A Demon in Love Box Set

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2He woke the next morning to the shriek of his ringing phone. It complained insistently about not being answered; Kris blinked, whimpered as sunlight hit his eyeballs, whimpered again as his back protested about having spent the night on the couch, and flailed for electronics. “H’llo?”

“Did I wake you up I’m so sorry and also I wanted to say I’m sorry and I didn’t mean to snap at you,” pleaded Justin’s voice, in a rush.

“What—” Kris lurched more upright, stared wildly at the clock, cringed. Ten-sixteen in the morning. And Justin had called first. To apologize.

To apologize—?

“I’m really sorry,” Justin said, miserable and hurried. “That was unprofessional of me and I know you were stressed and I shouldn’t…I should…well, I should be. Um. Professional. Like you said. I have to go but I wanted to say that? And also I could call you later? With some possible tour updates? If that’s okay?”

Kris’s heart, shriveled old beast that it was, broke. Skewered by sunlight and the words I should be professional.

He got out, just in time, “Wait, no, hang on—” Justin didn’t hang up, so he kept babbling. “Don’t say you’re sorry, it’s not you, it’s my fault and I meant to call you this morning and say—s**t, Justin, I’m seriously sorry. I’m a bloody moron and I was frustrated and I took it out on you and that’s not—I didn’t mean it, I swear, you are my friend, I know you are. Ah. I hope you are. Please?”

Justin was actually laughing, albeit fleetingly, by the end of this speech. “Wow. I never imagined hearing Kris Starr beg me for forgiveness…”

“I will if you want.” On his knees. On his old creaky knees at Justin’s boot-clad feet. Where his poor cracked heart already lay. “I didn’t…do to you what I…I didn’t hurt you, did I? With, um…”

“You managed to hurt my feelings,” Justin said, “but you didn’t mean to, and I shouldn’t’ve walked out on you, it’s fine—”

“No, I mean—” He bit a lip. Tasted the hangover on his tongue: scotch and whiskey and coffee, thick and stupid. “I didn’t make you leave…? Are you all right?”

“Oh.” A pause, a shuffling: papers, by the sound. “That…no, um, you didn’t. I’m—that’s not something you need to worry about. Thanks for asking, though. Kris, I really do have to go—”

“Can we get coffee?” What did that mean? Not something he needed to worry about? Was there something?

“I’m in end-of-quarter meetings all morning. Mr. Aubrey wants to yell at us for the profit margin decrease. I’m making myself late to a budget discussion to call you.”

Kris tried again. “Lunch? After you’re done?” Stripes of sunbeam, dazzling and golden, flirted with reflected clouds on his floorboards. The day would be golden too, the brittle crisp hue found in the crunch of leaves, in the harvest-orange curve of pumpkins on an autumn afternoon. “Whenever you’re free.”

“Um…I should be done around three. That’ll work, I can tell you about the possible tour dates in person…where should I meet you? Witch’s Brew?”

“I’ll come over,” Kris promised. “Meet you at the office.” And he held his breath. They both knew how he felt about that building.

“Oh,” Justin said again: startled but pleased. “If you—yes, I mean yes, that would be—thanks. You might have to wait a few minutes if we’re running late.”

“Not a problem, babe.” He put on the rock-star flippant accent for effect; earned another laugh. “You did say you wanted Kris Starr to apologize. I am.”

“You already did.” Justin’s tone got more affectionate. “I’d take the apology from Christopher Thompson, too, you know. And of course we’re friends. You don’t have to say please.”

I love you, Kris thought, sitting on his sofa with lines on his face from the cushion, with that generous forgiving heart on the other end of the line: he knew it to be true. I love you, I’m in love with you, I have to say it—

Instead he quoted, as a reply, “If that’s what it takes, baby…I’m saying please, I’m saying we, everything that you want to hear…if that’s what it takes, baby, I’ll be here…”

Justin started snickering, said, “Did you just sing your own song at me as an apology,” and then jumped in to sing along. “I’m saying white picket fence, I’m saying summers without end…oh baby, if that’s what it takes…”

“I’m saying please,” Kris finished. He’d made Justin laugh out loud. His heart put itself back together and danced to the tune of twenty-year-old ballad-rock. “Should I let you go? Budget whatever?”

“Oh f**k. Yes. Sorry. I’ll see you at three. And I’ve got your song in my head, so that’ll make spreadsheets more interesting—”

They got off the phone, mutually entertained. Not repaired, not completely. Kris couldn’t take back his own temper-tantrum, couldn’t rewind time. But he could show up with coffee. He could come to Justin’s office and make that gesture.

Ten-thirty, he thought. Hours to kill. They sprawled out like glass: flat and heavy and dangerous, clear as day and inexorable as eternity. And he was old enough to be Justin’s father, theoretically speaking at least, and no reason in the world presented itself for any hope.

He meandered into the kitchen. He made more coffee. He added scotch to vanquish the dull throb behind his eyes. Clouds unfurled like streamers across the sky, beyond windowpanes.

He didn’t know anything about love. How could he? He’d only ever loved fame: the high, the adrenaline rush, the flushed and giddy whirl of success. He’d never even found someone to settle down with, the way Reggie had not once but twice. Only music.

Justin liked music.

Clutching coffee, wearing yesterday’s clothes, he took a step toward his guitars. Drawn by some unnamed mysterious tide.

I think I’m in love, he’d said to Reg. He’d meant it half in truth and half an exaggeration; when he shut his eyes and pictured Justin’s face he remembered how hollow he’d felt, how panicked, when he’d known those wide eyes had gotten hurt—and hurt because of him.

He didn’t want to lose Justin, and that was selfish. But he didn’t only want that; he wanted Justin Moore to never be hurt, by him or by anyone else. He wanted to do whatever he could to make that true.

His fingertips brushed the neck of the closest guitar. A classic: he’d played it at sold-out shows and in studios, conjuring bestselling records.

The dreadful holiday album required a digital background track. He was only singing revised lyrics over previously recorded tunes.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in window-glass as he turned. He stopped, disconcerted for a moment, then recognized himself.

Loose brown hair in shaggy waves, one or two stray grey flickers but mostly not. Eyes the kind of brown that was nearly black, which a few interviewers and roadies’d described as soulful, expressive, soft, and poignant, and on one memorable occasion puppyish. Tiny lines fanning out at the corners, but not too deeply so. The face of a man who’d spent a life touring and drinking and sleeping in hotel rooms, but he’d stayed in shape because that’d been part of the image: s*x appeal and glamour on stage. Not unattractive, or not exactly; attractive perhaps to a certain segment of the population that’d be aging right along with him.

Tired, he thought. Beaten down by time, back from a taste of godhood, shuffling around with mortals again. Definitely, yeah, mortal.

Justin Moore, on the other hand, was twenty-eight and beautiful, the kind of beauty that turned heads and stole breath away, but up close became warm and inviting rather than intimidating or cold. Lovely from the inside out, and that’d be what passersby noticed, when they noticed, when their gazes landed on him on the street or in a café.

He had known Justin for four years; he did not, he understood, know enough about Justin. He’d never learned to listen. Better at pushing. At pulling the world along with his desires.

He knew that Justin had younger siblings, though he couldn’t recall how many or how old. He knew that Justin’s father was a Starrlight fan; he knew that Justin himself loved music history, especially rock history, and adored punk bands and classic rock and roll, and would find something nice to say about even the newest overproduced electronically-altered nightclub hit. He knew that Justin had a degree in journalism from a university with an extremely impressive name; he knew those last facts not because his manager went around announcing them but because they’d talked about media contacts once and on an entirely separate occasion an alumni association’d called about a fundraising drive. The name had shown on the screen; Justin had silenced the call and explained, “Sorry, it’s the alumni people, I’ll call them back later. You were telling me about songs you’d want on a compilation album, go on?”

He stuck his head and then, when this was insufficient, himself into a very cold shower for a very quick few minutes. Tried not to picture that smile. That youthful brilliant eagerness gathered up and directed his way.

They’d talked about a best-of collection, that day. It’d happened; it’d sold well and continued to sell. Kris hadn’t worried about money for years.

Best of, he thought. Best of the past. What used to be. Has been.

He put on jeans and a lightweight silky shirt and his leather jacket. He had an image. If anyone cared.

Justin had told him he didn’t have to finish the dreadful holiday album. If he truly wasn’t happy.

Justin needed a job, which meant he needed to work with artists who actually made money, which meant artists who weren’t seriously considering a rejection of the whole concept of Midwinter and holiday cheer and happiness in general.

Kris looked at himself in the mirror, threw on a couple of leather bracelets and some eyeliner—he was seeing Justin, and he was vain enough to want to resemble the rock star he might’ve once been in those young eyes—and went out, yanking the door shut behind him.

When he arrived at the recording studio Steve made an exaggerated production out of checking the calendar. “You’re not scheduled to be here today! What is this new ambition? Did you make a Midwinter resolution, did some other empath make you feel guilty, or what?”

“You don’t know any other empaths.” Kris stole one of Steve’s donuts. Breakfast of champions. Of burned-out candleflame once-stars. “We’re rare and special. Like bloody unicorns, mate.”

“Those are mine. And how do you know I don’t know another empath? I’ve seen a unicorn, too.”

“You want it back?” Kris looked at the donut. Took another satisfyingly large bite. “We’ve all seen your American unicorns. They live in Central Park and f**k with tourists who don’t remember that unicorns have a sweet tooth. Cheeky bastards.”

“Are you only here to eat my food and insult our proud New York City wildlife? I’ll feed you to the fairy alligators. Where’s your prettier nicer other half?”

This hurt. Bruises over bruises, deepening. “He’s in meetings all day. And not my other half. Look, have you got a space I can use, or not? I want to get something done so I can show him.”

“Ah, so it is about him.” Steve heaved himself out of his chair. It creaked wearily, relieved of bulk. “In that case, yeah. Love opens doors and all that.”

“I’m not in—he’s not—” He gave up. Futile, apparently. “It’s not like that.”

“Sure it’s not. Come on, you can use room three for a couple hours.”

A couple of hours later, Kris was tired and mildly depressed but strangely exhilarated, like the letdown after a show that’d been good but not great, like a lyric recorded just before he thought of what more it could’ve been. He was doing this for Justin; he was doing something, and that set off pensive mutters of fulfilment and glum satisfaction along his bones. Martyrdom, he decided. To the tune of “Midwinter Looks Good On You,” and “Little Black Solstice Dress.”