Page 91 of The Music Demon

She laughed. “So how’d you end up here?”

“Came for the music.”

“The music,” she repeated. “Well. Reasons for dragging it across the desert can’t get better than that.”

“Total disclosure. I flew. In a plane.”

She turned around and faced him. “In a plane? Not with your arms waving really fast?”

The light in her eyes said she was having fun at his expense and he realized that dynamic between Cassidy Power and himself wasn’t about her getting the auto respect that comes with years. She was a pistol even when they were the same age.

“Just messing with you,” she said, opening one of a pair of French doors.

She led him into a room with red walls and two purple velvet loveseats facing each other across a coffee table featuring eight-inch high stacks ofRolling Stonemagazines. It would have screamed bordello were it not for a score of guitars hanging on the walls and an old Moog synthesizer in the corner. He’d never seen a real one.

One of the loveseats was occupied by a couple in the later stages of semi-dressed foreplay.

“Need the room,” Cass announced.

The two looked over at her with puffy mouths and dazed looks, like they weren’t understanding clearly. Doo couldn’t tell for sure if the confusion was caused by sex, drugs, or both, but if he’d been betting his own money, he’d say both.

“Come on.” The guy gave Cass a lazy smile. “Join us.”

“Out,” Cass said, more insistent this time, adding a sweeping gesture to indicate the way to the exit. “Don’t make me go get Bawdy.”

Doo had no idea who Bawdy might be, but noted that the threat registered on the faces of the pair. With deep sighs, they pulled on shoes and adjusted clothes with all the speed of Death Valley tortoises.

Cass rested her hand on her cocked hip while she rolled her eyes. He chuckled, but followed her lead and waited patiently. When they’d finally half-stumbled out, she closed the door and motioned to the sofa. While Doo sat, she opened the heavy curtains and let light into the room. “There. That’s better.”

Sitting down. “How’d you find me?”

“Jerry Slick.”

“What did he tell you I could do for you?”

“Hook me up with guys lookin’ for bandmates?”

“Hook you up?” Her eyebrows raised. “Never heard that expression before. I like it.”

Doo immediately realized he’d made a twenty-first-century slang mistake. He hoped like hell she’d forget about it before Lyric found out he might have accidentally changed pop culture history.

“He called you a matchmaker.”

She chuckled. “He did, huh. Well, I’ve probably been called worse.” Her eyes locked on his in a penetrating way. “So. What do you have to offer the world, Doo Darby? Musically, that is.”

“I can play.” He didn’t say what instrument, but she surmised the answer by the way his eyes drifted to the guitars on the wall. “I can sing. And I like to write.”

“Hmmm. Here’s the thing. A lot of people think they can play, but they can’t. A lot of people think they can sing, but theyreallycan’t. A few people think they could write songs people would want to hear…”

“But they’re wrong?” Doo finished for her.

“Yeah. They’re wrong.” Doo responded with a wide smile that was boyish and disarming. “That heartbreaker smile could take you a long way, but only if it’s backed up with premium chops. You ever been in a band?”

“Not per se.”

“Meaning?”

“I get asked to front a few songs for bands pretty often, but until recently I didn’t have the freedom to, ah, go fulltime.”

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