by Quinn, Cari
4 Play
Cari Quinn
Taryn Elliott
Contents
Rocked
About This Book
Acknowledgments
Burn
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Bedded Bliss
About This Book
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Manaconda
About The Book
Acknowledgments
1. Hunter
2. Kennedy
3. Hunter
4. Kennedy
5. Hunter
6. Kennedy
7. Hunter
8. Kennedy
9. Hunter
10. Kennedy
11. Hunter
12. Kennedy
13. Hunter
14. Kennedy
15. Hunter
16. Kennedy
17. Hunter
18. Kennedy
19. Hunter
20. Kennedy
21. Hunter
22. Kennedy
23. Hunter
24. Kennedy
25. Hunter
26. Kennedy
27. Hunter
28. Kennedy
29. Hunter
30. Kennedy
31. Hunter
32. Kennedy
33. Hunter
34. Kennedy
Epilogue
Anything But Mine
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Oblivion World Character Chart
Oblivion Series
Quinn and Elliott
The Boss
Taryn Quinn
Cari Quinn
About the Authors
Rocked
eBooks are not transferable.
They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Rocked
© 2014 Cari Quinn & Taryn Elliott
Rainbow Rage Publishing
Cover by: LateNite Designs
All Rights Are Reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First ebook edition: April 2014
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I think I’m in trouble.
First big tour.
First big chance.
Oblivion bassist Deacon McCoy is living the dream.
$ex, stardom and success…all at his fingertips.
Then he meets Harper Pruitt, the pretty, competent tour chef who insists on keeping things all business.
And he’s looking for lots and lots of pleasure.
I think he’s trouble.
First big job.
First big chance.
Harper isn’t about to screw It all up, even for the hot, brawny musician they call Demon Deacon.
He’s delicious in every way, from his easy smiles to how he strips her with his eyes.
But right now, the only decadence she has room for is the gooey chocolate in her coconut popovers.
Only six amazing weeks until the tour’s over.
And then they’ll go their separate ways.
Forever.
But Deacon won’t take no for an answer...even if Harper can’t say yes.
Acknowledgments
Sometimes we make up fictional places that end up having the same names as actual places. These are our fictional interpretations only. Please grant us leeway if our creative vision isn't true to reality.
To Cari Quinn, who is my best friend, my cheerleader, my kick in the ass, my sounding board, and my own personal Rock Star. I love you babes. Yes, even when you don’t let me say, “Pencils down.”
To Mom & Dad, who gave me the courage to chase my dreams and never give up, even when it looked hopeless.
To Eric, who keeps his mouth shut even when he thinks I’m crazy for doing this writer deal.
To Dayna Hart for her precise editing scalpel of justice. You brought this beast down to size and I will be forever grateful.
To Matt Nathanson, who wrote the songs, “Farewell, December” and “Last Days of Summer in San Francisco” which were the driving force in the love story that is Deacon and Harper. Your music inspires me in so many ways.
And finally, to The Word Wenches, you girls make this writing thing less lonely with your laughter and support. We couldn’t have asked for a better group of people to become part of our family.
Burn
The Becoming
Breaking It Down
Ripcord
Balls to the Wall
Taste of Candy
Too Still
Trident Records
OBLIVION
The Voice: Simon Kagan
Co-Lead Guitar: Nick Crandall
Co-Lead Guitar: Grayson Duffy
Bass: Deacon McCoy
Drums: Jasmine “Jazz” Edwards
One
August 12, 12:00 PM - Food For Thought
Harper Pruit
t 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 7:30 p.m. 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 make-shift cafeteria. Pop-up tents, two dozen banquet tables, and a whirring portable air conditioner 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 whip-skinny, but he could pack it away.
She snapped the last of the trays over cold packs she’d designed after much of 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.
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 that called themselves roadies, she ignored the shuffling feet and groans behind her.
Any man or woman that 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.
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 hauled the tray out of its housing. What the heck did they have against her chicken? Unless it was slathered in jar mayo or mustard, a lot of these guys turned their noses up. Each day she tried to sneak in a little something new, believing that 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.
It was the last leg of this particular tour. She’d graduated from 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 was 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 male 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 a 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 dent was 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 finished up a workout, and I could sure use some fuel before soundcheck.”
Or rock stars. Of course he was a musician. While there were a few men on staff that bumped her hotter-than-hell-meter into taking notice, the first one to put her meter into the red 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 tattoo stretched across his left forearm in bold, black letters that looked like they’d been through an earthquake with a teasing red devil tail wound through the letters. Oblivion.
Holy hot.
Nope.
No looking, Harper Lee.
Man, his bicep really bulged beautifully. And on the arm he gripped a flash of more 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, double damn, and triple crap. She snatched the ice cream scooper out of her apron and snagged one of the paper salad boats stacked up beside the plates.
“Another scoop if that’s okay.”
She tried to ignore the deep tone of his voice. She was such a sucker for baritones. “You don’t even know how it tastes.”
He leaned down into her space, and she bit back a groan. He smelled like cedar chips and something fresh. The ocean? She took a giant step back. “Whoa there.”
Unrepentant, he picked up a fork and scooped out some. “See, tastes…”
He stopped chewing, and she winced. She’d made her own dressing, 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 helpings on his paper boat. Then he reached around her for a few of the last few 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 choke down whatever protein I can find 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 right 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. 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.
