Harper dug through her duffel bag for a clean pair of jeans. She’d all but moved into the penthouse and was earning her keep cooking for the six of them. Cooking lessons with Jazz kept her sane, and the guys were good about trying out all the different recipes she’d stacked up on the road.

But today was appointment day.

Jazz and Deacon had spent endless hours on the phone trying to get an appointment with a lawyer to look over the contract. Simon and Nick were too busy celebrating to worry about anything so pedestrian.

But they only had a few weeks to figure out the contract, and getting an appointment with a lawyer in the industry was proving difficult. Finally, Gray had caved and called his family’s lawyer and had gotten a referral for two contract attorneys.

Hands slid around her waist from the back before Deacon’s spicy cedar scent enveloped her. She closed her eyes and snuggled into his embrace. She’d never been an overly demonstrative person before Deacon. A few hugs for family, but nothing like she was with him.

She wasn’t sure if it was because he was so big, or if it was because she couldn’t keep her hands off him. And for right now, she couldn’t care. She nuzzled her cheek against his, surprised to see the scruff was gone.

She turned in his arms. “Look at you, all clean-shaven.”

He ran a hand over his jawline. “I know. It feels weird. Cold.”

She laughed. “I gotta say, you just sliced about five years off of your face.” She cupped his cheeks. His green eyes were bright with nerves and the playful Deacon that she’d gotten to know on tour. Here at the penthouse he’d loosened up even more.

Having a valet service was really dangerous on so many levels. Sex, food, and a lot of movies had relaxed the both of them into complacency. Last night had been the first time the real world had intruded into their happy little bubble.

“Why do you think I leave the scruff?”

She laughed and dragged her lips over the hollowed cheekbones to the feathery curls that had escaped the hair drier closest to his scalp. He groaned, dragging her closer until his towel fell to the floor.

“Nope.” She twisted out of his grasp and across the room. “I just took a shower.”

“We can take another one,” he said as he crossed the room after her.

She crawled across the king-sized bed and bounced off the other side. “No. You put that away, mister.”

His dimples flashed as he prowled across the twisted sheets. “You haven’t said that to me all week.” They’d spent hours on the balcony under the sun, and on the roof of the building that had a pool. He was brown and perfect, without a tan line to be found.

And hard. Can’t forget about that, Harper Lee.

She bumped into the wall as he stepped off the bed, his long legs eating up the room to cage her in. “Now, Deacon.”

“Now, Lawless,” he said with the low, growly voice she could never quite say no to.

Lips trailed up her neck to her ear, where he nipped playfully. “Surely we can spare ten minutes. Especially the way you drive.”

“Funny guy.” She tipped her head back briefly. “God, you had to do the thing,” she moaned.

His hand snaked behind her waist to slip into her jeans, his other hand unzipping the front. The entire time, he placed open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin that bridged shoulder and neck.

Her phone chimed from the dresser and she found some deep well of strength inside. She pressed both hands to his chest and pushed him back. “Gotta go.”

Walk it off.

She blew out a breath and re-zipped her jeans.

Don’t look.

Nope. No looking.

She peeked over her shoulder and groaned. Deacon stood where she’d left him, his arm braced on the wall, his achingly perfect body tight, and his cock at the ready. If that wasn’t bad enough, his bold grin made her laugh.

“Incorrigible.”

He pushed off the wall and grabbed his dark jeans off the chair in the corner and stepped into them sans boxers and disappeared around the corner.

Sweet Pete, she’d end up jumping him in the car.

“So this Ellis guy, he’s really Steven Tyler’s lawyer,” he called from the bathroom. He ducked his head out, toothbrush in his hand. “Not some lackey. Not that that’s a bad thing. Anyone’s better than the guy I have.”

“No guy?”

“Bingo,” he said and started brushing his teeth again.

She slipped on the only blazer she owned and followed him to the bathroom. “I was looking at his client list and it’s pretty impressive. Rebel Rage uses this guy, too.”

“Huh.” He took the brush out of his mouth. “You think that’s how he heard about our contract?”

“Kinda hinky on the lawyer privilege thing don’t you think?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. I still can’t believe Gray has these kinds of contacts.”

Harper leaned on the door jamb. “Jazz is freaking out.”

“We had to take the first available appointment. I just wish it didn’t have to be on the same damn day.”

“It’s better to have two different pairs of eyes on the contract.”

Deacon sighed and rinsed his mouth. “I know. At least Gray is going with her.” He crossed to her and rubbed her upper arms. “I just wish the guys would come with me.”

“I don’t get it.” She thought they’d want to be as informed as possible. It didn’t make sense that they’d let Deacon take the lead on this.

He shrugged. “I’ve always been the one to figure out the paperwork.”

“This isn’t paperwork, this is your future and your work. Copyrights and royalties and God knows what else.”

“I know, baby.” He smoothed his hand down her braid. How many times had he done that to soothe her? Her stomach flipped. Add in the endearment he saved for when she was upset, and it took everything inside her not to climb into his arms and ask him to never let go. It wasn’t even her livelihood that was at stake, and she was twisted up about it. What the hell was wrong with her?

Because you hate to see him twisted up, Harper Lee.

He was playing a good game, but she felt his restlessness, met it with urgency in the deepest part of the night when she couldn’t stand it any longer. When he lost himself inside of her seemed to be the only time he was truly at peace.

And she could do that for him with so little effort. Even if the ties got stronger each time she made love to him. Whether it was pounding and sweaty or sweet and romantic, she knew it wasn’t just sex.

It never had been.

And crap, that scared her.

She pressed her forehead to his chest then turned her cheek into his shirt, taking a gulp of Deacon essence into her. “You ready to do this?”

“Definitely.” Without thought, he linked his fingers with hers and pulled her out the door and down the stairs.

Simon was downstairs in a pair of low-slung sweatpants and jet black shades covering half of his face. He was sprawled in the chaise end of the couch scrolling through his phone.

Deacon stopped beside him. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

“Nah. I have a guy looking at it.”

Deacon jammed his free hand into his hair. “Well, who is it?”

“A guy Jackson recommended.”

Deacon tipped back his head. “And I’m sure that’s not a conflict of interest or anything.”

Simon finally looked up. “What is your deal, man? The lawyer works for us, not for Jackson.”

“Right, Trident’s a multi-million dollar client, and we’re schlubs. Who’s he going to take care of?”

Simon flicked off his sunglasses and sat up. “Why do you have such a hard-on for the screw job? We just want to get our music out there, build up a reputation, and then we can play big-shot-hard-ass with the contracts. Right now, we’re still up and comers.”

Deacon hung his head, and she tightened her grip on his hand. He smiled slightly at her and sighed. “I’ve got a great contract lawyer that’s willing to talk to us. I’d like it to be all of us.”

Simon stood in front of the open fridge, picking cherries out of a bowl. “Take notes, because I know you will. Or hell, record the whole damn thing, and we’ll listen to it later.” When he had a handful, he slammed the door. “But don’t stress yourself, Deak. This is pretty much a done deal.”

“It’s stupid to go into this blind.”

She heard the anger and frustration in Deacon’s voice. Part of her wanted to go over to Simon and slap him upside the head to make him listen, but she could see that the lead singer already had made up his mind. He was just killing time.

Harper slid her fingers out of Deacon’s grasp and went to drawer next to the fridge and pulled out one of the half dozen phone chargers that they kept there. “Taping the session is a good idea. If Mr. Ellis goes for it, of course.”

“And what if he doesn’t? You guys should be there to hear this.” Deacon’s voice was drifting into the tense anger that matched his shoulders.

“I’d just zone out anyway. Go, be the Boy Scout you always are and report back to the little people.”

“Fuck off, Simon.”

“What?” Simon cocked his hip against the counter. “Like I’m lying. Of any of us, you’re the only one that would be able to figure out what the lawyer guy is saying. It’s just noise to me.” He popped another cherry into his mouth. “Boring noise.”

“And what happens if we sign this contract and get locked into something stupid for years?”

Simon boosted himself onto the counter, letting his feet swing. “Then we live in this crazy penthouse and make records, then go on the road and play. That’s the endgame anyway.”

Deacon stalked across the room and slapped the intercom button.

“Yes?”

“This is Deacon McCoy. Please have the car brought around for me. I’ll be downstairs in a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Deacon gentled his voice. “Thank you.” He held his arm out to Harper. “Let’s go.”

“Aww, Deacon don’t go away mad, just go away,” Simon said in his usual snarky, offhand tone.

Deacon practically dragged her through the doorway to the bank of elevators. When the doors closed behind them, he punched the crimson padded wall. “I can’t fucking believe him.”

When he shook out his hand, she grabbed his arm. “Don’t break your hand.”

“I’d like to break his goddamn face.”

Harper let out a small chuckle before she cupped his hand in both of hers. She shook his arm until he looked down at her.

“What?” he groused.

She pressed a kiss on his knuckles. “We’re going, and Jazz is already at a meeting. We’ll make sure you have all the information possible to take to the guys. I promise.”

“I just don’t understand how they can be so…” He paused and stared at the ceiling, “I don’t know, cavalier about it.”

Frustration leaped off him. She didn’t know what else to do but be there for him.

Finally, he looked down at her. Eyes that would forever swallow her whole seemed to soften and a little of the frenetic anger melted. He sighed. “I’m sorry.” He cupped her face. “You’ve had to listen to me freak out about this for a week. A lot of fun.”

“Oh, I think we’ve found a way around that for the most part.”

He grinned into her mouth. The kiss was sweet and soft. And as the doors opened, she hooked a finger from each hand into one of his belt loops and dragged him out into the lobby.

“We’ll go talk to this guy before you get yourself so wound up that the meeting is useless.”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

Deacon slung an arm around her shoulders, dragging her against him. “Of course you are.”

“The sooner you realize these basic things, the happier you’ll be, big guy.”

They walked out the wide glass doors to see the tricked out Audi that Jackson had sent over. He was still in the wooing process, but in this one instance, she didn’t care. The engine on the sleek black car was freaking amazing.

“You scare me when you get that look.”

She looked up at him. “What look?”

“That look. The one that says you’re going to make me break the Holy Shit handle again.”

She skipped across the cement entryway to the car. “Hello, Will.”

The usual afternoon attendant smiled at her. He was younger than her and barely an inch taller, but he was adorable. His shoulders went back. “Miss Pruitt.”

She caught Deacon rolling his eyes as he got into the passenger seat.

Will opened her door. “When will you be returning?”

“A few hours.”

“Oh.”

Harper couldn’t stop the smile at Will’s obvious disappointment, but he recovered quickly when she got into the car.

“Have a nice day.” Will ducked down. “You too, Mr. McCoy.”

Deacon gave him a halfhearted salute. When Will shut the door, she waved before pulling into traffic.

She smacked his arm. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh huh.” She pulled into the passing lane and weaved her way through the afternoon traffic.

“Could the kid be any more obvious?”

“Deacon, you’re what? Four years older than him. You can’t really call him a kid.”

“Oh, I can. He shows absolutely no fear. Does he have a death wish?”

Laughing probably wouldn’t be a good idea, but a chuckle escaped anyway. “Like you have anything to worry about?”

“That’s not the point.”

She glanced at him, the giggle trapped in her chest breaking free. “Stop grinding your molars. You’ll get a headache.” She reached across and gave his cheek a little pat.

“Too late.” He reclined the seat a bit to give him another spare inch of leg room. “You could have cured my headache,” he said with a leer.

“Last night twice, and this morning wasn’t enough, pal?” She shifted gears and coasted past a truck and two Corvettes before snapping back into the right hand lane.

Deacon slapped his hand against the roof of the car and swore. “Take it easy, Lawless.”

“What? They were in my way. We have places to go.”

“I’d like to sign my first real contract before they put me in the grave.”

“And yet, you let me drive.”

“Obviously I have brain damage. Must be the lack of oxygen to my brain from all the orgasms.”

“Must be.” She downshifted and slid over three lanes, then cut across two. Los Angeles traffic was like playing Grand Theft Auto on the professional level, but she loved it. Especially with an engine that actually responded to her touch.

Deacon gripped the door frame. “You’ve got that look in your eyes again.”

With her blood humming and the sun shining in the sunroof, she remembered why L.A. was one of her favorite places. Where else could she see beauty in a smog filled sunset over the valley, and feel the thrum of a city constantly alive with people? Even the noxious burps of exhaust from the busses blocking her in couldn’t dampen her mood.

A pair of cruisers with twirling lights had a Bentley pulled over, giving her the edge to sneak between the busses and shoot north on San Vincente Boulevard.

“Son of a—” Deacon sat forward and turned back. “You did see the cops, right?”

“They were busy.”

He let out an exasperated laugh. West Hollywood and congested traffic killed her momentum for a few minutes until they got to Sunset. Deacon sat forward as the Whiskey A Go Go came into view.

“I don’t care what we have to do, but I’m playing there.”

She grinned. “Mosh pits and sweat.”

“And history.”

They stopped at a light, and she saw the pure joy in his face. This was it for him. The music and the connection, but even more than that, he was connected with the grit and edge of Sunset. Under all the charm and sweet smiles, there was a hunger she understood.

He turned to her, his green eyes shining with intent. “I want to play there for hours, until I’m dripping and the people are screaming.”

She gripped his shirt, wanting to taste a piece of that intensity. Lips clashed and teeth clicked as he invaded her space. “I want to see that,” she said against his mouth.

“Stay with me, and you will.”

She pressed her forehead to his, her lungs like bellows trying to get the air back inside of her through the instant excitement. The blare of a horn behind them split them apart and she turned left onto Sunset.

The dash clock read that they had less than ten minutes to his appointment.

Focus, Harper Lee. You can jump him later.

They were both quiet as she maneuvered her way to the parking garage beneath the glass wall of a building. She found a space a few levels up and parked. The entire unit was active with people leaving and coming back from lunch. And still they didn’t speak. Deacon popped his knuckles and checked his inside pocket for the contract twice.

After the third time that he scrubbed his palms down his thighs, she finally covered his hand. She didn’t bother with platitudes and false words. He wouldn’t believe her anyway, but she did lace her fingers over his. “Ready?”

He nodded, gripping her hand tight before slipping free and opening his door. The click of her boots echoed in the garage. For all intents and purposes, this should be an easy meeting, but Deacon’s tension was rubbing off on her.

They were expecting the contract to be shitty. The music business was definitely skewed away from the artist’s favor, but the question was just how shitty? They got to the elevator, and Deacon pushed the button three times. He checked his phone and pressed it again.

The ride up was confining. The car barely fit the both of them. Instead of leaning into her, he held himself stiffly. As the floors lit and faded with each floor, she watched him change. He stood up taller, straightened his shoulders, cracked his neck and shook out his fingers.

By the time the doors opened, he was Deacon again. The Deacon that put fans at ease, that solved problems, that smiled at assistants like they were his best friend. The mask was in full effect.

* * *

Deacon smiled at the receptionist. She was striking, with a severe cap of white blonde hair that came to points under each blade of her cheekbones. Her eyes were an icy blue rimmed in black lashes that were improbably long. Within moments, she assessed him, and he was pretty sure she was going to dismiss him.

“I have a one o’clock with Booker Ellis.”

She pursed her blood red lips and glanced down at her slim keyboard. She tapped a few keys, studied her screen then her too full lips spread into a cordial smile. “Mr. McCoy and…”

Harper came to stand next to him. “Harper Pruitt.”

“A moment.” The receptionist stood, her high-waisted skirt hugged her from ribs to knee with a thin, red belt at the waist. How the hell did she move in that? But move, she did.

A man followed her back down the hall. He was tall with silver hair that had a personality of its own, as well as a matching goatee. He was down to his shirtsleeves, and they were rolled up, along with a loosened tie.

“Hello, thanks for waiting. I’m Booker Ellis.”

Deacon passed a hand over his hip to make sure his palms weren’t drenched and held out a hand. “Deacon McCoy. Thank you for making time for me.”

“I’m always happy to squeeze in a referral.”

Deacon glanced back at Harper. “Would you come in with me? It would be helpful to have another set of ears.”

“Are you sure?” She twisted the end of her braid.

“Is that okay, Mr. Ellis?”

“Sure. The more the merrier.”

They followed the lawyer down the hallway, plush carpeting silencing their footsteps. His office was definitely the den of a lawyer, but it also had a wall of pictures both candid and professional. It seemed as if his personal photos were mixed into the famous to make one huge collage of smiles.

A large table sat in front of a window with a few file folders and legal pads. A massive cherry desk with matching bookcases dominated the space, but again, there was a bit of the whimsical in with the legal. Huge law tomes lined the shelves, but little figurines and framed kids drawings actually held more of a place of honor in front.

“Have a seat.”

Deacon moved over to the table and sat. Harper to his right and Ellis to his left. “Is it okay if I record this? I don’t want to miss something.”

“Sure. Especially since you mentioned in your call that they won’t allow you to negotiate your contract. Which has those little hairs on my arm tingly.”

Deacon had to agree. The longer he thought about the contract, the more anxious he’d been getting. He slid his phone into the middle of the table and turned on the record function.

Ellis pulled the folder in front of him and folded his hands on top. “Let’s get down to the basics. This is a decent contract. It’s not a good contract, and it sure as shit ain’t a great contract, but it’s pretty typical for the climate that is the music business lately.”

Deacon’s shoulders loosened. “So they’re not putting the screw job to us?”

“Oh, no. They’re surely doing that.”

Harper’s hand rested on his thigh. Deacon cleared his throat. “And that’s a decent contract?”

“Look, you’re right to be wary. Anyone coming into this business should be.” Ellis opened the folder and picked out a few pages. He swung one out in front of Deacon. “This is the meat of it. They’re signing you for one album, and there are restrictions on the time it takes you to finish the album, so you can’t pull an Axel Rose and take ten years to complete it.”

Deacon forced a smile. “Good to know.”

“Beyond that, the album also must perform to a certain standard before you’re eligible for another contract. There’s no real number figure, so I’m leery of that. But it will depend on when the album is released. But that’s also pretty fluid in a good sense, because the album can do poorly, but the tour can be a huge success.”

Deacon nodded. “Okay, that isn’t too bad.”

“Exactly. The advance is rather good, but from the gossip I’ve heard out there, they want to get you a big name producer, so that fits. But with the big advance, they’re actually just going to take a good chunk of it for the production cost.”

“How much?”

“At best, sixty-five percent, at worst? I’d say eighty.”

Deacon whistled. So the really nice advance listed in the contract would be shaved off significantly.

“The nice thing is, there’s stipulations for upgrade in equipment. They don’t usually include that.”

Deacon sat back in his chair. “We do need better equipment.”

“Also, this is something lovingly called a three-sixty deal.”

“What’s that?”

“It means they want a cut of your touring. And for a band, that’s where you actually make your money. Album sales are crap.” Ellis pulled out more papers.

Deacon’s brain fuzzed as the lawyer went on about video costs, making money on digital playbacks on the radio and internet radio formats, even monetization of ads on their YouTube channel. All the little things that would be split in the record label’s favor.

Considering they were laying out the hundreds of thousands of dollars, he wasn’t surprised. He just wished he wasn’t the only one sitting there listening to this. And even more, he was worried that Jazz was listening to the same information and probably freaking out as much as he was.

His foot started bouncing as Ellis laid out more figures and loopholes.

“Okay, your eyes are glazing over. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Deacon blinked and tapped on the page with his pen. He’d been scrawling notes and figures of his own, but none of it made sense right now. “Would you sign the contract?”

“If I was really hungry, I would.”

Deacon gripped the pen harder. “We are.”

“But, if you’re smart, you won’t. And I’ll tell you why. No matter what you decide, there’s one thing that I don’t like about this contract at all.”

His stomach knotted and Harper’s hand found his again, stopping his bouncing leg. He squeezed back and cleared his throat. “Besides the fact that they want everything?”

“Hell, that’s the way of business. And after your first album, you’re right, you’ll be able to negotiate better. But I don’t like this.” Ellis drew out two pages. “They want your single. If you sign with them, they retain the rights to “The Becoming” and will pay you a royalty, but if you leave after this contract ends, they retain the rights. Again, they’ll pay you royalties, but they retain the licensing and copyrights.”

Deacon stood, his chair skittering over the carpet as he pushed back. “They can’t do that. That’s our song. We wrote that before they signed us.”

“Yes, but they put it on the soundtrack and your EP.”

“Does that mean we lose the rights to the song now? Regardless?”

“I’d have to look at your other contract to be sure.”

Ellis’s calm voice made every hair on his body stand on end. Deacon drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. He was pretty sure he heard a but in the older man’s voice. Following instinct, he stopped pacing and sat back down. “But?”

The lawyer smiled slightly. “You’re smart, and that will go a long way in this business. If they’re putting it so deep into this contract, it makes me think it wasn’t in the first one. That’s only a guess, though.”

The original contract had been a licensing one to use the song. At least for the soundtrack. Deacon cleared his throat. “The soundtrack gives us a royalty to use the song, but they don’t own it.”

“That’s good.” Ellis sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Most soundtracks pay for the songs and cut the artists out of everything.”

Deacon cracked his thumb knuckle. “It was our only song. I wouldn’t let the band sign over the rights.”

“It’s a good thing Oblivion has you in their corner.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that will be the first thing they say when I take this information back to them today.” Deacon tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling.

“That’s the highlights of the contract, unless you have more questions?”

He had a million questions, but none of them could match the one glaring problem with the contract. A lack of control was to be expected, but the idea that they could take their work regardless of them staying with the label was something he couldn’t push under the header of—we’ll get a better contract later.

“Oh, Mr. McCoy—”

“Deacon, please.”

Ellis drew two more papers out of the folder. “There was one last thing. I don’t know if it’s an oversight, or if there’s a different band dynamic than I’m aware of.” The lawyer paused, tapping on the paper.

Deacon looked down at the huge block of text. It was dense with legalese and percentages, but one thing finally came into focus. He read it once, then twice, and finally a third time. He had to be reading it wrong.

The room fuzzed at the edges and his vision blurred.

“Usually with a band, things are split evenly, but two members seem to have a slightly larger take.”

Disbelief chased a searing pain that radiated from his chest to his fingers like lightning. Surely there had to be little black marks on the page. His fingertips were white from the pressure and his arm shook.

Right there, in black and white. Twenty-five percent for both Nicholas Crandall and Simon Kagan, leaving the remaining fifty to be distributed between himself, Jazz, and Gray evenly.

“Deacon?” Harper stood beside him, her fingers clamped around his biceps. “Deacon.” She shook him. When he didn’t answer, she leaned over him and looked down at the page. “Fuck me running.”

Deacon gave a humorless laugh. “Evidently, some of us are getting fucked by more than just the label.”

To his credit, Booker Ellis’s face remained expressionless. “I have an out of the office meeting. You can stay in here as long as you like.”

Deacon stood with the older man and held out his hand, pleased to see that it didn’t shake. “I appreciate your time, sir.”

“If you have any questions, please call me.”

Deacon could hear the sympathy and regret in Ellis’s voice. When the door closed behind him, Deacon let himself bend forward and press his forehead to the table.

“C’mon, big guy, talk to me.”

“And say what?” He couldn’t even look at her. He couldn’t breathe, let alone talk. He needed to run. He needed to punch something. He needed to scream.

“Tell me what I can do.”

He heard the pain in her voice, the worry and the hesitancy, but he couldn’t—he just couldn’t. “I need to get out of here.” He swiped his phone off the table and saw that it was still recording.

He lifted the phone to his mouth. “Fuck you,” he said on a harsh whisper. “Fuck you.” Then he clicked off the phone.