by Quinn, Cari
It had looked like such a good opportunity.
What happened if he chose wrong again?
Donovan linked his fingers in front of him. “Look, I understand. You’ve been handed a line from everyone that’s talked to you I’m sure.”
Simon moved to the table and sat down, crossing his feet at the ankles. “We’ve been offered penthouses and money.”
“As long as you sign your life away, I imagine?” Donovan looked down at Simon, one eyebrow raised. “Under the guise of a forty page contract?”
Jazz turned to face him. “Sixty-seven.”
Donovan sighed. “Trident does love to bury people with legal jargon.”
Nick tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “And what makes you such an expert on Trident contracts?”
“Let’s just say I’ve had a few run-ins with Jackson Miller’s throwaways.”
“Johnny Cage?” Nick asked.
“I can’t speak on behalf of the men of Rebel Rage, except to say that they’re now on my label. But there are plenty of other bands and artists that have been discarded by Trident, as well as a host of other labels.”
“And why would you be so magnanimous?” Simon asked dryly.
“As I said, I don’t do this for the money.”
“Everyone does it for the money,” Simon shot back.
“Really? Is that why you sweat it out on the club circuit for years? For the love of money?” Donovan challenged.
“You’re not a musician,” Simon returned.
Deacon saw a flicker of understanding before the smooth smile took its place. “No, but I understand it and the nature of the business. I also know too many artists that have been lost in the shuffle. Oblivion isn’t a one album band.” Donovan walked back to Lila. He picked up five stapled packets and handed it to each of them.
Deacon flipped through the eight sheets of paper. It was a simple contract, with simple terms. The most important ones were the even split between band members for royalties and decision making.
“I still have to deal with lawyers, so there’s a bunch of legal terminology in there. I have a decent setup here, but I don’t have unlimited funds. I also don’t have the overhead that Trident does.”
“Because you own the studio space,” Deacon interjected.
“Exactly.”
Deacon flipped through the contract and zeroed in on the advance. It was healthy enough that they could find a decent place to stay and be comfortable. Not penthouse comfortable, but very well off by California standards.
“You’re a smaller label. Does that mean you still have the distribution power that a larger label has?”
Deacon looked over at Nick. Evidently, Deacon hadn’t been the only one doing a bit of research. A few of the final knots that had been living in his gut unraveled.
“Thanks to the other arms of my company, I have well-established contacts, both for marketing and albums. But with the internet, not too many people are actually buying in that format. I have other avenues for satellite radio and the new streaming platforms that are taking over.” Donovan steepled his fingers under his chin. “Most of the money you make isn’t going to be in the album. It’s the vehicle to get your name out there and on the road. Merchandise, special content through a fan club, touring, and endorsements are going to be your major moneymakers.”
“And that’s where I come in.” Lila came to stand beside Donovan. “We’ll work with you to build a brand—”
“A boy band brand?” Nick asked with a smirk.
“You may be young, but there’s nothing boy band about you as a whole. We’ll utilize the younger fan set, of course. Jazz rakes in both the teen and the twenties set with her exuberance and attitude. Simon definitely brings in the female viewership.” Lila’s eyes scanned over Nick. “You’ve cornered the sarcasm market and made it work for you.”
She turned to Deacon. “You’re a bit more difficult.”
Deacon shrugged. “I’m a behind the scenes guy. I don’t need to be out in front.”
“I agree.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know if it’s that you don’t have an ego or what.” She tapped her lower lip with her nail. “I just don’t know.”
Deacon smiled. “It’s okay, most people aren’t sure what to make of me.”
Lila sat down next to Gray. “And what do you want, Grayson? You haven’t said a word.”
“I just want to play. Minus the bullshit. I don’t give two shits about this crap. I want to write, I want to play, and I want to tour.”
Lila smiled. “Fair enough.” She stood again and took her spot beside her boss.
“I understand that you have some decisions to make. And if you want to return for a formal meeting with agents or a lawyer, we’ll set it up.”
“What’s our time limit?” Nick asked.
“There isn’t one.” Donovan dipped a hand into his pants pocket and retrieved a phone. He briefly glanced at whatever had popped up on the screen before tucking it away. “Unfortunately, I have another dozen meetings to deal with today. You’re in good hands with Lila, but I will be hands on if you decide to sign with us.” He inclined his head. “It’s been a pleasure.”
As silently as he’d arrived, Donovan Lewis left the room.
Deacon hadn’t expected to like the man. But there’d been a sincerity to him that Jackson Miller didn’t have. Jackson had been a player from the moment he’d come into the Blue Rhino to see them all those months ago.
Lila flipped the accordion lid on her iPad. She removed business cards from the small pocket in her jacket. “My numbers and email. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. I hope you’ll give Ripper Records a shot.”
Jazz and Gray stood. Jazz linked her fingers with Gray, drawing him over to talk to Lila. Nick and Simon were speaking quietly to each other. The meeting had gone far better than he’d hoped. For the first time, he felt good about their future.
As they filed out a few minutes later, the chatter had gained momentum. Laughter and snide comments were batted around between Jazz and Simon. Even Nick was smiling again. Gray was silent as usual, but even he was more watchful than blank, as he’d been for the last few weeks.
They stopped at a diner on the way home and poured over the contract. Simon and Nick argued about what they should do with the advance. Jazz and Gray huddled on one side of the booth talking quietly.
Deacon picked at his pancakes, pushing around links of sausage on his plate. Now that the meeting was over, exhaustion was setting in. Drunk sleep was definitely not real sleep.
Simon kicked him under the table. “Why are you all quiet?”
Jazz flicked his arm. “Leave him alone, Super Slut.”
Simon waved a piece of bacon. “Now that it looks like you got your way with the record deal, your dick’s back in a knot over Chef Girl, huh?” He chomped through the crispy bacon. “Forget her, man. There’s tons of chicks out there.”
Deacon’s fork clattered into the middle of the syrupy mess. He sighed and pushed the plate away. “I’m just beat. I’ve been in full on research mode for days.” He pinched the bridge of his nose where a headache was brewing.
“Right,” Nick said and laced his fingers over his belt. “Time to get her out of your system, and put your Demon hat back on. We’ll be in the studio non-stop.”
Deacon wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, dragging it in front of him. He didn’t want to talk about Harper. Even thinking her name made him want to go for a run until his brain emptied. “So does that mean we’re telling Jackson to take a swan dive?”
Nick pushed his hair out of his face. “I can’t fault you for looking elsewhere for a better deal. I honestly didn’t think we had a choice. Now I’m starting to wonder if Trident put out the word that we were sewn up into a contract so we didn’t get any other offers.”
Deacon tapped the edge of the cup. “I wouldn’t put it past them.”
Nick pulled the ever present cigarette from behind his ear. He rolled it b
etween his fingers, staring down at it intently. “I don’t know if it’s the smart thing or not, but that studio felt right. That’s all I know.”
“It made me want to play.” Gray’s low voice drew everyone’s attention to him. He shrugged. “I haven’t wanted to play for a while now.”
Simon flicked his hair out of his eyes. “Jackson’s going to shit kittens when we tell him.”
Deacon leaned back. “You and Nick enjoy that talk. Since you got the oh so great first meeting with them anyway.”
Nick winced. “Deserved that, huh?”
“You still deserve my drumsticks up your ass sideways, Nicky. But talking to Jackson will be a step in the right direction.”
Simon rolled his contract and tucked it into his jacket. “It was a shitty move, but me and Nick took the meeting thinking we were doing a good thing.”
“This is only going to work if we’re partners—equal partners,” Jazz said quietly. She looked at everyone at the table. “I want this to work. I wish you hadn’t taken that meeting, but all we can do now is try and get past it. This would be a good start.”
Nick nodded. “I sure am going to miss that apartment.”
“It’s too big for us anyway,” Simon said. “We’ll find a cool place.”
Jazz pulled out her phone, and they all groaned. “What? No, not a video. I’ve been looking at a real estate app on my phone. We’ve got enough money in the bank to get in the door at least. Then we’ll figure out the advance. Maybe even get some equipment.”
Deacon tuned them out as they looked at pictures and joked. He took out his own phone and flicked it to life. His picture with Harper made his chest ache. Before he could over-think it, he texted her.
Can we talk?
Thirty-Five
September 28, 12:08AM - Redeye
Harper stared at her cell phone, as she had for the entire take-off procedure. It was off, of course. The flight she was on still wasn’t on board with the new oh-hey-we-won’t-crash-the-plane-if-you-use-cell-phones rule of thought. But she didn’t need to have the phone on to remember Deacon’s text.
She hadn’t heard from him in days. And then that text.
Can we talk?
Nothing else. Just that.
And what had she done? Gotten on a plane.
She was an ass.
She was a dumb ass.
She was way, way past dumb ass.
This was some John Hughes movie over-the-top shit, actually. He could have been just checking in on her. Typical Deacon behavior. The guy worried about everyone else, it would only make sense that he’d make sure she was okay after she’d cut and run in the face of their first argument.
Oh, and then there was the career suicide. She couldn’t forget about that part. She’d actually called Meg and asked her to send a replacement to the tour. They’d had a two day layover in Texas of all places.
Texas—oh yes, Dallas, Texas—when she’d gotten the text from Deacon.
Hey, maybe she could blame this insanity on the residual orgasm hormones swimming in her blood thanks to the Texas air. She closed her eyes remembering Deacon’s strong arms holding her against the wall of a shack in the middle of a hurricane. Her nipples tightened under her t-shirt. For the love of dark chocolate, she was a damn mess. She grabbed the airline blanket from the pocket in front of her and whipped it out of its little plastic wrapping to hide behind.
Sweet Pete, she was sitting on a plane, getting ready to jet off from Dallas to Los Angeles because her recently jackass of a boyfriend—or was he officially an ex?—texted her. Oh, and the mere thought of him left her mildly high—okay, let’s just call it horny shall we, Harper Lee?—off the memories of the best orgasms of her life.
No big deal.
She was obviously losing her mind. The thoughts steamrolling through her brain certainly felt nuts. And it was all his fucking fault.
This was the moment where he should be groveling. He should be flying to find her and begging her to come back with him. Instead, one text, and she’d dropped everything to go to him. Never mind that she’d spent the last four days more miserable than should be humanly possible. Miserable because of one Deacon McCoy.
A musician.
See…this was why she should have run far, far away from him. Do not insert tab A into super stupid slot B because there will be nothing but trouble ahead. Even if tab A is a genius at orgasms.
And she was running back to him?
The four nights without sleep had to be to blame. Weren’t there studies out there that said extended periods of no sleep could actually make you insane? Maybe that was the reason that she’d opened his text and literally sat there for three minutes staring at it before opening her airline app and booking a flight within the same six hours.
Without texting him back.
Couldn’t forget that part. She’d been too chicken to actually reply to the text.
Because maybe he really had just been checking on her. Deacon was a sweet guy—when he wasn’t demanding that she put her career on hold for him anyway. It would be just like him to make sure she wasn’t dead.
And what was she doing now?
Putting her career into dangerous territory because she couldn’t go another day without him. She was the most pathetic excuse for an independent woman on the freaking planet. How had she believed she could go extended periods without seeing him? Or the better question was why couldn’t she?
She’d known the man for two months.
She’d been perfectly happy on the planet for twenty-two years without that blasted man. And now, all she saw when she closed her eyes were those stupid dimples and heard the echo of his deep, husky laugh in her ear as he wrapped his arms around her from the back.
Reason number one and two why she couldn’t shut her eyes.
Reason number three was definitely Deacon’s arms.
Now she actually didn’t know how to sleep in a bed without him.
The wheels of the plane rumbled over the runway as they picked up speed. And when her spine was pushed back into her seat as they accelerated and ascended, she pictured his tanned skin under her cheek as she snuggled into his chest.
Then the flight attendant’s voice crackled over the speakers, and her eyes flew open. No Deacon, and no warm skin under her cheek. Just the acrylic softness of the cheap blanket and her twisting stomach because she hadn’t been able to eat.
She was a chef. She loved food. She always had an extra five pounds to lose because she enjoyed sampling her own creations.
Loved feeding Deacon and eating off his fingers.
Holy crap. Just stop, Harper Lee.
She pulled the little blanket over her face and tried to block out the incessant drone of the engine, the movement of the passengers, the rickety wheel of the beverage cart. All of it sounded loud and in a few seconds she was actually going to lose it.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
The announcement that they could turn on their electronic gadgets left her weak with relief. She unclipped her belt and pulled her feet up onto her seat and wrapped her arms around her knees, then pressed her forehead into the little ball she’d created.
She took another long, deep yoga-style breath and dug her noise canceling headphones out of her hoodie pocket. With shaking fingers, she turned her phone on and hit play on whatever was handy.
The Black Keys.
Yeah, maybe not. She found her Matt Nathanson folder and hit shuffle. And listened to all of his songs twice by the time they landed at LAX.
But a handful of songs actually stuck, hard and fast. And the simple lyrics gentled all the jumping emotions trapped inside her like a pressure cooker.
She was here because she couldn’t not be here.
Funny how music would be the one thing that made sense, when it had been the main reason she’d tried so hard to resist Deacon. For all the craziness she’d been wrestling with since the first day, she’d actually let Deacon inside of her. Well, not exac
tly let him. He’d been really sneaky about it, the stupid giant.
She felt alive with him. Colors seemed brighter, food tasted better, laughter followed her and having someone be a part of her wasn’t so scary. At least when it was Deacon.
She scrambled out of her seat and grabbed her ruck sack from overhead. Three people swore at her as she flung it over her shoulder and headed out, but she didn’t care. She had one focus.
Telling him how much she loved him. Telling him how much she needed him.
For the first time in her life, she wasn’t afraid to show him that.
But it had to be face to face.
She ran through the airport to the blessedly short line of people waiting for cabs. Red-eye flights had one good thing going for them.
“There’s an extra fifty in it if you get me there as fast as possible,” she said as she rattled off Deacon’s address. At least she hoped it still was their address.
The driver looked over his shoulder, down at her bag and her exhausted face and nodded. “Can do.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” she said as she sat back into the lumpy seat.
It felt like it took forever to get there, but the cabbie was definitely breaking a few speed limits as he pulled up to the door of Deacon’s building.
“Are you sure this is it?”
“I know. It sure looks like I don’t belong, huh?”
The driver’s eyes crinkled in the rear view mirror. “I hope the guy is worth it.”
“How do you know it’s a guy?”
“I hope the girl’s worth it, then.”
Harper laughed and slid out, tucking the money through the window. “Thanks. Have a good night.”
She got to the door and wasn’t sure what to do. The band’s penthouse required a key. She looked around, but the night crew was sparse, and she didn’t recognize anyone. She could call Deacon. Ask him to come down.
But still…she wanted her first words to be face to face.
“Miss Pruitt?”