“Why are you up here with me?”
“Why are you hanging out?” he countered.
She gave him a side-eyed glance. “I heard the commotion.” She shrugged. “I was curious.”
He leaned toward her a little, and she resisted the urge to do the same. What the hell was it about him that made her want to be close to him?
“Okay, then why are you still here?” he asked.
“I’m tired of looking at food.”
“Nah, you’re here to look at me.”
She had to fight not to smile back at him and his teasing dimple. Damn the man for being so effortlessly charming. He was dangerous. He was the sort of guy that expected a few sweet words would disengage the brain and release the panties.
He was sorely mistaken in that regard. She straightened and put another inch between their arms. She didn’t hold onto her panties with an iron grip, but she was discerning when it came to naked time.
“Tell me, Blondie—”
“Don’t call me Blondie.”
“You won’t tell me your name. I gotta call you something.”
She sighed. “I’m Chef Pruitt.”
“Really? We’re going to go with formalities? Are you going to call me—”
“Mr. McCoy? Maybe.”
“I didn’t tell you my last name.”
“Your name’s on the roster. Not hard to follow the dots.”
“Yes, but that would mean you cared enough to look me up.”
She pushed herself off the wall. “I have work to do.”
“Aww, now you just don’t have a good enough comeback. Time to run again, Chef Pruitt?”
Her heart slammed against her sternum. This wasn’t good. His throaty, deep voice saying her name shouldn’t have that much kick, dammit. He was just a guy. Just an overgrown—way overgrown—guy that had more charm than sense. That was all. “Some people have to work around here.”
“Oh, I’ll be working a little later.”
She headed to the side exit, looking over her shoulder before turning the corner. He was still against the wall, his legs wide apart, a half-smile on his face, his eyes patiently assessing. She’d been expecting smug. Why wouldn’t he be? She’d practically acted like a band groupie by feeding him off her damn fork.
No time for overthinking. She had a job to do.
And work was the important part. She had five weeks left to show Meg and Danny that she was a good addition to the company. She needed the exposure and as long as she was patient she would be able to show them just how talented she was.
She ducked into the food tent to start the next round of lunch prep. The monotonous unloading of carts calmed her. Right now, the only bit of talent they wanted was a sous chef that could deliver. And she needed to remember that.
The explosion of laughter and stampede of feet made her look up. Simon, the singer for Oblivion and Nick, one of the guitarists, were roughhousing their way into the tent. The singer landed hard on a metal chair, tipping it back into another until the two of them plus the chairs clattered to the floor.
They were laughing like hyenas. Jazz came through the door on Deacon’s back, piggyback style. She snickered, holding her phone out, obviously recording.
Nick hoisted himself up with some help. His smile faded when Johnny turned and stared at them. Simon’s eyebrows shot up and Jazz slowly slid down off Deacon’s back.
They all quieted down. Well, everyone but Grayson Duffy. He hadn’t opened his mouth yet. Stone cold silent with eyes the color of rain-swelled clouds. She’d never seen anyone so incredibly void of...well, everything.
All emotion missing.
Harper shivered and smiled automatically when Killian Kemper, the lead guitarist from Rebel Rage, stood in front of her.
“Hey there, chef number three.” His voice was low with just the barest hint of a drawl. The rest of the band had a clipped, northeast flavor. But not Killian. And boy did he use that voice.
Her lips twitched. Deacon wasn’t the only one trying to get her name and number. She was fresh blood in these waters and Killian was definitely on the hunt. “Mr. Kemper.”
“Aw, you wound me with the mister stuff. You know it’s Killian.”
“Yes, Mr. Kemper.”
He clutched his shirt, wrinkling the heavy black type, Sarc: my 2nd favorite asm, across his very nice chest. Again, she had to hold back the laugh. She’d been around men all her life and they amused her as much as they annoyed her.
Today was full of amusing. Just the way she liked it.
Killian popped a cherry tomato into his mouth and chewed around a smile. “You’re going to tell me your name one of these days.”
One of the crew opened her mouth to give her name and Harper gave her a steely glare. The girl shut her mouth and hurried around the table to replenish the napkins.
Harper couldn’t get away with the chef line forever. Someone was going to overhear her name, but keeping her distance from the musicians was smart. And her name was only one way to do that.
“You do know that it makes them salivate more, right?”
She looked up at Sin Latimer with his cool blue eyes and sunlit blond hair. High cheekbones and an almost too-pretty face belied the intelligence lurking under the surface. He played bass for Rebel Rage and was about as close to Zen as she’d ever seen on a tour.
“It shouldn’t,” she replied.
“Oh, but now you’re a challenge.” Sin nodded at Killian who was picking his way through the food, but kept glancing back her way. “He likes a challenge.”
She removed the cover for him. “I’m not interested in being a challenge.”
Sin picked up a roll and stuffed it with the pulled pork from the tray in front of Harper. “Then don’t dangle the forbidden fruit.”
She pursed her lips. Was that really what she was doing? She didn’t give them any reason to think she was interested. For God’s sake, she was wearing a ratty bandanna over her fried hair most of the time. Her makeup melted off before the breakfast rush was through, and that was when she even bothered to put any on.
There was no way she could compare to the more than willing females that crawled all over the venues before and after a show. Instead of arguing with him, she nodded. “Understood.”
“So you’ll tell me your name?”
Harper laughed. “So you can hold it over Killian’s head?”
Sin smirked. “Maybe.”
“Chef, we’re out of rolls.”
Harper turned and pointed toward the large silver cart. “Bottom.” When she turned back, Deacon stood before her. While Killian and Sin certainly made her female antennae twitch, this was where the real trouble lay.
Thank God her apron concealed the instant and inconvenient tightening of her nipples under her lightweight Food Riot shirt.
“Chef Harper Pruitt.” He made sure to mouth her first name, then smiled wide enough that both dimples dented his tanned cheeks.
She didn’t know how he’d gotten it, but his deep voice purred around the rest of her name, and she really wanted to hear what Harper would sound like on his tongue. Without thought, she lifted her shoulder to rub against her buzzing ear.
Dammit.
She really had to tamp down the hormonal imbalance. She rarely had a hard time ignoring the madness of a tour, but this man made her skin itch and flush. He made her want to step closer and see if the heat of his skin was as potent as she imagined.
Instead of giving him any more of a reaction, she arched a brow at him and dumped a helping of barbecued baked beans on his plate. “You’re holding up the line, Mr. McCoy.”
“I love the way you say my name. All clipped and hard c’s.”
She turned away from him and smiled brightly at Jazz. “What can I get you?”
“You didn’t ask me what I wanted,” Deacon said sourly.
“Because you’re about as obvious as the chicken pox.” Jazz pushed him, but the wall of muscle didn’t budge. “You’re moving from f
lirty and cute to obnoxious, Deak. Move it. Don’t you know how the chase works?”
Deacon looked down at Jazz and then to Harper. “Is that what we’re doing? Playing games?”
“I’m not. I’m here to work. I don’t fraternize with the clients.”
“See?” Jazz bounced her plate once. “That was a stubborn rejoinder, and now you have to be charming and not annoying to convince her otherwise. I’ll have the chicken, please.”
Harper frowned. “No, it really isn’t a game.”
Jazz looked between the two of them and then shrugged. “If you say so.”
Harper used the tongs to scoop a pile of shredded chicken onto her plate. “More?”
Jazz grinned. “I can eat about as much as this one.” She nodded to Deacon.
Harper picked up the side of the tray with her mitt and a sparkling laugh pealed out of Jazz. “Does Harper know you or what?”
Deacon tapped his stack of napkins on the top of Jazz’s head. “Very funny.” But he did indeed move on, with one last glance under his wicked lashes.
Harper forced herself not to look at him again, even if she wanted to drink in his truly exceptional body and catch another glimpse of the smile he was so quick to give. Moody musicians were the norm, especially on this tour so far, but Deacon seemed genuinely happy around the legion of fans that accosted him.
Unless he’d been on his best behavior for the scavenger hunt, she was pretty sure that was his personality. And with that way too intriguing thought clogging her brain she shut thoughts of Deacon of the Amazing Shoulders off.
When Simon came up with a flirty tilt to his mouth and a plate already piled high with salads, she slipped easily back into work mode. “Not sure anything else will fit.”
“Pile it on top. I’ll make room.”
Harper smiled as Nick and Simon both bumped hands and arms to reach for rolls and salad dressing. Nick took the Thousand Islands and dumped it on top of Simon’s precarious mountain.
“Fucker,” Simon growled.
Nick tilted his head. “What? You love ketchup and mayo.”
Simon looked down at his plate, then shrugged. “I do.”
Harper shook her head and tried not to wince. That was not going to be a good combo. Simon stabbed his fork in and stuffed it in his mouth. He grinned around a mouthful and gave her the thumbs up before wandering over to the table where Jazz and Deacon were already seated.
Gray was much quieter bringing up the rear. He requested his barbecue chicken with a smile and a friendly greeting, keeping his eyes firmly on hers. Unusual for a musician. Most of them liked to cop an eye feel if nothing else.
When they all settled at the table, they sat elbow to elbow with their heads down and conversation kept to themselves. Minus that scuffle with the chairs a few minutes ago, they handled themselves well for newcomers to the tour.
The lead singer and heartbeat of Rebel Rage couldn’t stop staring at the group. Searing blue eyes flashed from his tanned, smooth skin. Most of the bands these days were filled with scruffy-faced singers, but not Johnny. He probably used a straight razor. He never had an ounce of shadow on his face.
His stabs into his plate became more and more forceful. The conversation at the opening act’s table was filled with camaraderie and easy short speak. Which made the headliner’s table seem even more tense. Sin tried to engage Johnny in conversation half a dozen times before giving up.
Johnny finally got up and dumped his half eaten dinner into the trash before storming out of the tent.
Yep.
That wasn’t good.
Meg gave the signal for clean up to begin. Band watching over, Harper fell into step with the crew and started packing up.
The members of Oblivion cleared their table themselves. One of their cleanup crew tried to stop them, but Jazz and Nick each stacked dishes and scraped their plates before dumping them into the dishpans. Deacon stood and took care of the rest of the table with an efficiency that told her he hadn’t been lying about waiting tables.
Within three minutes, all their plates and cutlery were dumped in bins for cleanup. Deacon gave her a smart little salute before following the rest of his band out of the tent.
Well used to catering, the Rebel Rage boys had trashed their table. Sin and Jett—the drummer—sat with coffee as Jett told a story about his son. Killian smiled while he listened and flicked through screens on his iPad.
The nonsense from Johnny Cage and his type she was used to. She really didn’t want to be charmed by the opening act.
Or to get sucked into a pair of green eyes that stayed with her even when he wasn’t in the room.
CHAPTER FOUR
August 12, 8:00 PM - Feels Like the First Time
Deacon rubbed his damp palm against his jeans. He peeked out at the crowd that half-filled the pavilion. Being an opening act was always a gamble. Most people were less than thrilled to wait to see the main act. Just like their club days, they were going to have to win over the crowd.
But the clubs maxed out between two and three thousand people. Alpharetta’s Encore Park held over twelve thousand just in actual seats. That didn’t count the sea of people that spread out over the lawn.
He tipped his head back and breathed in deep lungfuls of humid air. Simon hopped beside him, craning his neck to see the stage as he shook out his hands. Gordo, with his iPad, was yelling off a checklist that only their tour manager understood.
Jazz twirled glittery drum sticks with Day-Glo green tape on the ends where she held them. Her glittery purple hair matched the sticks and the ultra-short hot pants she wore. She flipped off her tiny black flats and crowded in against Gray.
Gray absently curled his arm around her shoulders and brushed a kiss over her temple before he slipped away backstage.
“Where’s Nicky?”
Simon continued to hop next to him like a jackrabbit on speed. “Getting his before-show blowjob.”
“Christ,” Deacon muttered.
Jazz rolled her eyes.
“Hey, if that’s what it takes for him to keep his shit together on stage—especially tonight—then I say, do what you gotta do.” Simon waggled his eyebrows.
Deacon cracked his knuckles. “You would.”
“Some of us aren’t Saint Deacon.”
“Don’t start.” Jazz turned and slapped both of them with a stick. “This is our first show. You will not ruin it, dammit.”
Deacon slid his hand under his t-shirt and willed the barbecue dinner to stay where he’d put it. Half his ulcer was because of Nick’s penchant for stage fright, the other half was the crowd. He wasn’t sure how their co-lead guitarist was going to deal with thousands of screaming people.
More importantly, screaming people that weren’t really there to see Oblivion. Oh, they had a few fans out there, but for the most part the crowd was Rebel Rage fans. While Oblivion had a similar sound, they were definitely a different genre base.
Rebel Rage was New York hard rock, and they were LA, all the way down to the gritty guitars and edgy lyrics. Deacon peered down at the older women sprinkled in with the twenties set. Christ, there were probably moms out there.
Deacon popped his knuckles again. “Simon, maybe we tone down the fucks tonight.”
“I’m not toning down shit. We need to go out there and own it or the crowd will never come with us.”
“The crowd isn’t ours, remember?”
“It will be by the time I’m done.” Simon’s voice was flat and determined.
“It’s an all-ages show, so keep the colorful commentary to a minimum,” Gordo called out to them.
Fucking fabulous. Now he was sounding like Gordo? Just shoot me.
Their manager tapped on his iPad. “You have the setlist?”
“I made the setlist,” Deacon growled.
Gordo went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “You have a full forty minute set if the crowd likes you. If you don’t turn them, you get thirty.”
“I’ll turn them,” S
imon said as he rolled his shoulders.
Jazz rubbed his upper arm. “If anyone can, it’s you.”
Simon grinned down at her. “Thanks, Purple Penis Eater.”
She shoved him back. “You’re a pig.”
He grabbed her and buried his face in her neck. “You like my piggishness.”
She squealed and pushed him away. “I do not. Get off me.” But she was laughing too hard to really push him off.
“Enough,” Nick said and lifted his guitar over his head. “This is serious business. This is our first show.”
They all went stone-faced before they broke out into laughter. Simon and Nick lifted Jazz onto their shoulders and hauled her out onto the stage. A few people clapped as they deposited her behind the kit.
“What the hell was that?” Gray asked as he came back around the curtain with his guitar. He brushed his finger under his nose and rolled his neck.
Deacon frowned. Gray’s eyes were bright and there was high spots of color in his cheeks. Just minutes ago he’d been cool and calm. “Just the usual pre-show shenanigans.”
Gray barely spared him a glance. “Let’s do this,” he said, heading out.
“I’ll give you the signal at thirty if the other manager wants you off the stage.”
Deacon sighed and nodded at Gordo before following Gray onto the huge stage. Even with the shrouded Rebel Rage equipment taking up half the stage they had a massive slice of floor to fill. They’d rehearsed for over an hour that morning after the stage had gone up.
Part of the package was getting to use a stripped down version of Rebel Rage’s sound system, but this was still so much more than they were used to. Deacon got behind his microphone and tapped his pedal board.
He plucked out the heartbeat cords to “Taste of Candy”. Gray started it off and after a barely-there pause, Nick picked up his line of the song. The crowd barely noticed. They were still talking, still moving around.
Simon sat on the edge of the stage and reached down to the front row. A few people took notice and then a few more stopped talking. Simon’s honey rich voice coated the words in sex and silk sheets.
He really was one of the best frontmen Deacon had ever seen in action. And yes, he was a bit biased, but Simon could win over anyone given the right situation. The sun bled across the sky as trees framed out the park and the acres of people on the lawn and endless rows of seats.
Rocked Page 4
