by Quinn, Cari
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.
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.
She peeled back the Velcro to see him sprawled out on his back, arm over his head reading from his Kindle, easy as you please. Was she the only one dying for his touch? Was she the only one wound up with no way to find a release valve?
He dropped his arm, turning those wild forest eyes on her. His chest was bare, the sheet low on his hips to show off a pair of soft boxers.
Soft and inviting, Deacon was there for the taking. She wanted the bold and crazy half of him that had been in the shed that day in Dallas. She didn’t want to think about the emotions she saw barely banked in his gaze. Because she knew they mirrored her own.
“I didn’t think I was going to see you tonight.”
She didn’t comment. Instead, she took his e-reader, tucked it into the little cubby above his head, and tugged on his headphones until music filled the bunk. At least this part echoed what she was feeling inside. Driving drums and soaring guitars matched the blood that raced inside her, that felt like it was going to burst out of her.
For once, she wanted space instead of their little cocoon. She wanted to ride him until the buzz under her skin was released and her brain could reengage.
She sealed her mouth over his and thrust her tongue inside his mouth. Her nails bit into his shoulders as her hips ground against his thigh.
“Harper—”
She cut him off with a scrape of teeth along his lower lip and across his jaw until she got to his ear. “I need you, Deacon. I need not to think, not to remember how many days we have left, not to analyze.”
He fisted his hand into the back of her hair and dragged her back until their gazes met. His chest heaved, and his eyes blazed for her.
She dug in deeper along the ropey muscles of his shoulder. “I need—” She wasn’t sure how to say it. She sawed her teeth over her bottom lip until she felt the answering throb of blood rushing under her skin.
His other hand gripped her waist, and slowly eased. He was always so gentle with her and she loved that part of him, but there was no gentleness inside her tonight. There was only a terrifying need to gorge herself on him.
And she wanted the wild Deacon.
He dragged her mouth back to his as he cupped her breast. His other hand moved from her hair down to her waist and into her panties. He tucked himself into the wall and turned her so she lined up with him, her back to his front.
She ground her ass against him restlessly. Spooning was her favorite thing to do with him, but not right now. She tried to roll over but he stopped her, his huge hand splaying across her belly.
He dragged her up until his chin was tucked into the space between her neck and shoulder. With his other hand, he tugged on her nipples. He twisted and plucked at them until the burn of the ribbed tanktop gave her the first taste of the less careful Deacon.
She cried out as one pinch came a hairs breadth away from pain. Then his palm slid lower and those long, elegant fingers delved inside her panties.
He tugged at them and she quickly helped to get them off. With his one hand playing with her breasts and the other softly opening her, she was at a loss.
She moaned his name. He must have heard the complaint in it. And he laughed.
She twisted on top of him, the back of her thighs brushing his hardness. He held her tighter, thrusting two fingers inside of her. “I want it hard and fast.” She squirmed as another pinch pushed her closer to the crazy edge of pleasure and pain.
“You’re so small, Harper. I have to make sure you can take me.”
“Of course I can.” His fingers slid in and out of her, making her crazy. God, couldn’t he feel how ready? “I’m wet enough. Now get inside me.”
“Not wet enough,” he said low against her neck. “Not nearly wet enough for what I want.”
She panted. God, yes. Did he finally feel it too? The need to not be careful with her?
She wanted the unleashed
Deacon that she’d had in a summer storm. With a burst of strength she wasn’t aware she had, she lowered herself until her ass cupped his rigid shaft. She rolled against him again and again.
He palmed her, the tips of his fingers dragging up the tanktop to bare her belly, then her ribs, and finally the lower curve of her breast. The chuff of his breath tickled her neck.
Undulating against him, she felt the tip of his cock peek over the top of his boxers. She scratched over his hand that held her hips too still. Urging him between her thighs until their stacked fingers teased her swollen folds. God, she was slick enough to take both his first two fingers and her own.
“Inside me, Deacon,” she panted.
He growled into her ear, “don’t move,” and his hand was gone. Her hand was soaked and she couldn’t stop herself from stroking over her rigid clit. “Jesus, Harper,” he gasped into her ear.
“This should be your hand, you filling me up,” she panted as she dipped two fingers inside her pussy.
“Fuck,” he snarled as he fumbled above their heads. The sound of condom packets scattering should have been funny, but she was so wound up, all she could focus on was that he still wasn’t inside her.
“Hurry,” she gasped.
“If you come without me,” he warned.
The tear and snap of latex was the sweetest sound, and then he was there. Surging inside her with relentless strokes.
“Yes,” she groaned. “Deacon.” She pushed back on him restlessly, his wide chest so solid and perfect behind her back. She slid one hand behind his neck, laced the fingers of her other hand with his at her hip and held on. He banded his arm around her middle, holding her flush to him as his strokes grew harder. Her abs burned as she took every inch of him.
He opened his knees, gripping her inner thigh until she was spread over him like a blanket and all of her was exposed. Her teeth rattled with each jarring thrust and all those frenetic atoms under her skin began to settle.
This was what she needed. He was all power and basic need underneath her. She slapped her hand against the ceiling of his bunk and took all of him again and again. The scratchy texture of his chin burned against her neck and then his hand was cupping her breast, plucking at her nipple. All the while, he plowed into her like a piston.