by SF Benson
“Take it.” I finish my burger and push the plate away.
“Thanks.” Nick takes a big bite and proceeds to talk with a full mouth. “Did I tell you I saw JJ the other day?”
Hearing his name is enough to make my heart stutter. “Really? How is he?”
Nick takes a sip of his soda. “Like you. Miserable as fuck.”
“I’m not miserable,” I lie.
“Man, it’s been a week.” He wipes his mouth with the paper napkin. “Colt, give him a break. Hear him out.”
“He left me.” My gaze drifts out the window when two men walk by holding hands. The sight drops a wall of despair onto my shoulders. Glancing back at Nick, I say, “I-I owe him nothing.”
“Yeah, right.” Nick reaches for his wallet. “Time for another night hanging out with your grumpy ass.”
Removing the dirty glasses, I wipe down the counter. It’s been a slow night. I don’t know whether I should be thankful for the quiet or regret it. On the one hand, I don’t have to fake a smile for anyone. But it also means there’s no one distracting me from my personal funk.
Without JJ playing music, the crowds have died down. The other musicians—if I dare call them that—can’t even compete with his talent. Making matters worse, I overheard Marjorie and her father talk about letting people go if business doesn’t improve. If I lose this job, I’ve taken a major step in the wrong direction.
When Nick strides over to the bar, I ask, “Feel like playing some music?”
“Always, but we can’t leave,” he replies with a grin on his lips.
I jerk my thumb toward the stage. “We don’t have to leave. The place is practically empty. Let’s take advantage of it. We can always come back over if anyone needs a drink.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Nick unties his apron and makes a beeline for the guitar.
Marjorie enters the room and looks up at the stage as his fingers play random chords. “What in the hell?”
I place my apron beneath the counter and walk up to her. “You’ll see.”
Nick smiles as I sit in front of the keyboard. I tap the mike. “Evening all! Who’s in the mood for a little music?”
The few stragglers toward the front of the room clap.
Someone shouts, “It’s about damn time.”
“Just what we thought.” I cut an eye toward Nick. “Let’s do the one we were working on last night.”
Nick’s magical fingers start the opening chords for what sounds like a tune by Sinead Harnett. I join him on the chorus. The tune quickly morphs into the original melody we worked out last night. Marjorie’s painted pink lips curl up, and she goes behind the counter. The front door opens, and a few more patrons enter the bar.
We keep playing. Nick strums the first chords for an acoustic version of a 3 Doors Down tune. As I join in, he grabs the microphone and sings while people clap. Nick eats it up. He’s belting out the lyrics with so much passion—like he wrote the words and music himself. The man belongs on a stage instead of serving drinks.
After another song or two, Nick announces we’re taking a break. I’m shocked to see the bar is full. We haven’t had a crowd in a few days.
“You two are hot,” Marjorie announces as we approach the bar. “I guess I’m going to need a new bartender and an assistant.”
My heart drops. “You’re firing us?”
“You don’t need to be cleaning up behind people, Colt.” Marjorie gives me a dazed look. “Have you heard yourselves? Nick’s voice and your talent need to be on the stage. Interested?”
A hand lands on my shoulder and throws me off balance. Nick laughs behind me. “Fuck yeah!”
Marjorie gazes at me. “Well, Colt, are you in? It pays better than assisting bartenders.”
With only two more weeks as a human, I might as well enjoy it. “Sure.”
She flashes a huge grin. “This will be great! Just don’t play any sad love songs.”
I’m sure those words are meant for me.
At the end of the night, Nick grabs a couple of beers and follows me upstairs. We assume our usual positions—he goes to the fire escape with his guitar, and I sit at the piano. I take a long pull from the bottle. My fingers automatically play the first notes of the “Moonlight Sonata”. I’m shocked when Nick picks up the melody.
We play together for a few minutes. Neither of us saying a word. The notes mix—blending, harmonizing, complementing. Nick’s strumming fades out as I play the final notes.
“You should put lyrics to it,” Nick suggests.
“Huh?”
“It’s your favorite tune. I think you play it daily. Why not put words to it? Let it speak for you.”
Interesting. I never considered it. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“I think you do.” Nick finishes his beer and comes inside. “Wanna know what I think?”
“About what?”
He quirks a dark eyebrow and stares at me for a moment. “Please call him. You need to move forward.”
“But—”
“No buts. Just do it. I gotta get home. Babe’s waiting for me.” He claps me on the shoulder and heads to the door.
Instead of picking up the phone when Nick leaves, I grab my notepad. Maybe he’s right. I can capture how I feel and put it in the song.
It’s going to be a long night.
Hours later, I wake up on the sofa. My notepad is on the floor, and there’s sheet music strewn across the coffee table. It took a while, but I think I deconstructed Beethoven’s melody and came up with a tune that pays tribute to his composition. It might even tell a certain man how I feel.
That is if he ever comes around again.
“Damn, that’s gold. If I weren’t in a relationship…” Nick says after listening to my tune. “JJ is a fool. That’s all I’m saying.”
Nick came by early so we could rehearse a bit. We grabbed a quick lunch and got to work.
“It’s that good?” I ask.
“Hell, yeah. Too bad we can’t take the piano downstairs. The keyboard won’t do it justice.”
Pushing the sheet music together, I say, “Doesn’t matter. I’m not playing it at the bar.”
“Why the hell not?” Nick’s eyebrows knit together. “I’m telling you, Colt, it’s good. You’re wasting your talent.”
Me? A talented musician? I don’t think so. “It’s barely a hobby.”
Nick gets up and goes to the file box where I keep all my original compositions. He crouches down, takes out a stack, and holds the papers in the air. “No. You’re a fucking genius. You’ve written these since you got the piano. You haven’t had it a month yet. Nobody writes quality music that fast. We’ve been playing this shit, and the customers love it.”
“They’re being kind.”
He shakes his head. “No. They’re being honest. If I had your talent, I’d find myself an agent. You need to get recorded. Hell, you sing, you play an instrument, and you’re hot. You’re fucking awesome! Be glad I’m off the market, dude.”
Grinning to myself, I say, “I’m not that good.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” Nick heads for the door. “I gotta run.”
“Weren’t we going to rehearse for tonight?”
“No need. We’ll be fine.” His dark eyes flash, and then he smiles. “I need to see someone before then.”
I spend the afternoon thinking about Nick’s words. Grandfather gave me the chance to find myself, and I’ve made a few discoveries. First, I dislike hard work. Not that I’m lazy or anything. Truthfully, I’ve never had to do physical labor—not in the true sense, anyway. I’m also a stubborn jackass unwilling to bend when I should.
But the best discovery has been my love of music. Crafting melodies has always come easily to me, but I never considered making a living from it. In all honesty, Lilin don’t think about careers. We have enough to do stealing essence, partying, and fucking around. It has kept my nights busy for a few years.
But you’ve never enjo
yed it.
Understatement.
It was a requirement, something expected of me. My enjoyment came in other areas—dancing and modeling—which didn’t meet Father’s approval. They weren’t pursuits expected from an incubus, especially a royal. Freedom from the designs of others is why I made the deal with Grandfather. The arrangement has allowed me to do more than constantly bedding strangers. I’ve experienced a normal life, and I’ll forever be grateful for that. Even if I have to give it all up.
Being a paid musician could be the start of a new life.
Thus far, I have only fulfilled three of Grandfather’s conditions. I have a job and an apartment. Nick has become a good friend and so has Marjorie. As far as a special someone… JJ was supposed to be it. The man who made my heart beat too fast. Who robbed my breath with a hello. But he walked out and didn’t look back.
Technically, you failed.
One more week, and then I’ll be back in Falls Creek. I’m sure Tiberius will be disappointed. He’s been eyeing the throne ever since he came into his powers. Making matters worse is the simple fact that my cousin is better suited to taking over—he’s a far better demon than I’ll ever be.
You don’t have to go back to Falls Creek. Become the musician you should be.
Humans would be shocked if they knew how many demons masquerade as rock stars. Incubi and decadence go hand in hand. I could make music and live whatever life I wanted. Fans would eat it up.
Who knows? I may forgive Cash and venture to New Orleans. It’s a great city for incubi.
That might be pushing things a bit.
Perhaps.
Seeing him happily married to Qadira might unravel me. Without realizing it, I’m playing the song I worked on with JJ.
Jeremiah.
Will I ever get that man out of my mind? Maybe I should call him? No. I gave him a chance, and he toyed with me.
He toyed with your heart.
I have my music. That will have to do.
For now.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jeremiah
It’s been days since the demon took up his post outside Ezekiel’s apartment. Day and night, he stands there. Wherever I go, he follows. It brings back memories I’d like to forget.
When I first came to Earth, there were lesser angels from the Realm who watched over me. Their presence was to keep me from clawing my way back to Heaven—as if that were possible. Thankfully, they didn’t follow me everywhere. Their mission was clear unlike the one for this demon.
The fact my brother can’t figure it out troubles me. Before I fell, I was a warrior of the Second Heaven. We had the power to recognize evil in all forms. Perhaps Ezekiel’s time on Earth has deteriorated his ability.
Since I can’t go anywhere without that thing following me, Ezekiel wants me to stay in the apartment. Actually, he’s ordered me to stay put. Rather ironic when you think about it. Back in the Realm, I outranked him. Now he’s in charge, telling me what to do, and I have to listen. But after a week in his palatial digs, I’m ready to go home.
The intercom buzzes, and a man speaks. “Mr. Jones?”
Shit, that’s me. I walk over to the door and depress the button. “Yeah?”
“You have a visitor. His name is Nick Denman.”
“Send him up.”
Fuck. What could Nick want with me? I unlock the door and wait for him to arrive.
The door creaks open as he knocks on it. “Hello?”
“Come in,” I say from the living room.
He lets go with a low, long whistle as he approaches. His shoes echo across the polished wood floor. “Nice digs, JJ. I didn’t realize you stayed here.”
“Don’t get bent. This is my brother’s place. How did you find me?”
Nick sits across from me. “Wasn’t easy. I tried using my network to track you down. When that didn’t work, I asked Marjorie. She told me where to find Zeke.”
Of course, he asked around—it’s what arrogant, nosy Nephilim do. I wonder who else knows that I’m here.
“What’s with the new last name?” Nick changes last names like some people change their minds.
“It’s nice to have options.” He leans back and spreads his arms over the sofa. “What’s with you and Colt?”
“You’ve been hanging with him,” I say contemptuously. “You tell me.”
A shadow crosses his angular face. “Cut the bullshit, Jeremiah. Call him. He’s lonely and so are you.”
“Why do you care?” I’ve never known Nick to be concerned with anyone besides himself. Too bad I didn’t know more about him when we first met. I asked him out, and he laughed in my face. Told me he hadn’t sunk low enough to date the fallen. His rejection is probably why I took up with the next man who came along.
Nick’s lips lift in a lopsided grin. “Maybe I want him for myself.”
“Weren’t you off the market?” Last I heard, Nick was living with a human female.
He shrugs. “I won’t be if you don’t make things right with Colt. He’s a good man. Stop punishing him.”
Interesting. Nick thinks Colton is human. Maybe Ezekiel’s assumption was right. Curiosity nags at me, but I’m keeping my opinions to myself. There has to be a good explanation why Colton’s hiding his identity.
I don’t like Nick assuming he can tell me what to do. Maybe the demon hanging around is his doing. “Will you get rid of your guard dog if I call Colton?”
“Guard dog?” Nick runs a hand over his dark beard. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m being followed.” A look of confusion flashes across his face. “You’re not responsible?”
“Hell no. You’re not that important.” He stands. “Come by the bar tonight. There’ll be a surprise for you.”
“Pass.” I swore I’d stay away from Colton, especially with the appearance of the demon. If I keep my distance, those in the Realm and the Nether Region have no reason to bother him.
“This surprise is Colt’s doing.” Nick steps over to the window. “I assure you the cambion isn’t here because of me. Maybe you’ve finally pissed off the man downstairs.”
“Get out,” I say flatly.
“I’m going. Just show up at the bar.” Nick saunters toward the door. “Maybe you should give Zeke my number. He could talk me into an arrangement if I can stay in this place.”
“Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
Damn Nephilim.
At times like this—when I have heavy shit on my mind—I would sit down and discuss the situation with Azaria. Since she’s part of the problem, that’s no longer a possibility. Staying put isn’t an option either.
Ezekiel will go ballistic if he learns what I’m about to do. Glancing out the window, I see the cambion across the street. I need another exit.
Stepping onto Thomas Street, the path seems clear until I look up. Another fucking cambion stands on the other side of the street. Now I’m wondering what the hell—pun intended—did I do. Who have I pissed off to summon demons? I’m going to take my chances. I pull up my jacket collar, put my head down, and make my way to the Brooklyn Bridge Station.
Half an hour later, I’m standing in front of the bar. A good-sized crowd is inside. Opening the door, the melody that greets me scares the shit out of me. My mouth drops. Nick and Colton are on stage playing that fucking damned tune. What possessed Colton to put words to it?
Marjorie notices me in the door and waves to me from behind the bar. But I can’t make my feet move.
“You don’t understand,
You make me a better man.”
Those words…
I’ve wanted to say the same ones to Colton on more than one occasion. Reality dawns on me. If Colton can stand on stage and pour his heart out, then I’m a fucking coward for not doing it in private.
“You make me wanna try with you.
Only with you.”
“They’re pretty good,” Marjorie says, standing next to me. “What do you think of the tune?”
