Love Songs for Every Day

by K. L. Noone

  I ask whether they have a favorite track on the album. Kris says, “Unfair question, isn’t it? Depends on the day, the audience, the mood.”

  Justin says, “‘Sarah.’” Kris’s eyes get more fond and more adoring, insofar as that’s possible, and he leans in and tucks Justin into the circle of one arm and delivers a kiss, quick and poignant. Then he picks up a scone.

  Justin eats it out of his fingers. Unselfconscious about it. As if Kris feeds him by hand often. I’m now thinking about Justin Moore and certain clubs and certain past rumors. And those corset strings.

  I’m suddenly extremely thankful for the existence of concealing tables. I drink more decadent coffee to buy time.

  Kris feeds Justin part of the sandwich. Justin’s hair does a slow fluttering wave of pleasure: movement on its own, tugged by a nonexistent demon breeze. Outside rain’s not quite falling, gossamer and ghostly, a lace-web of white over New York streets.

  Can we, I inquire, talk about the more controversial part of the new record? Specifically the circumstances surrounding the release?

  “It’s not controversial.” Kris Starr deploys that midnight-chocolate voice like an instrument in his arsenal: inflection right where he wants it, sliced through with a blade of annoyance that I can feel. It stings as it cuts. But the annoyance isn’t directed at me as much as at the situation. “There’s no controversy about it.”

  Justin pats his arm. Then pats my arm, potentially trying to ward off empathic irritation. “What he means is that we got everything resolved. Amicably. It’s all fine going forward.”

  The going forward he refers to involves Kris Starr’s highly publicized breach of contract with Aubrey Records. Kris, despite having two promised albums left in their agreement, had flatly refused to deliver.

  “Jimmy Aubrey fired you.” Kris states this as if it’s the final word on the subject. Carved in granite. Incontrovertible. “Over the phone. Just for being who you are.” I’m getting the sense that, on this side at least, amicable resolution is a bit of a stretch.

  “Well, yes…” Justin pokes at the other half of the sandwich. Shreds a stray bit of bread-crust. “I’m not saying you were wrong. But I also understand why he did it. If no one could trust a demon, especially not when I’d lied to everyone…and that was before I came forward with my half of the story, so all anyone knew was what David—my ex—told the press, and that was so awful…I can see why he thought he had to.”

  “He didn’t have to.” Kris’s voice stays even on the surface but carries molten anger like blacksmith’s metal underneath. A sword, a shield. “He could’ve stood by you. Other people did. He could’ve fucking looked you in the eye when he did it. After everything you did for him and the label. Every band, every hit, that you brought them. He owed you that.” He pauses. “Sorry. Language.”

  No problem. Our readers don’t care. And it’s real.

  “I should’ve gone with my original plan. Turned up in his office and made him permanently, passionately, believe he was a female horse.”

  Both Justin and I stare at Kris, and the workings of Kris’s brain, for a second or two.

  Kris shrugs. “I could do it. Probably. I think. Wanted to. But I didn’t, did I.”

  “See?” Justin says to me. “Nicest person.”

  “I am not,” Kris mutters into his coffee-mug. Steam brushes his face. “I’ve kept on thinking about it.”

  “I love you,” Justin says.

  “Love you. Always.”

  The coffee-shop and the mist and the scents of cream and dark roast and blueberries collectively nestle in and get more comfortable. The morning twinkles, painted in hearth-fires and the coruscating feathers of Justin’s hair.

  So you essentially walked out on your contract, and he sued you, and you settled…

  “I’m paying for it.” Kris sounds unbothered by this fact. Despite the amount of that settlement, which is tied to the royalties and his income for the next two albums—the ones that would’ve been Aubrey Records productions—and which has proven significant even for a rock star. “Worth it. Every bit.”

  Justin’s expression suggests that he’s less convinced about this but trying hard to believe it. “I only asked once whether he was sure. I’m absolutely certain you can’t print what he said. It was inspiring, though. Vivid. Picturesque.”

  “That’s not the best part of the story, love,” Kris says to his demon. “The best part is everyone else.”

  Everyone else? I’m fascinated. Also falling in love with this coconut latte, as recommended by the New York Demon. It’s a revelation. I’ll be back for more.

  Justin’s hair curls itself briefly, deferential in the wake of this proclamation. “It’s only because people look up to you—”

  “No they bloody don’t,” Kris says, which isn’t true, not these days, not in rock and roll circles, “and it isn’t. It was for you.”

  What happened?

  Kris grins, a lightning-spark of mischief that strips off decades. He’s seventeen again, a street-urchin kid with a guitar and a gift for charm. “Everyone threatened to follow me.”

  They what?

  “Oh yes. Every band Justin ever signed, every artist, even most of the staff. They’d all walk out. If Jimmy refused to settle and let me go.”

  “Because you’re a legend,” Justin agrees, glowing at his rock star.

  “No,” Kris counters. “Because they knew why I was doing it, and they love you. That’s still not the best part.”

  Okay, I play along, what is?

  I’ve got an idea already. It has to do with Randolph Media backing and a newly formed record label. The one with whom Kris Starr put out Home.

  It’s called Demonstar. It’s run by Steve Rosen of near-mythical recording studio fame plus two of Justin Moore’s former Aubrey Records colleagues. And they’ve picked up some top talent already. Bren Alvarez’s side project Disaster Area. The Enchantresses. Ladymonster, who’re brand-new and deliciously strange and about to be huge.

  “Half of them quit regardless. The second we signed the settlement paperwork and got everything finalized. Anna—that’s Anna Lyle, she and Mike Liu are running Demonstar, at least the practical day to day stuff—” Kris pauses; I nod. I know the names. “She called to tell us.”

  “I didn’t know,” Justin says. “I didn’t know they were planning to quit, or to start a whole new label from the ground up, or that Willie Randolph and Kris and Bren put in backing money. Not until after.”

  Kris shrugs again, unrepentant. “You’d’ve worried.”

  “Of course I’d’ve worried! They’re my friends! They literally all quit their jobs at once!”

  Kris hands him one of the cake pops. Justin takes it obediently but gives him a look across pink frosting that suggests this discussion might not be over. Justin Moore putting anything into that mouth is unfairly distracting.

  “That,” Kris finishes, “is the best part. They’d started planning to leave as soon as Anna heard he’d been fired. They did it for him.”

  Justin, sugar devoured, stares into nearly-gone coffee as if trying to hide behind cream-and-dark swirls. The coffee gazes back in sympathy. “You make me sound like a hero. Inspiration. A martyr. I’m not.”

  “You are.” Kris reaches over, coaxes Justin’s chin up, nudges their noses together. “You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met. You know that.” Their eyes meet. I have to look away, down at my own coffee, because the love and trust and honesty shine too clear and true and intimate to intrude on for long.

  After a few seconds they remember my presence. Justin offers, “Sorry,” blushing, leaning into Kris’s arm a bit more. Kris cuddles him more emphatically.

  It’s fine, I promise. Kris asks whether we want more coffee, but then looks conflicted about getting up when his demon needs comfort. Meghan resolves this dilemma by appearing with second rounds, a familial nod at Kris, and unobtrusive vanishing back behind the counter.

  Kris nods back, because in thi
s moment a rock icon and a college-kid barista are unquestioned equals. Both taking care of Justin Moore.

  So you’re independent, I summarize.

  “We’re our own label. I have no bloody clue about the business end. Anna and Mike are in charge. I’m only throwing money at them.”

  “And making music,” Justin contributes, sweet and impudent as a kiss.

  “And making music.” Kris grins more, likely because Justin’s looking up and smiling more too. “So it’s fucking selfish, ‘s what it is. Oh, gods, sorry again, habit. I’ve been trying to watch it around Reggie’s grandkids, but it slips out.”

  Really okay, I reassure him. So does Reggie “Rocket” Jones call you to babysit?

  Kris Starr actually makes a terrified sort of noise. It’s tangible. Panicked empathic projection.

  Justin Moore dissolves into a pillar of flame-tinted laughter.

  “Can you fucking imagine,” Kris gets out. “Me…children…oh, gods, I’d drop one on its head or something…”

  “Actually,” Justin informs me, emerging from amusement, “Kris is great with kids. He treats them like people, only smaller. I’m not sure about infants and diapers—we haven’t been around them much—but even my little sister talks to him, and she doesn’t talk to anybody.”

  I try to picture Kris Starr with a little girl in those arms. Singing lullabies, maybe, or joining in for a tea party with dolls. From his expression, Justin’s picturing this too.

  “I like Belle,” Kris points out. “For someone who thinks spaghetti makes an excellent hat, your sister’s a fantastic judge of character.”

  “To be fair,” Justin says, “it wasn’t very good spaghetti. Made a way better hat. No, no one’s ever asked us to babysit—”

  “Thank every single god ever—”

  “But Kris really is awesome with kids, when we visit. Reggie’s family, my family. It’s adorable.”

  I believe it, I agree. Kris Starr pretends to grumble at his coffee, but if he were genuinely cranky we’d know. Plus he’s wearing a tiny smile.

  I ask about this year’s Midwinter holidays. Justin tells me that they split time between California—Reggie invites them every year—and Justin’s family home in upstate New York. “And my brother James and his girlfriend will be home for the holidays—they’re at Columbia researching magical human survival methods across interdimensional gateways, don’t ask me about details, it’s frighteningly technical and I’m not technically human—and he said on the phone that he wants to talk to me about asking a question and making plans and I shouldn’t say anything to anyone. I have a feeling I know what question he’s got in mind. Oh—maybe I shouldn’t’ve said that. Oh, well, I’ll make him promise not to read this part. He keeps promises.”

  Kris gets absolutely delighted. “Is he asking Stephanie to marry him? He is, isn’t he? How can we help?”

  “The really funny thing is,” Justin says, hair and eyes and smile all lit up like Midwinter windows, “Steph texted me, too, yesterday. I forgot to tell you. She’s looking at rings. I think they’re going to end up proposing to each other.”

  Kris makes a little happy noise. Kris Starr is a not-so-secret romantic.

  Kris also keeps smiling, mostly to himself and his coffee-mug, after this. It’s a small private smile. The kind a man might have while thinking about his own future, and Justin Moore’s thin graceful fingers, and picking out rings.

  Sounds like everything’s going well for you, then, I say diplomatically. Kris would likely not appreciate attention being drawn to his plans.

  Justin finishes off half of his new coffee. Licks his lips. Inadvertently makes the rest of us, including tables and chairs and the mist outside, watch his mouth. Answers, “Yes.”

  Happy endings?

  “Yes,” Justin says.

  “Yes,” Kris says. “Not endings, though. Beginnings. Again. Because of him.”

  Justin blushes again. Demons can apparently be easily flustered by sincere appreciation. “I didn’t do anything. I landed in your apartment and needed your help.”

  “You made me believe I could help someone. You.”

  About that, I interject. I hadn’t meant to bring this up quite so soon, but the opening’s here and waiting. I know you don’t talk about it…

  Kris shifts position. Gets the shield-wall arm around his demon again.

  You don’t have to, of course not, I was only wondering if there was anything you wanted to say? In general? It’s been almost two years, and I won’t ask you to revisit it, but maybe tell us how you’re doing now? Anything that helped you?

  Even Justin’s hair’s gone motionless. Fireflowers arrest themselves mid-wave. His eyes, behind decorative eyeliner and youthful eagerness, turn pensive. His lips part, but no sound emerges right away.

  “No,” Kris says abruptly. “Not if you—” This is directed at his other half. “—don’t want to. Not if you’re feeling like that.” Kris Starr is not, generally speaking, a receptive-talent empath. Far, far more projective. Someone has to be exceptionally close, for anything at all on the other side. “Don’t answer that.”

  “I can.” Justin visibly wakes up, shakes himself back to the present, hides any wobbliness in a sip of blueberries and mocha. “I’m okay. It’s a fair question. It’s always been part of the story.”

  “Please don’t.” Kris touches his cheek, skims a finger over his lips. “Not if it’s going to hurt you to talk about.”

  That’s heartbreaking to watch. Kris loves him so much, and is so plainly afraid for him, and is so in awe of him: wanting him to feel safe, wanting him to not feel scared. He’s trying so hard to be careful if Justin needs that, and to be strong if Justin needs that.

  Not because Justin Moore isn’t strong. Because he is. Enough to kiss Kris’s fingertip and smile. To lean into that love and hope and protectiveness when offered.

  Justin says to Kris, “I’m fine. I promise. Here—” He taps fingers over Kris’s sleeve; Kris shoves fabric out of the way.

  That’s new. Kris Starr has never had tattoos. Petrified of needles. Vocal and self-deprecating about it. But this doesn’t quite look like any tattoo I’ve seen; it’s on the surface and mobile, shimmering red and liquid as ink-spots. Justin’s fingers exactly match up, when he sets his hand over bared skin. “My human. Kris. I’m here, I’m all right, I know what I want. I was only surprised. We’re okay, okay?”

  “No,” Kris mutters, but it’s a token protest. I’m still thinking about the my human line. “I’m planning to take you home and wrap you up in silk sheets and feed you chocolate truffles, after this…”

  “No argument.” Justin kisses him, swift and indelible. “I love you taking care of me. You make me feel good, Kris.”

  “Do I?” And that’s even more heartbreaking, the crack down the middle of a crystalline promise: Kris wants so badly to believe it. The air hurts with emotion, ragged rubies bleeding wistful love. “You’d tell me if not, right…”

  “Of course I would.” Justin kisses him once more in affirmation. Knitting up cracked heart-jewels. “I would. And I haven’t, so we’re good. Very good. Especially good when you tie me up and tell me I’m yours and you want me and I’m right where I belong, being myself and being good for you, and also when you use that new toy on me, the one with the vibrating—”

  Meghan wanders by for the sole purpose of clearing her throat, and disappears again.

  Kris laughs, probably more unevenly than he means to, and strokes Justin’s hair. “Yeah. That. That’s good. I trust you, love.”

  “Chocolate truffles with raspberry and honeycomb?” Justin requests happily, being petted.

  “Anything you want.” Kris’s eyes meet mine for an instant. “Anything.”

  I nod back in acknowledgment. Fog curls along the windowpanes outside, indolent and undisturbed.

  Justin, settled in under Kris’s arm on the sofa, peeks back out at me. “Okay. I think I’ve got an answer. Something I want to say.”


  We both look at him. Kris radiates pride and adoration and concern.

  “The hardest part wasn’t the night when—when the hurt got physical. With him. David. When I ran. And found Kris. But that was…” He’s picking words out carefully. Long-buried coins, glints and glimpses of gold, held up and turned around and examined and held out for the sharing. “I knew that was the end. In some ways that was easy.”

  “No,” Kris says, very softly. “I saw you, then.” Bruises and blood swim behind his eyes; not easy for him, either.

  “No. Not really. But…” More of those pieces of gold. Given freely. “The hardest part’s been realizing how much else was wrong. Everything I’d gotten used to, or convinced myself was normal…everything he used to say to me…he’d tell me I didn’t need to make decisions, or to worry about anything, because I wouldn’t understand it anyway, I should just think about music and bands and clubs and parties, and wear what he wanted, and eat what he wanted, and jump into bed whenever he wanted…”

  Kris Starr swears out loud, low and vehement and reminiscent of the London streets he grew up on.

  “And, you know, it was even nice for a while.” Justin makes a face at himself. It’s an endearing face, with a lot of thoughtful courage behind it. “I like being…I like belonging to someone. I like giving up control—giving someone all of me. In bed, anyway. In our bedroom, or at home. I don’t care if you quote that. I know who I am, mostly, now. But the problem was it got unhealthy. He honestly believed those things—that I couldn’t think for myself, that I couldn’t want anything he didn’t want, that I wasn’t a person without him. And that got into my head, a little, too. And that’s the hard part. I have to keep unlearning it. It doesn’t go away overnight.”

  “Oh, love.” Kris strokes a hand over fiery demon hair. “You want me to tell you again that you’re doing wonderfully? I can. I will.”

  “I’m awesome. But yes, thanks. Tell me again later. I mean, though, that’s the point. What I wanted to say. For me, for anyone who’s had a difficult time, in whatever way, not necessarily even the same as mine, but…” Those holiday-striped eyes are serious now. Earnest and lovely, because Justin Moore will never not be either, but somehow even more of both. “It takes work. There’re good days and…less good days. But the work is worth it. And you don’t do it alone.” He beams at us. “I’ve got Kris. And my therapist. And family, and friends, and a job where I can make people’s dreams about getting published come true. And, y’know, most people are good people. They want to help. So, yeah, happy endings.”