by Cari Quinn
Prologue
The dream had been a part of him for as long as he could remember. Nebulous and sometimes fractured, but always a part of him. He wasn’t sure what to do now. Okay, so the dream wasn’t gone—not in any true sense of the word.
They were living inside of a version of it. Like a hand blown glass ball around them, it was hyper-studded glitter and eye-piercing sparkle. Flashbulbs and shouts accentuated the surreal quality of the night.
To his left, a couple hundred fans were barely contained inside a velvet-roped pen. They waved honest-to-God record versions of Oblivion’s album in one hand and sharpies in the other. All waiting their turn for a photo op and a signature. He recognized a few as diehard fans, but the rest were strangers.
It was hard to imagine that many people were so rabid to get their hands on their music. They’d gone from obscurity to chart-topping fame with one song. One song that went viral and then was honed into a bombastic, orchestra-laden, epic song released on a damn soundtrack. A dual penthouse on Wilshire Boulevard had been rented on the hopes and dreams of a single song’s platinum success.
And now they had another album that needed to do just as well.
No pressure.
He was swept forward and positioned on a taped X with a sticky note with a simple D on it. They were lined up smack in the middle of the Santa Monica Pier on a cobalt blue carpet. The exact blue of their album cover that kept drawing his eye to the left. A single word sat in the center of the square in a small white font.
Burn.
Ironic and simple. Instead of red, it was the soul-eating blue center of a flame. Like ice that was so cold it burned from the inside out. Eating them alive. Eating him alive.
This was supposed to be the dream.
Supposed to be their dream.
Supposed to be his dream.
But his dream didn’t include the fifty strangers from Trident Records that surrounded them now. It had always included Simon and Nick, and the new additions of Jazz and Gray even felt right. The dream included the album, it included a release party and it sure as shit always included the stage.
What hadn’t been part of the dream were the personal assistants catering to Simon like he was fucking Elvis. And the asshat was eating it up. Come to think of it, Simon was born to have people waiting on him like he was a king. He’d even been like that when they’d lived in the shit-box basement apartment in Carson.
But the entourage of suits trying not to look like suits hovering every-goddamn-where definitely hadn’t been part of his fantasy. Did they honestly think they were fooling anyone with their matching dress pants, shiny black shoes and cobalt blue dress shirts? Or how about the leather jackets that had come straight off the rack from some local department store?
Minions in Oblivion blue.
And the women in stripper-chic with their teetering heels and smiles as fake as their tits.
Pictures of each of them were bolted to eight-foot screens behind their instruments. All of them wearing the new and improved Oblivion uniform from their hit video, “The Becoming”.
Slick.
Fake.
Rockstar-chic as fake as the women.
Gone were his battered jeans and vintage t-shirts. Gordo—Toby Gordon, their manager—and Jackson Miller had convinced them that the black and blue leather from the ultra-stylized video should be pulled over into the EP’s release.
The soundtrack song he understood. That had been for a summer blockbuster car movie, so the leather and high gloss fit that genre. But Oblivion wouldn’t ever be that slick. They looked like a frigging boy band.
He felt fake.
He looked fake.
The only part of this whole farce that was real was the music. He was proud of the EP they’d managed to record in under three weeks. Thank God, they’d gotten to use songs they’d honed in the clubs. Jackson had gotten them on a tour as a last minute replacement for another opening band who’d lost their singer to rehab. Ironic much?
Rehab and being a last minute replacement was becoming their claim to fame. Maybe that’s why he’d gotten so uptight about the warp-speed pace of their career. Were they building an entire repertoire of good fortune on the backs of other people’s failures?
Just how the hell long could that last?
He rolled his neck and smiled down at Jazz, who couldn’t stop grinning or filming from her phone. She fit so perfectly into the glitter and leather version of them, the role might as well have been created for her.
Music was what he understood. It was always there just under the skin. He could feel it vibrating its way out of him, trying to escape the leather blazer that was strangling him.
Music was more than his heart or his soul. It was his foundation. Steady and true and necessary.
Without it, he’d be nothing.
Deacon McCoy, bassist for Oblivion.
Deacon McCoy, songwriter.
Deacon McCoy, musician.
Here and now he was Deacon McCoy, douchebag.
Chapter One
August 12 – Food For Thought
Harper Pruitt hauled another tray out of her seven-tiered food cart. Lunch was the big meal when it came to a rock tour. The roadies and technicians would be working right up until the seven-thirty curtain time so they needed to fuel up now. Then she and her staff would break it down and start all over for the musicians and their guests.
Already the first wave was lined up in the doorway to the makeshift cafeteria. Pop-up tents, two dozen banquet tables and a whirring portable A/C gave a brief reprieve to the outrageous heat of Alpharetta, Georgia. Honestly, how was anyone supposed to think clearly when the air was thick enough to chew?
“C’mon, Harper. It doesn’t need to be perfect. We’re just going to demolish it anyway.”
“You will wait until I’m ready, Randy Pruitt.” Her brother, a third generation roadie, was always first in line for food. He might be a skinny beanpole of a guy, but he could pack it away.
She snapped the last of the trays over cold packs she’d designed after their first week had been spent cleaning up after the rapidly melting ice. No matter how hard that air conditioning unit chugged, it was still hot as hell with seventy-plus bodies in the room.
The cooking staff for Food Riot included three chefs, herself, Meg and Danny, as well as a crew of fifteen that took care of prep and cleanup. She was the newest addition to the company so that meant she got to oversee all the piddly shit like cold cuts, veggies and salads.
She might be low man on the cooking staff, but she had standards, dammit. She made the best lunch these idiots would ever taste. Refusing to believe that everything was wasted on the tour animals who called themselves roadies, she ignored the shuffling feet and groans behind her.
Any man or woman who didn’t want a broken finger knew better than to rush her. She knew how to handle the burly, the grouchy and most definitely the too friendly. She’d been a tour rat since the age of ten when she’d snuck into the back of her daddy’s truck before he’d set off on the Aerosmith summer tour. After a mild freak out by her mother and an ass warming she’d never had before or since, he’d let her stay.
Twelve years later this was what she knew and what she loved. Oh, she might have switched from rigging lights to chopping onions, but there was nothing she liked more than to open her eyes and see dawn spread over a new town.
Setting out the last tray—rolls and bread—she stepped back a good four feet, put her hands together in a mock prayer and bowed. “You may begin.”
And boy did they. Within eight minutes her pretty display looked more like a sad deli counter. The bed of lettuce leaves she’d used were scattered like discarded pages from a TV writer’s room during sweeps week. All but the chicken salad had been scraped clean.
She slammed the tray out of its housing. What they had against her chicken salad, she just didn’t know. Unless it was slathered in regular mayo or yellow mustard, a lot of these guys turned their noses up. Each day sh
e tried to sneak in a little something new. Even roadies deserved culture, but alas, they proved her wrong again and again.
She waved at her brother as he jammed ham and turkey into a roll—his third sandwich, thank you very much—and crammed it into his mouth on the way out the door. Randy was still young enough to be excited about the prospect of sweating over the lighting rig that had to be set up over the huge summer stage for Rebel Rage.
It was the last leg of this particular tour. She’d graduated culinary school and hopped on a plane the next day to work this job. She had six weeks to prove herself to Meg and Danny so they’d hire her on full-time.
“All set, Harper?”
She blinked out of her thoughts and smiled at Mel, one of her cleanup staff. “Yeah, you can start loading up.”
The clang of metal trays and crinkle of white paper table covers were part of her everyday symphony. Roll it out, roll it up, rinse and repeat. Crap, she was only six days into the tour and already she was tired of tuna salad and cold cuts.
Not good.
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, we’re all done for the lunch rush, but you can come ba—” She stopped mid-turn, her eyes stuck on one of the most impressive chests she’d ever seen. And seriously, she’d seen a lot of nice ones over the years. But sweet Pete.
Wide, firm pecs filled out the vintage Journey t-shirt with little room to spare. In fact, the faded scarab logo had little tears in it from the stretch to accommodate his toned muscles. That had to be some seriously amazing man flesh under there.
She forced her gaze up, and up, and wow.
He smiled and a dimple dug into his left cheek. The slash of white teeth and the dimple were bad enough but man…the eyes. Green. Middle of the forest green, earthy, and cool—the kind that contact commercials promised with their too beautiful to be real colors.
They had to be fake.
Who had green eyes with flecks of sunlit gold in the center? Not real people, that’s who. Or…
“Anything protein will do. I just had a workout and I could sure use some fuel.”
Or rock stars. Fuck. Of course he was a musician. While there were a few men on staff who bumped her hotter than hell meter into taking notice, the first one to put her meter into the redline had to be off-limits.
“I really don’t have anything left.” She caught one tray out of the corner of her eye. “Well, I have some chicken salad left, but…”
“That’s perfect. Chicken salad is perfect.” He crossed one arm over his drool-worthy chest and gripped his triceps, rubbing absently. A wide, all black tattoo stretched across his left forearm in letters that looked like they’d been through an earthquake. Oblivion.
Holy hot.
Nope.
No looking, Harper Lee.
Man, his bicep really bulged beautifully. And on the arm he gripped, a flash of black and red ink teased beneath the edges of his t-shirt sleeve. A sleeve that was seriously working hard at not ripping. That just wasn’t right. She forced her eyes up to his face and that dimple was back, deeper than ever.
Crap. Now he was going to think she was interested. Damn, damn, double damn and triple crap. She snatched the ice cream scooper she used to make quick portions out of her apron and snagged one of the paper salad boats stacked up beside the plates. She gave him two healthy portions. He was a big boy, after all.
“Another scoop if that’s okay.”
“You don’t even know how it tastes.”
He leaned down into her space and she sucked back a groan. He smelled like cedar chips and something fresh. The ocean? She took a giant step back. “Whoa there.”
He picked up a fork then scooped out a taste. “See, tastes…” He stopped chewing and she winced. She’d made her own mayo infused with rosemary, sprinkling in some balsamic for a kick to make it just a little less boring. The tender breast chunks had sucked up the vinegar. Definitely not a traditional chicken salad. “What is this?”
She pulled the paper boat closer to her chest. “I think I might have some turkey—”
“No, seriously. That’s awesome.” He took her scooper out of her limp fingers and put another two scoops on. Then reached around her for a few of the remaining tomatoes on the veggie tray.
“Awesome?”
“Wow.” He shoveled another forkful into his mouth, those sharp perfect teeth slicing through a tomato with ease. “I usually have to force down my chicken and turkey with a Coke, but this is awesome. Can you make me this every day?”
“That would get pretty boring.”
“Have you tasted this?” He turned his fork out to her.
“I made it. I taste everything before I put it out.”
He shrugged. “More for me.” He transferred the boat, a wad of napkins, his fork and his phone all to one hand. Long fingers handled the entire bundle with ease. He held out his left hand. “I’m Deacon, by the way.”
Oh, hell no. He had tingles written all over him. There was no way she could shake his hand and keep up the cool, calm and collected deal. Especially when his hand looked like it could swallow hers and have room for two more. He was ridiculously big. Like wow-you-must-play-basketball tall with tan skin that made her want to find out all his textures. And the hair? Brown strands streaked with a dozen different colors touched his shoulders in flyaway waves that framed his angular face.
God, why did she have to be so tactile? She couldn’t walk through a store without touching everything. And Deacon had plenty of real estate to touch.
Harper Lee, catch a clue.
She smiled up at him, and thankfully had her plastic gloves still on. She wiggled her black latex-clad fingers. Dodged that one.
He gave her that lopsided smile again and the dimple deepened. Instead of being put out, he simply shuffled his salad boat and tucked his phone into his pocket. He resumed eating. “This really is amazing.”
The burst of pleasure that hummed through her middle made her inwardly roll her eyes. Simmer down. He’s just flirting. “Thanks.”
“What’s your name? I can tell you right now you’re going to see a lot of me. I’m pretty much the black hole for food.”
Sidestepping the question, she picked up another tray. “I’ve been on the tour for almost a week now and this is the first time we’ve seen each other.”
“My band just met up with the tour last night. We’re opening for Rebel Rage.”
Ding, ding. Musician confirmed.
She’d known it, but man…it really was too bad. She didn’t date musicians. Heck, she didn’t even interact with them. They were way too into themselves, and she needed a drama-free six weeks.
“That’s great. Welcome to the tour.”
“You’re really not going to give me your name?” he teased in his deep voice .
It really was too bad. Because that voice would sound delicious all low and close in her ear. “I’m just the help. You don’t need to know my name.”
“Maybe some musicians are like that, but not me. Less than six months ago, I was waiting tables and hustling pool for gas money.”
Don’t be endearing. Seriously. That just wasn’t fair. Not to mention the quick flash of him stretched out over a pool table was way too easy to picture. That did not need to be lodged in her brain. Those long fingers making a cage for the cue stick?
Stop it!
“Boss’s orders. We’re seen and not heard.” She scooped one last serving of the chicken salad onto his plate then loaded the tray on her cart. “Have a good afternoon, sir.”
“Deacon,” he reminded her.
Harper hunched up her shoulders and nearly ran across the lunch room and out into the brutal humidity.
For more information about the band, deleted scenes, and their road stories please visit our series website.
http://www.lostinoblivion.com/
Titles by Cari Quinn
Jingle Ball
Dirty Distractions
Love Bites
Melt
N
eed Me
Test Shot
No Flowers Required
Cowboy Lust
Virgin Territory
Heart Signs
No Dress Required
Unwrapped
Hot Text
Bad Kitty
Provoke Me
Insatiable
Reveal Me
Personal Research
Ex Appeal
Full Disclosure
Cari Quinn
USA Today bestselling author Cari Quinn wrote her first story, a bible parable, in 2nd grade, much to the delight of the nuns at her Catholic school. Once she saw the warm reception that first tale garnered, she was hooked. Now she gets to pen sexy romances for a living and routinely counts her lucky stars. When she’s not scribbling furiously, she can usually be found watching men’s college basketball, playing her music way too loud or causing trouble. Sometimes simultaneously.
Visit Cari at http://www.cariquinn.com to sign up for her brand new newsletter!
Titles by Taryn Elliott
Suspended
Holiday Sparks
Ashes and Wine
Uncross Your Heart
Taryn Elliott
She’s from the great state of New York--upstate NY…you know, above NYC by about three hours. Her family consists of a brother who takes care of keeping the snarky side of her alive and a dog that is more spoiled child than mutt. Her writer-friends are the glue that keeps her crazy ideas more in the sane category, and her non-writerly friends are the reason she’s not a complete hermit. She can't go a day without laughing and truly does fall in love with each and every one of her leading men as she writes their book. Music is life and every story has its own soundtrack.
Visit Taryn at http://www.tarynelliott.com to sign up for her brand new newsletter!
