Since The Devil’s Metal will be released at the end of Sep­tem­ber (some­time between the 21st and the end of Octo­ber, see­ing how things go) and it’s now Sep­tem­ber 1st (seriously.…SERIOUSLY…how is it? Sum­mer? What? I can’t even…) I’ve decided to put lit­tle teasers and snip­pets up on the blog.

I also wanted to show you this cool Hybrid tank top — I love band merch! (espe­cially fake band merch).

So there’s that…writing about a fic­tional 70’s metal band gives me so many mer­chan­dise and give­away oppor­tu­ni­ties, it’s sick. I can tell you tons of awe­some stuff will be given out this month — right on!

If you need a refresh over what The Devil’s Metal is about, read the blurb on Good Reads here.

Teaser #1 (UNEDITED — MAY CHANGE PRIOR TO PUBLICATION):

 

Sage walked over to the table in two long strides and snatched up the bot­tle. He gave Chip a dis­ap­prov­ing squint before com­ing back to me.

He stepped up close, very close, so that his wide chest was inches away from mine and his tow­er­ing frame enveloped my whole view. I stood my ground, as tempted as I was to take a step backward.

Sage placed the bot­tle in my hand, our fin­gers touch­ing. It was just for a sec­ond, a brush as light as a feather, but it rat­tled my nerves. I strug­gled to keep my eyes glued to his.

He low­ered his voice. His breath smelled like beer and some­thing fresh, like the ocean.

“Is my band just what you expected? Is this what you’re going to write about?”

He was egging me on, dar­ing me.

“I’m not writ­ing any­thing tonight,” I told him. I put on a mask of false con­fi­dence and took a swig of whisky straight out of the bot­tle, match­ing the inten­sity of his gaze. “Tonight I’m just a fan.”

“Just a fan…” he mused, scratch­ing at his long side­burn, black hair against lightly bronzed skin. “Right. And then the next day? And the next day? Do you really want to doc­u­ment a band com­ing to its knees in its dying days? Is that what a fan wants to see?”

His voice was so low that he couldn’t have been heard over Jeff Beck on the eight-track and the drunken cries of debauch­ery in the back­ground. What exactly was he telling me?

I flapped my mouth help­lessly for a few sec­onds, try­ing to fig­ure out how to respond.

He leaned in even fur­ther, star­ing at my lips. I could see two strands of light grey at his tem­ple, the absolute way his eye color matched the sil­very under­side of a leaf.

“You’re all the same you know,” he con­tin­ued, almost whis­per­ing now. His eyes met mine, mes­mer­iz­ing orbs through his long curl­ing lashes. “You’re just like those girls over there. Just like those pricks out­side. You take and take and take and say you want to be a part of it all but why you’re really here is to wit­ness the fall. Be a part of his­tory. Say you saw it hap­pen. I know what it’s like, Dawn. In a few more years, no one would care.”

Half way through Sage’s speech I was struck by a few slurred words and when I stopped try­ing to make sense of what­ever the hell he was talk­ing about and saw his body sway slightly and how his green feline eyes were lightly glazed, I real­ized that the rumors of Sage being a drunk were at least partly true. Not that I was judg­ing; I was the one drink­ing Jame­son straight out of the bottle.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” I told him, finally tak­ing a step back. I had always dreamed about my first con­ver­sa­tion with Sage but I never imag­ined it would go like this; fully of hos­til­ity and drunken ram­blings, sur­rounded by half-naked, fucked-up people.