by Anthology
Killian swiped the blood away, and the next series of jabs landed into Deacon’s ribs. When a kidney blow came from behind, he lost it.
He didn’t care what he was swinging at. Deacon connected with a jaw, throat, ribs. Johnny got a good few punches in, but when Killian held up a hand in surrender, Deacon dropped his fists. Killian’s face was already swelling. Blood streamed from a cut above his eye and along his cheekbone to match the rivulets flowing steadily from his nose.
Johnny was curled on his side, breathing heavy.
“Someone call an ambulance!”
Deacon heard voices, but didn’t know where they came from. In the rush of the adrenaline, he finally heard her. His name in a panicked tone. He finally broke his gaze away from the two men and looked out into the sea of seats.
Harper. All he could see was Harper running down the aisle toward him.
He staggered back and collapsed against the amplifier.
“No ambulance,” Killian said and slowly rolled to his knees.
“Definitely no,” Johnny said with a slap on the stage floor.
“What the fuck?”
Deacon recognized that voice. The Rebel Rage manager. Then he heard the whiny, high-pitched scramble of apologies from Gordo.
Deacon met Johnny Cage’s gaze and nodded when the lead singer of Rebel Rage shook his head. Unspoken fight rules engaged. No cops, no charges. It was over.
At least for now.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
August 20, 5:08 PM - Scraped Raw
One of the catering staff had shouted “Fight!” and Harper had followed everyone out of the food tent. The guys from Rebel Rage could be pretty volatile. She’d already seen Killian and Jett go at each other. But then she’d heard Deacon’s name. And him curled on the stage. Then all she remembered was running.
Where had all these people come from? She pushed forward, snaking her way through security people, gawkers, staff. She was tiny, but there were way too many people to push past. Her chest felt tight as her pulse kicked up.
He was fine.
He was too big to be anything but fine.
Simon probably just said something stupid and they got into it a little. Simon was forever pushing his buttons on the bus.
“Shit, they called for an ambulance,” she heard someone whisper.
When the muttering turned to a loud murmur, she started pushing. “Deacon?” God, had she yelled that? She couldn’t tell. All she could hear was her heartbeat slamming against her skull.
Why wouldn’t they let her through?
“Harper! Over here.”
She craned her neck toward the familiar voice.
“I can walk on my own, for fuck’s sake. I’m not a fucking invalid.”
She came to a halt and tipped her head back with a laugh. “Jesus.”
Thankful that Deacon was a full head taller than most of the people there, she saw him head toward the bus.
“Harper!” Jazz pushed her out of the crowd. “He’s okay.” She patted Harper’s arm. “C’mon, let’s go see, huh?”
“No—I uh…You guys are fine.”
Jazz grabbed her hand and pulled her forward. “We’ll beat them to the bus.” Because they were both small, they were able to circumvent the crowd and get inside the bus.
“Sit down,” Jazz said. She reached under the couch to a cabinet and grabbed a bottle. “Here.”
Harper looked down at the whiskey. “No, really. I’m good.”
“That shaking hand says you’re not.”
Harper sighed and uncapped the bottle of Maker’s and took a belt. Fire scorched down her throat followed by the smoky flavor she didn’t particularly like. “Next time, tequila.”
Jazz laughed and stuffed the bottle back under the bench as the guys stomped their way into the bus.
“Would you stop!”
Harper’s lips twitched. Deacon sounded much better. Grouchy rock star was better than the one she’d been imagining. She shook her head to get that image back where it belonged—in the past.
Simon and Nick rushed onto the bus first and spun around to help him up the stairs.
“Next one who tries to hold my arm like I’m an old lady is going to bleed.”
Harper let a full blown smile free at that one. Bitchy male, she could deal with. “Over on the couch, big guy. Let me patch up that pretty face of yours.”
“Only his mama would call that pretty,” Nick said absently.
“Not mine,” Deacon said with a wince as he lowered himself to the couch.
Simon slapped Nick on the back of the head and a whole conversation happened in silence between them, judging from the looks they exchanged.
She’d known that Deacon hadn’t come from a great home life, but surely it couldn’t be that bad?
Jazz bustled out of their little bathroom with a plastic makeup bag covered in neon purple skulls.
Deacon stared at the bag then at Harper. “You are not putting makeup on me.”
Harper laughed. “Not that a little guyliner wouldn’t be hot, but no.”
His eyebrow winged up, and a thin line of blood trickled down his temple from the cut he’d just reopened.
Jazz handed the bag to Harper, who dropped to her knees in front of him and ripped open a medicated wipe. She stared at her hands. No, you will not shake. “You’re a hot mess.”
He circled her wrist gently, waiting her out. Finally, she managed to look at him. Cuts over his right eye and left cheekbone, a bruise already ringed his swollen eye, and the collar of his t-shirt showed splatters of blood.
“I’m good. I’ve done far worse.” His voice was low and easy. For her benefit, no doubt.
She lifted her chin. “You’ll see worse from me if you get yourself banged up again. You know I had plans for you tonight.”
His lips quirked up at the corner. “Don’t I know it?”
Nick made a disgusted noise. “He’s obviously not that bad off if his focus is banging the hot chef.”
“Hey,” Deacon said sharply. “Lift a clue and find some manners, asshole.”
Harper swallowed a laugh and dabbed at the well of blood at his eyebrow. He hissed and pulled back. “Baby. Suck it up, Killer. I need to get you pretty for the stage.”
“No fucking makeup.”
The dark certainty in his words lightened her mood considerably. The idiot was fine.
“What the hell was that all about, D?” Simon crossed his arms, tucking his fists under his biceps.
Deacon winced and pulled away from the antibacterial wipe again. “I’m fine.”
Harper unzipped Jazz’s bag and unearthed the small scissors. “You talk, I’ll tend.”
“I’m not a child.”
“Then stop acting like one.”
His jaw snapped tight and a muscle ticked in his cheek, but he didn’t move away. She calmly cut butterfly bandages for his more pronounced wounds.
He sighed. “I’ve had a bad feeling for a while, but thought I was overreacting. Evidently, I should have listened to my gut.”
“What does that mean?” Nick paced the length of the bus, his fists jammed into his jeans.
“Cage and Kemper were sending a bit of a message.”
“And they went two on one? What kind of fucking cowards go after a man like that?”
“One that was going for a message, not a brawl,” Harper said before she could stop herself.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Simon asked.
Harper sat next to Deacon, pushing him against the back of the couch so she could take advantage of the light streaming into the bus from the huge windows. She tagged one end of the skin of his eyebrow with the tape and pulled it closed. When he tried to jerk away from her, she grabbed his chin. “If you keep moving, I’m going to cut your hair with these scissors instead of making you bandages.”
The low growl in his throat only served to put her in a better mood. She kind of liked grouchy Deacon. He was always so even-tempered and patien
t. Twice now, she’d gotten him riled up.
Just what else could she get him to do with a little prodding?
“Anyway,” Harper went on, “I’ve been doing this touring gig for a long time.”
“I thought you were a chef,” Simon said and tipped back on his heels.
“I am. But I was a roadie most of my life.”
“How cool is that?” Jazz bounced on the couch. “I will require stories when it’s a better time.”
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.
CHAPTER 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 Night”. 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.