A Demon for Midwinter

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Kris Starr stepped out of the recording booth, decidedly did not swear under his breath, and found his manager waiting for him. As usual, Justin’s not-quite-human cinnamon gaze held only cheerful amusement. Any critique stayed hidden behind that effortlessly casual pose, long legs stretched out and one shoulder casually propped against the wall.

Kris sighed, “That was hideous, wasn’t it?”

“Hardly hideous.” Justin handed over lavender-infused Earl Grey tea, Kris’s scarf, and Kris’s phone, which he’d left in a taxicab that morning and had more or less written off for good. And, being brilliant and competent and properly organized in all aspects of Kris’s life, added, “Three inquiries about possible shows—none paying you enough, we can do better—one message from someone by the name of Tiffanie asking whether you remember her from the Gardens, backstage, in nineteen-ninety-two, and also your father called asking for money again. I handled it, I just thought you should know.”

Justin technically worked as an A&R person—Kris had never been sure of his exact title, only that it involved artists and repertoire and contracts and signing of new talent and development of albums—at the legendary Aubrey Records, but as the newest and youngest hire, he’d been essentially shoved into the role of managing the aging rock-and-roll disaster that was the latter half of Kris’s career, and had never once complained. Had stuck with him even as the fans and the performances and the music dwindled into shadows. Had bounced into their first meeting with wide eyes and impressively fluffy violet-edged hair and a grin: I grew up on your music, my dad loves Kris Starr and Starrlight, I wanted to sing like you when I was younger, is it true you wrote “London Always Comes Too Soon” about Nick Peters of Smokescreen?

Justin Moore was fifteen years younger than Kris Starr, who’d once been Christopher Thompson, born on a council estate in a far-off dreary corner of England. This thought occasionally depressed him. Mostly it made him smile, in a kind of distant wistful way. He couldn’t dislike Justin for it; no one could, anyway. Like disliking rainbows, or kittens, or cloudless sunshine.

“It was hideous,” he said again. “Not…clicking.”

Steve wandered out from behind sound-mixing equipment. Gave him a critical once-over. “You’re not wrong, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad.”

Steve Rosen owned the near-mythical New York City recording studio he’d borrowed for this session. Steve was also an old—emphasis on the old, Kris’s brain noted—friend. This meant that, yet again Kris did not swear at him for unhelpful commentary. Not out loud, anyway.

Steve suggested, “Maybe you can come back tomorrow?” and turned lights off with a wave of his hand. Like most people, Steve had a bit of magic, in his case more kinetic: enough for localized gestures, nudges, coaxing of the world in his immediate vicinity, which because of his size tended to be a lot of vicinity. “Go out. Get drunk. Get laid. Whatever inspires you, man. Get that fire back.”

“You could call Tiffanie,” Justin said helpfully. His expression was exquisitely noncommittal, though they’d known each other for four years and Kris knew perfectly well that he wanted to laugh. Those otherworldly eyes, made even wider and prettier by coal-black eyeliner, said so.

He grumbled, “We’re not calling Tiffanie. Or Tammy. Or Tyler. Or anyone,” and ducked outside. Leather jacket like armor against the world. Elderly armor. Bruised. Hands clutching a to-go cup with tea in it, because Justin thought of things like that.

New York City glittered like a fairytale beyond the studio walls. Tall buildings and the offices of dreams: recording studios, publishing houses—the familiar baronial spires of the Randolph House media empire spiked upward like runaway arrows—and vibrant museums and festive parks. Statues and bas-reliefs on buildings. George vanquishing the demon-worm. Hannah Clarence, the weather-witch who’d helped build the city’s harbor. Various unicorns. The unicorns looked smug, in the way of magical creatures who knew their own value. The ones on the bank down the street’d been decorated with ornaments.

Holiday season had landed upon them, unicorns and all. In eye-watering color. Barreling down like a runaway train made of tinsel and spruce and harvest pies. Not everyone celebrated Midwinter the same way, of course, in this twinkling mosaic of a city, but most did. Reaffirmations of life in the midst of long nights. Joyous riotous bonfires and roasted apples and dancing. Thanks to God, or the gods, or whatever higher power someone believed might’ve once given mankind the gift of magic, to make it through the night. A woman on the corner was selling chestnuts, a sweet drift of roasted scent through oncoming evening lights.

He kicked a small pebble on the street, just because. It landed in a puddle left over from the afternoon’s drizzle and glared at him reproachfully. No patience for aging rock stars and their existential discontent.

Justin appeared at his elbow. “Leave the poor earth elementals alone, would you? I’m sorry about mentioning your exes. Not the right timing.”

“Not an elemental. Only a rock.” He finished off the tea. Slumped against the recording studio’s blank stone. Let the wall hold him up. Forty-three years old, and he felt every one of them. Plus more. Double. “Am I being ridiculous? I’m being ridiculous. Ridiculous holiday album idea. I’m turning ‘You Light My Fire’ into ‘Light My Midwinter Bonfire.’ It doesn’t even work with the rhythm.”

“Well,” Justin considered judiciously, “I won’t say I’m complaining about you recording anything, but ‘Baby, It’s Harvest Time’ did seem a little confused as far as metaphors…”

“I’m a failure. I’m a washed-up ancient relic, and I’m a failure.”

“You’re the voice—and face—of arguably the most successful and most sparkly band of the last several decades.” Justin took away the empty to-go cup, tossed it—accurately—at a trash bin, and then held out a small white paper bag. “Chestnut? And yes, present tense. People know who you are. You had an impact. You made a difference. For a lot of fans, and for people who love you.”

Kris stared at the bag. Wondered when chestnut acquisition’d happened. Justin hadn’t left his side, right? Or had he been too busy wallowing in self-pity to notice, and Justin’d had time to wander down to the corner, buy seasonal delicacies, and come back?

He was, he concluded, a terrible, self-absorbed, melodramatic person. He accepted a chestnut. “Why do you put up with me? You have other people to work with. Less pathetic. Less old.”

“I get paid to be here. And more importantly I can tell friends that Kris Starr buys me cappuccinos at Witch’s Brew Coffee. Which you do.” Justin tossed him a smile. His hair was growing out of shorter fluffy length and into sapphire-tipped tumbles, these days; black and blue fell next to one eye in a shining perilous swoop. Kris had always found him beautiful in a sort of abstract far-off way, like admiration of modern art or morning dew: young and exquisite and untouchable.

Right now, oddly, he wanted to touch. Wanted to reach out and brush that fall of blue-black out of sparkling cinnamon eyes.

A connection. A stretch across a void. That smile.

Which he’d seen before, and somehow had never seen before, not quite this way or under this light, something he didn’t understand that shifted the world under his feet. That world became one in which he could want to run fingers through Justin Moore’s hair.

Tangible. Physical. Messy.

The fact of sudden inexplicable lust wasn’t exactly new. He knew himself and all the desires of his past.

What was new was Justin. And the way Kris wanted to keep looking at him. As if, out of nowhere, he’d seen his manager for the first time, brand new. Another ordinary evening on a city street, the taste of chestnuts lingering on his tongue, a glance, and suddenly—

And suddenly what?

Nothing. Couldn’t be anything. Never could be.

Age. Depression. A business relationship in the way. He didn’t even know whether Justin liked men. He didn’t know who or what Justin liked, in fact, other than now-classic rock—which he’d gotten from his father, oh hell—and slim-fit jeans and bright colors and eyeliner and mascara. He guessed that the eyes were a nod to some pixie or sylph in the family tree, but Justin didn’t talk about himself in any detail, and he’d never seen any evidence of actual magic.

Which, he realized belatedly and also for the first time, was strange.

Most people did have touches of magic. The lamentable Nick Peters of the infamous Starrlight song had been able to conjure fire: not much, only tiny sparks like firecrackers, but it’d made for great displays on stage. On the evening’s New York street a little girl, holding her mother’s hand, was levitating merrily while getting chocolate on her face. And Kris himself…

Justin, not keeping up with this distracted sideways train of thought, plainly felt that circumstances required more reassurance. “Honestly, it’s not hideous. It doesn’t feel like you’re happy, which is a problem, yeah, considering it’s you. But it’ll sell. People love Midwinter sentimental fluff, and Starrlight’s still a big name.”

“Me,” Kris said, and sighed again. His brain seemed to be stuck on questions about Justin today. About the fact that apparently he liked chestnuts, and brought along hot tea without being asked after a recording session, and also had very touchable hair.

“I don’t feel the happy,” Justin explained, evidently assuming that clarification was required, “and you know your empathy has trouble anyway when it’s not live, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want to depress everyone at their Midwinter parties, so maybe we can work on that? Not calling yourself hideous would be a good start.”

“I’m not sure I’m even an empath anymore. Tired. Worn out. Antique.”

“You were always a better projective talent than you were receptive.” Justin put his head on one side. Stray curls of hair met the breeze and drifted happily upward. His jacket was also leather, but punk-rock stylish, more form-fitting, and above all newer; Kris hid a wince. “You could make crowds laugh, or cry, or hold their breath, or sing along…we all felt what you feel.”

“You shouldn’t’ve even been at those concerts. You’re a kid.” He started walking, mostly to be in motion. Heading half-consciously for Witch’s Brew. More of those hazelnut cappuccinos. Habit.

Justin kept up effortlessly. “Dad took me to the final reunion show. It was a father-son bonding experience. Magical. Look, my point is, maybe you should reconsider the holiday album. I know they’re pressuring you to do it, nostalgia and themed sales and all, but I can tell you hate it.”

“Shouldn’t you be trying to promote my career choices?” He waved a hand. Watched lights, just coming on, flicker over the gesture: not a concert’s megawatt light show, not dazzling superstar lasers and spotlights. Only everyday holidays. Feet squarely on winter pavement. On the ground. “To support anything that’ll make a profit? For you, the record company, whatever.”

Any reasonable target of his tone would’ve been offended. Justin scrunched up that nose at him, not taking it personally. “You’re my client. I’m here to help. I’m trying.”

This was unfair. Kris wanted to stomp his feet and shout at something or somebody, or throw a proper rock-star tantrum, petty and elaborate and gratifying. Justin was being patient and compassionate and tolerant and lovely, matching annoyed strides down city pavement, and—

Lovely?

He’d known Justin for four years. He’d never thought, not seriously—he’d thought, yeah, fine, he’d admit that, he’d wondered sometimes, but he’d never really—never wanted—

Last-gasp winter sunlight sliced through brittle air. Caught the edge of a cheekbone, a flutter of blue-black hair. Decorated smooth skin and long eyelashes with pale gold.

Justin’s phone made a sound. A snippet of some pop-punk tune Kris didn’t know. Justin also made a pleased little sound, and answered the text. “Sorry, I’m just confirming some contract details for the Enchantresses. You know the Enchantresses, right? If not you should, I’ll send you something, they’re right on the verge of breaking out, totally awesome, all five of them are related and they’re all witches and—”

“Why are you here, anyway?” Justin didn’t have to come in for recording sessions. Had a job. Other musicians. Who sent him texts. While he was walking next to Kris.

Where he didn’t need to be. He had a small tidy office in a tall modernist chunk of building surrounded by other corporate towers. Kris had been in it exactly once, the day they’d been introduced. Had hated the building and demanded, like a petulant child, that they meet elsewhere for lunches and discussions from then on.

“Because I’m helping you?” Big autumn-spiced eyes got very bewildered. A confused puppy being nudged away by a boot. A too-kind, too-attractive puppy. Oh, hell. “Because we’re friends?”

“I’m your job. You must have better things to do. Don’t the Enchantresses need you? Or some other on-the-verge almost-famous groups?”

“I don’t have anywhere to be until later, and I can do most of that from anywhere as long as I can answer the phone—and that’s not fair, come on, they’re great, you were there once too—”

The final dying sunbeam ran away behind a cloud. The sidewalk turned grittier somehow. Darker. More ugly. Kris, who knew perfectly well that he was being awful and nasty and unfair, and who couldn’t seem to stop, snapped, “So you do think I was great once.” Why why why was he growling at Justin? Because of the texting? The awful holiday album? The way he couldn’t help wondering whether that stylish leather jacket had warm enough lining, and could he offer his own, just in case?

“I think—” Justin stopped, bit his lip, crossed arms. He was nearly Kris’s height but built more lightly, a woodsprite or a dryad, slim and long-legged, though with runner’s muscle under the jacket. He did not look fragile, but he did look hurt. “You know what I meant. And I can feel—I can tell you’re not happy, you’re broadcasting it across like three blocks. Can we talk about it? Did I do something to upset you?”

“No. You—” You said we were friends. We’re not friends. You’re twenty-eight and you’re assigned to babysit me and I’m a washed-up has-been and I’ve only just realized that you’re everything nice and good in my life and I think I want to kiss you and instead I’m making you practically break down in tears on a street corner.

Kris genuinely loathed himself, for a split second, with dizzying despair. “You should go home. Or back to your office. Wherever. You can get more done if you’re not hovering over me, can’t you? Or is that part of your job too?”

Justin’s chin trembled, then set stubbornly. “Is that really what you think? That I spend time with you because the company told me to keep an eye on their longest bestselling asset?”

“Did they?”

Their eyes met. Justin said, extremely quietly, “Yes they did, but, and this is the truth, I would’ve anyway, because I like talking to you, most of the time,” and Kris understood suddenly that this was Justin angry, this low simmering calmness that hid whole pools of emotion; he understood as well that he might’ve said something unforgiveable.

He opened his mouth. Justin said before he could, “I think I am heading back to the office, actually, and I’ll be over at the Palace playing talent scout tonight, so call me before then if you need anything, I’ll answer, it’s my job.”

“You—”

Justin vanished into the nearest subway entrance. Kris stared at the dark opening in growing dread, and then ran, but was accosted by a balding fan in a Sparkle Tour ‘89 t-shirt and a pen waved at his face. By the time he disentangled himself, Justin had gone.

The subway entrance snickered at him with concrete complacency. The fan wandered off with untroubled satisfaction, having either not noticed or not cared about a rock star’s preoccupation with empty air.

In utter despondence and the full awareness that his autograph’d likely be on sale on the internet the next morning, Kris went home.

Upon arriving, he stared at his building for a moment before heading in. Expensive, lavish, everything he could afford. Royalties and past record sales ensured he’d be set for life; he didn’t have to do the terrible holiday album, suggested brickwork and glass. He could spend his remaining years throwing parties and drinking the best alcohol and retiring to a tropical island. He didn’t have to work.

He didn’t have to keep trying to write songs. To pick up a guitar. To fall head over heels into music like the echo of heartbeats: life singing through veins, running under skin.

He took the elevator up to the penthouse apartment, and regarded his door blankly for a moment; it offered no wisdom, so he sighed and wandered in. Boots off. Jacket tossed over a chair. Scotch at the ready. The good stuff. Necessary.

He hadn’t been able to write well lately either. And lately was a stretch. He hadn’t been able to write.

But that wasn’t the current problem, which made a change, which was nice on the one hand and horrific on the other. Justin, he thought. Injured kindness welling up behind normally delighted eyes. Bleeding internally because all that genuine old-fashioned niceness shouldn’t ever collide with an empath in a stiletto-sharp mood.

Glass in hand, he fell into a chair and mourned aimlessly at his apartment. The apartment, being inanimate, was baffled but tried its best. Vintage brick walls. Framed posters of long-ago shows, his and others. Memories and mementos. A fridge full of produce he sometimes tried to cook, when he felt like he should. His guitars, the three he’d kept, silently poised in stands along one wall.

Starrlight had fallen apart over a decade ago, after poor Tommy’d overdosed on pink crystal and they’d not been able to settle on a good replacement drummer and Reggie’d been getting tired and sick of being, in his words, just the bass guy; he’d been wanting out, and Kris himself had said words, and Reggie’d said words, and the problem with alcohol and drugs and projective empathy was that it got too easy to push, too easy to make his friends feel the way he wanted them to feel…

Reggie’d finished out that tour, being a man who kept promises even when made under duress, and had quit on the spot after the last show.

Seven years previously, when he’d heard that Reggie’s first wife had passed away, he’d managed to find a phone number and called. He’d apologized, first of all, straight off. Reggie had taken this surprisingly well, or at least hadn’t hung up on him, and they talked more these days.

Kris had always wanted stardom. Fame. Extravagance. A name in lights, a mark on the world. They’d been young and wild as comets, back then. Like the dazzle of the city, coming on in the backdrop of his penthouse windows. Applause ran up out of the past and roared before disappearing: crowds and screams and heat, festivals and theatres and pyrotechnics dwindling to ash.

After the implosion of the band, their previous manager’d handed Kris’s solo contract off to Aubrey Records, embezzled half a million dollars, briefly disappeared, and resurfaced deceased: another overdose, another loss. And the record company, having a single third of a legendary and legendarily volatile rock band thrust upon them, had politely and deferentially plopped him into the lap of their newest bright-eyed young hire, responsible for discovering and handling the almost-famous—or, in this case, the once-famous—artists. Who managed to make every one of those artists feel valuable and appreciated and encouraged.

And Kris had insulted him. To his face. And thrown emotions in that face.

Funny, that. Justin had clearly felt what he was feeling. Had said as much. But…

One of those dangers of empathy—one he knew too well—was the ease of influence. Justin had been annoyed, obviously. The memory stung, not soothed by the efforts of mellow scotch. But he hadn’t been pushed into Kris’s sharper mood. Hadn’t shouted back or gotten sarcastic or vicious in turn. Had simply walked away.

Either his empathy seriously was getting old along with the rest of him, or Justin had…some sort of…way of not being affected. Which would be even more unusual, though undeniably useful in a profession requiring dealings with musicians and agents and entertainment lawyers and managers.

Maybe that was Justin’s particular magical skill. Not minor weather-working or levitation or five-second precognition. A wild talent. A kind of natural resistance.

Kris had never actually heard of anyone human who could do that—some pixie-types could, and most demons, but the less said about those the better; no demon stories ever ended well. Some people claimed to have impenetrable personal shields, but those people tended to be the sort who spent their lives practicing meditation and isolation on mountaintops—but that didn’t mean it was impossible. Two months ago an infant’d shown signs of localized telekinesis, when previously everyone’d believed magical talents showed up at puberty. So Justin probably wasn’t impossible either. Maybe. Conceivably.

He drank more scotch.

Justin might not want to talk about it. If he really could deflect magic, he might become some sort of test subject. A lab rat. An adorable one.

This thought was in all likelihood the fault of the scotch. Conspiracy theories, government projects, demon underworlds coming to life, Justin’s open-book face keeping any sort of secret. As if.

The scotch burned low and fierce and hot as nagging guilt: you hurt him, it said, and he’s your friend, your only friend because you’re a washed-up aging rock star who doesn’t know anything about new underground punk-witch bands, and you told him to go away.

He got up and found a refill. The oncoming evening ached, built of old city bones and dull rainclouds. Thunder came back, but halfheartedly. His guitars looked at him with tired reproach.

He thought about storms and tunes and remorse, but he was tired too. No room left to turn emotion into song. Nothing good.

After a while he felt guilty enough and lonely enough that he picked up the phone. Justin hadn’t called; wouldn’t, unless he had news or a question. Because Kris’d f****d that up too.

He put the phone down. Then he picked it up again.

Reginald Jones, once upon a time Reggie Rocket, answered just before Kris would’ve given up. He sounded jauntily out of breath, all the way from California. “Hey, mate, I was in the tasting room, what’s up, then?”

“I think I’m in love with my manager,” Kris announced, and pressed cool scotch-filled glass against his forehead and shut his eyes.

“Really? Blond and pretty? Boy or girl? And did the love part happen before or after you hopped into bed together?”

“Come on, that’s unfair.”

“It’s a serious question.”

“He dyes it different colors, and no I haven’t shagged him, thanks for the faith in me. Also he hates me now.”

“Must be some kind of record. Most of us hate you two minutes in.”

Kris made a very rude gesture at the phone. “Up yours, Reg. I need advice.”

Reggie, upon retiring from music, had gone off to California, bought a vineyard, and begun experimenting with wine and reconnecting with all five children. He’d won multiple prestigious awards for the wine and had eventually talked two of the kids into joining the business. Kris, who’d never suspected that a passion for viticulture lay behind his bassist’s glittery eyeliner, had watched this respectability with some bemusement and some other emotion that wasn’t quite envy.

He didn’t care about wine and vineyards. He didn’t have children that he knew of.

But something nameless twinged in his chest whenever Reggie sent him bottles of port and invitations to visit over the holidays. He’d gone once. Happiness had radiated everywhere. Sunshine bouncing off rolling California hills. Tangible. Isolating.

He wondered suddenly what Justin did for Midwinter. Whether Justin had someone turning to him, smiling and kissing him hello, when he came home from a long day dealing with difficult artists.

“I’m not sure what I’m giving you advice about,” Reg said, over the phone. “Do you want to shag him? Do you want to apologize to him? Do you want an expensive bottle to send him when you beg for forgiveness? Or do you just want to get drunk and complain?”

“He’s bloody twenty-eight—”

“Ah, an infant.”

“—and happy and patient and brilliant and nice to everyone and I want to touch his hair. I want him to stay happy always.”

“Great woodland gods,” Reg said, “you are in love with him.”

“And he’s pissed at me.”

“What’d you do?” This question might’ve contained layers—they both knew exactly what he’d once done to Reggie—but didn’t, because Reg had forgiven if not forgotten, and had moved on. “I’m assuming it was your fault.”

“Oh, it was all my f*****g fault.” He closed both eyes. Tipped his head back against the chair. “I’m a complete bastard and I told him he didn’t actually mean it when he said he was my friend and then I told him to go home and leave me alone.”

“Not only a bastard, a patronizing bastard. That’s a s**t thing to say to someone who still puts up with you, y’know. Poor kid.”

“God, you’re making it worse. He’s not a kid. I’m not his fuckin’ dad.”

“You wouldn’t mind being his daddy,” Reg pointed out. “Look, you’re just gonna have to apologize, mate. Surprised he didn’t haul off and punch you one. I would’ve. If you’d sent me home.”

“No, that’s the other fuckin’…weird…thing. Also never say that again, the first bit, f**k no. But I didn’t. Send him home.”

“You said you told him to go,” Reggie said carefully, “and you know you can…push people, if you’re upset…”

“Yeah, I know—s**t, I’m sorry again, you know I’m—but I didn’t. I know I didn’t. I might’ve, but I didn’t.”

“What?”

Kris gritted teeth. “He didn’t just accept it and do what I said. Even if I did push him, I don’t think I did, but even if I did it didn’t take. He left, but because he wanted to. I’m sure.”

“He didn’t just—”

“Start walking away and shake it off and decide to keep going? No. He wasn’t even mad at me—well, no, he was, he is, but not like I was. Not the same mood.”

“That shouldn’t be possible,” Reg observed, which unhelpfully echoed Kris’s own conclusions. “Not as strong as you are. ‘S why we always had such good live shows. Maybe you’re getting old.”

“Thanks for that. How’s Holly?” Reg’s second wife had degrees in landscape architecture and environmental design plus a magical talent for coaxing plants to listen. She tolerated Kris with the good humor of a partner who knew her husband would never again run off to follow an old bandmate on the road.

“Splendid and smarter than I am, as usual. You coming by after Midwinter? We’ve got five out of seven collective offspring plus eleven million grandbabies running around, but we can make room. Bring your impossible kid, I’m curious.”

“He’s not my—that sounds even worse. You’ve made it worse. He’s my manager. He was sort of my friend.”

“And you love him.”

“And I think I might maybe possibly be in love with him, yes.”

“Then you need to apologize. I know you can. I believe in you. Call the kid. Tell me what happens. I need the details.”

“Go make grapes into juice with your bare feet or whatever it is you do. Leave Justin alone. I can’t call him.”

“Philistine. See if I ever send you foot juice again. Also, his name’s Justin? And why not?”

“He’s working and I’m already drunk enough to call you.”

“Fair point. Call him in the morning.”

“Maybe,” Kris conceded, exhausted. His bones hurt. His head would hurt too, if he didn’t manage to eat something. Midwinter decorations twinkled in green and gold, out in the city, separated from him by a pane of penthouse glass. Views of the world from a distance. “I don’t know.”

“Kris.” Reggie’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “You don’t deserve to be alone. You know that, right?”

“I didn’t call you to be my f*****g therapist, Reg.”

“You called me for advice. Which you’re getting. Because some of us care about you. Even when you’re a complete and utter t**t. Now put down the scotch, eat something, and call your cute little mysterious Justin in the morning and say sorry like a decent human being. He’ll forgive you.”

“How do you know?” Pathetic, hopeful, clinging.

“I did,” Reg said, “and you said he’s a good kid. Your friend.”

After this phone call ended, amid desultory promises of future visits and keeping in better touch, Kris drifted to the kitchen. Gazed at bananas, bell peppers, bread, other foods beginning with other letters of the alphabet.

He made coffee. Black and sweet. He did not have coffee creamer or interesting flavors; Justin liked nuttiness and caramel.

He fell asleep watching a television special on classic bands of the eighties and their long ago peaks. Where are they now, he thought. In at least one case, drinking whiskey-spiked coffee and passing out on a penthouse sofa with a mobile phone clutched in one hand.

Rain spilled like grief from the building’s eaves, and slid like tears down the big glass windowpane, as he closed his eyes.