How to Love a Blue Demon

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How to Love a Blue Demon Page 2

by Story, Sherrod


  To her credit, the woman said not a word, merely picked herself up, bowed and helped the other female scoop up the mess before they scuttled out under Rierdane’s laser glare of disapproval.

  Eyoen was on his feet, one hand waving at the TV broadcast he was watching to halt it mid word.

  “Well, man?” He put both hands on the shorter man’s shoulders. “What does he say?”

  “After much debate, the King has agreed that you may go and view this female you’ve found more closely. Under two conditions.”

  Eyoen blinked impatiently, gold eyes flashing as his scowl warned his faithful retainer not to string him along farther.

  “You must bring back three lessons to share with the Council.”

  Eyoen smiled so big, Rierdane thought emotion might split the prince’s face in two.

  “And, you must find a host.”

  The grin fell from his face as though pushed.

  Gods take him straight to the frigid underworld! He should have known his father would find a clever way to throw a spanner into the works. To find a host meant he had to take over a human’s body. He’d be bound by most of the physics of the land, which meant he’d be more vulnerable. His natural defenses would be stifled, his strength constrained by his human body. Even the thought of it made him nervous.

  Earth was such a primitive place. In the city of Chicago – the equivalent of a small village on the star – where he wanted to go, there was no royal family. Everyone was considered – he shook his head at the oddity – equal. He’d be completely alone, in a strange, weaker body.

  “We’re wanted in the throne room,” Rierdane said now, and Eyoen rose obediently and donned a suitable robe to meet his father.

  “I know you think this is your lucky day,” his father said, watching the thoughts flow across his youngest cubs’ face. “But I’m sending you there as a punishment. You’ll have to take care of yourself, by yourself, apart from Rierdane.”

  The valet shimmered into the room at the sound of his name.

  “And him you will have in an advisory capacity only,” his sire said darkly. “You will learn how to get along and do things on your own. Chicago has something called values,” the King paused.

  “Midwestern,” Rierdane whispered.

  “Midwestern values. They’re similar to our laws, unspoken, but fairly binding. You shouldn’t have trouble fitting in. We’ll find you a white host as they are often tall and share our facial features. Humans are not a tall people, traditionally, nor are they of our skin.”

  White! White was the color of poverty on Cyanus. And even then it wasn’t really white, merely a pale, almost translucent blue. But he did recall seeing a lot of white people in his crystal.

  “In Chicago, most of the people in power are white, though they have many shades there to choose from.” His sire sighed. “I hope you’re back in time for the solstice, my son.”

  Eyoen sucked in a shocked breath. The solstice celebration was more than six months away in human time. Would he need that long to woo Cass and convince her to leave Earth and come back to his star? Surely not.

  His father lectured him for a few more minutes, the importance of making a good show, to behave with propriety and – here Eyoen swallowed nervously – of the criticality that he not hurt anyone, and then dismissed him.

  Back in his apartment, Eyoen eyed his valet. Rierdane was talking his new role as advisor very seriously. He insisted on preparing his master for what lay ahead so thoroughly Eyoen felt like he was back in the schoolroom. He hadn’t stopped talking since they left the throne room.

  “You’ll have $5,000 per week spending money.”

  “How much is that in Cyani coin?” Eyoen asked.

  “About 50 credits.”

  Eyoen shuddered; it was a pitiful amount. It appeared his father did indeed want to punish him, sending him to another land a pauper!

  “Never fear, my boy. You can actually live quite well on $5,000 a week in Chicago,” Rierdane assured him. “We’ll find you a host with several credit cards.”

  “What?”

  “Credit cards. Small rectangles of plastic that act as cash.”

  “What is cash?”

  “Credits.”

  “Ah.” Eyoen summoned another of his three servants to get him something to drink as he turned on the OWE crystal and looked at his favorite program – Cass’ life.

  “Sire? Sire!”

  “Yes?”

  Rierdane sighed. Eyoen wouldn’t listen to a word he said as long as Cass was on the seer.

  “What is that?” He asked. Best to give in a little otherwise the prince would be uncooperative.

  “One of the box people, a CBS reporter, is doing what’s called a live interview,” Eyoen whispered. “Listen. They’re asking her about her work…”

  “Well, I give 100 percent for every performance, no matter where it is, no matter what size it is. I refuse to give less to my fans. They pay good, hard-earned money to see me, and I want them to keep doing it. Plus, I enjoy what I do,” Cass grinned, and the reporter smiled helplessly.

  Her appeal was much more than an honest desire to serve, of course, Eyoen thought.

  Nor was it solely motivated by gratitude, however humble Cass was. The enjoyment she mentioned, that was the reason her live shows were memorable. She simply loved to perform. She drew every eye in the room even before she became a star. Now she had a limitless audience, and fans fainted or screamed, crying and throwing themselves at barricades trying to touch her as she signed autographs.

  People couldn’t help responding, males and females, and this reporter was no exception. Whenever she appeared in public, her beauty, her energy, her very presence inspired a longing tethered only by the thinnest veneer of civility. She made people want her, and she did so effortlessly.

  Cass understood this too, and Eyoen believed she didn’t mind when reporters asked her about her status as a sex symbol.

  In a Rolling Stone Q&A he watched last year she said, “It’s funny,” and laughed, that rich, deep trademark tumble of sweet water over the ear that had earned her a spontaneous marriage proposal from a young prince when she performed at his birthday party in Dubai. “But it’s not complicated. I’m a sex symbol because I’m sexy. Fame didn’t do that. I’m the same person I was before I famous. I wear the same clothes, still cook my own food, and use the same soap. I still got the same four or five friends around me all the time.

  “Being sexy is about being yourself, being happy, deep down happy, and that don’t necessarily mean your mouth is smiling. It means your eyes are lit with spirit. People are either drawn to the spirit, or they’re repelled by it. That’s sexy.”

  The reporter leaned forward, chin in hand. He blinked languidly, basking in the sparkle of her brown eyes. “And, you know,” she shrugged, a devilish grin on her full red lips. “I’m tall, and I got big tits. In America, that’s half the battle won right there.”

  Chapter three

  “Priti!”

  No response.

  “Priti!”

  “What? Damn!” Priti stuck her head around her best friend and boss’s office door. Her big brown eyes bugged comically as she came into the room. The place looked like a paper mill had exploded. “Cass? Where you at, girl?”

  A well-shaped head with a slightly lopsided natural appeared over the edge of the desk. “Where’s that one thing I need to call ole’ boy and ask him to –” while she spoke, Priti stepped daintily over piles of papers and picked up an envelope from the top of the desk. She handed it over. “Ah! Thanks,” and Cass set it right back down and went back to tossing papers out of the file cabinets.

  “Whatchu’ doin’?”

  “Preparing for the audit.”

  “We’re being audited?” Priti’s eyes got big again.

  “Nu-uh, but Burry” – Burrell Sandberg, accountant – “said we should prepare for it, just in case.”

  “How is fuckin’ up all these papers preparing?”r />
  “I gotta shred all this! Burry ‘bout had a fit earlier when he saw it. He said not to keep any old records. Just the last seven years tax returns.”

  “You sure?”

  Cass looked up at her and blinked large, cat-like eyes with dark lashes so thick they appeared fake. She cocked her head to the side. “I think that’s what he said. You know I’ve been meaning to clean this stuff up anyway.”

  Priti rolled her eyes at her friend’s back. She’d been saying the same thing since they were kids.

  “Where’s that shredder I bought the other day?”

  The other day being a year and a half ago. Cass had no sense of time and the worst memory for anything other than music and numbers. She could do numbers in her head faster than anyone Priti knew, and remembered every note from every song she’d ever heard. But her office looked like the land that time forgot.

  Priti went to the closet and lugged out a knee high box.

  “Ah! Great,” Cass grinned and clapped her friend on the back, unintentionally pushing her smaller figure forward a few steps. She peered down at the box, then with one powerful yank, ripped open the top and after tossing aside the plastic and Styrofoam packaging, shook the shredder free.

  She sat down in the middle of a pile of papers and plugged it in. She grinned as she started feeding papers into it.

  “Gonna help me?”

  Priti rolled her eyes, and handed her a stack of papers. “Lee’s on his way.”

  Cass’ head came up sharply. “He’s on his way from the airport? You told him we gotta fly out day after tomorrow? What’d he say?”

  “He said he’ll go with us.”

  Cass smiled contentedly and resumed her shredding. Priti went to call Burry, “just to make sure we’re doing the right thing.”

  An hour later, Priti’s boyfriend Boyd stuck his head in the room.

  “Lee and me are goin’ to get a beer.”

  Cass leapt to her feet, and Priti instinctively ducked as a long leg swung over her entire body – and the shredder – and dashed out the door.

  Lee turned, grinning as he heard the rapid fire pitter patter of rubber soled socks, and opened his arms as 145 pounds of shapely, scented woman leapt into them.

  Slender arms and legs wrapped themselves all the way around his body and squeezed. He squeezed back, then leaned in to kiss the soft, gloss free lips already parted for his tongue.

  He groaned as their tongues danced, welcoming the long-fingered hands that clenched his back and neck, that shoved into his hair and gripped hard as his caressed her ass and sides. He walked her backward until he could sit her on top of the counter and then set to work in earnest.

  Priti and Boyd watched, him leaning against another counter, her leaning against his side eating some popcorn she’d been munching earlier. She passed him the bowl and he took a few kernels, never taking his eyes off the lovers.

  Lee stood throat bared as Cass nipped and tongued his flesh. There was a flush along his lean cheeks, and his lips were already bruised red from their kisses. He growled something in Cass’ ear, and she issued a throaty laugh as he bent her backwards on the counter.

  Boyd grunted. “You comin’, Lee?”

  Lee started, having completely forgotten there were other people in the house. “Ah, yeah, B. Sorry, man.” He untangled himself from Cass and shoved his arms back into his shirt. “Come with?” he asked her, giving her the wide-eyed, sexy little boy look that earned him millions in modeling contracts.

  Cass shook her head, hopping down from the counter. “I gotta practice.”

  He tugged on her grey tank top. “Please? I ain’t seen you in a week.”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  “Yours,” he reminded her.

  Cass grinned. “Oh. Well, I started a project and –” she paused to admire the pout she was getting. “Alright, but I’ll meet you there. I gotta clean up my office, and I’m only goin’ for one drink.”

  He nodded. He knew he could talk her into staying long after one beer ran out. “Can we wait a bit, B?” Lee asked. “I’ll help you in the office so we can leave faster,” he told Cass.

  “We’ll all help,” Priti announced.

  “Priti told you we’re gonna be in New York for about a week?” Cass asked Lee.

  He nodded again. “No problem. I gotta couple jobs I can do.” He’d planned to turn them down to spend time with her, but he’d sent his agent a text telling her to accept them since he’d be in town after all.

  Between the three of them – Priti bowed out to get ready – they made short work of the office. An hour later they were installed at Morton’s ordering dinner and drinks.

  As was usually the case when Cass went anywhere, a few other people joined their group. There was a movie crew in town shooting downtown which yielded a few stars, and a local businessman wanted to buy her a drink and ask for a recommendation for his son’s guitar lessons.

  “I’ma slip out,” she whispered to Lee a few hours later. She’d already given Priti the signal across the table.

  “I’ll follow you in a second,” he promised.

  She was waiting in the Range when he came out five minutes later, having posed for a few pictures and stopped to shoot the shit with a cameraman she knew.

  “You know I’ma tear that ass up when we get home,” she said, driving with one hand and checking the rearview as she spoke to him.

  “Thank God,” Lee whispered.

  Cass laughed, and turned Usher up real loud on the radio.

  *****

  Cass slid sinuously out from under Lee’s arm and stretched. She wasn’t bored, she told herself, nor was she avoiding the second round Lee would want when he woke up. She sighed as she touched her palms to the floor. She wasn’t usually a liar.

  She threw on the ragged mini dress she habitually wore around the house. The denim was so old it was no longer blue but grey. The seams had sprouted more than one thread, but the cotton was softer than silk from repeated washings.

  It also had the added benefit – for any men, or women, who might be within sight – of dipping low in the front and clinging to her body like skin. A few weeks ago, Priti popped Boyd upside his head when he stared too long at Cass. Cass just continued eating her breakfast. Since they were both staying in her house, it was up to Priti to train Boyd. Cass did as she pleased.

  Now she took the stairs up to her studio two at a time. She was scheduled to do a live set for VH1 in New York and another for Univision, and she wanted to work on a few twists to the album versions of her songs to ensure the experience was memorable.

  Music was easy for her. Her guitar was like an extension of her long fingers. Once a reporter laughingly said that music notes flowed through her veins instead of blood. But that didn’t mean she took it lightly. She could easily have come up some things on the fly, but early in her career she’d set a very high standard for herself, and without fail she kept to it.

  Just thinking about those early days of her career energized her. She’d gotten a late start at her avocation. Had in fact, spent six long years in the working world, commuting, clocking in, taking orders and loathing every long, constrictive minute of it.

  In interviews she summed that part of her life up in one sentence: Some people aren’t suited for office work. Her last boss had been a nice enough man but he’d wanted perfection. Perfection during a recession when there were no raises, too few workers and an ever increasing workload.

  Constant criticism had done her in. All delivered behind closed doors in an amiable, sensible, wrist slapping way, Cass had hated every word that had fallen from her boss’ lips. Even when she might have deserved whatever he was saying, it grated against her skin like pumice because she knew she was supposed to be playing her guitar not punching computer keys.

  But she did openly thank her last job for her present blessings, however. It enabled her to save and prepare for a life change. She set herself a goal, and shut down everything that didn’t relate to
meeting it. She played her guitar three hours a night after work during the week without fail for two years. On the weekends she played all day and all night. She found gigs, wowed crowds, and recorded a CD of original music, which she reproduced and sold herself at all of her gigs.

  It was at one of those gigs that her life changed. A man in the audience visiting from LA talked her into playing at a party he was throwing at home in a week. She took the time off, went out there and played for him, and went home with a record deal. She gave her notice the very next work day.

  She gave no reason for her leaving, and when she asked what her plans were she said only, “this and that.” She told no one what she was doing. She packed up her things, cleaned her cubicle thoroughly and left smiling, offering well wishes to everyone she passed. To her boss, she said, “Thank you. Without this job I couldn’t have made my real dreams come true.” Her coworkers would say later that they hadn’t even known she played the guitar until they saw her on TV.

  Things didn’t happen overnight. But once Cass had her freedom she vowed to work her ass off to keep it. The day she left the dubious security and spirit draining constraints of steady employment she promised herself that she would never again allow anyone to dictate her actions. She’d kept that vow.

  She was a millionaire many times over, and she played wherever people loved her music. Nothing was inappropriate or off limits with the exception of a few countries where they were particularly unfriendly to women. Those gigs she refused sans major political statements, usually there were only short, video’d regrets for her fans or special live sets they could watch on the Internet if permitted.

  “What do you say to the people who compare you to Whitney Houston?” One reporter asked early in her career.

  Cass laughed. “Whitney Houston with a guitar. I enjoyed that one. I guess I just say thank you. But I don’t take it seriously. I think it stems from the fact that I sang one of her songs in tribute after she died, and –”

  “And killed it,” the reporter interrupted.

  Cass nodded her head in thanks. “It may also come from the fact that we’re both the same shade of brown, and our voices have a lot of vibrato. But we’re very different performers. Whitney was a classic. I adore her music. She did performances decades ago that still make me cry. She was a phenom. I’m more rough and tumble.”

 

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