Wicked Serenade: a Lost in Oblivion Collection

by Quinn, Cari

  Jasmine held her hands up. “I’ll never show up in the picture unless you pick me up.”

  “Jasmine Marie! I’m so sorry. She’s not usually so rude.”

  Deacon chuckled. “Is it okay if I pick her up?”

  “Oh yeah, she’s a monkey. She’ll climb right up if you let her.”

  “Is that right?”

  He held out his arm and sure enough, Jasmine climbed up his arm and latched her legs around his waist. Well, as much as her six year old legs could. He supported her butt with his forearm, then lifted her up onto his shoulders.

  Jasmine squealed and wrapped her tiny hand around his neck. “This is officially awesome.”

  “Hey kid, that’s my spot. Don’t get too comfy.”

  The little girl’s nails bit into his neck. “Oh my God.”

  Deacon grinned down at their Jazz. “Hiya, Pix.”

  “You flirtin’ with all the girls, Manster?”

  “Maybe.”

  Nick and Gray came up behind Jazz. The usually cool and quiet Gray was smiling—an honest to God, full-blown smile—up at the kid.

  Simon was still holding court, this time with his charity in mind. Didn’t mean he wasn’t scrawling his signature across many a breast for his own pleasure as a side benefit.

  The mother…Mary, was it? Names tended to stick around long enough for him to sign the name on the paper, CD, or program before it was lost to his overloaded brain. She was twisting the handle of her purse as she nibbled on her bottom lip.

  Deacon knew that look. It was a photo-op look. Instead of watching the woman agonize over asking, he opened his other arm to Jazz. “Let’s give this nice lady and her daughter a picture before we have to head upstairs to the studio.”

  “Oh, right. Sure,” Jazz said brightly. She snuggled into his side and tugged on the little girl’s purple and black sneaker. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

  “Jasmine.”

  Jazz’s eyes lit up. “Mine, too!”

  “Deacon told me.” Tiny fingers tapped his neck. “My mom calls me Jazzy, though.”

  “Close enough. I gotta say…totally cool name.”

  Mary stepped in front of her daughter on the other side of Deacon.

  “Did you want all of us?” Deacon asked.

  Mary nodded. “Yes, please.”

  Gray and Nick flanked him. Gray automatically slipped in beside Jazz, and Nick slid an arm around Mary’s shoulder.

  “Gordo! Over here.” Deacon shouted into the crowd. Shellac and Polo boy rushed over, juggling his iPad and lanyards with radio station VIP passes on the front.

  “We have to move upstairs to do the acoustic set.”

  Jazz bounced once. “Take this poor woman’s picture and we’ll go wherever you tell us to.”

  Deacon had to force himself not to roll his eyes. Jazz in sugar-shock mode was almost too syrupy to stand. But as usual, Gordo got flustered and did anything that Jazz asked him to.

  It was truly sickening.

  A few minutes later, Mary’s phone was full of pictures and Jasmine was back on the ground, fingers linked with her mother’s. Gray plucked out two strings from the handful of passes Gordo held and slipped one over the little girl’s head and handed another to Mary before disappearing into the crowd.

  “We’re going to have to rename him Vapor,” Nick muttered.

  Deacon leaned down and pressed a kiss to mini-Jasmine’s cheek. “Stay cool, Jazzy.”

  They all said goodbye to Mary and waded their way through the neverending crowd to Simon. Two girls sat on the table with their tops scrunched up to show off tanned, bare backs. Simon, of course, was scrawling his signature across their skin very slowly.

  Nick, Gray, Jazz, and Deacon all clustered together with folded arms. Jazz had her hip cocked and her head tilted in that Jazz way that made all of them squirm.

  Simon finally sat back and studied his handiwork before looking up. The idiot didn’t have an ounce of remorse. He simply shrugged and stood. “Time to work?”

  Jazz tipped her head back and growled. “You’re such a pig.”

  “Ah, but I’m your pig, Jazzalicious.”

  “Do not call me that.”

  Simon leaned forward and kissed each girl. “Sorry, girls. I have to go sing now. See you after the show tonight? You can show me the tattoos you’re off to get.”

  The two women nodded and hopped down. They were wearing nearly identical outfits—skirts that could be belts, and clingy, sparkly tops.

  All the shiny things that Simon couldn’t resist.

  Deacon rolled his eyes. They were staring down the sixth week of the tour and Simon seemed as enamored with the groupies now as he had when they’d first released “The Becoming”.

  Deacon spotted Gordo making a dash for them, his little chicken legs working overtime to get across the lobby. “You done?”

  Simon twirled his Sharpie through his fingers. “Don’t be jealous, gents. I can’t help it if the women love me more than you.”

  Nick simply lifted one brow, staring Simon down.

  And still, no shame to be seen.

  “Gordo’s coming to collect us.”

  “Finally,” Nick muttered. Their lead guitarist loved the music portion of their duties, but hated the public niceties. Three hours was way past his boiling point.

  If Gordo had let them know there would be a signing, Deacon knew Nick would have found a way to make himself scarce.

  Gordo waved to them from the elevator as he held the door open.

  Nick and Gray flanked Jazz, leaving Deacon and Simon at the back of the pack. With heads down, they managed to get to the elevator without being stopped.

  When all of them were alone in the elevator, Gordo slapped the top floor. “All right, I have some news.”

  Simon’s shoulders slumped and he stared at his feet. “We have eight more meet and greets,” he muttered.

  “No, Simon. For your information, this is very good news. The sales for this tour have turned around so sharply that Trident is giving you an extra ten minutes per set for the rest of the tour.”

  Nick dropped his arms to his sides. “Holy shit.”

  Jazz instantly started bouncing.

  Deacon frowned. “Ten minutes?”

  “Yes, giving you a fifty minute set. The next few shows are big ones, as you well know. So we need you in top form. I sent you a few songs that have done the best on the YouTube channel that I’d suggest putting in the show.”

  “Now you’re telling us what to play, too?” Deacon bit his lip. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

  Nick and Gray mirrored each other by both dipping their hands in their pockets. They were far more in sync with each other than they’d want to own up to. Especially on stage.

  Gordo went on as if Deacon hadn’t spoken. “I think you should do them acoustically today, and that way, people will be excited to see them on stage tonight.”

  Deacon opened his mouth, irrational anger coasting up his spine.

  Jazz laid her hand on his arm, giving him a look. “That’s great. It would have been more helpful if you’d let us know earlier, so we could have practiced, Toby. Tell the radio hosts to give us a few minutes?”

  Gordo’s shoulders relaxed. Jazz knew how to twine any one of them around her finger. Gordo was no different. The whole using his real name trick—damn effective.

  Handling was exactly what Deacon usually did. When the hell had he handed that particular piece of his job to Jazz? And he couldn’t even be mad about it. He’s been in his own head so much that Jazz had been stepping in a lot lately.

  Time to get his damn head in the game again.

  Simon cracked his knuckles. “‘Ripcord’.”

  Nick turned his head to Simon. “What?”

  The elevator dinged open.

  Simon walked out in the lead with all of them following. The room was sterile as a bank. Tan walls, tan carpet, tan couches, with boring seascapes on the walls.

  Deacon knew the
effect was supposed to be soothing, but all it did was make his shoulder blades itch.

  Without even asking, Simon headed for the door marked break room. They all followed him to a table.

  “Look, this is a good thing.”

  Gordo hovered around the fringes of their little powwow until Simon turned, his charm-face in full effect.

  “Hey Gordo, how about you check in with the radio people and see if we can get a practice space, huh?”

  “Right.” Task in mind, Gordo rushed back out into the vanilla lobby.

  “‘Ripcord’ is one of our better songs, but we don’t ever get to play it. And it sounds really cool acoustic, too. Remember when we did it at the afterparty at the beginning of the tour?”

  Deacon nodded, his fingers itching for a guitar.

  “Then we can do ‘Too Still’ as well.”

  “A love song?” Nick sneered. “What the fuck, man?”

  “No, he’s right.” Deacon dug his phone out of his pocket to jot down notes. “We’ve only let out the rock songs lately.”

  “Because that’s what we are,” Nick said with a growl.

  Deacon sighed. From a marketing standpoint, they’d only had one slower paced song. “The Becoming” was sex on legs, and the rest of their songs were in your face, but they really hadn’t showed just how awesome they were lyrically yet.

  “Too Still” showed the other side of them.

  “Reason one, relationship songs are universal.” Deacon held up his thumb then his forefinger. “Two, we don’t want to be pigeon-holed as the band that only sings raunchy party songs.”

  “We like raunchy party songs. They keep the crowd moving,” Simon interjected.

  “Look at Rebel Rage. They can’t get out of their own way, or the shadow of their party songs. We’re more than that.”

  “He’s right.”

  Gray’s quiet voice swung everyone’s attention his way. He rubbed his finger under his nose. “The slower songs give us more leeway with guitar solos, as well as show that Simon can do more than scream.”

  “Thanks. I think.” Simon folded his arms across his chest.

  Gray shrugged.

  Nick scrubbed his hands over his face, then squared his shoulders. “Let’s see how it goes.”

  Deacon glanced at Jazz. She’d been suspiciously quiet. She was twirling one of her drumsticks through her fingers and gnawing on her bottom lip. A far off look had taken over her eyes. “Pix?”

  “Hmm?” She blinked up at him.

  “Anything to say?”

  She turned to Gray. “Did you bring both of your acoustics?”

  He nodded.

  “I want to play on ‘Too Still’. I’ll be tambourine girl for the rest, but I want to play. I think we can really show them just how awesome we are acoustically.”

  Deacon nodded. “Okay by me.”

  Simon slapped his hands together then rubbed them with a new light in his eyes. “Then let’s get practicing. We’ll kick their ass in the studio and at the show tonight.”

  * * *

  Harper rolled her shoulders and stretched. She stifled a yawn when Mitch gave her a look. It had been a long morning already. She had a million things to do to get ready for lunch. Standing around for a mandatory meeting was definitely not on her to-do list.

  Meg and Danny came in. Danny had his battered leather portfolio under his arm. That didn’t bode well. He only dragged that out when he was stressed.

  Meg dragged a chair behind her and climbed on while balancing herself with a hand on Danny’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming guys. We’ve got a special guest coming in for lunch today. He’s not a musician, but he’s got serious VIP status.”

  “Great, a suit.”

  “Problem, Pruitt?”

  Crap. She’d said that under her breath hadn’t she?

  “Nope. Just eager to get something awesome together for our VIP.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Meg said. “Okay, people, you know your jobs, I just want to make sure everyone’s wearing Food Riot shirts today. I don’t want to hear excuses, just wear ’em. If you truly don’t have one, come see me.” At the grumbles that streamed around the crowd, Meg put her hands on her hips. “You should be wearing them anyway.”

  “We all look fabulous in orange,” Danny deadpanned.

  Meg elbowed him. “Shut up. You picked the color.”

  “I must’ve been drunk.”

  The room broke out in appreciative laughter. Harper didn’t mind the shirts. She did look good in orange.

  Meg held her hands up. “All right, all right. That’s enough. Assignment sheets are taped to all the carts. No swapping out jobs today.”

  Harper laced her arm through Mitchell’s. “At least I have you on my team today, Uncle.”

  “Of course you do. Because I’m the fastest.”

  “Damn right.”

  They headed to the truck, and Harper slid through the organized chaos that was her job. She went right to the oven and pulled trays of dehydrated strawberries out to cool and checked on the bacon wrapped chicken thighs she’d put in the pressure cooker. The sweet, mustardy tang of the sauce had cooked down to a glaze, like it should.

  Fortunately—or unfortunately—everything was going smoothly. Cooking was a rhythm for her. And today was an easy rhythm that left her too much time to think.

  Meg had offered her a contracted job.

  At first, she’d been elated. For God’s sake, she’d even told Deacon. As if it had been a done deal.

  She hadn’t opened her mouth to anyone else—not her parents, not her brother, not even Mitchell. But immediately, she’d opened her phone and texted him.

  Deacon was not her boyfriend. He was just a guy she was passing the time with. In a little more than a week, they were going to go their separate ways.

  You thought you had insomnia before, Harper Lee.

  And that wasn’t helping. Thoughts of him that snuck through and poked at her all day were dangerous. How many times a day did she pick up her phone just to see if he’d sent her an amusing text or picture?

  All the time.

  He didn’t make her feel like he was checking up on her. Nothing invasive. Instead, it was oh, so much more awful. His texts were as addictive as dark chocolate.

  A shot of some gorgeous vista when he was out running the trails, a secluded spot to meet later, a ridiculous candid shot of a recipe he found on Pinterest, or a funny t-shirt. He was always letting her know he was thinking about her.

  And now she had a job offer. This was the single reason she’d hopped a flight from her graduation ceremony to the tour. And she’d almost screamed yes, but something had held her back.

  The job was a two year contract that left her on call for whatever tours Food Riot needed her. She could be working steadily for two years, or she could be working once every three months. The part that was hard to swallow was that she would be at the whim of Meg and Danny’s schedule.

  She’d have very little opportunity to build her own clientele if she was on call at all times. That was the only problem.

  Really? Your only problem?

  Ignoring that disturbing thought, she used a cleaver to hack a chunk of dark chocolate into pieces to melt into a ganache.

  She wanted to be established with her own company in two years. At the same time Food Riot was a lot of hands-on training that would serve her well for future jobs.

  Someday, she wanted to have a set-up much like Meg and Danny’s, just a little smaller and a lot more portable. She had a lot of knowledge of ethnic food and ideas for a more exclusive catering service. One that would let her travel to different countries and learn their cuisines, while she worked for people.

  She had the contacts to tap, but she had to be ready to prove her talent was worth the price. And that took time and gold stars on a resume.

  Meg waved from the door to the tractor trailer. “Harper, I need you for a second.”

  She flipped the lids off all the cookers as she p
assed by. “Annie, can you get those put on parchment paper? I need to brown them up a bit before we serve.”

  The girl switched places with her. “You got it.”

  And she’d steal Annie if she ever got out of here. The girl was super-efficient and absorbed recipes like a sponge. Harper snaked her way through people to Meg. “What’s up?”

  She motioned to the side of the truck away from the endless stream of “I’m not really supposed to tell you who the VIP is, but you’re trustworthy.”

  She straightened her shoulders. “Thanks.”

  Meg smiled. “Most people would be babbling about how awesome they were.”

  Harper shrugged. She’d eaten lunch with Mick Jagger for three months straight when she was eleven. She just didn’t get starstruck.

  “I don’t know if you’re the ultimate professional or if you’re jaded.”

  “Both.”

  Meg chuckled. “That’s probably very true. I hired you because of your roadie background, not your knife skills.” Harper’s back stiffened. “Now, don’t get upset. I know you’re going to leave me.” Meg held up her hand before she could interrupt. “You’ve got talent in the kitchen. Admirable talent. But you’re not really suited for the everyday food on a tour. You’ll end up doing something absurdly awesome someday. Until that someday, I want you with me.”

  “Okay…” Harper trailed off.

  Meg wrapped her fingers around Harper’s hands. “I like you because—for the most part—you don’t let these guys get under your skin. I’ve had many a chef cave under the pressure of this job. And not just the crazy hours we have. The tour is filled with parties, drugs, sex—hell, that’s my favorite part.” She winked. “But most can’t handle it.”

  Harper had caved to one of those pressures. So many times, she wasn’t sure how she was going to live without it when next week came. She lifted her chin. “I grew up with musicians. They don’t interest me.”

  “Well, not unless they’re six foot five and built like a damn Adonis.”

  Harper felt her face flame, but she kept her mouth shut. What the heck could she say?

  “See? If I was pounding the hell out of that fine man, I’d be screaming it from the rooftops.”

  Harper’s mouth dropped open. Brain whirling, she snapped her mouth shut with an audible click of teeth.