Page 38 of The Music Demon

It took a couple of weeks to meet all Gray’s demands. When the day came, he walked across the street with a small pot of geraniums in hand. He rang the bell and listened. The undertones of music quieted just before Cass came to the door. When her eyes drifted down to the flowers, she looked surprised and thrilled.

“Doo! Those for me?” She grabbed his sleeve and pulled. “Come on in here.”

Cass closed the door and walked off to the kitchen. “I made a gingerbread loaf yesterday. Still good. Want some?”

“No. I, ah…”

She stopped and turned, looking suddenly serious. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s not that anything’s wrong. Exactly. I just got this opportunity to maybe do something with music.” She sat down. Gray set the pot gingerly on the vinyl dinette in the kitchen. “I’m taking off. And, uh, just wanted to say… You know.”

“Bye.”

“Yeah. Wanted to say goodbye.”

“What kind of opportunity?”

“Sell some of my songs,” he lied. And even though it was a little white lie and necessary, he felt the sting of guilt. She deserved better.

Cass nodded, smiling sadly. “Can’t say I won’t miss that face. And having a kindred spirit to talk music to. But I gotta love the opportunity for you.” He nodded. “You’ll stay in touch?”

“Sure.” He lied again. He was still standing, shuffling back and forth because lying made him nervous. He supposed he needed to get used to it because he imagined he’d be doing a lot of tale spinning where he was going. “Well, I’m takin’ off. Just wanted to say bye and, you know, thanks. For…”

“The guitar?”

He laughed. “Yeah. For my first guitar. And so much more,” he said, hoping she heard the sincerity.

“I’m your biggest fan. Always will be. You be sure to let me know if you’re gonna be on TV.”

He gave her a heartbreaking lopsided grin and one last look over his shoulder. As he turned toward the door his eye caught a magazine on the top of a pile. Jimmy Page and Jack White on the cover ofGuitar World, “The Art of Playing the Devil’s Music.” He snorted to himself thinking, ‘If they only knew’.

Lyric and Shivaun met Gray at the San Francisco airport. His sister and niece thought he was going on a mountain climbing adventure of a lifetime. The adventure part was true. Incredible in the true sense of the word.

They traveled to the hotel by limousine because Gray had never been away from Texas. It was Shivaun’s idea. She knew firsthand that new experiences help flexibility. And Gray was going to have to be flexible if he was going to go “Living in the Past”, Jethro Tull.

The demons talked to each other quietly and left Gray alone to take in the sights. He was too excited, and probably anxious, to notice.

Lyric had arranged for two rooms at the Metro Hotel, right in the middle of the Haight-Ashbury district. It was modern, but funky and colorful in the way a tourist would hope for. When Shivaun heard the part about a room for Gray and a room for the two of them, she laughed at Lyric.

“Nice try, conquistador.” She looked at the clerk. “We’ll be needing one more room.”

Gray scrubbed a hand over his mouth as he said, “Oh, man. You were burned by the babe.”

Lyric wasn’t a candidate for embarrassment. He chuckled at both Gray and Shivaun. “A demon’s gotta try.” Then he pulled her aside and whispered, “It’s not like either one of us actually sleeps or uses facilities. We’re only taking a room for pretense’s sake.”

“’Tis the problem. Pretense. Our kind may no’ use rooms for those things, but we do use rooms forotherthings.” Her inference was unmistakable.

As he processed the visual that jumped to mind, his eyes caught every stray beam of light in the tiny lobby and reflected in a gleam worthy of a demon. He raised his chin to punctuate that he’d reached a decision and took two long strides back to the desk.

“We’ll need another room. We don’t care what sort.”

“We don’t have another,” the clerk said.

“You do,” Lyric insisted.

“We don’t.” The clerk pulled back a little as a furrow formed on his forehead. He glanced down at the phone, which had started ringing. “Excuse me.” He picked up the vintage receiver. “Hello?” Pause. “Oh. Of course. Yes.” He hung up and looked at Lyric. “It seems we have a room on the top floor, sir. It’s a bit cozy.”

“Does that mean small?”