Wicked Serenade: a Lost in Oblivion Collection

by Quinn, Cari

  Harper had been hoping for a break in the nervous Nelly act she had going on, but as usual Jazz was in full social explosion mode. She was pretty sure Jazz had singlehandedly created the Oblivion phenomenon just with Twitter and YouTube.

  It was impressive as hell.

  She wandered back to Deacon and slid under the table. “How are you doing?”

  “It’s not fun, but after a while you get used to the burn.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Nah. Just determined. And it’s cool as fuck.”

  She laughed. “Finally the truth is out.”

  “I have my moments of ego.”

  “Yeah, but you were embarrassed to yank off your shirt for the crowd of people. Who’s going to see it?”

  “Oh, I strip on stage. Those lights are fucking hot. I just don’t do it as often as Simon. Usually by the end of a show.”

  “Well then.” She hadn’t seen that when she’d taken a peek at the show yesterday. And she needed to eject that from her memory banks now. She was already riled up past the point of reason.

  “Since we’ve got time to kill, tell me about Harper.”

  “Harper is boring. Tell me about you instead.”

  “Nope. You can find out half of my stuff on Google.”

  She stretched out on her side and propped her head on her hand with a yawn. “I just got out of culinary school. Most of the chefs I know went for restaurants or bakeries and here I am on the road.”

  “You could work at any restaurant. I know the stuff you feed us is way more simple than what you could be doing.”

  “Yeah, that’s true. But I’m not all that great at dealing with egocentric chefs that are going to tell me that I don’t know how to slice a tomato.” At his raised brows, she laughed. “I worked in New York for one of my internships and you should have heard the things that came out of this guy’s mouth. When he slapped my ass on one of my shifts, I kind of…”

  “Decked him?”

  She pressed her lips together. A bit worse than that actually. “Let’s just say he had a bit of a limp and I had a pink slip.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah. Misogyny doesn’t usually bother me. I’ve been on the road for as long as I can remember and have been called every derogatory name in the book—”

  “That’s shitty.”

  “Yeah well when you’re a female roadie you deal with other roadies, musicians that created the definition of grabby, and then there’s the fans that don’t like being told no.”

  “I wish I could touch you right now.”

  “Move and I’ll kill you, Romeo,” Casey muttered. “It’s bad enough I have to listen to sappytime stories and flirting.”

  She sucked a laugh between her teeth and smiled up at him. Deacon wrapped his hands tighter around the makeshift handlebars at the top of the chair. Casey was working from the bottom up.

  “Normal people could move,” she teased. “But you are one big road map of muscles. One move and everything moves.” It was hotter than hell. The few times she’d gotten her hands on him she could definitely prove that as a truth.

  “Damn rowing machine.”

  She slumped onto her back and covered her face with the inside of her elbow. Now she had rowing in her head too? Life really wasn’t fair.

  “I have a question.”

  “Okay, muffles. What’s the question?”

  She rolled back into position. “What on earth are you doing with me? Shouldn’t you be looking for the next triathlete? I can barely run across the parking lot.”

  “You’re full of shit. You’re in shape.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yoga and swimming when I can. I need to be small in the kitchen. You saw Mitch.”

  He snorted. “That is one scary dude. He threatened to leave me in a downtown back alley this morning.”

  “What?” She sat up. “No, he didn’t.”

  “He warned me off of you.”

  “Ugh.” She covered her face with her hands.

  “Yeah. I told him I couldn’t do that.”

  She peeked between her fingers. “What? Really?” That did sound more like Mitch than the guy that sent Deacon after her at the bar. “And you’re still alive?”

  “He told me where you were, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, he did.” And that was a miracle in itself. Mitch had taken his role of watchful uncle to heart as soon as she’d gotten on this tour.

  “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “How did you go from threats of violence to getting my location, Deacon?”

  “Sorry, state secrets.”

  “Okay, Deacon,” Casey interrupted. “I need a stretch and we’ll set you up to sit for the next half of the session so I can do your upper back and shoulders.”

  Harper slid out from the little nest she’d made under the table and stood. “Holy crap.”

  “How’s it look?”

  His skin was slightly raised with irritation, but the black ink was glossy with what she guessed was triple antibiotic ointment, at least she thought it was based on the mediciney smell. The art followed the line of his spine, and the knife-like precision of the lines were amazing. It was all male with a taste of tribal influence. The design was obviously made for his body. This was no page out of a book. And all of it made her want to touch and stroke each line.

  So not like her. Tattoos were nice enough, but they didn’t invite her to touch—at least not until Deacon. Actually a lot of things were different when it came to Deacon.

  “Harper?”

  “What? Oh, yes…it’s gorgeous.”

  “Good.” He took her hand and crossed the room.

  “I thought he was only taking a stretch—”

  “I don’t care. I need a few minutes away from everyone.”

  “Oh. Well, I can do that. Want me to be the lookout?”

  Deacon caught her around the waist and hauled her into the bathroom. He slammed the door shut by shoving her up against the steel door. She didn’t have time to do anything but gasp as his mouth slammed down on hers. She hooked her arm around his neck, fisting his hair.

  With his delicious back currently off the menu, she was limited in what she could touch. She ripped her mouth away, her breath stuttering. “What the hell, Deacon?”

  “I’ve been watching you crawl around that fucking floor underneath me for two goddamn hours.” He raked his teeth over her bottom lip and down her chin to her neck. “A camera watching my every move.” He curled her legs around his hips as he lifted her to meet his touch. “Having to stay still and listen to your husky laughter, trying not to react to the way you’ve been watching me, the way your mouth works…Christ, Harper.” When his tongue swirled low behind her ear, she actually felt her eyeballs roll back into her head.

  Spikes of want that had been simmering since the bar were now off any seismic chart she could imagine. The fact that he’d been just as aware of her the entire time made the lust she’d felt in the bar pale in comparison to this. She could hear his heartbeat, could feel it pounding against his breastbone and thudding into her own. It matched her own jackhammer pace.

  As lean as he was, he was still so much larger than her and her legs could barely hang on. He shifted until one hand palmed her ass and he tipped her just so. “Tell me to stop, Harper.”

  Stop? Was he nuts? She looked around at the graffiti art that gilded the walls in silver and gold over matte black. The mirror across from the door ratcheted up the sex factor to Fantasy Island the Return. He was actually grinding her against the door and she was loving it.

  Well, she’d love it a bit more if she could just—oh, God. His hand slid into the back of her jeans, cupping her cheek tightly. She reached down and unzipped her jeans so he could bury those long, elegant fingers deeper. She watched his back muscles flow, the tanned flesh corded with sinew and the tentacles of black art that crept up from his waist to his middle back. His hips dipped into a roll that made her insides liquefy. God, was that her makin
g those keening noises?

  Did she care?

  The friction from the front, the long night of teasing, the days of wanting him, and his questing fingers shoved her from the honeyed buzz of warmth and fuzzy brightness to orgasm like a switch. The cool metal of the door on her ass as he finally managed to slip two fingers into her made her arch and fist his hair. The only way she could stop herself from screaming was to sink her teeth into the dense muscle where his shoulder met neck.

  He hissed and caught her mouth as he rolled his hips ever slower, her name that same litany of whispered longing from before. Murmurs that matched the undulating rhythm of his hips until her orgasm faded out like a star at dawn. He smiled into the kiss with a low chuckle.

  “What are you laughing at?” she asked on a wheeze.

  “I kinda like that you branded me because I made you come so hard.”

  She pulled on his hair, but his laughter was contagious. She couldn’t even care that she’d just dry humped him against the door. Not with an orgasm like that.

  Nine

  August 19, 3:48 AM - There's Tired and Then There's Tired

  Finally Casey rolled his chair back. “Stand up for me and let me make sure it’s all cool.”

  Deacon rolled his shoulders and stood.

  “Arms out for me.”

  He followed orders, clenching his hands into fists. “You’re killing me.”

  Casey grunted. “It’s done when I say it’s done.”

  “Does that mean sit back down?” He tried to keep the whine out of his voice. It really wasn’t manly.

  “No more torture. You’re good. Go ahead and take a look before I bandage you up.”

  Deacon headed right for the mirror as the two camera guys hopped up to follow him.

  Casey handed him a mirror so he could check it out in full. “As you can see, it covers your back pretty thoroughly.”

  “Shit yeah, it does.” The work was stunning. Deep blacks faded to grays making the original tribal design more three-dimensional. There were purple lines mixed in from the original design that had been placed.

  During the process of the tattoo Casey had changed it. Made the lines thinner in spots, thicker in others. It was a damn blueprint of his body. Finely rendered filigree rode the length of his spine. It reminded him of pen and ink drawings of intricate patterns done for a coat of arms.

  On the whole it looked like layers of metal work coming out of his flesh.

  “It’s fucking phenomenal.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this for free? This is a thousand dollar tattoo.”

  “I’d probably charge more like fifteen hundred, but who’s counting?”

  Deacon laughed. It would hurt his ready cash, but he’d pay it.

  Gladly.

  Casey came up behind him with a bottle with some sort of green solution in it. “Nah. I’ll be taking pictures of this bad boy, though, and you’re definitely going to be an episode of ‘Wilde Side Studios.’ Oh, and I’ll need pictures after it’s healed.”

  “You got it.”

  “And my aftercare instructions are important, so listen up.”

  “Shit. I’ll need someone to help.”

  Casey glanced over to the couch. “Better wake up the babes. Jazz will be handy to do it when your girl isn’t around.”

  His girl. Deacon couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face at the idea of Harper being his. She’d probably try and deny it like she did earlier, but it was definitely a true statement.

  Deacon walked over and crouched beside Harper. He tucked her hair behind her ear and traced the back of his knuckles along her cheek. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

  She drew in a deep breath but settled right back into the oversized sweatshirt pillow. He slid his hand into the back of her hair, letting all the silky softness slide around his fingers and tangle around his wrist.

  What he wouldn’t do to grip that a little tighter and draw her into him for a kiss. But the camera was rolling and he didn’t want to push himself on her yet.

  It had been a long and confusing day. They’d gone from platonic to tongue tied in a single day. And as much as he’d wanted to kiss her stupid the first time he’d laid eyes on her, he didn’t want to test his luck on camera.

  A guy had his pride.

  “Harper, wake up.” She moaned and tried to turn over, but he held her in place. “Wakey, wakey.”

  “Not that I don’t love the mushy Deacon voice, but shut up, dude.”

  Deacon looked over at Jazz. She still had her eyes closed, even though she was obviously awake. “Tat’s done, Purple Pixie.”

  “Finally,” Harper murmured. “But that doesn’t mean you need to stop the little neck massage thing,” she said on a low moan.

  Christ, the woman was going to kill him before the night was over. “The artist has instructions for aftercare. I thought you might like to hear them, since I intend on bugging the hell out of you to help me out.”

  “Is that right?” Harper opened one eye. “And what makes you think I’ll do that?”

  “You can’t wait to get your hands on me?”

  Jazz snickered. “I’m sorry,” she waved, “just ignore me. Please do go on.”

  Deacon rolled his eyes. “I’m enlisting your help too, midget.”

  Jazz’s eyes popped open. “I get to manhandle the mansterpiece?”

  “Down girl,” Harper muttered.

  “Oh, I know it’s your mansterpiece, but I gotta admit to wanting to get a feel.”

  Harper rolled onto her elbows. “You haven’t?”

  Jazz mirrored her. “Nah. Twitter and the internet seems to think that the band passes me around like a party favor, but I have standards.” She grinned brightly, her purple contacts glowing in the low light. “Most of the time.”

  “I didn’t…I wouldn’t—”

  Jazz waved her off. “I’m just sayin’. So you know, you can feel safe about stuff. Deacon’s a sweetheart, but he’s more brother than lover material for me.”

  “Thanks, I think,” Deacon said and stood.

  Harper pushed herself to a sitting position. “It’s none of my business.”

  Jazz nodded to the cameras. “Tell that to the world, girlfriend.”

  Harper winced and pushed her hair out of her face. “Let’s just get this done.”

  Crap. It was asking too much to think that she’d have time to actually do the aftercare for him. “You don’t have to do it. I’m sure Jazz would be okay with—”

  “No, I got it,” Harper interrupted.

  “Okay, but maybe I should learn just in case.” Jazz sat up as well, her voice full of laughter. “Only because I love you unconditionally.” She stood and drilled her finger into his ribs.

  “Good to know,” Deacon said and kissed her forehead.

  Casey’s sister was back. Her eyes were clear and focused as she snapped on black medical gloves. “Didn’t think I’d miss this part, did you?”

  Deacon folded his arms across his chest. Being manhandled was part of the package lately. More and more fans were coming up to them in airports and after the shows for autographs and pictures, but he’d never felt more objectified in his life than tonight. He’d been directed to strip in front of people, he’d been stared at for hours both by fans and the invasive eye of a camera, oh and he’d be on television in the next few months.

  Right now all he wanted to do was to get out of there. To take Harper and find a quiet spot and let her play nurse. He fisted his hands under his biceps. Was that too much to ask?

  Harper slid her palm over his forearm and gently turned him. “Oh, wow.”

  He could feel her eyes on him. He stood up taller, straightened his shoulders and spine. He shut his eyes when the tips of her fingers ghosted down the very edge of his back.

  “Don’t touch.” Kate said firmly.

  “I didn’t—” Harper started to protest, but took a step back.

  “He’s a huge open w
ound. It’s a pretty wound but still very raw, and right now he’s very prone to infection. So I’m going to teach you both what to do for the next few weeks.”

  Deacon knew the song, the lyrics, and the choreography to this particular song.

  “I’ll wash you up and we’ll coat you with a fine layer of triple antibiotic. Normally I’d cover you in gauze, but this piece is big and very intricate. So we’ll wrap him in saran wrap to protect the piece. But you can’t leave it on too long. The tattoo needs to breathe, but it’s the best way to get you out of here and back to…well, wherever you’re going.”

  “Okay,” he said when it seemed that she was waiting for him to respond.

  Harper listened with rapt attention to her instructions, asking way too many questions, but he’d be the one benefiting so he kept his mouth shut. Ten minutes later they were making their goodbyes. By the time they piled into Harper’s car, all of them were exhausted. If he’d been smarter, he would have thought about the fact that now he had no choice but to heal up. Getting Harper under him wasn’t happening tonight.

  Ten

  August 19, 10:00 AM - This Was Your Idea

  Harper climbed the stairs of the bus with dread in her gut. The last time she’d been on a musician’s bus there had been a lot of liquor, a questionable level of memory, and her panties had ended up nailed to the overhead wall at the front of the bus’s living area.

  Jazz, sitting in a lotus position, helped dispel the memory a bit though. She was in super short yoga shorts and a tiny one-strap sports bra thing in a searing day-glow pink that only Jazz would be able to pull off. The outfit showed just how lean and perfect her body was.

  Harper sucked in her gut and straightened her shoulders. She really needed to get back to yoga. Like tomorrow.

  “Hey.”

  Jazz opened one eye. She shut her eye again and grinned, raised her arms in a long stretch, and suddenly leaped up to crash into her with an exuberant hug that sent them both sprawling onto one of the bench-style couches that lined the bus. “Can’t stay away, Chef Girl?”

  “I’m here between meals to do my Tattoo Boy duty.” Harper winced. Yeah, that didn’t come out right.