“Now you’re telling us what to play, too?” Deacon bit his lip. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
Nick and Gray mirrored each other by both dipping their hands in their pockets. They were far more in sync with each other than they’d want to own up to. Especially on stage.
Gordo went on as if Deacon hadn’t spoken. “I think you should do them acoustically today, and that way, people will be excited to see them on stage tonight.”
Deacon opened his mouth, irrational anger coasting up his spine.
Jazz laid her hand on his arm, giving him a look. “That’s great. It would have been more helpful if you’d let us know earlier, so we could have practiced, Toby. Tell the radio hosts to give us a few minutes?”
Gordo’s shoulders relaxed. Jazz knew how to twine any one of them around her finger. Gordo was no different. The whole using his real name trick—damn effective.
Handling was exactly what Deacon usually did. When the hell had he handed that particular piece of his job to Jazz? And he couldn’t even be mad about it. He’s been in his own head so much that Jazz had been stepping in a lot lately.
Time to get his damn head in the game again.
Simon cracked his knuckles. “‘Ripcord’.”
Nick turned his head to Simon. “What?”
The elevator dinged open.
Simon walked out in the lead with all of them following. The room was sterile as a bank. Tan walls, tan carpet, tan couches, with boring seascapes on the walls.
Deacon knew the effect was supposed to be soothing, but all it did was make his shoulder blades itch.
Without even asking, Simon headed for the door marked break room. They all followed him to a table.
“Look, this is a good thing.”
Gordo hovered around the fringes of their little powwow until Simon turned, his charm-face in full effect.
“Hey Gordo, how about you check in with the radio people and see if we can get a practice space, huh?”
“Right.” Task in mind, Gordo rushed back out into the vanilla lobby.
“‘Ripcord’ is one of our better songs, but we don’t ever get to play it. And it sounds really cool acoustic, too. Remember when we did it at the afterparty at the beginning of the tour?”
Deacon nodded, his fingers itching for a guitar.
“Then we can do ‘Too Still’ as well.”
“A love song?” Nick sneered. “What the fuck, man?”
“No, he’s right.” Deacon dug his phone out of his pocket to jot down notes. “We’ve only let out the rock songs lately.”
“Because that’s what we are,” Nick said with a growl.
Deacon sighed. From a marketing standpoint, they’d only had one slower paced song. “The Becoming” was sex on legs, and the rest of their songs were in your face, but they really hadn’t showed just how awesome they were lyrically yet.
“Too Still” showed the other side of them.
“Reason one, relationship songs are universal.” Deacon held up his thumb then his forefinger. “Two, we don’t want to be pigeon-holed as the band that only sings raunchy party songs.”
“We like raunchy party songs. They keep the crowd moving,” Simon interjected.
“Look at Rebel Rage. They can’t get out of their own way, or the shadow of their party songs. We’re more than that.”
“He’s right.”
Gray’s quiet voice swung everyone’s attention his way. He rubbed his finger under his nose. “The slower songs give us more leeway with guitar solos, as well as show that Simon can do more than scream.”
“Thanks. I think.” Simon folded his arms across his chest.
Gray shrugged.
Nick scrubbed his hands over his face, then squared his shoulders. “Let’s see how it goes.”
Deacon glanced at Jazz. She’d been suspiciously quiet. She was twirling one of her drumsticks through her fingers and gnawing on her bottom lip. A far off look had taken over her eyes. “Pix?”
“Hmm?” She blinked up at him.
“Anything to say?”
She turned to Gray. “Did you bring both of your acoustics?”
He nodded.
“I want to play on ‘Too Still’. I’ll be tambourine girl for the rest, but I want to play. I think we can really show them just how awesome we are acoustically.”
Deacon nodded. “Okay by me.”
Simon slapped his hands together then rubbed them with a new light in his eyes. “Then let’s get practicing. We’ll kick their ass in the studio and at the show tonight.”
* * *
Harper rolled her shoulders and stretched. She stifled a yawn when Mitch gave her a look. It had been a long morning already. She had a million things to do to get ready for lunch. Standing around for a mandatory meeting was definitely not on her to-do list.
Meg and Danny came in. Danny had his battered leather portfolio under his arm. That didn’t bode well. He only dragged that out when he was stressed.
Meg dragged a chair behind her and climbed on while balancing herself with a hand on Danny’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming guys. We’ve got a special guest coming in for lunch today. He’s not a musician, but he’s got serious VIP status.”
“Great, a suit.”
“Problem, Pruitt?”
Crap. She’d said that under her breath hadn’t she?
“Nope. Just eager to get something awesome together for our VIP.”
“That’s the spirit,” Meg said. “Okay, people, you know your jobs, I just want to make sure everyone’s wearing Food Riot shirts today. I don’t want to hear excuses, just wear ’em. If you truly don’t have one, come see me.” At the grumbles that streamed around the crowd, Meg put her hands on her hips. “You should be wearing them anyway.”
“We all look fabulous in orange,” Danny deadpanned.
Meg elbowed him. “Shut up. You picked the color.”
“I must’ve been drunk.”
The room broke out in appreciative laughter. Harper didn’t mind the shirts. She did look good in orange.
Meg held her hands up. “All right, all right. That’s enough. Assignment sheets are taped to all the carts. No swapping out jobs today.”
Harper laced her arm through Mitchell’s. “At least I have you on my team today, Uncle.”
“Of course you do. Because I’m the fastest.”
“Damn right.”
They headed to the truck, and Harper slid through the organized chaos that was her job. She went right to the oven and pulled trays of dehydrated strawberries out to cool and checked on the bacon wrapped chicken thighs she’d put in the pressure cooker. The sweet, mustardy tang of the sauce had cooked down to a glaze, like it should.
Fortunately—or unfortunately—everything was going smoothly. Cooking was a rhythm for her. And today was an easy rhythm that left her too much time to think.
Meg had offered her a contracted job.
At first, she’d been elated. For God’s sake, she’d even told Deacon. As if it had been a done deal.
She hadn’t opened her mouth to anyone else—not her parents, not her brother, not even Mitchell. But immediately, she’d opened her phone and texted him.
Deacon was not her boyfriend. He was just a guy she was passing the time with. In a little more than a week, they were going to go their separate ways.
You thought you had insomnia before, Harper Lee.
And that wasn’t helping. Thoughts of him that snuck through and poked at her all day were dangerous. How many times a day did she pick up her phone just to see if he’d sent her an amusing text or picture?
All the time.
He didn’t make her feel like he was checking up on her. Nothing invasive. Instead, it was oh, so much more awful. His texts were as addictive as dark chocolate.
A shot of some gorgeous vista when he was out running the trails, a secluded spot to meet later, a ridiculous candid shot of a recipe he found on Pinterest, or a funny t-shirt. He was always letting her know he was thinking about
her.
And now she had a job offer. This was the single reason she’d hopped a flight from her graduation ceremony to the tour. And she’d almost screamed yes, but something had held her back.
The job was a two year contract that left her on call for whatever tours Food Riot needed her. She could be working steadily for two years, or she could be working once every three months. The part that was hard to swallow was that she would be at the whim of Meg and Danny’s schedule.
She’d have very little opportunity to build her own clientele if she was on call at all times. That was the only problem.
Really? Your only problem?
Ignoring that disturbing thought, she used a cleaver to hack a chunk of dark chocolate into pieces to melt into a ganache.
She wanted to be established with her own company in two years. At the same time Food Riot was a lot of hands-on training that would serve her well for future jobs.
Someday, she wanted to have a set-up much like Meg and Danny’s, just a little smaller and a lot more portable. She had a lot of knowledge of ethnic food and ideas for a more exclusive catering service. One that would let her travel to different countries and learn their cuisines, while she worked for people.
She had the contacts to tap, but she had to be ready to prove her talent was worth the price. And that took time and gold stars on a resume.
Meg waved from the door to the tractor trailer. “Harper, I need you for a second.”
She flipped the lids off all the cookers as she passed by. “Annie, can you get those put on parchment paper? I need to brown them up a bit before we serve.”
The girl switched places with her. “You got it.”
And she’d steal Annie if she ever got out of here. The girl was super-efficient and absorbed recipes like a sponge. Harper snaked her way through people to Meg. “What’s up?”
She motioned to the side of the truck away from the endless stream of “I’m not really supposed to tell you who the VIP is, but you’re trustworthy.”
She straightened her shoulders. “Thanks.”
Meg smiled. “Most people would be babbling about how awesome they were.”
Harper shrugged. She’d eaten lunch with Mick Jagger for three months straight when she was eleven. She just didn’t get starstruck.
“I don’t know if you’re the ultimate professional or if you’re jaded.”
“Both.”
Meg chuckled. “That’s probably very true. I hired you because of your roadie background, not your knife skills.” Harper’s back stiffened. “Now, don’t get upset. I know you’re going to leave me.” Meg held up her hand before she could interrupt. “You’ve got talent in the kitchen. Admirable talent. But you’re not really suited for the everyday food on a tour. You’ll end up doing something absurdly awesome someday. Until that someday, I want you with me.”
“Okay...” Harper trailed off.
Meg wrapped her fingers around Harper’s hands. “I like you because—for the most part—you don’t let these guys get under your skin. I’ve had many a chef cave under the pressure of this job. And not just the crazy hours we have. The tour is filled with parties, drugs, sex—hell, that’s my favorite part.” She winked. “But most can’t handle it.”
Harper had caved to one of those pressures. So many times, she wasn’t sure how she was going to live without it when next week came. She lifted her chin. “I grew up with musicians. They don’t interest me.”
“Well, not unless they’re six foot five and built like a damn Adonis.”
Harper felt her face flame, but she kept her mouth shut. What the heck could she say?
“See? If I was pounding the hell out of that fine man, I’d be screaming it from the rooftops.”
Harper’s mouth dropped open. Brain whirling, she snapped her mouth shut with an audible click of teeth.
Meg tapped Harper’s cheek lightly. “Again, my case in point. I don’t blame you. For fuck’s sake, I admire you. That’s a tree I’d have climbed in a snap. And even better, you don’t let it get in the way of working. I can’t say I’d be the same.”
“My work is important.”
Meg tucked her dark hair behind her ear. “Oh, honey. Don’t be so serious. You’re young. You’re supposed to be banging the hell out of a bunch of guys. And you will. The first rock star is always the hardest to get over.”
“Been there, done that.”
Meg’s eyebrow rose. “Really?”
Harper tucked her fisted hands into her apron. She hadn’t meant to say that, dammit. “It was a long time ago.”
“Filled with secrets, Pruitt. You’re just full up to the neck with them, aren’t you?”
She lifted a shoulder. There was no way she was bringing her teen idiocies into this conversation. Not when Meg turned into a gossipy teenager with four shots of tequila in her.
Meg folded her arms across her chest. “I think I need to get you drunk one night before the end of the tour.”
“I’d drink you under the table.”
With a laugh, Meg clapped her hands sharply. “You just might. I’d be willing to try out that bluff, though.”
“Harper, what temperature do you want these at?”
Harper turned at Annie’s voice. “Five hundred for seven minutes.” She looked back at Meg. “So, this VIP? Do you need me to do something special?”
“Yes, actually. He’s a man’s man. Absolutely freaking delicious. Wait until you see this guy.” Meg fanned her face. “But he doesn’t do chicken. So I need you to do a few fillets for him and the Oblivion boys. Something that doesn’t need to stay hot.”
“Record exec?”
Meg shook her head, and her jet black hair danced. “Designer, actually. Up and comer that’s taking L.A. and New York by storm. I think he’s looking at that kid, Simon, to model for him.”
Harper’s eyes widened.
“Yeah. The guy’s name is Roman.”
“Roman...?”
“That’s it. Just Roman. He’s a bit eccentric, and completely wild from what I’ve seen on Google. Seriously, the damage I’d do to this guy is absurd.”
Harper laughed. Meg’s raw honesty still astounded her. She hadn’t thought it was possible with all the things she’d seen in her life. “Okay. I’ll set up a simple cold menu that doesn’t include sissy chicken.”
Meg grinned. “I do love the boys that are unapologetic carnivores.”
“And I like feeding them. Just him? Or does he have a crew with him?”
“Plan for ten in all.”
Harper pulled her phone out of her pocket and tapped in a few notes. “No problem.”
“Normally I’d take this one, but Johnny’s on a freaking rampage, and I have to do some damage control. He’s made three of my girls cry this week. I need to do a little nut twisting.”
Harper winced. “Better you than me.”
“Oh, the glory of being the boss.” Meg slapped Harper’s arm. “Kick ass, kid. They’re going to set up at the pavilion behind us.”
Harper nodded and whirled back to her kitchen. Finally, her first break to actually do a menu. She shouted out orders for the main meal and snagged Annie after the chicken was set up on the steel trays.
“Okay, Annie. We’ve got at special menu to prepare. I need you to do a spring mix salad.” She moved to the huge fridge and pulled out goat cheese, plum tomatoes, sprouts, and a red onion.
“For how many?”
“At least ten.”
Annie nodded and pulled out a cutting board and one of the glittering red and black knives from the magnetic strip. Harper set her up on a corner of the counter space.
And they both got to work.
Within an hour they had a three course meal set up: large salads with a fillet across the top, drizzled in Harper’s own honey sesame dressing, a sushi plate for the Oblivion guys, and a chocolate mousse garnished in her candied strawberries, drizzled in ganache.
And because she knew the Oblivion people could pack it away
, she added a bunch of bacon-wrapped chicken. She’d never seen so many skinny people with huge appetites in her life.
Annie opened up one of the carts and they loaded up. The karma gods were looking out for her because miracle of miracles, they actually had a paved path that led to the pavilion where the meeting was to be held.
As they crested the hill, she caught sight of Deacon. He’d donned what she thought of as his off-stage rocker clothes. Battered jeans, and equally battered shit kickers. He had his leather cuffs on, which definitely meant work-mode. But instead of one of his vintage t-shirts, he had a button down silvery grey shirt on, untucked, and his hair was down.
In the five weeks since she’d met him it had grown to lay on his shoulders in heavy chestnut waves with just the hint of sun-kissed gold. The aviator glasses completed the entire look.
And destroyed her damn panties.
The man was above and beyond delicious, and for the first time he truly looked like a rock god.
“That is a hot pack of men over there. I don’t know how Jazz doesn’t trip over her tongue daily.”
Harper hid a smile. “Gotta agree with you.”
“Is it wrong that I want to do a lot of illegal things to the lead singer?”
“There’s a line.”
“I don’t care,” Annie said with a sigh. “It would be worth it.” They were both at the rear of the cart, pushing it up the incline. “Can I ask you something?”
“Only if I can reserve the right to say no comment.”
Annie blew out raspberries. “That’s probably going to be your answer.”
Going on instinct, Harper took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m seeing Deacon.”
“No shit?” Annie’s bright blue eyes widened. “I’d heard some people talk, but you seem so...I don’t know. Unaffected, maybe?”
Harper hissed, wishing for her work gloves when the metal cart bit into her palm. “Have you looked at him?”
Annie laughed. “You are human.”
Harper slid her gaze to the redhead with the wild curls that just wouldn’t be contained under her work bandana. “Of course I’m human.”
“Well, duh. But what I mean is, you work all day, and then you disappear at night. We see you in the morning, and you’re never late.” Her words tumbled over each other in her haste to spit out whatever she wanted to say before they got to the pavilion. “But all you do is work. We never see you at the parties.”
Rocked Page 26
