by Karina Halle
The Devil's Reprise
The Devil’s Series - Books Two
Karina Halle
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 2013 by Karina Halle
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition October 2013
ISBN: 978-1-62681-064-8
Prologue
There comes a time in every man’s life where he must face his demons.
It sounds cliché, I know.
But I break the mold.
Because I’ve faced my demons.
In the flesh.
And I’ve won.
But it’s the ones inside your head that don’t die.
They keep living.
My personal demons? They’ve gotten worse since the incident.
They’ve grown now.
They own me.
When I was fifteen years old, I made a deal with the Devil—or at least one of his spokeswomen—on the muddy red banks of Lake Shasta, California. I wanted talent, fame, and fortune. The demons upheld their end of the bargain. They gave me everything I ever wanted. I joined a band called Hybrid, made my way to guitarist, and propelled the band into stardom. We gave Led Zeppelin a run for their money. We got pussy galore (no, not Honor Blackman). We had everything.
Including the final thing. My final wish. That Hybrid go down in history.
We did. There was a music journalist brought on by Creem magazine to cover the whole event. Our last tour (unbeknownst to anyone but me and our manager, Jacob). Her name was Dawn. She was young, beautiful, and our biggest fan.
Dawn saw it all. She recorded it all.
And, somehow, she saved me.
First it giveth, then it taketh away. The band broke up. The unthinkable happened. People died.
I should have died.
This was all supposed to end before I turned twenty-eight.
Yet I lived. Dawn lived.
And I was given another chance at life. To live free of the Devil’s shadow. To live my life the way it should be lived.
I really should be the luckiest S.O.B. on the planet. The fates that took away Morrison and Joplin and Hendrix—that wasn’t my fate after all.
Somehow, I won.
But victory is as bitter as the Quaaludes on my tongue. How can I really live with myself when my whole life has been loaned? I lost the people closest to me. They died, they suffered, for my selfishness.
How dare I be allowed to go on, to run free, when I brought this upon them and myself.
And so I haven’t.
I’m not free.
My name is Sage Knightly. One of the few surviving members of the metal band, Hybrid. I’m about to embark on my first solo tour, to be the rock star I was always meant to be.
But something tells me I’m not coming out of this alive.
And neither is she.
Chapter One
Sage
April, 1975
The pink lips at the end of my dick were some of the nicest I’d ever seen.
But the chick’s tits were even better.
I put my palm against her forehead and pushed her head back until my dick bobbed out of her wet mouth.
“Lie down,” I told her. “On your back. Grab your tits and get ready for me.”
I was being commanding and a bit of an ass.
It wasn’t like me.
But nothing was like me lately.
And I didn’t really care.
She did as I asked. She was a pretty young thing, a few years above jailbait, with long brown hair she probably ironed every day. I didn’t remember her name, and I didn’t bother asking. I just called her ‘Babe.’
I called the other one ‘Sugar.’ Sugar had Farrah Fawcett hair, blond and teased and frosted like a cake. Sugar was in the same Detroit hotel room as us, currently on the other bed, riding my bassist, Tricky. And by riding, I mean fucking him senseless, reverse cowgirl style. All she needed was a hat in her hand. Tricky was even more fucked up than me, from our nightly cocktail of vodka, beer, and cocaine. Sometimes we’d throw Quaaludes in there, too. Tonight, though, we wanted to make sure our dicks were working.
Two chicks at once: every man’s dream and every rock star’s prerogative. Sugar and Babe were good friends, or so it seemed, probably raised in some hippie commune, believing in the free love that was still trickling in from the ‘60s. They weren’t shy being naked, and they didn’t hold back when they made out with each other, not even hesitating when Tricky told Sugar to get her fingers up in Babe’s bush. Naturally, they were fans of Hybrid, before I had basically killed the band. Killed Mickey Brown, Bob our bus driver, and Graham Freed, too. But Graham didn’t count. He was the only thing that didn’t count. Everything else made me bleed.
The singer, Robbie, my best friend, wouldn’t speak to me. Noelle, our bassist, was still mentally ill from what happened.
I didn’t need to be reminded of that. Every time Sugar or Babe would open their mouths and wax on about how much they loved Hybrid, it was a knife to my fucking heart. It never stopped hurting. So the next best thing was to fuck the shit out of them—no more talking. Just suck my dick, get each other off, get me off. Give me peace. Make me forget.
I was getting there. I was getting there.
Babe pushed her massive tits together, and I squeezed my dick between them, my eyes rolling back in my head from the friction. Jesus. That’s what I was talking about. What I wanted. Just vibes buzzing along, nerves on fire, space travel inside your head.
I was fucked up and fucking. I was going and coming.
I drove myself between her tits, not bothering to look at her face or listen to her overdramatic moaning. How this was fun for her, I didn’t know, but maybe it was always her fantasy to have Sage Knightly’s king-sized cock between her tits. It was finally coming true. A story to tell her friends.
The fantasy is never as good as the reality, not for me anyway. Not that I really fantasized about anything other than coasting along and feeling nothing. Even my music was slipping away at a time that I needed it the most. Sex and drugs and booze and sleep. This was my new life. The rock and roll played somewhere in the background, a reminder of where I came from. But I didn’t even know if it was where I was headed.
When I felt my balls tighten, I pulled away and looked over my shoulder at Tricky and Sugar. She was coming so loudly that I was certain someone was going to complain. Whatever, man. I could have been Jimmy Page in here with a chick and a Great Dane; would that have been better?
“Hey, Tricky,” I called out to him. “I need her.”
Tricky grunted, his grip tightening on her small waist, his face furrowing as he approached climax. I guess I was being rude, bugging him right then, but damn if I didn’t care. I just needed to get off, and I needed Sugar to do it.
A world of want.
My lips curled at that thought, the title of my song that became a hit and let the world know that I still
had “it,” even as a solo artist.
I had wanted so much.
It was given to me.
Then taken away.
Now I just wanted to come all over whoever this chick was.
Rocket ships into the ether. Shoot myself into the abyss.
Tricky got off, and I watched with mild interest and sudden impatience. Tricky didn’t know where he was or what he was doing, I could tell. I wanted that.
“Hey, Sugar,” I said to the girl as she slowly eased herself off his dick. I’d seen Tricky naked in all sorts of positions these days, and I was always too high to even be bothered by it. Maybe this is what it would be like at a hippie whorehouse. Dicks and balls and pussy everywhere, served with a side of speed and whiskey.
Groovy love, man, taken to the next dimension.
Sugar stumbled over, nearly falling into my back. She was fucked up, too. One big party. Escapism: the new religion.
“Get on the bed and get that ass in the air,” I gestured, absently stroking myself at the same time. I’d already done her in the back door earlier, when Tricky and I tag-teamed her. He in the front, me in the rear. She wasn’t as pretty as Babe, but she was built smaller and her tight ass was a fist.
She gave me an apprehensive smile, like she wasn’t too sure about this. I gave her an expectant look in return, trying to be serious and threatening, but a lazy smile crept up on my lips. I failed. Drugs won.
“Come on,” I said, “you want to be the one to get me off, don’t you?”
I don’t know why she was hesitating, maybe because she was small and I was large and perhaps once was enough for her. But she just nodded while I put one hand on her firm ass and waved at Tricky.
“Tricky,” I said, slurring slightly. “Powder her nose.”
Tricky staggered over to the desk, naked as a jaybird, and then brought over the mirror, the rolled fifty, and the line that was still left. He gave me a look as he came over, like, “you sure you don’t want this?”
I did. But relief was so close. Better to give it to the girl, make her have fun in the last five minutes.
He put the mirror on the bed below her, and she dipped down to snort it up. He walked over to the mini fridge and brought out the half-drunk bottle of champagne and flopped down on the couch, content to watch. If he wanted to stare at my ass, he could go right ahead.
I waited a few seconds, teasing her crack with my tip, before she shook her head and seemed to loosen.
“What should I do?” Babe asked quietly, looking rejected since I gave up on her titty-fucking so soon.
“Lie back down, Babe,” I told her. “Spread those legs. Sugar here will take care of both of us.”
Babe’s eyes widened as she lay back down. I pushed into Sugar, slowly, as gently as I could. The tightness squeezed me. It took hold of my dick, my balls, all the way into the pit of my stomach. It made me dizzy, vibrant, real.
So close.
I kept pushing into her, in and out, her body tense from my movement while she tried to go down on her friend. Tricky watched it all. Girl on girl. Champagne and blow. Rock star life.
Life.
What a waste.
I pumped into her harder until the pressure was too much and I was ready to blow.
I pulled out of her and came in hot, sticky spurts onto her back. I was pretty sure she was moaning from relief while I moaned just to moan. To get it all out. Everything that was buried inside me.
When my mind rolled back down to planet earth, I looked at the mess I made on her. I tried to hold on to the fragment of feelings as they passed through me.
That feeling of happiness.
Of safety.
Of love.
I thought of Dawn, the last person who tried to give me any of that.
I thought she’d been a fool for trying to fix me.
But sometimes, when the endorphins and the haze wore off, I realized that even fools can be right.
I slept alone that night, sending the girls packing with signed chests and merchandise.
I tried to dream of Dawn, the beautiful face that had pulled me out from so many buses, the sun through so many clouds. Innocence, passion, life…even after everything she’d seen. Faith. In me.
I tried to dream of Dawn, but dreams don’t work that way, especially when you fall asleep with an empty bottle of whiskey in your clammy hands.
I dreamed of demons instead, chasing after her in a cavern full of bones. My music played in the background.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” a cockney accent pried itself into my fuzzy head. “What a fucking mess you are, mate.”
I felt rough hands shaking my shoulders and pushing me over onto my back, my legs falling open.
“Sage!” Jacob exclaimed in disgust. “Try sleeping in some Jockeys next time, will ya? I don’t need to see your twig and berries, though I’m sure I’m one of the lucky few.”
I blinked a few times, afraid to open my eyes. Jacob’s big, ugly face was peering down at mine, red brows knit together, lips crinkled. The light hurt my head.
I was going to vomit.
I quickly sat up, pushed him out of the way, and keeled over the opposite side of the bed, puking onto the floor. Mainly liquid. I couldn’t remember the last time I really ate.
“Oh, now you’re just being a twat,” Jacob said, his voice pinched. Jacob hated vomit, but as my manager and Hybrid’s ex-manager, he had to be used to it by now.
When I was done, my head spinning like a washing machine, I wiped my lips on the back of my hand and sat back in bed. I needed something strong to pull me out of this hangover because I felt worse than a dirty dishcloth. Cocaine had a funny way of leaving the body, doing a number on your psyche better than any childhood trauma ever could.
Jacob was shaking his head, his big arms crossed against his chest and plaid suit that clashed with his red hair, his fat knuckles cracking and uncracking. He meant business.
“The hell did you do here last night?” He looked around the room before his golden eyes settled back on me, narrowing as they focused.
I shrugged, my eyes pinched shut. I needed something, anything. “I had fun; it’s what you do after a show.”
“No,” Jacob said. “It’s what other musicians do after a show. You don’t have fun, Sage. I know your arse well enough.”
I snorted, gently enough so it didn’t further damage my brain. “Two chicks, Jacob, and a fuckload of drugs. Sounds like fun to anyone.”
“This isn’t you.” His voice lowered, becoming almost wistful. I opened my eyes and looked at him curiously. His face was riddled with pockmarks and disapproval. And, most jarringly, concern. “This isn’t Sage Knightly.”
We stared at each other for a few moments. Jacob was probably right, but I didn’t feel like giving him anything. He was pretty damn good as far as managers went. Hell, he was Jacob “The Cobb” Edwards, and his knuckles and rings were responsible for scarring many a promoter’s face. He was even immortal at some point, as far-out as that seems. But now he was human, here to die like the rest of us, and he and I had gone through more than anyone should go through. He knew exactly what was wrong with me, that black blanket over my head, because he had lost as much as I had.
But just because he knew didn’t mean I needed to address it.
“I’m fine, Jacob.”
He laughed, a big, belly-shaking one, like a ginger Santa Claus. I thought for a second he actually was amused, but the smile cleared off his face as fast as it came on.
“Sage,” he said sternly, coming closer and stopping at the foot of the bed. He motioned to the tangled, stained sheets. “Cover your bits up and then listen to me.”
I sighed and pulled the sheets over my dick. Somehow my nudity didn’t even surprise me anymore.
He stroked his chin, the sound of his calloused fingers against his stubble terrifyingly loud to my ears. “I’m not your father. Your father is back in California. But when
we’re on the road, I feel like your father. So help me God, it’s true and I hate it. Never thought I’d have a full-grown, half-Mexican kid, but there you go. Never thought I’d still be managing you well after I didn’t have to anymore. But I like the job. I like you. And I don’t want to see you get hurt any more than you already have.” He sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. “You survived your curse, Sage. You survived the deal. And you still came out on top. Don’t do this to yourself. Not now. You have everything you need to be great. You’re just about to go to Europe on tour, where I can promise you people will dig you; they will get you and your voice and your sound. Don’t bugger it all up because you’re feeling sorry for yourself.”
I swallowed hard but managed to say, entirely defensively I might add, “I’m a rock star. It’s the 1970s. Wake up, Jacob, and get with the times.”
He smiled quickly. “You’re a rock star. But this is not you. Now call the girl.”
I raised my brows, ignoring the pounding in my head. “The girl?”
“You know the girl, you trollop.” He rolled his eyes. “Dawn. Call her. You know her number. Call her and invite her on tour with us. You’re going to need her, and she’s going to need you.”
At the mention of her name, my heart started beating faster. Dawn. Rusty. My muse. I rubbed my lips together, eyes blinking fast, trying to think with great effort. “She needs me? I gave her everything.”
He eyed me matter-of-factly. “You didn’t.”
Didn’t I? She was a small-town music journalist from the sticks of Washington State, thrust into the spotlight after covering the demise of Hybrid. She went on tour with us during our dying days because that was part of the bargain I made—that we go down in history. But ever since we parted ways, even though she was constantly on my mind in some abstract, dreamy way, even though I’d jerked off plenty of times to the memory of me slamming her on the faded tour bus, I hadn’t seen her. We hadn’t really talked. She was a part of me and a shadow of my past at the same time.