by Anthology
The size of him didn’t make her feel threatened. No, this was a whole different kind of threat. Every time she was in a room with Deacon her temperature skyrocketed. Right now, her nipples tightened under her sleep tank. No bra and full apron to give her another layer—another mask to hide behind as she did every other day.
Here and now it was only her stupid reaction to him. Even with the buttery, chocolate scents chugging from the oven, she could smell his cool, ocean scent with a light tinge of beer and…tequila?
She focused on his eyes, but there was no denying that this man was stone-cold sober. Of course, two-hundred and whatever pounds of muscle certainly gave him the advantage in tolerance.
She gripped the sink behind her. “You have that big, bad tour bus full of toys and anything you could ever want.”
“Sure, right now I do. And I’m thankful for everything I have in my life since our songs hit. But I’m not the spoiled, shitty musician like you seem to think I am. I’m still the same kid from Texas.”
“Texas?” Her hand slid off the sink in surprise. “I thought you were from L.A.?”
“I’m from a lot of different places, Harper.”
Do not melt. You will not melt at the way his voice curls around your name. You will not.
“I am too.” She hadn’t meant to say it. She didn’t give up a lot of information about herself all that often. Roadies had a code. You didn’t ask questions. You listened to stories if someone told you one, but you didn’t pry. Too many of them had walked away from shitty pasts. Some loved the road and the music and the work—like her brother, Randy, and like she did. But some were running from demons.
Deacon was close now. She could feel the heat coming off him like a coil in her oven. He tucked a hank of her hair around her ear. The calloused tips of his fingers coasted around the sensitive edge of her ear and she fought not to close her eyes and stretch for more contact.
But she didn’t need to stretch. He slid down her lobe and behind it to the soft skin there and along her jaw. “I’m from Austin, from Portland, from Tuscon, from Seattle, and Los Angeles is where my mom finally stopped. It’s a town full of assholes who will take care of her.”
His rough tone didn’t match his gentle touch. And she couldn’t help herself. That pain pushed through, and she cupped the back of his hand as he trailed down her neck to her shoulder. This wasn’t a sob story to get him laid. Not with that kind of pain in his voice.
“But I got out.” His gaze met hers again and his thumb traced along the column of her neck. “I got out because music got me out. And my friends got me out. And I’m thankful every single day.”
She curled her fingers around the palm of his hand. It was all she could really cover. But he didn’t stop stroking her neck or looking down at her. Yes, that flirty twinkle was gone, but what remained was far more dangerous.
She could hold out against flirting. Pain and longing was another form of warfare altogether. And as he lowered his mouth to hers, she didn’t pull away. She rose on her toes. Not that the three inches helped when he was so much taller.
But it was all he needed. He took the sign for what it was and brushed his nose along hers. That evil, wonderful, amazing thumb just kept stroking. His breath fanned across her face, and his ocean scent threatened to pull her under.
And the buzz of her timer jerked them apart.
“Shit,” she hissed. Saved by the buzzer. Holy sweet mother of Pete, thank God for the buzzer. She slipped under his arm and away from him to the oven. Butter and coconut and chocolate was a far safer scent than Deacon McCoy.
“I’ll let you have one if you’re good.”
He turned so his hip was resting against the sink and his arms were crossed over that mouthwatering chest.
Nope. Chocolate was delicious, not Deacon. Coconut and chocolate are delicious, she chanted in her head as she set them out to cool.
“What you can do is go to that fridge and get me some heavy cream and the Tupperware container marked strawberries.”
When he came back to the counter, the ghosts and intensity were gone from his eyes, and the light was back. All buttery gold in the dark green.
Holy crap, she was in so much trouble.
She reached under the counter and grabbed a clear bowl. “Behind you, in the pantry with the green and purple door—yeah, that one. Can you grab the powdered sugar?”
He opened the door and looked over his shoulder. “So does this make me a pastry chef too?”
“It makes you a helper monkey.”
He laughed. “Nice.”
She dumped in milk and the powdered sugar and hit the glass bowl with her beater.
“So that’s how you make Cool Whip?”
She clenched the side of the bowl. “You’re so close to getting kicked out of my kitchen.”
He leaned on the counter again and played with the container of strawberries. She forced her eyes away from his long, tanned fingers and inwardly swore when she put too much sugar into the whipping cream. She splashed more cream in and stopped when she got the stiff peaks she was looking for.
At least these were the peaks that were supposed to be stiff. She stuffed down the raging hormones and tingles that still were warping around in her system like the Starship Enterprise. From nipples to clit and back again, she was so overstimulated by not being stimulated she was going to need a hot shower and Big Blue to get to sleep.
Harper Lee, you could have Big Deacon instead.
Nope.
She plated two popovers, put a dab of whipped cream on each, and slices of strawberry as garnish.
“It’s too pretty to eat.”
She smiled. “You’ll want to eat it. Try a strawberry.”
“Why does it look all…dehydrated?”
“Just try it.”
He nibbled off a tip of one of the heart shaped strawberries and she couldn’t stop the giggle at his face. From frowny concentration, to pleasure, to surprise.
“If you bake strawberries it turns to—”
“Candy.”
“Pretty much. The natural sugars make it ultra-sweet.”
He popped two into his mouth. “Wow. That’s better than Gummy Bears any day.”
“Good to know.”
“This little Tupperware case is mine now. Just putting that out there.”
She swiped her finger through the whipped cream and scooped out a berry. The popover was going to be way too hot still, but the whipped cream and strawberries? Oh yeah. She set it on her tongue and let the cool texture settle in her mouth.
When she opened her eyes, Deacon was staring at her with those seriously intense eyes again. She cleared her throat and nodded toward the popover. “Go ahead.”
“Girl, if you’re going to do that through the entire process we’re going to have problems.”
“I’ll try to control myself.”
Deacon sliced through the crunchy, butter-soaked layer with straight white teeth.
And the groan he made stalled her breath.
“Oh, Harper.”
Not her name too. A groan and her name all in the same sentence. The level of not right was one for the record books. She had to admit she got off on making amazing food that people would love, but this was going too far.
The orgasmic notes in his throaty hum were no match for the bliss on his face.
Shower—a cold one—now.
“Okay, you’ve had your chocolate treat. Time to go.” She hooked her arm in his and dragged him down the length of the truck.
“Harper, wait.”
“Nope, I have to be back in the truck in less than four hours. I need some semblance of sleep.” She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. If she did, she’d crash with a chocolate afterburn that had Deacon McCoy all over it.
“Let me at least help you clean up. I’m a good dishwasher.”
“That’s okay, I have a system.”
“But my strawberries.”
“I’ll make you a batch all of your
own tomorrow, how’s that?” Eyes front and center on the door, she kept on dragging him along.
“Where’s the fire, girl?”
The slightest trace of Texas slid down her spine like liquid fire. “All good little rock stars are supposed to be in bed, or putting someone into their bed right now.”
“I’m more than happy to put you in my bed.”
And backfire city. “Yeah, well, I have work to do.”
“So, does that mean you’re game when the work is done?”
God, she wanted to look up at him. She wanted to drown in his deep green-gold eyes and let herself fall. But one night in his bed followed by four weeks of uncomfortable moments were not worth the price of admission.
“I’m not going to be one of your one-night stands, McCoy.”
He stopped and there was no moving him now. “Look at me.”
She stared down at her crystal studded flips.
“Dammit, Harper.” Two large hands cupped her face, and the tips of his achingly long fingers speared into the messy bun she wore. He gently forced her chin up. “Do you think all we do is fuck random women each night?”
She met his gaze. “Yes.”
He tilted his head slightly. “You must’ve known some real assholes.”
“I’ve been on the road for ten years, Deacon. I know exactly how this tour deal works.”
“Ten?” His eyebrows shot up into his unusually messy fall of hair. “You’re barely twenty.”
“Twenty-two, thanks.”
“My point is debunked how?”
She tried to jerk away, but he held her still. His tractor beam stare was implacable. “My parents were roadies.”
“And they raised you on the road?”
The shock and horror in his voice relaxed her. Unless someone had been raised in the circus, there wasn’t another lifestyle quite like a rock band’s tour. This kind of reaction she understood. She braceleted his wrists loosely when he didn’t seem to be inclined to move back. The reassuring flutter of his pulse under her thumbs lured her into an easy stroke along the wide underside of his wrists.
“They didn’t plan on it. Each of them would swap staying home from a tour to give me a stable life, but I was born with the same wanderlust they had. I loved the new towns, and even more I loved the rush when I visited my parents when they were in a town within driving distance. Neither of them could get enough of it. I could tell how restless they were when they had to stay home with me.” There was a light that was switched on in her mother and father when they were on the job. And it was addictive.
“One day I hid in my dad’s truck when he was leaving for a job.” She shrugged. “I was really good at hiding. And I was always tiny.”
“I can vouch for that. I could stick you in my pocket.”
“I’m not as tiny as Jazz.”
“True, but you’re definitely portable.”
She swallowed. Just the idea of Deacon picking her up and driving her into the wall, or propping her on the counter…nope. No, no, no.
“So, you snuck on the tour?”
She grinned. “I’m not claustrophobic—good thing because I spent a good six hours in one of the steamer trunks.”
He shook her lightly as worry etched lines above his brow. “You could have suffocated.”
“Nah, I was a smart kid. I picked the one with air holes. And it was Steven Tyler’s trunk of costumes. All slinky and soft with boas and those crazy pants he wore.”
“Your dad roadied for Aerosmith?”
“Impressed? That’s not even the big one. He was one of the best lighting rig specialists in the United States.”
“And he was cool with you just showing up on the job?”
She slid out of his grip when his steel-trap hands finally relaxed. He was just too big and too distracting. They were all the way to the end of the truck, so she sat down on the lip of the opening. “I scared the shit out of my mom by running off, and when my dad found me I couldn’t sit for two days.” She swung her feet, digging her palms into the metal edge. The pain reminded her not to reach out for him again.
It was far too easy to slide into his touch.
“I’d have tanned your ass too.” He jumped down to the pavement and leaned against the side edge of the truck, his arms crossed over his chest. In the dark, he was just a huge shape and a deep voice. Still overwhelming, but at least he was at a safer distance.
A voice was easy to deal with. The look in his eyes when he…well, anytime he was around her really was disconcerting.
This close to the parking lot she had no choice but to notice the music and the laughter, the lights and the dozens of people milling around. “It’s hard to be lonely when there’s so much life around you on the road. When I was in school, I felt so out of place. I was never homesick, I was always roadsick.”
“So this is your perfect life then?”
“Oh yeah. Waking up in a new town, a new landscape each night—what could be more perfect?”
He turned to the squeal of laughter that filled the night. The distant lights skimmed his profile with a hint of gold. His angular jaw and high cheekbones made him look a little older than his bandmates. But it was the hollows to his cheeks and the tiny muscle in his jaw that made her stomach flip and tightened her chest.
Tanned, broad-shouldered and more muscles than she could quote from her biology classes—Deacon was all man. Nothing like the boys she was used to at school. Even in his own band, there were stories behind each member’s eyes, but none of them crawled under her skin like Deacon.
She just couldn’t figure out what made him so special.
Maybe if she figured out that puzzle she could slot him where he needed to go and she could get on with things.
CHAPTER SIX
August 18, 10:00 AM - The Bus
The violent jolt lifted Deacon a full inch off his mattress and the resulting jaw-snapping crash back to earth earned him a tongue welt.
“What the fuck?” he heard from above him. Simon peeked his head into Deacon’s curtained off bunk. “Are we going off-roading or something?”
“Why don’t you go check?” Deacon rolled onto his side, facing the wall. It had been well after five in the morning by the time they’d cleared out the groupies. And he’d had to decontaminate the back of the bus at said five in the goddamn morning.
“Why are you so bitchy?”
“Stop banging chicks in my bunk.”
“My bed didn’t have sheets on it.”
“Jesus, Simon.”
“What?”
They had such limited personal space. What was so hard to get? “Just don’t put your skanks on my bed.”
“Well, maybe if you’d get laid sometime then you wouldn’t care so much.”
Deacon reached an arm back and pushed Simon out of his enclosure. “We’ve only been on the bus for two weeks. Don’t make me kill you so early.”
“Pissy fucking priss,” Simon muttered and hopped down. “Son of a—”
Deacon grunted when the bus lurched again and couldn’t help a smile when Simon obviously stumbled into the door to the bathroom.
“Sorry! Strap down back there, guys,” came a bellow from their bus driver, Joe.
Deacon slid his head under his pillow to knock out the hiss of hydraulics as Joe slowed to avoid whatever havoc was on the road. Sometime that morning their bus had started the four hour trek to their next city, Nashville. They had a two-day stretch there, with a show the following night.
That meant they had a night off. And he was more than anxious to actually see what was out there. More curious to figure out plans for the day than to try and sleep any longer, he hopped off his bunk and grabbed his bottle of water to brush his teeth.
Deacon quickly shucked clothes and climbed into the straitjacket sized stall for a quickie shower. He rinsed the last of the shampoo out of his hair and shut off the water that reminded him way too much of the well water of his childhood and toweled off. Simon was waiting o
utside the door.
“You didn’t use all the damn water, did you?”
“No.”
“All that fucking hair always takes too much water,” Simon groused.
Deacon jostled his way by and Simon slammed the door in his face. “Your hair’s almost as long now, buddy.”
“The hell it is,” Simon said through the door.
Deacon flipped his hair back behind his ears. Okay, so maybe it was getting to shoulder length these days. It wasn’t like they had time to go to get haircuts. Everything had happened so fast they’d barely had time to breathe and enjoy their new penthouse before they’d been rushed out to the studio then to touring.
He stashed his clothes in his laundry bag and unearthed shorts and a shirt. They were going to need to do a Laundromat run soon.
The bus rumbled over another bump, and Jazz poked her head out from her bunk. The purple curtain shimmered around her make-up free face. Her dark hair was in two pigtails missing the trademark streaks. “Seriously? Did we suddenly hit safari Death Valley or something? I had no idea the country was so dangerous.”
Deacon cracked his back, widening his arms to reach each edge of the bunk with a fingertip to stretch.
“Showoff,” Jazz muttered and ducked back into her purple palace.
Deacon finished dressing and padded into the main part of the bus. An army of orange and white reflective barrels flashed by on either side of them.
“Man, you weren’t kidding about the rough ride.” Deacon gripped the bar behind Joe’s massive seat.
“Roadwork as far as the eye can see. Goddamn summer. Every politician decides that’s the best time to fix the roads.”
Deacon huffed out a laugh. “We’re mostly up, so if you need some tunes to kill the monotony go ahead.” Nick could sleep through a symphony playing next to his head, and Gray was already up, hiding in his bunk, scribbling in his notebook.
CCR boomed through the front of the bus. “Bad Moon Rising” surely fit the landscape. Overcast skies with a sun trying to bleed through highlighted the ripped up blacktop. It was Joe’s wake-up call every morning. He’d been driving for bands all his life and didn’t take any shit from them. Deacon took down his Takamine and played along with “Have You Ever Seen the Rain”. Joe’s scratchy voice mixed with Jazz’s sweet one at the back of the bus.