by Quinn, Cari
Harper Lee, catch a clue.
She smiled up at him and then 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 food back to his empty hand, tucked his phone into his pocket, and resumed eating. “This really is great.”
The burst of pleasure that hummed through her middle made her swallow a groan.
Simmer down. He’s just flirting.
“Thanks. Glad someone likes it.”
Deacon glanced down at the tray. “Obviously people don’t know a good thing.”
Resisting the call of a warm glow, she stacked the now empty veggie trays.
“What’s your name? I can tell you right now you’re going to see a lot of me. I’m pretty much a black hole when it comes to 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.”
“That’s because 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 this first job really needed to be drama free so she could concentrate on establishing herself.
“That’s great.” She flashed him her professional smile. “Welcome to the tour.”
“You’re really not going to give me your name?”
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. 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. She did not need that lodged in her brain. Those long fingers making a cage for the cue stick?
Stop it!
“Boss’s orders. We’re to be seen and not heard.” She scooped one last serving of the chicken salad, slid it onto his rapidly disappearing pile, and then loaded the tray on her cart. “Have a good show, sir.”
“Deacon,” he reminded her.
Harper hunched up her shoulders and nearly ran across the lunch room and out into the brutal humidity. The wheels of her cart rumbled and popped over the uneven pavement. She careened around the crew trucks to the huge, silver and white Food Riot trailer.
“Hey, where’s the fire, honey girl?” Mitch Hale slapped one meaty hand on her runaway cart.
Harper tripped a few more steps before she halted the forward momentum on the cart that weighed about the same as she did. She swiped her forearm over her sweaty forehead and then tugged her purple checked bandanna back down. “Sorry.”
“It’s too hot to be running around.”
She stepped away from the cart to smooth her hand down Mitch’s huge arm and then leaned into his solid chest for a moment. He was three hundred plus pounds of Hawaiian teddy bear, and he had gotten her this job. He also happened to be her father’s oldest friend and her uncle for all intents and purposes.
He tugged on her ponytail. “What’s doin?”
She nuzzled her nose into his t-shirt, taking in his ever-present coconut scent before stepping back again. “Just cleaning up from the road crew.”
Mitch swayed lightly from side to side. You could take the man out of the ocean, but you couldn’t take the ocean out of the man. “My team’s heading in for the second wave. Johnny’s got a wild hair for barbecue chicken before the show.”
She was beginning to get the feeling Johnny Cage got a wild hair every other day. The singer for Rebel Rage liked to keep the food staff on their toes. Most musicians liked a light meal before going on stage, especially on the summer tours, but the guys of Rebel Rage had cast iron stomachs.
She wondered what kind of food Deacon liked.
What the hell, Pruitt? One little compliment and you forget all the rules? Weak.
She cracked her neck and returned to her cart. “I don’t remember that being on the prep sheet today.”
“Nope, we got the news at noon.”
Harper cringed. Getting barbecue together in a few hours wasn’t easy. And she was pretty sure the guys from Rebel Rage expected the real deal and not barbecue sauce slathered on grilled chicken.
She muscled the cart up the ramp and into Food Riot’s truck. Meg and Danny had transformed the inside of a big rig into a kitchen on the road. The smoker was set on the pavement at the opening of the back of the truck. Pineapple and cedar clouded the air, dragging another memory of Deacon into her subconscious.
Wow.
Seriously. She needed to get a head check. Obviously her self-imposed drought had been too long. Harper had wanted to concentrate on her final projects without the distraction of the opposite sex. Of course, interning at a restaurant as well as a full roster of classes made that easy.
Now she had way too much time on her hands. Maybe once she got to work with the lead chefs she’d have more to do.
“Pruitt!”
“Yeah!” she called back as she tucked her cart into its locking slot. Dishwashers started unloading the trays, dishes, and plastic into the super washer they’d dubbed Kong.
“I need you on deck,” Meg called. “I’m doing a super quick chili and need you dicing onions.”
It was a little late to be putting chili together. The main tent ate in less than two hours.
Meg must have noticed her quizzical look. “You’ve been bitching that you want to help out with main dishes, so fucking help. I’ll need you in the dining room too.”
“Right. Of course.” Harper snagged a chef’s knife from the magnetic strip. About damn time.
Two
August 12, 2:00 PM - The Hunt
Deacon McCoy scooped up the last of the cute little blonde cook’s chicken salad. It really was off-the-charts good. Tangy and moist—it was a helluva lot better than the bone dry chicken breasts he usually had. After forty minutes on the rowing machine and the eight miles he’d run around the venue, he’d needed to replenish the shit ton of calories he’d burned off in frustration.
What the hell else did he have to do lately? Gordo followed them around with his iPad, scheduling their lives down to the minute. Deacon let out a growl as his phone chimed in his pocket. Gordo had their phones linked up so they all got the notifications for whatever he deemed important.
He dug out his phone, the message reminding them of an interview with a local radio station in an hour. Personally, he wondered why they even bothered to have him in the interviews. Simon and Jazz took over the conversation with their snarky commentary and one liners.
He was relegated to the, “Oh and what do you think, Deacon?” questions after everyone else gave quippy answers. That was about as fun as using lime eye drops. Couldn’t they just leave him in peace? Instead, he was getting really good at blending into the background. Everyone was settling into their little niche in the band. Jazz and Nick were the banter twins on Twitter, Gray added a little mystery to the group, and Simon posted ridiculous pictures on his Instagram that resulted in scavenger hunts wherever they were.
They were fun to do in L.A. but here in Bumfuck, Georgia there was nothing within walking distance except steaming asphalt and burnt grass. And yet, he was sure that Simon would find something to post and get a million replies.
Deacon could converse with anyone face to face, but put an electronic gadget in front of him that wasn’t connected to Pro Tools or WordPress and he was fairly useless. He’d never had the quick and clever replies like the rest of them. In fact, he deliberated over what to say on his Twitter account so much that it wasn’t worth having. By the time he figured out something to say, the conversations had changed fourteen times. The vicious circle s
tarted up again and it just wasn’t worth the effort. He was good at the meet and greets so at least he had some after-show purpose.
Deacon dumped his garbage and gave a small smile at the makeshift plastic arm with a plexiglass container for the utensils. Impressed that the catering staff would think green in the middle of a tour, he dumped his fork in the box.
He nodded and smiled at the crew that scurried around like worker ants. Tours were electronic monsters these days. The Rebel Rage stage was an intricate grid of metal risers and rubber treads that made it safe to run around. Between the unholy heat of the lights and the careening temperatures of Georgia, the stage would be slick with sweat, spit, and water.
He’d gotten the ten cent tour earlier in the day. As an opening act they didn’t get to enjoy all the bells and whistles, but Oblivion had a decent lighting rig they were allowed to use. He’d still sweat his way through three shirts in the eight-song set they had.
Climbing the steps to the bus, he rolled his eyes at Simon, who was facedown on the couch that ran the length of the windows. His sunglasses were still on, his jeans were unbuckled, and of course he was shirtless. Their band logo was now inked on his right shoulder blade. The bold black ‘Oblivion’ had one little addition to the capital O—devil horns in bright red, outlined in severe black.
That couldn’t be any more Simon than if he’d drawn it himself. And knowing Simon, he probably had. He’d taken to doodling ridiculous cartoons in his lyric notebook since they’d gotten on the bus.
With the EP out, Trident was already pressuring them for new songs for a full length album. They were learning how to write together as a team, instead of letting Nick and Simon lock themselves away in a room like they’d always done.
The learning curve was steep, but Deacon was pretty sure they would actually get somewhere on that front. They’d spent the better part of the drive from L.A. to Georgia writing and gelling for the first time. Nick had written the entire bridge and chorus of a song with Gray.
The five of them living together in the penthouse actually helped to cement the band in a way Deacon never thought possible. He knew a major part of that had to do with the quick tour schedule coming through so soon after the album’s release.
There hadn’t been enough time to piss each other off.
Deacon kicked the base of the couch. “Wakey-wakey, Pretty Boy.”
Simon grunted.
“We’ve got an interview in half an hour.”
“Fuck off,” Simon mumbled and turned over onto his side, facing the back of the couch.
“But I’m not done with him yet.”
Deacon looked up at the purring voice that came from the hallway to the back of the bus. A lush redhead wearing a skimpy black top and short white shorts walked into the main living area. She wore sky high ankle boots that matched the scarlet lipstick she’d obviously just reapplied.
“I’m sorry…” Deacon hedged for her name.
“Monica,” she said with an exaggerated purr.
“I’m sorry, Monica, we have band stuff we have to take care of. You know how it is.”
She came over and sat next to Simon, lightly scratching her nails down his back. “Simon told me I could hang with the band today.”
Deacon swung his gaze to the asshole in question. “Did he now?”
“Yes.” She slid her hand around the front of him and Simon groaned.
“Shit,” Deacon muttered and strode to the back of the bus. Just what they needed. A hanger-on. Simon had no shortage of women in and out of his bunk, but they normally didn’t linger.
Deacon shucked out of his workout shorts and t-shirt, stepping into the closet-sized shower. The venue had a better set up, but his endless pit of a stomach had detoured him from taking a shower, so he’d have to make do. He quickly soaped up and shampooed the sweat out of his hair.
Without warning, the catering girl came into his mind, and he felt the first stirrings of lust pull at him in weeks. Her strangely uptilted blue eyes had been direct and cool—nothing but professional. Except for that one moment when she’d checked him out—a full body scan that left him half hard and hungry for more than her truly tasty chicken salad. He’d begun to wonder if anyone would stir him up anymore. Since they’d landed the Trident contract, he’d had less than zero interest in the opposite sex.
He liked women, loved their softness and warmth. Because of his height and addiction to sports, Deacon rarely had trouble attracting women. He’d gone through his Simon phase in his junior year of high school. But he’d learned quickly that he liked having one steady girl.
The one drawback to fame was that his life didn’t offer up a steady relationship vibe to any woman. He could have his pick of women for a night, but that had gotten old fast. Some men would get off on a woman calling out Demon while in the sack—he just felt like a glorified fantasy fuck.
Demon was who he was on stage. It wasn’t him once the houselights went back up. And while some of the women had been interested in more than one night, they ultimately wanted the rock star, not the man. So he’d finally stopped trying.
Until the pretty blonde with her Venice Beach sky eyes and assessing gaze. She’d sized him up, eaten him with her eyes, and then dismissed him all in the space of a heartbeat. And damn if his cock didn’t harden at the memory of her heated gaze.
She’d slid a look along his chest, his shoulders, and his tattoos with obvious interest. Hell, she’d even liked his face. He wasn’t the pretty one in the group. He was too big, too prone to beanpole status if he didn’t work out, and next to the rest of the group he was average at best in the looks department.
But she’d had that flash of dilated pupil and had licked her lips when he’d smiled down at her. Deacon knew women, and she’d been interested—if only for a moment. He just wasn’t sure why she’d turned it off so completely.
With one last duck under the spray he slicked his hair back and tied a towel around his waist before stepping out into the sleeping area. Simon’s newest conquest was there, sliding down off his bandmate’s bunk to shimmy back into her shorts.
“Sorry,” she said with an appreciative eye. She took a step forward and swiped a drop of water off his chest before sliding it between her lips. “You’re even bigger in person than you look on the stage.”
Deacon just stared down at her with one raised brow. He truly wasn’t interested in Simon’s sloppy seconds. Especially not today.
She swallowed and backed up a step. “Sorry.”
Simon folded a pillow under his head until he was propped up onto his side. “I’ve got to work, sweetheart. You can head out into the venue.”
Her laser blue eyes went from flirty to sharp in a second as she turned to Simon. “You said I could hang out with you today.”
“Band stuff,” Simon said without elaborating. He lifted his hips and zipped his jeans before hopping down to kiss her already smudged mouth. “We’ll have more fun later. I promise.” He popped her on the ass to move her along. “You can even bring a friend if you like.”
Deacon rolled his eyes and opened the compartment next to the bunks that held his jeans and shirts. Ever since they’d recorded “The Becoming” for Pacific Coast’s soundtrack Simon had become even more of a hound. By some grace of God, he’d scaled back on the liquor until the after parties, but he’d become the poster boy for the groupie set.
The redhead stayed in the hallway, gripping the edge of the small stove they had on the bus. Her gaze never left Simon as he slipped on an old Slayer t-shirt that had been ripped out into a muscle shirt with most of the sides missing.
“Tell you what.” Simon scrubbed his hand through his messy dark hair until it fell in spiky tufts. He dug out a couple of bills and held them out to Monica. “I’ve got this thing — I like silver from local artists. Find me something cool. Then tonight I’ll be sure to let you know how much I appreciate your time and effort.”
Monica came forward again, palming the money. She went up onto he
r tiptoes and nipped his chin. “Silver, huh?”
Simon jangled the two pieces he habitually wore on his right wrist. “I’d rather do it myself, but I have to work.”
“I’ll find you something awesome, baby.”
“Good girl.”
She grinned, slid one more look at Deacon and purposefully lowered her gaze to the knot at his waist. Deacon pulled on his jeans under his towel then flipped it over the door to the bathroom. Modesty had left the building far before the tour bus, but he wasn’t interested in one of Simon’s skanks checking out his goods.
When she caught a clue that he wasn’t interested in playing her game, Monica flounced to the front of the bus.
“Were you going to pat her on the head too?”
Simon slid his thumbs into the side openings of his shirt, sawing up and down as he waggled his eyebrows. “No, but she sure as hell patted me on mine.”
Deacon stuffed his head through a Doors t-shirt. “Nice,” he muttered.
Simon’s unrepentant grin actually lightened Deacon’s mood. Simon might be a world class man-whore these days, but at least he was actually having fun. Nick and Gray had ping-ponged back and forth between surly and silent for most of the three day trek across the country to meet up with the tour. Unless they were writing. That seemed to be the only place they could communicate.
Jazz was the only one keeping them sane. She had a neverending source of excitement and stamina. He wasn’t sure she stayed down for more than four hours the entire trip, but she never seemed tired and was always upbeat.
“Where’s everyone else?”
Simon shrugged. “I’m not their keeper. That’s Gordo’s job.”
Deacon grinned. Sarcasm was accounted for on the bus today that was for sure. “Tell me about it. If I get one more notification I’m going—” Deacon broke off as his phone chimed again. “Seriously?”
“Reminder number four. At least for me. I turned off my ringer.”
Simon actually needed four reminders. He tended to wander off and get into trouble with the closest willing female. “Well, you are the one they want to talk to,” Deacon said.
