Opportunity Knocks (Soul Debt)
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Copyright ©2013 Julia Talbot
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Jordie set his good guitar aside gently before picking up his notebook and throwing it against the wall. Hard. Songwriting had been his stock in trade for nine years, with a tiny sideline as a touring rock star. The songwriting made him the happiest, and he knew he was damned good at it. He had been good at it, even before...
Well, before he'd called on the forces of nature to get his first damned song sold and out there on the radio, and ended up selling a little of his soul to do it.
Today, it seemed like inspiration had run dry. His fingers kept fumbling on the guitar strings, and his notations looked like Greek. Jordie wanted to rip his hair out; his stylist would kill him if he did, though, so he settled for throwing more shit against the wall.
His pencil case. Bam.
The closest beer bottle. Smash.
The ashtray for his weed. Thud.
This was fun! Way better than bashing his head against the hook of a song that didn't want to be written.
Hell, he was making so much fucking noise that the knock, when it came, was almost inaudible. Who the hell was knocking on a cottage door on the beach in Belize? Not like UPS could be delivering, and the paparazzi hadn't found him in a week and a half of vacation. Jordie climbed to his feet when the knock came again, grumbling under his breath.
"I swear to God, if you're not offering a huge bottle of Crown Royal..." He threw the door open.
Not a delivery man, a beach bartender, or a reporter. Nope, from the tiny horns poking out from the mop of amazing wavy hair, Jordie could tell the man on the other side of the door was a demon. "Fuck. Is it that time again?" Jordie asked.
"It is. You gonna let me in?"
How could a demon have dimples, bright blue eyes, and a killer smile? So not fair, how the guy could be so hot and so, so bad for him. "It's sort of in the contract, isn't it?" Jordie asked. When the demon showed up, Jordie had to let him in. If it was that time again, it explained a lot about his inability to do his job.
"It is." The demon in blue jeans pushed into the beach house, looking around. "Nice digs."
"Thanks. I'm on vacation." God, Jordie thought that was the most beautiful son of a bitch ever. By far the hottest damned demon he'd seen. This was his fourth. This was probably gonna hurt, then, if they'd sent such a beautiful specimen.
"Do I have something on my face?" the guy asked.
"A nose. Lips. Eyebrows. The normal bits."
The demon chuckled. "You're nervous. They told me you've done this before."
Uh-huh. Three times before. They called it sex magick. Apparently Jordie was really good at it, and every three years, he spent damned near a week getting it wrung out of him, leaving him feeling like he'd definitely given up his pound of flesh.
"I have. It's... not exactly a relaxing vacation, but what are you gonna do? Surround the bed with holy water and salt?"
"That would be going back on your deal, bud." The demon stared at him, arms crossed. Waiting. They were always so good at waiting.
"You know it. Which is why the only salt is for the tequila." Jordie knew he was babbling, but that he did even when he wasn't freaked out.
"Good man." The demon grinned at him now. "You know it will be good."
"I know it'll chafe."
"Mmm. Chafing." The demon reached for him.
Jordie held up his hands. "Look, can you at least give me a name to call you? The last one never did, and it was really weird." Especially after six days. And something like nine billion orgasms. They'd created enough sex magick to power a small third world country for a year, and all he'd been able to call that demon was "dude."
"Sure. Call me Mal." Mal winked, moving in closer. He smelled like cinnamon and musk.
"Mal it is. Did you bring lube?"
"No, but hey, it's not like you don't have lotion. This is the beach, right?"
"Oh, come on!" Jordie rolled his eyes, stamped one foot. "You want my ass to smell like coconut and aloe? And there's probably sand."
Mal stared back, finally sighing. "This is Belize. It's not like there's a 7-11."
"Not my issue. You're all magickal and shit. Conjure some." He went to pour himself a cup of coffee. "And none of that heating cinnamon stuff, either." Amateur.
"I am not an amateur. You sold your soul, of which I am here to collect three years of interest. If I want to involve chicken sacrifices and fire jugglers, it's my prerogative. You should be glad I only forgot lube."
"I'm allergic to feathers, and stay out of my brain." Jordie headed to his kit bag and found the slick, the tiny tube not filling him with confidence.
"Hey, I can work with that. If there's a little of something I can make it more. I just can't conjure it from nothing." Warm, warm hands landed on his back, leaving little electric tingles. "Relax."