Not so tonight.
I’d only just slipped into my arseless leather party attire—and before you judge, this is bespoke Italian craftsmanship, not some redneck knockoff—when I felt it. No, not the tantalizing sting of a riding crop kissing my exposed backside—as much as I do on occasion enjoy that particular sensation.
I’m talking about that ice-cold whisper between the shoulder blades, the invisible touch of something that lurks beyond the veil, just outside the realm of perception.
I haven’t been able to shake it. Something is just… off. Hasbeenoff, if I’m being honest. And it’s not just the bad mojo, either.
I never thought I’d say this, but the task of filling Hell’s bottomless coffers has become as unfulfilling as smiting demons for sport. Tonight, not even the promise of debasing the illustrious Hollywood elite can sweeten my sour mood.
The very thought of posing for another selfie with my drunken revelers, of devising one more outlandish poolside stunt to keep the insipid bubbleheads coming back for more, of awakening face-down on my alpaca rug beneath one more nameless pile of naked, sweat-glistened humans with little recollection of how they came to join me…
Demon’sballs, it’s enough to turn my blood to lead.
Most people would literally sell off a body part to score an invitation—and have tried, if the internet rumors are anything to go by—yet here I am, wandering the master suite in my fine leathers, proverbial dick in proverbial hand, bored out of mybloodyskull. If I could actually die, I’d smash that skull into the wall repeatedly until the job was done, grateful for a change from the stale routine.
Alas, I’m cursed as an immortal. Any head-bashing would be an exercise in futility. Not unlike arseless leather pants (though I’m told I wear them well).
An explosion of laughter downstairs shatters my rumination, reminding me I’ve still got a role to play. A job to do. Expectations to meet, night after night, if I’m to sing over enough souls to satisfy the terms of my banishment, return home to Hell, and reclaim my rightful throne.
You didn’t think I was doing this for fun, did you?
Readying myself for the myriad phones and drones that await, I head out with every intention of donning the glittering smile, the mask of the unflappable rake they love to hate and hate to love. But the moment I step onto the gleaming marble staircase and spot the gyrating, inebriated throngs below, my feet stop working.
I can’t do it. Can’t take another step.
Can’t pretend, even for one more night.
Still unseen by the crowd, I slip back into my suite and take the hidden staircase down to the kitchen, blissfully ignored by the demon caterers and bartenders on my staff.
I dart out the back and down another hallway, my private sanctuary so close I can almost hear the fire crackling in the hearth. Almost taste the bourbon I’m soon to pour. Almost relax enough to—
A glass shatters. An idiot curses.
Then he stumbles out of the billiards room and right into my arms.
Dreadful heathen.
Also, a highly overpaid professional quarterback. Dressed in nothing but a pale blue ballerina skirt—a jarring contrast to the uniform he dons every Sunday. He stares up at me with the glassy, vacant eyes of a man who’s just gone a few rounds with the designer-drug candy bowl.
“Heyyyy,” he slurs. “I knowyou!”
“And I you.” I set him on his feet, propping him against the wall for support. “If you’ll excuse me, I—”
He lifts a finger, as if to put me on pause, and fishes his phone out of… well, I’m quite sure I don’t want to know. His skirt doesn’t appear to have pockets.
Before I can beg off, he’s throwing an arm around me, pressing his cheek to mine and holding up the phone for a few selfies.
Fine, fine. All part of the play. A fake smile here, a thumbs-up there.
He exchanges the phone for a Sharpie.
Again, no idea where that exchange happened.
Again, trying not to think about it too hard. Especially when he asks for an autograph.
On his arse.
Well, Devlin Pierce is nothing if not accommodating. Also, prepared. Retrieving my own Sharpie from anactualpocket designed for just that purpose, I flip up the skirt and do the deed on his left cheek, finishing it with a smiley face to let him know just how bloodyecstaticI am to make his acquaintance.
