“Thin ice, Edwards. Thin. Ice.”
“Sorry. I’m almost to—”
A loud crashing noise sounded before Harper let out a long breath. “I just found Simon. He’s facedown in his bed with his earbuds in his ears. The room looks trashed.” She sighed. “Deacon, however, is nowhere in sight. The door to his room is locked.”
“Is mine intact? Check my door. I didn’t lock it.”
“Yes, yours looks fine. Guess this was party central. No wonder Deak probably holed up in the gym.”
“Yep, can’t say I’m surprised. Simon hooked up with our esthetician last night. And maybe one of the manicurists. The party sounded like it was raging pretty well when I left.” Jazz signaled and turned into the parking lot of the spa. “I’ll meet you upstairs in five.”
Five minutes later, Jazz stood next to Harper at Simon’s bedside and shook her head. He wore only a pair of black silk sleep pants and had what appeared to be a trail of lipstick kisses down his back. An empty—at least she hoped it was empty—champagne bottle had rolled against his side and two more were tipped over on the nightstand. The sheets were all over the floor and one of the pillows sat on top of the TV.
And the perfume. Good lord.
“That isn’t you, is it?” Jazz leaned closer to Harper and took a healthy sniff. Harper smelled like a combination of yeast, butter and lemons, her usual scent when she’d spent time in the kitchen. “Oh, thank God. I didn’t want to diss that perfume if you were the one who smelled so rank.”
“I appreciate that. I think.”
“It smells like something they’d bathe a poodle in before putting it in Paris Hilton’s purse. Ick.” Jazz kicked at the sheets. “This is what happens when I take off for a night. He needs a keeper.”
“The door to his room was unlocked. Someone could’ve robbed him blind.” Harper looked around the expensive French-influenced suite. The heavy gold drapes were closed tight against the morning sunshine. “Granted, it’s not likely in a place this swank, but it’s possible.”
Jazz pounded on Simon’s back and he jumped like a live wire. Still didn’t open his eyes, though. “Wake up, asshat.” She yanked out his earbud and shouted “good morning,” in his ear, which finally managed to make him open one sleepy eye.
“It’s the middle of the night. Why you botherin’ me?”
“It’s past nine in the morning. Get your ass up.”
“Closer to ten now,” Harper put in.
“A man’s entitled to sleep. Especially since we wrote a new song last night while you were off playing Candyland, pixilicious, and it fucking rocks my socks off.” He produced a battered notebook from under his stomach and thrust it in their general direction.
Jazz cocked a brow at Harper and turned the notebook right side up. “‘Nailed’? That’s your contribution to the album?”
“Read it,” he said before disappearing under his pillow.
Jazz scanned the lyrics. The last stanza was particularly good.
All these voices hammering at my head
Wanting too many slices of me
Bit by bit I give them away
Until nothing but nails in the frame remain
“Wow,” she said softly, passing the notebook to Harper. “That’s pretty awesome. The chorus needs work.”
“Well, duh,” came the muffled reply. “You weren’t here to give it your womanly touch and shit.”
Jazz couldn’t help laughing as she climbed on his legs and picked up another pillow to whale on the back of his head. “Get up, you jerk. We gotta go find Deak.”
“Did someone say ‘find Deak’? Because I—” Deacon broke off, stopping mid-rub on his damp chest. “Lawless.” His gruff tone belied the wide smile that broke across his face as his wife headed straight into his arms.
“About time you showed up.” Harper ran a fingertip over his wet pecs and cast a glance back at Jazz. “Cover your eyes. I’m about to lick this and claim it as mine.”
“You did that already. About a thousand times or so.” Deak lifted her off her feet and kissed her with enough gusto to have Jazz glancing away.
Simon, on the other hand, had emerged from under his pillow and watched avidly. “Hot,” he proclaimed once they were through.
Jazz smacked him on the back of the head again, this time with the back of her hand. “Pervert.”
“So says the one who snuck off for a booty call and didn’t come home all night. All night,” Simon repeated in a singsong voice, kicking his legs until Jazz tumbled onto her butt on the mattress. She quickly tugged down her dress, remembering she wasn’t exactly dressed for horseplay. Or any kind of public play, period.