Rocked

by Taryn Elliott

“No interest in what I’m doing for you, Mr. McCoy?”

  Deacon swung his attention back onto Roman. “Somehow I don’t think you could do on the fly measurements of my vintage t-shirts.”

  “No. I thought I’d go a different way.” Roman pulled a strap off a shelf in the trunk, along with a pair of leather cuffs that would climb half his forearm.

  Deacon stood, forgetting about playing it cool. Roman held out the guitar strap in sunset colors over heavy brown. Wings, both embossed and stitched, climbed up the leather in a meticulous design that spoke of a true reverence for craft.

  Roman set the cuffs over the winged masterpiece. Triple straps with sturdy buckles held the leather together. The buckles were positioned so they wouldn’t get in the way of his playing and would be easy to put on without assistance. This leather was the opposite of the sturdy, gorgeous strap. Each cuff was butter soft and oiled to perfection.

  Harper stopped next to him and traced the pad of her finger over the thin straps adorned in brass detail. “It’s gorgeous.”

  Absently, he stroked down her neck to her back and rested his hand at the base of her spine. Nick’s eyebrows rose as he folded his hands over his belly and nodded at Gordo.

  Their manager folded his arms over his iPad with a furrowed brow. Great. That was a lecture waiting to happen. It was no secret he and Harper were together, but they rarely interacted in public.

  Harper slid away from him and cleared her throat, busying herself with the food again.

  Deacon bit back a sigh and folded the pile carefully into his left hand. He held out his hand to Roman. “Sorry to be an asshole. These are amazing.”

  “I’ve lived in New York and L.A., son. I’m used to proving myself. Again, I’m tired of dealing with the runway life. I don’t mind doing a collection once a year, but I prefer to do custom stuff that will challenge me. I think we can help each other.”

  “What do we need to do?” Simon asked.

  “Just wear my clothes when you go out for social engagements.”

  Simon jammed his hands into his jacket pockets. “All of them?”

  “Of course, I’d prefer that, but big parties and anything that includes a red carpet mob of reporters is a must.” Before anyone could ask the question, he went on. “In return, I’ll make you a wardrobe that would make Bono jealous. Especially Simon and Jazz, since they’re the most well-known faces.”

  Nick rocked back on his heels. “And the rest of us?”

  “By your next tour, I’ll have a full trunk of clothes for each of you. And when you get back to L.A. I’ll meet with all of you to get you some clothes to cover the award ceremonies coming up.”

  Deacon looked down at the guitar strap in his hand. “Why did you choose us?”

  “Because you’re hungry. You make me remember how it feels.”

  “Fair enough,” Deacon agreed.

  Simon peered over at the spread Harper had set out for them. “Speaking of hungry.”

  Roman grinned. “These lovely ladies put in a lot of work. I’d say it’s time to demolish it.”

  “And you have soundcheck in forty minutes,” Gordo reminded them.

  Roman swung his legs under the attached picnic table and pulled the salad forward that Harper had passed out. He reached for the homemade dressing and drizzled it over the steak slices and greens. “This looks delicious.”

  Harper set sparkling Evian beside his plate and a regular Coke in front of Deacon. “Thank you. Let me know if you need anything.” She backed away and let them talk.

  Roman stabbed his fork into his salad. “I’d like to sit in on soundcheck if that’s okay.”

  Jazz sat next to Roman. “Sure.” She tapped her cheek with a Day-Glo orange drum stick. “Should we clean up the swearing?”

  “Absolutely not,” Roman said around a hunk of steak.

  “Good, then Gordo won’t yell at us for at least half an hour.” Jazz popped a strawberry chip into her mouth, her eyes rolling back in ecstasy. She loved them just as much as Deacon did. In fact, they fought over every batch that Harper made.

  Lunch was a mix of shop talk and war stories from run-ins with the press and crazy models. Gray wandered back to the bus with Nick. Simon and Jazz were still deep in story mode with Roman. Deacon took the opportunity to finally talk to Harper.

  She smiled up at Deacon when he got closer. Her summer sky eyes twinkled with easy humor. “Hey, big guy. Did you have enough to eat?”

  “Everything was great.”

  “Then why are you making frowny faces?”

  He shrugged. “I’m a little worried about fucking up in front of all these people.”

  She laid a hand on his chest. “You’ll do great. You guys have been practicing and sound amazing.”

  “It’s thirty-fucking-thousand people, Lawless. We’re just figuring out how to handle a regular stage, but this?”

  “If you start doubting yourself, of course you’re going to screw up.”

  “Thanks.”

  She laughed and wrapped her arms around his waist in a rare public hug. “Time to put on some attitude, a layer of bullshit, and fake it till you make it, baby. You think you’re the only one to freak out here?”

  He shook his head.

  “When you slip that bass on, and the Demon side of you comes out, there’s nothing you can’t do. I’ve watched you for weeks now.”

  She rarely mentioned the musical side of him. He’d caught her watching the odd soundcheck and saw her in the crowd some nights, but they were too busy cramming every moment together into their downtime to talk about his music.

  She pushed him back. “Now, go get ready. I gotta work.”

  He leaned down for a quick kiss and took the long way down to the busses, avoiding the food tents and trucks to clear his head. Tonight, he’d wear his new leathers, he’d play, and he’d make sure they didn’t waste the extended set.

  Opportunities were opening up for them, and he had to keep it together for all of them.

  After a smooth soundcheck, they all took a little bit longer to get ready for the show than usual. Everyone was excited to have something new to wear.

  In fact, Deacon was pretty sure he was going to burn his stage jeans after the tour. He couldn’t get the sweat stains out at this point.

  Deacon went down to the arena early. He liked to watch the seats fill and the eclectic mash-up of fans that made up an audience. Some were there for the cool factor, some for the music, and some just to drink.

  All were still fascinating. The one thing he couldn’t get enough of on tour was the stage. Under the lights, he usually only got to see the first dozen rows of people.

  Tonight, the front rows were filled with women in their nightclub best. Pink, silver, black, and the odd flash of gold were the dominant colors.

  And purple.

  He paused on a woman with upswept blonde hair and a power suit that was more boardroom than concert attire. Not that people didn’t come to a show after work, but those women usually lost the blazers and made the most of the silks and lace they wore underneath.

  This woman was poured into the royal purple suit with a cinched-in waist. She wasn’t afraid of her curves, she accentuated them. She looked as cool as a spring morning despite the humid night. Rather than eyeing the crowd, she directed her attention on the tablet she held. It was just a little bigger than a phone and her stylus never stopped moving over the screen. When she turned, a lanyard swayed over her midsection.

  Ah, that made more sense. Was she from Trident? She was certainly as polished as Jackson Miller. He’d pulled the same sort of power trip with the suit when he’d come to see them at the Blue Rhino.

  Deacon scanned the crowd for Miller, but the woman in purple seemed to be alone. His phone buzzed in his pocket followed by an insistent chime.

  Time to work.

  The crowd hummed with renewed excitement as he climbed the couple of stairs to the stage. He ducked behind a speaker, waved once more before disappearing back
stage.

  “There you are!”

  Deacon tugged on Jazz’s glittering green pigtail. “What’s up, Pix?”

  “Nicky’s freaking out a bit.”

  “Oh, hell. How come?”

  “Some suit came backstage. Seriously hot purple suit, actually. Anyway, she blazed through just as he was getting his—um, nightly rehearsal session.”

  Deacon rolled his eyes. Nick should probably just a hire a goddamn fluffer from a porn set. He was ridiculous with his nightly routine. Willing female for a makeout session, seven minutes on his own in a room to do God knows what, and then he snuck on stage before anyone else.

  He was like a damn ball player in the playoffs. No deviations, no changes, or he flipped.

  “Which part did she interrupt?”

  “The finish line.”

  Deacon winced. He didn’t understand the superstitious need for Nicky’s routine, but he could empathize with the blue balls. He’d been sporting a pair since lunch.

  “Speak of the devil,” Deacon muttered as Nick came flying down the narrow aisle between the guts of the stage electronics and the trunks of instruments. “You okay, Nicky?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Deacon nodded. Excellent. This was not fucking happening. Their first night with the extended set, and Nick was going to melt down. “Look, man, what do you need?”

  “Nothing. Fuck off. I’ll figure it out.”

  Deacon plowed his hand through his hair and stalked down to the closet they called a dressing room. Simon was leaning into the mirror, smearing on eyeliner.

  “Where’s your flask?”

  Simon turned, one bright blue eye lined in soot black and the other his normal, girly-lashed one. “You need a nip, Deak? That’s not like you.”

  “Not for me.”

  Simon turned back to the mirror to do his other eye. “It’s in my bag.”

  Deacon turned to the three black duffel bags that held a change of street clothes for each of them after the show. He dug into the first one, finding khakis and a smudged two-by-two mirror. He frowned at the mirror, but rezipped the bag.

  The next was full of black clothes. Bingo. He dug to the bottom and found the silver flask that was actually full. Either Simon had just refilled or he wasn’t hitting it as hard as he usually did in the middle of the day.

  He zipped the bag and stood. “Nick is having a meltdown.”

  Simon shrugged into his leather jacket sans shirt. “Ah, fuck.”

  Deacon handed him the flask. “You usually do better when he’s in asshole mode. He just gets more angry with me.”

  Simon sighed, uncapped the flask, and took a sip. “Reinforcements needed for this job.” He screwed it back on and headed out the door.

  Deacon took a minute alone to situate his own clothing. He slid his palm down the new armbands that would hold the sweat off his bass and cushion his forearm from the constant rubbing against the knobs and dials he messed with all night.

  Gray opened the door and slid in. “Hey.”

  Deacon nodded as he came in and went right for his duffel. Gray grabbed it and headed for the showers.

  Alone again, Deacon stared into the mirror. From the outside he looked normal. A bit bigger now. But everything else felt different.

  He wasn’t sure what to do with the hopeful feeling that was twisted around the foreboding. Did he trust the hopefulness or the wariness that was cropping up?

  He was tired of thinking about crap all the time. He just wanted to know if they were getting a contract. He wanted to know if Harper was on board with more than a six week bang-a-thon.

  From the moment he touched her, he’d known it was more. Part of him wanted to tell her, but the part that didn’t include his cock knew that she’d bolt. Getting her away from this environment would be the real test anyway.

  Could they live in the regular world together, or was the road why they were working? A stolen hour here and there was easy to live through, especially when most of the hours included nonverbal communication.

  His body still thrummed with the memory of her hot little body writhing against his outside of the pavilion. Watching her let go was one of his favorite things in this crazy life.

  She made him feel alive and strong, in control and spinning out of control at the same time. But he wanted a king size bed and a week with her.

  If she took the job with Food Riot, she might be on the next flight out for another tour. She was too talented not to get scooped up by someone, even if she decided to turn down Food Riot’s contract.

  He just had to hope she’d find room for him in their crazy life. Studio work was his immediate future and that was dependent on how fast the guys wrote. It wasn’t just Simon and Nick anymore. There were five of them now.

  A thump on the door put an end to that case of overthinking. Time to kick ass on stage.

  “Gray!”

  “Yeah, I heard it. I’ll be out in a sec.”

  Deacon left the dressing door open, following the raised voices to the side stage.

  “Find me a fucking cigarette, and we’ll be fine!”

  Deacon sighed and went back into the dressing room for his bag. Gray was just coming out, stuffing something into the liner of his duffel. Deacon frowned, but another bellow from Nick quickened his step.

  Gray simply raised one eyebrow.

  “Nick’s having one of those days.”

  “Ah.”

  Deacon unearthed the baggie of emergency cigarettes he kept at the bottom of his bag. Nick had quit smoking, for the most part, but then there were days like today. It was easier to let Nick think they bummed cigs from the roadies to feed his tantrums than to let him know they were so readily available.

  When he got back, Nick was pacing, snapping his lighter loudly. Jazz had both sticks in her hands, and it looked like she was wishing they were knives.

  Simon sat on one of the trunks and swung his feet as he calmly sipped from his flask.

  On the next turn through Nick’s tight circuit of pacing, Deacon stepped forward with his palm out, a Marb in the center.

  “Fucking finally.”

  Deacon rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome.”

  Nick flashed flame over the end of the cigarette until the end bloomed with his inhale. He blew smoke skyward, and Deacon saw his shoulders visibly relax.

  Gordo came out with his iPad, but quickly veered off backstage when he saw the plume of smoke. It only took five and a half weeks to learn, but he finally knew to stay away when Nick was in this state. Mostly because Gordo was a handy target. Nick didn’t have a problem blasting their pocket-sized manager with an arsenal of creative curses.

  “Three minutes,” a roadie bellowed.

  “I just wanted to say I’m looking forward to seeing your set tonight.”

  Deacon turned at the sound of a woman’s voice. The power suit gir—no, girl definitely didn’t fit. She was all woman. There was no girl lurking behind those wide aquamarine eyes. She stood in four-inch heels which only accentuated truly amazing legs and compact curves.

  Nick’s shoulders tightened again, and he blew smoke straight into the woman’s face. Instead of waving it away, the corner of her lips tilted up in an almost smile. She simply turned on one perfect heel and headed back out to the audience.

  “Who the fuck was that?” Nick asked.

  Deacon shrugged. “She had a VIP pass. Maybe a Trident person checking on us? She said she was going to watch our set.”

  Nick stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his boot. “As if tonight wasn’t going to suck as it is.”

  “No.” Jazz tapped her drumsticks against Nick’s chest. Not a gentle tap, either. “This is just like any other night. Just like last night when you did that awesome embellishment on ‘Breaking It Down’. This is no different, only new faces.”

  Nick lifted his chin, his Adam’s apple working as he swallowed. He didn’t say a word. He turned to the guitar tech holding his Honeyburst and hit the stage.


  Jazz sagged. “Nicky is going to be the death of me one of these days. That or I’m going to just deck him one.”

  “He can take a punch,” Deacon said with a smile.

  Jazz grinned up at him. Lime green hair, black yoga top, and her new pink leather made for a combo that only she could pull off. She twirled her lime green drum stick and threw herself against his chest.

  Deacon took a step back, but brought his arms up to give her a hug.

  “I’m so glad you’re our normal one.”

  He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. He’d never own up to it, but Jazz hugs were the best medicine. He hadn’t even realized he’d needed one. “Enough of this girly shit.” Making the decision to kill tonight, he smiled down at her. “Let’s change the cover to ‘November Rain’.”

  “And into ‘Too Still’?”

  He nodded. “I’ll let the rest know. Time to kick ass tonight, Pix.”

  She ran out on the stage and did a back flip up onto her kit. The crowd roared. When Nick’s growling opener to ‘Ripcord’ blazed through the pavilion, Deacon knew it was going to be a damn good night.

  Fifty-five minutes later, they poured off the stage. Sweat dripped off every angle of his body. Deacon hauled Jazz up on his shoulder, and her squeal of joy followed them all into the small backstage area for food at this venue. They fell on the table full of bottled water, watermelon, and Oblivion’s preferred platter of simple sandwiches like wolves.

  Harper was nowhere to be found.

  Deacon tried to ignore the fifty pound rock that had instantly formed in his gut and gave his body the fuel it needed. The stage, his workout, and the fucking rabbit food they’d had for lunch left him at a deficit.

  Jazz and Gray were talking animatedly as three paper plates of watermelon were demolished. Simon and Nick had collapsed into a loveseat pushed against the wall. Simon’s chest still heaved from the killer blend of acoustic and electric version of “Too Still” followed by “The Becoming”. But he’d nailed it.

  And the crowd had lost their minds.

  They’d gone over time, and Rebel Rage’s manager was probably going to rip three layers of skin off of them tomorrow, but for now, it was perfection.

  He wanted to share it with Harper. And she wasn’t fucking here.