4 Play

by Quinn, Cari

  If it came out as good as he thought it would, they might just be able to get Gordo to videotape it.

  With a plan hatching, he and George took a nap in the late morning sun.

  The next time he woke, it was to a cooing Jazz, who was coaxing George out of her nest in between him and the couch. His chest and back were slick with sweat from the sun that had hit its zenith, and he was covered in caramel colored fuzz. He scooped up George and handed her over to a delighted Jazz.

  “Where did we get her?”

  “You’ll have to ask Simon. She’s his.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “George.”

  “This beautiful little girl’s name is George? Are you sure it’s a girl?” Jazz held her up then turned her around. “Okay, definitely girl.”

  Deacon laughed. “Yeah, that’s her name.” He stretched and twisted his back. The last of his tattoo was healing, and his back itched like fire ants were crawling under his skin. He turned to Joe. “When are we stopping?”

  “I saw signs for a diner in about ten miles.”

  “Good. I’m starving,” Jazz said with exaggerated syllables.

  “I’m going to take a quick shower.”

  Jazz waved him off with a delighted laugh at the cat, who found a new toy—her hair trinkets.

  He took a quick shower and put on clothes fit for public consumption. By the time the bus pulled off into the diner’s parking lot, everyone was waiting impatiently at the door.

  “No more than thirty minutes, heathens. We have many hours to go, and rain is in the forecast,” Joe warned in his booming voice.

  Jazz was the first one off. Deacon took a look around at the wide open skies of Colorado. Last night they’d been in northern Texas. He couldn’t even remember the name of the city or the venue. Things were starting to blend together.

  He shoved sunglasses on his face and wandered to the road. There wasn’t a damn thing for miles, just rocks and the endless sky with the grasping fingers of clouds rolling in.

  Before he could talk himself out of it, he dug out his phone and took a picture, then opened a picture text to Harper. He didn’t want to pressure her, but he didn’t want her shutting him out either.

  Think the storms are following us?

  Before he could put his phone away he saw her text bubble of reply started.

  Think we can outrun them?

  He thumbed back:

  Do you want to?

  The bubble came up again and kept blinking. He was expecting a long reply, but only three words came through.

  I don’t know.

  At least that was honest. He understood how she felt. They’d agreed to fun, and it had gotten heavy quickly. So he’d throttle back. No matter how badly he wanted to hold her close and learn everything, he’d back off a little.

  It was better than having her cut him off completely. Because he had a bad feeling that was coming.

  I like our storms, but sunshine and blue skies are definitely in the forecast. At least for me.

  The comment bubble came back quickly.

  I miss you too, big guy.

  He smiled at his phone and quickly tapped back.

  I miss your mouth. Even when you’re giving me nothing but sass.

  Instead of a comment bubble a picture came through. Just her lips in full on pucker.

  “Quick sexting with the cook, will ya?”

  Deacon jammed his phone into his pocket and turned to Simon. “Fuck off.”

  “I do believe that’s your problem, not me. Grouchy bear needs to get laid.”

  “Not everyone needs it hourly like you do, Simon.”

  “Well, they damn well should. I’m never in a bad mood now, am I?”

  Deacon tried to keep a straight face, but Simon’s waggling eyebrows and shit-eating grin were too sincere. It was true. Simon didn’t get riled up about much. But then again, he didn’t get passionate about much offstage these days.

  Road life suited their lead singer. He loved the bus, loved the venues, and even loved the fans that constantly vied for attention. Deacon needed to remember that this was the important part, not getting hung up on a girl.

  Even if that girl was Harper Pruitt.

  He needed to relax and have a good time. Tonight was as good a time as any to start.

  Deacon slung an arm around Simon’s neck and pushed him toward the diner. “Did you order for me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Pancakes?”

  Simon’s smug smile widened. “Lumberjack breakfast, actually.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Now that’s my boy.” Simon slapped his back.

  Deacon growled, “tattoo,” before putting Simon in a headlock on their way through the door.

  Seventeen

  August 22, 7:48 PM - Red Rocks

  Harper climbed the stone slab stairs to the top of the amphitheater seats. The day had been filled with amazing musical acts. The Summer at the Rock Festival boasted a roster of artists that would make even the most ambiguous music fan sit up and take notice.

  Instead of starting off with no-name bands, the Red Hot Chili Peppers had opened the venue with an hour long set filled with new and old songs in the afternoon. And one after another, bands brought out their A-game.

  Red Rocks was the ultimate musical challenge. This was the place that made some artists drool with anticipation and others quake at the thought of a fuck up. She’d watched radio favorites crash and burn while smaller Indie bands flourished in the perfection that were the acoustics.

  Because it was a music festival, there was very little for her to do. The venue had way too many vendors, so they didn’t want the catering trucks taking away from the cash cow that was food service. She’d been happy to wander and soak up the music, for once.

  Deacon had been swallowed by the press tents and his manager. This was far too good an opportunity for his band to miss. And that was more than fine with her.

  She still didn’t know how to act around him. Skin to skin, she had a good handle on that part. Well, sort of. First times with a guy were supposed to be awkward and exciting, not arrest worthy.

  Freaking crap. She swiped a hand through her hair before binding it back in a messy top knot. She’d actually been in handcuffs and a minute away from being arrested because he made her feel so reckless and wild again. Just the thought of Deacon in that storm tightened her nipples and made her far too aware of the short denim skirt she was wearing. She was truly pathetic.

  She had to focus on her career, not banging the bassist for the opening band. And oh, sweet Pete, she wanted to bang him like Jazz’s kick drum during “Taste of Candy”. Hard and rough with a side of screaming.

  She tucked her feet up on the seat and looped her arms around her knees, hugging herself tightly. Every muscle was sore and yet all she could think about was how to get him inside her again.

  The dreams were the worst. She kept trying to hide in sleep, to avoid the bus full of chirpy, gossipy women. Instead he invaded her dreams and followed her right into her thoughts all damn day. Just to add insult to everything, her body still hadn’t recovered from the thorough way he’d touched her. So every twinge and sore muscle was exacerbated by memories and an ache that was driving her crazy.

  She sat at the top of the seats for so long that the sky blurred from blue to pink and gold. The mountains were achingly gorgeous. The stage seemed to be carved out of the rock. As if a big chisel had scooped out a place just to welcome the only thing that could be as majestic as the Colorado Rockies.

  “Thanks so much for hanging with us on this gorgeous evening. We’ve got a special treat for you tonight. These guys were a late addition to the festival, but I bet you’ll give them a warm welcome. They’ve been chasing their own singles up the charts. Every song they put out is liquid gold on the radio these days. Please welcome Oblivion.”

  Harper’s head snapped up and her eyes zeroed in on the stage. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been up
in the stands. She was too far away to see them, so she turned her attention to the huge screens that flanked the stage.

  Four stools and a stripped down drum set were huddled toward the front of the stage. First one out was Simon. The crowd whooped and catcalled, and Oblivion’s lead singer waved and made an exaggerated bow before settling in the center seat. Simon’s flashy leather and skin were curiously absent. Instead, he wore battered jeans and an ancient Chili Peppers t-shirt. His dark hair was a tousled mess around his shoulders, but the in-your-face rock star was replaced with a regular guy.

  Nick followed him out wearing jeans that were probably black once upon a time, but now were gray as stone. He wore a black t-shirt that looked like he’d fished it out of the bottom of his laundry pile. He took the seat on Simon’s left.

  Gray came up next with battered jeans and a black vest over a plain white t-shirt. A gray fedora sat low, shading his eyes. He went to the seat farthest to the right.

  Her heart tried to punch out of her chest as Deacon’s wide shoulders came out of the dark. The faded Journey shirt he’d worn the first day she’d met him hugged his powerful chest and flirted with his low slung jeans. Tight notches of muscle along his hip bones peeked out, and the tips of her fingers buzzed in response.

  She’d scraped her nails through the light thatch of hair there. She’d curled her fingers around the base of his cock and pulled him free from those same jeans.

  Flashes of him inside her, over her, under her took her by surprise. Not because she had them, but because it felt just like he was there with her. His fingers digging inside her and hollowing out every nerve ending she owned.

  And when he sat down on his stool and settled with his black acoustic, she had to close her eyes for a moment. Too much. She couldn’t possibly sit there and listen to him play. Not if she wanted to have a moment’s peace for the rest of the night.

  But she did open her eyes. The five of them were clustered close together. Even Jazz was minus her usual glittery glow. Her tri-colored hair was loosely braided and she wore an off-the-shoulder shirt over simple cargo shorts. She’d pulled her stool away from her kit and sat between Gray and Simon on the left hand side of the stage. All of them with acoustic guitars and Jazz a tambourine.

  The sweet tones of a band in perfect harmony filled the bowl and flowed out into the crowd. The murmurs softened, and Simon’s smoky voice gripped everyone by the throat. They’d slowed down their newest single until it was a whisper of sex over silk.

  But Simon wasn’t the one that held her captive. He was a force and had the innate ability to hold the crowd, and still her eyes were drawn to Deacon. She knew just how soft those jeans were. She’d slid her palms over the stress lines at his pockets, along the zipper, she’d even pulled those jeans over his spectacular ass.

  His wide shoulders were angled low as he curved around his black acoustic lovingly. Not a bass. She’d only ever seen him playing the bass, with a slap of fingers and almost spidery grace as he climbed his fret board. But this was different.

  No pick. Just the tiny callouses at the ends of his fingers that she knew so well. He plucked out a layer of harmony to compliment Gray and Nick’s lead guitar. And then there was the voice. Husky and rough where Simon soared.

  It was a short set, just a handful of songs, but the crowd paid attention. And as the sun blazed into the mountains, they played a cover song to show their love of music that had come before. “Simple Man” was so Deacon, it sliced into her like a scalpel. Before she realized it, she was bleeding out.

  When the chorus started, Simon backed off and let Deacon shine. His eyes were closed as if he didn’t know he was on display. The cameraman zoomed in, and every emotion was caught. The reverence for the song, the lyrics pulling out of his soul, and the passion coasting through every note he played.

  When he opened his eyes and realized they’d left him alone in the song, his dimple flashed before he let loose with a vibrato that made Simon rock back with a clap. The crowd followed, and they all finished the song together.

  “We just wanted to thank everyone for all your support. We couldn’t have done this without the fans that make us feel welcome every single night. I know we kinda pussied out with the acoustic set tonight, but the night was so perfect, and the mountains were just calling out for a stripped-bare set. We’ll leave you with ‘The Becoming’.”

  The crowd roared out and clapped.

  It was like nothing she’d ever seen or heard. This was the reaction people gave to a veteran band with millions of fans. This band mowed down the unwilling and dragged them into the fold like a religion.

  Here, with the music in its most basic form, and on a perfect night, she saw the beginnings of a future that promised only more of the same.

  Jazz scrambled behind her kit, finally, and the driving beat was like a heartbeat. Harper had heard the song a million times on the radio, had even caught them playing it a time or two. But not like this. Layers of guitars where there was usually only Deacon’s bass. It was beautiful and haunting. Especially when there was one set of chords playing over and over thanks to Deacon’s constancy. That metronome of unwavering notes could only be him.

  Like when he touched her. Never stopping, even when she thought she was going to burst with release and insanity. He never wavered. He held on. She wasn’t sure when she started working her way down the stone steps. The crowd was on their feet and cheering for the band.

  She blazed her way through the streaming people. Her only focus was Deacon. She caught a glimpse of his smiling face as they took their bows. The five of them, a unit, linked hands and soaked in the fan outcries.

  She pulled her all-access pass out of her shirt and slipped past the barricades. More people blocked her way. Fans with VIP access, concert promoters with clipboards, roadies pulling down one stage set up for another, bands of every fandom, all of them held her back.

  Then she saw him. Head and shoulders over most people, he was easy to pluck from the crowd. A circle of reporters tightened around them with Simon and Jazz holding court. She bypassed all of them to get to the back of the pack. All the while, Deacon’s shoulders were in her sights.

  She snaked through security until finally, his warm skin was under her hands. He didn’t immediately recognize her touch. How could he? Constantly pawed at by fans and security pushing him from section to section back stage, he had to be immune to skin on skin contact.

  But then he stilled, and his wide palm covered hers. He laced his fingers through hers to hold her hand against his lower belly. She pressed her nose into his back and drew in the healthy scent of him. Warm, clean sweat and the ocean. God, she’d missed being near him.

  He lifted his arm to pull her forward, but she tugged him backwards until every firm line of him was pressed up against her.

  She slid their linked fingers along the loose waistband of his jeans. His groan of understanding was exactly what she was hoping for. She rose on her toes and got as close to his ear as possible. “Come with me.”

  He looked around. She could taste the indecision on him. Responsibilities were such a large part of Deacon. Just as she was going to tell him no, not to leave his band right now, he hooked his arm around her waist and turned her into the backstage area.

  Years of touring had netted her a few tips when it came to the inner workings of a festival. Wordlessly they circumvented the small backstage to the rockface that butted up to the back of the amphitheater.

  She dragged him around the still sunbaked, nature-made wall until the sounds of people faded. He crowded into her back, his hand above her head on the rocks. His chin brushed along her neck. “I’ve missed you.”

  Harper closed her eyes as his lips coasted up her neck, groaning when he nipped her earlobe before brushing his nose around the shell of her ear.

  “I can’t wait, Deacon.”

  He stilled behind her. “Here?”

  She nodded. His music inside her and now his skin behind her. She didn’t wa
nt to think, didn’t want to pick apart the why they should, why they shouldn’t. She just wanted him to fill the ache. She rubbed her ass along the front of his jeans and stepped into one of the crevices in the boulder in front of her. She gained a few precious inches in height.

  Cripes, she probably looked like a groupie in heat, but right now she didn’t care. She was a groupie in heat. She was his groupie. And she wanted him to use her, plunge inside her with all that raging energy from the stage.

  When his fingers slid around her belly and up under her shirt, she moaned her thanks. She wanted him inside her with the murmur of people around them and yet apart from them at the same time. With the stain of rock chalk on her hands and him inside of her, she might be able to breathe again.

  His touch was soft where she wanted impatient. She wanted to ride the madness crawling inside her. She dragged his head down to hers in a hot, open mouthed kiss. She searched out his tongue to tangle with hers. The bite of his grip on her hip fueled her. She knew it was inside him. As gentle as he always wanted to be, she knew the fire. She’d felt the fire before. And she wanted it now.

  Tension transferred from his body to hers and his grip tightened. Breathless at the thought of his fingerprints on her hip she ground herself against his cock. He dug his chin into her neck and she reached up for a handful of his hair. She pressed her cheek to his. “Hard,” she whispered brokenly. “Fast.”

  He groaned into her mouth, jerked up her skirt, and his fingers slid into her panties. “You’re fucking dripping.”