4 Play

by Quinn, Cari

  Nick smirked. “Sure. We’ll go with the storm.”

  Deacon sighed. There was no way he was winning this conversation. “What song haven’t you guys done yet?” He needed to get an idea of the acoustics of the place. They weren’t important enough to have roadies, so they had to do all their own tuning and levels. He strummed his bass, surprised to find it mostly tuned. He fussed with the tuner knobs then moved to the equalizer rack. “Who did this?”

  Jazz hopped off her kit. “Me and Gray.”

  “Really?”

  She shrugged. “I know you always do it—”

  “No, that’s fine.” He scratched the back of his head. Nick and Simon never showed any interest, so it had been his job by default. Nick guarded his pedals with a militant meticulousness, but other than that Deacon took care of the sound system.

  “It sounds great.”

  “Gray’s a genius with that stuff. He used to take care of the gear for a few bands for extra money.”

  Deacon looked down at her. He couldn’t help but smile. Her purple-streaked hair was up in pigtails, and she wore yoga shorts and a cutoff t-shirt in deference to the ridiculous heat. Bright orange polish gleamed off her tiny toes which she was currently balanced on.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, but it’s good to know I’ve got backup.”

  She huffed out a relieved breath. “I’m learning. I know most of it, but Gray shows me something new every day.”

  Deacon’s eyes tracked to Gray. He seemed to barely show up on stage with them most days. When his fingers slid over the fret board and strings, he was so present, it hurt to watch sometimes. But then he got this faraway look in his eyes, and he was just gone.

  Nick and Simon were fighting over the setlist, as usual. Simon’s white Gibson was slung around his naked back, the neck banging against his knees. He could use a little sunshine, but at least Simon was toning up on the bus with free weights and a few yoga sessions with Jazz.

  Hell, even Nick was getting more relaxed on stage. He still disappeared with a groupie just before the show, but there had been no more instances of that stony stage fright from their club days.

  All in all, everything was as perfect as it could be on this tour. And now with Harper, he felt his own nerves and stress melting away.

  It was a damn good day and would be a damn good night. He leaned down and kissed Jazz on the forehead. “I think we should do ‘Ripcord’ tonight,” he said, loud enough for Nick and Simon to hear him.

  Nick peered around Simon. “Yeah?”

  “We haven’t done it yet. It’s a good, gritty song. Will go well with “Life”, and that will blend seamlessly with “The Becoming” to wrap up the night.”

  Nick nodded. “Good plan.” He turned back to Simon and they hashed out the first part of the playlist with only mild bickering.

  To kill the rest of it, he quickly strummed the opening bass line to “Countdown to Extinction”, and Simon whirled around and fluffed his hair forward. He dropped his voice into a lower register, and the Megadeth lyrics rolled off his tongue.

  A rare smile lit Gray’s face. He grabbed his Telecaster and went to stand beside Nick. They flew through a kickass guitar duel and Simon changed up the lyrics. They instantly fell into “Symphony of Destruction” and Deacon slapped his bass until it reverberated through the empty arena.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sin from Rebel Rage headbang his way through the aisle, do a kick that would do any metal maniac proud, and proceed to air guitar his way through the song. His waist-length hair fell forward in a slick blond curtain.

  Simon hammed it up and hopped down into the floor seats and met him in the aisle. They both sang the last verse together. Sin’s howl made the rest of them whoop and clap. Sin made his devil horns and slapped Simon on the arm. “Fuck yeah, man.”

  “We should totally jam that shit out one night.”

  Sin sobered, and his smile dimmed. “Yeah, man.”

  Deacon frowned. That was the fake smile. Most of the musicians he’d met over the years perfected it, but Sin sucked at it. He watched as Simon figured it out, and his posture changed from relaxed to the cocky front-man he defaulted to.

  Their lead singer stuffed his hands into his back pockets and rocked on his heels, his smirk in full effect. Rebel Rage’s bassist obviously made some sort of excuse to leave, and Simon jogged back to the stage.

  “We good?”

  Deacon nodded. “Yeah, we’re good.”

  Simon pulled his sunglasses over his eyes and flashed a smile. “I’m going to go find some pre-game fun.”

  Deacon glanced at Nick, but he was too busy lining up his guitars for the show. Eight songs, three electric guitars. His newest addition was a gunmetal Les Paul he’d picked up in Nashville.

  Jazz and Gray were huddled over the setlist.

  From shine to shit in five minutes. This was their first tour as an opening band. Plenty of bands toured together and jammed, but evidently the undercurrents he’d felt on that second night in the food tents were still in effect.

  He pushed his fingers through his hair and lifted his Takamine, boosting himself onto one of the waist-high amps. He picked out a few random notes then fell into a guitar piece he’d been working on for as long as they’d been together.

  The song was an amalgam of different points in his life, but it never felt finished.

  He’d tried simplifying the song, tried taking it apart and putting it back together, but nothing shook loose. But he couldn’t let it go. He didn’t know if it was because of the day he’d had, or if he missed home, but a little California bled into the melody. The soft strum, thump, strum was reminiscent of songs he heard on the pier. He wished he had his notebook on him. Hopefully he’d remember the order and be able to recreate it later.

  A steady clap filled the space.

  Deacon frowned, expecting a caustic remark from one of his band mates. They never let up on him and this song. No matter how many times he tried to get it down and out of his head, he played it constantly.

  Instead, Johnny Cage sauntered down the aisle. Gold-rimmed aviators shielded his eyes. Killian, one of Deacon’s personal heroes on the guitar, came down the aisle to the right of the center section of floor seats. Uneasiness pricked between his shoulder blades. Deacon stood, setting his guitar on the amp out of the way. “Gentlemen.”

  “Running late on the sound check, kid,” Johnny said dryly.

  “We got caught up on a cover song.”

  Johnny climbed the stairs. “More like you were playing one of your scavenger hunt games.”

  Deacon folded his arms over his chest. “They seem to work for us.”

  “We’ve noticed.”

  He cut his eyes to Killian, who climbed the steps on the opposite side of the stage. The itch intensified. He scanned the pavilion—none of the venue workers were around getting ready for the fans.

  It was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Deacon focused on Johnny. “We’re really happy to be on the tour with you. We haven’t gotten a chance to hang with you guys to show how much we appreciate what you’re doing for us.”

  “The label, son. Not us,” Killian said.

  “Right. But you guys had the slot open. We’ve been huge fans for a long time. This is a big dream come true for us.”

  “If you’re such huge fans, then you should be a bit more thankful. Showing us up on the fan club gatherings?” Johnny wagged his finger. “You don’t show loyalty by going behind our back to create huge events. You’re the opening act. And you haven’t been acting like one. Have they, Killian?”

  “No, they haven’t. One might say they were the definition of pricks, with egos they don’t deserve.” Killian kicked off his flips and lifted his chin.

  Deacon dropped his hands to his sides and widened his stance. This wasn’t going to be good. Being a fan of Rebel Rage, he knew a thing or two about the members of the band.

  Like the fact that Killian had been in the military
and was known to be a bit of a brawler. Johnny Cage wasn’t much better. Entertainment headlines were filled with the band’s exploits. And Killian and Johnny were the worst offenders.

  He just never thought he’d be on the receiving end of their particular brand of initiation. Or, in this case, a little power play. He should have seen this coming. Hell, he had seen this coming but he’d been too wrapped up in Harper lately.

  “Look, gentlemen, there’s no need for all this.”

  “Nervous?” Johnny smiled, but there was definitely no humor in his eyes.

  “I don’t want trouble. Both of us have shows tonight, and I know from experience that it’s a bitch to play with busted ribs.”

  “Oh, so you’ve had a beatdown before?” Killian rocked back on his bare heels.

  “I lived near Sunset,” Deacon said with a shrug as he slowly positioned himself so they couldn’t surround him.

  “Huh,” Killian said thoughtfully. “Well then, that’s something. At least we’ll have a little fun.”

  “You need to understand that this is our tour.” Johnny advanced. “And there’s an order to things.”

  Deacon managed to duck through the first swing, but even in a semi-crouch, he was a big target. He couldn’t avoid Johnny’s knee on the upswing. It hit him perfectly in the solar plexus. Air whooshed out of his lungs, and the stunning pain made it hard to take a breath.

  Then there was a fist in his face. Goddamn guy had a stone fist. Deacon went down on one knee and finally managed to drag in a breath.

  “Glass jaw. All the pretty ones have ‘em,” Johnny said to Killian. He grabbed a handful of Deacon’s hair and dragged his head back.

  A warning punch and a good sock to the gut was one thing. And Deacon would’ve been willing to take his licks for the band, if that’s all it was going to be. But the anger he saw in Johnny’s dark eyes told him this wasn’t going to be a warning.

  This was going to be a good and proper beating.

  “Please don’t,” Deacon warned.

  “Aww, listen to him beg.”

  Johnny pulled back his fist, and Deacon wrapped his hand around Johnny’s a moment before the punch connected with his jaw. Deacon jerked him forward, using Johnny’s momentum to knock him off balance.

  Johnny crashed into the stage, skidding across the floor on his chest before getting tangled up in some cords.

  With shallow breaths, he clutched his ribs. “I got the message, guys. There’s no need for any more of this.” Deacon carefully rose to his full height.

  Killian hopped from foot to foot and hunched in battle style. Deacon clenched his fists at his sides, but didn’t mirror him. Maybe if he could diffuse this, they’d all go back to their busses with their egos intact.

  Johnny recovered and grabbed Deacon by the arms, holding him still. When Killian swung, Deacon caught the tiny shift in the man’s swing and managed to twist enough that his shoulder took the brunt of the shot.

  Deacon jammed his elbow into Johnny’s ribs and ducked when another of Killian’s fists came flying. This time it connected with Johnny, and he went down behind him with a string of curses.

  Deacon hoped he’d stay down for a minute, but he couldn’t check. His worry was Killian.

  Fury spiked in Killian’s dark eyes, and Deacon wasn’t able to avoid the double hammer blows to his ribs. “Fuck,” he hissed, finally throwing his first punch. The bloom of pain vibrated through his knuckles.

  Killian stumbled back, blood gushing from his nose.

  “I don’t want this, man. Honestly.” Deacon shook the fuzz from his head at the two shots he’d taken. He didn’t like to fight. Never liked to fight. Ever since that one night, he was so careful not to. “Walk away.”

  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.

  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. Bi
tchy 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.