The Devil's Metal: A Rockstar Romance (The Devils Duet Book 1)

by Karina Halle

  I was so angry, I almost spat in his face. He balked a bit at my rush of words, then frowned, thinking it through. He was still so close and I was just at that point where I was going to do something really stupid, like kiss him, just to get him to stop staring at me.

  His gaze dropped to my lips. His own parted slightly, his lower lip full. I bet it was soft and easy to suck on. My breath became slower and labored, my body tense, not knowing what was going to happen next. The air was thick and buzzed around us, like it too was waiting for movement.

  “Tell me what you know,” I whispered. The tip of his nose brushed against the tip of mine. I felt his very hard erection press firmly into my thigh.

  He closed his eyes, his lashes long and black against his golden skin. I closed mine, inching my lips closer to his. They barely touched, just a hint of sensitive, wanting skin on skin. I was about to arch my back and press my lips firmly against his, invite his tongue to play with mine, when he suddenly got off me.

  I sat up in surprise and watched him as he walked over to the window. He leaned against it, watching the sky fade from light gray to dark purple.

  Did that all really happen? I put my fingers to my lips. I was so close to kissing him. I felt him, how large he was, how much he wanted me. Now he was across the room, miles of distance between us, his focus elsewhere.

  I sat there for a minute, swallowed by awkwardness and the ugly bedspread. Then I brushed off the rejection and went to the fridge. Screw everything I had just said. I was getting drunk.

  I cracked open a can of Pepsi and a mini bottle of rum and made myself a quick drink. I was just taking my first sip when Sage spoke.

  “Have you wanted something so badly that you would have done anything to get it?” he mumbled, his muscly back still to me. “Like, the kind of want that leaves you on your knees and asking for someone, anyone, to answer your prayers?”

  I took in a deep breath. “No.”

  But the truth was, after my mother had died and my dad was waking up in vomit every morning and Eric was coming home with shiners, stuttering and crying his eyes out, I did fall to my knees and pray. It wasn’t even to God in particular. I was out in the field behind the barn, walking and wishing for something better than what we had. It was such a violent, desperate need that I was shaking as I asked for my mother to come back, for my father to stop drinking, for Eric to lose his Tourette’s. I wanted to be someone, someone important. I wanted to be revered, I wanted to be respected, I wanted to be loved. I wanted it all so much that I remember thinking I would do anything for it. I would give anything for it.

  The next thing I remembered was waking up in the field just as the sun was coming up.

  “Do you know the story of that song Crossroads?” Sage went on. His voice was flat.

  “By the blues guy?”

  “Robert Johnson.”

  “I think so. He sold his soul to the devil in exchange for success. It happened at the crossroads.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  I put down the drink and gave Sage my full attention. “Well. No. It’s just a song.”

  He let out a small laugh. “Of course it’s just a song. You know Robert Johnson was only twenty-seven when he died. He barely had any success.”

  “Then the devil was a liar. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  “His success came later.”

  “Then he should have been more specific.”

  “Some say he didn’t even sell his soul. He just made a deal. And it wasn’t with the devil himself.”

  “Either way, I’m sure it wasn’t a very sound deal.”

  He shrugged.

  “I’m turning twenty-eight next week,” he remarked, finally turning around to face me. His skin was ashen, eyes tired. “Joplin, Morrison, Hendrix, Johnson. They all died at twenty-seven.”

  “Do you think they all made deals with the devil?” I asked. My next question was, “Did you make a deal with the devil,” but I didn’t ask it. I just let it sit there on my tongue. It was easier that way. Then it wouldn’t be real and no one would have to deal with answering it.

  “And I said, 'Hello, Satan, I believe it's time to go,’” Sage sung softly by way of an answer. He scratched at his sideburns and reasoned, “I doubt Morrison would have made any deals.”

  “Why not? He died rich and famous.”

  “He died alone,” he argued. “The hopeful bargainer will always ask for love.”

  “He had Pam.”

  Sage smirked and flopped down on the bed, almost landing on his guitar.

  He mumbled into his pillow, “Pam loved him. I don’t think he loved Pam. Finding someone you truly love is much harder than finding someone to love you.”

  Spoken like a true rock star.

  In a few minutes he was snoring away. I sighed and walked over to him. I took off his flip-flops, filled a glass of water beside him, placed a few Aspirin there too, then got myself ready for bed. I wondered if Pam ever felt like I did. Based on what Sage had just told me, I decided she did.

  Seventeen

  “You guys are looking a little rough,” Jacob commented. He couldn’t disguise the childish glee in his voice.

  Sage and I were sitting at the table as the bus headed to Nashville. I don’t know about Sage, but I was having a hell of a time trying to keep down the greasy eggs and bacon we had for breakfast.

  “We’re fine,” Sage assured him, chugging back orange juice straight out of the carton. He had told me that a carton of OJ and three ibuprofen were enough to kick the hangover out. I settled for one pill and a glass of juice and so far it wasn’t helping. I certainly wasn’t built like a rock star.

  I could feel Jacob’s gold-tinged eyes on my face. After Sage and I emerged from our rooms this morning, the others made no attempt to hide the fact that they thought we screwed around. To my surprise, even Graham looked happy at the prospect and none of them would believe me when I said Sage passed out at 9PM mumbling about Jim Morrison.

  Mickey was on the bus with us, his eyes and mouth drawn into pensive lines of worry. Noelle was still under observation for another day but her parents had arrived and made it very clear that they didn’t want Mickey around. According to him, she was catatonic, not recognizing anyone, not even him. It was like she completely shut down. The doctors were still hopeful that time and being in a friendly, familiar place would bring her around. We were hopeful too, but I had this dreadful feeling that tugged in the recesses of my heart, like it was a hope in vain.

  I wondered if Sage felt the same way. He didn’t show it. After opening up to me last night, after our almost intimate encounter, we were back to the friendly but distant rock star and journalist relationship. That was fine for the time being though. I needed to interview him over the next few days so I could get it over with and head home if I wanted to. It wasn’t an option at the moment but I wasn’t about to rule it out. A lot of what Bob had said ran around in my head like it was on spin cycle.

  Nashville presented new problems in terms of having to play after all the recent negative attention the band had been receiving. Add in the fact that they had a new bassist to contend with, and the stakes went up. Yet, I was looking forward to it. Mainly, I was looking forward to hearing from Mel. I crossed my fingers beneath the table and hoped she could get a hold of me.

  Nashville was as exciting as I had imagined. There was so much music and soul in the atmosphere that it was immediately addictive. It was like you could feel the presence of every musician who had passed through or honed their craft there hanging in the air like the thick humidity.

  We all settled into The Hermitage Hotel just after noon, giving us a few hours before soundcheck. I had my own room once again and what a room it was. In fact, it was the nicest room I had ever been in. It had plush carpets, creamy walls, and expensive wood furnishings that gleamed. No semen-stained bed sheets for Dawn Emerson anymore!

  I was only in my room about ten minutes, just enough time to take off my hot
bell bottoms and put on a pair of denim cut-offs and a ratty Stones t-shirt, when the phone rang. I leaped off the bed and my heart followed suit. I snatched up the phone on the second ring.

  “Hello?” I cried out breathlessly.

  The dry voice of the operator came on. “Dawn Emerson? You have a call from Melanie Jones. Please go ahead.”

  The line clicked and Mel came through. “Bitch!”

  I nearly cried at the sound of her voice. “Mel!”

  She laughed. “Aw, hey Dawn chicka, oh my god it’s so good to hear you.”

  “I know! I was so afraid you didn’t get my letter.”

  “Oh, I got it. Child, we have to talk. Robbie! What the fuck happened with Robbie Oliver!”

  It felt kind of stupid rehashing what happened with Robbie. Not only did it feel ages ago but there was nothing exciting about it anymore, not when compared to what had been going on. But I didn’t really want to get into the heavy stuff with Mel. I knew she’d worry about me.

  So I told her exactly what happened, all the details of the ‘ludes night.

  “Anyway,” I finished, “it was no big deal. We’re cool.”

  “He better be cool or I’m going to come down there and kick his ass. Speaking of coming down there…I’m coming down there!”

  I was stunned. “What?”

  “I booked a flight for the San Antonio show. I have a cousin down there I can stay with, he’s cool.”

  “Oh, Mel…”

  “What? Don’t you dare tell me you don’t want me there, bitch. Because I will cut you. After I hug you first, of course.”

  I rubbed at my forehead.

  “No, it’s not that. Of course, I want you here. I want more than anything to see you. But, I don’t know, it’s really not as fun as you’d think, Mel.”

  She laughed. “Look, I’m not looking to hang out with the band. I’m not trying to be all cool. I just want to see you and see the show. That’s it.”

  “Have you heard what happened?”

  “Yeah, I fucking heard. It’s all over the radio here. A chick dies, now Noelle’s ill? What even happened with her? The press just says she’s sick but they won’t say what with.”

  Demonfever, I thought to myself.

  “We don’t actually know. Things are pretty heavy here.”

  “I bet they are. That’s why you need me there. I know how you get, Dawn when other people are hurting. You turn into a mother, always taking care of everyone else, sticking around, making sure everyone’s going to be all right. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

  “Not really.” And that was true. I couldn’t take care of those boys if I tried.

  “Bogus, Dawn. You totally are. And what’s my job as your lovely African princess sidekick? It’s to kick your freckly ass.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. I knew there would be no convincing her. Mel was coming to join me on tour, and there was nothing I could do about it. I tried to be happy.

  “All right, there’s no stopping you,” I relented.

  “You got that right, sister. Now I better go before my ma kills me for the phone bill. I love you, lady.”

  “Love you too,” I said sadly.

  “See you in Texas. Yeee haw!”

  We hung up and I heard her voice still in my head. I sighed and got off the bed. I looked at myself in the ornate mirror that hung above the polished desk. I looked hardened, my hair resigned to the eternal fuzz of humidity. It seemed like every time I got a glimpse of myself, I was looking less like Dawn and more like some other girl. No, not a girl. A woman.

  Whoever I was turning into, I had to be brave and I had to be strong. I wasn’t about to let some scary groupies and superstitions stop me from doing my job. I still had an article to write, one that would finally garner me the respect I craved, the importance I needed, and I had to stop getting sidetracked. Yes, Emerrita was a tragedy and Noelle’s condition was sad, but I had to find that thread of journalistic hardness somewhere inside me. I needed to stop feeling with the band. Mel was right, I was becoming too focused on them and how they were feeling. I was getting too close. I needed to become that impartial player once more, and I’d start by treating Sage like a subject and not a friend. And certainly not someone I constantly thought about getting in the sack.

  Even though from the way he handled me and the feel of his cock on my thigh, he promised to be a very passionate, rough ride.

  “Snap out of it!” I yelled at my reflection. “Do your damn job.”

  The Dawn in the mirror looked surprised. I took that as a good sign.

  The first show in Nashville went off without a hitch. Hybrid played at a tiny venue right downtown and the place was packed to the doors. Robbie started off the set by saying some heartfelt words about Noelle, though Jacob made sure that any mention of Emeritta was zipped. Then the band launched into one of their most powerful and energetic shows yet. It was good to see them back in the game, and I could tell they needed the show to let out all that they’d been feeling since the festival performance. It was raw and emotive and the crowd called them back for three encores. They played until they were absolutely exhausted.

  Even Fiddles, the new bassist, kept up nicely and had a nice presence without being too flashy. Jacob looked pleased to the gills, and I could see the money signs dancing in his head as concertgoers stuck around after the show, snapping up Hybrid t-shirts and albums until they were all gone. Everyone likes a sob story and any press was good press. Jacob was right about that.

  The next day in Nashville we were set to play at an outdoor venue just outside of town, headlining for a psychedelic band called Electric Duck Bath. We had the whole day free for exploring or doing whatever, so I chose to accompany Bob on his personal tour around the city. He’d been to Nashville with musicians so many times it was like his second home, and he was a very enthusiastic host.

  To be honest, I also went with Bob because I wanted to distance myself a bit from the band. After the show last night, I went straight to my hotel room to compose a review and then I went to bed. I didn’t want to party and I didn’t want to socialize. I wanted to be the journalist, and who better to hang around with than the only other person who wasn’t part of the band?

  Between old guitar shops and tiny cafes where we scooped up Moonpies and RC Cola, Bob and I danced around the topic of curses. I asked him if he thought Sage knew something about all of it.

  “Assuming what you say is true,” I added, licking the sticky marshmallow off my fingers.

  “I would think so,” Bob reckoned. “But I don’t know. If we’re talking about Jacob though, I’d say yes.”

  “Why is that?”

  He shrugged. “He’s the manager. Managers know everything. And all of this is working out to the band’s advantage, don’t you think?”

  I stopped in my tracks. A piece of crumbled cookie nearly fell out of my mouth. “You think Jacob is behind all this?”

  “No,” he quickly refuted. “I don’t. The Cobb has a reputation for being mean. But I don’t think he’d ever hurt another person. Well, another girl. Well, a girl that was harmless.”

  “But?”

  “You can tell there’s a but, eh? Well, he’s a smart man. Too smart. Too conniving. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew what was going on.”

  “But what is going on?”

  “I don’t know, Rusty. It could be anything. It could be nothing. I’m an old bus driver and I ramble sometimes.”

  “Well I’m a young journalist and I don’t think you’re rambling. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  He gave me a grave look with his sprightly blue eyes. “If this does turn out to be more than just my rambling and throwing around frou-frou ideas, I don’t think either of us wants to wait and see.”

  I nodded, hearing what he was saying but not finding the strength to keep going, keep touring, keep wondering.

  The outdoor venue was nowhere near as nice as the one Hybrid played the night before
, or even the Charlotte festival. It was pretty much a concert on a farm. Instead of soft fields of grass, it was a mixture of weeds and dirt. Instead of a glorious stage, it was a rather rickety old thing made out of rough wood. The whole thing may have been going for some backwoods, redneck kind of charm but it just came across as cheap and dirty.

  The crowd was a weird mix too.

  “It’s like every Pink Floyd fan is out there,” Robbie remarked from the side stage as we watched Electric Duck Bath finish their set. “Where the hell are the Hybrid fans?”

  “Maybe we rocked them too hard last night,” Chip commented.

  Robbie made an annoyed sound. “Ugh. This is going to be one of those ‘we have to win you over’ shows.”

  I smacked him lightly on the shoulder. He jumped.

  “I thought every show was supposed to be one of those shows.”

  He pointed at the crowd. They were young kids all swaying their muddled heads and waving their lighters to the band’s spaced out moon music. “Do those kids look like they’re about to be won over? They’re about to fall asleep in an acid coma.”

  “Weren’t you in an acid coma just recently?” Chip remarked. “Or was that Quaaludes?”

  I smiled bashfully while Robbie glared at him. “Just make us sound good, Chip.”

  “Got it, boss.”

  “Where’s boyo?”

  “Right here,” Mickey mumbled from behind us. He was still pale and sullen—I hadn’t seen him smile in days.

  Robbie went over and put his arm around him. “I don’t know what you and the Sage one are planning on doing, but I’m going to be cranking up my furnace tonight. I mean, I’m going to be a monkey from mars. I’ll win these spacey fucks over if it kills me.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Graham said, walking past us toward the drums that the Duck Bath’s drummer was now vacating.