Dead Rockstar (The Dead Rockstar Trilogy Book 1)

Chapter 16

We’d been lyingon the bed, silently, for about five minutes. I stared at the wall, waiting for Phillip to say something, anything, but he hadn’t spoken, not since I’d uttered those words. The shocked look on his face had pretty much said it all.

I knew I needed to speak, to explain, to make him understand why I’d done it, but I couldn’t seem to find the words. Anyway, wasn’t he always in my head? Didn’t he know?

So then why did I feel anger and hurt coming off him in waves?

From downstairs I heard the clang of pots and pans and a voice from the bottom of the stairwell. “Phillip, you fuck, you forgot the spaghetti! You guys stop boning and come down and eat!” From the gaiety in his voice, it sounded as if he’d gotten over his hurt feelings.

I smiled despite myself and turned to Phillip, running a hand over the warm skin of his belly. “Shall we go down?”

“I’m not hungry.” His eyes were faraway, his face haunted.

“Phillip…” I pressed, wishing he’d look at me. “I know you’re upset, but we need to eat. All that talk about getting our strength back, that applies to you, too. And Jason’s waiting.”

“I want you all to myself,” he said, starting to get his old self back. He was trying, anyway.

“Too bad,” I said with a laugh, rising to dress. I knew we’d have to talk, but for now, I was starving. “I want that spaghetti. And anyway, I never said I was opposed to two guys, one groupie. Jason has always been my second favorite.”

The house was veryquiet and still when I woke up the next morning, the sun streaming through one tiny window over by the desk, a beam of light hitting me right in the eyes.

I was tucked into Phillip”s large arms, my skin coated with a light sheen of sweat, the result of our mingling warmth. I reluctantly pulled myself from him and sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and the hair from my face, looking down at his sleeping form.

I had already fallen in love with the way his lips formed a pout when he slept, the way he always had one impossibly long leg bent beneath him, the way he held himself so still. I stared down at him, memorizing the lines in his face, the beautiful, strong bone structure, the inky black impossibility of his eyelashes. When he woke up, he might no longer feel the same way about me now that I had released him.

I didn”t regret it. It seemed wrong, to be tied to a person in such a way. If that was black magic, I didn”t want it. I loved Phillip. I didn”t want to manipulate him, control him, or tie him to me by wayward means. I wanted him to be happy, not running around trying to save my neck, or trying find his way out of a mess I caused. If he woke up and saw me differently, so be it. I”d go back home to my trailer and try to resume my life without any regrets, because when you loved someone you gave them the opportunity to fly.

After a spaghetti dinner with wine and soft, fresh rolls, and a dessert of chocolate cake and more cups of tea, a novelty that I’d never get used to as long as I lived, Phillip and I finally talked about what I’d done. I explained as best as I could, fighting back a slew of embarrassing tears, trying to convince him that I’d done it as a kindness, out of love. “I can’t bear the thought that you’re tied to me through the spell,” I’d explained as we sat out by the firepit in the backyard, watching the bright-orange embers crackle and burn. “I wanted you to have a choice, to be in control of your own destiny. And if you still love me in the morning,” I’d said, swallowing the lump in my throat, “then I’ll know this is real.”

At that, Phillip had leaned over, his puffy black coat – apparently it had been his, many moons ago, and was still hanging in the coat closet- soft against my cheek and pulled me into his arms. I wanted to weep at the sweet, poignant nostalgia Jason obviously had carried for his old friend. I knew he was scared; scared about what this meant for not only us, but me specifically. Would I be in more danger without him rummaging around in my head, sensing danger? “What if we no longer love each other,” he’d said sadly, his dark eyes meeting mine, “Now that the magic is gone?”

“That’s what I worry, too,” I’d said against his shoulder, squeezing him with all my might. “But fear isn’t a reason to hold onto someone.”

He had considered this, then slowly nodded in agreement. “I’ll still love you,” he said, tucking a stray bit of hair behind my ear. “I will.”

I knew I’d done the right thing. Phillip knew it, too. I just hoped that I wouldn’t end up regretting it.

Phillip stirred. His eyes flickered under the lids and he sighed and rolled over, his arm moving in his sleep to try and find me. It rested on my thigh and he settled back into sleep. My breath caught in my throat.

After a time, I stopped staring at him and gingerly lay back down, slowly, trying to be quiet so as not to wake him. He needed his rest, and I was afraid of what might be different, or how different things might be when he woke up. I nestled into him, resting my head below his chin, into the crook of his neck, feeling his pulse there, steady and strong. His skin was like a furnace. I tucked myself into him, small and quiet, waiting.

His breath was slow and steady, and I was almost asleep again myself when his low voice murmured in my ear, “I told you I”d still love you in the morning.”

I was in the small,cozy kitchen later that morning, making myself toast and coffee, trying to get up the motivation to do the dishes, when Phillip strode in. All the tension had come back into his shoulders, and his large, strong body was as jumpy as a cat’s. I sighed, wishing the peaceful warmth we”d felt earlier could have lasted longer. Yesterday had been perfect, almost, even with the fight between him and Jason, which they”d managed to bury over plates of spaghetti and lots of laughter. They were like brothers and it did me good to see them together. “What”s happened now?”

He leaned over the table and placed a long, lingering kiss on my lips. “You taste like bread,” he said with a smile. “Don”t worry, baby, it”s not you.” I smiled; he”d never called me baby before. “But…”

“What is it?” I passed him the plate and he took a slice absently, taking all but a corner of the toast in one bite.

“I know you’re in a hurry to get back but…” He chewed thoughtfully, looking at me. “Jason and I’ve been talking, and Stormy…I think I need to go back and talk to Lydia one more time.”

“Really?” I gave an involuntary shudder. The woman’s house was a dust-filled study in terror; after all, I’d been bound and kidnapped from there.

He sighed. “Yeah. I want her to answer some questions. Namely, why her son is stalking us, trying to snag you in broad daylight. Where the hell Guthrie is. What your powers truly are.” He fixed his green eyes on me. “I have to know these things before I can pack up and go back to Jekyll. I hope you understand.”

The toast was dry in my mouth. “Yes,” I said, finally.

“You don’t have to go with me,” he said. “I completely understand why you wouldn’t want to go back there.”

“I don”t mind,” I said, pushing the plate away and standing up. “Actually, I do mind. I’d rather eat glass than go back to that woman’s house. But I’m damned if I’m letting you go without me.”

“Are you sure, Stormy?” His brow furrowed. “I don’t like the idea of you setting foot there, honestly.”

“Of course I’m coming with you,” I said, drinking my last dreg of coffee, relishing the undissolved sugar granules on my tongue. “When do we go? Now?”

“Later today,” he said, also standing up and coming over to me, his face full of unease. I looked up at him. He was so tall that I had to stand on tip toe just to reach him for a kiss. I was surprised to feel he was trembling, and when I touched his arm he jumped. He touched the side of my face, his expression softening. “We don’t have to go right this minute. I have plans for you this morning, and all of them involve my bedroom.”

“Mr. Deville, how scandalous,” I purred, rising to meet his mouth with my own. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me upwards, and I caught his long black hair in my hands. He carried me all the way upstairs despite my laughing protests. How long were we going to put off going home, I wondered absently, as he transported me upstairs. A small, nagging voice in my head that I couldn’t silence said, if you make it back at all.

Phillip saton the edge of the bed, his back to me, shirtless, his long hair hanging in tangles down his back. I moved from my cozy spot, buried in the covers, and inched down the creaking bed, which I was quickly getting used to, to touch him lightly on the shoulder. “Are you okay?” I asked, running a hand over his pale skin.

“Yeah.” He turned his head a little, smiling in my direction, but his gaze was faraway and remote. I wondered what he was thinking. Gone was the playful mood from before. After making love he”d turned inward again, working something over. His face was full of dread, an expression I”d never seen in person, but it chilled my blood because I had seen it – in interviews, in magazine spreads, the occasional paparazzi shots of Phillip from years ago. That look of dread, of almost-bitterness, and apathy had followed him for the last couple years of his life.

I could look at any picture of Phillip Deville and tell you what era it was from. Some of it had to do with his various hairstyles and colors, the slope of his body – gangly in his early years, giving way to hard muscle later on, starting to soften just a bit when he hit his thirties – but mainly it was his facial expressions that made it so easy to pick out the approximate year. In the beginning he”d had the cocky, excited energy of a young guy with his entire future ahead of him, full of possibility. Later, some of the excitement had gone, but he was still plucky, confident and hot as hell. But toward the end, right before his death, around the time of the last album, all his photos took on a sad, bitter edge. His eyes no longer shone, but were haunted and sad, his dark hair often wrapped around his face like a security blanket, his cheeks gaunt, and the tight line of his mouth showed his unhappiness. I didn”t really like pictures from that era. I’d always preferred the ones from his earlier days, even though he was more handsome as he got older. It made me too sad to see him so obviously miserable.

It was how Phillip looked now.

I wanted to insist that he tell me, to force it out of him, but I knew him well enough by now to know that”d have the opposite effect. And anyway, I knew what he was feeling without having to ask. Whatever power he had of knowing my thoughts and feelings, I had some lesser version of that same power. After releasing him, it had started to feel stronger, which was weird, because I”d assumed the opposite would be true. In severing the magical cord, I”d managed to strengthen the cord between him and myself.

Looking at the back of Phillip, I suddenly remembered a dream – no, a nightmare, or I supposed, a daymare, since it had occurred right before I woke up – that I’d been having as I dozed in his arms. I closed my eyes, trying to pick out the threads of the dream, which was fading quickly from my memory. A beach, several shades below overcast, gray and moody, the waves sweeping over the beach like cooled lava, thick and slushy, blanketing the hot, clammy sand. A man, off in the distance. A sound, loud and cracking like thunder, causing him to turn and crane his head. His expression quizzical, his movements jerky and sinister. A bright flash of forking light from the sky. Smoke. Screaming. Pain. A bright, colorful light, almost like an aura, a haze, shimmering over everything, sparkling like glitter, raining down on me along with the rain.

And then nothing.

I shuddered and stared out Phillip’s window. It was a beautiful, sunny day with no hint of rain, much less an approaching storm. I was nowhere near the ocean, and it was probably just a dream. I shook my head, clearing out the sense of foreboding, telling myself to stop worrying so damn much. I had enough on my plate without adding more helpings.

Phillip’s expression was faraway. I wanted to pull him back to me, back to us. I reached out and touched the hair at his temple, pushing it behind his ear gently, my fingers getting caught in the tangle of black. Since I”d been with him, he”d carefully brushed his beautiful hair every morning, but it stayed tangled anyway. Today, it was the worst I’d ever seen it; a mess of snags and knots that would take forever to loosen. I realized as I touched his strands that it was curlier than I”d thought. It was thick and dense and unruly. It was unusually heavy on his head today; I could almost feel the heaviness wearing at him, giving him a headache. I leaned closer to him and gathered the soft black mass in my hands. Instinct told me he was too sensitive for a brush, so I parted it gently into three parts and set to work without one. I worked soundlessly, mindlessly. It was though my hands had imparted, outside of me, that they were to do this, and set themselves to the task.

Phillip sighed and leaned into me, his skin warm against my shoulder. I smiled and continued working, enjoying the soft-yet-brittle feel of his hair on my fingers, the warmth that radiated through me. I was filled with a feeling of gold, bright and gleaming, warm and sound. I braided his hair slowly, letting my hands caress the strands, the back of his neck, his ears. I remembered from childhood how good it felt, how relaxing and safe, to have someone braid your hair. When she hadn’t been too drunk to hold a brush, my mother would sit me in the kitchen, gently and methodically dividing my hair into parts, taking her time to French-braid my blond hair, her fingers soft and ticklish and comforting. My entire body would buzz with wellbeing when she did my hair, all of it an experience of bliss, from the clicking of the little plastic barrettes to the gentle slope of the soft baby-brush she used well into my teen years, to the murmurs of apology when she’d accidentally hit a snag. I remembered how it felt, for someone to focus their attention on something so delicate and personal. It was one of the few times in my life I’d felt my mother’s love, strong and poignant, and as I held Phillip’s hair in my hands, I took that love from deep in my soul, that warm, glittering feeling of gold, that bright light, and imparted it to him. I felt it moving from deep within me down the length of my arms and into my hands, flowing forth from my fingers in an invisible stream.

Phillip’s breathing slowed and he closed his eyes; he might have dozed. His weight was heavy and solid against me. When the braid was finished, I fished a hair tie out of my own hair, letting it fall over my shoulders in a messy cascade, and secured the braid behind his back. “There,” I said, leaning over his shoulder to place a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Now it won”t be in your way.”

“Thank you,” he said in a soft voice, still staring straight ahead, but he seemed lighter now. “It was bothering me. It felt...heavy.”

“I know.” I put my arms around his shoulders and pulled him into me, placing another kiss on his cheek, then one on his ear, his temple, and the top of his head. He sighed and leaned into me further. I held him tight.

“Don”t go away from me,” I said.

“I”m right here.”

“You know what I mean.” I rested my cheek on his large shoulder. “I can feel you...drifting.”

He said nothing, only placed an absent kiss on my arm. I felt my heart catch.

“Promise me,” I said. “That if you ever leave me, it”s because you want to leave, because it”s over, and not because you think you have to.”

He sighed and reached for me, pulling me into his lap, cradling me there. His large arms wrapped around me completely, and I nestled into his embrace. He returned my kisses, placing one on my cheeks, my forehead, and finally my mouth. His braid fell into my face, grazing my cheek, as he closed his mouth on mine, opening against me, tasting me. His lips were salty.

The kiss lingered, and I felt my body erupt into flame, and I instinctively pulled him closer, not able to get close enough. “You didn”t answer me,” I murmured when my lips were momentarily free. But he kissed me again, silencing me. He wasn”t going to make me that promise.

He pushed me back onto the bed where we”d just lain together minutes before, ready for me again, and I was ready for him, too. It was amazing how much I wanted him, how I never felt satisfied, like we always had more to give each other. I”d never felt that way with Tess. Just the sight of Phillip filled me with fire, made me burn. I couldn”t stop touching him. I loved the way his skin felt, both warm and cool all at once, how deep his green eyes were, how rough his mouth was, how big and strong his hands were. He was so very real, big and tangible and alive.

His weight pinned me down, but it was a steady, comfortable weight, and the delicious woodsmoke-scent hit my nose and made me woozy. He bent to kiss my neck, his lips trailing up from my collarbone to behind my ear. His breathing was rough, the breath hot on my skin. His hands were exploring the rest of me, stopping here and there at points all over my body, making me wild with passion.

We would have to talk about this. He couldn”t do this every time I brought it up. “You”re not being fair,” I said out loud, placing my hands on his bare shoulders and pushing him back so I could look him in the eye.

“I”m sorry,” he said, bending down to kiss me again, rough. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” I said, and he smiled. With one deliberate thrust he was inside me, and our bodies fit together, seemingly made for each other, thigh flat against thigh, his arms tangled up with mine, his weight bearing down on me. He moved against me, slow at first, then rougher, faster, and we both cried out. He kissed me, muting the sound, and I opened my mouth to his, wanting to taste him, to bite him.

His face was in my neck again, and I felt wetness there. Was it tears? And he murmured in my ear, “I love you.” That was as much as he would give me.

We emergedfrom the bedroom a while later and trudged down the stairs. There were voices in the living room. I followed Phillip, noting that the tension in his shoulders was back. He pricked an ear to the right as we rounded the kitchen. Then he stopped just outside the door, and turned to me, his face white.

“I know that voice,” he said, his eyes searching mine, almost scared.

I craned my neck, listening. Jason was laughing with someone over the sounds of the stereo. He was playing a Bloomer Demons record, but it wasn”t one I”d heard before. It sounded like a live cut. “Who is it?”

“Nate,” he said, still pale.

“Nate?” I whispered in surprise. “As in Nathan ‘Ollie’ Green?”

He nodded. “Fuck,” he said, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I held in my shriek, the fangirl trying to pop out of me unbidden.

“Phil? That you?” The voice wasn”t very familiar, but I could almost recognize it, mined from years-worth of memories of YouTube interviews and concert footage. He didn”t sound at all alarmed. “You gonna come in here or keep hiding in the kitchen like a scared puppy?”

“Fuck,” Phillip said again, then squared his shoulders and stalked into the living room. I didn”t know what else to do, so I followed, holding my hands to my face, trying to quell the broad grin that was busting out on my cheeks. The band’s all here, I thought to myself giddily. Well, what was left of it.

Jason was sitting on the couch, a bottle of ginger ale on the coffee table in front of him. Beside him was a slightly-older version of the man who completed the Bloomer Demons outfit – second-string guitarist and sometime keyboard player Nathan Green, affectionately known to fans as “Ollie” due to his love of skateboarding. I stared at him for a moment. He had changed a lot in twenty years, but he was still handsome as the devil. He didn”t appear to have aged, his dark skin and deep brown eyes as youthful and smooth as ever, but gone were the long, butt-length dreads he”d had all through the band”s career, as well as the piercings that had once studded his nose, ears and lip. A blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms covered up most of his tattoos, and his hair was in a full, natural afro. The only thing that reminded me of the old Nathan was the shoes – black-on-black high-top Vans, providing a sharp contrast to the light colored thin-legged slacks he wore.

As I entered the room, he greeted me first. “Hey,” he said with a nod. “I”m Nate.”

“Stormy,” I croaked out, full on star struck and feeling like I might faint. “Oh wow, Ollie, I”m a huge fan-”

“Don”t let her get going, she won”t stop,” Jason said with a laugh, but he winked at me. He looked at Phillip. “Bro, it”s okay. Nate”s known since the day I saw you out back, digging up the ground like a body snatcher. I called him as soon as you left. He”s cool. He”s not going to say anything.”

“Sure,” Phillip said, his voice brittle and wavering, his hand trembling in mine. “Until he tells...who? Barb? Our old manager? Some fan? A member of my family?” he sputtered. “I can”t let this get out. Don”t you understand there”s no way I can function if people know-”

“Shut up, fuckface,” Jason said, unruffled. “You chose to walk your dead ass back here to this house, and if you think for one second I’m going to house you and keep you safe and not tell our other best friend, you’re a fucking idiot. You know damn well you can trust Nate.”

“Phil.” Nathan stood up and walked over to us. He held out his arms and pulled Phillip into an embrace. “I”m so fucking glad to see you, man. So fucking glad. Never in this life did I think-” His voice caught, and he pulled back and looked at Phillip, his eyes glistening. “Phil, I swear on my life – and yours, however many you got, dude – that I won”t tell a soul. Don”t you remember? When you started writing out that stupid spell you made all three of us cut our palms and make a blood vow that we would never breathe a word.”

“More lives than mine are at risk if anybody-”

“Phil.” Nathan clapped him on the back and led him by the shoulder over to the couch where they both sat down, Phillip”s face like stone. “I swore and I fuckin” meant it. So did Jason. Forget about it, man. Losing you and Kim was the fucking worst. I”m just glad to have one of you back. We want to help you, and your girlfriend, too.”

“Jason isn”t in any position to help anyone,” Phillip thundered.

“Cut me some fucking slack already,” Jason said, acid in his tone. “Unless you want to take it outside and I”ll teach you some fucking respect. I haven”t used in days-”

“If you think for one second you could take me, you fucking little twerp-”

“Kim isn”t here to break it up this time, man. I should have shown you what was up years ago-”

“Sitting here in my house like king shit, like you”re gonna show me-”

“My house, you mean. I paid for it. Big ogres like you, Lurch, fall down quick. You”re slow and dim-witted. I”ve kicked your fucking ass before, and I can do it again-”

“Fuck you if you want to fuckin” try.” Phil started to get back up from the couch. “We”ll be sending your teeth back home in an envelope to your mother-”

I was getting ready to intervene with the water hose I’d seen on the back porch when suddenly, the yelling stopped, and all three remaining members of the Bloomer Demons were embracing and crying in a jumble of tattoos, piercings and black-clad arms and legs. Phillip”s arms were around them both, holding them to his chest like little brothers, his face wet with tears. What should have been a foursome was only three, but I had no doubt all of them were thinking of Kim.

I sat back and watched, fighting the perverse urge to grab my phone and snap a picture. I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh or cry, so I just shook my head, and thought, men. What a spectacle, and yet they always said we were the emotional ones. The scene in front of me was bittersweet and made me ache, but not only because I”d grown up loving them, not only because their dear friend Kim wasn”t part of it. I watched them, soaking in the brotherly love, the beauty of their reunion, the purity and the ludicrousness of it, and then stepped backward out of the room, their show of friendly love reminding me that I hadn’t talked to Sloan in days.