The Devil's Reprise (3 page)

Sage and I went through a lot together in a short period of time. But for the most part, I was the journalist and the fan, and he was the mysterious rock star. I’m not sure any of that had changed. Sure, we had sex, and after Jacob scooped us out of Lake Shasta, we spent a few weeks together trying to pick up the pieces and be normal people. But even though I’d fallen in love with the man—it wasn’t hard to do—he never told me he loved me. In fact, all I knew for a fact was that he
didn’t
love me. We were just…well, I guess what Ryan and I were supposed to be. A fuck. That was it.

But foolishly, somewhere deep inside, I felt like I still had another shot with Sage. A reason to be loyal to him, even though our contact over the last ten months had been extremely limited. He had still invited me to come to Paris with him, fucking
Paris
! And I was going in a week. I had to at least see how things were going to go between us before I did anything foolish.

And a fuck was just a fuck until it was foolish.

“Ryan,” I said as he kissed my breasts, the grass tickling my ears.

He groaned in return. He was not going to like this.

“Ryan, we need to stop,” I said, pushing myself back on my elbows.

He finally looked up, though I couldn’t make out his face in the darkness. Noise from the barn drifted toward us over the field.

“Stop?” he asked, his voice ragged.

I was afraid this was going to get very ugly.

“Sorry,” I told him. “I don’t mean to be a tease, it’s just…this isn’t a good idea.”

Silence fell between us, and I waited with bated breath to hear his response. The music from the barn had changed to The Who’s “Pinball Wizard.” Finally he sighed and moved off of me. “Right.”

I sat up and pulled down my shirt. “Sorry,” I apologized again. “I’d probably regret it.”

“Well, that sounds like the old Dawn,” he remarked.

“What?”

He stood up and pulled up his pants, towering over me. “I don’t know, I thought maybe after you’d fucked all those rock stars, you would have been a bit…easier. You know, looser.”

All the heat from between my legs went to my head instead, flamed by rage. “I didn’t fuck a bunch of rock stars,” I spat out defensively.

I could tell he was giving me a wry look. “Sure, Dawn. You go on tour with a band for a few weeks, a band
we
were obsessed with, and you didn’t end up blowing all of them.”

I only blew one of them
! I thought and decided that wouldn’t help my case.

I struggled to my feet and glared at him. “I didn’t sleep with the band or do anything. I covered it like the music journalist that I am.”

“Everyone knows that,” he said. “I just figured hanging out with Hybrid would have made you…well, anyway. I should have known.”

“Ryan,” I said, trying to control my anger. “You don’t know shit. Maybe I’m not sleeping with you because you’re my ex-boyfriend…who fucking cheated on me with some whore!” And finally it was all coming out.

“Well, maybe I cheated on you because…” he trailed off. “You know what? Forget it. If you want to be a tease, then be a tease. Let’s go back inside.”

He turned and started off to the barn, to
my
party. I didn’t move. He turned around. “Aren’t you coming?”

Hell no. “I want to be alone,” I said. I was too angry and confused by what had just happened. “I’m going to stay out here for a bit.”

He paused then shrugged, his silhouette visible against the lights coming from the barn. “Suit yourself. I’ll just go drink this boner away.” He walked off.

“Boner,” I muttered under my breath, shaking my head. And I almost slept with him. What the hell had I been thinking?

I turned around and leaned into the fence post. It was too dark now to see anything but the flashing light from the farmhouse, where I knew my dad was watching television with Eric. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to ditch my own party and hang out with them. They were the ones I was really going to miss when I was gone.

I sighed and decided to call for Moonglow. Horsey hugs always made me feel better. I put my fingers into my mouth and whistled for her, hoping she could hear it over the noise of the party. She whinnied far off in the distance, and I immediately heard her hoofbeats pounding across the field.

Her hoofbeats became louder as she got closer, one of my most favorite sounds in the whole world. So earthy and wild. I couldn’t see anything except the blackness.

And the hoofbeats kept coming.

And coming.

And then I started to get a queer feeling in my chest. Her hooves were rumbling, pounding the grass, but I never saw Moonglow. The sound just grew louder and louder, but the horse never appeared.

What the fuck?

“Moonglow?” I called out into the night.

Suddenly the hoofbeats stopped, at what sounded like just a few yards away. Silence cloaked me and so did the breeze that brought with it a horrible, rotten stench.

The tightness in my chest grew, and I felt a wave of prickles come over my body as I tried not to breathe in through my nose.

“Moonglow?” I said softly. I squinted, urging my night vision to kick in, trying to make out her shape in the darkness but seeing nothing.

I only heard her breathing, slowly. But her exhales were rough and wheezing, coarse like sand. Guttural.

I said her name again, my voice shaking slightly, all my worries about Ryan falling away. I was inexplicably afraid of my own horse and afraid of the night and all the things it hid from me. I’d forgotten what fear was like, forgotten that it could find you anywhere.

I swallowed with effort, my throat thick, and stepped through the fence.

I could feel her, her presence, so close. But I couldn’t see a goddamn thing.

Except…

A pair of red eyes.

I sucked in my breath and blinked hard, confident that I couldn’t
actually
be seeing this.

But I was.

Narrow, unblinking eyes, entirely the color of crimson, were boring into me.

Someone laughed, rich and throaty.

And a puff of hot air went into my ear.

I screamed bloody murder and jumped to the side, looking around wildly.

Moonglow was right beside me, her head raised high in the air, the whites of her eyes showing even in the dark. She snorted, agitated, and I tried to make sense of what had happened.

I turned to where I was looking before but the red eyes were gone.

My horse was here, but she’d come from a different direction than the hoofbeats and red eyes. I looked at her dim shape, and she pawed the grass nervously. I knew just how she felt. I really, really hoped that someone had slipped some acid into my beer because I couldn’t handle the alternative.

Be careful what you wish for
.

I shook the thought out of my head. No. I couldn’t even think about that. My nightmare was over, and I had never wished for anything; at least, I never made any sort of deal with the Devil. I wasn’t Sage. This had to be put behind me, no matter how suspicious I sometimes felt that they weren’t done with me yet.

I reached out for Moonglow, hoping her warmth would comfort me, but she spooked and quickly turned away, galloping off into the distance. I was alone. Great.

I hurried back through the fence and speedwalked my way to the barn, to my party, to my friends and ex-boyfriend, to music and life and where nothing scary could get at me. I grabbed the first available drink from someone’s hand and proceeded to drink my face off.

It was the middle of the night—well, almost morning—when I felt a booze-laden Mel climb into bed with me. She was spending the night, as were most of the guests who were too drunk to drive, but she got my bed while everyone else was free to find available hay in the barn. The night had gone on in a blur of beer and tunes. I hadn’t seen Ryan again, but perhaps he was there and I’d been too drunk to tell.

“I’m surprised you didn’t find some guy,” I mumbled into my pillow as she lay down beside me.

“I did,” she replied. “But he was quick. In and out in the back of his shaggin’ wagon.”

“Slut,” I said, half joking.

“Groupie,” she retorted. “Which reminds me, I saw Ryan. He looked really disappointed. And I saw you two walk off together…you were gone for awhile. Long enough for him to poke you. What happened?”

I sighed. “Well, he didn’t poke me. That’s what happened.”

“Girl, I have to say I’m glad. He’s still a douche, and as much as you need to get some action, he’s not the dude to get it with. You need someone new.”

“Do I?”

I turned my head on the pillow to look at her. The room was growing lighter by the second as the planet tilted toward the sun. Her eyes were closed, but she managed to raise an eyebrow in response.

I went on, “I just…I don’t know. I know this is going to sound bonkers and all, but…I feel like what Sage and I had isn’t over yet.”

Mel’s eyes snapped open. “Oh, honey. No.”

I nodded. “He invited me to Paris, Mel. To go on tour with his solo band.”

“Yeah, but you said it’s all official now. That
Creem
wants you to do it and they’re even making a photographer tag along with you.”

I shut my eyes. “I know, I know. But still, he invited me. Mel, he said he misses me. I could tell he meant it.”

She looked up at the ceiling, chewing on her lip. “Dawn, I’m only saying this because I’m your best friend. We’ve been through a lot…more than a lot. Let’s not forget when I flew down to see you guys in San Antonio.” I cringed, remembering the shit I said to her in order to get her away from me and the band and her imminent doom. “And I totally believe that Sage wants to re-shag you, I really do. I saw you guys together; you had a connection. It was there.” She paused. “I just don’t think you should put off other guys just because of a chance with Sage. He is a rock star, Dawn. And the spotlight is all on him now. He’s free of that…deal…he made. Free to move on with his life. Free to do whatever the fuck he wants. I love you, you know that, but he doesn’t.”

“Ouch,” I muttered, pretending my heart wasn’t being swallowed.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, licking her lips. “But you told me what happened. That the fact that he didn’t love you was what saved you all in the end. So I’m glad he didn’t. But it’s true. And if he didn’t love you then, he definitely doesn’t now, when you’ve been apart for so long.”

“But he could,” I said, somewhat pitifully. Even though I was saying these words to my best friend, I still felt stupid. Hoping it. Thinking it.

“He could,” she said slowly. “You’re a hot fox, Dawn Emerson. Hotter than you know. But you’re still a music journalist from a small town in the Pacific Northwest, and he’s a rock star on his first solo tour, finally getting all the recognition he’s always wanted and deserved. And we both know the man; he does deserve it. Do you really think you’d stand a chance, even if he did come around?”

“Again, ouch,” I said, trying to sound like what she said didn’t shank me in a million different ways.

“I’m sorry, honey,” she said, patting my hand. “But I just don’t want to see you get hurt. I’d rather it come from me now than come from him later. He may be your Sage Knightly, and you may have literally gone through Hell together, but he is still Sage Fucking Knightly. You dig?”

I exhaled through my nose, feeling all sorts of hope and excitement drain out of me. Deep down I knew Mel was right. That she was being the voice of reason here, as she often was when it came to me.

I had been getting ahead of myself with fantasies about what would happen when he saw me again. I thought maybe he’d be waiting at the airport in Paris, a bunch of flowers in his arms. He’d see me get off the plane and come running toward me. He’d scoop me up, and I’d laugh as the flower petals showered down. We’d twirl around and he’d kiss me with so much passion that I knew no time had passed between us at all. The paparazzi would be there, all of the European press, and maybe the
New York Times
. They’d all be taking our picture, and the next day the headlines would read, “
Sage Knightly reunites with long-lost girlfriend, Dawn Emerson
.” There would be speculation about me and what exactly had happened between us when I went on the road with Hybrid. We’d then spend our mornings sightseeing as we made our way across Europe, and in the evenings I would stand proudly at the side of the stage, watching him in action as he prowled with his guitar. All the women in the crowd would cry out for him, throwing their underwear up on stage, but he’d only have eyes for me. Maybe one day he’d even propose to me during a live show.

Yes, this is what I had been thinking of—dreaming of—since Sage had invited me to Europe to join him on tour. I tried not to let my imagination run away with me, but letting it run wild made me feel so damn good inside. Delusional, apparently, but good. What girl didn’t fantasize about having a rock star in love with her? And what girl actually had the scant possibility of her fantasies coming true?

Hope was so dangerous at times.

I nestled into the pillow, my heart waging war with my brain, the dream against the logic, my hopes against Mel’s words. I knew, knew, knew the reality but…

I drifted off to sleep.

Sage

“Bonjour, monsieur Knightly.”

I looked up from the baggage carousel to see where the breathy, sex kitten voice had come from. There was a tall blonde standing to the side of me, looking me over with a hint of a smile.

“Hola,” I said, then quickly grimaced. I was hungover from all the drinks on the plane and had been slipping into Spanish the moment I stepped on the ground, my brain on overdrive trying to deal with the French language.

Her lips curled in amusement—red lipstick, matte and dark. They would make a wonderful color for an album cover. “Puedo hablar Español, si desea.”

I shook my head and smiled at her. “No, no, English is fine. Sorry, my French is rusty, and my Spanish isn’t much better.” I was glad I was wearing my aviator sunglasses so she couldn’t see how red my eyes were. She was quite the looker—long legs she showed off in a short shift dress, her platinum blond hair piled high on top of her head. And she knew Spanish, too.

I stuck out my hand. “Sorry, what I really meant to say is yes, I am Sage Knightly. And you are?”

“Angeline,” she said, taking mine in hers. Her hand was soft as silk, light as feathers. “I’ve been expecting you.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Yeah?” I looked around the baggage carousel. Jacob had gone off to get a luggage cart, even though the bags had been going around for ages and none of them were mine. I didn’t know where Tricky was, either. We’d both gotten pretty trashed on the plane, though I at least had the sense to quit a few hours before we landed.

“Bien sûr,” she said, putting her fingers to her lips and giggling. “Sorry, my French again. I work for the promoters here in France. I’ll be with you in Paris and in Nice as well.”

If I’d felt better than total shit, I would have attempted a lame joke at all of that sounding very “Nice” (since it’s not pronounced the way it’s spelled). Instead I nodded and asked, “And what is your job with the promoters?”

She grinned, observing me closely. “I’m making sure your travels here in France go smoothly.”

“Isn’t that my job, love?” Jacob’s rough voice came from behind me. I turned my head to see him pushing the luggage cart, eyeing Angeline suspiciously.

She didn’t seem put off by his brusque attitude. I didn’t think the French were put off by a lot of things. Then again, I hadn’t been in the country for very long.

“You must be Jacob Edwards,” she said, eyeing him back. Her lips twitched up into a pleasant smile, though her dark blue eyes were as cold as anything. She stuck out her hand and he took it hesitantly. But once his hand closed over hers, he gave one hundred percent, his patent bone-crushing squeeze.

It was enough to make Angeline wince, though she still managed to look polite as she withdrew her hand. I notice her wriggling her fingers out at her side. “Nice you meet you.”

Jacob grunted and eyed me. “Your bags here yet?”

I shook my head, pushed my sunglasses on top of my head, and looked at Angeline. “I wasn’t aware that the promoters cared that much about what we thought about the country.”

She tilted her head. “Well, after Jim Morrison came over and sort of made a mess of things, we’ve been a lot more, how you say,
vigilant
with our touring American bands. And the British, of course. But the Americans are the ones who seem to go the most, well, wild.” Her gaze intensified. “I’ve heard Hybrid was quite the wild band.”

I swallowed hard. This was not the conversation I wanted to be having the moment I stepped off the plane. A sick feeling swirled in my gut, though perhaps it was the excess vodka at thirty-five thousand feet.

Jacob spoke up quickly. “Sage Knightly is not Hybrid. It would be best if any comparisons stopped from here on out.”

She shrugged, unfazed, her eyes fastening on my crotch. “That’s too bad. I like it when boys are wild.”

Right then I knew she would be the easiest lay ever—if I wanted it, of course.

“And who is this babe?” Tricky’s voice broke through the downward spiral of my thoughts. He was sauntering over from the bathroom, his nose jerking back and forth and he quickly snorted through it. Naturally he had been doing blow; I just couldn’t figure out how he had gotten it through the strict French customs. Actually, I could figure it out…I just didn’t want to think about it.

Tricky’s real name was Richard. But people called him Dick. And then with Nixon’s rise and fall, he became Tricky Dick. It helped that he fucked everything that walked (and some that didn’t) and was rumored to do tricks with his penis. Not sure if that started before or after the name, but I didn’t ask, and contrary to the threesomes and orgies we took part in together, I had never seen his dick bent into any funny shapes, either.

Tricky was an amazing bassist and a fun guy to be around, but aside from pussy-swapping, we weren’t exactly close. He was thin yet muscular and quite dark for a black person, with piercing brown eyes and dreadlocks, and the ladies were drawn to his exotic looks as much as they were drawn to mine. But while Tricky dipped into the same drugs as I did—and then some—he wasn’t trying to escape anything. He wasn’t trying to hide. He was just Tricky, just a musician and a rock star through and through. This tour meant more to him than it did to me.

It was only sometimes, when we were jamming together and his well-honed stubbornness came into play, insisting he knew my songs better than I did, that I missed the past. I missed Noelle, the old bassist for Hybrid, how easy she was to play with. Maybe it had helped that Noelle had sucked more than a few of our dicks, but she had made the ride in Hybrid smooth. She had talent and soul beneath that prickly veneer, and now my dear Noelle was recovering in a mental hospital somewhere in California while I was jet-setting with her replacement.

It just wasn’t fucking fair. I shouldn’t have been the one to walk away.

“Sage,” Jacob was trying to get my attention. I blinked a few times and realized that Tricky and Angeline had introduced themselves to each other, his dark hand grasping her pale one firmly, her gazing at him coyly, eyelashes practically batting. There was something so mistrustful in her eyes, but deceit was easy to come by in an industry where you could fuck your way to fame. For all I knew—for all I figured—Angeline had a job to do in more ways than one.

I looked to Jacob and was immediately met with disapproval. He’d been watching me, the way that a heron watches a fish, waiting with infinite impatience for me to realize I’d done something wrong. Maybe in his weird, quasi-supernatural way, Jacob could see where my thoughts were. Or maybe he read the self-loathing on my face. Either way, he didn’t approve.

“Yeah?” I replied as Tricky deftly reached down to the carousel and plucked my newfound bag from it like a sack of feathers. Jacob took it from him and placed it in the luggage cart before shooting me a quick look.

“Angeline was wondering if she can take us all out for dinner,” Jacob went on. I looked to her, and under the harshness of the airport lights, I had the distinct impression that every expression that came across her pretty face was all precalculated. A queer feeling to have but nothing new for me.

“That’s fine,” I said, though dinner was the farthest thing from my mind. I just really wanted to crawl into my bed at the hotel, go to sleep, and not wake up until this whole thing was over.

Fucking brilliant frame of mind to be in. First solo tour—in
Europe
—and I was more interested in sleeping.

“Sage, man,” Tricky said, slapping me hard on the back, “try to show some enthusiasm for the beautiful lady here.”

I turned my head away from them before rolling my eyes. I was sure that Tricky would show her enough enthusiasm for both of us later on.

“Well, now that you have your luggage and your ride, Paris awaits,” Angeline said, flicking her wrist toward the doors leading out of the airport.

We followed her sharp little Marilyn Monroe walk out into the pick-up area, where a ton of funny-looking cabs and giant black Town Cars were all vying for space, honking like their lives depended on it. Even though the sky was a heavy, even grey, I pulled my shades down. I just wanted to protect my eyes and shield off the creeping headache that I could feel coming on, but maybe instinctually I knew shit was about to go down.

I was bombarded with bodies.

Jacob, Tricky, and I were halfway to a white limousine that Angeline was standing triumphantly beside when people surrounded me from all sides and started rushing me. I could barely get a glimpse of the individual faces within the crowd—mostly males in their teens and early twenties with some hardcore females thrown in there—all of them yelling “Sage” in a French accent, along with a bunch of other shit I couldn’t understand. They waved the album cover of
Sage Wisdom
at me, along with their pens and markers. Some had T-shirts. A few had Hybrid merchandise. I tried not to look at those pieces.

“Everyone step back!” Jacob boomed, pushing me behind him. I was taller than my manager and in better shape, but Jacob had a way of making people listen to him. Before I learned he used to be immortal, I chalked it up to his fists and a pocketknife. Now I had to wonder if he didn’t have trace residues of Hoodoo in him.

The crowd backed up reluctantly, but they didn’t shut up and they didn’t stop waving their stuff at me. I knew I should have felt flattered by all of this, but I was just overwhelmed and shaken to the core. All these people were here to see me…they met me at the fucking airport. All of them. For me. And why? How? It just didn’t make sense. In the States I had my fans, but they hung around after the show by the back door, loitering quietly in the alleyways. But this…I was completely unprepared.

“Sage!” one young girl with a severe haircut squeezed past Jacob and thrust her Hybrid T-shirt into my hands. It was obvious she’d never worn it; it was white and in showroom condition. “Please, Sage, sign it! My friend in America got Robbie and Mickey to sign it, but she never saw you.”

I stared down at the shirt. Mickey’s signature still looked fresh, and I felt like I had been kicked straight in the gut. He was dead and I was
here
.

I absently scrawled my name on it with a fat marker, my gaze falling on the crowd around me, and my headache in full force, the pumping blood drowning out their cries. This tour was a mistake. The album was a mistake. Everything was a mistake.

“Come on,” Jacob said, taking my arm roughly and yelling at everyone to back off and that I’d see them all at the show in two nights. He led me right over to the limo and thrust me into the backseat, which smelled of stale smoke and whiskey. Tricky, Jacob, and Angeline slid in after me, but I was already reaching for the small bar and pouring myself a glass.

“Easy now,” Jacob warned, but there was no stopping me. I downed the burning liquid in one gulp. I know I’d been a rock star before, but I had never
felt
it like this. Hybrid’s fame had always been…spread out. It was placed on the group as a whole. We dealt with it as it came and we made it work. And when things got really weird, whether with crazy fans or super groupies (the demonic GTFOs, or “Get the Fuck Outs” as we called them, didn’t count), it was always Robbie who handled it. He got the fan mail. He handled most of the interview requests, the autographs, the perks, and the downfalls of fame. He shouldered it all and had done it well.

Now I was in Robbie’s role. I was the rock star. And everyone wanted piece of me, a taste of these damaged goods.

By the time we reached Paris, I was pleasantly buzzed and no longer wanting sleep. Angeline tried to point out the sites to me, rattling off the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe and a whack of other places with frou-frou names, but I wasn’t interested. I just wanted to keep the buzz going, to enter the land of “I don’t give a shit” and “come back later.”

Luckily the mob that greeted me at the airport wasn’t here. Apparently our limo driver took a few detours in order to lose any possible paparazzi, and I was checked in at the hotel under the name Mr. Underhill. I let Jacob handle all the paperwork while I took my bag upstairs to my room. We had dinner reservations at the hotel restaurant at eight (they liked to eat late here) and until then I just needed time to myself, time to think, time to plan how I was going to handle all of this.

Because suddenly, as I gazed out of the window with a bottle of the finest French champagne in hand, taking in the sights of the grey streets with meandering tourists and the rows of similar houses and the clouds that hung lower than a fat man’s balls, it finally hit me. My psyche had pushed past the feelings of guilt and unworthiness and had found a ripe new fruit to feast on—the fact that I had no fucking idea what I was doing.

None.

The shows I’d played in the States before this—that was nothing. A few appetizers before the main course. Now we were all the way on another continent, just me and Tricky and Jacob. I had a drummer and another guitarist and a keyboardist I had yet to meet and new roadies and sound techs and whoever the fuck else that would be joining us on the tour. I had a voice that was feeling rough and apparently legions of fans who actually gave a fuck. Who actually expected something from me. This wasn’t America, where people watched you politely for a few moments while you opened up for The Band. This was the place where I had the chance to fall—to fail—all over again.

I took a long swig from the bottle and plopped backward onto the bed. I could feel the jet lag creeping toward me, extending its fingers, wanting to pull me under. I had to resist. I had the dinner. I had to stay awake.

“Sage,” a voice called out, sweet and clear, like a meadow brook.

I didn’t think much of the voice. I often heard voices. Usually they were screams. The sounds of my friends dying, echoing in my mind.

But then I heard it again.

“Sage.”

I let the bottle carefully drop onto the floor and slowly raised my head off the mattress. The door to the bathroom was open just a crack. A tap was dripping.

There was someone in there.