by Quinn, Cari
Maybe, just maybe, they’d see that this version of Oblivion was the one that worked. Not the matchy-matchy leather and costumed punks the label tried to sell the public. This was them. Grunge rock shirts and denim, leather and lace, and suit vests over cotton. Each of them an individual that made up an interesting whole.
Not a boyband.
A rock band.
It was working. With the last single, “Sex and Candy”, they’d hit top twenty. Drum solos and guitar solos loaded up their forty minutes into perfection. And now the only thing they needed to do was figure out how to write together. That part was still a crapshoot, and more chaos than not, but they were getting there.
He climbed the dried mud that clung to the trail, following the sharp incline through weeds and branches. The foliage was dense, and the earthy wetness of the North Pacific air filled his lungs. Dust coated his hands, caking into mud with his sweat.
But finally, the trees opened up and the brush let him go. The view stole his breath. The stage looked like a playground staked in front of nature’s own bowl of plenty. Water cut behind the hills and mountains and the sky was achingly blue.
Gorge Amphitheater in all its glory.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to playing at such impressive places. The outdoor concert season, which gave them access to places like this, was ending. But he didn’t care. Seattle would be their backdrop tonight on a crisp, cloudless night.
What more could they ask for?
He climbed the fence that lined the top of the hill leading to the parking lot and slowed his pace to a brisk walk. Trucks were pulling out after dumping the gear for Rebel Rage, as well as their own modest equipment.
The site was buzzing as the sun crested over the first mountain. He turned the corner into the hive of activity, sliding between busses and trucks until he found the gray and green Oblivion bus. He climbed on board, nodding to a yawning Joe, who was headed to the back and his own bunk for some much needed rest.
No one else was up, so he crept back quietly and snagged his shower kit and clothes, stuffing them into his knapsack. He’d get a real shower today. He was tired of the suds and run with stale water from the bus. It clung to his skin with a film that reminded him of his time in Texas when they’d had well water. He never felt quite clean in those days.
Twenty minutes later, he felt marginally better. The water had been hot enough to steam most of the kinks out of his shoulders and flay off a layer of skin. He made his way down to the food tent, checking his messages on the way.
Drunk texts from Simon were mixed with random lyrics. Deacon shook his head. Simon was harmless, but it was always an adventure to find what ended up in iMessage. Porn, lyrics, Amazon links, and sometimes even tweets that he put in the wrong window.
His schedule popped up from Gordo. This time, it was a full band interview with an acoustic session. Actually worth going to. He made a detour into the food tent and smiled at the tin-foiled sleeve of after-exercise treats that Harper made for him and a few of the guys in Rebel Rage that worked out in the morning. He slid his phone back into his pocket.
A fat D in Harper’s slashing handwriting designated his packet. Spinach and bacon sourdough bites with a side of turkey sausage links.
He grinned. The woman was a wonder. He looked around, but only found Mitchell trading out empty pans for fresh ones of eggs and home fries. The man might’ve been the size of a Sumo wrestler, but he was surprisingly light on his feet. He had pans fanned out with a huge tray of fruit and the empties back on the cart in the time it took Deacon to walk across the space.
“Hey, Mitchell. Seen Harper?”
“She's busy this morning.”
“Oh.” The terse tone made Deacon straighten his shoulders. “Sure.” He cleared his throat. “That’s fine. I was just wondering.”
Mitch sighed before cracking his knuckles. His dark eyes zeroed in on Deacon like a laser beam.
Crap. What the hell had he done now? Deacon thought they’d come to an understanding about how he felt about Harper.
“She's got her review with Meg today.”
“Oh.” Happiness that he wasn’t in the shitter gave way to a niggling itch between his shoulder blades. Why hadn’t she told him when he'd’run into her earlier? Had he missed it? Deacon unearthed his phone, but no message from Harper. “Is there anything she should worry about?”
“Nah. Kiddo didn’t even know it was coming.”
And of course, it had to be on the day he was completely incommunicado. “Tell her I’m pulling for her. I’ll find her before the show.”
“You got it, Romeo.”
Deacon rolled his eyes, but took his food and headed back to the bus. They’d been avoiding talking about the end of things. More so for him than her, he was pretty sure. Harper never talked about anything in the future. But they were too good together to just cut it all off when the tour was over. She had to know that.
He stashed that whole mindfuck when he caught sight of Jazz. She was like a damn ninja with relationship drama.
“Hiya, Honeybear. Whatcha up to?”
“Two forty-seven. Six-foot-five.”
She stood still for a heartbeat, then her trilling laugh filled the bus. “No. You aren’t that big. Right? You can’t be.”
“Afraid so.” When he’d popped the seams on another one of his favorite t-shirts, he actually stepped on the scale. Between workouts with weights and his extracurricular activities with Harper, he’d packed on a good twenty-five pounds of muscle since Burn’s release nearly two months ago.
Her huge blue eyes got even rounder. “Holy Crap, Deak. You’re a freaking manster!”
“Where do you come up with these terms?”
She shrugged. “Man and monster—not a big stretch. Kinda cooler than ‘big guy’.”
“Deacon always works.”
She patted his arm, then molded his bicep, blinking those big blue eyes at him with a little bit of awe. “Seriously. Manster fits.”
He brushed a kiss over her forehead. “Whatever you say, Pix. Everyone up? Gordo will be landing—”
“Everyone moving? Where's Simon?”
“Landed,” Deacon said with a forced smile. “Morning, Gordo.”
Their manager didn’t even look bothered by their nickname for him anymore. It only took five weeks to beat him down. “We have a special guest coming in this afternoon and I want everyone available. He’s mostly here for Simon, but the opportunity is amazing and we want to make ourselves as available as possible.”
Deacon folded his arms. More and more they were focusing on Simon when it came to PR. “Do we get a hint?”
“No.” At Deacon’s raised eyebrow, Gordo quickly back peddled. “Because I’m not sure he’s coming or not. I just need Simon to be back here after the radio program. Do not let him wander off.”
“I’m not his goddamn babysitter,” Deacon muttered.
Jazz snickered. “You're everyone’s babysitter.”
He wished that wasn’t true. Gordo had taken most of the day-to-day tasks that had defined his role in the band, leaving him with the babysitting duties. Deacon shoved his hands into his hair. The need to climb on his rowing machine became a physical ache.
“We’ll make sure he’s here.”
“Make sure who’s here?”
“Speak of the devil,” Jazz muttered.
Simon scratched his naked chest and pushed sleep-rumpled hair out of his eyes. “Morning to you too, Pinky.” His usual smirk was more of a soft smile for Jazz. His gaze tracked to Gordo, and the Simon mask slid into place. “What are my tasks today? I am partial to signing body parts for charity. That was fun yesterday.”
Gordo looked down at his ever present iPad. “I got the final tally on that, actually. You managed to raise twelve thousand and some change.”
Simon dipped his hands into his pockets. “And that all goes to Simon’s Angels, right?”
“Minus the administrative—”
“No.”
Simon’s face grew serious, the charming lead singer slipping away. His blue eyes leveled on their manager. “Take any administrative fees out of my account. I want all the money to go to the kids.”
Surprised, Deacon looked from Simon to Gordo. That was a new development.
“And I’ll match it,” Simon said firmly.
Gordo’s mouth worked like a guppy for a moment before he nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
The smirk slid across Simon’s face again. “Now, I have to go pour this perfection into some smokin’ hot clothes. We have an acoustic show this morning.”
When Simon disappeared into the back of the bus, Deacon looked down at Jazz. “Did you know about that?”
“The charity deal? Yeah. I helped him set it up. With a little help from manager boy.” Jazz punched Gordo in the arm.
Gordo winced and rubbed his arm. “It’s very good PR.”
“Of course it is.” Deacon sighed. Everything their manager touched had to have a public relations spin to it.
“It’s a really good thing, actually. We did a vlog about it. We’re doing another signing when we get back to Los Angeles. I helped him get the website going, and I contacted Jackson to get all the tax information together.”
Again, these were things Deacon usually did. He tried to ignore the irrational twist of unease in his belly. The more he thought things were working, the more he wondered if he was looking at things through a pair of rose-colored glasses.
Playfully, Jazz fluffed her hair. “I better get all pretty, too.”
“Too late. Already done.”
Jazz grinned up at him, her smile so full of pure happiness it was blinding. “Charmer, but I love you anyway.” She gave his bicep one more squeeze, and he flexed just to hear her tinkling laugh. “Simon, do not use up all the hot water!” she yelled as she skipped to the bunk area.
Deacon shook his head and dropped onto the couch. She was the one thing they’d done very right. She kept all of them laughing, even when they were ready to strangle each other from forced proximity.
Nick came up the stairs, a bottle of water dangling from his fingers. He was already dressed in frayed-to-shit jeans and a white button-down shirt that was so new, it still had creases from its packaging. He sprawled out on the couch across from him, sunglasses covering half his face. “’Sup.”
“You’re up early.”
Nick shrugged. “Simon’s snoring woke me.”
Deacon stretched his arms over his head. He’d sweat out a bit more alcohol than usual from the night before, too. “Was a whiskey night last night.”
Nick pinched the bridge of his nose under his aviators. “Never thought I’d be glad that he’s mostly a vodka drinker.”
Deacon laced his fingers over his belly. “We all drank more than usual last night.”
Nick grinned. “Even you.”
“I ran extra hard this morning for those sins. And got some interesting texts from Simon.”
“No shit.” Nick lifted his hips and dug out his phone. He rolled forward, his phone cradled in his hands. “I got a link for the complete works of Sasha Grey.”
Deacon laughed. “Man, he was so bummed when he found out she retired.”
“I think there were tears.”
“It was a sad day.” Deacon nodded solemnly before they both chuckled.
“What was a sad day?” Simon asked, kicking Nick’s boot before he collapsed on the couch beside him.
“Sasha Grey’s retirement.”
“Aww, man. I was hoping that was just a bad dream. That’s just a sacrilege.” Simon slipped on a pair of DG’s. He’d mentioned on Twitter how he was looking for dark sunglasses, and now he was inundated with samples from designers.
Deacon dug out his phone to see if he could do the same. He was pissed that he’d ripped his favorite shirt.
Instant follow and shout out to whomever can find me an vintage Journey E5C4P3 tour shirt XXL with link.
Simon started rattling off his favorite Sasha Grey movies, and Deacon tuned out. When a message from Harper popped up, he switched over to texts.
Hiya. Tonight’s menu: celebrational champagne shots out of my belly button after your show.
He grinned and shot her back a message.
What are we celebrating?
A moment later, he saw the comment bubble come up that she was typing.
Oh nothing, just the official notice that I’m on the Food Riot roster. Full chef status after this tour. I’ll give you all the deets tonight. Naked. Hope you didn’t work out too hard. Chef Lawless has plans for you.
“What’s that shit-eating grin for?”
Deacon looked up at Nick. He tried to wipe off the smile, but he couldn’t. “Nothing.”
Nick’s eyebrow winged up. “Right. Chef Lawless going to cook you up some simmering orgasms with a side of whipped cream?”
Deacon glanced down at his phone then up at Nick who was already standing, ready to leave. “You reading my texts, son?”
Nick grinned. “Maybe.”
He tapped back a quick congratulations and affirmative to the night’s festivities. He jammed his phone back into his pocket and rubbed the back of his neck. There was no way he’d put a damper on tonight. They’d celebrate, and he’d try not to think about the fact that she’d be off on another tour soon.
And he’d be home, getting another album ready.
Maybe.
“Ready to get going?”
Deacon blinked up at Nick again. “Yeah.”
“I must’ve missed the really good text. You’re spacing out, Deak.”
He forced his lips to bend into a smile as he stood. “That you did, Nicky.” Deacon slapped him on the arm. “Let’s get this party started.”
They all piled off the bus and headed for the van used to transport them to the radio stations. Gray was already inside.
“There you are.” Jazz bounced into the seat beside Gray.
The only person that could pull a smile out of Gray was Jazz, and she didn’t spoil her record today. He smiled at her, his eyes shielded behind dark shades. “I took my shower before you water hogs did.”
“That’s Simon, not me.”
“You keep telling yourself that,” Gray said easily. He scrunched down in his seat, tipped his Fedora down, then folded his hands in his lap. “Wake me when we get there.”
Jazz huffed, but settled with her phone. Deacon felt his phone buzz and knew she was already tweeting about the day’s festivities. Simon swung his way into the bench seat in the back beside Jazz, leaving him and Nick to take the bucket seats in the middle of the van.
Gordo took the passenger seat in the front and turned with his iPad poised. They were treated to a who’s who about the radio station and the morning hosts they were going to meet. By the time they pulled into the parking lot, Deacon’s brain was full of names he wouldn’t remember, but at least he had a focus now.
And it wasn’t Harper.
The doors opened to a crush of fans lined up on the sidewalk, with white and orange sawhorses trying to keep them in some sort of order.
Simon rubbed his hands together. “Papa’s gotta work.” He hopped out, his arms wide. “Ladies, no pushing. There’s enough of me to go around, I promise.”
Deacon stepped out and cringed. Posters that matched the flags used for Burn’s release party lined the brick wall. All of them in black and cobalt blue boyband glory. Shit. He truly hadn’t missed those.
“Demon!”
Deacon scanned the crowd, surprised to see a group of men and women waving a silk screened panel of canvass with Deacon’s bastardized Oblivion logo on it. He greeted them with smiles and dug one of his ever present Sharpies out of his back pocket.
There were similar groups of fans clamoring for the rest of the band. Simon and Jazz were swallowed by a hoard. After he posed for photo ops and signed the big sign for his Demons, he waded into the crowd.
Jazz was being pushed around in the excitement, and he plucked h
er out and up onto his shoulders. She wrapped around his neck like a vine, with a shaky “thank you” in his ear.
The moment they walked inside the station, there were a bank of six foot tables. Silver and gold Sharpies, five water bottles, and a stack of CD’s were set up with matching folding chairs all lined up. At the far right of the signing table were two stacks of posters. One of the band, and one just of Simon alone with his shirt off, smirk in full effect.
Gordo came rushing in. “I forgot to mention the signing.”
“Yes, you did,” Nick said with a growl as he managed to get inside.
Jazz laughed, already back to her perky self as she slid down Deacon’s back to skip around the table. She plopped down in the center seat and cracked the seal on her water bottle. “Hey, Simon, maybe we can get a jar and do another signing body parts thing. All those willing victims—aka wild hyenas—outside…”
Simon glanced at Gordo. “Make it happen.”
Deacon sighed and took his place at the far left hand side. It was going to be a long-ass day.
Twenty
September 7, 9:45 AM - Fame Monster
His face hurt. And his wrist.
Deacon was also pretty sure that he now would see spots permanently from the sheer volume of flash photos he’d smiled through. The fans had been the easy part.
Well, until the radio station bussed in winners from a local mall. The small group on the sidewalk had been child’s play. The lobby had been overrun with screaming women and shouting men.
Then there had been the radio station winners that they had to do one-on-one meetings with. He slapped another smile on his face when someone tapped on his elbow.
Deacon turned and instantly crouched down. A little girl, no more than six, stared up at him. Her blonde hair was slipping from two pigtails and her huge blue eyes reminded him of another woman.
Shit. She was like a mini-Harper.
His first real smile in hours melted the tension in his shoulders. “Hey there.”
The girl nibbled on her bottom lip. “Are you Demon?”
