Dead Rockstar (The Dead Rockstar Trilogy Book 1)

Chapter 3

Startled,I fell backward. “What the fuck?” I felt like I”d been hit with a jolt of electricity right as the power had flickered off. My trailer was pitch black, and the air felt like it was thrumming. The hint of acrid smoke drifting past my nostrils smelled faintly of sulfur, but how could that be? I had only burned cinnamon clove scented wax and sage. Was it the breaker? Had the trailer been hit by lightning? I dusted myself off and got up off the floor, cursing. The bundle of sage was still smoldering on the table, so I grabbed it for light and stood up, feeling my way toward the kitchen.

The light was no longer blinking on my stove as I fumbled my way into the room, knocking over the broom that I”d stupidly propped up in the doorway. “Hey witch, there”s your broom. Time to get the fuck outta Dodge,” I joked, my voice shaky. I made my way by feel over to the control panel, opened the metal door and flipped the main breaker switch, then flipped it back. Nothing happened.

Had I forgotten to pay my power bill? It had happened before. Back before Tess had left, it got shut off every other month for non-payment. No, I was sure I”d paid it just a couple of weeks ago, and the power company wouldn”t turn me off in the middle of the night anyway. As I made my way back to the living room, I heard little drops hitting the tin roof of the trailer. Rain. So the storm had made its way inland already. I sighed with relief; it was just a power outage. The wind was kicking up; I could hear it rattling the windows. Knowing my luck, we were in the middle of a hurricane. I hoped my small trailer could withstand it.

My phone was still recording. I could see the little red light by the camera, blinking away as I entered the room. Fumbling in the dark, I made my way back to it. “Sorry, Sloan,” I said in a goofy voice, picking up the phone. “Looks like my spell was a little too powerful. I knocked the power out. See, that”s why you shouldn’t doubt my powers. Byeeee!”

I turned off the recording and called the power company. “Your call has been logged,” the automated voice said. “A crew will be dispatched shortly. We will assist your address as soon as possible. In case of an emergency, dial 911.” I flicked the phone off and sat on the couch. The place was quiet as a tomb, save for the sound of the deepening rain pinging on the tin roof and the howl of the wind. The bundle of sage was strong and fragrant in my hand, so strong it was giving me a headache. I blew it out and set it on the coffee table, then thought better of it and ran to grab a saucer. The last thing I needed was to burn down my house.

I was very drunk. My head was suddenly pounding, and my mouth was insanely dry. My entire body felt cold and numb, like I”d been sitting out in the snow for hours without a coat.

Fumbling my way back into the kitchen again, I grabbed a glass of water from the tap, careful to turn it off firmly in case it was a while before the power came back on. Being on well water, flushing toilets and running water was a luxury I didn”t have in a power outage. Living right at the beach, you got used to these things. I”d been through so many sea storms and hurricanes I”d lost count. More than one tornado had raced right through this stretch of woods, which was directly between the sea and Brunswick. I”d been lucky so far, but tonight I didn”t feel brave. It wasn”t the storm – those were old hat, growing up in Coastal Georgia, especially after coming within feet of getting struck by lightning on Driftwood Beach last year – but rather the storm within me. I was so lonely, so adrift, that I”d just cast a spell and was now wandering around my trailer alone in the dark. Back in the early days, when we were happy, Tess and I would snuggle when the power went out. We didn”t bother with candles. We”d just let the darkness claim us. Now, I”d give anything for a little light.

I greedily drank from the glass, deciding I might as well go to bed; it”d likely be the middle of the night before the power came back on. In these parts, a woman in a lowly singlewide trailer on the edge of town wasn”t likely to be a priority. They”d be focused on the island and would get to the mainland later. I padded down my dark hallway into the bedroom and threw myself on the bed, pulling the bedclothes around me, shivering. I needed to wash my sheets; they felt gritty and wrinkled. I tucked my phone up under my pillow in case of emergency and was drifting off into sleep in seconds, thanks to the booze.

I wokeup the next morning to the overhead light blaring bright above me. My head was still pounding and the taste of stale, rancid grapes was all over my tongue, which felt a size too big. I pulled myself up from the bed and groaned as I made my way into the bathroom. Through the little window in the living room, I could see a tree down in the front yard. Likely there were more.

I peed, washed my hands and brushed my teeth, remembering the night before. My lips were stained, a line of dark red dividing my bottom lip in half. I searched my booze-drenched brain, trying to remember last night’s events. I”d drunk a whole bottle of wine and had the bright idea to try and cast a spell. Then the power had gone out.

As I walked to the kitchen to make a pot of industrial strength coffee, I realized that I”d never sent the video to Sloan. That had been the whole point of doing the damn thing, and I”d totally forgotten. As the coffee percolated, I scrolled through my phone, opening our text history and tapping “add attachment.” As I searched for the video, I frowned. It wasn”t there. Maybe the file was too big. I”d have to send it through Facebook or upload it to YouTube. I went into my picture gallery and looked through my most recent photos and videos. Pictures of Blinken, a few screen shots, and that was it. Nothing from the night before. It was as if I”d never taken the video, though I knew I had, clearly remembering the little blinking red light in the dark. But there was no video in my camera gallery. Had I deleted it somehow?

I slammed my phone down on the table, angry. I”d done that entire stupid spell for absolutely fucking nothing.

In the bright morning light,the humidity of the storm still lingering in the air, my house looked like a hot mess. I could see trails of dust on my counters and I hadn”t done dishes in days. It was disgraceful, I thought, as I drank the last dregs of cold coffee from my favorite Snoopy cup. I couldn’t keep living like this. Hungover, haggard, lonely, bored.

When Tess had been around, I”d been a dutiful little homemaker, the kind of woman that I despised, but I”d justified it. I”d cleaned up his messes, cooked his dinner most nights, washed his skid-marked underwear. And for what? He”d cheated on me not once, but many times, had brought drugs into our house, squandered our money and left me like a chump. And who was I now? Just a loser sitting in a singlewide trailer that faintly smelled of trash with a kitchen floor that hadn”t been mopped since the day before he left, doing spells to try and raise the dead. Oh, of course it was all hock-and-booey, but just the fact that I”d done it was proof that I was not the person I once was. The person I used to be snickered and left the room in disgust if Tess even turned on Ancient Aliens.

The truth, I suspected, was that I was starting to lose it. Left to my own devices, I was headed full swing toward a nervous breakdown. I had to take charge before it was too late, and I became some daft hippie smelling of raw milk. I snorted, then remembered the way the perfectly coifed, fancy Brunswick Moms had made fun of the Goat”s Milk Soap Lady in our group. It bothered me the way they mocked her, had little in-jokes at her expense. Sloan and I had our share of gossip and snark, but I liked to think it wasn”t from a place of malice. I was going to have to work on not becoming one of those bitter women I hated.

I tied up my blonde hair in a messy bun, threw on an old work shirt, and set out to do the chores I”d been neglecting for weeks. I started with my disgusting sheets, which I threw in the washer. Then I mopped the floor, did the dishes, vacuumed the rugs and my couches, washed out the coffee pot with vinegar, and cleaned the toilets. It took me most of the day, but I felt better, albeit sweaty and grimy, when it was done. I hopped in the shower, feeling brighter than I had in weeks. I ventured outside in my rain boots and picked up the debris from the fallen trees that I was able to get on my own and made a mental note to ask Sloan to send her uncle over to get the rest. He had a logging business and would collect it free of charge. He might even chop some of it into firewood for me if I asked. Tasks done, I felt much better. Before I knew it, I was in my car and heading for the farmer’s market.

I decided I would make vegan flautas for dinner. Something about rolling up the little corn flutes and deep frying the crap out of them always calmed me, even if it did fill my house with the smell of grease. I”d make some guacamole, too, maybe stop on the way back and grab another bottle of that Merlot - see if Sloan wanted to drop by. I still needed to hear how her date had gone. We could have one of our slumber parties. It”d be a nice way to cap off a productive day, and maybe when I went back to work on Monday things would still be looking up and I could truly forget about my shitty ex-husband who I still craved.

It”s all about intention, I told myself.

The farmer’s market was bustling as usual; it always was on Saturdays. There was a line snaked around the booth that sold fresh-baked chocolate croissants and an even longer one at the coffee station. There was a band playing on the small wooden makeshift stage over by the playground, and a group of children were drawing in chalk on the pavement. A mom with a stroller took a discreet sip of something from a lemonade bottle, and when she saw me notice, she winked. I headed toward the grocer booths, laughing to myself. I wasn”t the only one with problems.

I grabbed a few ripe avocados, handing exact change to the farmer, who was about my age and despite wearing old-man overalls, fairly adorable. He had clear, bright eyes and an easy smile. He handed me a bag. “Do you come to here every weekend? I don”t think I”ve seen you before.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but then something caught my eye and the words died in my throat.

A few booths down, over by Goat”s Milk Soap lady and her sage bundles, was a man. Clad in a tight black t-shirt and black jeans reminiscent of the mid-90s, military boots, and a black coat, he was an imposing figure, with rippling hair that flew behind him in the morning breeze. He stared at me intently from behind the soaps, his expression unreadable. He was overdressed – it was late September, but hot and humid as all get-out – this was Georgia, after all. He didn”t need a coat. His hair was a glossy jet black, pulled back in a severe ponytail, but it was so long it still blew in the coastal air. He was tall - no, tall didn”t do it justice - hulking, standing a foot over the woman, who was trying pretty hard to make a sale. She looked like a waif next to him, standing there in a light pink sundress with her neck craned, holding up a rosy colored square for him to smell. He reached down gingerly and took it from her hands with the grace of a cat, his hands huge with thin fingers. He put the soap to his nose, smiling at her politely, but he was still looking at me.

My breath caught and I forgot all about the avocados, the cute young farmer and the bag he was holding out to me. It couldn”t be. It was impossible.

I was looking at Phillip Deville.

“Um, miss? Your bag?”

I shook my head and smiled goofily, wrenching my eyes away. “I”m sorry,” I said. “I thought I saw someone I knew.” I took the bag from him and moved to go. His face fell a little.

“I was just asking if you come here every weekend-”

But I was staring back toward the soap booth, looking for the tall black-haired man who had just been standing there. He was gone. Had I imagined him?

“I”m sorry,” I said again, turning to the blond guy in the overalls, vaguely aware that I”d been rude. “You were saying?”

“Never mind.” He smiled good-naturedly, giving up. “You have a nice day, now.”

Damn. He”d been flirting with me. There I went, imagining dead rock stars and ignoring the cute hipster farmer trying to pick me up. Another chance lost. I gave him a sweet smile, hoping it hid my embarrassment, and walked out of the booth, kicking myself. What had come over me? Had my drunken tarot night really fucked with my head that much?

I scanned the crowd, my eyes falling briefly on a soft, matte black leather jacket in the crowd. Then it was gone, lost among the throng. The band had started playing, and folks were gathering near the stage. Kids were crouched down on the pavement, making chalk figures. Dogs with bandannas and monogrammed t-shirts led their owners through the aisles. I forced myself to smile, but I couldn”t shake the feeling that whatever, whoever I was trying to see, was watching me.

I stopped at another booth to buy a bunch of bright-green collards that looked inviting. I was reaching for my wallet when out of the corner of my eye I saw him again. I looked up, slowly, and he smiled. Standing there in the avocado booth, where I”d just been, he was unmistakable. It had to be Philip Deville; the man was a dead ringer. Down to the flashing green eyes, the cupid”s bow mouth, the dark, heavy brows. But it couldn”t be. I shoved my money at the woman with the collards, and squaring my shoulders, stepped out into the mass of people, trying to decide if I should approach the man or run.

The band onstage was a ukulele-and-banjo playing duo - brothers, folksy guys who played here often. They were doing a cover of a Mr. Bungle tune I hadn”t heard in forever. It was giving me a weird feeling of deja vu. My brain searched for the title and came up blank. I tried to assure myself that I wasn”t going crazy, but with my ears swimming and my head ringing, it was hard to believe it. Retrovertigo. That was the song. A fitting title, considering how I felt right now. My eyes searched for the mysterious man, lost again in the crowd.

I stumbled over to the bread booth, hoping they might have corn tortillas for my flautas, still trying to shake myself out of the trance, caused by what had to be the world”s worst hangover. Could you hallucinate from drinking too much? Fuck, I had to get ahold of myself; it was too much. I was too much.

There was a man standing in front of me, tall with dark, pulled back brown hair and a black t-shirt emblazoned with the Metallica logo. He was wearing a light black jacket, rolled up to his forearms, and was quite handsome. He”s the guy I saw, I told myself. You just saw the tall guy with dark hair and your imagination filled in the rest. I smiled at him and reached for a bag of tortillas. He gave me a warm smile in return and went back to picking out his bread. He was holding the hand of a little girl in a green dress, explaining to her the different types – rye, pumpernickel, ciabatta. I sighed with relief, the mystery solved, willing my heartbeat to slow down and making myself the sincere promise that I would not drink a single drop of alcohol tonight.

The taller of the brothers on the stage was singing, his voice light and airy and full of sugared irony and I stood there a moment, taking it in. Then a flash of glimmering black hair, absorbing a ray of sunlight, a tall, rigid back rounding a corner and ducking behind a booth. I blinked; there was nothing in front of me but cottony, homemade handbags and buckwheat pasta. It was time to go home.

I headed toward the exit, my shopping done. I felt oddly cheerful, considering my wooziness and what had to be some serious dehydration-induced hallucinations. It might be a good idea to go home and grab a nap before starting dinner. And I”d drink at least a gallon of water. No more wine. At least for a couple of days. I was drinking too damn much, and it was making my brain weird.

Someone knocked into me, hard. I dropped my bag full of food.

“Oh, damn. I”m sorry!” The young man reached down and grabbed the bag and handed it back to me. “I didn”t mean to just mow over you there.”

He had run smack into me while holding a huge bouquet of flowers, and now I had white and yellow petals all over me. I brushed off my shirt and looked at him. His wide silver-blue eyes were a little frantic. “It”s fine.” I held out my hand for the bag, masking my irritation, and he handed it over. I”d never seen a grown man with so many freckles. His hair was sandy colored with threads of silver, most of it tucked under a ball cap. He was wearing a red polo shirt with the Georgia “G” on it, which made his flushed baby face appear even pinker. Despite the silver strands of hair, I guessed he couldn”t be more than twenty or so. “Thanks.”

He stood there a moment, seemingly ready to say something else, but I moved past him and kept walking out toward the parking lot and my car. So I”d struck out twice due to my own social ineptitude, but it just wasn”t my day. My stomach was rumbling angrily, and I realized I hadn”t eaten since the day before. No wonder I felt half insane. Bumping into freckled frat boys and floating obliviously past cute farmer guys were the least of my worries. My blood sugar was so low I was hallucinating dead rock stars.

On the drive home, I blasted Pantera loud enough to wake the dead and shook my head clear of all the nonsense – both from the night before and at the farmer’s market. I told myself that I was being silly, that I was letting my imagination get away from me, that it was just a good old-fashioned dose of anxiety combined with loneliness and that I needed to decompress. A long talk with Sloan full of her acerbic, rough-around-the-edges support combined with a good bang (I decided I”d go back to the farmer’s market tomorrow and give cute avocado guy my number) should do the trick. I”d eat a good meal. I”d go to bed early. It”s all about intention.

I”d managed to finally convince myself that it was all a bunch of hock-and-booey right up until I walked up onto my front porch. My foot stuck for a moment on the welcome mat, and when I moved it, a string of turquoise-colored gum stretched out from my shoe to the carpet. Fuck, my favorite burgundy chucks. Groaning, I pulled my foot upward to remove the gum and had to brace myself against the door when I saw the tarot card stuck to the sole. I knew which card it was before I pulled it off. Death.