The Devil's Reprise: A Rockstar Romance (The Devils Duet Book 2) Read online

  I nodded, feeling stupid. “Of course. Sorry. I just got off the plane from Seattle, and I’m not sure how I’m dealing with five hours of sleep, let alone the time change.”

  “You haven’t traveled to the East Coast before, have you little lamb?”

  If he wasn’t so darn cute and if that accent wasn’t so darn infectious, I would have frowned my proud feminist eyebrows at his “little lamb” endearment. “No, first time.”

  “Shucks,” he said, scratching at his ginger sideburns and giving me a sly glance. “Looks like we have a novice on our hands. Well, little lamb, I promise I’ll be gentle with you.”

  “Too bad I can’t say the same,” I retorted, straightening up. It wasn’t that Max was hitting on me, but I didn’t want him thinking I was some naïve little flower, either. Or a lamb.

  He grinned and nodded at the perfectly poised airline crew. “We’ll be boarding next. Got us seats in the smoking section.”

  I looked down at my ticket. Back of the plane, he was right. I was too sleep-deprived to notice that before. I didn’t know if I could handle another flight, let alone one with this Max fellow blowing smoke in my face, but I guess I had no choice.

  We got on the plane, shuffling past the refined people in first class, and made our way to the very back. The air back here stunk, despite the fact that the whole airplane shared the same air. I felt like the cool kid sitting at the back of the bus, especially as Max sat down beside me, taking the dreaded middle seat and granting me the window. Not that I hadn’t been assigned it anyway, but I could totally have seen Max pulling some kind of ranking or seniority bullshit about it. Instead he was strangely gentlemanly.

  And, as the plane filled up with more people and we started talking, I discovered that there was something strangely gentlemanly about him in general. From his “little lamb” to his “shucks” and “I reckon,” I felt like the redheaded giant was transplanted straight from the late 50s. His Elvis-like wave at the front of his head didn’t help, either.

  “So tell me about your job,” I said to Max, shoving peanuts into my mouth from the little silver packet that the flight attendant had handed me. I chewed anxiously—even though we were at cruising altitude, I still felt nervous, both because of the whole flying in the air thing, as well as my new company.

  He was flipping through a magazine, and the cigarette dangled from his lips as he spoke. “Not really much to say. Loved photography as a kid, used to want to take photos for that National Geographic magazine before I discovered rock and roll. You know, I play bass in a band back in Brooklyn.”

  Nowadays it seemed any guy who had escaped the Vietnam War was playing in a band somewhere. I raised my brow. “Oh yeah, you guys any good?”

  “Sex City,” he said. He noted my blank expression and went on, “The name of the band. And no, we suck. Wickedly. So I stick to my day job. Sometimes it has its perks.”

  “Like going to Europe?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been a lot. I’ve been everywhere. I come from the south, but I’ve traveled the world. Many times.”

  I leaned in closer, examining his eyes. They were such a vivid bright green, almost as nice as Sage’s grey-green ones. He didn’t have any lines around them and his heavy lids suggested youth, but there was something…wise…about them all the same. Like he’d seen a lot.

  “How old are you?” I questioned.

  He stared back at me and wiggled his brows a bit. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “It’s why I asked.”

  “I’m ageless,” he said after a beat and a puff of smoke came out of his mouth, dancing toward my face. He went back to his magazine. “And you’re infamous.”

  I gasped and a piece of peanut flew out of my mouth. “I’m infamous?”

  He pretended not to notice the flying food and just nodded. “Sure are. After what you experienced with Hybrid…no journalist has ever covered quite that story.”

  “The collapse of the band at the start of their stardom?” I asked, my go-to line.

  He shook his head slightly and popped up the ashtray on the armrest between us. “Plenty of writers have covered that. I mean the whole thing about the band doing the deal with the Devil and the Devil coming back to take what was his. And by band, I mean Sage. I know it was all Sage’s dealings.”

  I studied him for a few moments, unsure if this burly man was pulling my leg or not as he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “You know I made that all up, right? It’s a metaphor.”

  He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “You’ve got quite the imagination, then.” I wasn’t sure if I saw disappointment on his brow or what, but there was definitely something there, something else he wanted to say.

  I bit the bullet. “So tell me if my backwoods instincts are correct or not, but you’re not really here to cover Sage Knightly’s solo tour, are you?”

  He smirked appreciatively. “You insulting my photo-taking skills now? Of course I’m here for that. Why else would I be here?” I could have sworn his gaze intensified, like I’d added fuel to a fire.

  “Because…I’m a fluke.”

  “A what?”

  I sighed and started popping more peanuts into my mouth, munching them hard before I spoke. I hadn’t admitted this to anyone yet and wasn’t sure why I was picking Max as the first one. “I’m a fluke. A fraud. I shouldn’t have been picked to go on the road with Hybrid. I had barely written anything, I was still in school—I was a nobody. But it was like my dream came true.”

  He cocked his head. “But not quite.”

  “No. Not quite. But still. I lived to tell about it—me, Dawn Emerson, ex-rodeo queen and music junkie. And now I’m doing this all over again. Sage…Sage is hot stuff. He’s dynamite right now. I hear his songs all over the radio, I read articles about him written by other people. Any reporter worth her salt would love to cover this story, his first solo tour in fucking Europe, and yet I’m the one doing it.”

  “Well, you two have a special connection,” he said almost softly.

  I frowned at that, but he quickly continued, “And you’re in good with Jacob Edwards. The Cobb, man. He’s…legendary. It just so happens that both of those men want you around. And I’m sure they believe in your writing, too.”

  “But they aren’t Creem,” I said.

  “I see,” he said. “So you think I’m your babysitter.”

  I nodded and looked down at my hands. “I may have been the only person to cover the end of Hybrid, but I don’t think they appreciated my…um…metaphors. You might be here to keep me on track without even knowing it.”

  He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I reckon you’re worrying over nothing, little lamb. In fact, I reckon you like to worry. And when things are going well, you worry even more. I’m here to take photographs. You’re here to write. Right now that’s the truth, so we might as well enjoy it while we can.” He opened one eye at me and added, “We’ve got a six-hour flight and time change to prepare for. I’ll see you when we land.” Then he closed his eye again and seemed to drift off to sleep, just like that.

  I stared at him, dumbfounded and lost for a few moments, before I took out a magazine and started to read it absently, stealing the occasional glimpse at him. What a weird duck. He was hard to read but at the same time seemed to know me. He at least figured out that I loved to worry, especially when everything was going great. Maybe I had worrywart written on my face. That or pessimist.

  While Max slept through the whole flight—the lucky bastard—I divided my time between staring at the Atlantic Ocean far below my window, dozing off, and writing in my notebook. It was clean and new and perfect, and I had my favorite pens and pencils on me. Some reporters carry one notebook for everything they cover, but I liked to divide mine up, one for each band. The Hybrid notebook had been full. It was tucked away in a drawer in my rickety desk back at home. This notebook had Sage’s name scrawled on the first page, and th
e rest was blank.

  I treated it like a clean slate and started writing down all my impressions of Sage’s music. It was hard for me to separate the music from the man, but once I started, it got easier. Sage had only released one album, Sage Wisdom (yeah, a terribly redundant name), so I went through each song in my head, playing each one like my brain was a jukebox on demand, and jotted down my thoughts and impressions, which could shape the basis for the whole article.

  I fell in love all over again. It was practically impossible to be objective. But that’s what his music had always done to me—I couldn’t help that the man was just as enigmatic, just as layered, as his music was.

  When Sage Knightly was the key guitarist and songwriter for Hybrid, you could hear parts of his past and personality coming out through the songs. But Hybrid also had the input of Robbie Oliver and the late Mickey Brown and a record label that always expected more. As much as Sage tried to push the envelope, they still remained a slightly edgier, fuzzier version Led Zeppelin. They were a band with chunky swagger.

  Sage’s solo stuff, on the other hand, really broke away from that. That wasn’t to say that it wasn’t loud. It was loud. It had a palpable thickness and was steel-cut and hard as concrete and a million other euphemisms for his dick. And there was the distortion and unease that came from pedal effects and layers of riffs upon layers of riffs. But mixed in with the faint horn and string sections that played tribute to his half-Mexican heritage, there was an underlying sadness. This wasn’t an album of hope but one of despair and yearning and frustration. Sage opened himself up on the record to the dirty things that hid deep in his soul.

  At least, that’s what I got out of it. I had to wonder what had gone on in all the months we were apart—I knew where my head was, but where was his? How was he dealing with the aftermath of the Devil’s contract? Another pang of guilt came up and bit me on the heart. I’d never assumed that Sage had trouble dealing with what happened, but the album was suggesting otherwise.

  When we finally landed in Paris, Max waking up to the all-too-friendly touch of the flight attendant, the guilt was still weighing heavily on my shoulders. I suppose Max saw this because he was being upbeat and decided to school me at the last minute on my French. The distraction didn’t work, though; it only made me more anxious. Here I was, landing in motherfucking Paris, on assignment, about to see Sage Knightly for the first time in too long.

  “You okay?” Max asked as we stood crammed up against each other in the aisle, waiting for people to get off the plane.

  I nodded quickly, running my teeth over my lips and wishing I had lip balm. “Tired,” I said, leaving a ton of other adjectives out of it. “Je suis fatigue.”

  “Très bien,” Max said, but I could feel his eyes boring down on me, taking me in and sussing me out. I wished he would stop. I just wanted to get off the plane and get this over with. My pulse couldn’t take it anymore. My nerves were in a blender.

  Each step I took off the plane and through the airport, my senses bombarded with the smell of cigarettes and strong cologne and the sound of rapid-fire French, the more my legs felt like they were made of melting snow. Each step was a step closer to our meeting. Each step meant more sweat trickling down the back of my sore neck.

  I felt like I was minutes away from being committed by the time Max and I cleared the overly suspicious French customs and stood waiting for our bags at baggage claim. I had to admit, I was really glad that Max was there with me for that. To them, we were traveling together, and in his perfect French, he had all the right answers for the customs officials. I could only smile and nod and repeat my name. I knew they all spoke English, but it seemed to anger them to do so.

  The funny thing was—and I know I was thinking of too many romantic movies—but I really had expected Sage to be there, running toward me, ready for an embrace. Or at least, you know, be there. But he wasn’t. There wasn’t even anyone with a sign that said “Emerson” or “Creem” or even “Elvis-Wannabe from Sex City.” As Max and I trundled our suitcases out of baggage claim, we were met by no one.

  “Well, this is a nice welcome,” I muttered as I watched people happily greeting one another. Max only nodded and stuck another cigarette in his mouth. I sighed and glanced over at the washrooms. They were called W.C.s here, I was right.

  I excused myself and quickly tried to pretty myself up in the washroom in case Sage was still on his way or stuck in traffic or something. I not-so-subtly watched the French travelers lean over the sinks and dot lipstick on their lips and cheeks and smooth flyaways with mists of Evian water. I had so much to learn and fancied I might even go back to Ellensburg with a new sense of chic style.

  And I was going back, despite Eric’s fears. If my first few moments in Europe were any indicator of what was to come, I was definitely going back.

  When I came out of the washroom, groomed but still pretty darn lackluster after two long flights, I nearly stopped in my tracks. Jacob was here and talking to Max with a grim look on his face, my suitcase in his meaty hand. He was waving his other hand in the air, his gold rings glinting, and Max was silent, chewing on his lip and listening attentively.

  “Hey,” I said, my voice cracking a little, as I continued walking toward them, hoping I wasn’t interrupting something important. Jacob shut up and his head whipped my way. A broad smile cracked across his face, his golden eyes vivid and dancing.

  “Dawn, love,” he said in that irrepressible Cockney accent of his, throwing his arms open and bringing me into a tight embrace, my face smooshed up against his scratchy orange-and-brown wool suit, which smelled like coffee and mothballs. His fashion sense hadn’t changed, and that brought me the tiniest bit of ironic comfort.

  I finally untangled myself from his vice-like hug and let him look me over with a discerning eye. “You look great, love. Tired as fuck but still great. I trust Max has been a gentleman with you.” Jacob’s scrutiny turned to Max, who seemed to pale a bit under his gaze.

  “Max has been fine,” I told him. I couldn’t help but smile. “I’m glad you’re here; I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.” I was really beginning to think Sage had forgotten about me, but from the apologetic smile stretched across Jacob’s face, I could tell he knew what I was thinking.

  “Yes, well, traffic you know, love,” he said, leading us toward the doors. “Bit of a crazy thing with all these frogs around us.” I quickly glanced around me, expecting to see dirty looks from the Frenchmen, but no one paid us any attention at all. “I was just here yesterday at the same time, but it seems you can’t predict the traffic in the city.”

  “Just yesterday?”

  We stepped out of the airport and into the light drizzle, which was falling steadily from the overcast sky. “Yes, I had to pick up Sage and Tricky. He’s back at the hotel, you know. He wanted to come and pick you up himself, but, uh, he’s recovering from jet lag.”

  Funny how I could almost believe that—but as plausible as it was, as I would surely be hit with a debilitating chunk of jet lag later, I knew in my heart that wasn’t quite the case for Sage. He either didn’t want to see me or he was recovering from something other than jet lag.

  As we scurried toward the nearest cab, I noticed Max’s eyes on me. We were about to climb into the backseat of a funny-looking car whose driver Jacob was trying to haggle with, when he stopped and said, “I’m here to take photographs, you’re here to write, and that’s the truth. Now get in.”

  I had lovesick written across over my forehead, didn’t I?

  We both scooted into the back of the cab, sliding over greasy old grey leather, while Jacob finally got in the passenger seat. He shot us both a gleaming smile and raised his orange brows. “Not sure how much this cabbie is going to charge us, but I figure if it’s too much, we can always get the suitcases and run, right-o?”

  I spent the first half of the drive trying to figure out if Max and Jacob and everyone else knew something about Sage that
I didn’t, and the second half being utterly swept away by the passing landscape. I was in France. I was in Paris. I was in a city that couldn’t be more foreign to me. I watched beautiful old houses zoom past us, their elegant roofs and flower-lined windowsills, the funny little cars parked on the streets out front, the fashionable women strolling past with their cat-eye glasses and their tiny dogs on sparkly leashes. The thing about Paris is that it really did look like all the movies I’d seen—Paris in the Springtime, Charade, Funny Face. Really, anything with Audrey Hepburn.

  I was enthralled, no doubt brought on by the time difference and sleep deprivation and present company and crazy circumstances, but it was a good kind of trip—better than the mushrooms Mel would make me eat when we were bored and hanging out in the hayloft. Suddenly, as Mr. Plant might say, I was a traveler of both time and space.

  I was here.

  And there. There, as the cab drove alongside the taupe stone buildings and pulled up to the narrow, gargoyle-fronted hotel where we were staying, there was Sage Knightly, standing outside.

  There was Sage, leaning against an ancient-looking stone sculpture that I was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to be leaning against, sipping from a paper cup. There he was, the man whose music made my blood pump and whose words made my heart ache. There he was, the man I’d made love to, the man I’d loved, the man who had become so much more than I even let myself realize.

  And he was smiling at the cab as we came to a stop. He was smiling right at me.

  He was also 100 percent, teetering-over, eyes-glazed, not-drinking-coffee-out-of-that-cup drunk.

  Chapter Five

  Dawn

  “Here we are,” Jacob said uneasily from the front seat of the cab. His eyes were locked on Sage, who was now slowly plunking his large frame down the steps and sauntering toward us.

  Goddamn it if he didn’t look like a beefier Jim Morrison at that moment, in tight black pants and an open black shirt that looked like it provided no barrier to the cool-ish weather. His swagger was all alcohol-induced, his grin lopsided like he didn’t care enough to straighten it. His black hair was longer now, his curls looser and more disheveled, falling into his eyes which were the dreamy grey-green that I remembered, the color of olive leaves. Those dimples still popped against his thick five o’clock shadow. He was a hot mess but, unlike me when I was a hot mess, he was still hot.