Love Songs for Every Day Read online

  Love Songs for Every Day

  By K.L. Noone

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2018 K.L. Noone

  ISBN 9781634866675

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  For Awesome Husband, who puts up with my scribbling down ideas at strange hours of the night…

  * * * *

  Love Songs for Every Day

  By K.L. Noone

  I arrive at Witch’s Brew, local favorite coffee-shop haunt of university students and writers, musicians and half-pixies, and the generally off-beat, on a cool and satiny rain-damp late morning, amid city steam and wet sidewalks and reflections. I’m here to talk to Justin Moore and Kris Starr, who’ve agreed to this interview on condition that they do it together. The New York Demon and the rock icon would be stories separately, having inadvertently changed the world at least two times over; they’re even better together, though, so of course that’s a yes.

  Kris Starr and Starrlight are synonymous with classic rock. Arena-filling power chords. Screaming packed stadiums. The kickoff of big hair and big guitars and inspiration for the whole next generation to learn every note in “Little Black Dress” on their own first instruments, alone in bedrooms or with friends in a borrowed garage.

  Justin Moore is something else altogether.

  Human and not. Paradoxically young—he’ll be turning thirty this year, almost exactly fifteen years younger than Kris Starr; their birthdays coincidentally fall within the same calendar week—and older than most of us in experience, in bruises, in unsought celebrity. A person who plucked everyone’s new-wave favorite bands out of the hopeful throng and got them on the radio; a person who, by virtue of existing as himself, has singlehandedly changed the way a lot of people think about demons.

  I find a corner spot in the coffee-shop, a tucked-away place with big inviting sofas and a street view out the tall glass windows. They’ll want to be comfortable, I figure.

  In the interests of full disclosure, and for anyone who doesn’t know: Justin Moore once wrote for this very magazine, though before my time, so we’ve never met. Freelance, not staff, but a reliable and reliably vibrant contributor. He’s been a music journalist, a well-regarded punk-rock critic, and an A&R—artists and repertoire—manager over at the historic Aubrey Records, and is now the attractive and passionate editorial face of Randolph Media’s new arts and entertainment division, launching magazines and book lines. He does not feed on souls to survive; he does not make bargains with humans for anything uncanny; he does not, as far as anyone knows, possess the secret to eternal life, although I have heard stories from older colleagues about Justin’s apparently miraculous inability to suffer a hangover.

  I wonder if he can share that secret. It’d be nice.

  I wonder if he knows how much of a symbol he’s become: a type of magical being no one knew much about and mostly mistrusted, being open and honest and answering questions about himself, no longer in hiding. A few other demons’ve come forward to say hi, including one of his aunts, which is a story in and of itself: the New York Demon has a supernatural family, demons can have families, demons can have aunts and sisters and children. They’re much less scary when the bargain’s entered into public record and consensual, sips of human energy in exchange for clearly spelled out magical gifts that don’t contradict existing paranormal legal statues. A few new international laws are underway to deal with this.

  Justin and Kris don’t do interviews often. Some, especially for Kris’s record promotion or for Justin’s newly signed authors, but more professional than personal. They’ve said they’ll do this one, though, on the heels of their return from a sold-out show in London and a mini-vacation after, in order to, Kris said on the phone, show Justin some of the places he’d grown up. Which sounds like love to me.

  I am early as far as our arranged time, though only by about five minutes; I’m trying to be prompt, since I know they have a photo session after this, arranged to go along with the article. I contemplate possible stylings and settings for a rock star and a demon. Not my job, fortunately. Up to their photographer and artistic director for this whole feature. At least Justin in more human form can be captured on film, even if proper demons can’t. I wonder fleetingly how fiery inhuman hair affects set lighting.

  Kris and Justin arrive precisely on time, or rather they mean to. Derailed in the doorway as they flicker into existence, popped over via demon teleportation skills. Caught by a teenager and her mother, who’re clutching a stack of flyers with a picture of a large orange cat, visibly upset.

  Justin Moore listens, nods, puts an arm around the girl. She looks up at him hopefully.

  Justin Moore is a demon. She trusts him. I make a note of this. It’s important.

  In person he’s dazzlingly pretty. Tall and slim and lovely in a companionable way, fire that’s put on legs to stroll around and glow at passersby. He’s wearing black jeans and red Converse and a soft-looking grey shirt under a black jacket. The shirt has sparkly bits in it. They make friends with the coffee-shop’s old-fashioned amber lights.

  His hair’s doing a 1970s feathery-halo imitation. Except the feathers are all made of delicate curling flame.

  In any other universe we’d all be noticing Kris Starr first. The former front man of Starrlight has one shoulder propped on the doorframe, watching his demon help someone, smiling. He’s oddly quiet; I’m expecting a rock legend and a powerful stage-presence empath to take up more space. Instead he’s content to gaze at Justin and wait.

  Justin looks at the picture of the girl’s lost cat, shuts his eyes, gets a little crease between eyebrows, makes a gesture. A meowing chubby tabby plops out of thin air into trembling arms.

  He opens his eyes. The girl clutches her ball of well-fed fluff. The mother leans over to hug Justin.

  He smiles at them as they leave. Kris Starr stops lounging in the doorway and puts a hand on his demon’s elbow, and then they glance around, obviously looking for me.

  I wave. They come over. Justin does this with enthusiasm, bouncing between chairs. Kris watches him some more.

  “Hi!” Justin announces. “Can we buy you coffee? The coconut latte’s really good, or if you like blueberry they can make a blueberry cream mocha thing with little white chocolate bits that I love, or super-dark roast if you’re into that, or—” Kris unobtrusively nudges him onto the sofa. Justin folds one long leg under himself when sitting down, feline and flexible.

  I mention that I asked them if they’d agree to this interview, and they’re doing me a favor, s
o I can buy them coffee. Justin says promptly, “But you’re our guest!” in a tone of genuine worry that I not understand this. “And I know about journalists and free food. Really, we don’t mind, do you want a scone or a—”

  The curly-haired girl behind the counter—her name tag announces her to be a Meghan—resolves this collision of niceness by calling over, “On the house, lovebirds, anything you want, it’s cool!” She’s wearing a New York University shirt under her apron, and she’s got a shimmer of fish-scale along one arm: mer-folk blood, perhaps. Someone else not entirely human.

  “Oh…” Justin now looks conflicted about this niceness. “You won’t get into trouble, will you?”

  She snorts at him, scorn familiar and affectionate. Kris Starr gets up, pats his demon on the shoulder, and wanders that way.

  “We’ve been coming here for years.” Justin smiles at me. It’s a dangerously inviting smile. Disarmingly sincere. This close his eyes, outlined by casually stylish eyeliner, flicker in pleated holiday-spice colors: sorcerous cinnamon, smoked ruby, uncanny garnet. “When I met Meg she’d only just started school. She’s graduating this year. Psychology and gender studies. She’s brilliant.”

  I notice something else as well. While heads had turned upon their arrival, nobody’s bothering either the infamous New York Demon at my table or Kris Starr, who is patiently waiting for coffee and chatting with the other barista while Meghan takes an order. A few evident regulars, occupying well-worn couches and oversized chairs, catch me glancing around and offer up variations of the hurt them and we’ll take it out on you stare.

  Kris and Justin belong here, I think. The Witch’s Brew has its people. The scandal and the stories get left at the door along with wet umbrellas. Loyalty in action.

  “The day,” Justin says, “that I told Kris about myself…accidentally, really, the first day I’d told anyone who wasn’t family…Kris had stopped by here. To bring me coffee. After a long day.” His eyes get even brighter with the memory. “He came up to my old office. When he hates that building.”

  The Aubrey Records building, I ask, clarifying just in case.

  “Yeah. I never minded it that much, but I can see how it’d bother an empath, all blank white space and sharp corners and polished people.” He waves a hand in a motion that’s presumably meant to illustrate this. “He’s the nicest person I know. He won’t admit it, but he is.”

  I raise eyebrows. I’ve heard the stories. The infamous birthday party in SoHo. The unceremonious ejections from clubs in London and Los Angeles. The years of refusal to grant interviews or descend from the penthouse retreat here in New York. Of course, all that’d been before Justin Moore.

  Whose eyes narrow. “He had reasons. He was trying not to hurt anyone. For a long time. And when I was…hurt…he took me in. No questions asked. He made tea and gave me a place to stay.”

  He made tea? I’m apologizing with the question, not doubting.

  “And gave me the shirt off his back. More or less literally. Out of his pajama drawer. But still.” Justin nibbles at his lower lip, and at a memory-fragment. “He talked to me. Sang to me. Kept me warm. And he’d’ve done it for anyone; we were only friends, then. No reason to think we’d have more.”

  I’ve never heard some of those details. Justin doesn’t talk much about his ex, nor about that night and his own escape. Not since that first media frenzy. Not since he had to, to lay open and raw and painful his version of what happened.

  I want to know, but I don’t want to push. He’s already offered up more than most interviewers ever get. Instead I ask whether he’s been converted to tea-drinking.

  He laughs. Some gratitude shivers under the amusement: a thank you for the understanding. “Sometimes. It’s cozy. I need coffee in the morning, though. Kris calls me a barbarian and then drinks half my vanilla caramel supply when he thinks I’m not looking. I brew extra on purpose.”

  At this fortuitous moment Kris himself reappears. He’s acquired four full mugs, a turkey sandwich, three cake pops, and a plate that upon investigation turns out to be holding sixteen vanilla-bean scones. We collectively regard this bounty, and his balancing skills, for a moment.

  “You need food,” Kris says to his demon, unapologetic about it. “And she would’ve felt bad if we didn’t want anything. Trust me. And I left a tip that should cover her entire tuition this term, if it hasn’t gone up again.” For my benefit, he adds, “It’s a demon metabolism thing. Energy.” The hint of London streets lingers, but it’s only a hint, faded and evanescent as fog-tendrils over cobblestones and kissed by years of New York City.

  “I’m fine,” Justin protests, though he’s picking up a scone. “It was only a cat.”

  “A fat one.” Kris Starr doesn’t look like what I might’ve expected. And I might’ve written that sentence differently only two years earlier. When no one expected anything at all of a worn-out semi-reclusive lead singer who emerged to perform at local fairs and scrape dust off classic tracks for best-of compilations. When a mention of Starrlight would’ve earned nostalgic murmurs and a question of, “Oh, man, is he still around?”

  He’s lost the enormous mass of wild hair, these days. Just long enough to be rock-star fashionable, dark brown that’s either not yet grey or else keeps those strands well hidden. His eyes are and aren’t the same, those big soulful deep pools that everyone once upon a time fell helplessly into, but calmer now, holding a kind of gentle astonished delight that gets clearer and more radiant every time he glances at his demon. He’s not exactly dressed up—jeans, boots, an Incantation T-shirt that looks like the one from their latest tour, one or two layered necklaces, black jacket that nearly matches Justin’s—and there’s certainly no glitter or skintight leather in evidence.

  He looks happy, I decide. Which maybe isn’t something we’ve ever seen before: Kris Starr, happy and fond and relaxed and settled down at last. Tucking in paws. Comfortable.

  He goes on, “Blueberry cream, you said,” and sorts out mugs. I get two. One contains simple strong plain black coffee, nothing fancy; the other one’s the coconut latte his other half mentioned, presumably in case I wanted it. I do.

  Justin beams at me for this. I ponder half-credited rumors about demonic charm and seduction. Not that he’s trying. Seems to be natural. Like gravity, and kindness, and charisma.

  “So,” Justin suggests, licking a fingertip clean of poor defenseless scone-crumbs. “Should we get started? We know you must have a list of questions, and it’s your interview. Whatever you want.”

  We begin with the new album. It’s an easy topic, and one that’s on a lot of minds. Comeback of the year, or of the decade. Radio traction as well as critical acclaim. Murmurs about awards being given at a certain prestigious upcoming annual ceremony.

  “Oh, yeah.” Kris takes a sip from his own mug, which—entertainingly, in light of Justin’s earlier comment—holds coffee, some sort of nutty creamy variety, not tea. “That’s all speculation. No one’s mentioned it to me directly, so I’ve decided not to believe it.” This is impressively and unexpectedly modest, coming from that reputation.

  Justin glances my way. Starts to say something, then grins and doesn’t. Hmm, I think. Justin Moore famously knows famous people. Industry names. Contacts who might drop hints. He opts for, tactfully, “You’d deserve it if you won, you know. Not just because I love you. Because it’s good.”

  “That’s not an unbiased review, love,” Kris retorts, with affection.

  It’s a great album. I say this and mean it. Heartfelt, mature, and kick-ass. Tracks that range from the wistful memory of first crushes in “About A Boy” to the glorious apology-turned-rock-anthem “Sometimes” to the unabashed silly kinky joy of “Corset Strings,” which made me laugh upon first hearing and then guess that they laugh a lot in the bedroom too.

  “I modeled for that one,” Justin informs me. “He said it was for me.”

  “They’re all for you.” Kris takes his hand, rubs a thumb over pale skin. It’s an e
asy gesture. Unthinking and yet intimate, revelatory, a glimpse of profound heartfelt care. “Every one. You make me want to write all the songs. Every day.”

  Justin’s smile swings into view like a flying comet. He says to me, “One journalist to another, that’s totally your pull quote, isn’t it.”

  Totally, I agree, and accept one of his scones when he nudges the plate my way. Kris Starr considers this encroachment with the expression of a man prepared to purchase every scone in existence if his demon requires more.

  In a departure from the Starr-related puns of past album titles, this one takes its name from the opening track, “Home.” That track’s everything Kris Starr does best: a ballad that rocks, a love song, a banner held high for epic romance. Even if he’d never announced his feelings to the world that day on Marianne May’s morning show, we’d all know. Right there, summed up.

  A few special guests make appearances among the line-up. Brendan Alvarez and Incantation swing in to lend some brass-tinted party-rock flair to “When You Kiss Me.” Newcomers The New Regency pop by to add bubblegum fizz and serious guitar riffs—that’s Adam Johnson on lead guitar, holding his own next to Kris Starr, and someone worth watching—to “Candy Sunshine.”

  Perhaps most important, at least for Starrlight and classic rock fans, is one other name. Reggie Jones and that distinctive bass turn up to set the rhythm on fire on not one but four tracks. The aforementioned “Kiss Me,” with Incantation. “Sometimes,” with that powerful survivor’s chorus, and “Demon,” which they debuted live at the Gardens at that historic show. And one more, the stripped-down soul-baring beauty of “Sarah,” in which Kris Starr imagines telling his mother—taken by cancer decades ago—that he’s met someone, that he wants to come home to this person forever, that he’s fallen in love. He thinks she’ll like Justin. He believes she will.

  I cried on first listening. Real enormous unflattering tears, alone in my kitchen, preparing for this interview. And then I called my mother.