by Quinn, Cari
“I am the most charming.”
Deacon wished he could dispute that, but lately…that was the complete truth.
The pounding of feet pushed him out of his funk. Jazz bounded down the length of the bus to the bunk area. She waved her hand in front of her face. “I’m going to own stock in Febreze. It stinks like sex back here.”
She moved into Deacon, laid her cheek against his chest, and wrapped her arm around his back for a quick squeeze and an appreciative inhale. “You, however, smell like the ocean.”
Deacon dropped a kiss on top of her head. “I wasn’t the one entertaining.”
She drilled her finger into his belly. “Maybe you need to. You’re getting grouchy.”
“That’s what I keep telling him. He wouldn’t have to work out so hard if he actually used all those muscles to get some action.” Simon undulated his hips and smacked the air where a woman’s ass would be.
Jazz rolled her eyes. “Deak doesn’t objectify women like you do, Super Slut.”
Simon fluffed out his jet black locks until a few pieces fell forward into his eyes. The rakish, overlong hair was becoming as much of a trademark for Simon as his lack of clothing. “I enjoy, not objectify—there’s a difference.”
“Uh huh.”
She tugged at Deacon’s t-shirt. “Gordo is driving me batshit. Can you talk to him about this electronic leash thing he’s got going on?”
Like he had any power over their schedule anymore? But her wide, sapphire blue eyes couldn’t be denied. She had him wrapped around her finger like the rest of them. “I’ll talk to him.”
She hopped up until she could wrap her arms around his neck. He gathered her in for a sugar-scented hug, her feet dangling with their height difference. “Thanks. You’re the best.”
He dropped her to her feet.
“Where’s my hug?” Simon pouted.
“I forgot my Lysol.”
“Oh, burn.” Deacon bumped his fist to hers.
“Hardy-har,” Simon muttered and stuffed his feet into the black flips he wore around the bus. “So is this an on-site interview or are they coming here to talk to us?”
“They’re coming here, I think.” Deacon reached for his leather cuffs. He only wore them on stage or for public appearances. It helped him get into the mindset for dealing with people. They all had their rituals.
He liked people, especially the fans, but there was also a level of crazy that came with fame. Playing second string during interviews got old and yet there was also a level of comfort in it. What he couldn’t get used to was the fan attention. Behind the scenes was his niche—composing, mixing, making a cohesive song out of chaos…that he understood.
Now there was a damn fan club online called Demon’s Devils. Fan-created and no part of the record label or their public relations people. It was almost too bizarre to believe.
A simple photo could turn into a frenzy.
He’d posted the addition of a swishing demon tail to his Oblivion tattoo on the band Instagram, and bam. A sensation.
Within a day fans had created a cartoon version of a logo and fans all over wore his band’s name on their skin. To differentiate the fan base, Simon’s Sirens had the horns, Demon’s Devils had the tail.
Hell, he’d seen postings of his signature tattooed into flesh by more than one follower on their fan boards. It was as humbling as it was insane.
He rolled his shoulders, reaching up to his chin up bar over the door to stretch out his tight muscles. He’d overdone it on the rowing machine and his trapezius muscles were tight. He drew up his knees until he swung lightly then pulled himself up for slow chin-ups.
His back burned with the slow reps, but it was a good burn. He closed his eyes and breathed deep.
“You keep that up and we’re going to need a bigger doorway for you, Deak.”
He opened his eyes and put his feet down until he stood at his normal height. “C’mon Jazz, you could do chin ups with me. You’re carrying what? A buck fifteen.”
“One-oh-eight smart ass.” She flexed her biceps. “I don’t need to bulk up like some people.”
“Terribly sorry.” He tugged on one of the braids that danced around her shoulders. “I was adding in for the hair.”
“Funny boy.” She slapped his hand away and dug out her phone. “You know, I should start videotaping your workouts. Then again we’d never be able to hide if all the women saw what’s going on under those Zeppelin t-shirts you wear.”
He ducked low and tossed her over his shoulder. “If you don’t stop videotaping, your phone is going to go missing.”
She shrieked and kicked, laughing as she pounded on his back. “Whatever would Gordo say if you took away his leash?”
“I’m willing to find out.”
“Showoff,” Simon muttered and followed them out of the bus and into the slapping heat of Alpharetta.
An instant sheen of sweat popped out over his skin. He banded his arm over the back of Jazz’s thighs as he spotted Gray and Nick waving them over to the side door leading to the pavilion.
“You can put me down.”
“Then you’d have to jog to keep up, squirt.”
She slumped against his shoulder and her mismatched purple and pink Chucks swung up next to his cheek. “I hate you.”
Simon shook his head and slipped shades on his face. “Behave, children.”
“Wait until you see this shit,” Nick called when they got closer.
“Is the DJ hot?”
“Do they even call them DJ’s anymore?” Jazz asked. Deacon could hear the click swipe of her phone and knew she was already videotaping. He hoped to God it wasn’t his ass.
“I haven’t done anyone in a radio station yet,” Simon said.
Jazz popped her head up. “You covered the studio. Isn’t that enough?”
Deacon glanced to his left when Simon went silent and the cocky grin disappeared. It lasted only a beat before he shrugged and let the corner of his mouth slide up into his trademark smirk. “I do what I can.” The laughter had vacated his voice.
“Day one of the Raging Summer tour with Rebel Rage. Hey there Oblivionites, it’s your favorite drummer girl currently being carted around like a sad sack of potatoes by Demon. Say hi, Deak!”
Time for video number eight hundred and thirty-three. “Hey.”
She craned around. “As always, he’s full of the words. Okay, say hi, Simon.”
Simon slid his glasses down and arched one brow. “Hello, Sirens.”
Deacon rolled his eyes at the suggestive lilt to their lead singer’s voice. The man was a walking ad for sex. No wonder the hits for the site had skyrocketed. He was pure porn for women.
She slapped the middle of his back. “Turn me around or put me down.”
Comfortable with her over his shoulder, Deacon turned around and walked backwards instead.
“As you can see the gang’s all here. Wave Nicky and Gray.”
“I’m not waving at the fucking camera,” Nick said.
“Don’t mind grouchy. It’s blazing hot here at our first date on the tour. I’ve never been to Georgia, but I gotta say…I don’t know how you people breathe here.”
Deacon didn’t know how they did either. His lungs felt like a soaked sponge.
“You better keep that camera rolling. Wait till you see what’s going on with the radio station,” Nick said from right behind him.
“Power 96, right?”
“How do you know this shit?” Simon asked.
Deacon sighed. “I actually read the email blasts that Gordo sends out.”
Jazz squeezed him a little tighter. “My research guy. Always with the perfectly timed info.”
In a former life, Jazz had to have been a PR princess. The girl knew just how to engage people. It was damn ridiculous how easily she could wind anyone around her damn finger.
All of their phones trilled at the same time. They all ignored them and walked through the doorway. Deacon and Jazz were the last on
es through.
“Holy shit,” Deacon whispered as they moved forward to the railing that led down into the pavilion. A huge crowd gathered in the center. Further down into the orchestra pit, a separate crowd half that size sat watching Rebel Rage do soundcheck.
That had to be their fan club.
How the hell had Oblivion amassed three hundred—maybe even four hundred—people from the radio station? Cameras and bags and posters littered the area. A small table with radio equipment sat in the center aisle. Half a dozen people wearing bright ass pink shirts were running around handing out matching water bottles for everyone.
“Lemme see!” Jazz wiggled on his shoulder, but instead of putting her down, Deacon shifted her onto his arm then back on his shoulder.
“Leg over, girl.”
She took the hint and hooked her ankles under his armpits and straddled his shoulders. “Are you freaking kidding me, guys!” Jazz’s voice trilled with laughter and excitement. “This is going to be the best scavenger hunt ever!”
Simon slid closer to him. “Did we know this was happening?” he asked out of the side of his mouth.
Deacon slid his phone out of his jeans and flicked it to life. He scrolled down the emails and itinerary from Gordo. “No. Just a radio interview it says.”
Simon jerked his chin toward the back of the venue. A man barely taller than Jazz rushed down the aisle. His bleached blond hair was shellacked with gel and he wore his typical uniform of khakis and cobalt polo shirt. Gordo was the only one that wouldn’t give the Oblivion blue a rest.
“You got the texts. Good, good.” Gordo tapped on his ever present iPad.
Deacon peeked at his phone again and noticed a flag for a text. Shit. Evidently they’d been told. Of course if he got one more text, email, or FaceTime request from their manager he was going to shove his phone up Gordo’s ass.
Sideways.
“Would you put her down?”
Deacon glanced at Gray, who had materialized at his side. “She’s fine.”
Jazz tightened her thighs against his neck. “You should see the footage I’m getting.”
“If you strangle me, then I’m definitely going to drop you.”
“Oh, sorry.” She slid her hands into his hair and gripped firmly. “Go forward, horsey.”
Deacon snickered and carefully navigated the stairs down to the crowd. A few surged up and at least twenty surrounded them with pens and cameras out.
“Look at all the lovely ladies out and about.” Simon raised his voice. “How many Sirens do I have in the crowd?”
The catcalls and whoops as well as a surge of women knocked Simon back into Deacon. Jazz kicked Simon in the shoulder. “If you knock me down off my own personal giraffe, I’ll kick your ass myself, Pretty Boy.”
“Horse, giraffe…any other animal you going to call me?”
She tugged on his hair and curled over him with the phone in his face. “You’re the only one I haven’t caught in the locker room, so I don’t know if bull fits or not.”
More screams came from the crowd.
Deacon dug his fingers into her knees until she squealed. Jazz was a ticklish one.
“All right, all right. We have a scavenger hunt to do here, people.” A blonde with a high ponytail and a bright pink shirt came forward. “I’m Katie Peterson from Power 96.1 and we are so glad you could come out and teach us just how the scavenger hunt works.” She smiled at Simon briefly, but her attention was definitely aimed at Gray.
“I’m a huge fan and was so excited to be a part of this.” Katie moved in and held out her microphone to Gray. “For those who have been living under a rock, can you tell us your name?”
Deacon winced when Jazz’s sneakers dug in against his ribs.
“Grayson Duffy,” their co-lead guitarist said into the mic. His voice was rusty with disuse.
Katie’s eyes widened slightly and her lips parted.
Gray, however, was just as oblivious to her as he was any other woman that came into his sphere. He slid his shades off the top of his head and put them on. “I don’t know if we hid enough for all four hundred and thirteen of you.”
It figured that Gray would know down to the last person in the group. Deacon scanned the crowd and noticed a handful of people from Rebel Rage’s fan club had broken off to see what the excitement was about.
Katie must have sensed that she wasn’t going to get much more than his name from Gray when he tucked his hands into his cargos and rocked back on his heels. She turned her attention to Deacon and the elevated Jazz. “Who came up with the idea for a scavenger hunt?”
Jazz pointed her phone down at Katie. “Simon did it at a few of our club dates, but this? Way bigger.”
Katie switched to Simon. “Do you like a good hunt?”
Simon’s sly grin spread as he slid his thumbs down the side cuts of his muscle shirt. “I do. And I like to hide my gifts in the tiniest and warmest little crevices.”
Katie blinked and the little pulse at the side of her neck went wild. She cleared her throat. “The Power Crew also added a few special prizes to the hunt.” She turned to the crowd. “We’re going to break you guys into groups and–” Before the DJ could break people up, they all scattered.
“I want that front row ticket,” one girl muttered and hit the stairs running.
Jazz looked down at Nick who was grinning silently and stuffing his phone into his back pocket. “What did you do?”
“Me?”
Jazz aimed her phone down to him. “Sneaky shit.”
Nick slid his thumb across his lower lip. “I may have tweeted an early clue for front row tickets.”
“Troublemaker,” she muttered. Jazz held her arms out. “I need to get down off my perch.” Deacon obliged by crouching down and Nick and Simon lifted her off.
“Do I get a ride?” A slim blonde with improbable pink hair broke away from the pack. She obviously took a few of her cues for dressing from Jazz, but no one could quite pull it off like their little pink peacock.
Nick’s gaze drifted down the blonde’s body, taking in her tight black pants and cropped black and silver tank. He shrugged and turned around. “I give good piggyback rides.”
The fan got on with a laugh and wrapped herself around their rangy guitarist.
Deacon shook his head when five more women clustered in with similar requests. Katie continued to try to wrangle the people into groups, but front row seats trumped a free CD and water bottle, that was for damn sure.
Taking pity on the radio host, Deacon raised his voice. “All right, I need some of my Devils to help me out. I have a gift certificate to a local tattoo parlor as my prize.”
Thirty people gathered around him, a mix of men and women. Time for a little fun to make this eternal day move a little faster.
Three
August 12, 3:00 PM - Snap, Crackle & Pop
Harper retied her bandanna around her head for the third time since they’d started loading up the barbecue fixings. She could hear the end of soundcheck going on and the louder squeals of fans filling the pavilion early.
She stepped out from the tent area with a plate of lunch before the band sat down to her dinner. You do not have time to go spy on soundcheck, Harper Lee. But it was way too loud to just be a rehearsal. The local security usually kept the fans in check. She’d only been on the tour for little over a week, but Rebel Rage was pretty tight with the schedule.
They had shows five days a week. The everyday monotony was pretty much underway already for her. The rhythm of tour life was like an uneven setlist. Quick, then endlessly slow, then back to a breakneck speed. Today, however, was definitely different.
In so many ways.
She rolled her neck and tried not to remember just how wide Deacon McCoy’s shoulders were.
Okay, so she’d looked him up on her phone. Mixing a vat of potato salad only required one hand. Not to mention that it was smart to know the client. She’d found out that Deacon McCoy, bassist for the band Obl
ivion, was twenty-four and topped out at 6’5 in his stocking feet—six feet freaking five. Who the hell was that tall? And, if the rags could be believed, he was single.
Gathering information wasn’t stalking. It was research.
And maybe going onto the Oblivion band site was stepping a little off the definition of quick research and into interested, but she did it for her job. To know what to expect.
You keep telling yourself that.
She wiped her sticky, barbecue sauce laden fingers on her apron and followed the sounds of happy chatter. She peeked around the wall that blocked the main bowl of floor seats closest to the stage and stared.
The guys from Rebel Rage were on stage doing their soundcheck, but Johnny Cage was definitely distracted by the scatter of people crawling around seats and up on speakers.
People of all ages were painstakingly going from one seat to another with their phones in their hands. What the hell were they doing?
She leaned on the edge of the wall and stabbed at the pile of food. She’d made a garbage plate of sorts from the potato salad, coleslaw and pulled pork. Rings of white onion, pickles and a splash of vinegar heavy Memphis sauce made for a healthy portion and would hopefully get her through the long afternoon.
Harper snorted when three girls hopped around Deacon. He held his phone out of their reach, grinning down at them with a shake of his head. He shooed them away with decidedly gentlemanly manners.
Her eyebrow shot up as one girl walked right into his space, drawing little figure eights on his chest and doing her best Marilyn. Well, she looked more like Marilyn Manson, but the effect was the same. At least in the girl’s mind.
Deacon didn’t welcome the advance, but he didn’t make the girl feel stupid either. She dropped her hands away from him, but quickly dug into her huge hobo purse and unearthed something. Ahh…Sharpie time.
What was it about women and having band signatures on their flesh? What exactly would that accomplish? Besides a scrawling smudge on their skin.
Of course having Deacon’s large hand on her—Holy crap, no.
