Fall in Love

by Anthology

  “Absolutely not,” Roman said around a hunk of steak.

  “Good, then Gordo won’t yell at us for at least half an hour.” Jazz popped a strawberry chip into her mouth, her eyes rolling back in ecstasy. She loved them just as much as Deacon did. In fact, they fought over every batch that Harper made.

  Lunch was a mix of shop talk and war stories from run-ins with the press and crazy models. Gray wandered back to the bus with Nick. Simon and Jazz were still deep in story mode with Roman. Deacon took the opportunity to finally talk to Harper.

  She smiled up at Deacon when he got closer. Her summer sky eyes twinkled with easy humor. “Hey, big guy. Did you have enough to eat?”

  “Everything was great.”

  “Then why are you making frowny faces?”

  He shrugged. “I’m a little worried about fucking up in front of all these people.”

  She laid a hand on his chest. “You’ll do great. You guys have been practicing and sound amazing.”

  “It’s thirty-fucking-thousand people, Lawless. We’re just figuring out how to handle a regular stage, but this?”

  “If you start doubting yourself, of course you’re going to screw up.”

  “Thanks.”

  She laughed and wrapped her arms around his waist in a rare public hug. “Time to put on some attitude, a layer of bullshit, and fake it till you make it, baby. You think you’re the only one to freak out here?”

  He shook his head.

  “When you slip that bass on, and the Demon side of you comes out, there’s nothing you can’t do. I’ve watched you for weeks now.”

  She rarely mentioned the musical side of him. He’d caught her watching the odd soundcheck and saw her in the crowd some nights, but they were too busy cramming every moment together into their downtime to talk about his music.

  She pushed him back. “Now, go get ready. I gotta work.”

  He leaned down for a quick kiss and took the long way down to the busses, avoiding the food tents and trucks to clear his head. Tonight, he’d wear his new leathers, he’d play, and he’d make sure they didn’t waste the extended set.

  Opportunities were opening up for them, and he had to keep it together for all of them.

  After a smooth soundcheck, they all took a little bit longer to get ready for the show than usual. Everyone was excited to have something new to wear.

  In fact, Deacon was pretty sure he was going to burn his stage jeans after the tour. He couldn’t get the sweat stains out at this point.

  Deacon went down to the arena early. He liked to watch the seats fill and the eclectic mash-up of fans that made up an audience. Some were there for the cool factor, some for the music, and some just to drink.

  All were still fascinating. The one thing he couldn’t get enough of on tour was the stage. Under the lights, he usually only got to see the first dozen rows of people.

  Tonight, the front rows were filled with women in their nightclub best. Pink, silver, black, and the odd flash of gold were the dominant colors.

  And purple.

  He paused on a woman with upswept blonde hair and a power suit that was more boardroom than concert attire. Not that people didn’t come to a show after work, but those women usually lost the blazers and made the most of the silks and lace they wore underneath.

  This woman was poured into the royal purple suit with a cinched-in waist. She wasn’t afraid of her curves, she accentuated them. She looked as cool as a spring morning despite the humid night. Rather than eyeing the crowd, she directed her attention on the tablet she held. It was just a little bigger than a phone and her stylus never stopped moving over the screen. When she turned, a lanyard swayed over her midsection.

  Ah, that made more sense. Was she from Trident? She was certainly as polished as Jackson Miller. He’d pulled the same sort of power trip with the suit when he’d come to see them at the Blue Rhino.

  Deacon scanned the crowd for Miller, but the woman in purple seemed to be alone. His phone buzzed in his pocket followed by an insistent chime.

  Time to work.

  The crowd hummed with renewed excitement as he climbed the couple of stairs to the stage. He ducked behind a speaker, waved once more before disappearing backstage.

  “There you are!”

  Deacon tugged on Jazz’s glittering green pigtail. “What’s up, Pix?”

  “Nicky’s freaking out a bit.”

  “Oh, hell. How come?”

  “Some suit came backstage. Seriously hot purple suit, actually. Anyway, she blazed through just as he was getting his—um, nightly rehearsal session.”

  Deacon rolled his eyes. Nick should probably just a hire a goddamn fluffer from a porn set. He was ridiculous with his nightly routine. Willing female for a makeout session, seven minutes on his own in a room to do God knows what, and then he snuck on stage before anyone else.

  He was like a damn ball player in the playoffs. No deviations, no changes, or he flipped.

  “Which part did she interrupt?”

  “The finish line.”

  Deacon winced. He didn’t understand the superstitious need for Nicky’s routine, but he could empathize with the blue balls. He’d been sporting a pair since lunch.

  “Speak of the devil,” Deacon muttered as Nick came flying down the narrow aisle between the guts of the stage electronics and the trunks of instruments. “You okay, Nicky?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Deacon nodded. Excellent. This was not fucking happening. Their first night with the extended set, and Nick was going to melt down. “Look, man, what do you need?”

  “Nothing. Fuck off. I’ll figure it out.”

  Deacon plowed his hand through his hair and stalked down to the closet they called a dressing room. Simon was leaning into the mirror, smearing on eyeliner.

  “Where’s your flask?”

  Simon turned, one bright blue eye lined in soot black and the other his normal, girly-lashed one. “You need a nip, Deak? That’s not like you.”

  “Not for me.”

  Simon turned back to the mirror to do his other eye. “It’s in my bag.”

  Deacon turned to the three black duffel bags that held a change of street clothes for each of them after the show. He dug into the first one, finding khakis and a smudged two-by-two mirror. He frowned at the mirror, but rezipped the bag.

  The next was full of black clothes. Bingo. He dug to the bottom and found the silver flask that was actually full. Either Simon had just refilled or he wasn’t hitting it as hard as he usually did in the middle of the day.

  He zipped the bag and stood. “Nick is having a meltdown.”

  Simon shrugged into his leather jacket sans shirt. “Ah, fuck.”

  Deacon handed him the flask. “You usually do better when he’s in asshole mode. He just gets more angry with me.”

  Simon sighed, uncapped the flask, and took a sip. “Reinforcements needed for this job.” He screwed it back on and headed out the door.

  Deacon took a minute alone to situate his own clothing. He slid his palm down the new armbands that would hold the sweat off his bass and cushion his forearm from the constant rubbing against the knobs and dials he messed with all night.

  Gray opened the door and slid in. “Hey.”

  Deacon nodded as he came in and went right for his duffel. Gray grabbed it and headed for the showers.

  Alone again, Deacon stared into the mirror. From the outside he looked normal. A bit bigger now. But everything else felt different.

  He wasn’t sure what to do with the hopeful feeling that was twisted around the foreboding. Did he trust the hopefulness or the wariness that was cropping up?

  He was tired of thinking about crap all the time. He just wanted to know if they were getting a contract. He wanted to know if Harper was on board with more than a six week bang-a-thon.

  From the moment he touched her, he’d known it was more. Part of him wanted to tell her, but the part that didn’t include his cock knew that she’d bolt. Getting
her away from this environment would be the real test anyway.

  Could they live in the regular world together, or was the road why they were working? A stolen hour here and there was easy to live through, especially when most of the hours included nonverbal communication.

  His body still thrummed with the memory of her hot little body writhing against his outside of the pavilion. Watching her let go was one of his favorite things in this crazy life.

  She made him feel alive and strong, in control and spinning out of control at the same time. But he wanted a king size bed and a week with her.

  If she took the job with Food Riot, she might be on the next flight out for another tour. She was too talented not to get scooped up by someone, even if she decided to turn down Food Riot’s contract.

  He just had to hope she’d find room for him in their crazy life. Studio work was his immediate future and that was dependent on how fast the guys wrote. It wasn’t just Simon and Nick anymore. There were five of them now.

  A thump on the door put an end to that case of overthinking. Time to kick ass on stage.

  “Gray!”

  “Yeah, I heard it. I’ll be out in a sec.”

  Deacon left the dressing door open, following the raised voices to the side stage.

  “Find me a fucking cigarette, and we’ll be fine!”

  Deacon sighed and went back into the dressing room for his bag. Gray was just coming out, stuffing something into the liner of his duffel. Deacon frowned, but another bellow from Nick quickened his step.

  Gray simply raised one eyebrow.

  “Nick’s having one of those days.”

  “Ah.”

  Deacon unearthed the baggie of emergency cigarettes he kept at the bottom of his bag. Nick had quit smoking, for the most part, but then there were days like today. It was easier to let Nick think they bummed cigs from the roadies to feed his tantrums than to let him know they were so readily available.

  When he got back, Nick was pacing, snapping his lighter loudly. Jazz had both sticks in her hands, and it looked like she was wishing they were knives.

  Simon sat on one of the trunks and swung his feet as he calmly sipped from his flask.

  On the next turn through Nick’s tight circuit of pacing, Deacon stepped forward with his palm out, a Marb in the center.

  “Fucking finally.”

  Deacon rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome.”

  Nick flashed flame over the end of the cigarette until the end bloomed with his inhale. He blew smoke skyward, and Deacon saw his shoulders visibly relax.

  Gordo came out with his iPad, but quickly veered off backstage when he saw the plume of smoke. It only took five and a half weeks to learn, but he finally knew to stay away when Nick was in this state. Mostly because Gordo was a handy target. Nick didn’t have a problem blasting their pocket-sized manager with an arsenal of creative curses.

  “Three minutes,” a roadie bellowed.

  “I just wanted to say I’m looking forward to seeing your set tonight.”

  Deacon turned at the sound of a woman’s voice. The power suit gir—no, girl definitely didn’t fit. She was all woman. There was no girl lurking behind those wide aquamarine eyes. She stood in four-inch heels which only accentuated truly amazing legs and compact curves.

  Nick’s shoulders tightened again, and he blew smoke straight into the woman’s face. Instead of waving it away, the corner of her lips tilted up in an almost smile. She simply turned on one perfect heel and headed back out to the audience.

  “Who the fuck was that?” Nick asked.

  Deacon shrugged. “She had a VIP pass. Maybe a Trident person checking on us? She said she was going to watch our set.”

  Nick stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his boot. “As if tonight wasn’t going to suck as it is.”

  “No.” Jazz tapped her drumsticks against Nick’s chest. Not a gentle tap, either. “This is just like any other night. Just like last night when you did that awesome embellishment on ‘Breaking It Down’. This is no different, only new faces.”

  Nick lifted his chin, his Adam’s apple working as he swallowed. He didn’t say a word. He turned to the guitar tech holding his Honeyburst and hit the stage.

  Jazz sagged. “Nicky is going to be the death of me one of these days. That or I’m going to just deck him one.”

  “He can take a punch,” Deacon said with a smile.

  Jazz grinned up at him. Lime green hair, black yoga top, and her new pink leather made for a combo that only she could pull off. She twirled her lime green drum stick and threw herself against his chest.

  Deacon took a step back, but brought his arms up to give her a hug.

  “I’m so glad you’re our normal one.”

  He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. He’d never own up to it, but Jazz hugs were the best medicine. He hadn’t even realized he’d needed one. “Enough of this girly shit.” Making the decision to kill tonight, he smiled down at her. “Let’s change the cover to ‘November Rain’.”

  “And into ‘Too Still’?”

  He nodded. “I’ll let the rest know. Time to kick ass tonight, Pix.”

  She ran out on the stage and did a back flip up onto her kit. The crowd roared. When Nick’s growling opener to ‘Ripcord’ blazed through the pavilion, Deacon knew it was going to be a damn good night.

  Fifty-five minutes later, they poured off the stage. Sweat dripped off every angle of his body. Deacon hauled Jazz up on his shoulder, and her squeal of joy followed them all into the small backstage area for food at this venue. They fell on the table full of bottled water, watermelon, and Oblivion’s preferred platter of simple sandwiches like wolves.

  Harper was nowhere to be found.

  Deacon tried to ignore the fifty pound rock that had instantly formed in his gut and gave his body the fuel it needed. The stage, his workout, and the fucking rabbit food they’d had for lunch left him at a deficit.

  Jazz and Gray were talking animatedly as three paper plates of watermelon were demolished. Simon and Nick had collapsed into a loveseat pushed against the wall. Simon’s chest still heaved from the killer blend of acoustic and electric version of “Too Still” followed by “The Becoming”. But he’d nailed it.

  And the crowd had lost their minds.

  They’d gone over time, and Rebel Rage’s manager was probably going to rip three layers of skin off of them tomorrow, but for now, it was perfection.

  He wanted to share it with Harper. And she wasn’t fucking here.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  September 11, 1:47 AM - Wild

  Harper cracked her knuckles—again.

  The bus was in full-on afterparty mode. The roof rack was decked out in purple lights and Jazz and Nick were holding court in lawn chairs. Jazz was waving around a drum stick like a scepter and lifting her red Solo cup to make decrees.

  At least, that’s what it looked like from her truck.

  The rest of the parking lot was dark. Audience members had long since been shuffled off by security, and the leftovers were the groupie set and a few regulars that even she recognized.

  Oblivion certainly inspired a rabid fan base.

  She should be over there. She only had six days left with Deacon and she’d been avoiding him. Mitch’s words pinging around her brain were bad enough, but now she could see it in his eyes every single time they were together.

  He’s forever, Harper Lee.

  She flexed her fists, feeling the pop of tendons and the chaser of tension climbing her arms into her shoulders. She didn’t want forever. She wasn’t ready for forever.

  And yet, there she was, leaning against the Food Riot truck watching for his wide shoulders. Scanning the crowd for the stupid beanie he wore after a show no matter what the temperature was.

  Her heart slammed against her chest when she spotted him. Orange beanie tonight. The stretched out hat was sliding down the back of his head thanks to the heavy waves that were always trying to escape.

 
; The night was cool enough that he wore a plaid over-shirt. Warm brown and khaki colors accentuated his shoulders and tapered down to his waist where the tails hovered over his belt. His shoulders and arms were tight with muscle that made the fit just a little too small.

  His whole body was amazing. And it was hers. She’d touched every ridge of muscle, every line of ink, and every patch of freckles.

  Her nipples tightened in reaction. He’d be hot to the touch with spice on his skin from his soap. Cedar and the sea swirled in her memory. She couldn’t ever get enough of breathing him in.

  And she was across the damn parking lot when she could be wrapped around him like a vine. He liked when she climbed on him and showed him how much she wanted him.

  He waved at a trio of women that had gotten signatures on whatever it was they were holding. They were giggling with each other because of him. Because of her man.

  No.

  Yes.

  She shut her eyes to block out the longing that clung to her skin like smoke. When she opened them again, he was climbing on the bus. And her feet were carrying her across the parking lot.

  Six days.

  Not enough time.

  She waved at Jazz, who was deep in conversation with the girls that had just spoken to Deacon. Real fans, not just the kind that wanted to get on the bus.

  Oh, what, like you?

  She ignored the voice in her head, taking the stairs two at a time. The bus was dim, leaving only the runway lights on at the front. But it was enough to see that someone was on the couch.

  Two someones.

  A woman arched back, a groan filling the main cabin. Bare breasts swayed in time to the avid thrust of her hips. For a moment her heart stopped.

  Not Deacon.

  The guy was too small to be Deacon.

  When she flew down the aisle she heard Simon’s dark laugh and the woman’s obvious enjoyment of her ride on the lead singer of Oblivion.

  Deacon’s bunk curtain was shut, but she could see the faint glow of light at the edges and hear the tinny overflow of music from his headphones. Before she could think better about it, she kicked out of her sandals and let her jeans puddle around her ankles leaving only a stretched out tanktop.