Chapter 2
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. Andgot excited about Midwinter decorations, for the time of year.”
“Sorry,” Reg said. “It’s just. Kris. Picturing a wedding. Anywedding. You know he used to tell me marriage was boring compared to going on tour, right?”
“How many times have youbeen 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 knifeat 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.