They fishtailed through the gravel on their way into the parking lot. “Son of a fuck.” He looked down at his watch. He was more than twenty minutes late for soundcheck. Even avoiding the highway, it had been a beast to get back to the venue.

The sun was back out and their little hatchback that the girls on staff shared was about as roomy as a tuna can. The AC was no match for the rivulets of sweat running down his chest.

“Park as close to the stage as you can. I’ve got my food service badge on. I’ll take care of the car.”

“You have to get to work, too.”

“Put your Boy Scout hat away,” she said with a huff.

He caught air on a few of the potholes as they barreled through the parking lot. Harper stuck her head out the window and waved her badge at the guy collecting parking lot fees. When he waved them on, Deacon hit the gas rounding the main part of the Galaxa to the service entry.

He stomped the brakes, halting the car beside a side door that led down to floor of the amphitheater. Dragging her across the center console, he crushed her mouth with his. He didn’t want to let her go. Not after the afternoon they’d had. He needed just one more taste.

She opened for him, her tongue skimming his lips before they tangled furiously. Instantly hard, he groaned into her mouth. Simple and honest lust thrummed through him like a drumbeat.

When he pulled away from her, he realized it really was a drumbeat he heard. Harper had pushed his door open so she could climb onto his lap. “Taste of Candy” had a wicked beat, and Jazz wasn’t holding back like she sometimes did during soundcheck.

He filled his hands with Harper’s ass as she wiggled for a better way to torture him. Effective torture. His dick was hard enough to steer the damn car. She grasped his hair, yanking him where she wanted him. Fuck, he loved kissing her. Loved touching her. And now that he knew what it was like to get inside her, he knew what addiction tasted like.

Finding the lever to the bucket seat, he dumped them both into a reclining position. Her maddeningly free breasts flattened into his skin. He dragged her up his chest until his teeth grazed over the heavy curve that peeked from the buttons. He flicked buttons open until the material gaped. Her nipple beaded under his gaze. Unable to resist another taste, he circled the tip of his tongue around the tiny pink point.

She flung her head back, her fingers digging into his chest. “You gotta go.”

Again and again, he swirled his tongue around the salty, taut tip. Her knees squeezed his sides, and the car went from almost bearable to an oven on the broiler setting. He shoved his hand down her shorts and pulled harder on her nipple as he found her slick pussy. He tucked two fingers deep inside her before dragging his stubble up and over her exposed breast to her neck.

“One more. Just to get me through,” he panted.

“We don’t…God, yes. Right there.” She hissed, clutching his sides with her knees. A little half-whine, half-groan hummed in her chest. “No, we can’t. You have to get to rehearsal.”

“Just you. Let me finish you off. Your scent will be all over me as I play tonight.” She whimpered and writhed on his hand. “That’s it. So wet.” He turned his hand so he could get the friction she liked best. Groaning into her neck, he felt her clamp down on him. “Fuck, yes. Like that. God, I wish that was me.”

“I’m going to fuck you stupid later,” she growled and bowed up over him. “Deacon.”

The broken whisper of his name threatened to push him over the edge, but he held on and watched. Her eyes went blind and her lips parted, then she slowly closed her lids and went rigid as stone. The tiniest strangled cry cracked the sultry air.

Her scent, her wetness, and her sunflower perfume arrowed into his lungs and clogged them to bursting. And then she crashed on top of him. He slid his other hand up her back, under her sweat and rain soaked hair and cupped the back of her neck.

His cock was strangled, and oxygen wasn’t exactly a premium in the car, but he held on. The wet lashes of her hair stuck to his neck and face, and he’d never been more content in his life.

She shuddered as he lightly stroked inside of her until she stilled his hand. “I’m not going to be able to drive, let alone walk across the parking lot.”

He huffed out a laugh and freed himself. Part of him wanted to lick his fingers clean, to have her taste on his tongue again, but the other part wanted her to seep into his skin. So that he smelled her on him the rest of the night.

She wiggled down and stepped from the car, grasping the hood of the car for balance. He sat up and couldn’t resist another taste of her perfect breasts. He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her up as he stood.

“Deacon,” she said in a startled voice as she gripped his shoulders.

“You’re light as a child.”

She grinned down at him, her feet dangling. “I didn’t know we were going on such a grand adventure today, Mr. McCoy.”

“Adventure.” He punctuated the word with a hard kiss. “I guess that’s one word for today.” He lowered her down to her feet, letting her feel how hard he still was. “Will I see you tonight?”

Her pupils were dilated and color slashed her cheeks. “We need to finish what we started.”

“Fuck, yes.” He pressed her against him.

“Now go be a good boy and work. I have to make sure I still have a job.”

He frowned. “I don’t want to get you into trouble, Harper.”

She tapped his cheek playfully. “Don’t worry about that. I’m sure Meg will be happy with all the dirty details as payment.”

The wolf whistle across the lot made him stiffen.

“When I said ‘go have fun,’ Harper, I didn’t mean get arrested,” Meg shouted from the Food Riot truck.

“Crap.”

“Double crap,” Deacon muttered. He brushed his lips over her forehead and grabbed his wallet and t-shirt from the car. “I’ll see you later?”

Deacon tipped his head back and twisted his t-shirt into a rope in frustration. At a loss for words, he walked backward, keeping her in his line of sight.

“Stop looking at me like that.” She shooed him away with a smile.

Either she was a damn good actress or she wasn’t upset. He wasn’t sure which one he wanted to believe in more. “We’ll talk later.”

She flashed him some skin before buttoning up her shirt with a flirty wink. “Sure, that’s what we’ll be doing later.”

“Killing me.”

“I know.” She flicked her tongue over the corner of her mouth. The playful gesture eased the snakes in his belly. Maybe this would be all right. She climbed back into the car and made a big show of fixing the seat, made googly eyes at him, and shooed him again.

He waved, ducked through the open door, and jogged over to join the band.

Simon was pacing the stage, flicking through his phone as he mumbled lyrics into the microphone. Nick was curled over his acoustic, playing harmony to Gray’s soulful electric. Sixx AM’s “Life Is Beautiful” must have won the Twitter war today.

Jazz spotted him first, popping up from her stool to tap her sticks together madly.

Simon turned, swinging his arms out wide. “Lookie, lookie! The criminal returns.”

Deacon hung his head. “All right, all right. Get it out of your systems.”

Simon dropped to his knees and held his wrists out. “Cuff me, Officer. I’ve been a very bad boy.”

“Christ.” Deacon swung a leg over the barrier at the front row, then hauled himself up on stage. He pushed Simon over onto his side before he lifted his bass off its stand.

“I didn’t know you had it in you.” Simon propped his head on his hand, lying on his side. “Well, I guess Harper’s the one that got it in her, actually.”

“How long have you been coming up with these?”

Simon rolled over onto his back and showed him his phone. “I wrote them down.”

Deacon winced and settled his bass on his lap. “Awesome.”

“Let’s see…we just need to add on a few links of chain and we can make you more at home with your leather cuffs.”

Nick groaned.

Simon tsked. “Yeah, that one wasn’t very good. I have others.”

“Save them for Twitter,” Jazz piped up.

“Can we just get through soundcheck?”

Nick slung his arm over his acoustic. “We kinda did that without you.”

“So, I see. Sorry about that. The storm was murder on traffic.”

Nick smirked. “Sure. We’ll go with the storm.”

Deacon sighed. There was no way he was winning this conversation. “What song haven’t you guys done yet?” He needed to get an idea of the acoustics of the place. They weren’t important enough to have roadies, so they had to do all their own tuning and levels. He strummed his bass, surprised to find it mostly tuned. He fussed with the tuner knobs then moved to the equalizer rack. “Who did this?”

Jazz hopped off her kit. “Me and Gray.”

“Really?”

She shrugged. “I know you always do it—”

“No, that’s fine.” He scratched the back of his head. Nick and Simon never showed any interest, so it had been his job by default. Nick guarded his pedals with a militant meticulousness, but other than that Deacon took care of the sound system.

“It sounds great.”

“Gray’s a genius with that stuff. He used to take care of the gear for a few bands for extra money.”

Deacon looked down at her. He couldn’t help but smile. Her purple-streaked hair was up in pigtails, and she wore yoga shorts and a cutoff t-shirt in deference to the ridiculous heat. Bright orange polish gleamed off her tiny toes which she was currently balanced on.

“I’m sorry I’m late, but it’s good to know I’ve got backup.”

She huffed out a relieved breath. “I’m learning. I know most of it, but Gray shows me something new every day.”

Deacon’s eyes tracked to Gray. He seemed to barely show up on stage with them most days. When his fingers slid over the fret board and strings, he was so present, it hurt to watch sometimes. But then he got this faraway look in his eyes, and he was just gone.

Nick and Simon were fighting over the setlist, as usual. Simon’s white Gibson was slung around his naked back, the neck banging against his knees. He could use a little sunshine, but at least Simon was toning up on the bus with free weights and a few yoga sessions with Jazz.

Hell, even Nick was getting more relaxed on stage. He still disappeared with a groupie just before the show, but there had been no more instances of that stony stage fright from their club days.

All in all, everything was as perfect as it could be on this tour. And now with Harper, he felt his own nerves and stress melting away.

It was a damn good day and would be a damn good night. He leaned down and kissed Jazz on the forehead. “I think we should do ‘Ripcord’ tonight,” he said, loud enough for Nick and Simon to hear him.

Nick peered around Simon. “Yeah?”

“We haven’t done it yet. It’s a good, gritty song. Will go well with “Life”, and that will blend seamlessly with “The Becoming” to wrap up the night.”

Nick nodded. “Good plan.” He turned back to Simon and they hashed out the first part of the playlist with only mild bickering.

To kill the rest of it, he quickly strummed the opening bass line to “Countdown to Extinction”, and Simon whirled around and fluffed his hair forward. He dropped his voice into a lower register, and the Megadeth lyrics rolled off his tongue.

A rare smile lit Gray’s face. He grabbed his Telecaster and went to stand beside Nick. They flew through a kickass guitar duel and Simon changed up the lyrics. They instantly fell into “Symphony of Destruction” and Deacon slapped his bass until it reverberated through the empty arena.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sin from Rebel Rage headbang his way through the aisle, do a kick that would do any metal maniac proud, and proceed to air guitar his way through the song. His waist-length hair fell forward in a slick blond curtain.

Simon hammed it up and hopped down into the floor seats and met him in the aisle. They both sang the last verse together. Sin’s howl made the rest of them whoop and clap. Sin made his devil horns and slapped Simon on the arm. “Fuck yeah, man.”

“We should totally jam that shit out one night.”

Sin sobered, and his smile dimmed. “Yeah, man.”

Deacon frowned. That was the fake smile. Most of the musicians he’d met over the years perfected it, but Sin sucked at it. He watched as Simon figured it out, and his posture changed from relaxed to the cocky front-man he defaulted to.

Their lead singer stuffed his hands into his back pockets and rocked on his heels, his smirk in full effect. Rebel Rage’s bassist obviously made some sort of excuse to leave, and Simon jogged back to the stage.

“We good?”

Deacon nodded. “Yeah, we’re good.”

Simon pulled his sunglasses over his eyes and flashed a smile. “I’m going to go find some pre-game fun.”

Deacon glanced at Nick, but he was too busy lining up his guitars for the show. Eight songs, three electric guitars. His newest addition was a gunmetal Les Paul he’d picked up in Nashville.

Jazz and Gray were huddled over the setlist.

From shine to shit in five minutes. This was their first tour as an opening band. Plenty of bands toured together and jammed, but evidently the undercurrents he’d felt on that second night in the food tents were still in effect.

He pushed his fingers through his hair and lifted his Takamine, boosting himself onto one of the waist-high amps. He picked out a few random notes then fell into a guitar piece he’d been working on for as long as they’d been together.

The song was an amalgam of different points in his life, but it never felt finished.

He’d tried simplifying the song, tried taking it apart and putting it back together, but nothing shook loose. But he couldn’t let it go. He didn’t know if it was because of the day he’d had, or if he missed home, but a little California bled into the melody. The soft strum, thump, strum was reminiscent of songs he heard on the pier. He wished he had his notebook on him. Hopefully he’d remember the order and be able to recreate it later.

A steady clap filled the space.

Deacon frowned, expecting a caustic remark from one of his band mates. They never let up on him and this song. No matter how many times he tried to get it down and out of his head, he played it constantly.

Instead, Johnny Cage sauntered down the aisle. Gold-rimmed aviators shielded his eyes. Killian, one of Deacon’s personal heroes on the guitar, came down the aisle to the right of the center section of floor seats. Uneasiness pricked between his shoulder blades. Deacon stood, setting his guitar on the amp out of the way. “Gentlemen.”

“Running late on the sound check, kid,” Johnny said dryly.

“We got caught up on a cover song.”

Johnny climbed the stairs. “More like you were playing one of your scavenger hunt games.”

Deacon folded his arms over his chest. “They seem to work for us.”

“We’ve noticed.”

He cut his eyes to Killian, who climbed the steps on the opposite side of the stage. The itch intensified. He scanned the pavilion—none of the venue workers were around getting ready for the fans.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Deacon focused on Johnny. “We’re really happy to be on the tour with you. We haven’t gotten a chance to hang with you guys to show how much we appreciate what you’re doing for us.”

“The label, son. Not us,” Killian said.

“Right. But you guys had the slot open. We’ve been huge fans for a long time. This is a big dream come true for us.”

“If you’re such huge fans, then you should be a bit more thankful. Showing us up on the fan club gatherings?” Johnny wagged his finger. “You don’t show loyalty by going behind our back to create huge events. You’re the opening act. And you haven’t been acting like one. Have they, Killian?”

“No, they haven’t. One might say they were the definition of pricks, with egos they don’t deserve.” Killian kicked off his flips and lifted his chin.

Deacon dropped his hands to his sides and widened his stance. This wasn’t going to be good. Being a fan of Rebel Rage, he knew a thing or two about the members of the band.

Like the fact that Killian had been in the military and was known to be a bit of a brawler. Johnny Cage wasn’t much better. Entertainment headlines were filled with the band’s exploits. And Killian and Johnny were the worst offenders.

He just never thought he’d be on the receiving end of their particular brand of initiation. Or, in this case, a little power play. He should have seen this coming. Hell, he had seen this coming but he’d been too wrapped up in Harper lately.

“Look, gentlemen, there’s no need for all this.”

“Nervous?” Johnny smiled, but there was definitely no humor in his eyes.

“I don’t want trouble. Both of us have shows tonight, and I know from experience that it’s a bitch to play with busted ribs.”

“Oh, so you’ve had a beatdown before?” Killian rocked back on his bare heels.

“I lived near Sunset,” Deacon said with a shrug as he slowly positioned himself so they couldn’t surround him.

“Huh,” Killian said thoughtfully. “Well then, that’s something. At least we’ll have a little fun.”

“You need to understand that this is our tour.” Johnny advanced. “And there’s an order to things.”

Deacon managed to duck through the first swing, but even in a semi-crouch, he was a big target. He couldn’t avoid Johnny’s knee on the upswing. It hit him perfectly in the solar plexus. Air whooshed out of his lungs, and the stunning pain made it hard to take a breath.

Then there was a fist in his face. Goddamn guy had a stone fist. Deacon went down on one knee and finally managed to drag in a breath.

“Glass jaw. All the pretty ones have ‘em,” Johnny said to Killian. He grabbed a handful of Deacon’s hair and dragged his head back.

A warning punch and a good sock to the gut was one thing. And Deacon would’ve been willing to take his licks for the band, if that’s all it was going to be. But the anger he saw in Johnny’s dark eyes told him this wasn’t going to be a warning.

This was going to be a good and proper beating.

“Please don’t,” Deacon warned.

“Aww, listen to him beg.”

Johnny pulled back his fist, and Deacon wrapped his hand around Johnny’s a moment before the punch connected with his jaw. Deacon jerked him forward, using Johnny’s momentum to knock him off balance.

Johnny crashed into the stage, skidding across the floor on his chest before getting tangled up in some cords.

With shallow breaths, he clutched his ribs. “I got the message, guys. There’s no need for any more of this.” Deacon carefully rose to his full height.

Killian hopped from foot to foot and hunched in battle style. Deacon clenched his fists at his sides, but didn’t mirror him. Maybe if he could diffuse this, they’d all go back to their busses with their egos intact.

Johnny recovered and grabbed Deacon by the arms, holding him still. When Killian swung, Deacon caught the tiny shift in the man’s swing and managed to twist enough that his shoulder took the brunt of the shot.

Deacon jammed his elbow into Johnny’s ribs and ducked when another of Killian’s fists came flying. This time it connected with Johnny, and he went down behind him with a string of curses.

Deacon hoped he’d stay down for a minute, but he couldn’t check. His worry was Killian.

Fury spiked in Killian’s dark eyes, and Deacon wasn’t able to avoid the double hammer blows to his ribs. “Fuck,” he hissed, finally throwing his first punch. The bloom of pain vibrated through his knuckles.

Killian stumbled back, blood gushing from his nose.

“I don’t want this, man. Honestly.” Deacon shook the fuzz from his head at the two shots he’d taken. He didn’t like to fight. Never liked to fight. Ever since that one night, he was so careful not to. “Walk away.”

Killian swiped the blood away, and the next series of jabs landed into Deacon’s ribs. When a kidney blow came from behind, he lost it.

He didn’t care what he was swinging at. Deacon connected with a jaw, throat, ribs. Johnny got a good few punches in, but when Killian held up a hand in surrender, Deacon dropped his fists. Killian’s face was already swelling. Blood streamed from a cut above his eye and along his cheekbone to match the rivulets flowing steadily from his nose.

Johnny was curled on his side, breathing heavy.

“Someone call an ambulance!”

Deacon heard voices, but didn’t know where they came from. In the rush of the adrenaline, he finally heard her. His name in a panicked tone. He finally broke his gaze away from the two men and looked out into the sea of seats.

Harper. All he could see was Harper running down the aisle toward him.

He staggered back and collapsed against the amplifier.

“No ambulance,” Killian said and slowly rolled to his knees.

“Definitely no,” Johnny said with a slap on the stage floor.

“What the fuck?”

Deacon recognized that voice. The Rebel Rage manager. Then he heard the whiny, high-pitched scramble of apologies from Gordo.

Deacon met Johnny Cage’s gaze and nodded when the lead singer of Rebel Rage shook his head. Unspoken fight rules engaged. No cops, no charges. It was over.

At least for now.