Searing June sun sliced through the L.A. fog and threatened to filet off a layer of Deacon McCoy’s skin. Even with the deep, even tan he was sporting, today was brutal. He could taste the Pacific Ocean on his tongue and an actual breeze ruffled his shoulder-length hair. They were twenty-seven stories up with Wilshire Boulevard and the endless march of Los Angeles traffic below. Funny, from this angle the cars looked like his favorite Matchbox cars as a kid. A Lamborghini in eye-searing yellow, the sleek Bugatti in black, a Bentley in red? That was just wrong. Matchbox would never ruin such a classy car with that color.

But then again, they were in LA and the regular trucks and metal-flecked sedans that made up his childhood collection didn’t quite fit in with the elite and the moneyed. Kinda like them. They were like a shined-up Camaro slotted in a parking space next to a Maybach. Both cars, but didn’t quite fit together no matter how hard they tried.

In fact, the last few months had been one holy shit moment after another. They’d gone from relative obscurity to viral video fame. If that wasn’t crazy enough, that video had landed them the coveted lead single of a soundtrack.

Movie soundtrack…and not an indie movie starring Joe Nobody from Topeka. This was an actual Hollywood movie with a budget in the hundreds of millions. They’d been visiting radio stations to do press and acoustic versions of “The Becoming” in the studio. Live.

Jackson Miller was lodged so firmly up their asses lately that Deacon was pretty sure the marketing guy was going to start passing out Astroglide as a party favor. And now they were crawling around a penthouse that only people like Jared Leto could afford.

“Deak! C’mere, you gotta see this!”

Deacon pushed a hank of hair out of his face and backed away from the stone wall of the balcony. He couldn’t quite stop himself from sliding his fingertips over one of the suede-covered lounge chairs that made an S-curve around the outdoor fire pit.

The goddamn balcony was bigger than the Fluff and Fold.

He opened the sliding door wider to fit his shoulders. Silk curtains brushed his cheek. Billowy and insubstantial, they simply framed the window, letting sun filter into the oversized play room. Two pool tables and a theater-sized screen took over the space. Yet another television hung above the fireplace that took center stage. A mammoth leather sectional made an U-shape around the projection screen. Kind of a cool movie pit, actually.

Jazz’s superior ass was currently on display as she leaned over the back of the couch and craned her neck to take everything in with her iPhone. Ten bucks she’d have a video up on Facebook and Twitter within the hour. Thanks to Jazz, they had tapped into yet another goldmine. Social media had pushed their Rhino video of “The Becoming” from viral to stratospheric.

She had them doing vlogs, for God’s sake. Deacon wasn’t sure why anyone would want to watch a clip of them talking about how they wrote a song, or an impromptu guitar lesson from Gray, or watch Simon scratch his ass, but each video had more hits than the last. In fact, the videos with Simon were reaching cult status. Their Pretty Boy had just as many followers on his Instagram as the band. And Simon was shameless with the pictures and the replies, which only added to the feeding frenzy. They added several hundred new followers to their Twitter account every day and had at least double that subscribing to their YouTube account, thanks to Simon and Jazz.

Jazz hopped over the side, barefoot as usual, her tiny feet soundless on the plush carpeting. She turned back to him, aiming the phone up to put him in the frame. “You gotta see the upstairs.”

Deacon flipped her off, but she didn’t stop filming. Typical. He followed her out of the living room and up the stairs. The dark wood had a high-gloss sheen that spoke of money and the modern perfection that Los Angeles liked to showcase. He took the stairs three at a time. The open floor plan allowed him to get a good look of the apartment—correction, penthouse—below. Huge living area, a kitchen of stainless steel, the ethereal shimmer of tiles that reminded him of the inside of an oyster. Connecting doors that led to the attached penthouse on the other side.

Not just one penthouse, but two.

And it was theirs.

“Deacon, seriously. What is the hold up?”

He grinned. Simon’s impatient growl dragged him up the last of the stairs. Between Jazz’s excited flitting and Simon’s frenetic pace, he was dragged along from bedroom to bedroom that could have been fresh out of the pages of Architectural Digest. Hell, they probably were. Bed linens matched to the curtains in just the right shade screamed interior designer and carefully spent money. But he had to admit the rooms suited them down to the bone.

Deacon ran his hand down the soft bedspread in a gray and yellow geometric pattern that he could definitely live with. At least they’d picked young designers who understood they were men, not women.

Jazz filled the doorway as only she could. Arms splayed, feet barely still, and wild blue and lavender-streaked hair trapped in dozens of braids than flew out behind her head. “You are missing the tour with Jackson, mister.”

“I’m sure I don’t need a rundown of all the designers who worked on this place or the famous people who have lived in the building.”

Jazz rolled her eyes and finally tucked her phone in her pocket. Another segment of As Oblivion Turns was over for the day. He hoped. “This is the coolest place I’ve ever seen. Aren’t you at all excited?”

Deacon glanced up at the crown moldings and the floor-to-ceiling window that gave another view of busy LA. It was like the entire set-up had been designed to prove they were indeed one of the important.

But he couldn’t ignore the persistent itch between his shoulder blades since the movie premiere last night. Trident had even ponied up the money for a video a few days after they’d finished up in the studio.

A video that was currently sitting at number three on VH-1 and splashed all over YouTube. Their song couldn’t be stopped once it had hit mainstream. He’d never heard of a song being rushed to completion so fast. The single had been up on iTunes way before the soundtrack had released.

Deacon slid his hand under his shirt, rubbing at the abdominal muscles he’d tortured with the medicine ball workout this morning. It was all finally happening and he just couldn’t settle. And now this? Trident was actually putting them into not one, but two penthouses at the Platinum Towers.

“This is my room,” Simon shouted.

Deacon laughed for the first time all day as Jazz bounced into the room he was pretty sure he was going to call dibs on and dragged him back into the main living space. More of the glossy dark wood flowed out with geometric print rugs sectioning off the huge area into quadrants. Banks of windows on each side with more filmy curtains let in tons of light. It looked great now, but within a month, Simon would have blackout curtains up to combat a hangover. Fat pots with flowers dotted tables framed by plush club chairs and low-slung couches that made up another screening area.

All of it looked too expensive to sprawl in. Though Nick was doing a good job of it anyway. He leaned back in a chair and stared at the ceiling, all the while walking a pick through his fingers. Ever since he’d given up the smokes—it might even be for real this time—he’d been fiddling with a pick, a poker chip, even a stubby pencil some days.

Jackson stood in the center of it all, pointing to the mammoth wooden structure that bisected the ceiling, further emphasizing the little alcoves that were set up in the main upstairs living area. “This area joins the two penthouses together. Stefan Picoult designed the living space.”

“The architect?” Gray asked.

Jackson smiled widely. “Yes, one and the same. We were very lucky to get him to redo this space. We wanted to give it a more masculine flavor.”

How the hell did Gray know the names of architects? Deacon frowned and stretched up, dragging his fingertips along the silky wood.

“Showoff,” Jazz muttered.

Deacon scooped her up and balanced her butt on the curve of his biceps, scooting her on his shoulder. Without missing a beat, she braced her hand on his other shoulder and touched the carved structure. She grinned down at him. “Man, this is what it feels like to be tall? I kinda like it, but don’t you get altitude sickness?”

Deacon rolled his eyes and let her slide down his side. He enjoyed the glide of her curvy little body, but quickly stepped back when Gray’s pewter eyes flashed.

Drama everywhere. That was his band.

Focusing on the vaulted ceilings, Deacon absently listened to Jackson wax poetic about the architect and how hard it was to get him to take the time to redo the penthouse. Recessed lighting made the whole room seem soft and glossy even with all the angles. More dark wood in a herringbone pattern framed out the huge room and flowed into walls with more of the same pattern, but this time with neutral cream colors.

Classy.

Way too classy for a group of misfits from Carson.

Jackson turned around. “Enough of all the art talk. You don’t really care, do you?”

“Nope,” Nick said from his perch on one of the club chairs. He’d reclined so far that his shoulders practically swallowed his neck.

“Right.” His smile brightened instead of dimmed with Nick’s bored tone. Jackson was in full salesman mode. He smiled down at Jazz, again looking a little too longingly at her shapely curves. The shithead was always staring at her. He was old enough to be her father, for fuck’s sake. “But there’s one room I think will suit you, Jasmine.”

“I’m not really feminine. This totally works for me.”

“Ah, but there should always be one space for a woman to escape to.” He waved for her to follow him to the west side of the penthouse.

Her delighted squeal drew all of them into her room. It was an explosion of black, purple and girly blue-green. One wall was jet black with framed art and a huge black four-poster bed dominated the space.

Jazz sprawled on the bed, and even with her arms and legs stretched out in an X, she still couldn’t meet any of the sides. She rolled over and snuggled into the dozen pillows. Inviting wasn’t even the word.

Gray stood in the doorway, his eyes drifting over her, the bed and her tangle of braids before he backed out into the living room again.

Jackson stood in the doorway to the en suite bathroom. “That’s not even the best part.”

Jazz bounded off the bed and scooted into the bathroom. “A purple tub? Oh, my God.”

Deacon grinned and followed. Jazz’s head barely peeked over the high curve of the clawfoot tub. Deacon was pretty sure those were usually white, but it had been sandblasted a deep purple with black feet. The whole room was a sumptuous girl haven. “We’re never going to get you out of that.”

She smiled up at him, her eyes almost matching the damn purple. The girl had contacts in every color. Deacon wasn’t sure what her real eye color was.

Simon peeked his head in. “Damn, now that is a bathroom. But you gotta see my pimp palace. It makes this look like a Barbie playhouse.”

Jazz hopped out of the tub and followed, but Deacon couldn’t take any more of the whole show me the money aspect of their place today. He wandered down to the first floor and into the kitchen. The fridge was filled with sports drinks, hipster beer that he’d never heard of and bottled water.

“We have a service that will stock your kitchen for you when you move in.”

Deacon turned to Jackson, a water bottle in hand. “It’s great. Really.”

“You sure about that? You don’t seem too enthused.”

He shrugged. “The bill for this sort of deal is way out of our league.”

Jackson handed him a sheaf of papers. “Not so much.”

Unfathomable numbers lined three full pages. Sales figures, downloads, radio plays, and projected earnings ended in a number he’d never thought he’d see in his lifetime. “Is this for real?”

“There’s a reason we rushed your song into production, Deacon. The minute I heard it I knew it was going to hit and hit big.”

Deacon uncapped the water for a deep drink. Weighing his words, he decided against ruining the day. “When you’re right, you’re right.”

“I’m just glad the public agreed with me.” Jackson nodded to the papers. “You’ve got it in black and white.”

Deacon glanced at the sheets one more time, his blood racing when he read the number again.

“Hey guys, why don’t you come down here. I have one more surprise for you,” Jackson called up the stairs. He led Deacon to the huge projector screen. A white sheet covered the wall beside it. He hadn’t noticed it in the mad eye-popping tour of the place.

Jazz dragged Nick into the room and hopped onto his shoulders. Gray stood next to them, his hands fisted at his sides.

Simon came to stand next to Deacon. “What’s under the sheet?”

Jackson walked over to the wall and picked up a long pole that looked like it should have been in a clothing store. He flipped off the sheet and three frames filled the space. Three frames with a platinum record in each of them. Below it was the art for Pacific Coast’s soundtrack and the band’s name engraved on a platinum metal square. It was all professionally mounted.

Deacon dropped into the oversized leather sectional and just stared.

“‘The Becoming’ single went triple platinum on its own. The soundtrack has gone gold so far, but it’s only been out for two weeks.”

“Holy freaking crap.” Jazz dropped from Nick’s back and stood between Nick and Gray. Simon was quiet. He simply walked to the framed record on the left and traced the tip of his finger along the edge then snatched his hand back and folded his arms.

Nick dropped into a crouch and stared at the floor, his palm flat to the carpet. Jazz settled next to him cross-legged and Gray followed suit on the other side of her.

“Not exactly the reaction I was expecting,” Jackson said. He went over to the bar and pulled a bottle of champagne out of a bucket. With a few deft twists, he had it popped and flutes passed out to everyone. “This is cause for a celebration, you know.”

Jazz laughed and shook Nick’s shoulder. “Of course it is.”

She kissed Gray on top of his freshly buzzed head. Then she stood and looped her arm around Simon’s back, dragging him onto the couch.

Crashing next to Deacon, she slapped the top of his thigh. “This is freaking awesome.”

Somehow Jazz’s words shattered their collective trance. Simon laughed and Nick let out a war whoop. And then it was all right. They all started talking at once and Jackson held up a hand. “Trident is impressed with your sales and the buzz that Jazz is creating with your social media platform.”

“I have a platform?” Jazz asked with a sparkle in her eyes.

“Well, I was referring to Oblivion’s platform, but yes, you’re developing your own too. Between you and Nick, you’ve perfected the art of doing Twitter status updates. I get all your updates on my phone. Not to mention Simon’s legion of followers waiting for the next scavenger hunt picture. I wish I had people like you as assistants for some of the other bands I work with. They could learn a lot from you.”

Nick tapped his fingers on his thigh and said nothing. Deacon knew he didn’t like to own up to how much he enjoyed working on the social media stuff with Jazz, but it was obvious. Jazz even got Nick to do a vlog with her twice a week.

Jackson rubbed his hands together. “We want to set you up in the studio as soon as humanly possible. You already have a catalogue of songs to choose from. We’ll pick the best five and get an EP put together so we can get you out on tour later this summer. I’ve got a few tours in mind, but don’t want to say anything until I get an album in the can.”

Deacon stared down at the pages in his lap and handed them to Nick, who’d come over to slouch on the arm of the sofa. “This is really happening.”

“What’s this?” Nick shuffled through the pages and blew out a breath. “Are you kidding me?”

“What?” Simon bounded off the couch and took the papers. After scanning them quickly, he got to the last page. The one that gave Deacon a heart attack. “Dollars?”

Jazz snatched the now very wrinkled pages from Simon’s slack fingers. Gray read over her shoulder. His long, slow whistle and raised eyebrows were his only reaction. But from Gray, that was a lot.

“You’ve made Trident very happy and we want to keep up the momentum. We want to offer you a record deal.”

Jazz swayed backward. Gray and Nick both made an instant grab for her, but Simon scooped her up and over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, startling them all. “Airplane!” he called out.

Jazz instantly extended her arms and legs and Simon spun them both around. “We have a fucking record deal,” she screamed.

“Can you put her down for five minutes so we can talk like humans?” Nick asked.

Simon laughed and spun faster. “Leave me be, Pixie Barbie and I are having a moment here.”

Deacon shook his head and speared his fingers into his hair to push it away from his face. Nick and Gray stood together watching Simon with their girl. Because no matter what anyone said, Jazz was their girl. She belonged to all of them. She was a sister, a confidante, a partner and a playmate in the grand scheme of the band. Somehow the pixie-sized woman made Oblivion work.

Deacon was just afraid that one wrong move by any of them and all of this would be gone as fast as it had arrived. He knew one thing for damn sure.

He would do anything to keep Oblivion together.