by Anthology
He crashed onto his back, the cool tile sizzled along skin, but God it felt good. He curled onto his side, hissing when he clunked his throbbing head into the bathtub, which caused a chain reaction to his queasy stomach.
With a groan he sat up, then held his breath and put his face into the bowl again. When the last of the bourbon came up, he wished for death. He stood, the room tilting as he grabbed the counter. He knocked over the shampoo and conditioner bottles, pushed away the soap, and found the little bottle of mouthwash. After rinsing his mouth of the first layer of foulness, he stumbled back into the room he’d been staying in for the last two days and collapsed onto the unmade bed.
A few minutes later…or was it hours? His phone keened out a whistle at top volume.
“What in the fuck?”
He fumbled the phone and it landed on the floor. The FaceTime app popped on his screen. Hell no. The only one that FaceTime’d him was Jazz, and he didn’t have the energy for that.
He squinted as he leaned off the side of the bed, expecting to see Jazz in all her pink glory, but it was a blocked number. He reached down to hit ignore and missed.
“Shit.” He tried to get his hair out of his face to see and a stunning blonde filled the screen.
“Have I caught you at a bad time, Mr. McCoy?” Her wide, full mouth twitched, but remained impassive. Her eyes, however, danced.
He frowned. That face was familiar.
Oh, God, no.
This was not happening.
Deacon scrambled up and scooped the phone off the floor. He turned to see the two bottles on the bedside table as well as an open pizza box.
Holy fuck. He bounded off the bed to the small chair beside the window. “I’m sorry.” He pushed his hair back and prayed there wasn’t puke on his face. “Ms. Shawcross?”
“In the flesh. I took a chance that you were calling from an iPhone since it seems to be your media of choice on the web.”
Her shrewd eyes took him in, but if she was judging, he couldn’t read it.
“I’m sorry.”
“So you’ve said.”
He swallowed down the need to apologize again and realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He wasn’t sure which would be better. More of his face close up or showing off his shoulders. “Do you think I could call you back when I’m presentable? Or maybe switch to just audio?”
“I like to see my potential client’s face when I talk to them. And I only have five minutes Mr. McCoy. Tell me I didn’t waste my time calling you.”
“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Give me thirty seconds.” He dropped the phone and grabbed a shirt out of his bag. He did a quick spot check to make sure he didn’t have eye-crust or lip crust and picked up. “Okay. I’m—”
“If you apologize one more time, I’m hanging up.”
He lifted the phone so his face was straight on. “I’d like a meeting to discuss possibly working with Ripper Records for Oblivion’s first full length studio album.”
Her blue eyes assessed then she nodded. “Direct. I like direct. What’s your agent’s name? I’ll set it—”
“No agent.” She opened her mouth, and he knew the standard rejection was coming. He hurried on. “I’d like an informal meeting. No contracts, no band, just you and I.”
One slim blonde brow rose. “Why?”
Taking a gamble, he said, “I got a shit deal from another label and I’m looking for options.” When she didn’t say anything, he took a steadying breath. “I want better. And I want to prove to my bandmates that we deserve better.”
“And you think you’ll get it with Ripper Records?”
“I do. I’ve done my homework. I know that you’re a smaller label, but you’ve already signed two up and coming bands that have been lighting up the charts. The production is flawless, but not overdone. The media campaign is smart, but I think Jazz—our drummer and marketing guru—could take it to another level. I think we’re perfect for a growing label. We have an established sound and fan base, but we’re ready to push ourselves for even better.”
“Quite the elevator pitch.”
Deacon swallowed down the bile that threatened to climb up his throat. Nerves and a hangover were not a good team. “I believe in us and our music.”
“Is that why you’re hungover, or possibly still drunk, Mr. McCoy?”
He leveled his gaze on hers. “My deadline is October first.”
“So you’re desperate?”
He tightened his hand on the phone. “I’m not desperate enough to sign a shitty deal, Ms. Shawcross. Wouldn’t you lose a day to a bottle if you thought you were going to toss a contract away in hopes that you could find another one?” She didn’t need to know that more than half his bender was over a woman. It was too pathetic for words.
“So you’re turning down Trident?”
Deacon drew in a breath. “It’s not just me that has to make that call, but I’m leaning that way, yes.”
“Good. They’re sharks and they’d chew up Oblivion until you were less than the paper flakes I use to feed my fish.” She smiled. “Meeting done, Mr. McCoy. I think you need to clean yourself up and bring you and your band down to the studio at 9:00 AM sharp. Oh, and you’ll be meeting Mr. Lewis. A hangover is not advised.” Then the screen went blank before fading to black.
Deacon slumped back into the chair. His hand shook as he tossed his phone onto the bed. He tried to process everything that had just happened and couldn’t think over the roaring in his head. He crossed the room and unwrapped a glass, re-filling it and gulping down the contents three times before his jittering stomach let him take a breath.
A meeting.
Finally.
He scraped his hands through his hair and turned to find his phone. He needed to call Harper and—his breath stalled.
No.
No, he didn’t have Harper to call.
His chest ached and his guts cramped. He leaned forward and put his head between his knees. Christ, how the hell was he supposed to pull himself together enough to convince everyone to go to this meeting?
How was he supposed to fight for his band when he couldn’t even fight for her? He could still hear the words that came out of his mouth running around his brain. No amount of alcohol had been able to shut those memories down. Even now, he wanted to reach for the bottle.
Which is why he wouldn’t.
He stood and shook off the cycle of words. He couldn’t fix what happened between him and Harper, but he could fix his band.
If he could get them to listen. He picked up his phone and flicked it to life. “Jazz?”
“Deak? Oh, thank God. Where the fuck have you been? Don’t you ever do that to me again. Do you hear me? I can’t take that kind of heart attack.”
“I’m sorry, Pix. I needed some time.”
“I get it. Are you okay?”
He sighed. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
“No, I mean really okay?” She hesitated, then made a little sound of distress. “Harper was here. She cleared everything out and left.”
Deacon pinched the bridge of his nose. Part of him had hoped that she’d be there at the penthouse. He knew she wouldn’t be. Not after their blow-out. The chances of her staying for him were slim to oh-hell-the-fuck-no, but he’d still kept a tiny piece of hope alive in the back of his head.
“By your silence I’m going to say you fucked up?” she asked.
“Did she say anything?”
“No.” Jazz’s voice lowered to a husky whisper. “She’s too classy to badmouth you.”
“Fuck.”
“Deacon, you gotta come home. I can’t take this alone. Nick and Simon are in full on party mode. Like we’ve been given the keys to the kingdom with sacks full of money.”
“Where’s Gray?”
“He’s always going out and won’t let me go with him. I’m going bonkers here by myself.”
There was no accusation in her tone, but he felt it anyway. He’d left Jazz to field this alone. And he�
��d wallowed in a pity party that was a lesson in stupidity. Everything was falling apart around him.
But now he had one chance to make things right.
One chance to see them through the end of this tunnel of suck and find an alternative.
“See if you can round everyone up tonight. Ask them to stay in until I get home at least.”
“Nick and Simon haven’t even come downstairs yet. I’ll see if I can find Gray.”
“Good.” He stared at the ceiling, pushing back the useless worry. He had a game plan and a shot at fixing this clusterfuck. He needed to focus on that. “I’m back, Pix. We’ll figure it out.”
“I sure hope you have something awesome up your muscle-stretched sleeve.”
He laughed. “I think I just might.”
“Get home. Pronto.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Her voice gentled and cracked. “Thanks for not leaving me, huh?” He could hear her swallow, then she whispered, “I couldn’t take that.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Jazz. I promise. Go take one of those epic bubble baths, and I’ll be home before you’re through.”
“I can get on board with that plan.”
“See ya soon, midget.”
Deacon moved to the dresser and plugged in his phone. He made quick work of stacking up the proof of his two-day descent into asshattery. By the time he was finished, the shame weighed as much as he did.
Disgusted, he headed into the bathroom to shower off his mood. Ten minutes later he was stuffing the last of his meager belongings into his duffel bag. He left a twenty on the bedside table to make the cleanup less growl-inducing for the maid and hit the ground running.
He stopped for a drive-thru burger to calm his hungover stomach. The trip from downtown to their penthouse ate up another half hour. By the time he pulled up to the valet, he felt marginally human. The only good thing about his solitary bender was that no one else saw him fall apart.
Will opened the door for him with a smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. McCoy.” He ducked down, his smile bright. “No, Miss Pruitt today?”
Deacon’s chest tightened. “No. No Harper today.” His voice didn’t crack. Even if his entire rib cage felt like it was going to.
“Well, tell her I said hi.”
“Right.” Deacon forced his lips into a smile and gathered his things. He was on auto-pilot to get through the lobby. A few faces he recognized got half-hearted smiles, and then there was blissful silence in the elevator. He had a band to worry about, a contract to figure out, and asses to kick. What he didn’t have time for? His love life.
He firmly shoved Harper to the back of his mind as he strode off the elevator. As soon as he walked over the threshold of the living room, a bundle of purple and teal leapt into his arms.
“Shit, Pix, let me put my stuff down.”
Jazz wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held on. “I’m so glad you’re back.”
He walked to the sectional carrying everything, including Jazz, and sat down with her on his lap. She curled into him, and he could feel tears against his neck. With a sigh, he rubbed her back. ‘I’m sorry, Pix. I didn’t think.”
“It’s okay. I know you had stuff to deal with.” She sat back on his lap, her arms still looped around his neck. “Where’d you go?”
“Long story.”
She glanced over her shoulder to the stairs. “No one is awake yet.” She turned back to him. “Did you and Harper break up?”
He scrubbed his hands over his face and dropped back against the cushions. “I don’t know, Jazz. Honestly.”
“If you don’t know, that’s not a good sign.”
“I know. I fucked up.” As soon as he said it, he knew it was true. He’d held on too hard. He heard himself saying every stupid thing he could possibly blurt out during their fight, and yet he couldn’t stop himself. All he could focus on was that she was leaving.
“I can read it all over your face.” Jazz tapped his cheek. “Beard, blood shot eyes, with circles under them, I might add. Let me see.” She caught his chin in her hand then let go and tapped him none too gently on the forehead. “You pulled a stupid card. A stupid guy card, didn’t you?” She climbed off of him.
He pushed his bag and laptop down the couch then folded his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She rolled her eyes. “Deacon, you moron. I expect these things from Nick. Simon generally doesn’t keep a girl around long enough to actually learn their last name.”
“What about Gray?” Deacon grumbled.
“I don’t even know what Gray is doing. I never see him with a girl. Fuck, I never see him, period.”
Deacon leaned forward. “What do you mean?” Gray was definitely living up to his nickname of Ghost lately.
“Oh, no. We are not getting off topic to talk about Gray. He’s just off working at his old job again.”
“Why would he go back to transport when things are going well with the band?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe just to fill some hours. Or he misses his old crew.”
Deacon wasn’t sure she actually believed what she said. Not with her eyebrows all frowny when she was usually all smiles. He sat back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “All right, what’s really going on, Pix?”
She plopped into the middle of a cushion, sitting cross-legged. “I already told you. And I’m not going to let you throw the healthiest relationship this freakshow of a band has away on something stupid.”
“It’s not an easy fix.”
“Why?”
“Because her job takes her on the road, just like mine.” He dropped his hands onto his lap with a slap. “And I won’t see her for the next five months.”
“Nope, that’s not an easy fix.” She covered one of his hands. “But it’s not an impossible one, either.”
“It is when I shoot off my mouth and tell her my career is more important than hers.”
Disappointment lit her tired blue eyes. “Oh, you didn’t.”
Deacon squeezed her fingers back. “Oh, but I did.”
One perfectly arched dark brow rose. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”
“No, of course not. I just…” he trailed off. I’m a moron. I’m a fuckhead. I’m an idiot. I’m a selfish bastard. “I just haven’t figured out how to make it work yet.”
“Good, because then I’d have to kick you in the junk in the name of womanhood. I wouldn’t want to, but there’s these rules…”
“Gee thanks.”
She shrugged. “Just sayin’.” She leaned forward and laughed when he covered his crotch. “Your boys are safe.” She kissed him on the cheek. “You are going to have to grovel. Probably with jewelry.”
“Harper’s not really the jewelry type.”
“True. Maybe buy her a super expensive mixer or some shit.”
He laughed and dragged her in for a tight hug. “I love you madly, Pix.”
“Yeah, I know.” She laid her cheek on his chest and fisted her hand under her chin. “One person I’ve never doubted, is you.”
Deacon smoothed his hand down her hair. A week ago, he’d have said the same thing about Simon and Nick. Now, nothing made sense. He wished he could blame everything on Snake’s reappearance, but there’d been a fissure within the band long before that. It had been covered up with the fun of their first tour and a growing fanbase.
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 settin
g 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?”