Dead Rockstar (The Dead Rockstar Trilogy Book 1)

Chapter 5

The handsthat were touching my face were soft but cool, the fingers calloused. “Stormy Spooner, wake up. You okay?”

I was in arms that felt strong and were holding me tight. My eyes were closed. I surmised that I was lying on the floor where I”d fallen – no, fainted – and he had knelt down to check on me, cradling me in his arms. I”d had some kind of hallucination, some episode, probably because I hadn”t eaten anything other than espresso beans and had exercised with no substance in me. I would open my eyes and it would be someone else holding me. Sloan, or even Tess. But Sloan didn”t smell like woodsmoke and sandalwood, and Tess”s arms weren”t firm and strong like these...

I took a deep breath and opened my eyes, just peering a little at first. Then they opened wide, disbelieving.

Sitting above me, his long, ink-black hair falling into my face, with an expression of both concern and amusement, was Phillip Deville.

Phillip Deville.

THE Phillip Deville, lead singer, violinist, bassist and sometime harmonica player for the Bloomer Demons, cult-famous rock star, poet, legend. And dead for– I tried to do the calculations in my woozy head – twenty-three years?

I lay there in his arms, my head buzzing, unable to sit up, though I wanted to. I wanted to flee from the house and run screaming into the trees. This could not be. It wasn”t possible. I was seeing a ghost. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The eyes that stared down at me were like emeralds, a dark shining green, the expression in them kind. But I was terrified.

He brushed a hair from my face, then tucked his own behind his ears. “Are you okay?” he asked again.

“I... you died when I was in high school,” I stammered stupidly. “It was on the news.” As though this gave it more legitimacy.

“MTV News?”

I looked at him, befuddled, and managed to choke out. “Yes, but also the, er, evening news. NBC. CBS. All of them.”

He looked pleased. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “Did Kurt Loder break in with a bulletin? I always hated that fucking guy. I hope he had to do it.”

I tittered dumbly, this time the words unintelligible. It was entirely possible that I would pass out again.

He chuckled softly, his sharp white teeth shining in the dim room. “I”ve given you quite a shock,” he said in a quiet voice that was very deep despite his low, soft tone. “Though you shouldn”t be shocked, really, should you, Stormy Spooner?”

“I don”t understand.”

“Find the spell and bring me back,” he said softly, and put a hand around my waist, pulling me up to a sitting position.

I stared at him. “Spells aren”t real,” I said incredulously, the blood roaring in my ears. “Especially not that one. A third-grader could have written it.”

“I think I”ve just been insulted.” His rosebud mouth curled into a dangerous grin. “And yet.”

I shook my head dumbly. “No. I”m a fucking atheist for god”s sake.”

His laughter was like tinkling glass distorted through a bass pedal. He slapped a knee. “That was very good, Stormy Spooner.”

“Stop calling me by both names.” I shook my head, moving away from his arms, but they held me fast. “I don”t understand. Are you really Phillip Deville?”

“Yeah, I am,” he answered affably. “Or was.”

“But how?” I took in his face – long, straight nose that came to a soft point, almond shaped eyes, hint of stubble on a squarish chin, elfin ears, long hair – he”d worn it several different ways back in the height of his career. Sometimes it had been copper red, wavy and shining, other times he”d worn it frizzy and spiky on his head, then the chestnut-brown phase when he”d kept it mid-length and tucked under a police cap (after he”d been arrested for the second time on drug charges and served a stint in jail), the “Cruella” phase, parted down the middle with one side black and the other bleached white, and then finally jet black, worn long, like a vampire. That was how it had looked when he”d died, and it was how it looked now. I reached out to touch a strand, still not believing he could be real. I hadn”t had even one drink today. “You cannot seriously be saying that I did this, that I brought you back. It”s not possible.”

“How else could I be here?” he asked and pulled me upright. We rose to our feet. He towered over me. Those bios that boasted his height at 6”5” had not been false. At 5”9”, I considered myself tall for a woman, but he dwarfed me.

“I”m hallucinating. I”m having a dream. I have lost my goddamn mind.”

“You look fine to me.”

“Sloan is playing a joke on me. She sent somebody here to pretend to be you-”

“I don”t know any Sloan,” he said thoughtfully. “But that”d be a good band name.”

I stared. “How...how did you know where to go? How to find me?”

“You summoned me,” he said simply. “It was like an impulse in my head. I just followed it.”

“Like your own little GPS witch computer in your noggin”,” I said, feeling hysterical and light-headed, and began to giggle.

“What”s GPS?” he asked, dark brow furrowing.

“Never mind.” I felt woozy and leaned into him without thinking. His arm was as solid and bulky as a rock.

“Do you have anything to drink?” he asked, an arm going around me like it was second nature. “It was a long trip. Evidently being dead makes you thirsty.”

“W-what do you want?” I sputtered, in a state of disbelief. “Water, coffee, tea...?”

“Do you have any red wine?” he asked with a hint of a smile. “I haven”t had red wine in so long.”

“I do, actually,” I said, and managed to smile back, though I was pretty sure I”d be in the loony bin by this time tomorrow and probably looked like a Muppet. “We – um, me and Sloan – drank most of it, but I have a couple glasses left.”

“That”s great. Thanks.” His lips curled again. “It”ll be like first communion.”

I stared blankly. Finally, he nudged me forward, toward the kitchen.

“You said it was a long trip. Did you, um...fly?”

“Of course not,” he said, amused, following me down the hall. “I took a bus. Turns out all those coins people throw in graves come in handy.”

This time I was able to reach out for the wall to brace myself, before slumping to the floor.

I rubbed at my eyes,but the vision in front of me was definitely there. I was propped up, sitting at my kitchen table, my head resting on my hands. Phillip Deville was standing over by my fridge holding a half-empty bottle of red, pulling the cork out with his fingers. I”d never seen anyone actually look thirsty, but he did. It was like something out of a commercial; wild, caveman looking guy with deep, big thirst. He took a whiff of the contents, his eyes closing in pleasure, then took a long swig from the bottle. I watched his lips move over the rim and caught my breath. He held it in his mouth, savoring it.

“It”s not worth all that,” I said. “We just buy it at the liquor store down the road. It”s not, like, good stuff or anything.”

“It”s been years since I”ve tasted wine,” he said in a moan of pleasure. “It could be Night-Train and I”d be in heaven. Oh, shit. Sorry. I should have poured it in a glass.”

I waved a hand. “It”s fine. Glasses are behind you, though.”

I watched as he poured one for each of us. It was the last thing I needed, since I was still so woozy, but I accepted it politely. He sat down beside me and just stared, waiting for me to speak.

“Is that even a thing?” I asked incredulously. “Night-Train? I thought that was just a Guns ”n Roses song.”

“It was real back in the day,” he said, closing his eyes. “Cheap shit. Worst hangover of your life. Make you wish you were dead.”

The word “dead” gave me a chill. “I can”t...believe it”s really you,” I managed to say, leaning against the table for support. “I may die. Of a heart attack. Or possibly a stroke.”

“Don”t stroke out on me. I”m not sure if dead guys can do CPR.” He grinned. “Though I do appear to be breathing.”

“This is all a dream. Just a dream. I”m going to wake up any second.” I shook my head back and forth, hard enough to make my cheeks jiggle. “I”m going to pick up the phone and dial and it won”t ring. Or I”ll try to scream, and no sound will come out. Or I”ll run and run and never get anywhere. This is a panic dream.”

He smiled. “You”re funny. Hey, what year is it?”

My mouth fell open. “Seriously?”

“My clock seems to have stopped,” he said with a wry smile.

“Um.”

“You got it, right?”

Phillip Deville, my favorite dead rock star, told dad jokes. I rested my head on my hand, feeling tunnel vision set in. “2019,” I said slowly.

“I died in...1997. So I”ve been dead what...” He thought. “Twenty-two years?”

“Closer to twenty-three,” I said weakly, staring down at my glass. “I was in, um, my first year of high school.”

“Christ,” he muttered. “All those supposed die-hard fans and it took twenty-two years for somebody to do the fucking spell.”

“Well, you did have it hidden pretty well,” I said. “That rare vinyl goes for like five hundred bucks on Ebay these days. I just lucked out.”

“That record seriously pulls five hundred bucks? Fucking gougers.” He looked pleased with himself.

“Shouldn”t surprise you. The second you died all that stuff skyrocketed in value. People love their dead rock stars.”

Did he wince? “I guess they do.” He took another sip of wine. “I guess it took my being dead to hit the big time. But still...five hundred bucks for that shitty record. I can”t believe it, man.”

“It”s not a shitty record,” I said defensively. “It”s a piece of art.”

He raised an eyebrow and laughed.

“It is,” I insisted. When he didn”t respond, I added, “I got it for a steal.”

“Well, I”m glad for that.” He was still smiling. “And obviously, you deciphered the spell on the back?”

“Kinda. I found some folks speculating about it online, on reddit-” He looked confused. “-and just sort of looked over it. Honestly, I don”t even know how – I mean, I”m not a witch, I”ve never done a spell before, I didn”t even have half of the proper supplies-”

His dark eyes settled on me, a question in them, and I had to look away, my words getting lost. He was too intense. “But you had the power, evidently.”

“I didn”t mean to.” My cheeks burned. “I”ve been listening to your music a lot lately. It helps get me through-” I looked down. Famous people probably thought it was so cheesy when they heard that type of flowery, pathetic praise from fans. “I”m sure you were tired of hearing that from desperate, sad losers two decades ago.”

“No,” he said softly. “I”d never get tired of that.”

I blushed. “I”ve been your biggest fan since longer than I”d care to admit.”

“High school, at least,” he said with a sly grin. “I”m not sure how to feel about that. I”d say I feel old, but.” He sipped his wine. “I think that”s pretty ungrateful, considering.”

“How do you feel?” I asked, curious. “I mean, considering where you”ve, er, been...”

He put his long, muscled arms out in front of him and considered them. Somewhere between my front door and the kitchen he”d pulled off his black leather jacket and was now only clad in a faded black t-shirt that looked about a hundred years old. The skin of his arms was a soft, pale white, save for the tattoos on his bicep and forearms – a phoenix on one arm, and the number “7” on the other. I had the sudden thought I”d like to lick one of those arms and felt my face grow even hotter. He looked at me with a smirk, almost as if he”d heard my thoughts, then back down at his hands. He picked up his glass and as he raised it to his lips, I noticed his hands shook a little. “Now that I know you”re okay, I”m starting to feel a little freaked myself.” He took another deep drink of wine and looked at me intently as I sat across from him. “It”s not every day someone brings you back from the dead. All things considered, though, I feel pretty damn good.” He splayed out his fingers, made a fist, and ran his hands up and down the length of his arms.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Just before I passed...god, that feels weird to say...I wasn”t in a very good place. I don”t actually remember a lot.” He looked at me. “Just curious, what was my cause of death?”

I looked at him, surprised. “A drug overdose,” I said slowly. “They never came right out and said what from, just that it was a ”concoction.” But everybody knows what that means.”

“And what does it mean?”

I thought for a moment that I”d offended him, but he was looking at me with actual curiosity. “I just always assumed it meant the person was on so much shit they didn”t bother trying to find what actually did the job.”

He did wince that time. “I”m sorry. I shouldn”t have-”

“No, I asked,” he said quietly.

“You don”t...remember?” I questioned. “How it happened?”

“I remember,” he said quietly. “I just wondered what the official story was.” He looked around the kitchen. “This place suits you, but it”s so small. I don”t see how you ever shared it with someone. How long has your husband been gone?”

How the hell did he know about Tess? “A couple of months,” I answered. “How did you know-”

“There”s someone at your front door,” he interrupted me. His rosebud mouth had turned into a hard line. He stood up and walked to the far corner of the kitchen, just out of sight. “I”ll stay here, but if you need me -”

I hadn”t heard anything. “Are you sure?” I asked, and just as I spoke, there was a knock at the door. I stood up and went to answer it, looking curiously at Phillip. He was standing there straight as an arrow, his dark features lined with tension. How had he known someone was there before they ever knocked?

It was probably just Sloan. Despite how disoriented and downright weird the whole thing was, I was incredibly excited to bring her in her and show her Phillip Deville, in all his gorgeous flesh, standing in my kitchen. “You owe me, like, a thousand apologies, you beyotch-” I began as I opened the door with a flourish. But it wasn”t Sloan.

The man standing there was tall, though not nearly as tall as Phillip, with a face covered in freckles, pale blue eyes, and sandy blond hair. His eyes were partially hidden by a ball cap, but they were light, almost like glass, and somewhat unnerving, in an other-worldly kind of way. I looked at him for a moment, then remembered. “You”re the guy I ran into at the farmers market,” I said, puzzled. “What are you doing here?”

“Yeah, sorry about that. We didn”t meet formally,” he said, holding out his hand. “I”m Lee Courtenay.”

I extended my own reluctantly and gave a limp shake. “Stormy.” I didn”t give my last name. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” he said, taking off his ball cap and holding it over his chest, a move that seemed both weirdly gallant and boyish. “I”m a detective. Me and my partner here -” He gestured over his shoulder; a man suddenly came out from behind the shadows to his left. He was tall, tanned, with closely shorn dark brown hair and very dark eyes. He barely nodded at me. There was something menacing about him. “Shank”s his name. Yeah, it”s really his name.” He rolled his eyes. “Anyway, we”re investigating some things going on in this neck of the woods – pranks and stuff, a little light burglary – and I wondered if you”d had anything weird happen recently, or any strange visitors come out this way?”

My heart started to thump. I looked at him for a moment. He didn”t look old enough to be a detective. He looked barely old enough to be out of college. “What kind of pranks?”

“Oh, anything. Strange people sniffing around, maybe you noticed something missing...?” I didn”t say anything, and he went on. “Maybe a stranger knocking on the door...”

“Other than yourself? I can”t say that I have, Mr. Courtenay,” I replied. I felt sure that I didn”t want to tell him about the weird knocks Sloan and I had heard the night before, and I definitely didn”t want to tell him about the man standing in my kitchen. “Thanks for coming by to check, though.”

I expected him to turn and go, but he lingered, making me uncomfortable. My voice came out harsher than I meant it to when I asked, “So why did you run into me at the farmers market? What”s up with that?”

He gave a short laugh. “Oh, I was bringing flowers to my aunt. She has a booth there. I was in a hurry because I wanted to get home in time for the Georgia game. Again, I”m sorry about that.”

I regarded him warily. Sounded like a line of BS to me – most men I knew these days barely brought flowers to their significant others or their own mothers, much less brought them to an aunt at work – but he was wearing an expensive UGA hat, and I wanted him gone, so I accepted the story with a shrug. “I see. Well, it was nice seeing you again. Goodbye.”

He leaned in closer to me before I could move away and make for the door. I could smell his aftershave. It was a nice scent, musky, but there was something amateur about it, like Axe Body Spray”s slightly older cousin. His freckles were a dark splotch on his high cheekbones. I gripped the door handle. “Okay, I didn”t want to alarm you, Ms...” He seemed to wait, but I didn”t offer my last name. “Stormy. But the truth is, there”s an escaped convict from the prison in Knoxville, and the authorities have reason to believe he might”ve come this way. Family on Jekyll, you understand. You live out here alone – and frankly, this is the boonies - with only one elderly man off to the side over there. We already talked to him and he didn”t see or hear much, but I”m just concerned for your welfare.”

“I haven”t seen or heard anything,” I repeated firmly. “And anyway, I”m not alone most of the time. My friend often stays over. And my husband will be here, too.” I felt safer telling the lie. Something about the dark man standing in the yard was giving me the heebies, even if Lee seemed genial enough. Genial or not, I didn”t buy his story at all. It was too coincidental, that the same man I”d literally run into at the market was now at my well-secluded hole in the wall. Something else was up, and I”d find out what it was, but right now my main priority was getting these men off my property and away from the handsome, mysterious man lurking in my kitchen. I”d already been standing out here far longer than I wanted to. “I”ll be sure to tell them both to be on the lookout.”

He seemed to want to say more but nodded. “Alright, then. You do that. Keep your doors locked, your phone charged up, and don”t hesitate to call if you see or hear anything. Or if your, uh, husband does.” His expression suggested he didn”t believe my story. He handed me a card and I stuck it in my pocket without looking at it. “That”s my direct line. Call 911 or the sheriff”s department and they”ll take an hour to get out here. You call me, and I”ll come right away. If you see anything, or anybody, at all, you understand?”

“Yeah. Sure.” I wished he”d leave; my entire body was tense with nerves.

He stood there for another minute, his eyes searching mine, and then finally he stepped backward and down from the porch, walking into the night with his partner in tow. I stood there watching as they got in a dark car and left. Weird, I hadn”t noticed any headlights from the kitchen window when they”d pulled up.

I pulled the card out of my pocket and read it. “Detective Lee Courtenay.” There was a number and email address, but why didn’t it end in .gov? Even the font seemed unusual.

There was warm breath on the back of my neck suddenly, and I gasped. “He”s gone, then?”

I turned to face Phillip, who was standing behind me, silent and hulking. “Jesus, you scared me half to death!”

A rueful smile. “Better than all the way to death, no?”

“Not funny.”

“I thought it was.”

I tried for my best pissed off face. “It was a detective. Apparently, there”s an escaped convict in town-”

“Bullshit,” he said, taking the card from my fingers. He examined it.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he was looking for me,” he said, handing the card back and shutting my door. He locked the deadbolt and the handle.

“And what if you”re the escaped convict?” I demanded.

He leaned down, his face a few inches from mine, and his lips curved into a slow smile. “Then you”re in big trouble, Stormy Spooner.”

His eyes were so huge and glittering, I almost got lost. I leaned back, gasping a little for breath, and laughed. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You, like, almost hypnotized me.”

He shook his head. “I didn”t do anything. I was just, you know, being weird.” His face turned serious. “You do know that I”m not going to hurt you, right?”

“I guess so.” He didn”t seem dangerous. The thrill I felt in my stomach definitely wasn”t from fear.

“This guy, whoever he is, he”s hoping that you think just that – that I”m a danger to you. So you”ll turn me in.” He looked at me plainly. “And if you want to, you should. I”m not going to ask you to hide me.”

“I”m not going to turn you in to some Boy Scout,” I said, irritated. “Even if I should. None of this makes any fucking sense. I know that wine I buy at the gas station is cheap, but Jesus fuck, I didn”t know it would make me hallucinate-”

“I”m grateful to you, Stormy,” he interrupted. “You brought me back. I mean...damn. I kind of can”t believe it. I never thought – the guys laughed when I designed the liner notes – said I was fuckin” nuts. If they could see now...” He seemed to be having some dialogue with himself. “But they”d be in their fifties by now, if they”re all alive. I can”t go to them. I”ll have to change my-” He looked up at me, and grinned. “Sorry. I”ve been underground for a long time. Have a few things to think about.”

“It”s okay.” I tried to muster up some semblance of sanity, though I was shaky as hell. “Why don”t you sit on the couch and relax, and I”ll bring your wine to you? I can tell you what I know about the band, what became of them after you, uh...”

“You don”t have to serve me,” he said.

“I know I don”t. But I”m getting mine anyway,” I said and disappeared into the kitchen before he could protest. My hands were shaking.

When I returned holding our glasses, he was standing over by my stereo, looking at a Bloomer Demons CD. “I kept them all,” I said with a smile, sitting on the couch. “I have your whole discography on both vinyl and CD. I can”t bear to throw them out, even though most of the time I listen on Spotify or iTunes.”

“What the hell are those?” He looked at me, puzzled, and sat beside me on the couch.

I handed him the glass. “You know, like on my phone.”

He shook his head.

“Like digital.”

“But a CD is digital.”

“No. Like MP3.” Still nothing. I realized he”d died before that had really become a thing. “Sorry. The way most people listen to music now, it”s like a digital file and you can just stream the song from your cell phone using different apps like Spotify, or Pandora or whatever, or download a copy from iTunes or Amazon.” He looked really confused now, so I decided to shut up. “It doesn”t matter, because vinyl is in again. Anyway, I have all your stuff. Even the really rare demos.”

“Did you ever see us play?” he asked. “Live?”

I frowned. “No. I wish I had. It was always my dream. But I was so young when you passed, I never got the chance. My parents never let me go to your shows.” I grimaced at the thought of my parents. It was weird to say, when you passed, like I wasn”t sitting here talking to the man, looking as alive and healthy as possible. And he looked positively robust. His cheeks were flushed with life, and while he was pale, he looked remarkably well. It was very hard to believe that a few short days ago he was rotting away in a coffin somewhere. “They said I”d get into trouble. I think they suspected I”d find my way onto your tour bus and give you my underwear.”

“Would you have?”

I flushed. “Probably.”

The silence in the room was suddenly very silent.

“I”ll play for you, then,” he said after a moment, clearing his throat. “As a thank you.”

“That would be amazing.” But I couldn”t think about that right now, though my teenage self would have died. “I have to tell you, I have a million questions. This is all so confusing. I just don”t see how you can really be here.”

He smiled slowly, like a cat. “I”ll answer what I can, but I have to tell you that I”m in the dark too, on a lot of it.” He took a deep breath. “It smells so good in here. Like cinnamon and cloves. It makes me think of Halloween. Are you burning incense?”

“It”s my wax melt burner,” I said. That look of confusion again. “It”s like a candle, but in electric form.”

“I don”t know what that is.” That slow smile reappeared. “I had these big candles once that I kept in the studio. They smelled sort of like that. I”d light them all and just sing my vocals in the dark.” He looked thoughtful. “I was usually shitfaced. Once I actually caught my shirt on fire. I was halfway through a verse on The Death of Love before I realized.” That grin. “I thought I was Jim Morrison reincarnated. I guess I took ”Light my Fire” a little too literally. What a douche.”

“You or Jim?” I asked.

“Yes.” He smirked.

“Is that where the scream comes from, at the end of that line?” I asked, excited. “On The Death of Love? Because your shirt was on fire?”

“Yeah.”

“It”s so fucking sexy when you do that,” I said. I flushed crimson and clapped my hand over my mouth. “I had no idea.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said with a big grin. “That”s what I was going for. Well, until the second-degree burn.” He pulled his shirt up to reveal a section of stomach, the skin taut and muscular but with a blotch of raised, shiny skin. I stared. His face turned wistful. “Of course, later that night I was in the toilet shitting my guts out from too much cheap wine and cocaine, wearing a sweaty shirt with a huge-ass hole burned in it. Not very sexy. Being a rock star is such bull shit, all smoke and mirrors.”

“I think I prefer the smoke and mirrors,” I said with a laugh. “Now you”ve ruined that song for me.”

He grinned, then looked down at his lap, his face turning serious. “So - my band,” he said. “Are they all...” He swallowed. “...still with us?”

“All but one,” I said.

“Which one?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but he stopped me. “Never mind,” he said, taking a long drink of wine. “I”m not sure I”m ready to know yet.”

I realized both of our glasses were empty and moved to take his, but he held a hand out and stopped me. “I”m sorry, Stormy, I know it”s rude, and you have so many questions, but I”m really tired. I think...this whole process...it”s just worn me out. This body isn”t used to walking upright again yet. Could I trouble you for somewhere to sleep? The couch here is fine, if you don”t mind.”

“Oh! Oh, of course!” I looked at the clock. It was after ten. Not terribly late, but just hours ago he”d been six feet under. “I”ll take the couch, you can sleep on my bed. It”s more comfortable.”

“No, I don”t want to do that,” he said firmly. “I”m fine here, really.”

I looked at him, dubious. He was 6”5” and my couch was little more than a love seat. “Let me at least get you a blanket and a pillow, then.”

When I returned, he”d stripped down to his boxer shorts – black and tight-fitting, and I forced myself to look away – and his soft black t-shirt. He”d pulled his hair back and was holding it with his hand.

“Would you like a hair tie?”

“If you have one.” He smiled at me. “So many little things about living to get used to. Like tying back your hair and brushing your teeth.”

“There”s a spare toothbrush in the cup in the bathroom,” I said. “I”m a stickler for always having a spare toothbrush. You never know when you”ll have a houseguest.”

“Might even be a dead one,” he joked, and headed toward the bathroom. I watched him retreat, then realized I was gawking at him in his underwear. Phillip Deville. In my house. In nothing but black boxer briefs. Alive. I clutched the pillow to my chest. How in the hell could this even be happening?

I made up the couch as bed-like as I could, fluffing the pillow and even spraying some Febreze on the blanket. I could hear him in the bathroom, running water, the swish swish of the toothbrush. He emerged from the bathroom as I was straightening the afghan on the couch and propping up my pillows, embarrassed at what meager means of comfort I had to offer him. He”d found a hair tie and now that his black, silky hair was out of his face, I could see just how sharp and fine his features were. I”d always assumed that he wore makeup in his photos, that some of them must be airbrushed, even though he”d come to fame in a time when airbrushing wasn”t a huge thing yet. I”d always figured there was simply no way a man could be as beautiful as him in real life. Eyes simply weren”t that deep green, brows heavy but with a delicate arch. A man”s jawline couldn”t be so angular, his teeth so blindingly white. His nose, while on the big side, was perfectly shaped, coming down at a long slope to a fine upturn. A genuine rosebud mouth without benefit of a lip pencil or a computer program to finesse it. He couldn”t be real, but he was.

“Holy shit,” I breathed, not realizing I was speaking out loud. “You”re so beautiful.”

He actually flushed. It only added to his beauty, gave him a reckless, boyish charm. “Really?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “I figured I probably looked the worse for wear. You know, considering.” He came over and took the pillow from me. “I was afraid to look in the mirror. Thought I might have bolts coming out of my neck.”

“No, not at all,” I assured him, looking into his eyes. This was going to be trouble. “You”re as gorgeous as ever. More so, I think.”

“Stop it, you,” he said softly, staring back at me. I”d read once in an interview that he”d always hated his appearance. It was why he”d done so many things with his hair over the years, to try and hide what he thought were his shortcomings. He”d called himself “Lurch” in interviews and referred to his “face even my mom couldn”t love.” I never could understand that, and definitely didn”t now that I was seeing him in the flesh. He was so handsome it was almost supernatural.

“It”s true.” I suddenly had the sensation of falling. Alice down the rabbit hole. I felt woozy, and he reached out a hand to steady me.

“You”ve had a shock,” he said in that quiet, low voice. “I know you have questions. I”ll tell you what I can...tomorrow. Ok?”

“Yes.” I was speaking in a whisper, marveling again at his intuitiveness. I had lots of questions; about him, about the magic that had brought this about, about the weird guy, Lee...and I felt more than a little shocked. He squeezed my shoulder and smiled. I smiled back. I felt stuck to the spot, still falling into his eyes. Finally, I wrenched myself away and pushed another blanket at him. “I”ll go in my room so I won”t disturb you.” I knew I wouldn”t be able to fall asleep any time soon. I had way too much to think about.

“Thanks, Stormy Spooner.” He grinned. “I”ll see you in the morning.” I grabbed my phone off the coffee table and turned toward the hall. “And hey...Stormy?” I turned back. “Thanks again. For making me undead.”

I managed to laugh and went to my room, shutting the door with a gentle click. I sat down on my bed in a whirl of nerves. My hands were still trembling. I heard my couch creak and could scarcely believe that it was actually Phillip Deville lying in there, under the afghan my grandma had crocheted for me. Philip Deville...no, it wasn”t possible. I”d had some kind of psychotic break, brought on by grief over my divorce, or drinking on an empty stomach.

But no. I knew he was out there. I could still feel him, feel his aura, coursing through my house, through my own nervous system. I tapped out a text to Sloan, my head spinning.

“What”s going on with you tomorrow? Need to see you – got to tell you something, but in person.”I hit send.

She called me back immediately and I sent it to voicemail. She hated when I did that; I was apt to get cussed out, but it seemed clear enough that when somebody wanted to just text, you texted. Nobody talked on the phone these days except Sloan, and besides, Phillip was asleep out in the living room.

A second later, she pinged back. “What is it, hooker? You know I hate it when I call you and you don”t answer even though you”re HOLDING your phone. What”s so important?”

“Going to bed,”I typed. “Tired. But I need to talk to you – have to show you something. Can you come by tomorrow?”

“I”ll try to around lunchtime.”

“Awesome. TTFN,”I typed back. “Loves.”

“Loves, too,”she responded. “Now leave me alone so I can fuck Dan.” I was glad she hadn”t said Gus. Maybe she was figuring her shit out.

I put my phone down on the nightstand and listened. The trailer was quiet as a tomb, the thought of which gave me a chill. I dug through my hope chest for my cutest pair of pajamas, knowing that Phillip would see me in them in the morning. Normally I just slept in a loose-fitting tank top and underwear or gym shorts – but I couldn”t let him see me like that, in all my no-bra, sagging glory, with pasty legs. I didn”t have any decent lingerie, only a crotchless red monstrosity that Tess had bought me one Valentine”s Day. But I managed to dig out a cute set of boy-style button up jammies in a silk-like material that had little skulls on them. I”d had them since high school. I pulled my hair up in a bun, then sat back on my bed. I counted to thirty-five, then counted backward to one. Unable to wait any longer, I stood up, opened my door, and quietly padded down the narrow hall.

The kitchen light was still on, a beam of light shining onto the back of Phillip”s head. He was lying in the fetal position, long legs curled under him, the afghan barely covering him; he was too big. His hair was curled over one shoulder, his mouth in a little pout, and I imagined he”d slept the same way since he was a little boy. In the dim light, his inky eyelashes fluttered a bit; no doubt he was dreaming. His breathing was shallow, and he moved a little, throwing an arm over his eyes. He began to snore, and I suppressed a giggle. I glanced at him one more time, committing the image to memory, then went into the kitchen and turned off the light so he could sleep in peace.

I went back to the bedroom, heart pounding, turning off my own light and easing into bed. For a brief moment, I had the thought that I could climb onto the couch with him...or maybe he”d come visit me in the night...then I shook my head. Stop being silly. Two nights ago, he was dead. He isn”t coming in here. You just leave him alone, you weirdo.

I figured I”d be up all night, tossing and turning, unable to quiet the excitement I felt over PHILLIP DEVILLE sleeping in my living room. But the events of the day had worn me out, and despite my wariness at the strange Lee Courtenay (not to mention his even odder, scarier partner), I felt safer knowing that Phillip was on my couch, keeping guard.