Rocked

by Taryn Elliott

  The air was heavy with the scent of lemongrass and magnolia blossoms. There was a stillness to the moment. Deacon closed his eyes and let it all in. He blocked out the conversations and the sheer size of the venue. Instead he focused on their music resonating through the amphitheater and Simon’s powerhouse vocals shredding the air.

  He opened his eyes just in time to see Simon jump into the pit and past the startled security. He ran up the aisle with a whoop of delight. The gasp of surprise from the crowd turned to a murmur of response that spread through the pavilion. People on the lawn stood to see what the commotion was about.

  “You like cover songs?” Simon shouted. “Okay, so you may not know our stuff, but everyone knows David Coverdale. At least you should know Whitesnake. And if you don’t? Shame on you.” Deacon shadowed his eyes against the spotlights. Christ, was all the way at the back of the house? He squinted—yep, he was climbing the railing. Son of a bitch. ”Guys...how about a little Tawny Kitaen anthem?”

  “Oh, shit.” Jazz hopped off her drum riser and zipped over to the keyboard. “Here I Go Again” was their cover song for the night, but it was later in the set. The drawn out keyboard solo filled the bowl of the venue. The soundboard tech scrambled to catch up, punched the keyboard’s sound up and equalized Simon’s microphone to match it.

  Nick and Gray flanked the stage, and the spot in the center where Simon belonged felt too empty. Deacon moved forward and did backup vocals like they’d rehearsed.

  The guitars showcased the strengths of Gray’s classical abilities and Nick’s raw edge. Not to mention the song had a built-in guitar duel thanks to David Coverdale’s penchant for two guitarists with egos the size of their hair.

  Deacon watched the people warm to Simon. Evidently the jump-in-the-crowd deal worked in the large venues just as thoroughly as Frenzy a few months ago. By the end of the song, there was an uptick in people who were standing and singing along. When the band moved into their current single, the crowd showed a little more interest.

  Thank you, radio hit.

  Simon crawled onto the stage and owned the next three songs. By the time their thirty minutes were up, they got the all good signal to play the full forty. With “The Becoming”, they held the crowd by the balls.

  As his bass resonated through the end of the song, Deacon looked out into the crowd. People were on their feet. They were actually cheering, for fuck’s sake. He felt a small hand grip his and couldn’t stop a smile when Jazz dragged him out to the front of the stage to make their bows.

  Himself, Jazz, Simon, Nick and Gray. This was what they’d gone through hell to find. His heart tried to beat its way out of his chest as he sucked in a breath. Exhaustion and adrenaline battled it out through his bloodstream.

  They bowed as a unit, waved, and ran to the side stage. Deacon looked over his shoulder one last time at the crowd still cheering for them and laughed.

  One show down, thirty-two to go.

  “Can you believe that shit?” Simon shot through the hallways and into the backstage area. His skin was coated in sweat and his black jeans were soaked through. “I think I ate fourteen bugs, but holy fuck!”

  Deacon laughed before glugging down a bottle of water and reaching for another. His head swam with the need to run, to laugh, to shout out something stupid like, “Woohoo!” Their first huge venue, and it had been amazing.

  He collapsed into the ratty couch that lined the afterhours suite. Simon and Nick dug into the cooler for a water, sloshing ice onto the floor. They all tried to catch their breaths while trying desperately to rehydrate.

  Jazz jumped up on Nick’s shoulders and stole his water.

  “Hey! Get your own.”

  She hopped down, stuck out her tongue, and downed the rest of the bottle. “It was so damn humid out there I was having trouble keeping up. It was like breathing through syrup.”

  Deacon tipped his head back. His chest felt like a gallon of liquid saturated his lungs. “I completely agree. I don’t know how the fuck Simon was running around like a lunatic.”

  Simon laughed. “Aren’t you glad you quit smoking, Nicky?”

  Nick grunted, his mouth still sealed over a new bottle.

  “Better hydrate up, boys. The after party is going to be epic! I feel like I could fuck for hours.” Simon said with a waggle of brows.

  Gray sat down on the edge of the couch. Sweat beaded along his hairline and his lip. He’d soaked his shirt and vest, but that was the only outward sign that he’d even been on stage. “It was a good show,” he said quietly.

  “Good?” Jazz repeated. “Are you blind and deaf? That was nuclear. When Simon pulled that Whitesnake song out early, the entire place was ours.” She dug her phone out of her back pocket. “And Twitter is losing their shit. They’re already making requests for the show Thursday.”

  “Oh yeah?” Simon sat on the arm of the chair before snatching her phone.

  “Hey!”

  “I don’t know where mine is.”

  “I have it.”

  Simon looked up, a sly grin sliding across his face. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite redhead.”

  Monica sauntered across the room. She’d switched out white ultra-short shorts for skin-tight white jeans stuffed into knee high black boots and a ripped to hell Oblivion shirt.

  “How did she get backstage?” Nick asked.

  Monica swung an all access pass. “Simon gave me this.”

  Nick slanted Simon a surprised look. “Really?”

  Simon shrugged. “She’s hot.”

  Deacon tipped the last of his bottle down the front of his t-shirt. The frigid temperature made him drag in a breath. He needed a shower and another gallon of water. What he didn’t need was to see Monica in action again. The bus had been more than enough.

  He wandered to the back of the suite where a table of goodies lay.

  “Go for the watermelon, big guy.”

  Deacon turned, his gaze immediately lowering to Harper’s height. He knew that dark rum-flavored voice. “What if I want the sandwiches?”

  “You need to hydrate. The water’s going to go right through you. The watermelon will actually stay.”

  “Huh. Didn’t know that.”

  She tapped the side of her white baseball hat. “Chef.”

  He grinned and picked up a wedge. “Where’s the poofy hat thing?”

  “With you guys? Nope, I don’t need that kind of grief, thanks.”

  He took a bite, and the watermelon juice ran down his chin and neck. “Oh, crap.” Way to be smooth, D.

  She handed him a napkin, her blue eyes dancing. “No one can tell what’s watermelon juice or sweat.” Her gaze dropped to his neck and then his chest before quickly returning to his eyes. She pressed her lips together and jammed her hands into her apron pockets. “At least as far as I can tell.”

  What would she taste like? Had she been sampling the watermelon, knowing it was the only way to combat this ridiculous heat?

  “You really need to stop looking at me like that.”

  He was surprised that she’d own up to the tug between them. Staring at her mouth or getting into her space was becoming his favorite part of the day. “Don’t want to,” he said and took another bite. Lately, all he’d done was hold out food to her, so he decided not to break tradition. He broke off a corner of his wedge and held it out to her.

  “I’m working.”

  “It’s hot as hell.” He looked a little closer. Beyond the aesthetics of her high cheekbones and a mouth that needed to smile more, he noticed the dark circles under her eyes and tightness of her lips. “And you’re the one who’s getting dehydrated.”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “And I bet you’ve been on the move since this morning.”

  She shrugged. “All part of the glamorous job of a chef on tour.”

  He put his watermelon slice on a plate and set it on the table. He stepped closer to her and she took a step back. He lifted his eyebrow and she halted on the
next step. “What do you think I’m going to do with all these people around? Maul you?”

  She nodded her chin to the side of him and Deacon followed her gaze. Simon already had Monica straddling him and her tongue firmly heading for his tonsils.

  “I’m not Simon.”

  “No? I saw plenty of Demon’s Devils at the radio thing this morning.”

  “Paying attention, were you?”

  “How could I not? You took over the entire soundcheck.”

  Deacon laughed. “No, we didn’t.”

  Harper tucked a lock of golden hair under her cap and looked up at him. “I get it, you’re new to the whole tour thing.”

  Deacon folded his arms. Did she have to go at him again and again about that? She wasn’t any older than he was. What made her the expert?

  “Don’t get defensive there, big guy. I’m just saying be careful. You’re the opening act. And there’s a pecking order.”

  He rolled his neck. He couldn’t dispute that. And the scene in the food tent before the show certainly backed up her claims. “We’ll find a better place to do them. Maybe on the grounds.”

  She patted his forearm. “Not a dumb rock star. That’s what I like to hear.”

  He took another step closer. This time, she didn’t retreat. She peered up at him, blue eyes fierce. Damn, she was fucking beautiful. Without a lick of makeup and even a little drawn with fatigue, her hair a jumbled mess under her hat, and he wanted nothing more than to whip off her hat and get his hands in her hair.

  More to the point, he wanted to know what she tasted like. Would she taste sharp like her tongue when she sliced into him, or would she melt? He leaned down into her space until their noses nearly brushed. “I’m not sure what you’ve got against musicians, Harper, but I’m not going to fit in any of these little neat boxes you’ve got in your head.”

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “You can say that again.”

  “Don’t keep licking those lips, Harper. You keep giving the big, bad, hedonistic musician ideas.” Instead of leaning in like he wanted to, instead of seeing just how that smart mouth would taste, he reached for his plate and walked back to his friends.

  “Mr. McCoy!”

  He hid his smile before he turned back around. “Yes, Chef Pruitt?”

  “Where did you get my name?”

  He shrugged. “Add inventive to that list of qualities you don’t believe musicians have.”

  Deacon wasn’t sure just why she thought she could keep her name a secret in the ever-gossipy hallows of a tour. He’d simply asked one of the other chefs. Meg had been all too happy to chat him up before the dinner crush. Especially when he gave up a few secrets to Nick’s likes and dislikes. Evidently the other female chef didn’t have any trouble with fraternizing.

  He sat next to Gray. “Food is out.”

  “Man, they do like to keep us fed and watered,” Nicky muttered. But as usual, he was the first one up to the table. Well, after Deacon.

  The rest of them stood and Jazz settled herself next to him on the couch before swiping a hunk of his watermelon. “Did you strike out again, Big D?” She slurped in the chunk and moaned appreciatively. “Man, I’m going to get fat.”

  “I doubt it, half pint. You burn food like me.”

  She grinned and stole another piece. “You’re avoiding the question.”

  He held his plate away from her. “Go get your own.”

  “It’s more fun to eat yours.” Jazz crawled up onto his lap and reached for one of the sandwiches.

  “Go!”

  She stuck out her bottom lip and he sighed, handing over the plate. “Lazy shit.”

  She folded herself into the corner of the couch and picked apart the mini-sub. “When you go back up, can you get a turkey one?”

  “Who said I was going back?”

  “You want to sniff around Chef Pruitt again.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Oh come on, Deak. You can’t keep your eyes off of her when she’s in the room. Not that I blame you. She’s hot, in that wholesome, corn-fed way.”

  “She doesn’t have a wholesome mouth.”

  “No?” Jazz zeroed her gaze in on Harper.

  She was loading more sandwiches and making conversation with Gray. He could see the polite smile. He knew that smile. He hated that smile. He much preferred the little frown between her eyebrows or the smirk when she thought she was saying something to put him in his place.

  His new favorite chef seemed to have a lot of rules about musicians. It only seemed prudent for him to break out of those misconceptions. And if that meant he didn’t put the moves on her right away, then he’d do that. He stood.

  “Atta boy.”

  “No comments, Jazz.”

  “Turkey!” she called after him. “Don’t forget the turkey before the vultures get them all.”

  Nick leaned back. “You wouldn’t be calling me a vulture, would you, Streaky?” he called out.

  “If the mouth fits.”

  While he’d love to find Harper for another sparring session, he decided to get another plate of food and hang with the band.

  This was their first real gig. Not a club, not promo bits in small sound stages, not even Jimmy Kimmel’s show could compete. The stage and all those people...that had been worth every fight to get them there. Adrenaline and exhilaration still bubbled under his skin, but it didn’t feel right to share that with anyone else yet.

  This was the band Deacon had been waiting for since that first afternoon that he’d played with Gray in the seedy Blue Rhino in January. God, he hoped they could keep this magic going through the tour.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  August 18, 1:30 AM - Care and Feeding of Rockstars

  Harper clicked open the lock on the Food Riot truck. The food had been put away, the dishes done, and the crew were tucked up in their bunks.

  Exactly where she should be.

  Except she couldn’t settle. When she couldn’t settle, she cooked. Or in this case, baked.

  The sliding metal door of the truck groaned and creaked on its way up. She winced, looking over her shoulder into the parking lot, deserted save for the tour trucks. They were pulling out at five a.m. to head into Nashville.

  There were still people milling about. Especially around the band tour busses. The bands were holding court on top of the tour bus. They’d dragged lawn chairs up there, using the roof racks to keep someone from falling off. They were doing a battle of the bands style acoustic show, trying to outdo each other. Simon and Nick were on top of the Oblivion bus, Sin and Johnny on the Rage bus.

  Personally, she liked the acoustic stuff more than Rebel Rage’s party anthems. Johnny’s soulful voice could carve out a chunk of emotion like no other she’d ever heard.

  Well, until she’d caught part of Oblivion’s show.

  She was usually too busy to go out and check out the musical acts. And by the first week of the tour she rarely had an inclination. The set rarely changed. But this past week had been a learning experience with Oblivion. She’d never heard them outside of the radio.

  They were infectious and fun, but there was a reason they’d hit the top of the charts. “The Becoming” was sex. Period. Unapologetic, mind-altering sex with words and chords. And Deacon was in the center of the song. His bass was as important as the lead guitars and vocals.

  She still couldn’t dislodge the image of him on stage that first night, his head tipped back and his long fingers climbing the fret board as slowly as if it were a lover’s limb. Would he be like that off the stage, those long, dexterous fingers slow and sure on a woman’s skin?

  Do not go there.

  Heck, she’d been going there for a week straight now. Each night she managed to get away and see them on stage for at least one song. More often than not it was “The Becoming”, but she’d caught Oblivion playing a few covers—Journey’s “Separate Ways” had been a particular favorite.

  How many times had she been trapped on a bus with the
typical loveline and dedication radio shows playing? At sixteen, she’d known every sappy Journey song, as well as Fleetwood Mac, Chicago, and Aerosmith. Music had been a part of her life from the womb. And the fact that this ridiculous band took such joy in music was a gift and a temptation.

  She scrubbed her face with her hands and straightened her shoulders. No more Deacon thoughts. She spun the dials to the combination lock for the dry goods and hauled out flour, both coconut and regular, coconut flakes, and her favorite dark chocolate chunks. Setting the oven to the right temperature, she lined up her ingredients.

  The monotony of setting up her popover pan, dividing the butter into the cups, and measuring out the exact quantities of milk, sugar, salt, and vanilla calmed her. This is what she did. The artistry of baking was science and patience. She’d developed this recipe based on one of the dozens of books her grandmother had left her and improved upon it as she found new ingredients to play with. It was a rich dessert that flooded the taste buds with the sweet and the bitter. It was an orgasm for the mouth.

  “Because food orgasms are personal, and I need to know who’s giving me one.”

  No, not Deacon again. Why the hell was everything reminding her of him? Okay, so he was nearly six and a half feet of glorious man candy. But hot guys were a given on the road. She’d seen all there was to see on that end. And on more than one occasion she’d been cornered by some of the most attractive men on the planet.

  She’d said no to the best of them. Hell, she’d said yes to a few when she’d gone through her boy-band phase. Seventeen and full of hormones, being on a tour with her father’s crew hadn’t stopped her from exploring her newfound feminine wiles. Nor had it stopped her from finding out just how little it meant to give up her virginity to a pop star.

  Harper knew the signs of infatuation, but she also knew the value of having a perfectly clear mind. She was not going to get herself clouded up by infatuation again.