by Cari Quinn
Harper grinned at her. “Oh, do I have stories. Especially about Dolly Parton.”
Jazz’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Can we skip the gossip?” Nick growled.
“Right, sorry.”
Deacon sighed, folding his hands over his belly when she closed up the wider gash on his cheek. “I’m only the one who got his ass kicked.”
Harper patted his chest. “I’d say you did the kicking.”
Jazz rolled up onto her knees on the other side of Deacon. “I didn’t know you could fight like that.”
“You didn’t see me fight, squirt.”
Jazz rolled her eyes. “I saw two big guys, known for being meatheads, on the ground with their balls handed to them. I think it’s safe to assume you were to blame.”
Again, Deacon seethed. Harper dabbed triple antibiotic over the shallow cuts and the split along his bottom lip. There had to be a good reason that he was still stirred up after the fight. The adrenaline high should have dissipated by now, so it couldn’t be that.
“Any cuts under your shirt?”
“No.”
The sharp way he said no told her that was a lie, but she didn’t press him. She’d take care of them later.
“I want to know why you had to pound the fucking shit out of the headliners,” Nick said through gritted teeth.
Deacon speared his fingers into his hair. “We’re stepping on their toes.”
“I sound like a fucking broken record,” Simon snarled. “But what in the fuck does that mean?”
“It means you’re getting more popular than the headliner,” Harper said gently.
Simon’s smile was huge and cocky. “Hell, yeah!”
“No,” Harper said as she stood. “This is not a good thing. It looks bad when the opening act gets more attention than the headliner.”
Nick laced his fingers behind his head. “We can’t stop the train now. Fuck, I don’t want to.”
“But we don’t have to push it in their face.” Deacon stood. “And that was the message.”
“Shitty way to give a message.”
“Effective way to give a message,” Harper answered before Deacon could. “The problem now is that Deacon showed them up yet again.”
Jazz fell back down until her feet were tucked under her butt. “Oh, yeah. That’s probably not good, huh?”
Harper sighed and pushed Deacon down the walkway to the back of the bus. “No.”
Simon, Nick, and Jazz started all talking at once. Angry words edged toward threats, but before Harper turned back around, she heard Jazz calming them down.
Right now, Harper had to focus on Deacon. He was going to be one hurting puppy by the end of their show tonight. She ducked into the bathroom and found one flimsy towel in the cupboard. She ran it under water as hot as she could stand and went back through the door and stopped, her breath stalling in her chest.
He’d pulled his shirt up and she saw the gravel and dirt, dust and grime tracking through his tattoo. Raw scrapes abraded his shoulder blades and his hip.
All the places that would take the maximum impact of a fall. And when a man was the size of a damn redwood, it was going to fucking hurt. She curled her fingers into the towel, the burn kicking back the anger that seethed inside her.
With effort, she slid a palm against his belly and soothed him. She wanted to scream at him for being so stupid. For taking them on when he should have gotten out of there at the first chance. But this was Deacon, and he didn’t know how to do anything but stand.
Even if it meant someone battered at him.
He held on when she railed at him, or ignored him. And he was still there, as immovable as the monoliths in Monument Valley, Arizona.
And because she didn’t know what else to do for him, she washed his back in slow, sure strokes until he was only tanned flesh and a few scrapes. Until the armor-like tattoo was clean. Bits of scabbing flesh flaked away, but somehow the ink was still intact.
“Where’s your lotion?”
“It’s fine. You don’t need—”
“Where is it?”
Deacon sighed and reached into his slim cubbyhole at the head of his bunk. Resilient as the man himself, his skin was already healing over. Enough that she could put a little pressure in the application of lotion.
The roll of his muscles under her fingers and the low groan that rumbled from his chest eased her a little more. Touching him, knowing he was all right seemed far too important at that moment.
She needed to slow down. Had it really only been days with him? Everything felt too huge and too invasive. She flipped the dispenser top shut and stepped back.
“I’ll see you after the show.”
He turned, surprise lighting his heavy-lidded eyes. Mottled bruises already bloomed on his cheek and chin, but it didn’t detract from his far too handsome features. “You give a back rub like an angel and now you’re lighting out?”
She pumped up a bright smile. “Gotta work. Can’t waste time with rock stars any more today.”
His dimple flashed. “Wasting time, huh?”
She winked. “You’re becoming high maintenance, Deacon McCoy. You’ll have to prove you’re worth it later tonight.”
He studied her for a moment. Somehow, she managed not to squirm under his gaze. What she wanted to do was wrap herself around him, sob like a freak, and then fuck him blind.
What was he doing to her?
It was supposed to be a simple fling. They’d agreed, dammit.
She turned and practically ran down the length of the bus out to the parking lot and back to Food Riot’s tents.
Though her hands shook for the first ten minutes of her shift, she’d never been so happy to make a sub platter in her life.
Sixteen
August 22, 3:23 AM – Hiding
The bus was quiet for once. No music, no fighting, not even a snore. Just the gentle bump and glide of the road under them. Deacon stacked his hands under his head, letting the sheet twist around his waist. He had his tiny vent on, blowing the nighttime breeze on his overheated skin.
He’d chased Harper all over the damn venue after the show, but she’d been as elusive as smoke. Oh, she’d texted him that she had to pay penance for her afternoon off with him with a double shift, but something about it didn’t ring true. When she'd avoided him the next day and night, he'd stopped chasing.
He knew running when he saw it. And his girl was sprinting for Olympic gold at the moment. Part of him wanted to run right with her. The park in Dallas had been a revelation. He’d had good sex in the past. Being in the Los Angeles music scene had opened up a pool of wild women to enjoy.
But good sex relaxed him. It didn’t rev him up until he was staring at the ceiling with hearts in his eyes. It certainly didn’t make him hard at all points of the day with just the thought of a woman.
Granted, he’d been in self-imposed exile from women for a while now. But it hadn’t been that freaking long. A flash of her golden hair flowing over his forearm as she rode above him in the car was enough to make him rethink wearing workout shorts until he got his shit under control. Exactly like now. With the amount of bruises he was sporting, he should be happy that he didn't have to entertain someone. In fact, if she was in front of him right now, he’d probably be too sore to do anything.
He shifted the tight length of his shaft until it pressed flat to his lower belly. Right. He wouldn’t do anything. Fucking lie on top of a lie with whipped cream and sunflower scented sprinkles on top.
He closed his eyes and tried one of the breathing exercises that Jazz had taught him. Deep breaths through his nose and out until his chest was empty and his spine pressed into the mattress. And just as he was finally drifting into a dreamy spot where Harper was actually sprawled across his chest instead of in a completely separate bus, a tiny, warm puffball landed in the hollow of his armpit.
He jumped, hissing out a breath when his abused ribs sang like David Coverdale in “Still of the Nigh
t”. The puffball dug in and the nip of nail scoring his chest and the startled mewl had him slapping on his overhead light. Huge gold eyes blinked up at him from a tiny triangular face covered in caramel-colored fur. The tips of the kitten’s paws were all bright white. As if the little thing had dipped its toes into white paint.
“Well, hello there.”
The kitten yowled pathetically and scrabbled up his chest. The swipe of needle thin nails zinged him right in the nipple before he lifted the kitten up with a wince. “Okay, okay. You’re fine. No one’s going to hurt you.”
He settled onto his back again and tucked the kitten’s butt on his chest. She stared at him, tilting her head before tipping her chin up. “Is that your spot?" He rubbed his knuckle under her chin gently until a purr buzzed through his breastbone. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
It stretched up so tall for maximum scratching that it fell over onto its side and tumbled into the space between his body and the bus’s wall. Using those sharp little nails, she climbed back onto his chest and curled right up in the valley between his pectoral muscles. The little thing stared at him unblinkingly for a full minute before its lids fluttered shut.
Looked like he had a bunkmate tonight.
He shut out the light and stacked his hands under his head once more. It had been a long time since he’d had an animal in his life. Moving around with his mother from boyfriend to boyfriend had killed any chance to have a dog.
Except the one boyfriend, Marcus? Mike? He couldn’t remember the guy’s name, but he did remember the dog, Bones. He’d been a huge German Shepherd. He’d loved to bury his bones all over the property. Those three months had been the best of his life. He’d been twelve and well on his way to angry punk status.
He’d shot up from a scrawny kid to almost a man’s body, with the growing pains to boot. It felt like he’d been angry forever until that damn dog. For three months he’d been happier than any other time he could remember.
Not until the band.
And now Harper.
And that was way too hot a topic to handle tonight with his bruised body and pummeled pride. Needing someone that wasn’t connected to his music was new. The fact that he’d only known her for that long didn’t seem to make a difference.
The kitten moved around, kneading into his belly, then back up to his chest and finally up to his shoulder before it was happy. It...hell, it was totally a she. No cat could be that beautiful and be a boy. She tucked herself into the hair that lay against his neck and shoulder.
Oddly comforted by her light purr, Deacon drifted off.
“George?”
Simon’s version of a whisper dented his perfectly happy cloud of sleep. Deacon pulled his pillow over his head. Who the fuck was George? And why the hell was Simon up so fucking early? Deacon peeked at his watch and groaned as they hit another bump. They were going to lose a day to travel. He’d hoped to sleep the day away, but evidently that wasn’t going to happen.
“Where did you go, you little shit?”
The little furball leaped off Deacon’s back and stuck her head out.
“There you are.”
Deacon rolled over. Yep. Sleeping was over. At least for now. He snapped his curtain open and caught the kitten before she went ass over whiskers onto the floor. “She’s yours?”
Simon took the kitten and perched her on his shoulder. She draped herself across the space between his shoulder and neck, burying her face into Simon’s black hair until all Deacon could see were huge gold eyes peeking out. Simon rolled his shoulder until the kitten bumped his jaw. Her motorboat purr of contentment filled the space.
“This is George.”
Deacon yawned and flopped down on his back. “You named that beautiful kitten, George?”
Simon rubbed under her chin. “He looked like a George to me.”
“I'm pretty sure it's a girl.”
“Are you sure?”
“She looks like a girl to me. Way too pretty. And she’s purring all over you, so it’s gotta be a chick.”
Simon smirked. “Too true.”
A female voice came from Simon’s bunk.
Deacon sighed. Simon had another stowaway. He didn’t get it. Didn’t these women have lives to get back to? Jobs?
It wasn’t like they had headed to the next town over. They’d hopped two states into Colorado for the summer festival at Red Rocks. The most famous outdoor venue for music, and Oblivion got to tag along with Rebel Rage for the show thanks to their stellar ticket sales.
One more thing that would make Johnny Cage hate them. Just fucking wonderful.
But Deacon couldn’t pretend to be upset about it. Not when it was Red Rocks that they got to play. He couldn’t count how many bootlegs he had from that venue. From the Stones to Rush to Grateful Dead, he’d loved them all.
It didn’t matter that they were playing five songs. They were actually going to be on the same stage as some of the greatest musicians of all damn time. And the acoustics were supposed to be amazing. This was above and beyond.
How the hell was he supposed to get them ready for this? They had decent equipment, but nothing that could withstand this place. He rolled out of his bunk and unearthed his phone to do some research. One of the dozen message boards he visited had to have some information about the infamous amphitheater.
When Deacon stood, he caught a flash of purple from Nick’s bunk and frowned. Christ, Nick didn’t usually have overnight guests.
But when Jazz slipped out of Nick’s bunk, Deacon stalled with his phone in his hand.
Her hair was mussed and her eyes barely cracked open. “What?”
Deacon snapped his jaw shut. Damn, were the two of them at it again? The last time Jazz and Nick had gone at each other, they’d nearly torn their fledgling band apart. “Nothing.”
A blonde with smudged blue eyes stuck her head out of Simon’s bunk. “Way to go, honey. I knew you guys had something going.”
Jazz’s eyebrows flew up. “We were watching a movie together last night and I fell asleep. That’s all.”
The woman smiled. “Sure.”
“I swear. Nick’s my friend. We don’t—not anymore—” She huffed and her cheeks pinked. “It’s not like that.” Jazz crossed to the ladder to her bunk, climbed inside, and snapped her purple curtain closed.
Simon pulled George off his shoulder. “Did I miss something?”
Deacon shrugged. There had been a time when he’d thought Nick and Jazz were heading toward being an item, but then they’d stopped dancing around each other and gone straight to being platonic.
However, the fandom was very vocal that they thought Nick and Jazz were together. The way they played off each other during the YouTube videos and interviews fueled the chatter. When in fact Jazz had been placed firmly in little sister territory for all of them.
Or at least she was now for Nick. A few months ago, not so much.
Simon rolled his eyes and boosted himself back into his bunk.
“I’m not getting naked with that thing in here,” the woman said shrilly. “It thinks I’m a scratching post.”
Simon held George out. “Uncle Deacon, want to play with my pussy?”
Deacon sighed, ignoring the first of what would probably be many pussy jokes. “You know pets are a responsibility, right?”
Simon peeked his head out. “Fuck off, Dad.”
Deacon transferred George into his palm and headed into the front of the bus. He lifted her up to his face and nuzzled her. “You can hang with me. We’ll play a little music. How’s that sound?”
George blinked at him, her huge, all-knowing eyes completely steady.
“You know your owner is a jackass, right?”
She opened her mouth and meowed loudly before crawling up his forearm to nuzzle against his chest. Deacon sprawled onto the couch, let George settle herself, and since no one else was using it, he grabbed the bus iPad and lost himself in research for a few hours.
He dozed in between making
notes and saving sites. Once everyone got moving, or at least looking for food, he’d see about getting them to play around on acoustics. The amphitheater would be a great place to take “The Becoming” back to its acoustic roots. It was how he and Gray had written the thing. And it was too perfect a place not to do something special for the fans.
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.