Devil’s Riff (Devil’s Halo Rockstar #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Dean

Turn The Page

Bob Seger

The thing about tour buses? They don’t give you space. Not from noise, not from people, and definitely not from your own damn head. Noise, I can drown in. Quiet? Quiet is an ambush.

Portland is a fade of lights in the rear window, and every mile we put between us and that stage scrapes like barbed wire against my skull. Luc’s on his own bus tonight, pacing a rut into the floor, either not sleeping or pretending he doesn’t need to.

Lily’s gone again. Larkin out there with her. Some parasite with a camera decided the world was owed a look at what wasn’t theirs. Now the whole planet is chewing on their pain like its free popcorn.

Love does this to people. That’s why I don’t touch it. Never again.

I lean into the corner bench, guitar across my lap, fingers ghosting the strings without sound. Hayden is across from me with a chipped mug and eyes so dark he doesn’t look like he’s blinked since load-out. Mikey has both feet on the seat, hoodie up, earbuds in, head bobbing to a beat I can’t hear.

Our driver takes an off-ramp and the bus breathes, the air brakes sighing like a low growl underfoot, metal complaining like it knows we’re pushing our luck.

What the fuck are we stopping for? I peek outside the curtain of the window behind me, a Sapphire Resort sign lit up in bright blue staring back at me. Before I have a chance to question why we’re stopping, the door hisses and opens.

I see the messy bun first, then dark blue eyes that catalog the inside of our bus in one sweep, not even flinching when her gaze passes mine, as she climbs the steps.

That stupid camera strap is still hanging around her neck over a black T-shirt with a band logo, not even ours, faded from too many washes.

Frayed cutoffs that showcase tan bare legs, nicked white at the knees. And finally combat boots.

Oh, this is just fucking perfect. A reporter with legs.

“Wrong ride,” I inform her before she can pretend we’re happy to see her. I don’t look away from my strings. “Press barnacles can join the circus caravan two buses back.”

Hayden chokes on his coffee mid-swallow. Mikey pulls one earbud half out like he just bought front-row tickets, sliding his hoodie off his head like it will give him a better view.

She pauses at the top step, one hand on the rail. Those eyes take me in, scanning me boots to jaw, inching up me like a slow burn, unimpressed as a bouncer.

“Good news for you then,” she retorts. “I’m not press.” Her voice is calm enough to be an insult. “And even if I were? I’ve survived worse creatures than you.”

I stretch my boot into the aisle; lazy, territorial. “This bus isn’t for distractions.”

“Relax, Romeo.” Her tone is sarcastic as she steps over my leg without touching me. “If I wanted to distract you, you’d know.”

There’s a beat where I almost smile. I don’t though. Not for her.

She moves like she belongs in any room she walks into. It’s clear this isn’t her first rodeo. She drops a canvas duffel into the empty seat opposite me and sinks into it sideways, one knee up, one boot bracing against the base of the table.

The camera thumps against her ribs with the movement, but she doesn’t wince.

Her shirt slides off one shoulder and she doesn’t fix it.

It’s obvious she’s lived in venues and vans and last-call diners.

I can smell the truth of it: coffee, warm skin, a hint of cold air from outside.

She’s not intimidated by me, or anyone else on this bus for that matter, in the slightest bit.

“Amped sent me to shadow the band,” she explains, not that it’s necessary, because I already know this. Doesn’t mean I have to like it. “Two months. No boundaries, within reason. Your people signed off.”

“Doesn’t mean I did,” I draw out in a tone that makes it clear she can fuck right off when it comes to shadowing me.

She levels me a look that would cut a lesser man to ribbons. “Lucky for me then that I don’t require your permission to do my job.”

Hayden sets his mug down too carefully. Mikey mutters, “oh man,” like he’s watching a hurricane meet a volcano.

“What’s your job again?” I run my thumb up a string until the metal bites, arching a brow as I glance over at her. “You gonna try and make us look pretty, are ya?”

Her mouth quirks. “Pretty is for pop. I shoot truth.” She tilts her chin toward my guitar, sneering. “And if you’re looking for an audience, stage is back that way.”

I let the pick click on the wood beside me. “You’ll get better shots back there,” I bite out. “Luc’s bus. That’s where the circus act is currently at work.”

A shadow crosses Hayden’s face at the mention of our bandmate.

It crosses mine too, whether I want it or not.

For a second I see Luc’s hand on his head at soundcheck, the way he gentled his giant frame like touch could be a language.

Then the leak. Then the look in Luc’s eyes when the world took what he loved and sold it for page views.

Hayden interjects, quiet as always. “He’s… handling it.” Like that means anything.

Sadie’s gaze flicks from Hayden back to me. She clocked the hit. I hate that she saw it. I hate it even more that it matters.

“Look.” Her tone is softer, but not soft. “I’m not here to make anyone bleed. I’m here to cover the tour. All of it. If my being here is a problem for you, let’s just pretend that neither one of us exists when we’re together.”

“Sweetheart,” I scoff in pleasure when her jaw tightens at the word. Good. “I’ve been pretending people don’t exist since before you learned how to take a lens cap off.”

“Cute.” She leans forward, forearms on her knees, the camera swinging in front of her. “Here’s the thing you ego maniac; I’m not here for you.”

A laugh pushes against my teeth and dies there. The room mishears me all the time, but not like that. “Good,” I seethe. “Stay out of my way.”

“If you have a way worth staying out of, I’ll let you know.” She gives it back as good as she gets and I have to admire her for that. Even if I’d never admit it to her.

Mikey whistles low and pretends to cough when I cut him a look. Hayden busies himself with his mug like he’s hoping to disappear into the coffee.

She settles back and crosses her ankles on the edge of the seat. She looks like she could sleep through a riot. She also looks like she knows how to sleep with one eye open.

I should pick up my guitar and play until the conversation dissolves under the sound. Instead, I watch the dim lights stripe across her face through the window. A streetlamp, another, and another, like someone flicking through frames of a film.

Her eyes go to the ceiling, as if memorizing the route the ductwork takes.

Her hand slides into her pocket and comes out with a rubber band.

She tightens the bun without looking, the bracelets on her arm clicking against each other.

The whole move says I’ve done this on a hundred buses and none of them were allowed to own me.

“Do you have a bunk for me?” The question is not directed to any one of us in particular. “Or do I need to ask your tour manager where I’m crashing?”

“You’re not crashing anywhere near me.” It’s automatic. It’s also true.

“Tragic.” Sarcasm reigns supreme once again. “I’ll cry into my pillow. Tell me the rules.”

“Rules?”

“Bus rules.” She tilts her head. “Every crew has them.”

“Don’t puke in the head,” Mikey instructs helpfully. “Trash bags tie off on the right. If Dean’s writing, let him brood.”

“I don’t brood.” My response defensive as my brow furrows.

“You absolutely brood.” Hayden confirms, and then winces like he can’t believe he said that out loud in front of the enemy.

Sadie’s mouth curves. “Duly noted. Anything else?”

“Don’t point that thing at me.” I nod at the camera. “Not without a warning.”

“Consent is sexy.” She smirks. “I promise to use my words. Can’t say the same for you.”

I stare. She stares back, steady as a tripod. There’s no flirt in it. There’s challenge. There’s, I can take a punch and swing one harder. There’s, you’re not the first man to try me and you won’t be the last. Something under my ribs shift. I push it back where it belongs.

Luc’s bus peals past us on the right. It’s dark, blinds drawn, and the sight hits me behind the ribs again.

The urge to call him. The urge not to. The memory of a hospital parking lot a lifetime ago where a cop wouldn’t meet my eye.

A door I refuse to walk through again. A girl who’d been my whole world and then wasn’t.

That door is welded shut. I welded it.

“Dean,” Hayden mutters under his breath, because apparently my face is making noise.

“I’m fine.” I’m not, but that’s standard.

Sadie’s eyes track the other bus’s taillights until they disappear. She doesn’t ask. Points for that. She could. It’s literally her job, but she doesn’t. She’s better than press. And she’s worse. Because she sees more.

I hook the strap over my shoulder and bring the guitar up where it belongs. The wood settles against me like it knows what to do with my hands when I don’t. I roll the volume knob with my thumb, just enough to feel it.

A riff threads under my fingers unwanted, uninvited, familiar like a word you can’t remember until it’s too late.

It’s nothing. It’s a line of notes walking toward a chorus I don’t intend to write.

It sounds like getting close to a flame on purpose.

It sounds like no. It sounds like yes. I cut it off and let the silence fall heavy.

Sadie’s gaze clicks to me, sharp and focused. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing,” she counters, leaning forward again.

“Didn’t know you were a musician,” I mock.

“I’m not. I’m a listener.” She taps the side of her head. “Occupational hazard.”

“Congratulations.” My tone dry, hard.

She huffs a laugh. Not girly. Not soft. “Look, Ross. I’m not here to worship you. I’m here to work. You stay in your lane, I’ll stay in mine. I won’t make you my story if you don’t make me your problem.”

“You already are my problem,” I blurt before I think better of it.

Her smile is small and mean, yet somehow not mean at all. “Then I guess we’re starting ahead of schedule.”

The driver takes us onto the highway and the bus steadies into that long road hum that puts most people to sleep.

Hayden slumps deeper, his eyes drooping closed.

Mikey grins at me like he’s got memes to make and blackmail to gather.

I give him a look that promises death. He thumbs his volume up and pretends not to see.

Sadie digs into her bag and pulls out a dented metal water bottle, a protein bar, and a paperback with its spine cracked in three places.

She tucks her legs up under her and eats half the bar without looking at it.

It’s practical and infuriatingly intimate, the way soldiers cleaning their weapons is intimate, the way ritual is.

She’s not starstruck. She’s not trying to be cute. She’s not here to be anything but here.

I play two notes. Just two, to shut my brain up. She doesn’t look. Of course she doesn’t.

“Anything else I should know?” She suddenly asks, disturbing the peace that finally seemed to settle in the room. “Laundry schedule? Land mines?”

“Don’t talk to me before coffee,” Mikey says. “Don’t talk to Dean before… noon.”

“Don’t talk to me at all,” I correct.

She flips a page. “Deal.”

It should feel like a win. It doesn’t. It lands in the middle of my chest and sits there, heavy as an unplayed chord.

“Seattle by morning,” Hayden mumbles sleepily. “Four, five hours.”

“Three and change,” I state, because we’ve done this drive ten times and because prediction is one of the few things control looks like on the road.

Sadie’s eyes flick up again, quick. “Is that a bet?”

“Why would I play any kind of game with you?” A sneer comes to life on my face as I toss out the question.

“Shame.” She shrugs. “I’m good at those.”

“Losers are ugly,” I counter.

“So’s your attitude.” Her reply without bite as she goes back to the page.

I lean my head against the window and let the cold glass pull some of the heat out of my skull. Outside is black trees and the suggestion of a moon and the blur of highway lights. Inside is recycled air and tired men and one woman who refuses to bend around the shape of me.

Good. The world bends too easy. The world pretends. People pretend. I do not.

I survived love once. I won’t lose to it again. Especially not to a girl who steps over my foot like I’m furniture and looks at me like I’m noise.

My fingers find the neck of the guitar again. The riff I refused a minute ago waits where I left it, patient as a sin. I don’t play it. I file it under No. I file her there too.

Seattle will come fast. We’ll rehearse, we’ll burn down another venue, we’ll sleep a little and call it enough. She’ll point her lens at the parts of us we want printed and I’ll ignore her until she stops existing.

That’s the plan.

“Don’t get in my way,” I warn again without looking at her.

She doesn’t look up either. “You’re not the way I’m taking.”

It should relieve me. It doesn’t. It sits there, same place as the unplayed chord, humming under my ribs like it knows my name.

I turn the guitar face-down on the bench and let my eyes slide shut. Not sleep. Just the performance of it. Outside, the highway unfurls. Inside, Hayden breathes, Mikey taps, Sadie flips another page.

She’s going to be hell. And the worst part? Hell sounds a little like home.