by Quinn, Cari
She slid between him and the stove to grab a whisk then set the sauce to medium heat. She dumped a bag of bowtie pasta into the water. “No, actually it was Meg. You’ll never believe it. I have to call to figure out exactly what’s going on, but I got another gig. Can you believe it? My own gig. Not playing third chef this time, either. Just me.”
When he didn’t say anything, she turned around. His face was blank, his eyes shuttered.
She stepped closer to him, lacing her fingers with his. “Deacon, you knew I was going to get a call to go back to work.”
“Now?” He tightened his grip.
“I know the timing isn’t ideal.”
“Ideal?” He twisted his hand out of her grip and walked around the island to the living room.
“Shit.” She took the pasta off the burner and followed him. “I have a job, just like you do.”
“I don’t have a fucking job. I don’t even have a contract.”
“You will.” Her heartbeat throbbed an echoing beat in her head leaving her chest cold. “I have every faith that you will.”
He jammed his hands into his hair. “So you’re just going to go? What about us?”
“What about us?”
Deacon came to an abrupt halt. “What about us?” He parroted back. “Are you fucking kidding me here?”
She shook her head and went to stand before him. “I don’t mean there is no us.” She grabbed his hands and stared up at him. “I just mean that there is no change to us. I just have to go on the road for a while. We can meet up when I’m off.”
“Meet up?” His eyebrows snapped down. “You mean hook up?”
“No.” At his incredulous face, she quickly gripped his hips. “Well, of course we’ll do that, too, but I want to see you. I want to see you as often as I can.” She frowned. Surprised to realize it was true, she gripped his arm. “I don’t want this to end.”
“And you can’t pick another date? Just until I know what’s going on?”
She took a step back. What made his life more important than hers? She had a career, too. “We talked about this. When Meg calls, I have to go, or I don’t have a job. That’s the contract deal. I’m lucky she hasn’t called before this.”
“I need you here.”
His panicked eyes made her stomach clench. She folded her arms over her middle. “I’ve been here for you. For weeks, I’ve been here to help out your friends, to be with you.”
“I didn’t know it was such a hardship.”
“That’s not fair. I’ve been nothing but the good, supportive…” She dug her nails into her side. She’d been what? The little kept woman. “I’ve been a good friend.”
“Friend?” His head snapped back as if she’d slapped him. “That’s what this is to you? Friendship?”
“No. I—” She swallowed. Uncertainty about what they were tumbled into panicked anger. “No, I’m your girlfriend, I guess.”
“You guess?” he spluttered. “You have to guess?”
“Look, I love you, Deacon. It’s not just a fling anymore.”
She saw relief fill his eyes. “Good. Good,” he repeated and stepped forward. “It’s more than that for me. So we’ll figure something out.”
“What?” Harper looked up at him. “What’s to figure out? I have to talk to Meg and get the details of my job. We’ll see each other when we can.”
“You’re not going off for what, another six week tour?”
“Five months actually.” She held up a hand. “Wait. Did you say I’m not going? You don’t have any say in what I do, Deacon.” Her chest was getting tight. She paced away from him, her eyes darting around the room to the homey touches and the framed pictures. She didn’t belong here.
This was so far removed from what she wanted. Her shoulders hunched in at the completely closed off Deacon that sat so very still on the couch.
She took a deep breath and crouched in front of him. “We haven’t talked about anything beyond this. It’s still too new. I don’t want to lose you, Deacon.”
He lifted blood shot eyes at her. Just a few minutes ago, those green eyes had been soft and full of happiness. “But?”
“But I have a career too,” she whispered.
Deacon stood, brushing by her. “Five months.” He laughed harshly. “I don’t even know where I’m going to be in five months. How am I going to get to you? What if I’m stuck in the studio?”
“So I’m supposed to put my life on hold? And what if you don’t have a contract? What if you convince the guys to take a chance on shopping around for a contract? I can’t just hold my ass for you.”
“That’s real nice, Harper.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” She let her head fall forward before she squared her shoulders and stood. “I can’t afford to screw up my very new, very shaky reputation by blowing off a job. Meg’s giving me a shot. A shot at everything I’ve wanted since I started culinary school.”
“And what about us?”
“Why does it have to be all or nothing?” She whipped her wet hair out of her eyes. “Why can’t we just see where things go? I don’t know what the schedule’s like yet, but there’s got to be times we can meet in the middle.” Even as she said it, she knew it would be nearly impossible to get away. Not if she was running the tour.
But she’d find a way.
She wouldn’t let them go. God, it felt like there was a walnut sitting in the center of her throat. She tried to swallow around it, tried to breathe around it.
“I can see it all over your face, Harper. This is just bull shit.”
“What do you want me to do, Deacon? Even if I wanted to be the kept little woman, which you fucking know I can’t be, how is that going to work when you don’t even know where you’ll be by next week?”
He shook his head, his face going stony. “Just give me some time. Time to figure out what to do. I’m just asking for a little time.”
“I’ll be a phone call away. FaceTime, Skype, just like we said.”
“It’s not enough.”
She watched him shut down right before her eyes. Her chest tightened and the lump in her throat multiplied. How was she supposed to swallow? “You were the one that said we’d make it work. In the truck that night. That first night. Almost every night since.” She didn’t know how bad she wanted to believe him until right then.
“I need more than that, Harper.”
“What happens when you go on the road? I’m just left behind? Then what? That’s when I can work? When it’s convenient for you? That’s not how this works.”
“I want you with me.”
“What about what I want?” she asked on a raw whisper.
Deacon’s hands clenched. “I can’t, Harper. I can’t lose you, too.”
“You haven’t lost me. I’m right here.” She brought up one of his fisted hands and put it around her back. She stepped into him, but he didn’t unclench. His body was rigid as granite. “Don’t ask me to choose.” She brought her hands up to his chest, her nails digging into his unyielding wall of muscle. “Please.”
She’d never been happier than these last few months with Deacon, but already she was itching. Not to be away from him, but to work. She was just starting to get established. She didn’t want to start over with another company.
Food Riot was so close to her dream. And now, she’d have the chance to prove herself to Meg and Danny. And to herself. It was the first step into breaking out on her own.
“I’m just asking you to wait. So we can come up with an alternative.”
“What alternative? I have to work, Deacon.”
“You don’t. Not right away.” He looked down at her, cupping her cheeks. “I can take care of you.”
She closed her eyes. She had to. There was a tiny part of her that wanted to say yes. And that scared her more than anything. How could she put her entire career on hold for something so new? Barely two months compared to what she’d spent years preparing for?
“Would you give up your career for me?” She kept her eyes shut, unable to take the reaction. When he didn’t say anything, she finally looked up at him. His eyes were hollowed out and blank. “I guess it’s a good thing that I’d never ask you to.”
He dropped his hands and backed up until he bumped into the bookcase behind him. “That’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not,” she said on a broken whisper. “I don’t want to end this, Deacon. Can’t you see that?” She gripped the arm of the couch. Not thirty minutes ago, she’d been wrapped in his arms, so content.
And now, she’d never felt so disconnected from him. How could she have been that wrong about him? She lifted her gaze to the ceiling, her eyes burning dry, her throat working to choke down the ball of agony sitting there.
She was afraid that if she let it out, she’d never come back from it.
And when he lifted his chin and stared right through her, everything inside of her went still and silent.
And cold.
He walked across the room, his long stride eating up the living room, then the stairs. She heard him slamming around upstairs. Three minutes later he was down the stairs, bag and laptop in hand.
“I’ll send a car for you,” he said woodenly.
“I don’t need one.”
“That’s right. You can do it all on your own. You don’t need me. No one needs me.”
Before she could get her voice around that slap, he was gone. She chased him out the door and into the night calling his name, but he was already fishtailing his way down the dusty drive.
When the red lights faded, she was still outside hugging herself.
She’d never been so cold.
Thirty-Three
September 26, 11:57 AM - Conquering the Divide
Deacon stumbled to the bathroom, the room still spinning. He landed hard on his knees gripping the toilet bowl in desperation. His stomach had to be empty, for fuck’s sake. His ribs screamed from the dry heaves. He rested his forehead on his arm, the chlorine and bleach smell from the toilet bowl activating another round of retching.
He crashed onto his back, the cool tile sizzled along skin, but God it felt good. He curled onto his side, hissing when he clunked his throbbing head into the bathtub, which caused a chain reaction to his queasy stomach.
With a groan he sat up, then held his breath and put his face into the bowl again. When the last of the bourbon came up, he wished for death. He stood, the room tilting as he grabbed the counter. He knocked over the shampoo and conditioner bottles, pushed away the soap, and found the little bottle of mouthwash. After rinsing his mouth of the first layer of foulness, he stumbled back into the room he’d been staying in for the last two days and collapsed onto the unmade bed.
A few minutes later…or was it hours? His phone keened out a whistle at top volume.
“What in the fuck?”
He fumbled the phone and it landed on the floor. The FaceTime app popped on his screen. Hell no. The only one that FaceTime’d him was Jazz, and he didn’t have the energy for that.
He squinted as he leaned off the side of the bed, expecting to see Jazz in all her pink glory, but it was a blocked number. He reached down to hit ignore and missed.
“Shit.” He tried to get his hair out of his face to see and a stunning blonde filled the screen.
“Have I caught you at a bad time, Mr. McCoy?” Her wide, full mouth twitched, but remained impassive. Her eyes, however, danced.
He frowned. That face was familiar.
Oh, God, no.
This was not happening.
Deacon scrambled up and scooped the phone off the floor. He turned to see the two bottles on the bedside table as well as an open pizza box.
Holy fuck. He bounded off the bed to the small chair beside the window. “I’m sorry.” He pushed his hair back and prayed there wasn’t puke on his face. “Ms. Shawcross?”
“In the flesh. I took a chance that you were calling from an iPhone since it seems to be your media of choice on the web.”
Her shrewd eyes took him in, but if she was judging, he couldn’t read it.
“I’m sorry.”
“So you’ve said.”
He swallowed down the need to apologize again and realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He wasn’t sure which would be better. More of his face close up or showing off his shoulders. “Do you think I could call you back when I’m presentable? Or maybe switch to just audio?”
“I like to see my potential client’s face when I talk to them. And I only have five minutes Mr. McCoy. Tell me I didn’t waste my time calling you.”
“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Give me thirty seconds.” He dropped the phone and grabbed a shirt out of his bag. He did a quick spot check to make sure he didn’t have eye-crust or lip crust and picked up. “Okay. I’m—”
“If you apologize one more time, I’m hanging up.”
He lifted the phone so his face was straight on. “I’d like a meeting to discuss possibly working with Ripper Records for Oblivion’s first full length studio album.”
Her blue eyes assessed then she nodded. “Direct. I like direct. What’s your agent’s name? I’ll set it—”
“No agent.” She opened her mouth, and he knew the standard rejection was coming. He hurried on. “I’d like an informal meeting. No contracts, no band, just you and I.”
One slim blonde brow rose. “Why?”
Taking a gamble, he said, “I got a shit deal from another label and I’m looking for options.” When she didn’t say anything, he took a steadying breath. “I want better. And I want to prove to my bandmates that we deserve better.”
“And you think you’ll get it with Ripper Records?”
“I do. I’ve done my homework. I know that you’re a smaller label, but you’ve already signed two up and coming bands that have been lighting up the charts. The production is flawless, but not overdone. The media campaign is smart, but I think Jazz—our drummer and marketing guru—could take it to another level. I think we’re perfect for a growing label. We have an established sound and fan base, but we’re ready to push ourselves for even better.”
“Quite the elevator pitch.”
Deacon swallowed down the bile that threatened to climb up his throat. Nerves and a hangover were not a good team. “I believe in us and our music.”
“Is that why you’re hungover, or possibly still drunk, Mr. McCoy?”
He leveled his gaze on hers. “My deadline is October first.”
“So you’re desperate?”
He tightened his hand on the phone. “I’m not desperate enough to sign a shitty deal, Ms. Shawcross. Wouldn’t you lose a day to a bottle if you thought you were going to toss a contract away in hopes that you could find another one?” She didn’t need to know that more than half his bender was over a woman. It was too pathetic for words.
“So you’re turning down Trident?”
Deacon drew in a breath. “It’s not just me that has to make that call, but I’m leaning that way, yes.”
“Good. They’re sharks and they’d chew up Oblivion until you were less than the paper flakes I use to feed my fish.” She smiled. “Meeting done, Mr. McCoy. I think you need to clean yourself up and bring you and your band down to the studio at 9:00 AM sharp. Oh, and you’ll be meeting Mr. Lewis. A hangover is not advised.” Then the screen went blank before fading to black.
Deacon slumped back into the chair. His hand shook as he tossed his phone onto the bed. He tried to process everything that had just happened and couldn’t think over the roaring in his head. He crossed the room and unwrapped a glass, re-filling it and gulping down the contents three times before his jittering stomach let him take a breath.
A meeting.
Finally.
He scraped his hands through his hair and turned to find his phone. He needed to call Harper and—his breath stalled.
No.
No, he didn’t have Harper to call.
His chest ached and his guts
cramped. He leaned forward and put his head between his knees. Christ, how the hell was he supposed to pull himself together enough to convince everyone to go to this meeting?
How was he supposed to fight for his band when he couldn’t even fight for her? He could still hear the words that came out of his mouth running around his brain. No amount of alcohol had been able to shut those memories down. Even now, he wanted to reach for the bottle.
Which is why he wouldn’t.
He stood and shook off the cycle of words. He couldn’t fix what happened between him and Harper, but he could fix his band.
If he could get them to listen. He picked up his phone and flicked it to life. “Jazz?”
“Deak? Oh, thank God. Where the fuck have you been? Don’t you ever do that to me again. Do you hear me? I can’t take that kind of heart attack.”
“I’m sorry, Pix. I needed some time.”
“I get it. Are you okay?”
He sighed. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
“No, I mean really okay?” She hesitated, then made a little sound of distress. “Harper was here. She cleared everything out and left.”
Deacon pinched the bridge of his nose. Part of him had hoped that she’d be there at the penthouse. He knew she wouldn’t be. Not after their blow-out. The chances of her staying for him were slim to oh-hell-the-fuck-no, but he’d still kept a tiny piece of hope alive in the back of his head.
“By your silence I’m going to say you fucked up?” she asked.
“Did she say anything?”
“No.” Jazz’s voice lowered to a husky whisper. “She’s too classy to badmouth you.”
“Fuck.”
“Deacon, you gotta come home. I can’t take this alone. Nick and Simon are in full on party mode. Like we’ve been given the keys to the kingdom with sacks full of money.”
“Where’s Gray?”
“He’s always going out and won’t let me go with him. I’m going bonkers here by myself.”
There was no accusation in her tone, but he felt it anyway. He’d left Jazz to field this alone. And he’d wallowed in a pity party that was a lesson in stupidity. Everything was falling apart around him.
