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“Good to know.”

  “This little Tupperware case is mine now. Just putting that out there.”

  She swiped her finger through the whipped cream and scooped out a berry. The popover was going to be way too hot still, but the whipped cream and strawberries? Oh yeah. She set it on her tongue and let the cool texture settle in her mouth.

  When she opened her eyes, Deacon was staring at her with those seriously intense eyes again. She cleared her throat and nodded toward the popover. “Go ahead.”

  “Girl, if you’re going to do that through the entire process we’re going to have problems.”

  “I’ll try to control myself.”

  Deacon sliced through the crunchy, butter-soaked layer with straight white teeth.

  And the groan he made stalled her breath.

  “Oh, Harper.”

  Not her name too. A groan and her name all in the same sentence. The level of not right was one for the record books. She had to admit she got off on making amazing food that people would love, but this was going too far.

  The orgasmic notes in his throaty hum were no match for the bliss on his face.

  Shower—a cold one—now.

  “Okay, you’ve had your chocolate treat. Time to go.” She hooked her arm in his and dragged him down the length of the truck.

  “Harper, wait.”

  “Nope, I have to be back in the truck in less than four hours. I need some semblance of sleep.” She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. If she did, she’d crash with a chocolate afterburn that had Deacon McCoy all over it.

  “Let me at least help you clean up. I’m a good dishwasher.”

  “That’s okay, I have a system.”

  “But my strawberries.”

  “I’ll make you a batch all of your own tomorrow, how’s that?” Eyes front and center on the door, she kept on dragging him along.

  “Where’s the fire, girl?”

  The slightest trace of Texas slid down her spine like liquid fire. “All good little rock stars are supposed to be in bed, or putting someone into their bed right now.”

  “I’m more than happy to put you in my bed.”

  And backfire city. “Yeah, well, I have work to do.”

  “So, does that mean you’re game when the work is done?”

  God, she wanted to look up at him. She wanted to drown in his deep green-gold eyes and let herself fall. But one night in his bed followed by four weeks of uncomfortable moments were not worth the price of admission.

  “I’m not going to be one of your one-night stands, McCoy.”

  He stopped and there was no moving him now. “Look at me.”

  She stared down at her crystal studded flips.

  “Dammit, Harper.” Two large hands cupped her face, and the tips of his achingly long fingers speared into the messy bun she wore. He gently forced her chin up. “Do you think all we do is fuck random women each night?”

  She met his gaze. “Yes.”

  He tilted his head slightly. “You must’ve known some real assholes.”

  “I’ve been on the road for ten years, Deacon. I know exactly how this tour deal works.”

  “Ten?” His eyebrows shot up into his unusually messy fall of hair. “You’re barely twenty.”

  “Twenty-two, thanks.”

  “My point is debunked how?”

  She tried to jerk away, but he held her still. His tractor beam stare was implacable. “My parents were roadies.”

  “And they raised you on the road?”

  The shock and horror in his voice relaxed her. Unless someone had been raised in the circus, there wasn’t another lifestyle quite like a rock band’s tour. This kind of reaction she understood. She braceleted his wrists loosely when he didn’t seem to be inclined to move back. The reassuring flutter of his pulse under her thumbs lured her into an easy stroke along the wide underside of his wrists.

  “They didn’t plan on it. Each of them would swap staying home from a tour to give me a stable life, but I was born with the same wanderlust they had. I loved the new towns, and even more I loved the rush when I visited my parents when they were in a town within driving distance. Neither of them could get enough of it. I could tell how restless they were when they had to stay home with me.” There was a light that was switched on in her mother and father when they were on the job. And it was addictive.

  “One day I hid in my dad’s truck when he was leaving for a job.” She shrugged. “I was really good at hiding. And I was always tiny.”

  “I can vouch for that. I could stick you in my pocket.”

  “I’m not as tiny as Jazz.”

  “True, but you’re definitely portable.”

  She swallowed. Just the idea of Deacon picking her up and driving her into the wall, or propping her on the counter…nope. No, no, no.

  “So, you snuck on the tour?”

  She grinned. “I’m not claustrophobic—good thing because I spent a good six hours in one of the steamer trunks.”

  He shook her lightly as worry etched lines above his brow. “You could have suffocated.”

  “Nah, I was a smart kid. I picked the one with air holes. And it was Steven Tyler’s trunk of costumes. All slinky and soft with boas and those crazy pants he wore.”

  “Your dad roadied for Aerosmith?”

  “Impressed? That’s not even the big one. He was one of the best lighting rig specialists in the United States.”

  “And he was cool with you just showing up on the job?”

  She slid out of his grip when his steel-trap hands finally relaxed. He was just too big and too distracting. They were all the way to the end of the truck, so she sat down on the lip of the opening. “I scared the shit out of my mom by running off, and when my dad found me I couldn’t sit for two days.” She swung her feet, digging her palms into the metal edge. The pain reminded her not to reach out for him again.

  It was far too easy to slide into his touch.

  “I’d have tanned your ass too.” He jumped down to the pavement and leaned against the side edge of the truck, his arms crossed over his chest. In the dark, he was just a huge shape and a deep voice. Still overwhelming, but at least he was at a safer distance.

  A voice was easy to deal with. The look in his eyes when he…well, anytime he was around her really was disconcerting.

  This close to the parking lot she had no choice but to notice the music and the laughter, the lights and the dozens of people milling around. “It’s hard to be lonely when there’s so much life around you on the road. When I was in school, I felt so out of place. I was never homesick, I was always roadsick.”

  “So this is your perfect life then?”

  “Oh yeah. Waking up in a new town, a new landscape each night—what could be more perfect?”

  He turned to the squeal of laughter that filled the night. The distant lights skimmed his profile with a hint of gold. His angular jaw and high cheekbones made him look a little older than his bandmates. But it was the hollows to his cheeks and the tiny muscle in his jaw that made her stomach flip and tightened her chest.

  Tanned, broad-shouldered and more muscles than she could quote from her biology classes—Deacon was all man. Nothing like the boys she was used to at school. Even in his own band, there were stories behind each member’s eyes, but none of them crawled under her skin like Deacon.

  She just couldn’t figure out what made him so special.

  Maybe if she figured out that puzzle she could slot him where he needed to go and she could get on with things.

  Six

  August 18, 10:00 AM - The Bus

  The violent jolt lifted Deacon a full inch off his mattress and the resulting jaw-snapping crash back to earth earned him a tongue welt.

  “What the fuck?” he heard from above him. Simon peeked his head into Deacon’s curtained off bunk. “Are we going off-roading or something?”

  “Why don’t you go check?” Deacon rolled onto his side, facing the wall. It had been well after five in the morning by the
time they’d cleared out the groupies. And he’d had to decontaminate the back of the bus at said five in the goddamn morning.

  “Why are you so bitchy?”

  “Stop banging chicks in my bunk.”

  “My bed didn’t have sheets on it.”

  “Jesus, Simon.”

  “What?”

  They had such limited personal space. What was so hard to get? “Just don’t put your skanks on my bed.”

  “Well, maybe if you’d get laid sometime then you wouldn’t care so much.”

  Deacon reached an arm back and pushed Simon out of his enclosure. “We’ve only been on the bus for two weeks. Don’t make me kill you so early.”

  “Pissy fucking priss,” Simon muttered and hopped down. “Son of a—”

  Deacon grunted when the bus lurched again and couldn’t help a smile when Simon obviously stumbled into the door to the bathroom.

  “Sorry! Strap down back there, guys,” came a bellow from their bus driver, Joe.

  Deacon slid his head under his pillow to knock out the hiss of hydraulics as Joe slowed to avoid whatever havoc was on the road. Sometime that morning their bus had started the four hour trek to their next city, Nashville. They had a two-day stretch there, with a show the following night.

  That meant they had a night off. And he was more than anxious to actually see what was out there. More curious to figure out plans for the day than to try and sleep any longer, he hopped off his bunk and grabbed his bottle of water to brush his teeth.

  Deacon quickly shucked clothes and climbed into the straitjacket sized stall for a quickie shower. He rinsed the last of the shampoo out of his hair and shut off the water that reminded him way too much of the well water of his childhood and toweled off. Simon was waiting outside the door.

  “You didn’t use all the damn water, did you?”

  “No.”

  “All that fucking hair always takes too much water,” Simon groused.

  Deacon jostled his way by and Simon slammed the door in his face. “Your hair’s almost as long now, buddy.”

  “The hell it is,” Simon said through the door.

  Deacon flipped his hair back behind his ears. Okay, so maybe it was getting to shoulder length these days. It wasn’t like they had time to go to get haircuts. Everything had happened so fast they’d barely had time to breathe and enjoy their new penthouse before they’d been rushed out to the studio then to touring.

  He stashed his clothes in his laundry bag and unearthed shorts and a shirt. They were going to need to do a Laundromat run soon.

  The bus rumbled over another bump, and Jazz poked her head out from her bunk. The purple curtain shimmered around her make-up free face. Her dark hair was in two pigtails missing the trademark streaks. “Seriously? Did we suddenly hit safari Death Valley or something? I had no idea the country was so dangerous.”

  Deacon cracked his back, widening his arms to reach each edge of the bunk with a fingertip to stretch.

  “Showoff,” Jazz muttered and ducked back into her purple palace.

  Deacon finished dressing and padded into the main part of the bus. An army of orange and white reflective barrels flashed by on either side of them.

  “Man, you weren’t kidding about the rough ride.” Deacon gripped the bar behind Joe’s massive seat.

  “Roadwork as far as the eye can see. Goddamn summer. Every politician decides that’s the best time to fix the roads.”

  Deacon huffed out a laugh. “We’re mostly up, so if you need some tunes to kill the monotony go ahead.” Nick could sleep through a symphony playing next to his head, and Gray was already up, hiding in his bunk, scribbling in his notebook.

  CCR boomed through the front of the bus. “Bad Moon Rising” surely fit the landscape. Overcast skies with a sun trying to bleed through highlighted the ripped up blacktop. It was Joe’s wake-up call every morning. He’d been driving for bands all his life and didn’t take any shit from them. Deacon took down his Takamine and played along with “Have You Ever Seen the Rain”. Joe’s scratchy voice mixed with Jazz’s sweet one at the back of the bus.

  When the track changed to the Doors, Simon strutted down the aisle, his jeans low, and inky black sunglasses shielding most of his face. His hair was as wild as Morrison’s. Instead of singing he mimed to Jim’s iconic voice, landing on his knees through the last psychedelic portion of the song.

  Jazz and Nick clapped from the doorway and Deacon kicked Simon over onto his back with a laugh. Looked like it was going to be a good morning on the bus for once.

  Two hours later, they pulled into the venue with “Whole Lotta Love” belting through the outside speakers. A few people on the grounds turned and waved.

  Jazz stood on the couch to look out the wide windows that ran the length of each side of the bus. Deacon held onto the overhead compartment door to look out over her head.

  Woods flanked the uncovered stage. White folding chairs were lined up on the grass and the trucks were already belching out equipment. Roadies pushed huge trunks with wheels while others were already putting up the rigging for lights. A tireless circus that was as fascinating as it was exciting. Someday it would be their lights that would be hoisted overhead. The stage would be something they put together with a set designer.

  But for now they would live through the Rebel Rage set up.

  “We’re in Nashville, y’all.”

  Deacon huffed out a laugh and waved for the camera—aka the purple iPhone of greatness—that Jazz always had at the ready. She rushed for the front of the bus, stuffing her bare feet into her flips.

  “Hi, Joe.”

  “Hey, boss.”

  “Where are we today, Joe?”

  Resigned to the questions he got every time they stopped, Joe leaned back to cross his meaty arms over his barrel chest. “We’re at The Woods Amphitheater.” He leaned forward, his voice hitching into a menacing growl. “Buy tickets if you don’t have them already.”

  “Whoa.” Jazz spun the camera eye to herself. “You heard the man. Don’t piss off our Joe. We hope to see you guys tomorrow night. Voting for the cover song of the day will commence at 10:00 AM tomorrow. What do we have for choices, guys?” She turned the camera to him.

  “Rebel Yell,” Deacon said.

  “Nice,” Jazz said in a low approving tone.

  “Sweet Child o’ Mine,” Simon chimed in.

  She gave a long whistle for that choice.

  “Jet City Woman,” Gray said quietly.

  Nick had his mouth open to answer, but snapped it shut and grinned. “Damn, didn’t think of that one.” In a rare show of camaraderie, he held out his fist to Gray who bumped his knuckles.

  Deacon watched the smile spread over Jazz’s face. She was always trying to get Nick and Gray to talk. Maybe they could bond over a little Queensryche during soundcheck tomorrow.

  Jazz flipped her phone back around. “There you have it. Go forth and think about it, YouTube it, and learn your lyrics. Tweetcha later, gators!” She turned to the rest of them. “So we’re on our own today?” Her voice thrummed with excitement.

  Maybe Jazz needed to get out of the bus just as much as he did.

  Deacon’s phone chimed. “Let’s see just how many things Gordo has on our list of duties.”

  “Ugh.” Jazz flopped back on the tiny wedge chair crammed in the front of the bus. She flicked her phone alive as the rest of them did.

  “Sonovabich,” Simon groused.

  “Sorry, dude.” Deacon stood and clamped a hand on Simon’s shoulder. As usual there were interviews to do, and the radio station wanted Simon and Jazz. Deacon wasn’t the least bit pissed. Freedom beckoned.

  He reached into the overhead compartment and pulled out his backpack, checking to make sure he had cash.

  “Where are you going?”

  Deacon shrugged. “Not sure. I’m heading out to see if anyone’s going into town.”

  Jazz stuck out her bottom lip, her shoulders hunched. “I want to go into Nashville.�
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  “We’ll see if we can use someone’s car after your interviews,” Gray said to her.

  Simon scrubbed his fingers through his hair and pushed it out of his eyes. “And why do we want to go to Hicksville?”

  Why did they want—he couldn’t even wrap his mind around the complaint. “This is the music capital. There are a million bars—”

  “Okay, you had me at bars,” Simon interrupted. “I’m not much for country music.”

  Deacon rolled his eyes. He definitely needed an afternoon to himself. Almost a week to get across the country with their gear for their first gig and another week of shows was more than enough band-time for him. Especially since this was only the beginning of the tour.

  He slapped Joe on the back and hit the stairs running.

  He climbed through the trees and stepped over a small stream that cut across the dense vegetation that framed The Woods. It smelled of rain and shadows, the dirt was rich and loamy, not quite as baked into submission as the Hollywood Hills. Even within the huge canopy of trees, it felt like he could walk forever and never hit the end.

  Drunk on actual fresh air, Deacon climbed further and found a hive of trucks lined up for the eateries and beer tents. He loped after one of the trucks that were headed to the front gates.

  A large, almond-skinned man was tapping on the casing of his rolled down window. He was bald and wore an orange Hawaiian shirt that seared the eyeballs.

  “Hey! Are you headed into town?”

  The man looked down at him. “Yeah.”

  “Mind a passenger?”

  “Only people willing to work get in my truck.”

  “I’ve got a strong back,” Deacon answered easily. He didn’t mind getting his hands dirty to get out of the park.

  “You sure? Sissy musicians that pump it up in the gym got no stamina for real work.”

  Deacon grinned. “Try me.”

  The man squinted at him. “All right, get in, Kanaka Nui.”

  Hoping whatever the man said to him in Hawaiian wasn’t too insulting, Deacon rounded the truck and climbed in. “Hey thanks, man. I needed to get out for a while.”

  The man nodded. “Mitchell.”

  “Deacon.”