Free The Devil's Reprise by Karina Halle

palpable thickness and was steel-cut and hard as concrete and a million other euphemisms for his dick. And there was the distortion and unease that came from pedal effects and layers of riffs upon layers of riffs. But mixed in with the faint horn and string sections that played tribute to his half-Mexican heritage, there was an underlying sadness. This wasn’t an album of hope but one of despair and yearning and frustration. Sage opened himself up on the record to the dirty things that hid deep in his soul.
    At least, that’s what I got out of it. I had to wonder what had gone on in all the months we were apart—I knew where my head was, but where was his? How was he dealing with the aftermath of the Devil’s contract? Another pang of guilt came up and bit me on the heart. I’d never assumed that Sage had trouble dealing with what happened, but the album was suggesting otherwise.
    When we finally landed in Paris, Max waking up to the all-too-friendly touch of the flight attendant, the guilt was still weighing heavily on my shoulders. I suppose Max saw this because he was being upbeat and decided to school me at the last minute on my French. The distraction didn’t work, though; it only made me more anxious. Here I was, landing in motherfucking Paris, on assignment, about to see Sage Knightly for the first time in too long.
    “You okay?” Max asked as we stood crammed up against each other in the aisle, waiting for people to get off the plane.
    I nodded quickly, running my teeth over my lips and wishing I had lip balm. “Tired,” I said, leaving a ton of other adjectives out of it. “Je suis fatigue.”
    “Très bien,” Max said, but I could feel his eyes boring down on me, taking me in and sussing me out. I wished he would stop. I just wanted to get off the plane and get this over with. My pulse couldn’t take it anymore. My nerves were in a blender.
    Each step I took off the plane and through the airport, my senses bombarded with the smell of cigarettes and strong cologne and the sound of rapid-fire French, the more my legs felt like they were made of melting snow. Each step was a step closer to our meeting. Each step meant more sweat trickling down the back of my sore neck.
    I felt like I was minutes away from being committed by the time Max and I cleared the overly suspicious French customs and stood waiting for our bags at baggage claim. I had to admit, I was really glad that Max was there with me for that. To them, we were traveling together, and in his perfect French, he had all the right answers for the customs officials. I could only smile and nod and repeat my name. I knew they all spoke English, but it seemed to anger them to do so.
    The funny thing was—and I know I was thinking of too many romantic movies—but I really had expected Sage to be there, running toward me, ready for an embrace. Or at least, you know, be there. But he wasn’t. There wasn’t even anyone with a sign that said “Emerson” or “ Creem ” or even “Elvis-Wannabe from Sex City.” As Max and I trundled our suitcases out of baggage claim, we were met by no one.
    “Well, this is a nice welcome,” I muttered as I watched people happily greeting one another. Max only nodded and stuck another cigarette in his mouth. I sighed and glanced over at the washrooms. They were called W.C.s here, I was right.
    I excused myself and quickly tried to pretty myself up in the washroom in case Sage was still on his way or stuck in traffic or something. I not-so-subtly watched the French travelers lean over the sinks and dot lipstick on their lips and cheeks and smooth flyaways with mists of Evian water. I had so much to learn and fancied I might even go back to Ellensburg with a new sense of chic style.
    And I was going back, despite Eric’s fears. If my first few moments in Europe were any indicator of what was to come, I was definitely going back.
    When I came out of the washroom, groomed but still pretty darn lackluster after two long