Jazz peeked around him to look at the couch. Deacon turned them both around to find Snake, Simon, and Nick sprawled on the couch talking like it hadn’t been six months since they’d seen each other. Beer bottles dangled from their fingers and laughter filled the room.
Gray had disappeared—shocker—and they’d completely left Jazz out. Son of a bitch. He shouldn’t have left her alone. “They’re just happy to see Snake. It’s been a long time, Jazz.”
“I know. And I get that, seriously I do. But he just sat down, and they started talking about old times, about the songs they wrote—songs that I play better than he ever did, dammit.” She swiped at the tears that dripped down her chin, making a growling sound. “And I’m crying like a fucking girl. Like they hurt my feelings or some shit.”
He swiped a hand down her tail again. They had hurt her feelings, but Jazz was a tough one, and he certainly wasn’t going to call her on it. “Snake is the past, Jazz. You’re our drummer now. And you’re right,” he said on a low murmur. “You play the fuck out of all of the songs and are a damn good writer. This,” he nodded toward the couch, “is just a jog down memory lane.”
“Tell them that. Snake’s been invited back to the penthouse.”
Deacon frowned. He should have seen it coming, but he’d wanted to believe a visit would be all they needed. Uneasiness coated his skin like a rash. He didn’t want Snake to know where the penthouse was.
Irrational or not, it was the truth. The apartment was only partially theirs. Artwork and electronics packed the walls. Thousands of dollars that they couldn’t afford to pay for.
The album was doing well, but the advance they’d gotten for the EP had to be split five ways. Of course, that was after expenses. It was still more money than any of them had ever had, but they were by no means rich.
“Where’s Gray?”
Jazz shrugged. “He got a text and said some friends from his old job wanted to see him.”
“I didn’t realize he still talked to them.”
She sniffed and wiped the last of her tears away. “Me neither.”
Deacon gave her shoulder a squeeze and moved them both over to the couch. Jazz gave a token resistance, but followed him. “How’s it going?”
Nick looked up at him. A light he hadn’t seen in a very long time flashed in his eyes. “Just catching up. He looks great, right?”
Deacon’s eyes tracked to the table full of beer bottles and finally to the one resting on Snake’s buckle.
Snake took a long swallow. “Saint Deacon doesn’t think I should be drinking, boys.”
Deacon shrugged. “You did just leave rehab.”
“Alcohol was never my problem, brother.”
“Was never your friend, either.”
Nick stood, draining his beer. “Don’t give him shit, Deak. We’re having a good time and we don’t need the Boy Scout ruining it, as usual.”
Jazz stiffened next to him. He rubbed her back absently and ignored the bear trap Nick tossed at his feet. “I hear you’re coming back to the penthouse.”
Nick lifted his beer in a mock toast. “What? Jazzercise come and tattle on us?”
“Shut up, Nicky,” Jazz snapped.
“Did she bat those big...what are they today? Blue? No, purple. Those big ole violet eyes up at you and say we were causing trouble?”
“Fuck off,” she said with a step forward. “You want to act all big and tough because your friend is here, then go ahead without me. I’m not in the mood for asshole Nick tonight. We’re supposed to be celebrating as a band.”
He leaned down until his nose lined up with Jazz. “I am hanging with my band.”
She blinked at him, her lower lip trembling before she swung around to shoot across the room before Deacon could snag her.
“What the fuck, Nick? You don’t talk to her like that.” Deacon stepped forward until they were toe-to-toe, his height advantage dwarfing Nick.
Nick tipped his head back. “Big bad Deacon out to protect the newbies. I see how it is. No fucking loyalty.”
“She isn’t a newbie. She’s our drummer. She’s part of our band and so is Gray. Snake isn’t anymore.”
“That has yet to be determined.”
“The fuck it hasn’t been. We’ve been touring with them for the last six weeks, and they’re on the EP with us. We wouldn’t be here without Gray and Jazz.”
“They wouldn’t be anywhere without us, you mean,” Nick said.
Simon stood. He’d put his leather jacket back on, making him look every inch the rock god lead singer. “All right, cool down.”
“I don’t want to cause problems,” Snake said and stood as well. “I’m just here to visit.”
“And you don’t want back in the band?” Deacon asked. Everyone froze, and the blood rushed in his head. He should have left it alone, but now that the question was out, he wanted an answer.
Snake set his bottle down on the table. “I miss you guys.”
And that was definitely not an answer. He turned to Simon. “Is this what you’ve been talking about?”
Simon scratched the back of his head. “No. Not really anyway. He’s family, man.”
“Family? So now Jazz isn’t? And Gray isn’t?”
Simon took a sip from his beer, but he wouldn’t meet Deacon’s eyes. “I didn’t say that.”
“I can’t believe this. After all we’ve done to get on the road and work out songs, and all the practices and soundchecks. All the hours in the studio that she bled to finish the drum tracks in less than five days? The songs written with Gray, the solos that he and Nick have put together? You’re going to say all that isn’t worth shit?”
Simon’s eyebrows drew down. “I didn’t say that,” he said with a growl. “But we’ve been with Snake forever. You have, too.”
Deacon fisted his hands in his hair. “I don’t fucking believe this. You’ve forgotten every lost practice, the times he didn’t show up to shows and we had to bow out—without a paycheck—the times he stole from us for a fix? All that is forgiven and forgotten?”
“Not everyone can be Saint Deacon. We make mistakes and we forgive family.” Nick turned to Snake. “Look at him. It’s not just that he’s off the shit, he’s back to the guy we knew.”
“I don’t want to cause trouble.” Snake blew out a breath. “Of course I’d like to be back in the band, but I know I fucked up. I know you guys have a good thing going.”
“Right. You didn’t have any ulterior motives,” Deacon snarled.
“Fuck you, Deak. I miss my friends. I missed you, too,” Snake said and crossed his arms. “I know we’ve had our differences.”
“Differences?” Incredulous, Deacon took two steps back. “I can’t even—” He cut himself off, looked around the room to see people doing their best to listen and not be obvious about it. His head pounded in time with his heartbeat.
He’d dealt with so much to protect everyone in the band from just how bad it got with Snake. He didn’t want to put that on them now. Not when they were supposed to be celebrating.
He swung his gaze to Snake, but lowered his voice. “You want them to think it’s all good for you to come back and play with us again? Really? Where were you when we needed you at the shit shows? I’ll tell you. You were passed out in the stall of bathroom with a fucking needle in your arm.”
Nick opened his mouth and Deacon swung on him. “No. You obviously need to hear this. Because you’ve conveniently forgotten how many times we lost out on gigs because we didn’t have a fucking drummer.”
“I fucked up,” Snake said calmly. “I’m not going to deny it, but I’m better now.”
“For how long?”
“Where’s your goddamn loyalty?” Nick exploded and stalked toward Deacon. “You hold every one of us to some crazy ideal that only you can possibly live up to. We’re fucking human. Snake was with us since the beginning.”
“What about the hours of interviews and podcasts and vlogs that Jazz has done? What about th
e way she is with fans, and how they love her?”
“They could love Snake, too,” Nick said, but his tone was noticeably quieter.
“And Gray, too?”
“We don’t need him. Simon can play the guitar, remember? Or have you forgotten that, too?”
“Really?” Deacon’s eyebrows shot up. “You want to throw away the guitar duels the two of you have.”
“I can do them with Simon.”
“Okay, let’s go back to Jazz, then.” Deacon glanced at Simon. “How many radio interviews and spots have you done with VH1, Fuse, and Pandora with her? They fucking love her. We love her. She’s ours now, too. You can’t dump that for a shady memory of a few good times in the fucking Laundromat when we were nineteen.”
Simon looked at his feet and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “No. You’re right. It wouldn’t be an easy decision.”
“Easy? Are you—I—” Deacon sputtered. Nick stood closer to Snake. “I can’t believe you two.”
It wasn’t enough to see their friend on the road to recovery. Nick wanted things back the way they were. Simon, he wasn’t so sure of. The chemistry between Simon and Jazz had even surpassed whatever weird almost-romance that had happened between Nick and Jazz. And for once in Simon’s life, it wasn’t a sexual chemistry.
Of course if Jazz gave him even a hint of interest, Simon would be in her bunk for the pure fun of it, but he was perfectly happy with them just being friends. And it came off on camera with a little buzz and a lot of laughter between them. All of it fun and engaging.
If they lost that, Deacon wasn’t sure any of them would survive. Not really.
But Nick had to figure that out for himself. The more Deacon pushed him, the more Nick would get his back up.
Deacon dragged a deep breath in through his nose until his lungs were bursting with oxygen and resolution. He felt warm fingers lace with his. When he looked down to find Harper there, the pain in his temple went from searing, shutdown migraine, to a dull throb. Her steady blue eyes eased a little more anger out of his shoulders.
He focused back on Nick and the fists at his friend’s sides.
Nick lifted his chin. “You what?”
“I can’t do this.”
Nick’s brows snapped down. “What?”
Deacon turned his attention to Snake. “I’m glad to see you doing well, Snake, but there’s too much history between you and I. Too much that Simon and Nick don’t know about.”
Snake nodded. “I understand.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Nick crossed his arms over his chest, glancing from Snake to Deacon and back.
“You’ll have to ask Snake.”
Deacon nodded to Simon. “You guys visit and talk about old times. But we’re a band now. You can’t just bring Snake back in. Not when all of us don’t agree.”
“Me, Simon, and Snake started this band,” Nick said, his tone glacially cool.
Deacon flinched. It was true, he hadn’t been in high school with the three of them. He’d come into the band a year later after they’d played on the boardwalk together one night. They were his fucking family now, too. For five years, he’d fought to keep them together. And he had to remind them both of that.
Deacon poured reason into his voice, praying that Nick would hear him just this once. “Just remember that it’s not just the band. If you do something stupid, we could lose our biggest hit.”
Nick’s molars clicked and the little muscle in his temple flexed.
“That’s right. Gray and Jazz go, you can bet your ass that ‘The Becoming’ will go with them.”
“That’s not our only song,” Nick said darkly.
Deacon watched Simon’s face go blank in surprise. Simon put a hand on Nick’s arm before he could get back in Deacon’s face. “Ease back, man. Seriously.”
“What? It’s not.” Nick’s whole body vibrated with anger.
Harper flexed her fingers around Deacon’s, and he forced his shoulders to relax as he stepped back. “I’m heading out.” He looked down at Harper. “Can you leave?”
She nodded, her other hand coming up to cover their linked fingers. “I’m good.”
Deacon glanced at Snake. His gaze was focused on his beer and the wrapper he was slowly shredding. Deacon swallowed hard. How many beer bottles had he returned with only half a label over the years? There had been a lot of good times with Snake, but they didn’t outweigh the bad.
He turned away from his friends—his brothers for all intents and purposes.
“You’re just leaving?” Nick accused.
Deacon rolled his shoulders and kept walking. If he said anything else, it would end in bruises. Nick had a shitty temper at the best of times, but now with that last ultimatum, he was going to be ready for an all-out war if Deacon pushed.
He had to believe that they would make the right decision. Or they were fucking doomed before they even started.
Harper slid an arm around his back, pressing herself against his side. “I bribed the girls into letting me take the car.”
Deacon pasted a smile on his face. “Yeah?”
“Show me your place,” she said softly.
“Yeah.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Let’s get out of here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
September 13, 10:59 PM - How the Other Half Lives
The ride into Los Angeles was a quiet one. The Greek Theater was on the edge of the city, but the traffic was brutal as she followed her GPS. Deacon stared out the window, obviously deep in thought.
The scene backstage had left everyone buzzing. The crew, both catering and road, were chewing on gossip like it was a juicy steak after a hunger strike. They’d all come at her for details, and for the first time, her loyalty had been to someone other than the staff.
She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that. It had always been an us versus them situation. The bands had been people to cater to, not get involved with intimately. And that wasn’t even the sex part. She’d sat with Jazz and Deacon for movie nights, she’d taught Jazz how to make spaghetti and meatballs, she and Jazz had giggled through giving Simon lessons in the fine art of eyeliner. How many hands of gin rummy had she played with Gray and Jazz to get through the night as Deacon stretched out on the couch to read?
Hell, she even got a kick out of Nick’s sarcasm laden diatribes about the meet and greets he had to endure. Especially since she knew he truly loved interacting with the fans, just didn’t like the crazy that came along with it.
They were more than clients. They’d become her friends. It was almost as scary as how she felt about Deacon.
As she made the turn onto Wilshire Boulevard, she took a deep breath. Manicured trees were boxed into the cement sidewalks and framed the mix of skyscrapers and businesses that made up the swanky part of Los Angeles. She understood Sunset and the pier. But this?
She peered up at the endless mirror-like finishes of the buildings, the bright bank signs, and coffee shops that catered to the moneyed and famous. Part of her wanted to drop Deacon off at whatever swanky penthouse he lived in. Because there was no way he lived modestly on Wilshire.
She could go back to her small life, her food, and her tiny bunk in the Food Riot crew bus. When the GPS told her to make a left, she jerked the car to a stop.
Deacon finally looked her way. “There it is, home sweet home.”
The windows were an inky black sheet until the top floors, where they were broken with wrap-around balconies that shouted money and status.
“This is your place?”
Deacon leaned forward and brushed a kiss over her mouth. “For now.”
Suddenly, her little Honda Civic felt wildly out of place. Just like her. In the midst of the tour and life on the bus, she’d conveniently forgotten just how different his life was from hers. The nomadic life of a tour suited her. Everything she cared about could be packed into the battered army duffle she’d found in a thrift store when she was sixteen.
S
he followed the circular drive to the signs for parking. Expecting to take a ticket, she simply stared at the man that came to her door. Starched white dress shirt, a tie, and a snappy navy uniform gave her a clue, but still she stared.
Deacon climbed out from his side of the car. “Hi, Mike.”
“Mr. McCoy.”
“We’ve talked about this,” Deacon admonished.
“And you know I have a deep and abiding fear of Abigail,” Mike answered. He opened the door for Harper. “I’ll take care of that for you.”
“I—” she gulped and had no choice but to take his hand and let the valet help her out of the car. She’d lived in New York City for three months and hadn’t seen more than a bellhop open a door for the rich.
This was so out of her league.
“Uh, thanks.”
Without a word, or even a sneer at her dusty blue car, he climbed in and nodded at Deacon, then disappeared into the parking structure.
“You live here,” she said numbly. Hadn’t she already said that? But still, it needed to be repeated. He wasn’t even a headliner yet. What in the hell?
“I stay here,” Deacon corrected. “The record label owns it. We’re just bunking here.” He came up beside her. “Wait until you see the lobby.”
With his hand at her back, he opened the door for her. She went through the wide, spotless wall of glass that was a front door, and her jaw dropped open. The waiting area made the Beverly Wilshire look like a dated movie set. A geometric pattern flooded the floor in black and gray leading to a huge seating area of leather and chrome with more glass for the end tables. A huge glass sheet bisected the seating area full of magazines and mini-laptops.
The crazy patterned floor led up to a winding staircase in blood red carpeting that showcased a chandelier that had to be made of moonbeams. The translucent light sparkled along the crystal edges making it look like perpetual rain.
They passed a bank of empty terminals to the elevators. The doors were as opulent as the rest. Acid-etched metal in a rich paisley design that didn’t dare have a fingerprint on it.
Deacon drew a card out of his wallet and slid it into a reader. It hummed, flashed green, and the door opened. Inside was more of the vibrant red, this time in plush soundproofing.
Rocked Page 32
