Rocked

by Taryn Elliott

  Whether Nick and Simon had asked for the percentages to be changed in the contract or not, they were there. The fact that they didn’t view the rest of them as an equal partners in the band needed to be addressed.

  Deacon looked up at the scrape of metal over the railing. Simon’s mishmash of silver bracelets jangled as he came down the stairs. “If it isn’t the prodigal son.”

  Jazz sat up. “Get some coffee, Simon. Your asshole is showing.”

  “Morning to you too,” he said with a wry smirk. Simon shuffled into the kitchen, plucking a pod out of the racks beside the coffee maker and setting a cup to brew. He leaned on the counter and pushed his sunglasses up his nose to shield his eyes. “Are you done pouting, Deak? Heart all bwoken?”

  Jazz stalked into the kitchen and socked Simon in the arm. “Did we rub it in when violin girl stomped on your ego?”

  Simon’s smirk slid away, his face going stony.

  “That’s better,” she said sweetly.

  “Violin girl was a one-time thing. She wasn’t even that memorable.”

  Jazz peered up at him. “So, you haven’t given Madeline a thought?”

  “Margo,” Simon corrected.

  “Right.” Jazz patted his cheek. “Not a passing thought.”

  Simon angled his face away from her touch. He turned and put two pieces of toast into the toaster.

  Deacon stood and joined them in the kitchen. "Is Nick moving?"

  He paused with the mug at his lips. “Do I look like his mother? Isn't that your job, St. Deacon?"

  Deacon folded his arms. "What the hell is your problem?"

  Simon put his mug down and grabbed the toast as it popped. "Oh, I don't know. Our bassist falls off the grid for nearly a week. What could be the problem? October first is literally days away." Simon slammed down his butter knife. "Are you so fired up to fuck up this deal?"

  “I don’t know, Simon. What made you think you could fuck us over with that contract deal?”

  Simon’s jaw snapped shut as he tossed his sunglasses to the table. “Christ, we were protecting—”

  Deacon sliced his hand through the air. “No, you were covering your asses. Did you really think we wouldn’t figure it out?”

  Simon’s eyes blazed, but he remained silent.

  “Did you just think we were going to roll over and say...yeah, that’s fine? That it’s okay that my two best friends don’t give two shits about me, or Jazz, or Gray?”

  “We were doing what was best for the band.” Simon tipped up his chin to meet his gaze.

  Deacon stepped closer. “What you thought was right for the band. Or...wait, you weren’t thinking.” The words kept tumbling out. Everything he’d been stewing about for the last few days. He’d tried to quiet it with reason and even alcohol, but now the anger was out of the box. “Or maybe you were. Thinking about the fact that you and Nicky would have controlling interest in our band?”

  “That is not what it was about.”

  “Oh, really? Would you feel the same way if you were me?”

  “You didn’t start the band,” Simon snarled.

  “You were barely a band when I joined. You, Snake, and Nick were just banging out songs in the Fluff & Fold. You barely got enough money on the pier to cover a six pack of beer each night.”

  Simon’s fingers fisted at his sides. “Me and Nick wrote those songs. At the very least, the copyright on the lyrics were ours.”

  Deacon took a step back before plowing ahead. “So the compositions that I worked on for weeks—hell, for fucking years—don’t count for anything?”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “What about all the work Gray and I put into the studio?” Jazz broke in, her voice brittle. “And the new songs we worked on? This new album will be all of us. Not just the older songs.”

  Simon tipped his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t you get it? That contract was the best way to make sure the band stayed true to its roots. Why can’t you understand that? We would never fuck you over.”

  “The math sure as shit doesn’t say that to me.” Deacon’s chest heaved as he tried to tamp down the need to start swinging. "I'm trying to find us an alternative. That's what I’ve been doing. Though I hear you and Nicky are busy partying all over Los Angeles as if the deal's already done."

  Simon waved his piece of toast. "It is a done deal, you just haven't accepted it yet.” When Deacon barreled forward, Simon held up his hand. "It's just for the one—"

  "So help me God, Simon, if you tell me one more time that it's just the one album, I'm going to smash all of your teeth into the back of your head. It’s more than just the contract that’s wrong."

  Simon didn’t say a word, just bit through his toast insolently and chewed.

  God, Simon could be so infuriating. Nick would argue him into the ground, but Simon could wait him out with a bored look. The only one that incited Simon to violence was Nick. Then again, Nick pretty much had that effect on most people.

  Deacon tried to down the anger. It wasn’t helping this situation. “I have an option. And a proposition.”

  "And here I thought you were just playing house with Chef Girl. Oh, wait...you fucked up that relationship, too."

  "Honestly, do not test me, Simon."

  “What are you going to do?” Simon calmly put his food down. “Pound my face in?” He came around the granite island to the living room until they were nearly chest to chest. Simon tipped his chin up, his icy blue eyes blazing like the center of a flame. “Will that make you feel better?”

  Deacon looked down at him. And for a moment he wanted to do just that. To keep driving his fist into Simon’s pretty boy face until it was broken and bleeding. Then maybe the ugly anger inside of him would recede. But he knew it wouldn’t. It would only surge higher.

  And then he saw a flicker of something else in Simon’s cocky gaze. Guilt.

  Deacon’s shoulders heaved with the seething anger banked inside of his chest and his fists slowly unclenched. Simon wanted him to punch his freaking lights out.

  Jazz pushed between them. "Okay. Back off, both of you."

  Deacon didn’t fight her. The only hope they had was starting fresh. Guilt and hurt piled up into baggage that would ruin every aspect of what made them click so uniquely.

  God, they were all so fucking prideful, it was a wonder they got any music written. And Trident had played them effortlessly. The shitty thing was that they’d let them. The band was so fucked up and fractured that all it had taken were a few clever words to make them turn on each other. And in the end, the contract would be the only thing that mattered.

  For now.

  What no one wanted to think about was just how it would destroy them. All the shitty aspects of Trident’s contract would fester until the band was used up. And Trident wouldn’t give a good goddamn. They’d find another hungry band and do the same thing all over again.

  The ding of the elevator and Gray’s murmured, “hey,” broke the last of the tension living in Deacon.

  Gray looked between Simon and Deacon, and sighed. “Are we still fighting? Because if we are, can we stow it? I’m fucking beat.”

  “Where have you been?” Jazz asked.

  “Out.”

  “That’s not good enough.” Jazz moved in front of Gray. “You’ve been gone more than you’re home.”

  “This isn’t home. This is just a place to sleep.”

  “You don’t sleep,” Jazz snapped.

  “That’s why I’m not here. The noise in my head just gets louder here. I don’t even know why I bother. We’re just going to implode anyway. Another statistic.”

  Deacon’s eyebrow rose. That might have been the most he’d ever heard Gray speak at one time. With a frown, he saw Gray’s eyes shift all around the room, then land on Jazz and quickly bounce away.

  Jazz’s mouth dropped open and her wide blue eyes sparkled with a sheen of tears.

  Well, shit. Deacon slid a hand down her hair and hug
ged her into his side. Lashing out at Jazz was about as classy as kicking a puppy.

  Nick came bounding down the stairs, his hair wet and slicked back from his face. He went from a smile to blank-face in the space of a heartbeat. “So, we don’t need to replace the bassist after all.”

  Deacon’s shoulders ached with tension, but he wouldn’t rise to the bait. This was more than just hurt feelings now. This was survival plain and simple. “I’m not here for another verbal sparring session, Nick.”

  “Then what are you here for?”

  Jazz moved in front of Deacon and folded her arms. “Deacon’s found an alternative for us.”

  “Why would we want that?” Nick folded his own arms as he leaned on one of the breakfast stools.

  Deacon put a hand on a spring loaded Jazz. She was ready to fly across the room. “You said we didn’t have options. I found one.”

  “It can’t hurt to hear him out.”

  Deacon shot a surprised look over his shoulder.

  Simon shrugged and looked away. “No one said we’d change our minds. You did all the work; the least we can do is hear you out.”

  Had something he said actually gotten through? Deacon sighed. It was probably the guilt talking. Either way, he’d take it. Deacon moved around his little guard dog and went straight to Nick. “I got us a meeting with Donovan Lewis.”

  “Who the fuck is he?” Derision laced Nick’s voice.

  “Remember the hot blonde in the power suit that came backstage?”

  Nick’s pupils flared. “Hot blondes are always crawling around backstage.”

  Deacon knew he remembered. Not only had Lila Shawcross interrupted Nick in the middle of his pre-show blow job, she’d also left one helluva impression. Deacon had been on the receiving end of her particular brand of ball busting over the phone. Nick had seen it up close and personal.

  “I was doing my research about other labels when I came across Ripper Records.” Okay, so that was a little white lie, but he wasn’t sure the rest of the band would be receptive to his meeting with Johnny Cage. He cleared his throat. “Lila Shawcross, aka the blonde suit, seems to be a big wig there. She does everything from talent screening to management.”

  “And you picked Ripper Records, why?” Nick asked. “I’ve never even heard of them. What the hell are they going to do for us that Trident wouldn’t?”

  “They’re a smaller label, I’ll give you that. But they’re a well-funded one. Donovan Lewis is a big deal in the business world. He’s a money guy that takes chances with businesses, and from what I can see, in musical talent.”

  Nick pinched the bridge of his nose. “God, you’re grasping at straws, Deak.”

  “Ripper Records came looking for Rebel Rage. From what I’ve found out, Johnny Cage is signing a deal with them.”

  “Cage is a has-been. Trident dumped them because they weren’t performing. They want us because we’re winners.”

  Fuck him and his puffed-up chest. Christ, had Trident laced his cigarettes with ego and fairy dust? Deacon swallowed a flare of anger. It would only feed Nick’s need to argue things into the ground. “They also want to own us and the rights to our songs. All the promises of ‘just this first record’ crap is going to bite us on the ass.”

  Simon stepped forward. “It’s just a meeting, Nick. What’s the harm?”

  “What if it gets back to Trident?”

  The panic in Nick’s eyes shut Deacon up. “What did they say to you in that meeting? The one that me, Jazz, and Gray weren’t a part of?”

  Nick’s gaze tracked to the floor.

  Deacon gripped the edge of the counter. “I don’t care about that right now. I just want to know what they said to you.”

  Simon slapped the side of his thigh. “Jesus, Nick.” He turned to Deacon, Jazz, and Gray. “Jackson told us that signing would protect the band. He laid it on thick, too.” He stuffed his fists under his biceps until they bulged. “And the fact that it was about as thick as buttercream frosting, I’m finally starting to wonder why.”

  “Jackson warned us—”

  Simon whirled to Nick. “Exactly, he warned us off. Don’t you think that’s shady?”

  Nick speared his fingers into his hair. “So you want to take the chance? You want to lose all this?” He waved his hands around the spacious living room with the high end entertainment center and glossy kitchen.

  “It’s just a shiny cage, Nicky,” Jazz said quietly. “Don’t you see that?”

  “Maybe I don’t want to scrimp for food and live in the basement anymore.”

  Deacon dropped into one of the stools along the counter. “I don’t want to either, man. But I can’t sell my soul...my music for this. I just can’t.” He stood again. “Maybe we don’t have to. This meeting might be our way out.” Deacon kneaded his triceps. “I’m not going to sugar coat it. The chances that we get a place like this? Not likely. But living here is a perk at the moment. Who’s to say they won’t dump us to the curb the minute we’re done with the album.”

  Nick’s brows lowered. “What time is the meeting?”

  “Nine.”

  Nick nodded, then walked through the patio door and out to the loungers.

  Deacon just hoped that Nick was going into this with an open mind. Because the contract they had specified they had the apartment until the album was done. But the double penthouse in the heart of Los Angeles was too expensive to give to a bunch of kids. This definitely had the smell of executive perks.

  That was probably why he’d never felt comfortable there. And why he hadn’t truly unpacked since they moved in.

  Jazz came over to him and leaned her head on his arm. “At least you got him to listen.”

  Deacon wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Yeah. I guess we’ll see what’s what tomorrow, huh, Pix?” He looked down at her, but Jazz’s attention was on Gray. He was lounging on the couch, scrolling through his phone. Solitary and quiet as always.

  They were all so disconnected. Deacon could only hope the meeting would change that tomorrow. That they’d go in as a band of equals finally.

  Simon headed out to the patio after Nick. Maybe the two of them would actually talk about something other than the Trident deal. It was the only hope they had to keep the band together.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  September 27, 9:02 AM - Broken Road

  Deacon paced the length of the reception room. He tried to distract himself with the pictures on the walls, but he didn’t recognize half the people on display. Producers weren’t as recognizable to him without the names to go with them.

  Sort of like him. He was very much a part of the behind the scenes in Oblivion and he liked it that way. He could walk down the street a helluva lot easier than Simon and Jazz could. Well, for the most part. His height certainly made him more of a target than he liked.

  “Deacon McCoy?”

  Deacon turned away from the display to find Lila Shawcross standing in the center of the room. She wore a cherry red suit today with a slim skirt that went below her knees with strappy black shoes that accentuated all the curves she had at her disposal. She held an iPad, tapping at it efficiently before looking up and crossing the room with her hand out.

  “It’s nice to see you under better circumstances.” Her eyes twinkled and that almost smile was back.

  Deacon shook her hand, surprised at her firm grip. She seemed so soft and feminine. Before he could open his mouth, she turned to Gray.

  “Grayson Duffy, co-lead guitar, correct?”

  Gray nodded, but kept his hands in his pockets.

  She made a little hmm sound and moved on to Jazz. “Jazz Edwards, resident media guru. Deacon has sung your praises.”

  Jazz blinked. She tugged at the sleeves of her purple blouse then held out her hand. “I guess that’s me. I really just like to annoy the guys with my phone cam.”

  “No, you have effectively brought the band out of mediocrity and into stardom.”

  “Mediocrity?” Nick sto
od. “This is your wooing technique?”

  Lila leveled him with a patient look. “I don’t have to woo. You came to us.” When Nick opened his mouth, she held her hand up. “Nick Crandall, your reputation matches you in every way.”

  “Oh, really?”

  She nodded. “Brash, impatient, and insolent. It’s a good thing you’re so good at writing lyrics and music. Maybe professionalism will top that list by the end of today, hmm?”

  “I do not need this bullshit.”

  Simon clamped a hand on the back of Nick’s neck and held him still. “Don’t mind my band mate. His manners kick in around ten o’clock.” He held out his hand. “Simon Kagan.”

  Surprised, Deacon rocked back on his heels. It was a rare day when Simon reined in Nick.

  “Pleased to meet you Mr. Kagan.” She shook his hand then pressed her tablet to her chest and crossed her arms. “I’d like to take you through the studio before we meet with Mr. Lewis, if that’s all right.”

  “Can we skip the pony show? We just want to talk business.” Nick’s voice bordered on rude.

  Jazz stomped on Nick’s foot. “We’d love to see the studio. Through here?” Jazz, in her typical excitable manner, rushed through the door marked, “Studio”.

  Lila locked eyes with Nick, badass and unflinching. Nick didn’t shy away from her boring look, just smirked before sauntering through the door behind Jazz.

  Deacon stared at the ceiling. “God, give me strength.”

  “Not sure prayers are going to cut it with this group, Mr. McCoy,” Lila said as Gray and Simon walked ahead of her through the door.

  Deacon sighed. “I’m really sorry about Nick. He’s the one I need to convince the most, as you can see.”

  “And I’m here to help you. I think the studio will go a long way in doing so.”

  “I’m surprised you have your own studio.” Deacon held open the door for her.

  “That would be Mr. Lewis’s idea. If we can keep recording costs down, then it’s a win for everyone.”

  “Even though the output had to be in the hundreds of thousands?”

  “Millions actually,” she said and glided through the door.