A Demon for Forever

by K. L. Noone

  A Demon for Forever

  By K.L. Noone

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2020 K.L. Noone

  ISBN 9781646563074

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  For J.M, for organizing this lovely theme!

  * * * *

  A Demon for Forever

  By K.L. Noone

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 1

  Kris Starr had not previously expected to marry a demon. In fact, he’d never expected to be getting married at all. The demon part—or rather the half-demon part; Justin was after all half-human—had arguably been the least surprising.

  He propped a shoulder on the old barn door and watched Justin for a minute: content just to lean there while his other half plus his oldest friend roamed around the vineyard’s antique refurbished wedding venue, with the backdrops of vine-clad hills and ocean-blue California sky. Justin’s hair stood up in fiery loops—he’d gradually been dying it less, letting his heritage be visible—and his hands made big excited gestures, explaining something about backdrops or centerpieces or maybe demon aunts to Reggie. Kris’s former bass player, sleeves rolled up over tattoos, laughed and answered: expertise about owning this vineyard and working with wedding parties, maybe, or a joke about how much wine they’d need, or some teasing about Kris himself.

  Kris didn’t mind. He let the door hold him up and didn’t follow, only staying put as sunshine snuck in to heat up the side of his face: making friends with a scruffy time-battered rock star in jeans and a New York Astral Queens casual long-sleeved band shirt under a weathered leather jacket. Kris Starr, once upon a time Christopher Thompson, dismal failure as a dishwasher in a London pub and public school dropout, was shorter and quieter than most people thought; Kris in public sometimes still bothered with the rock-and-roll persona when it seemed to be expected and because he was vain enough to like the way he looked in eyeliner and a few necklaces, even at a certain age, and also because throwing the name around let him take Justin out to some exclusive restaurants and rare book shops.

  Anything for his demon. His gorgeous, courageous, brilliant demon. The person who’d looked at Kris Starr, tired old rock star, and seen someone worth believing in, first as a manager and then as a friend and then as a lover, and now—

  A bird or two chirped. A whistle sang through the day. A rustle of leaves danced. The vines and barn-sides got a little brighter, clearer, dipped in gold.

  “Hey,” Reggie called his way, “keep your sex thoughts to yourself, my grapes don’t need to hear that!”

  “Your grapes love it!” Kris yelled back, but rather guiltily got a better handle on empathic projection. One reason they’d always had such good live shows. Capable of filling a stadium. Of sweeping everyone up in the exhilaration, the elation, the energy. He’d tried for a long time after Starrlight’s musical implosion to not use it at all.

  Justin had smiled at him and told him that the emotion felt good. That, with that demon heritage, Kris projecting came across—tangible, a brush or a kiss of desire or fear or hope—but the influence, the suggestions, didn’t work. Kris mostly believed that, because it was mostly true.

  Justin had also said that it might work. Kris was on the stronger side of the magical scale—most people had just enough talent to flip a switch or light a candle—and Justin was half human; he’d said once, amused and honest, if you were really trying and I wasn’t paying attention, I think you’d win…

  Kris had sworn, horrified, never to try. Justin had had enough hurt. Enough of someone making him into a person he wasn’t, and a love that came with conditions and became rage when feeling betrayed.

  Justin these days did not talk about his ex much. That was fine with Kris, though he sometimes wondered whether Justin missed, not David—gods, no; he was sure of that much—but the stability. The lawyer’s job and generally put-together life. A life that didn’t come with an aging disaster of messy rock legend empath who did not know how to share a flat with someone on a permanent basis, who’d just last week tried to make breakfast and burned both eggs and toast, who’d once got high and traded a silver Stratos guitar for a bag of Sparkle and a bottle of champagne…

  But Justin loved him.

  He did not quite know how, or why; he sometimes still stopped in place, amazed by the sight of fire-hair in their penthouse kitchen or youthful black leather boots kicked off in an entryway or smoky nutmeg-spice eyes above a pile of books. Sometimes he had to take a breath. To think that this was real: this was all real.

  Justin Moore loved him, and Kris had somehow proposed—in a tumultuous tangle of words on a sofa, amid sunshine and the aftermath of sex and discussions of a future, a new album and Justin’s current music-history book editing project—and Justin had said yes.

  To him. Yes.

  “Kris?” Justin bounced over, all long legs and wide eyes and blue nail polish with tiny sparkly stars. He wasn’t really short enough to fit himself under Kris’s arm, but did anyway, landing a kiss on the corner of Kris’s mouth; Kris stopped leaning on the helpful barn and put both arms around him.

  Justin said, “There’s that really incredible view from up on the hill—Reggie says they do ceremonies up there all the time—or we could use the barn for everything, ceremony and reception and—but also I’m flexible, if you’d rather look at other venues, closer to home in New York or back in London or—”

  “I’d be mortally offended if you did it anywhere but our place,” Reggie put in dryly, hands shoved in pockets, greying ponytail flipping briefly upward in the breeze. “Nah, you know I get it, whatever you two want. Whatever gets Kris Starr actually married.”

  Kris, around Justin’s back, made a gesture at him that would’ve earned a thrown punch in the council-estate streets where they’d grown up. Reggie laughed. “Love you, mate.”

  “Yeah, you too.” He looked at Justin. “What do you want?”

  “Anything,” Justin said, soft and earnest. The flames of his hair did a slow curl and flare, certainty in motion. “Anything, anywhere, with you. I do like the idea of being here—the past, the present, room for everybody, which we wouldn’t have at my parents’ house—but if you’ve pictured our wedding differently…”

  Reggie snorted, then turned the sound into a cough.

  Justin turned that way. “You’re the one who offered. And got excited about Midwinter decorations, for the time of year.”

  “Sorry,” Reg said. “It’s
just. Kris. Picturing a wedding. Any wedding. You know he used to tell me marriage was boring compared to going on tour, right?”

  “How many times have you been married, again?” Kris grumbled. “Also I was young and stupid. And also you agreed with me. And also I was right about you and Jenny Wray and being terrible for you—”

  “I’ll resign as your best man if you bring up Jen one more damn time,” Reggie muttered, not seriously. “She threw a knife at my—”

  “Oh, I remember reading about that story,” Justin said, and both aging rock stars winced. “But she missed. And, Reggie, Holly’s lovely. And you’re happy being married.”

  Reggie melted into a cozy domestic puddle the way he generally did when his current—and from all appearances forever—wife’s name got mentioned. They adored each other and all their shared offspring, who filled up the sprawling family house with siblings and half-siblings and nieces and nephews and even grandchildren, these days. “I am. Say the word and she’ll work her magic on whatever plant-related decorations you two want, she’s so brilliant at that, even if you decide to do this thing on the other side of the whole damn world, Kris.”

  “And we’ll love it,” Justin promised. “Whatever she comes up with.”

  “I told you once you should marry him,” Reggie said to Kris. “Glad you listened. He’s got good taste.”

  “I didn’t listen to you,” Kris said. “I was thinking about it anyway. Before you said.”

  “You were?” Justin asked. “Since when?”

  “Yes,” Reg said. “Since when?”

  The birds sang again, a merry trill of sound.

  “Shut it, all of you,” Kris said, but he was smiling; the wry happy emotion bubbled up through veins and heartbeats, in the feel of Justin’s fingers slipping into his and the solidity of the earth under his feet. He was getting married. To Justin Moore, his demon. Here at the award-winning vineyard his former bass player now owned, making plans for a Midwinter wedding with California sunshine on his face. “Yeah, Reg, okay, we’re in. Here.”

  “You are?” Reggie beamed at him.

  “Justin likes it here at your place,” Kris said. “So do I.”

  * * * *

  Curled up in bed, in a luxurious wine country hotel—Reggie had offered to let them stay over; Kris had said, “You want us having demonic magical empathic sex in your house?” and had quietly enjoyed the chance to pamper his demon with the fanciest suite possible—Kris trailed fingertips over Justin’s bare shoulder; Justin, naked and warm against him, smiled.

  “You look happy,” Kris said.

  “Mmm. Totally. I mean, we’ve got invitations to send out, and seating to plan, now that we’ve got the date and the venue…but right now I’m thinking about you and that thing you did with your tongue…can you do that again? Not this second. Too tired. But soon. Definitely soon. Where’d you learn that?”

  “Experience,” Kris proclaimed smugly. Justin might be part demon and decently kinky and enjoyably young and flexible, but Kris Starr, rock god, had a few more years of knowledge and a lot of commitment to ensuring Justin’s pleasure. “Don’t tell me you’re tired. You.”

  “I’m half human. Partly exhaustible. Speaking of…”

  “Being human?” He played an idle note or two over Justin’s skin: tapping a rhythm, hearing it in his head…not quite complete, not yet, but something there, in the melody of the words: being human, and being yours; only human and all yours; being yours and wanting more, I know I want to, I want to be human with you…

  Justin lay cooperatively still and let Kris drum fingers over him for a minute, accompanied by slight humming. Kris finally sat up and grabbed his mobile phone and sang, briefly, with finger-snaps in the right spots. Justin, when he finished, said, “I like it so far. Would you keep the snapping? It’s kind of fun. It’s got style. Fifties, sixties, retro meets ballad rock.”

  Justin Moore, before the current job as eager and thoughtful editorial director of Randolph Media’s music and performing arts publishing division, had been at various points a rock journalist with pretty damn highly respected taste, and an A&R representative for a major label, and Kris Starr’s manager. Justin knew the field and music history and trends the way a sorcerer would, except that part wasn’t magic, just love.

  “If you think so,” Kris said.

  “I’ll sing backup if you want.”

  “You would?” He was genuinely surprised. Justin had a pretty voice, not terribly practiced at performing but on-key and talented, in what Kris thought of as the light but warm range, sort of golden-brown and velvety. He’d joined in one or two times as backup before, on the latest Kris Starr album with the tons of guest stars, and when pulled out on stage during that Starrlight reunion show; he’d admitted after, blushing, that that’d been a teenage fantasy: getting to sing with Kris Starr.

  He’d also been adorably shy for someone who wore sparkly nail polish and owned a corset and had once worn said corset to a leather-clad club that even Kris had been a little shocked about. But then Justin held complications like bronze-etched flower-petals: secrets he’d been used to keeping, the deployment of pure passion about music and other people to hide a well of astonishing self-doubt, the fear about the reputation demons had and the memory of bruises, both physical and emotional, from the last time he’d trusted someone enough to explain what he was…

  Justin got nervous, Kris knew, when something was important. When it mattered.

  Justin had just offered to sing for him. With him. On a track that’d be released worldwide.

  “I would,” Justin said. “You’ll want it, I think, that kind of layered chorus effect. I mean, I don’t have to be the one to do it, but I also think my type of voice would work there, behind yours? If that makes sense.”

  “I trust you.” Kris wriggled down and kissed Justin’s hip: lips wandering over the warmth of him, nuzzling down to the length of a thigh, back up to the nest of auburn where Justin’s cock, spent but interested, twitched. He said, punctuating words with kisses, “And I want you as backup. I love you singing, love, you know that.”

  Justin blushed a little again, either from the affirmation or from the sudden realization that he’d just agreed to sing on a Kris Starr release while Kris was licking the tip of his cock. His hair fluttered in a non-existent wind. “I offered because I want to, but you don’t have to say yes.”

  “Love saying yes to you.” Kris wrapped a hand around Justin’s length, stroking gently; enjoyed the tiny moan of desire in response. “Love saying it, over and over…yes.” With another stroke. “Yes.” And another, along with a kiss, lapping at the head of Justin’s cock, nice and fat now in his grip. “Yes.”

  “Oh,” Justin breathed, naked and spread out beneath him, eyes huge and yearning, “yes,” and Kris grinned and bent to his task more properly, making his beautiful half-demon musical genius shriek and squirm and cry out in pleasure, coming apart because of Kris’s hands and mouth and, yeah, that thing with the tongue again.

  * * * *

  In the aftermath, dozing, he recalled that they’d never quite finished Justin’s original question. Something about being human. Before the distractions of a new song, and ecstasy.

  He looked at Justin. His wonderful other half was completely asleep, face squished into Kris’s chest, arm and leg flung over Kris as if never wanting to let go.

  He’d ask in the morning. He could show Justin that he remembered, that he listened, that he wanted to know.

  He did. He wanted to know everything. He wanted to be there for Justin, for everything. To be a good man, for the man he loved.

  He kissed the top of Justin’s head, unafraid—the flames were only pleasantly warm and tickling, not scorching—and yawned, and fell asleep holding his demon close.

  * * * *

  Justin was not a morning person. Christopher Thompson, underneath Kris Starr’s history of all-night parties and vodka breakfasts, rather was. He’d been somewhat impressed to discover tha
t about himself: that he liked waking up along with the world.

  His fiancé did not share this appreciation. That was okay; Kris could get up and make tea and mess around with a guitar or answer a few emails, and then go and make coffee, which he had mastered, just in time for a sleepy half-demon to sit up, yawning. Justin was inarguably a better cook and excellent at breakfast, having grown up with two full-time professor parents and four younger siblings and a decent amount of responsibility; Kris was an obedient assistant and contented stealer of kisses and caresses throughout the process.

  Because Justin was not a morning person, and because Justin in the morning was irresistible, all soft and fuzzy and confused and easily aroused, they ended up half an hour late for brunch with Reg and Holly, with Justin clutching coffee in the car.

  Kris forgot to ask about the night before, and then remembered, five minutes from the brunch café, and couldn’t figure out how to fit in the question. Justin, already more alert and awake, was chattering about cake flavors and tastings, and Kris looked at all that giddy excitement and couldn’t divert it.

  He’d ask later. He’d remember. He promised himself.

  Chapter 2

  Back at the hotel that evening, full of cake—Justin had, no surprise, liked the coffee-and-chocolate one the most, though they’d ended up with at least three flavors and were having a debate over adding a fourth tier to include the carrot version—and fabulous Mexican food and good wine, Kris kicked off shoes and caught Justin’s hand, tugging him close. Beyond them the open window framed a deep blue California night, dusted with a watchful audience of stars.

  “I love you,” Justin agreed, lacing fingers into Kris’s. His were long and slim and very occasionally had claws, when he let them, when he let that side of himself out. “You feel nervous. Anything I can help with?”

  Only you, Kris thought. Only you, out of every demon and every damn person in the world. You don’t push about what or why. You don’t listen to your blood telling you to manipulate, or to the human stories about what a demon’s expected to be. You look at me and ask how you can help. What you can do.