The Devil's Reprise (11 page)

“Sorry,” I said as we approachd him. “Took longer than we thought to get here.” I paused. “I was looking for you earlier.”

His beady amber eyes fastened on me in curiosity. “Been a bit busy, love. Hope it wasn’t too important.”

Well, it definitely wasn’t something I was going to spring on him here. I shook my head. “No, it was nothing. How are things?”

“Opening band sucks,” Max put in.

Jacob gave him a dry look before turning to me. “Things are chaotic. Everything is going to shite. If you haven’t noticed, people have started dancing and throwing themselves around in the orchestra pit already, so they’re trying to take away the seats. The venue is at capacity. Tricky’s amp has blown, so we have to see if we can borrow one. Sage has managed to stay sober, but I don’t know how much longer that will last. Oh, and I made the bloody keyboardist cry.”

“Where is Sage?” I asked. “Can I see him?”

“First door down there,” Jacob pointed. “Has a star on it if you can believe it. You can tell him he’s got fifteen minutes before they have to go on. Max will be down in the photography pit for the first three songs. You can watch from the side stage with me, Dawn. It’ll be like old times.” He grinned.

I nodded, clutching my pass anxiously, and scooted off down the hall before someone decided to take up all of Sage’s time.

I quickly knocked, hoping he was alone. In the background, “Heartbreaker” came to a thunderous close, which made the crowd erupt into muffled cheers. God, there was nothing better than live music, even when you couldn’t see it.

“What?” Sage yelled from the other side.

“It’s Dawn.”

I heard shuffling and suddenly the door swung open halfway. He poked his head out and looked into the hallway both ways. Then he put his hand behind my shoulder and scuttled me inside, shutting the door behind me.

The dressing room was small but was obviously used for actors in the theater, with its clothes rack and huge vanity mirror framed by frosted lightbulbs. On the desk was a bottle of Jameson whiskey, half gone, as well as a setlist and an acoustic guitar.

I looked to Sage, who was standing in the middle of the room, running his hand though his thick, black curls. He’d obviously drunk the whiskey, but his eyes were sharp and crystal clear. Maybe that’s what Jacob meant by sober.

He also looked amazing. A drop-dead gorgeous rock and roll star. He was wearing his combat boots, tight black jeans, a silver necklace with a wicked-looking cross at the end, and a black leather vest with no shirt underneath, which meant you could see the beauty of his body, his bronzed skin and the tattoos on his upper arms. He wasn’t as muscular as he’d been before having lost a bit of weight, but his form was still hard and well-cut. I had to touch my mouth to make sure I wasn’t drooling.

This was the last man who’d been inside me.

“You look great,” I found myself saying. Stupidly, I might add. “How are you holding up?”

He just shook his head and went straight to the bottle. He poured a full glass, handed the glass to me, and kept the bottle to himself.

“I need you to drink with me,” he said.

“You have to go on in fifteen minutes,” I said, eyeing the whiskey in my hands. “Jacob said.”

“And I won’t go on if I don’t stop freaking the fuck out.”

I looked at him sharply. He seemed so in control when I’d seen him perform earlier. Now, though his eyes were clear, I could see the fear in them and the way he tensed his jaw. I felt myself thaw a little inside, knowing how vulnerable he actually was. The veteran rocker who had been to Hell and back was actually afraid.

I tried to smile reassuringly. “You’re going to be fine, Sage.”

He shook his head and stepped over to me, putting his strong hand on mine and making me raise the glass to my lips. His eyes bore into me like burning stars. “Please don’t make me drink alone. I need you to…just be here with me.”

I felt the air sucked out of me, the tingling feeling swirling in my chest, the feeling of his hand on mine. I wanted that hand everywhere. Despite the setback, the pain over the last day, the creepy shit on the horizon, I still fucking wanted him like I’ve never wanted anyone before.

I nodded and opened my mouth, and he tipped the glass until the liquid burned down my throat. A tiny bit spilled out of my lips and his thumb was there, slowly wiping it away. I was so tempted to take his thumb into my mouth, but he removed it and put it in his mouth instead, slowly sucking the whiskey off. His eyes never left mine. My core tightened in response.

“This is a big show,” he said in a low, gruff voice. He turned my hand over so it was palm-up to his mouth. “And I don’t know how I’m going to please everyone. But most of all, I don’t know how I’m going to please you. Because in the end,” he kissed my open palm, his lips soft, “your opinion is the only one that counts.”

I gulped, my legs starting to shake slightly. This was turning from a pre-show check-in, some observation I’d later add to the article, into something else. Something much more. I could feel it in the energy around us.

He took another step toward me so that our faces were inches apart and cupped my face with both his hands. I couldn’t look away from his gaze, from this man I’d loved; I was trapped in it, and willingly.

“You know what I think,” I said in barely a whisper, my lips grazing his as I spoke.

“You’ve said a lot of things over the last few days,” he murmured.

I smiled nervously, so afraid to admit what he already knew. “To these people, you’re a golden god, Sage. More than that, you’re
my
golden god. That never, ever changed.”

He leaned in and kissed me right below the ear. I closed my eyes, relishing the sparks he created, breathing in his intoxicating scent. “I think you might be the best cure for stage fright this world has ever known.” Suddenly he pulled back and went to the door, hand on the lock. “How much time did Jacob say I had?”

“Fifteen minutes,” I told him breathlessly. “Maybe ten now.”

He grinned, showing off those dimples. “That’s enough time to make you come twice.”

My eyes widened while a beautiful terror wound itself around my body. My underwear was probably soaked in seconds flat. Before I had time to get really nervous, he locked the door and was at me, my face grasped between his strong hands, his lips on mine. He kissed me like a feverish man, lost and delirious and wanting, always wanting. I tried to catch up, my hands flying to his chest, feeling the coldness of the leather against the warmth of his skin. I clawed at him, clumsy and eager, while he fucked my mouth with his tongue, ran lips down my neck, pulled my body up against his until I could feel for myself just how hard he was, how badly he wanted me.

I felt like I was reliving a memory I’d abandoned, but this was real; it was happening. Our hands on each other felt like second nature, my body fitting against his like a puzzle piece that clicked into place. This was so easy, so fucking easy, and yet it thrilled me like nothing else, a hit of adrenaline worth a million live shows.

“Dawn,” he groaned into my mouth. “I want to fuck you so bad. I won’t be able to play my guitar until I play you.”

I gripped his head, my fingers lost in his curls, and was overtaken by the passion burning through me. “Then play me. Make me scream your name, and then make that crowd scream your name.”

“You’ve got it,” he said. Then he picked me up, his hands under my ass, fumbled forward, and brushed the setlist and guitar off to the side until I was sitting on the desk, my head smashing briefly against the mirror, the lights shaking. I quickly pulled my tank top over my head and tossed it over it his shoulder. He covered my nipples with his mouth, smoothing them over with his wide tongue while he reached down and bunched my skirt up around my hips.

I moaned loudly. I hadn’t had this feeling, this exquisite, nerve-dazzling feeling in such a long time. I felt like I was being awakened from one hell of a slumber.

He reached around to his back pocket, and I heard the tear of a condom wrapper. While he fiddled with that, I grabbed his belt buckle and brought him right up to me, my legs wrapping around his slender waist, the heels of my boots digging into the dents on his lower back. I unzipped his pants, freeing his cock from them. It was still so fucking beautiful, dangerously beautiful, and once it again it was mine. I bit my lip, relishing the weight and length of it in my hands.

He slipped the condom on it with precision then stroked his long fingers against my clit until they slowly entered me, one by one. His skilled fingers that could coax the most amazing sounds from his guitar and make me feel like I was another one of his virile instruments.

“You’re ready for me again,” he said, his eyes staring hard into mine, his breath shaking with lust.

“I never stopped being ready,” I said.

His eyes flashed with fire, his mouth dropped open, and it was on mine again as he grabbed my ponytail with one fist while he guided himself into me with his other hand. I gasped at the intrusion, the stab of pain that only lasted a few seconds before my body relaxed and molded to him, another missing piece of the puzzle.

He pushed into me slowly, each thrust measured and controlled. But as his grip on my hair tightened, pulling my head back against the mirror and exposing my throat to his tongue, mouth, teeth, he pushed into me harder, fuller, all the way to the hilt. His pace became faster, his breath harder, his groans louder, his thumb sliding quicker on my clit until I was coming and couldn’t do anything about it.

I cried out, unable to keep myself from yelling his name, an explosion of warmth that rocked me on sharp waves of pleasure. I felt fizzy and giddy, luxuriating in the feeling, but he was far from done.

He bit down on my neck and groaned. “That was once; you’re coming again.”

He pumped harder and faster into me, rattling the mirror and the lights, the desk thumping against the walls. I heard someone knock at the door and try the door handle, but it felt like that was happening in another world. In this world, it was only me and Sage, the muse and the master, the man who created bliss for me in so many fucking ways. His talent knew no bounds. I felt like I owed him the world, if not just the little one we were currently in.

“I’m almost there,” he grunted, his breath heavy, sweat gathering on his brow. His glazed green eyes stared at me in a whirl of passion. “I want you to look at me as we come. I want you to make me forget. You’re better than any drug.”

I made sure I kept eye contact with him, no matter how intimate it was, and dug my fingers into his waist, driving him forward into me. His body never lost the rhythm that was so deeply engrained in him—always on beat, always in time. His fingers expertly rubbed me until I was swollen and about to burst, and I could see he was, too.

He came hard and furious, eyes rolling back in his head and groaning loudly in such a baritone, animalistic way that I’m sure I could have come again from just that alone. We both clung to each other, riding out the crescendo together, making sure we were feeling it all as one. One beat. One note. One song.

I slowly came back into the real world, my face buried in his chest, breathing in the smell of his leather vest, my legs untangling themselves from around his waist.

“Wow,” I breathed, unable to think of anything more fitting to say.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice raw and rough. “I think we both needed that.”

I smiled slyly at him and brushed his hair out of his eyes. “You have no idea.”

“No,
you
have no idea.” He smiled and kissed me hard on the lips. “I missed you, Dawn.” He put my hand on his chest. “I missed you from in here.”

“Sage, what the fuck are you doing in there?” Jacob suddenly yelled from the hall, the door vibrating from his heavy knocks. “Or who the fuck are you doing is the better question,” I heard him mumble.

Well, that was enough to sober us both up.

Sage shot me a sheepish look as he pulled the condom off, flicking it in the trash, and quickly pulled up his pants. “Guess we went over our time limit.”

I hopped off the desk and smoothed down my skirt. “You still made me come twice; you’re a man of your word.” He bent down and tossed me my tank top, which I quickly put on before he went over to the door and opened it.

Jacob eyed him suspiciously before he saw me and let out a burst of relief. “Oh, thank God it’s you, love.”

Who did you think it would be
? I thought but pushed it away and smiled, making sure my shirt and skirt were on properly.

He raised his brow at Sage. “Of course, you do realize you’re going on stage in one minute, right?”

Sage stared down at him. “I didn’t. Lost track of time.”

Jacob’s gaze went to the whiskey bottle, which Sage had put on the ground. “Is that going to be a problem?”

Sage grinned. “No problem, boss.” He smacked Jacob hard on the shoulder. “I’m gonna make those French fuckers scream.” He looked at me and gave me a faint nod before heading out the door and into the hall.

Jacob slowly turned to face me, his brows high on his lined forehead, a shocked smile on his lips. “I could kiss you, love, you know that.”

I scrunched up my face, smoothing back my ponytail. “Please don’t.”

“No promises,” he said. “I didn’t think you could talk sense into Sage like that, but…I guess that wasn’t talking, either.” I opened my mouth to say something, but he raised his hand to stop me. “Your silence is enough; so long as Sage is ready and wanting to play, I have no qualms.” He looked at his pocket watch. “Showtime. Are you ready?”

Was I ever.

He held out his arm for me, and I linked mine around it. We headed for the stage.

Dawn

There is nothing like being backstage at a concert. Nothing. And if it’s a band or musician that you love, that you know inside and out, as deep or deeper than your own soul, then it’s a practically otherworldly experience. You can’t even describe it, though I have tried in my own writing, time and time again.

Jacob and I went to the side stage, among a few family members of the French drummer and a few other journalists covering the show. On the other side of the stage were the sound tech guys and roadies, who’d finished running across the stage and taping down the setlists. Sage and his band were in their places in the middle, Sage at the forefront. The lights were completely off in the theater, and the place was absolutely humming with anticipation and the cries of the fans who were dying for Sage, dying for the lights, dying for the music.

I stood beside Jacob, who was elegantly filing his nails, something I learned he did when he was nervous. We all had our quirks. I hadn’t gotten a look at the setlist back in the dressing room—there were more pressing things than that—so I was waiting there in as much anticipation as the crowd. I knew Sage would most likely only be playing songs from his solo album, but there was always a chance a Hybrid song would pop up. He wrote most of them anyway.

I heard someone onstage tap his foot three times, and Jacob muttered “Go” under his breath.

The first few notes of Sage’s crystal clear guitar rang out into the crowd. It was the start of his song, “The Tail I Had,” and everyone cheered as the drums and bass kicked in and the lights in the house went on, illuminating the stage. It was one of my favorite songs from the album, one of the catchier, more radio-friendly tunes that hit hard with swagger and heavy bass that made your hips swing. Sage’s voice was perfect—this low, raspy growl that just screamed sex to everyone else and especially to me since it was the sound I’d heard just moments earlier.

And that’s when it hit me, the holy-fuck realization that I’d just had sex with the man onstage, the man that all the women were screaming at, the tall, exotic golden god with the green eyes and the bronze skin who prowled the stage like a broad-shouldered panther. More than a panther, he was king and we were his subjects. Sage was nothing but one hundred percent confident in himself and his music, and he was enjoying the control he had over everyone as we swayed and sang and attached our souls to his words and his guitar chords.

Tears sprang to my eyes.

I found myself singing out loud, very loud, through this song and the next song and the next song, grinning so hard I thought my face would freeze that way, feeling nothing but love, utter fucking love, for this man and his gift and his music that made me feel alive more than anything else could. And as I looked over the crowd, taking in their enraptured faces as they sung along and stared up at him, I knew everyone was feeling the same way. We were all joined together in this poetic web, maybe all feeling different things and taking away different stories and lessons, but we were all
feeling
. And sometimes in this world full of war and strife and daily shit that made you numb, that’s all you really needed.

When the third song was over and the fourth song, the hard and fast “Sick, Sick” started, Max joined me onstage, leaning over and whispering, “I’m fucking amazed,” as he took his camera strap off his neck.

I laughed and nudged him in the side to tell him he was an idiot for even doubting.

“I always thought Hybrid were Led Zeppelin wannabes,” he said, trying to be heard over the music, “and since Sage was the king of that, this just proves me wrong.”

“At least you can admit it. Get any good shots?” I asked him, unable to take my eyes away from Sage, my mouth automatically mouthing the lyrics, my head bobbing hard to the beat.

“I think so. Won’t know until I get them to a lab. Hopefully there’s one in Nice. He’s a photogenic man, though. I’ll have to give him that, too.”

Photogenic, talented, powerful—there were too many adjectives to describe Sage onstage. The best one I could think of was
assured
. He was owning it. From ballad to bass-driven to full-out drums and distortion, he owned every second of it and he knew it. He sauntered up and down the stage, his fingers making quick work of the guitar strings, and sometimes, when he turned to face the band, playing off of Tricky, he was smiling like a little boy. In his element. This place where nothing could touch him. During even the darkest songs, which I knew were about Hybrid, he was in control, paying his respects instead of succumbing to the darkness like he did when he was offstage.

“You really love this music, don’t you?” Max asked, leaning in close. The band had been playing tirelessly for an hour now, and I knew they were close to having their encore.

“What do you think?”

He smiled. “You’re a swell chick, Dawn Emerson.”

“Thanks, Max…” I trailed off and frowned. “Wait, what’s your last name?”

There was a pause after I asked that, and I tore my eyes off of Sage and looked at him.

“Jacobs. It’s Jacobs,” he said, scratching at his sideburns.

I gave him an odd look and looked at Jacob, who had moved away to talk to one of the roadies. “You’re not related to Jacob, are you?”

“That would make him Jacob Jacobs,” he said, “and I reckon that just sounds stupid.”

I pursed my lips and looked back to the stage just as the drummer hit the top hat, the last note of the last song on their album. My gut wrenched thinking that the show was almost over. I had to remind myself that I was lucky, that I’d get to see this show quite a few more times on the tour. There was nothing so curiously sad as a great concert coming to an end.

Sage and the band exited to the opposite side of the stage, but since the lights in the house stayed off, I knew they were just taking a break before the encore. I tried to catch Sage’s eye as he stood to the side, guzzling a bottle of water and talking to Tricky, but it was too dark.

“So did you get a chance to talk with him earlier?” Max asked.

“Sorta.”

He snorted. “Gotcha.”

I glared at him. “It’s not like that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he answered. I knew that Max knew about Sage and I, but it still made me nervous with all the groupie implications. Not that he was saying that, but I was still always afraid that people were thinking it all the same. That’s why I’d never really told anyone about Sage and me, even though, believe me, there were a few times I’d wanted to.

The stage lights went on, but the spotlights were shining on the audience instead of the stage, illuminating clumps of people in circles. I watched, dazzled and concert-high, as the smoke that sat about the audience caught in the lights. I was amused at the grins and cheers from the concertgoers who were being blinded. Most would never have the view of themselves that I had.

But, for one second, I saw something that I never thought I’d see again.

The lights paused at the middle of the crowd, where everyone was jostling back and forth in anticipation, drinks spilling, drunks stumbling—and in the middle of it all was a pale girl with long white hair and violet eyes standing absolutely still. She smiled, her mouth full of razor-blade teeth.

I see you
, her voice said in my head.

I froze in horror, ice forming on my limbs, my breath leaking out slowly like a balloon losing air.

“No guesses, huh?” Max said from beside me. The spotlight moved elsewhere and the place I was staring, where the girl in white was, was plunged into darkness. “Dawn?”

“What?” I squeaked out, unable to move.

“I asked if you knew what the encore would be.”

I tried to swallow, but my throat wouldn’t allow it. I couldn’t have just seen what I thought I’d seen. There was no way,
no way
that could have been a GTFO. No way it could have been Sonja, head of the demon groupies. I kept my eyes glued to the same spot, and when the spotlight came back again, she was gone.

I brought my eyes to Max, glad it was dark enough to hide my expression. “Uh, I don’t know,” I said, fumbling for words. Though I couldn’t see his face properly, I could feel his questioning gaze, and I knew he was concerned. Across the way, dark figures moved across the stage, taking their places. Sage’s tall form picked up his guitar, Tricky strapped on his bass, the drummer picked up his sticks. The audience went on in its drunken anticipation, but the area around the stage lapsed into a hush, feeling the weight of the moment, knowing what everyone else didn’t.

Even in my fright over what had happened, over what I thought I’d seen, I was still able to appreciate the moment for what it was: Sage hidden in the shadows, plucking a pick off the microphone stand as he hunched over his guitar, hair hanging in his face, fingers poised at the strings.

The lights came on, and I was blown away by the immediate rush of the song—the vocals, bass, drums, and guitars all coming in at the same time. It was a Hybrid song, “Wet Lips,” always a crowd pleaser, and it brought an explosion of applause from the audience. I’d later look back on that moment when I was writing my review of the show and think that the word “explosion” didn’t quite cut it. It was so much more than that—a visit from a dead loved one, only with Sage at the vocals instead of Robbie Oliver.

I wondered how hard it was for Sage to play something he’d only played with his old bandmates. His face was grave as he sang, his voice low and haunting, and the song had a down-tuned, muddy tone that it hadn’t had before, rising up to a wave of sound that washed over you and sunk into your bones. I was crying again; I couldn’t help it—music, his music, could move me like no other.

When the song was over, the lights went on and the crowd cheered and hollered and demanded more. But from the spent way Sage slinked off the stage, there was nothing more left in him to give. He’d just put his battered heart on a platter, and we all gobbled it up. We couldn’t be sated with anything he could give us; we always wanted more and always would want more, that needy relationship between the consumer and the artist.

He’d given me two mind-blowing orgasms just hours earlier, and I still needed more.

While the rest of the band went off to the side, followed by the rest of the journalists plus Jacob, who was scurrying to get ahead of Sage, I wasn’t sure what to do with myself.

“Should we go back to the hotel?” Max asked. “I think he might be awhile.”

I probably should have, but I wanted to stay and wrap up the exhilaration of the opening night. I shook my head and gave Max my most pleading look. “Will you stay with me?”

“Why, so you can have company until he’s free and then fuck off with him?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I always feel awkward when I’m backstage alone with no band or crew with me.”

“You’re a journalist,” he pointed out.

“I know, but…” Sometimes I got afraid, but I wasn’t about to admit it to him.

As if he could pick up on that last thought, he nodded, knowing there were more than a few things to be afraid of out there. The image of Alva in the crowd haunted me. I wanted to chalk it up to my mind playing tricks on me—considering what was happening, that was the most obvious explanation. But since what was happening wasn’t exactly normal, either, you never knew, and I really didn’t want to underestimate anything.

“Let’s go see if we can get in on the action,” Max said. We followed the crowd into the hallway backstage. We didn’t get very far. At the end of the sea of people was Sage, taller than all the reporters, practically being assaulted by a dozen microphones. I knew Sage hated this part of being a musician, having to deal with people like me, the press, but I still felt a surge of pride for him, that he was getting this now all on his own.

Jacob was at the forefront, trying to dictate which reporter got to ask what question, but the French were unruly and ignored him for the most part. At least they stood back enough to give Sage a little breathing room and listened when Jacob threatened them if they ever asked a question regarding what happened to Hybrid.

And beside Jacob was Angeline. Her lips were done up in the darkest red, and she was wearing a black leather miniskirt that matched Sage’s vest perfectly, some sheer white top with a black bra underneath, and platform shoes that put her closer to his height. Not exactly the professional image I assumed a promoter would have—she looked like a rock tramp. Her focus was all on him, and she smiled her dazzling smile to the reporters every now and then, as if the questions were meant for her.

Maybe it was because I’d just slept with Sage, but just the sight of her, just the fact that she was closer to him at this moment than I was, was making my blood boil.

“I’ve gotta take some photos of this; this is far-out,” Max eventually said. I looked up at him and noticed he was giving Angeline the stinkeye, too, or maybe that was just my imagination. He walked over to the wall, taking out his camera and trying to get in the whole scene of Sage at the height of his fame.

Sage himself noticed Max first and then noticed me. His eyes lit up, and he smiled and looked like was trying to make his way over my way. But Jacob gave me a quick glance and kept Sage in place, gesturing to the reporters who were trying even harder now to get him to answer their questions. Jacob then nudged Angeline and whispered into her ear. She turned her head toward me, looking me up and down and then nodded.

She detached herself from Sage’s side and sashayed down the hall toward me, a pert little smile on her face and eyes that were made to be patronizing.

“Dawn,” she said (again, the way she said it sounded like “dun”), “Jacob says for you to head back to the hotel.”

“Well, how long is Sage going to be?”

She looked back at the reporters who were now asking questions about his next album.

“He will be here for some time,” she said, smiling back at me. “He is very popular, as you can see.”

I could see that. This was one of those moments where, even though it was my job to be asking the questions along with the rest of them, it also wasn’t. I was in a weird limbo state between being a journalist and being
more
than a journalist.