Simon walked his thumb along every knuckle of his hand until they all cracked. “Shut up.”
Deacon nodded to the man that was making them all nervous. “Jackson, nice to see you again. Gordo.”
Gordo had the good grace to blush.
Jackson smirked down at him. “They gave you a nickname. That’s great. Guess I don’t have to ask how the tour went, then?”
Deacon poured a glass of iced tea from the pitcher at the center of the table. “I’d say the tour went really well. But then again, I’m sure Gordo kept you up to date.”
Jackson’s smile widened. His ultra-white perfect teeth glinting in the sunlight. “Of course, but I always like to hear the details from the artist.”
“We killed every night,” Simon said.
The executive turned his attention to Simon and Nick, then back to the table at large. “I agree. In fact, your numbers put you at a co-headline status, at the very least, and with another hit single, maybe more.”
Simon and Nick looked at each other, and Nick pulled out a chair. “That sounds promising.”
Jackson pulled out a leather laptop case. He flipped it open and unbuckled an accordion compartment with five packets individually clipped. “I’ve spoken to the head of the label, and we want to offer you a contract.”
Deacon’s heart stuttered and the free-fall swing in his gut made him grip the chair in front of him. They’d worked their asses off to get here and he had to school his features so he didn’t shout out a, “Fuck, yeah.”
Nick sat forward in his seat, his fingers reaching for the contract.
“I like that you’re eager, Nick. I want you all to know that I had to go to bat for you. Even with the great numbers on the tour, you’re still an unknown entity. You could easily be a one hit wonder.”
Nick’s hand paused a few inches before the pile.
Simon folded his arms. “We’ve had three singles in the top fifty now.”
“And that’s why I’m here. I believe in you guys. We want you in that studio, pronto. We want an even bigger album on the production end.”
Jazz’s gaze fluttered around the table. First to Gray, who sat motionless and silent to her left. His hands were flat on the table, and he was carefully listening—at least Deacon hoped he was. One could never tell with Gray.
Then her gaze went to Simon, Nick, and then finally to him. He smiled back at her reassuringly. They had the capacity to do big things. “The Becoming” proved that.
Deacon reached across the table for a copy of the contract.
Jackson flattened his hand on the documents. “This is a one album deal. We want you to grow with Trident, but we want to be up front with you. And reality is that the music climate changes daily. But we’re behind you every step of the way. We’ll work with you to find the best producers for your sound.”
Deacon met Jackson’s eyes. For the first time, he was pretty sure Jackson wasn’t playing car dealer. He was actually being up front. When the man lifted his hand, Deacon slid the contract in front of him.
“And with any luck, this will be the first contract of many.”
Deacon scanned the contract, pleased to see that they could stay in the penthouse as they were recording. That was big. They wouldn’t have to waste their advance finding a place to live.
“Now, I want you to have a lawyer look over the contract.”
“Why can’t we just sign?” Nick asked. “In fact...” He flipped to the last page and scrawled his signature over the bottom. “I’m fucking ready.”
Deacon’s gaze flew to him. “This is a big step.”
“We’re going to sign it.” Nick shrugged. “Why drag it out?”
Deacon frowned. “Because there could be negotiations.”
“No, there won’t be.” The finality in Jackson’s voice reverberated through the room.
Simon and Nick glanced at one another and then at Jackson. Simon finally spoke up. “C’mon, guys. This is going to get us on the map. A fuckin’ contract!”
Jackson nodded. “This is a great deal. Better than you’d get from any other label right now. We’ll give you a little time to read it over. How’s October first sound?”
“I’m ready now,” Nick said.
“The first is great,” Deacon said firmly.
Jackson flipped his laptop case closed. “If you need the names of good lawyers to help you read the contract, let us know.” Jackson turned to Gordo. “Let’s leave them to it. We’ve got a few more meetings today.” He turned back to them. “We hope you’ll be part of our family.”
Deacon sat down hard as he watched Jackson and Gordo leave.
Jazz rounded the table to hug Gray, practically vibrating. She flipped off her shoes and hopped around the table to hug everyone.
Deacon laughed when she flitted off to the kitchen. He flipped through the reams of legal jargon and double-speak. He was pretty sure he understood only every third word.
“It’s celebration time!” Simon took the contract from Deacon. “This is Trident. They sign some of the biggest acts out there.”
“You’re right.”
Simon’s glass halted an inch from his lips. “I am?”
Deacon shook his head. “You’re right. We can’t go into everything assuming that they’re trying to screw us over.” Hope flared for the first time since the day Jackson found them at the Blue Rhino. He really didn’t like the idea that they couldn’t negotiate the contract, but then again, it was probably a standard first contract.
Just like any band, they had to pay their dues.
Deacon scrubbed his hands over his face. “How many bands would kill for this?”
Nick eased a hip against the large table. “I can walk down Sunset and get killed by at least five that I know of.”
“Exactly.” The familiar revving in his gut propelled him to the back door. He looked down at the rushing traffic of Wilshire. Bugattis mixed with Beemers and high end Toyotas. They were being given a taste of the silver spoon for the first time in their lives.
This was the first album, and the live shows already showed just how well they did without any real marketing push. Imagine what they could do with the full strength of the label putting a show together for them?
Nick and Simon both came out onto the balcony. “I just read that we get to keep the penthouse while we work on the album. It’s part of the deal.” Nick folded his arms, staring down at the street below. “We don’t have to live in some dank basement while we prove ourselves.”
Deacon nodded. “I read that, too.” He spread his fingers out on the smooth marble. They had a huge space to practice and write, and then access to amazing equipment and a top notch recording studio. It was the dream.
“Think we can get rid of the boy band shit?” Deacon asked.
Simon grinned. “Dude, we got that Roman guy up our asses. And I can tell you right now, my ass looks superior in leather.”
Deacon laughed.
“Guys?”
They all turned at the sound of Jazz’s voice. She’d changed back into Jazz-wear with a ridiculously bright shirt and denim cutoffs, her bare toes curled slightly on the cool tiles. Gray was behind her in jeans and a t-shirt.
It was probably the most relaxed he’d ever seen Gray in the penthouse.
Jazz came out and climbed into her favorite lounger. “Guys, we get to write together and make a kickass, motherfucking album!”
Nick sat on the end of the lounger, grinning like a lunatic. “Yeah we do. I might even let you write a song.”
She kicked him until he toppled onto the tile with a laugh. She crawled to the end and looked down at him. “I’m going to rock your world.”
Deacon laughed down at them. Everything felt right. Perhaps the future held something more than broken promises and maybes for the first time.
“We need to go out!” Simon said.
Jazz scrunched up her face. “We have one more show tomorrow. Let’s just be us tonight. I volunteer to do body sho
ts, though.”
“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Simon said with a waggle of eyebrows.
“Probably not your mouth, though. I don’t know where it’s been.” She smiled sweetly up at Simon. “Actually I know where it’s been, so definitely not.” She scooted back on the chair and snagged Gray’s hand. “We’ve got everything we need right here.”
Deacon caught a flash of blonde hair and saw Harper in the doorway. He crossed the patio and dragged her out with them. She tried to shake her head and move back. But this news was important and he wanted to share it with her, too.
“I’m totally interrupting.”
Jazz bounced onto her knees and held her arms out for a hug. “No! This is a celebration. You’re Deak’s girl, so of course you’re included.”
“I—” Harper hugged Jazz because no one could resist her. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Jazz said with a squeak-inducing squeeze.
Nick stood and crossed his arms. “Well, we don’t want a sausage party. Pretty girls are a must.”
Simon grinned. “Now that’s a very good idea.”
“Oh, guys, not a million people.” Jazz said warily.
“Just a few,” Simon promised.
* * *
The entire main living space of the penthouse was filled with people when Harper peeked around the corner at the downstairs. She so wasn’t built for this kind of scene. The three people dressed in black waitstaff gear—now those were her people.
She tugged at the hem of her slinky gold dress. She was playing dress-up. And every single one of them down there was going to know it.
Jazz had dragged her out to find a celebratory outfit, and she’d let the happy, little drummer talk her into buying a dress. Living on the tours left her with little time to spend any of her money, so she didn’t feel too bad about the price tag on the dress she’d found. The shoes, however, those were out of control.
The only good thing about the entire ensemble is that it would roll up into her duffel bag. So she’d have one really...really, really, expensive ensemble in her wardrobe.
Get the hell down there, Harper Lee.
She lifted her chin and fluffed her curls—again, thanks to Jazz. She even had little sparkly gold pieces deftly clipped in. One deep breath and she’d go.
And now.
With her fingers wrapped around the banister, she made herself move.
Take the steps slowly, Harper Lee.
Don’t stare at your feet.
She scanned for wide shoulders that usually stood well above the crowd. Simon, in unrelieved black, had two women flanking him at the counter in the kitchen, shot glasses all lined up.
Nick had a curvy blonde leaning into him on the couch.
Jazz danced through the crowd in her bright pink dress that flirted with her knees like a foamy cloud. Men smiled at her and women couldn’t help but be in awe of her. She was pure happiness.
Across the room, against the wall was Gray. His eyes tracked Jazz’s progression as he sipped from a beer quietly. Always quietly assessing, that one. Especially when it came to Jazz.
Harper’s gaze drifted away to the few suits that had arrived. Even Toby Gordon, their manager, seemed to have loosened up a bit tonight. Was that a woman he was talking to?
Way to go, Gordo. Maybe that will loosen you up.
She got to the first landing and her breath caught. There he was. God, Deacon was unbelievably beautiful. He was almost overwhelming. Strong, wide shoulders under a perfectly cut white dress shirt accentuated his tanned skin. He lived to be outdoors with running and climbing and it left a virile, healthy man that made her mouth water. Dark-washed jeans ended in cowboy boots that made her smile.
Always a little Texas left in this man. Manners and chivalry were as much a part of him as the bass guitar. And he was staring up at her like she was the single best thing in the world.
Part of her wanted to spin around and run up the stairs. To take everything she had in his room and bolt and never look back. Because she would never live up to that look in his eyes.
Mitch was so right. There was forever there, and she’d been ignoring it for weeks.
When he climbed those last steps to meet her, the only thing she could do was move into him. When his wide fingers crept around her waist to find her naked back, she shuddered.
“You’re stunning,” he said as their lips met.
She closed her eyes and fell the rest of the way into the gaping vortex of emotions she’d been fending off since the first day he’d looked down at her in the pavilion. The first day he’d rumbled out a moan about her cooking.
Holy crap, she was stupid in love with this man.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and let him pick her up and carry her down the stairs. And when he grinned down at her and drew her into the circle of his friends, she let him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
September 15, 6:58 PM - The Palladium
Deacon shouldered his way through the crush of people backstage. The show hadn’t even started yet, and there were hundreds of people crawling around. The buzz of last night jitters seemed to hum through the room.
The fucking Palladium. He couldn’t believe they were ending the tour there, of all places. He snuck out a side door that lead to the balcony area. People were already filling the bottom section that was general admission, but only a few were sitting in the seats along the top.
He climbed the stairs to the very back. Some nights there were dining tables and candles, but this was a sold out night. Instead, there were seats lining the banister three deep. People would be packed into every crevice.
Deacon dragged his hand along the chrome banister that added to the glamour of the space. Chandeliers gave the room an old world charm that was in direct opposition to the high tech stage. Huge screens were alive with testing screens for the various cameras around the room. The risers he was used to maneuvering around were gone tonight. The stage was stripped down showing off the scuffed floor that thousands of artists and actors stood on.
And he’d be on that stage in a few short hours.
He leaned on the railing for a moment more before he slid back into the shadows and through the discreet doors cut out of the silk-papered walls. Deacon ducked through the small doorway to the backstage where the hum of people was even louder. People had multiplied like Gremlins at midnight. He pushed his way through to the closet-sized dressing room they were sharing tonight.
“Son of a—sorry!” Deacon slapped his hand over his eyes, but unfortunately Nick’s blissed out face, with full-on head-back action couldn’t be unseen. “Towel on the door, man.”
“I got a little distracted. Too many fucking people are around.”
Deacon heard the jingle of a belt and buttons and dropped his hand.
A girl stood with a self-satisfied smile on her face and gave Nick a wink. “Have a good show.”
“I will now, Tori-with-an-i.” Nick dragged her forward and buried his face in her neck for a moment, breathing her in. When he stepped back, the frown lines that lived in his forehead before a show were gone, and a rare smile tipped up the corners of his lips. “Got any requests?”
“‘Ripcord’. I love when you do the guitar duels with Gray. So fucking hot.”
Nick nodded. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
The woman turned and sashayed through the door without a look back. Deacon couldn’t stop his own smile. “Well, then.”
“Man, Tori-with-an-i was a very nice start to the night.”
“I bet.”
Deacon rolled his eyes. He dug out his leather cuffs and strapped them on. His fingers shook a little before he fisted them and opened them again. “Everyone on board with the setlist?”
Nick nodded. “Yeah. I wish we’d gotten a better soundcheck, but we’ll make it work.”
The door opened again, and Jazz waved a drumstick with a tissue on the end. “Is it safe?”
“Depends. I’m bare-assed
in here,” Nick called out.
Jazz slipped in, all glitter and bounce. “Been there, seen that.” She looked around the room. She twirled her stick in one hand, nerves jumping around her. “Have you seen Gray?”
Deacon shook his head. “Just got here myself.”
“There was a reason I was using this room. It was empty and quiet,” Nick said and sat on the other end of the futon. He shifted to the edge, his knee bouncing.
Jazz curled her lip. “Are you going to go into withdrawal when we have no more shows to do?”
Nick dug out one of his picks and flicked it along his fingers. “Doubt it.”
Jazz climbed onto the back of the couch and perched. “Pig.”
He grinned back at her. “You’re the one that asked.”
The door opened again and Simon’s inky mop of hair and bright blue eyes peeked in. “Did I miss the festivities?”
Nick sprawled his legs out into the center of the room. “Yep.”
“Damn.” Simon slid in and closed the door, leaning on it heavily. “Do we even know any of those people out there?”
“I imagine some of the Trident people, but fuck if I know any of their names. Suit, Three Piece Suit, and Polo Shirt?”
Jazz twirled one of her blingy purple sticks before tapping Nick’s shoulder. “Nice. How about Boring, Old, and Out of Touch?”
Simon climbed onto the small vanity table jammed against the opposite wall. “I definitely saw all of them out there.”
“Five minutes!”
Jazz popped up, her flip flops snapping as she headed into the miniature bathroom. “Where the hell is Gray?” she asked through the door as she took care of her pea-sized bladder.
“I saw him out in the crush of people. Two guys were talking to him.”
Jazz washed her hands quickly and came out wiping her hands on her shirt. “Two guys? Who?”
Simon shrugged. “I’m not his mother. That’s Deacon’s job.”
“Fuck off,” Deacon said mildly. He stood and rolled his neck. They were fucking playing at the Palladium. In a few minutes. Fuck.
Simon pushed through the lotions on the vanity. “Got any glittery lotion or something, Pix?”
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