The Devil's Metal (27 page)

“And you’re a farm boy through and
through.”

He raised his glass at me. “Here’s to us
then. Any other similarities?”

My eyes fell to the wood table, distracted
by the graffiti from rebellious patrons.

“My mother is dead.”

I saw his shoulders go slack out of the
corner of my eye.

“Saying sorry doesn’t really help, does it?”
he said quietly.

I shook my head and held back the tears. I
rarely talked about my mom and it definitely wasn’t a good idea
when I was half-cut and dealing with everything else I had been
dealing with.

He didn’t ask how she died and for that I
was grateful. Suicide comes with a side of anger and guilt that I
wasn’t ready to deal with.

I glanced at the cracked clock on the
wall.

“Should we head back now?”

“Do you think we’ve ignored our problems
long enough?” he asked silkily. “I don’t. I’m not even close to
being done yet.”

I didn’t protest too much when he ordered us
another round.

***

By the time Jacob showed up at the dive bar,
we were good and drunk. Not belligerent but definitely not sober.
Sage and I had stopped talking about the intimate subjects and
waxed on about music instead. It was wonderful to shoot the shit
with him, someone who really knew what they were talking about and
didn’t judge me for saying I still liked Jim Morrison, even though
he was a giant buffoon. We almost forgot all about our problems at
hand: the fact that the tour might be cancelled, that Noelle was in
the hospital, that a young girl died the other day, that Graham was
turning out to be more serious than I gave him credit for, and that
dangerous groupies were following our tour bus. Yup, almost forgot
all about those.

It turned out that once Chip and the other
roadies in the equipment van found out about the cancelled show,
Chip knew of the perfect replacement for Noelle. He was right when
he told me he knew everyone in the business. One phone call later
and we had a twenty-three-year-old guy called Fiddles, who had
toured with Boz Scags, all lined up for Nashville.

With that all settled, we found another
motel in the Atlanta area for the night. This one had better
security and was closer to the hospital for when Mickey would join
us. Everyone would be sharing rooms too, not only to save costs,
but because everyone was still a bit freaked out and on edge. Jacob
and Bob got one room. It looked like Robbie was going to pick Sage,
but Sage wasn’t a dummy and volunteered that I stay with him. I
suppose he didn’t trust Robbie and he certainly didn’t trust
Graham. I was glad for that, but also flushing on the inside from
the potential awkwardness of sharing a room with someone I had
thought about naked.

I caught the sly looks on Robbie and Jacob’s
faces as I picked up my duffel bag from the motel lobby and Sage
and I made our way to our room, weaving up the stairs. It was on
the upper level, overlooking the tour bus. Jacob and Bob were on
one side of us, while Robbie and Graham were downstairs. I wanted
him as far away from me as possible.

Sage flicked on the light switch. There were
two beds (which was good, right?) with ugly orange bedspreads, an
avocado green carpet, and faux wood paneled walls. A shiny desk and
two chairs were in the corner and beside it was a small fridge.

We exchanged a look full of drunken glee and
I made a beeline to it. Inside, it was fully-stocked with cookies
and alcohol.

“I guess we won’t have to leave the room,” I
said, before I realized how sexual it sounded.

I snapped my head around to look at Sage. He
was sitting on the edge of the bed and smiling lazily at me, long
legs splayed.

Uh oh. I avoided looking at his crotch and
made a mental note not to get too plastered.

I tried to act casual. “So, what would you
like?”

“Anything strong and fast,” he said, raising
a brow at me, a smirk tugging at the corners of his thick lips. I
knew he was baiting me, that he wanted me to come back with some
kind of sexual repartee along the lines of “is that the way you
like it?” but I decided that playing that game when we were both
drunk and drinking was dangerous. I already had enough danger.

I threw him a few mini bottles of bourbon,
then got some glasses and disappeared around the corner with an ice
bucket, looking for the ice machine. I kept a wary eye on the bus
and the street, expecting to see the GTFOs or any suspicious
vehicles, but so far there was nothing out of the ordinary. I
couldn’t wait to be out of Atlanta.

When I returned, Sage had sucked two bottles
dry and brought his acoustic guitar out of the case. I put the
glass of ice on his bedside table and plunked my butt down on my
bed. I motioned to the guitar strap with the Mexican pattern.

“You haven’t shunned everything about your
heritage,” I pointed out.

He strummed a few chords. They gave off a
melancholy air that filled the room. “I decided I wanted to be
myself while I still had the chance.”

“I think we always have a chance,” I
said.

He gazed at me. His eyes were slanted down
at the corners, a sign he was getting drunker. “Tomorrow is one of
the many things you can’t count on.”

I wrapped my arms around my legs. “Boy, you
really are Mr. Optimistic, aren’t you?”

My attempt to make light of things didn’t
work. He ignored me and began to play a song. It was something
haunting and beautiful, a waltz. I had never heard it before and I
was caught up in a swirl of emotions as the sad melody wrapped
around me.

He sung in a low, bourbon-soaked voice that
made the hairs on my neck stand up and my insides melt into
putty.

I hung there dreaming as she strangely
cried

I hung there watching as she seemed to
die

And she survived and I feel like I’m
dying

When he finished, I was momentarily
speechless.

“That was beautiful, Sage,” I gushed when I
found the words. “What is that? A new song?”

He smiled gently. It made his eyes dance.
“Actually, it’s a very old song. I wrote it before I joined the
band.”

“You were so young!”

He looked bashful for a second, then reached
for his drink. “I was a dramatic kid. It’s hokey.”

“It’s really not,” I told him, watching as
he poured two more mini bottles into the glass and downed it. I
felt a trickle of unease at the amount he was packing away. He was
a large man, but we’d drunk a lot all day, and it was now dusk and
he was showing no signs of stopping. I regretted giving him so many
bottles.

“You’re not drinking,” he said to me,
slurring a bit. He took off his guitar and laid it on the bed
beside him, handling it like a baby.

“I’m pretty drunk as it is,” I said, but the
clarity in my words betrayed me.

He shot me an annoyed look. “You’re judging
me.”

I shook my head. “I’m not doing anything,
Sage.”

“Exactly. So give me whatever is left in
there.” He nodded at the fridge.

I shook my head again. “We’ve had a rough
few days, we should probably take a break.”

It happened in the blink of an eye. He
lunged across the gap and pushed me down onto the bed by my
shoulders, his incredible weight on my body, hips crushing into my
hips. He pinned my arms above my head. His face was inches from
mine, lips curled angrily, wired eyes searching my wide ones.

“You say that so easily,” he growled near my
lips. “A rough few days. Is that what you think this is? Just a
rough few days?”

“N-no,” I stammered. I didn’t fear Sage. But
I feared men when they had too much to drink.

“I thought you were different, Dawn. The
only one on this tour left with a heart and soul.” His eyes flared
with indignation.

“I am different,” I protested, so conscious
of the proximity of his mouth to mine. I stopped squirming and let
his hands hold my arms to the bed. If he wanted to feel powerful, I
was going to let him. But I was going to get what I wanted too.

“You have no idea what I’ve been through,”
he told me. His demeanor softened and his grip on my wrists
loosened. He still kept his face as close as possible.

“I have some idea. But I’d like it if you
could tell me the rest.”

“Are you here to make me feel? Is that part
of the plan?” he sneered delicately.

I blinked at him. Feel? Feel what?

“I don’t know why I’m here, Sage,” I
admitted, getting angry. “And that’s the god damn fucking truth.
I’m here because Jacob wanted me here. Jacob wanted someone to
cover your band going down in history. Well guess what, it is going
down in history. For fuck’s sake, people are dying and losing their
minds and I’m losing my own damn mind every day I’m here. And I
know you keep telling me to leave, and maybe I’ll end up doing
that. But while you’re questioning my motives, I’m wondering what
the hell it is that you’re not telling me. Or any of us. Because
none of this is normal, Sage. It’s not even close, and I know, I
know
, that you know a hell of a lot more about what’s going
on than any of us. If there is a plan in all this fuckery, Sage
Knightly is the one behind it.”

I was so angry, I almost spat in his face.
He balked a bit at my rush of words, then frowned, thinking it
through. He was still so close and I was just at that point where I
was going to do something really stupid, like kiss him, just to get
him to stop staring at me.

His gaze dropped to my lips. His own parted
slightly, his lower lip full. I bet it was soft and easy to suck
on. My breath became slower and labored, my body tense, not knowing
what was going to happen next. The air was thick and buzzed around
us, like it too was waiting for movement.

“Tell me what you know,” I whispered. The
tip of his nose brushed against the tip of mine. I felt his very
hard erection press firmly into my thigh.

He closed his eyes, his lashes long and
black against his golden skin. I closed mine, inching my lips
closer to his. They barely touched, just a hint of sensitive,
wanting skin on skin. I was about to arch my back and press my lips
firmly against his, invite his tongue to play with mine, when he
suddenly got off me.

I sat up in surprise and watched him as he
walked over to the window. He leaned against it, watching the sky
fade from light gray to dark purple.

Did that all really happen? I put my fingers
to my lips. I was so close to kissing him. I felt him, how large he
was, how much he wanted me. Now he was across the room, miles of
distance between us, his focus elsewhere.

I sat there for a minute, swallowed by
awkwardness and the ugly bedspread. Then I brushed off the
rejection and went to the fridge. Screw everything I had just said.
I was getting drunk.

I cracked open a can of Pepsi and a mini
bottle of rum and made myself a quick drink. I was just taking my
first sip when Sage spoke.

“Have you wanted something so badly that you
would have done anything to get it?” he mumbled, his muscly back
still to me. “Like, the kind of want that leaves you on your knees
and asking for someone, anyone, to answer your prayers?”

I took in a deep breath. “No.”

But the truth was, after my mother had died
and my dad was waking up in vomit every morning and Eric was coming
home with shiners, stuttering and crying his eyes out, I did fall
to my knees and pray. It wasn’t even to God in particular. I was
out in the field behind the barn, walking and wishing for something
better than what we had. It was such a violent, desperate need that
I was shaking as I asked for my mother to come back, for my father
to stop drinking, for Eric to lose his Tourette’s. I wanted to be
someone, someone important. I wanted to be revered, I wanted to be
respected, I wanted to be loved. I wanted it all so much that I
remember thinking I would do anything for it. I would give anything
for it.

The next thing I remembered was waking up in
the field just as the sun was coming up.

“Do you know the story of that song
Crossroads?” Sage went on. His voice was flat.

“By the blues guy?”

“Robert Johnson.”

“I think so. He sold his soul to the devil
in exchange for success. It happened at the crossroads.”

“Do you believe that?”

I put down the drink and gave Sage my full
attention. “Well. No. It’s just a song.”

He let out a small laugh. “Of course it’s
just a song. You know Robert Johnson was only twenty-seven when he
died. He barely had any success.”

“Then the devil was a liar. I wouldn’t
expect anything less.”

“His success came later.”

“Then he should have been more
specific.”

“Some say he didn’t even sell his soul. He
just made a deal. And it wasn’t with the devil himself.”

“Either way, I’m sure it wasn’t a very sound
deal.”

He shrugged.

“I’m turning twenty-eight next week,” he
remarked, finally turning around to face me. His skin was ashen,
eyes tired. “Joplin, Morrison, Hendrix, Johnson. They all died at
twenty-seven.”

“Do you think they all made deals with the
devil?” I asked. My next question was, “Did you make a deal with
the devil,” but I didn’t ask it. I just let it sit there on my
tongue. It was easier that way. Then it wouldn’t be real and no one
would have to deal with answering it.

“And I said, 'Hello, Satan, I believe it's
time to go,’” Sage sung softly by way of an answer. He scratched at
his sideburns and reasoned, “I doubt Morrison would have made any
deals.”

“Why not? He died rich and famous.”

“He died alone,” he argued. “The hopeful
bargainer will always ask for love.”

“He had Pam.”

Sage smirked and flopped down on the bed,
almost landing on his guitar.

He mumbled into his pillow, “Pam loved him.
I don’t think he loved Pam. Finding someone you truly love is much
harder than finding someone to love you.”