Harper dug her knuckles into the dough. Most of the crew were still in their beds, or just heading there. They’d been wheels up by three AM. The trip to the next town had been a mere two hours, so it was just easier to drive it and get some rest at the new venue.

Except she was too keyed up to rest. She shared a bunk wall with five other women on the crew, all of them stacked like the trays of food she served every day. She was used to this environment. She’d learned to live on a few hours of sleep a long time ago. Life on the road wasn’t exactly restful—you found sleep when you could, and no one had a regular schedule.

Well, the food did. Regardless of the amount of sleep she got, food was the one constant in her life. Her newbie status gave her the breakfast rush along with the lunch. Heck, most of the time, she was helping with the dinner, as well. Danny and Meg got to sleep off their partying from the night before, now that the tour was well on its way to finished.

Harper couldn’t complain. She was lucky enough to have this position to start with. Meg’s reputation for playing as hard as she worked was definitely true. And even if Meg didn’t take her on permanently, this was a great company to have on her resume.

The last two weeks with Deacon had been amazing. Heck, the entire tour had been pretty awesome. She and Deacon stole time whenever they could, which was a lot more than she was used to. Between school and the road, she’d never been around one guy long enough to get interested beyond a week. The few times she’d actually tried to let it be more had fallen apart faster than a soufflé on a speeding bus.

And yet, it worked with Deacon. She couldn’t even pretend it didn’t. For God’s sake, she couldn’t shake him if she wanted to. He was too sweet to scream at, for the most part. And the few times she’d let loose on him, he’d grinned at her with that damn dimple and asked her if she was done.

It was maddening. Mostly because she hadn’t known just how much she’d needed to vent. And the sleeping deal was really messing her up. She had a hard enough time sleeping before Deacon, and now she was absolutely useless unless his furnace-like body was behind her.

She rolled forward and touched her toes to stretch her back. Since it had been a no Deacon night, it seemed smarter to work than to stare at the frayed carpet that lined her bunk. The illusion of soundproofing just pissed her off when insomnia came with her shitty baggage.

And the chance of seeing Deacon today was slim to none. He was going to be crazy busy, thanks to the Seattle press. They were getting closer to the end of the tour, and that also paralleled into Oblivion’s turf. Seattle down through Santa Barbara was the club circuit he’d played for most of his career.

And the press wanted Oblivion.

With her hands curled around her ankles and dawn streaming into the truck, she felt at peace for the first time since she’d rolled out of her lonely bunk.

Large hands gripped her hips and pulled her back. She shrieked and popped her foot up in a donkey kick.

“Holy shit!” She whirled around, her fists bunched. Deacon’s quick reflexes and height advantage had saved his balls, and his face from her right cross.

He caught her hand and pulled her into his chest. “Christ, Lawless.”

He only called her that when he was truly exasperated with her. She rolled her eyes. “Well, don’t sneak up on a girl.”

He wound his arms around her shoulders until her nose was jammed between his pecs. Jimi Hendrix’s face stared back at her. “I was trying to surprise you.”

With her eyes closed and heartbeat currently at run-from-a-rapist-slash-murderer speed, she inhaled his woods and ocean scent. Then she slugged him in his rock hard abs. He didn’t even grunt, the jerk. “You scared the shit out of me.”

He laughed into her hair. “I gotta say, I’m glad you can take care of yourself. If I was an inch shorter I’d be singing soprano tonight.”

“You’d deserve it.”

“I love when you’re cranky.” He lowered his nose to her shoulder then into the disheveled knot of her hair. His kiss was comforting—at first.

The rasp of his tongue along her neck and nip of teeth at her ear didn’t help calm her heartbeat down any. She slid her arms around and under his shirt to feel the play of smooth, hot skin over muscle. “I missed you.”

“Is that why you’re cranky?” He drew her back so he could cup her face.

On her toes before he could lean all the way down, they met with a soft sigh. She felt his smile in the kiss and followed up with one of her own. She flicked off his beanie hat, fisting his hair at his nape until he moaned for her. “I didn’t think you guys would get in so soon. Don’t you have a radio show this morning?”

“Yep. Joe and his damn weather app are going to be the death of me. We hauled in about thirty minutes ago,” he said between kisses. “I figured I’d get a run in before we had to leave.”

She settled back against his chest, the reassuring beat of his heart under her ear. “You do realize you have a disease, right?”

“You cook, I work out. Imagine what a pain in the ass I would be if I didn’t?”

“You’re right. Don’t change. Obsess away.”

He laughed and rested his chin on top of her head. “Besides, I can’t sleep right if you’re not suction-cupped to me.”

She hid her grin and linked her arms at the small of his back. “We’re not sleeping now.”

He stepped closer, his thigh brushing between hers before he boosted her onto the island counter. “Well, I do need a warm-up before my run.”

She pushed at his shirt, needing his salty ocean flavor in her mouth. He hooked her legs around his hips, and clever fingers had her bra undone a moment later.

His long fingers cupped her breast, pulling at her nipple. They’d perfected the quickie. In fact, it should be boring at this point, the way they knew just what to touch and stroke for maximum efficiency—but no. Every single time was more amazing than the last. Whether it was five minutes behind a locked door, or an hour on a blanket in one of the parks, it never stopped being mind-blowing.

“Harper, we’ve got—well, shit.”

She scrunched up her shoulders at Mitchell’s voice. Deacon peered at her from the curtain of hair that had fallen forward.

It was as bad as getting caught by her dad. She harnessed the girls and slid out of Deacon’s hold. She dropped to the floor, twisting their fingers together behind her back. “Sorry, Mitch. What do you need?”

“It can wait.”

Deacon’s fingers tightened on hers before slipping away. “It’s all right. I just wanted to say hi before I started my run.”

“Right,” Mitch said coolly.

They weren’t exactly hiding their…whatever it was. But they didn’t go out of their way to vocalize it either. Well, unless they were on the bus. Then it was pure fun to find out what Simon would do when they got caught.

Three cover songs had been reworked, and it was becoming a standing joke that they were dirtying up 80’s songs on stage. There was even a YouTube channel that had them all, along with song requests that the fans wanted bastardized.

Social media was a monster when it came to these guys. And it had translated to even more ticket sales. She’d heard the talk between the managers in the executive lunches she put together.

Oblivion was outselling Rebel Rage, saving the tour. In fact, she’d even heard that the guys were going to get an extra ten minutes in their set, starting tonight. Deacon didn’t know about that yet, and she couldn’t bring herself to give the details to him.

Discretion was a huge part of their job. And she really didn’t want to clean up any more blood when Johnny and Rebel Rage found out they were increasing the opening act’s time, which, of course, meant they were sawing off that time with the headliners.

Not good.

Deacon pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ll find you later.”

Mitch simply looked at her, waiting for Deacon to jog out of earshot.

Harper slapped her now too-warm dough on the butcher block and wrapped it in cling wrap before shoving it in the fridge to cool. “What?”

“I should be glad that you’re actually with a nice guy instead of the road insects you usually choose.”

Harper winced. Okay, so her flings weren’t exactly the stuff of dreams, usually. But they scratched an itch and were easy to forget. Exactly the definition of a hookup and all she ever needed.

Until Deacon.

“But you’re not?”

Mitch unloaded the usual morning fixings, then set up the grill for the massive amount of eggs they cooked every day. Methodical Mitch and his eternal damn quiet.

“Just spit it out, Mitch.”

“I’m thinking on it.”

“Don’t think and censor, just spit it out.”

Mitch pulled out his two huge spatulas and started scrambling the cartons of eggs they used. “I like the boy. He’s good people. He’s exactly the type you should settle down with.”

“Settle?” Harper sagged against the island. “I’m twenty-two, Mitch.”

“You might be twenty-two in years, but you’re already battle weary, honey girl.”

“I’m just starting my career. This is my first gig, thanks to you. But I have so much more I want to accomplish before I think about long-term boyfriends.”

“That boy isn’t boyfriend material.”

“Deacon McCoy was built with the words dream boyfriend in mind. What? You don’t think I’m good enough for him?”

“Don’t talk stupid.”

Harper growled. “Then I’m not getting what you’re saying.”

“I’ve seen him with you, Harper. He’s got forever in his eyes.”

“No. I—” she swallowed. “We’re just in the honeymoon phase.”

“Exactly.”

“No, not like that.” Exasperated, she pushed her hair back and tied it up in one of the bandannas she kept in her apron at all times. “We’re in the lust phase.” She really didn’t want to talk sex with Mitch. He really was as close to her father as her actual dad.

“Sex is easy, sistah. But that boy watches you.”

Tingles fluttered between her shoulder blades. Okay, so Deacon was a little intense. She’d grown to like the way he had to touch her when he was near her. And when she caught his gaze across the arena during soundcheck, it felt like a caress.

“We’re just caught up in each other. It’ll be fine when we go—” She swallowed quickly as the spit lined her mouth and the tiny flutters popped into sweat. “When we go our separate ways.” Her voice sounded decisive. Of course it did.

She pulled out the first package of dough she’d made and rolled it out on her powdered butcher block. It would be fine.

She could totally walk away.

Mitch didn’t say another word, and neither did she.

* * *

Deacon’s calves burned as he hiked his way up the little running trail that circled the venue. He really liked when they had accessible space surrounding the amphitheaters. He’d run anywhere, but the trails made it more challenging.

And the hilly route was full of steep inclines. Man, had he needed the burn of a good run. He really didn’t sleep well without Harper in his space. Even in the coffin sized bunk, they made it work. She calmed the restlessness that had been following him for years. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten so lucky, but he wasn’t going to question it. He’d just do everything in his power to hold onto it.

Add to that the tour was winding down, and things with the band were tight. Hell, they’d even written a new song together last night on the drive out. All of them had been too wound up to sleep.

Pieces were falling together. And if sales were anything to go by, Trident would be offering them an actual album contract. A golden ticket—fucking finally.

Maybe, just maybe, they’d see that this version of Oblivion was the one that worked. Not the matchy-matchy leather and costumed punks the label tried to sell the public. This was them. Grunge rock shirts and denim, leather and lace, and suit vests over cotton. Each of them an individual that made up an interesting whole.

Not a boyband.

A rock band.

It was working. With the last single, “Sex and Candy”, they’d hit top twenty. Drum solos and guitar solos loaded up their forty minutes into perfection. And now the only thing they needed to do was figure out how to write together. That part was still a crapshoot, and more chaos than not, but they were getting there.

He climbed the dried mud that clung to the trail, following the sharp incline through weeds and branches. The foliage was dense, and the earthy wetness of the North Pacific air filled his lungs. Dust coated his hands, caking into mud with his sweat.

But finally, the trees opened up and the brush let him go. The view stole his breath. The stage looked like a playground staked in front of nature’s own bowl of plenty. Water cut behind the hills and mountains and the sky was achingly blue.

Gorge Amphitheater in all its glory.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to playing at such impressive places. The outdoor concert season, which gave them access to places like this, was ending. But he didn’t care. Seattle would be their backdrop tonight on a crisp, cloudless night.

What more could they ask for?

He climbed the fence that lined the top of the hill leading to the parking lot and slowed his pace to a brisk walk. Trucks were pulling out after dumping the gear for Rebel Rage, as well as their own modest equipment.

The site was buzzing as the sun crested over the first mountain. He turned the corner into the hive of activity, sliding between busses and trucks until he found the gray and green Oblivion bus. He climbed on board, nodding to a yawning Joe, who was headed to the back and his own bunk for some much needed rest.

No one else was up, so he crept back quietly and snagged his shower kit and clothes, stuffing them into his knapsack. He’d get a real shower today. He was tired of the suds and run with stale water from the bus. It clung to his skin with a film that reminded him of his time in Texas when they’d had well water. He never felt quite clean in those days.

Twenty minutes later, he felt marginally better. The water had been hot enough to steam most of the kinks out of his shoulders and flay off a layer of skin. He made his way down to the food tent, checking his messages on the way.

Drunk texts from Simon were mixed with random lyrics. Deacon shook his head. Simon was harmless, but it was always an adventure to find what ended up in iMessage. Porn, lyrics, Amazon links, and sometimes even tweets that he put in the wrong window.

His schedule popped up from Gordo. This time, it was a full band interview with an acoustic session. Actually worth going to. He made a detour into the food tent and smiled at the tin-foiled sleeve of after-exercise treats that Harper made for him and a few of the guys in Rebel Rage that worked out in the morning. He slid his phone back into his pocket.

A fat D in Harper’s slashing handwriting designated his packet. Spinach and bacon sourdough bites with a side of turkey sausage links.

He grinned. The woman was a wonder. He looked around, but only found Mitchell trading out empty pans for fresh ones of eggs and home fries. The man might’ve been the size of a Sumo wrestler, but he was surprisingly light on his feet. He had pans fanned out with a huge tray of fruit and the empties back on the cart in the time it took Deacon to walk across the space.

“Hey, Mitchell. Seen Harper?”

“She's busy this morning.”

“Oh.” The terse tone made Deacon straighten his shoulders. “Sure.” He cleared his throat. “That’s fine. I was just wondering.”

Mitch sighed before cracking his knuckles. His dark eyes zeroed in on Deacon like a laser beam.

Crap. What the hell had he done now? Deacon thought they’d come to an understanding about how he felt about Harper.

“She's got her review with Meg today.”

“Oh.” Happiness that he wasn’t in the shitter gave way to a niggling itch between his shoulder blades. Why hadn’t she told him when he'd’run into her earlier? Had he missed it? Deacon unearthed his phone, but no message from Harper. “Is there anything she should worry about?”

“Nah. Kiddo didn’t even know it was coming.”

And of course, it had to be on the day he was completely incommunicado. “Tell her I’m pulling for her. I’ll find her before the show.”

“You got it, Romeo.”

Deacon rolled his eyes, but took his food and headed back to the bus. They’d been avoiding talking about the end of things. More so for him than her, he was pretty sure. Harper never talked about anything in the future. But they were too good together to just cut it all off when the tour was over. She had to know that.

He stashed that whole mindfuck when he caught sight of Jazz. She was like a damn ninja with relationship drama.

“Hiya, Honeybear. Whatcha up to?”

“Two forty-seven. Six-foot-five.”

She stood still for a heartbeat, then her trilling laugh filled the bus. “No. You aren’t that big. Right? You can’t be.”

“Afraid so.” When he’d popped the seams on another one of his favorite t-shirts, he actually stepped on the scale. Between workouts with weights and his extracurricular activities with Harper, he’d packed on a good twenty-five pounds of muscle since Burn’s release nearly two months ago.

Her huge blue eyes got even rounder. “Holy Crap, Deak. You’re a freaking manster!”

“Where do you come up with these terms?”

She shrugged. “Man and monster—not a big stretch. Kinda cooler than ‘big guy’.”

“Deacon always works.”

She patted his arm, then molded his bicep, blinking those big blue eyes at him with a little bit of awe. “Seriously. Manster fits.”

He brushed a kiss over her forehead. “Whatever you say, Pix. Everyone up? Gordo will be landing—”

“Everyone moving? Where's Simon?”

“Landed,” Deacon said with a forced smile. “Morning, Gordo.”

Their manager didn’t even look bothered by their nickname for him anymore. It only took five weeks to beat him down. “We have a special guest coming in this afternoon and I want everyone available. He’s mostly here for Simon, but the opportunity is amazing and we want to make ourselves as available as possible.”

Deacon folded his arms. More and more they were focusing on Simon when it came to PR. “Do we get a hint?”

“No.” At Deacon’s raised eyebrow, Gordo quickly back peddled. “Because I’m not sure he’s coming or not. I just need Simon to be back here after the radio program. Do not let him wander off.”

“I’m not his goddamn babysitter,” Deacon muttered.

Jazz snickered. “You're everyone’s babysitter.”

He wished that wasn’t true. Gordo had taken most of the day-to-day tasks that had defined his role in the band, leaving him with the babysitting duties. Deacon shoved his hands into his hair. The need to climb on his rowing machine became a physical ache.

“We’ll make sure he’s here.”

“Make sure who’s here?”

“Speak of the devil,” Jazz muttered.

Simon scratched his naked chest and pushed sleep-rumpled hair out of his eyes. “Morning to you too, Pinky.” His usual smirk was more of a soft smile for Jazz. His gaze tracked to Gordo, and the Simon mask slid into place. “What are my tasks today? I am partial to signing body parts for charity. That was fun yesterday.”

Gordo looked down at his ever present iPad. “I got the final tally on that, actually. You managed to raise twelve thousand and some change.”

Simon dipped his hands into his pockets. “And that all goes to Simon’s Angels, right?”

“Minus the administrative—”

“No.” Simon’s face grew serious, the charming lead singer slipping away. His blue eyes leveled on their manager. “Take any administrative fees out of my account. I want all the money to go to the kids.”

Surprised, Deacon looked from Simon to Gordo. That was a new development.

“And I’ll match it,” Simon said firmly.

Gordo’s mouth worked like a guppy for a moment before he nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

The smirk slid across Simon’s face again. “Now, I have to go pour this perfection into some smokin’ hot clothes. We have an acoustic show this morning.”

When Simon disappeared into the back of the bus, Deacon looked down at Jazz. “Did you know about that?”

“The charity deal? Yeah. I helped him set it up. With a little help from manager boy.” Jazz punched Gordo in the arm.

Gordo winced and rubbed his arm. “It’s very good PR.”

“Of course it is.” Deacon sighed. Everything their manager touched had to have a public relations spin to it.

“It’s a really good thing, actually. We did a vlog about it. We’re doing another signing when we get back to Los Angeles. I helped him get the website going, and I contacted Jackson to get all the tax information together.”

Again, these were things Deacon usually did. He tried to ignore the irrational twist of unease in his belly. The more he thought things were working, the more he wondered if he was looking at things through a pair of rose-colored glasses.

Playfully, Jazz fluffed her hair. “I better get all pretty, too.”

“Too late. Already done.”

Jazz grinned up at him, her smile so full of pure happiness it was blinding. “Charmer, but I love you anyway.” She gave his bicep one more squeeze, and he flexed just to hear her tinkling laugh. “Simon, do not use up all the hot water!” she yelled as she skipped to the bunk area.

Deacon shook his head and dropped onto the couch. She was the one thing they’d done very right. She kept all of them laughing, even when they were ready to strangle each other from forced proximity.

Nick came up the stairs, a bottle of water dangling from his fingers. He was already dressed in frayed-to-shit jeans and a white button-down shirt that was so new, it still had creases from its packaging. He sprawled out on the couch across from him, sunglasses covering half his face. “’Sup.”

“You’re up early.”

Nick shrugged. “Simon’s snoring woke me.”

Deacon stretched his arms over his head. He’d sweat out a bit more alcohol than usual from the night before, too. “Was a whiskey night last night.”

Nick pinched the bridge of his nose under his aviators. “Never thought I’d be glad that he’s mostly a vodka drinker.”

Deacon laced his fingers over his belly. “We all drank more than usual last night.”

Nick grinned. “Even you.”

“I ran extra hard this morning for those sins. And got some interesting texts from Simon.”

“No shit.” Nick lifted his hips and dug out his phone. He rolled forward, his phone cradled in his hands. “I got a link for the complete works of Sasha Grey.”

Deacon laughed. “Man, he was so bummed when he found out she retired.”

“I think there were tears.”

“It was a sad day.” Deacon nodded solemnly before they both chuckled.

“What was a sad day?” Simon asked, kicking Nick’s boot before he collapsed on the couch beside him.

“Sasha Grey’s retirement.”

“Aww, man. I was hoping that was just a bad dream. That’s just a sacrilege.” Simon slipped on a pair of DG’s. He’d mentioned on Twitter how he was looking for dark sunglasses, and now he was inundated with samples from designers.

Deacon dug out his phone to see if he could do the same. He was pissed that he’d ripped his favorite shirt.

Instant follow and shout out to whomever can find me an vintage Journey E5C4P3 tour shirt XXL with link.

Simon started rattling off his favorite Sasha Grey movies, and Deacon tuned out. When a message from Harper popped up, he switched over to texts.

Hiya. Tonight’s menu: celebrational champagne shots out of my belly button after your show.

He grinned and shot her back a message.

What are we celebrating?

A moment later, he saw the comment bubble come up that she was typing.

Oh nothing, just the official notice that I’m on the Food Riot roster. Full chef status after this tour. I’ll give you all the deets tonight. Naked. Hope you didn’t work out too hard. Chef Lawless has plans for you.

“What’s that shit-eating grin for?”

Deacon looked up at Nick. He tried to wipe off the smile, but he couldn’t. “Nothing.”

Nick’s eyebrow winged up. “Right. Chef Lawless going to cook you up some simmering orgasms with a side of whipped cream?”

Deacon glanced down at his phone then up at Nick who was already standing, ready to leave. “You reading my texts, son?”

Nick grinned. “Maybe.”

He tapped back a quick congratulations and affirmative to the night’s festivities. He jammed his phone back into his pocket and rubbed the back of his neck. There was no way he’d put a damper on tonight. They’d celebrate, and he’d try not to think about the fact that she’d be off on another tour soon.

And he’d be home, getting another album ready.

Maybe.

“Ready to get going?”

Deacon blinked up at Nick again. “Yeah.”

“I must’ve missed the really good text. You’re spacing out, Deak.”

He forced his lips to bend into a smile as he stood. “That you did, Nicky.” Deacon slapped him on the arm. “Let’s get this party started.”

They all piled off the bus and headed for the van used to transport them to the radio stations. Gray was already inside.

“There you are.” Jazz bounced into the seat beside Gray.

The only person that could pull a smile out of Gray was Jazz, and she didn’t spoil her record today. He smiled at her, his eyes shielded behind dark shades. “I took my shower before you water hogs did.”

“That’s Simon, not me.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Gray said easily. He scrunched down in his seat, tipped his Fedora down, then folded his hands in his lap. “Wake me when we get there.”

Jazz huffed, but settled with her phone. Deacon felt his phone buzz and knew she was already tweeting about the day’s festivities. Simon swung his way into the bench seat in the back beside Jazz, leaving him and Nick to take the bucket seats in the middle of the van.

Gordo took the passenger seat in the front and turned with his iPad poised. They were treated to a who’s who about the radio station and the morning hosts they were going to meet. By the time they pulled into the parking lot, Deacon’s brain was full of names he wouldn’t remember, but at least he had a focus now.

And it wasn’t Harper.

The doors opened to a crush of fans lined up on the sidewalk, with white and orange sawhorses trying to keep them in some sort of order.

Simon rubbed his hands together. “Papa’s gotta work.” He hopped out, his arms wide. “Ladies, no pushing. There’s enough of me to go around, I promise.”

Deacon stepped out and cringed. Posters that matched the flags used for Burn’s release party lined the brick wall. All of them in black and cobalt blue boyband glory. Shit. He truly hadn’t missed those.

“Demon!”

Deacon scanned the crowd, surprised to see a group of men and women waving a silk screened panel of canvass with Deacon’s bastardized Oblivion logo on it. He greeted them with smiles and dug one of his ever present Sharpies out of his back pocket.

There were similar groups of fans clamoring for the rest of the band. Simon and Jazz were swallowed by a hoard. After he posed for photo ops and signed the big sign for his Demons, he waded into the crowd.

Jazz was being pushed around in the excitement, and he plucked her out and up onto his shoulders. She wrapped around his neck like a vine, with a shaky “thank you” in his ear.

The moment they walked inside the station, there were a bank of six foot tables. Silver and gold Sharpies, five water bottles, and a stack of CD’s were set up with matching folding chairs all lined up. At the far right of the signing table were two stacks of posters. One of the band, and one just of Simon alone with his shirt off, smirk in full effect.

Gordo came rushing in. “I forgot to mention the signing.”

“Yes, you did,” Nick said with a growl as he managed to get inside.

Jazz laughed, already back to her perky self as she slid down Deacon’s back to skip around the table. She plopped down in the center seat and cracked the seal on her water bottle. “Hey, Simon, maybe we can get a jar and do another signing body parts thing. All those willing victims—aka wild hyenas—outside…”

Simon glanced at Gordo. “Make it happen.”

Deacon sighed and took his place at the far left hand side. It was going to be a long-ass day.