They called him Abadon.

Really, it was a good choice, because he looked like the devil incarnate.

Charle looked at the man, no, the creature that he was supposed to be following on the last leg of his American tour and knew that he was going to be in for it. The creature himself stood there sneering at Charle’s comfortable khaki cargo pants and his long sleeved AC/DC band T-shirt.

That was fine. Charle eyeballed him, starting at his tight leather pants, moving up to his wild abandon of long black hair, then down again to his bare feet and his chest. Charle found himself less than impressed as well.

The man he banged last night was so much better… At least he thought he was. The night had gotten kind of hazy after stranger anger sex, but Charle had to admit it was because of last night and his mystery man that he was feeling a lot more calm when dealing with this impressive…

Okay, maybe Charle was a little impressed, he decided as he watched the man’s muscles flex as he moved. It was obvious that between the drinking, the partying, the womanizing, and the reported drug use, Abadon also found some time to work out.

I work out too. But Charle knew it was just to stay in good enough shape in a world where he spent a lot of time eating fast food with whatever band he was covering or sucking down whatever the catering service supplied back stage. It was obviously nothing like what Abadon did to get those abs rippled enough to scrub Charle’s T-shirt, the one that the rocker so easily dismissed, clean as hell.

The biceps weren’t bad either. Slinging a guitar and screaming at the crowds of adoring fans who paid upwards of ninety dollars for a nosebleed seat must really be a workout.

After trailing his gaze up from his black painted toenails to the red-rimmed black eyes staring at him, Charle cleared his throat and got back to the mission at hand.

“Hello,” he forced cheerfulness into his voice. “I’m Charle and I’ll be following you guys as you hit your last three cities before you all head off to Europe.”

He lifted an ID badge and press pass that someone so kindly hung on a steel lanyard for him. This was not his first rodeo. Charle had done jobs like this before under different circumstances and had learned to keep his credentials handy.

Charle didn’t offer a hand because it looked like Abadon wouldn’t shake his anyway. So he stood there staring at the singer, hoping that he would wash his feet after they boarded his tour bus.

“What kind of a name is Charle for a grown man?” Abadon asked, his forehead wrinkled in what had to be confusion.

Okay. The lead singer’s not all that bright, though his voice is very familiar. Must be from all the sample songs I listened to in order to get ready for this job.

“A grown-ass man should be Charles or Chuck. Not Charle,” Abadon continued. “Never a diminutive that makes you sound like a twelve year old girl.”

“And what kind of name is Abadon?” Charle asked, as sweetly as he could. “It sounds like the name of an aging rocker from the eighties trying to reclaim his youth or maybe his throne among the lost Emo Kids set — the ones who wore black eyeliner and wrote depressing poetry about how no one understands them and how they wish they were never born while thinking that cutting would give them the attention they deserve.”

Charle offered him a smile. It didn’t have to be war between them, but there was no way he was going to take any shit from the great Abadon either. He just wasn’t in the mood. He had only taken this job because he needed to get away even before the incident with Dick. Abadon was not going to mess this up for him.

“Ohh,” Abadon purred, his black eyes looking interested for the first time since they started this conversation. “Charle has some fight in him.”