The Devil Went Down to Swindon by Josephine Myles
When junior hair stylist Darren Lock gets so frustrated with his life he offers to sell his soul for a chance to win Pop Idol, the Devil is only too happy to oblige. The only trouble is, he wants Darren’s body rather than his soul…
***
“Fuck it, I’d sell my soul to have the balls to get up there and have a go,” he said to no one in particular.
“That’s a rather rash offer, don’t you think, my boy?”
Darren nearly jumped out of his skin, and whirled around to confront the owner of the rumbling voice, about to tell him that at nineteen he wasn’t anyone’s boy, but the words died on his lips when he got a good look at the man. He wore a long, dark trench coat and a fedora, just like he’d walked out of one of Darren’s favorite film noirs, but it wasn’t the eccentric dress sense that stole his words. No, it was that sly grin and those hazel eyes — eyes that seemed to pin him to the spot and turn over all his secret desires.
Gulping back the rush of lust that threatened to turn him into a simpering mess, Darren called upon all of his outrage at Craig and the rest of the bloody band.
“Oh yeah? Well it’s not like anyone’s gonna take me up on it, is it?”
The man just smirked some more, raising an eyebrow and looking almost exactly like a young Mickey Rourke, back from before his face got all messed-up. Goddammit, was he getting so obsessed with old movies that he’d started seeing things? But no, the bloke really did look like he’d just stepped off the set of Angel Heart and onto the streets of Swindon. Darren had the horrible feeling that his righteous anger had come out sounding more like petulance, so he folded himself further into his jacket and tried to look like he couldn’t care less what the sexy stranger thought of him.
“Why ever not? I’m sure a soul like yours would be beautifully fresh and innocent,” the stranger said with a wolfish grin.
This guy was definitely taking the piss now. “Yeah, right. Whatever. Anyway, I don’t have a stupid bloody soul, do I? It’s all make-believe Sunday school crap they tell you to stop you stepping out of line.”
“You think so? Well then I guess you wouldn’t be able to sell it if you don’t have one. Damn, that sure is a cryin’ shame, because I was willing to help you out, Sweetheart.”
God, this bloke was nuts, wasn’t he? Why was it always the good looking ones who were crazy? “Yeah, like you could help me out with winning Pop Idol, mate. It’s not gonna happen, is it?”
The stranger licked his lips, looking Darren up and down. “Well, if you don’t believe in trading something so intangible, perhaps you could trade your sinfully delectable and oh-so-very-mortal body instead?”
“Are you saying I look like a prostitute? I’ll have you know I’m an artiste.” Even as he flounced his hair and pouted, Darren cringed at how bloody pretentious he sounded. What he really was, the inner voice told him, was a scrawny kid in cheap clothing who worked as a junior hair stylist in a third-rate salon and who sang in a band so bleeding awful they’d be lucky to get a gig in the local scout hut.
The stranger just grinned some more, showing his teeth. “Oh I’m sure you are, Honey, but I am in a position to be able to offer you what you want, in exchange for what I want.” He took a step closer and raked his eyes up and down Darren’s body.
Darren gulped again, feeling terribly unsophisticated and more than a little pissed off with the way his jaw kept hanging open. It didn’t help that his mobile had chosen this moment to start vibrating in his pocket, which was really off putting. “Ehrm, unless you’re Simon Cowell in disguise, I seriously doubt that, mate. Not that it’s not an interesting offer n’ all.”
“I’m much better than that, Gorgeous.” The stranger threw his arms wide with a triumphant leer. “I’m the Devil himself.”
