops. Couldn’t they just leave him in peace? Instead, he was getting really good at blending into the background. Everyone was settling into their little niche in the band. Jazz and Nick were the banter twins on Twitter, Gray added a little mystery to the group, and Simon posted ridiculous pictures on his Instagram that resulted in scavenger hunts wherever they were.

  They were fun to do in L.A. but here in Bumfuck, Georgia there was nothing within walking distance except steaming asphalt and burnt grass. And yet, he was sure that Simon would find something to post and get a million replies.

  Deacon could converse with anyone face to face, but put an electronic gadget in front of him that wasn’t connected to Pro Tools or WordPress and he was fairly useless. He’d never had the quick and clever replies like the rest of them. In fact, he deliberated over what to say on his Twitter account so much that it wasn’t worth having. By the time he figured out something to say, the conversations had changed fourteen times. The vicious circle started up again and it just wasn’t worth the effort. He was good at the meet and greets so at least he had some after-show purpose.

  Deacon dumped his garbage and gave a small smile at the makeshift plastic arm with a plexiglass container for the utensils. Impressed that the catering staff would think green in the middle of a tour, he dumped his fork in the box.

  He nodded and smiled at the crew that scurried around like worker ants. Tours were electronic monsters these days. The Rebel Rage stage was an intricate grid of metal risers and rubber treads that made it safe to run around. Between the unholy heat of the lights and the careening temperatures of Georgia, the stage would be slick with sweat, spit, and water.

  He’d gotten the ten cent tour earlier in the day. As an opening act they didn’t get to enjoy all the bells and whistles, but Oblivion had a decent lighting rig they were allowed to use. He’d still sweat his way through three shirts in the eight-song set they had.

  Climbing the steps to the bus, he rolled his eyes at Simon, who was facedown on the couch that ran the length of the windows. His sunglasses were still on, his jeans were unbuckled, and of course he was shirtless. Their band logo was now inked on his right shoulder blade. The bold black ‘Oblivion’ had one little addition to the capital O—devil horns in bright red, outlined in severe black.

  That couldn’t be any more Simon than if he’d drawn it himself. And knowing Simon, he probably had. He’d taken to doodling ridiculous cartoons in his lyric notebook since they’d gotten on the bus.

  With the EP out, Trident was already pressuring them for new songs for a full length album. They were learning how to write together as a team, instead of letting Nick and Simon lock themselves away in a room like they’d always done.

  The learning curve was steep, but Deacon was pretty sure they would actually get somewhere on that front. They’d spent the better part of the drive from L.A. to Georgia writing and gelling for the first time. Nick had written the entire bridge and chorus of a song with Gray.

  The five of them living together in the penthouse actually helped to cement the band in a way Deacon never thought possible. He knew a major part of that had to do with the quick tour schedule coming through so soon after the album’s release.

  There hadn’t been enough time to piss each other off.

  Deacon kicked the base of the couch. “Wakey-wakey, Pretty Boy.”

  Simon grunted.

  “We’ve got an interview in half an hour.”

  “Fuck off,” Simon mumbled and turned over onto his side, facing the back of the couch.

  “But I’m not done with him yet.”

  Deacon looked up at the purring voice that came from the hallway to the back of the bus. A lush redhead wearing a skimpy black top and short white shorts walked into the main living area. She wore sky high ankle boots that matched the scarlet lipstick she’d obviously just reapplied.

  “I’m sorry...” Deacon hedged for her name.

  “Monica,” she said with an exaggerated purr.

  “I’m sorry, Monica, we have band stuff we have to take care of. You know how it is.”

  She came over and sat next to Simon, lightly scratching her nails down his back. “Simon told me I could hang with the band today.”

  Deacon swung his gaze to the asshole in question. “Did he now?”

  “Yes.” She slid her hand around the front of him and Simon groaned.

  “Shit,” Deacon muttered and strode to the back of the bus. Just what they needed. A hanger-on. Simon had no shortage of women in and out of his bunk, but they normally didn’t linger.

  Deacon shucked out of his workout shorts and t-shirt, stepping into the closet-sized shower. The venue had a better set up, but his endless pit of a stomach had detoured him from taking a shower, so he’d have to make do. He quickly soaped up and shampooed the sweat out of his hair.

  Without warning, the catering girl came into his mind, and he felt the first stirrings of lust pull at him in weeks. Her strangely uptilted blue eyes had been direct and cool—nothing but professional. Except for that one moment when she’d checked him out—a full body scan that left him half hard and hungry for more than her truly tasty chicken salad. He’d begun to wonder if anyone would stir him up anymore. Since they’d landed the Trident contract, he’d had less than zero interest in the opposite sex.

  He liked women, loved their softness and warmth. Because of his height and addiction to sports, Deacon rarely had trouble attracting women. He’d gone through his Simon phase in his junior year of high school. But he’d learned quickly that he liked having one steady girl.

  The one drawback to fame was that his life didn’t offer up a steady relationship vibe to any woman. He could have his pick of women for a night, but that had gotten old fast. Some men would get off on a woman calling out Demon while in the sack—he just felt like a glorified fantasy fuck.

  Demon was who he was on stage. It wasn’t him once the houselights went back up. And while some of the women had been interested in more than one night, they ultimately wanted the rock star, not the man. So he’d finally stopped trying.

  Until the pretty blonde with her Venice Beach sky eyes and assessing gaze. She’d sized him up, eaten him with her eyes, and then dismissed him all in the space of a heartbeat. And damn if his cock didn’t harden at the memory of her heated gaze.

  She’d slid a look along his chest, his shoulders, and his tattoos with obvious interest. Hell, she’d even liked his face. He wasn’t the pretty one in the group. He was too big, too prone to beanpole status if he didn’t work out, and next to the rest of the group he was average at best in the looks department.

  But she’d had that flash of dilated pupil and had licked her lips when he’d smiled down at her. Deacon knew women, and she’d been interested—if only for a moment. He just wasn’t sure why she’d turned it off so completely.

  With one last duck under the spray he slicked his hair back and tied a towel around his waist before stepping out into the sleeping area. Simon’s newest conquest was there, sliding down off his bandmate’s bunk to shimmy back into her shorts.

  “Sorry,” she said with an appreciative eye. She took a step forward and swiped a drop of water off his chest before sliding it between her lips. “You’re even bigger in person than you look on the stage.”

  Deacon just stared down at her with one raised brow. He truly wasn’t interested in Simon’s sloppy seconds. Especially not today.

  She swallowed and backed up a step. “Sorry.”

  Simon folded a pillow under his head until he was propped up onto his side. “I’ve got to work, sweetheart.
You can head out into the venue.”

  Her laser blue eyes went from flirty to sharp in a second as she turned to Simon. “You said I could hang out with you today.”

  “Band stuff,” Simon said without elaborating. He lifted his hips and zipped his jeans before hopping down to kiss her already smudged mouth. “We’ll have more fun later. I promise.” He popped her on the ass to move her along. “You can even bring a friend if you like.”

  Deacon rolled his eyes and opened the compartment next to the bunks that held his jeans and shirts. Ever since they’d recorded “The Becoming” for Pacific Coast’s soundtrack Simon had become even more of a hound. By some grace of God, he’d scaled back on the liquor until the after parties, but he’d become the poster boy for the groupie set.

  The redhead stayed in the hallway, gripping the edge of the small stove they had on the bus. Her gaze never left Simon as he slipped on an old Slayer t-shirt that had been ripped out into a muscle shirt with most of the sides missing.

  “Tell you what.” Simon scrubbed his hand through his messy dark hair until it fell in spiky tufts. He dug out a couple of bills and held them out to Monica. “I’ve got this thing — I like silver from local artists. Find me something cool. Then tonight I’ll be sure to let you know how much I appreciate your time and effort.”

  Monica came forward again, palming the money. She went up onto her tiptoes and nipped his chin. “Silver, huh?”

  Simon jangled the two pieces he habitually wore on his right wrist. “I’d rather do it myself, but I have to work.”

  “I’ll find you something awesome, baby.”

  “Good girl.”

  She grinned, slid one more look at Deacon and purposefully lowered her gaze to the knot at his waist. Deacon pulled on his jeans under his towel then flipped it over the door to the bathroom. Modesty had left the building far before the tour bus, but he wasn’t interested in one of Simon’s skanks checking out his goods.

  When she caught a clue that he wasn’t interested in playing her game, Monica flounced to the front of the bus.

  “Were you going to pat her on the head too?”

  Simon slid his thumbs into the side openings of his shirt, sawing up and down as he waggled his eyebrows. “No, but she sure as hell patted me on mine.”

  Deacon stuffed his head through a Doors t-shirt. “Nice,” he muttered.

  Simon’s unrepentant grin actually lightened Deacon’s mood. Simon might be a world class man-whore these days, but at least he was actually having fun. Nick and Gray had ping-ponged back and forth between surly and silent for most of the three day trek across the country to meet up with the tour. Unless they were writing. That seemed to be the only place they could communicate.

  Jazz was the only one keeping them sane. She had a neverending source of excitement and stamina. He wasn’t sure she stayed down for more than four hours the entire trip, but she never seemed tired and was always upbeat.

  “Where’s everyone else?”

  Simon shrugged. “I’m not their keeper. That’s Gordo’s job.”

  Deacon grinned. Sarcasm was accounted for on the bus today that was for sure. “Tell me about it. If I get one more notification I’m going—” Deacon broke off as his phone chimed again. “Seriously?”

  “Reminder number four. At least for me. I turned off my ringer.”

  Simon actually needed four reminders. He tended to wander off and get into trouble with the closest willing female. “Well, you are the one they want to talk to,” Deacon said.

  “I am the most charming.”

  Deacon wished he could dispute that, but lately...that was the complete truth.

  The pounding of feet pushed him out of his funk. Jazz bounded down the length of the bus to the bunk area. She waved her hand in front of her face. “I’m going to own stock in Febreze. It stinks like sex back here.”

  She moved into Deacon, laid her cheek against his chest, and wrapped her arm around his back for a quick squeeze and an appreciative inhale. “You, however, smell like the ocean.”

  Deacon dropped a kiss on top of her head. “I wasn’t the one entertaining.”

  She drilled her finger into his belly. “Maybe you need to. You’re getting grouchy.”

  “That’s what I keep telling him. He wouldn’t have to work out so hard if he actually used all those muscles to get some action.” Simon undulated his hips and smacked the air where a woman’s ass would be.

  Jazz rolled her eyes. “Deak doesn’t objectify women like you do, Super Slut.”

  Simon fluffed out his jet black locks until a few pieces fell forward into his eyes. The rakish, overlong hair was becoming as much of a trademark for Simon as his lack of clothing. “I enjoy, not objectify—there’s a difference.”

  “Uh huh.”

  She tugged at Deacon’s t-shirt. “Gordo is driving me batshit. Can you talk to him about this electronic leash thing he’s got going on?”

  Like he had any power over their schedule anymore? But her wide, sapphire blue eyes couldn’t be denied. She had him wrapped around her finger like the rest of them. “I’ll talk to him.”

  She hopped up until she could wrap her arms around his neck. He gathered her in for a sugar-scented hug, her feet dangling with their height difference. “Thanks. You’re the best.”

  He dropped her to her feet.

  “Where’s my hug?” Simon pouted.

  “I forgot my Lysol.”

  “Oh, burn.” Deacon bumped his fist to hers.

  “Hardy-har,” Simon muttered and stuffed his feet into the black flips he wore around the bus. “So is this an on-site interview or are they coming here to talk to us?”

  “They’re coming here, I think.” Deacon reached for his leather cuffs. He only wore them on stage or for public appearances. It helped him get into the mindset for dealing with people. They all had their rituals.

  He liked people, especially the fans, but there was also a level of crazy that came with fame. Playing second string during interviews got old and yet there was also a level of comfort in it. What he couldn’t get used to was the fan attention. Behind the scenes was his niche—composing, mixing, making a cohesive song out of chaos...that he understood.

  Now there was a damn fan club online called Demon’s Devils. Fan-created and no part of the record label or their public relations people. It was almost too bizarre to believe.

  A simple photo could turn into a frenzy.

  He’d posted the addition of a swishing demon tail to his Oblivion tattoo on the band Instagram, and bam. A sensation.

  Within a day fans had created a cartoon version of a logo and fans all over wore his band’s name on their skin. To differentiate the fan base, Simon’s Sirens had the horns, Demon’s Devils had the tail.

  Hell, he’d seen postings of his signature tattooed into flesh by more than one follower on their fan boards. It was as humbling as it was insane.

  He rolled his shoulders, reaching up to his chin up bar over the door to stretch out his tight muscles. He’d overdone it on the rowing machine and his trapezius muscles were tight. He drew up his knees until he swung lightly then pulled himself up for slow chin-ups.

  His back burned with the slow reps, but it was a good burn. He closed his eyes and breathed deep.

  “You keep that up and we’re going to need a bigger doorway for you, Deak.”

  He opened his eyes and put his feet down until he stood at his normal height. “C’mon Jazz, you could do chin ups with me. You’re carrying what? A buck fifteen.”

  “One-oh-eight smart ass.” She flexed her biceps. “I don’t need to bulk up like some people.”

  “Terribly sorry.” He tugged on one of the braids that danced around her shoulders. “I was adding in for the hair.”

  “Funny boy.” She slapped his hand away and dug out her phone. “You know, I should start videotaping your workouts. Then again we’d never be able to hide if all the women saw what’s going on under those Zeppelin t-shirts you wear.”

/>   He ducked low and tossed her over his shoulder. “If you don’t stop videotaping, your phone is going to go missing.”

  She shrieked and kicked, laughing as she pounded on his back. “Whatever would Gordo say if you took away his leash?”

  “I’m willing to find out.”

  “Showoff,” Simon muttered and followed them out of the bus and into the slapping heat of Alpharetta.

  An instant sheen of sweat popped out over his skin. He banded his arm over the back of Jazz’s thighs as he spotted Gray and Nick waving them over to the side door leading to the pavilion.

  “You can put me down.”

  “Then you’d have to jog to keep up, squirt.”

  She slumped against his shoulder and her mismatched purple and pink Chucks swung up next to his cheek. “I hate you.”

  Simon shook his head and slipped shades on his face. “Behave, children.”

  “Wait until you see this shit,” Nick called when they got closer.

  “Is the DJ hot?”

  “Do they even call them DJ’s anymore?” Jazz asked. Deacon could hear the click swipe of her phone and knew she was already videotaping. He hoped to God it wasn’t his ass.

  “I haven’t done anyone in a radio station yet,” Simon said.

  Jazz popped her head up. “You covered the studio. Isn’t that enough?”

  Deacon glanced to his left when Simon went silent and the cocky grin disappeared. It lasted only a beat before he shrugged and let the corner of his mouth slide up into his trademark smirk. “I do what I can.” The laughter had vacated his voice.

  “Day one of the Raging Summer tour with Rebel Rage. Hey there Oblivionites, it’s your favorite drummer girl currently being carted around like a sad sack of potatoes by Demon. Say hi, Deak!”

  Time for video number eight hundred and thirty-three. “Hey.”

  She craned around. “As always, he’s full of the words. Okay, say hi, Simon.”

  Simon slid his glasses down and arched one brow. “Hello, Sirens.”

  Deacon rolled his eyes at the suggestive lilt to their lead singer’s voice. The man was a walking ad for sex. No wonder the hits for the site had skyrocketed. He was pure porn for women.