Chapter 1
One
I’d imagined myself stuck in a hotel room plenty of times, on some high-up, swanky floor, ensconced in a plush bathrobe and holed up with Phillip Deville, rockstar of my dreams. My brain had gone crazy with scenarios over the years, long before I’d ever laid eyes on him in the flesh, much less reached out to touch that flesh.
However, not one of those times had I fantasized about this.
I was indeed holed up in a swanky hotel with Phillip Deville, high above ground level with a great view. And not only was I clad in nothing but the aforementioned bathrobe, but he was clad in one of his own, a fact that I found very distracting. Phillip’s robe had clearly been made with a much smaller man in mind. The soft white terry cloth barely reached his knees, leaving his strong, muscular calves exposed, and his large arms were threatening to bust through the sleeves’ seams, the luxurious material exposing more of his chest and shoulders than it wasn’t. Even from my vantage point at the window, I could see a small patch of Phillip’s black chest hair tufting out, a dark contrast against the flushed pink skin beneath. I caught myself licking my lips, LL Cool J style, and shook my head to clear it, admonishing myself for being such a horndog. Now wasn’t the time to jump Phillip’s bones. —I’d already done that plenty of times since we’d been here, and there were more important things to contend with. Much more important things. Life or death things.
But he just looked so hot.
I wished I could claim credit for Phillip’s current state of undress and for the pink flush on his chest and face, but alas. It was more duress and upset than it was any type of carnal pleasure, much to my eternal regret.
It hadn’t all been duress, though. My lover—Phillip Deville, the Phillip Deville–and I had been holed up at the hotel for a little over twenty-four hours, and so far, we hadn’t emerged even for food, much less to take advantage of the amenities. I’d always loved a good hotel–even the cheap ones feel like a vacation– so it was killing me not to be able to try out the pool or order room service, but we couldn’t allow any possible risk of being seen by the public. Besides, I told myself as I stared longingly at the menu and its fancy, over-priced cocktails, I’d already stayed here once and their room service wasn’t that great.
That had been with my newfound friend Roberta, and things had been stressful then too. It felt like a lifetime ago, and yet, it had only been a week. Story of my life. So much had happened in the past three weeks that I felt like my own timeline was skewed and confusing, and the hits kept coming, yep, they kept on coming. I was losing my sanity piece by piece, so much so that I was internally singing shitty Smash Mouth songs while stealing covert eyefuls of my lover as he brooded.
I snuck one last greedy glance at Phillip’s strong thighs as he sat perched on the bed, doing his best to pull the white robe across his lap so it gave him some semblance of modesty. He knew I was looking; Phillip knew (and heard) my every thought. I averted my eyes dutifully (though all I really wanted to do was rip the robe off him and run my tongue up and down those thighs), and asked him quietly, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Phillip answered. As I turned to look at him, he smiled, a movement that was even more automatic, and completely perfunctory. The smile didn’t reach his beautiful, wild green eyes at all, and he barely looked my way as he said it. Those eyes were unfocused, totally lost in thought, and more than a little worried. I hated seeing him like this.
“No, you’re not,” I said, moving from the window to sit by him on the bed. “You’re anxious. Upset.”
“A little, I guess,” Phillip admitted, taking my hand in his larger one. “But let’s not talk about my stuff now. Let’s talk about your dad. After all, that’s the more pressing, more important issue.”
I started to argue but thought better of it. Phillip didn’t like to dwell on his own problems; he’d rather help someone else solve theirs. While he was altruistic and genuinely liked to help people, I now knew Phillip Deville well enough to know that it was somewhat selfish on his part too. If he could focus on someone else’s problems, he didn’t have to deal with his own.
My beautiful, hulking rock star had been running from his own shadow ever since he accidentally made it too big and it overcame him.
Until now.
Now, it looked as though the roosters might finally be coming home to roost.
“I haven’t heard anything else from Mama,” I answered, enjoying the feel of my hand in his. I intertwined my fingers with his, applying gentle, firm pressure to his knuckles one by one. He sighed and closed his eyes. “I’m hoping she’ll call me soon, but until then…I mean, it’s not like I can go down there.”
“Why not?”
“Phillip, we’ve been hiding in this hotel room for the past day, trying to avoid those assholes down there. How would you propose we get out of the hotel and on a flight to Florida—or even back to the house to get my truck—without being seen?”
“If you need to go, we’ll go,” Phillip said firmly, his dark-green eyes serious. “If they see us, they see us. I’m not going to let you sacrifice your needs—your family, your responsibilities—for me.” One thing I’d learned very quickly about Phillip Deville, as I’d tried to keep him hidden these past few weeks, was that it was not in his nature to be hidden. That old rock star was still within him, dying for the limelight, no matter how much he tried to deny it. Cowering in a hotel room, hiding from reporters, was pretty much his worst nightmare.
“Well, if it comes to that, I could just go by myself?—"
“No, I’m coming with you.” Phillip’s voice was firm. “I’m not letting you handle this alone like you did last time.” His voice got softer, and he pulled me close. “I’m not losing you again.”
“You didn’t lose me the first time,” I said, nuzzling into him, relishing a small moment of quiet to just breathe him in. He was still damp from a recent shower, still smelling of his usual musky sandalwood, but without the trace of cigarette smoke that always followed him. Bless his heart, he’d been trying to quit, and I loved him for it. He hadn’t told me outright, but I’d seen the packs of Nicorette sticking out of his duffel bag, and I’d noticed the usual stale-smoke smell that came from his hands as he touched me was gone. And he had been touching me a lot. I thought back to before the shower, the activities that had left us sweaty and out of breath, and felt a pleasurable thrum start in my extremities.
Phillip had been worried, yes, but not too worried to not ravish me a few times since we’d been here, a fact for which I was very grateful…and very satisfied.
“Close enough,” Phillip said, his voice low and crooning in my ear. “Close enough to know I don’t want to go through it again. I love you.”
“I love you too,” I said, turning my head to face him. He planted a kiss gently on my lips, his mouth lingering for a moment on mine, then he nipped at my bottom lip with his sharp, white teeth. His arm drifted from my shoulder down the length of my robe, finding the tie that cinched around my waist with ease, pulling it, loosening it. I smiled against his mouth. Finally.
His kiss deepened, and I let my hand trail up his own robe, finding where it gapped near his leg, and inched my hand inward to touch his warm, damp skin. He let out a groan, and I squeezed his thigh as he kissed me harder, rougher…
The knock on the door was so quiet we almost didn’t hear it in our mad frenzy. We stopped for a moment, both breathing hard, staring into each other’s eyes, Phillip’s expression a perfect marriage of annoyance and alarm, my own face no doubt mirroring his. Had we just imagined it? We’d been on edge for hours; it was certainly possible. Phillip’s hand hovered over my waistline for a moment, suspended in the space just over my stomach, as though he was afraid to move, afraid to touch me. After another moment, he smiled and resumed his caress, his mouth inching closer to mine, ready to continue the blissful thing we’d started…
And then the knock came again. Louder and more insistent this time.
“Fuck.”
It had started two days before. Phillip and I had been enjoying a brief moment of respite on Driftwood Beach, my favorite place, after the events of the week before, which had been hellish, to say the least. After everything Elvin had put us through, including Roberta, his own daughter, I couldn’t believe any of us were still standing. Benny had come to and saved the day in more ways than one, and just in time. I was still struggling to understand the powers this goth amateur wrestler I’d only known for a couple of weeks had, which appeared to be even stronger than mine, but one thing was for sure: now that Elvin and Guthrie were both dead and we’d come through on the other side relatively unscathed, the ragtag group of young people I’d met at the Wolfden, especially Benny and Roberta, were family.
After the whole horrid ordeal, including a very brief but traumatic breakup, all we wanted to do was spend a few peaceful moments together alone, in front of the ocean we both found so calming. A quick moment of peace before picking up the pieces of our lives that had fallen spectacularly apart around us. We were lying there, enjoying the quiet, dreary solitude of the murky, solemn tide when we’d noticed a man standing some short distance away, leaning up against a tall, sturdy piece of driftwood. We’d immediately known him for what he was: a reporter, or journalist, or whatever they called themselves these days. A freelance content writer, perhaps. We’d run after the guy, who I recognized right off, fangirl that I am, as Dylan Quint from GOTHzine, a music publication that had recently rebranded from a print rock rag to an online content mill. We hadn’t been able to catch him before he’d darted into a grove of trees and off down the road. We were still on the beach, me trying to catch my breath and Phillip cursing like a sailor, when a text from my mom pinged through.
My very estranged, by my choice, father’s house had just burned down, she informed me, and not only that, he was missing.
It was a lot of information to get in the span of five minutes. And we were still reeling from everything that had gone on before. I no longer knew what a full night’s sleep was, and the constant visions and headaches plaguing me were driving me insane.
Phillip was surprised that I hadn’t gone down to Panama City Beach right away to seek out my dad, but he just didn’t understand. I hadn’t spoken to my father more than once or twice a year since I was a teenager. While I was proud of him for getting clean and restarting his life after growing up watching him ingest every substance—and beverage—known to man for my entire childhood, the fact that he’d abandoned us still stuck in my craw. Especially considering he left us to shack up with a woman not much older than me. Daddy had abandoned me, leaving me with a drunken mess who could barely afford to keep food on our plates most of the time, and who barely knew I existed. Dad had gone on to get married and start a new life with his child bride, Dee, and their new baby—my half-sister, Shably (yes, like the wine; don’t ask why a former drunk would do that to his kid. Thank god everyone called her Shay)—and only extended a lukewarm invite for me to join their lives once or twice on a year on holidays. So far, I had never accepted.
Phillip, whose family dynamic had been pretty wholesome from what I gathered, must think I was crazy, or heartless, or both, to not want to see my father. But he just didn’t understand. He couldn’t.
I’d go eventually if my dad wasn’t found. But for now…well, I wanted to wait a little while longer. A day or two, maybe. To be with Phillip, just the two of us. He needed me, after all. And I needed him—needed to be alone with him. To make up for lost time.
To enjoy just being together before the inevitable happened—Phillip being outed.
Because how on earth would a 6’5” rock god with jet-black hair, wild green eyes, and a jawline that could cut glass possibly explain how he was absent for twenty-three years and then was just back, as handsome, youthful, and dynamic as ever, as though he hadn’t aged a day? How could he explain his sudden re-emergence back into the world after being gone for so long, his fans having mourned his very publicized death? His funeral had been open to the public; his friends and bandmates had given interviews providing insight into his demise; fans still flocked to his grave on his birthday and on holidays to leave black roses and candles. What on earth would he say to such a devoted fanbase? How could he explain?
And yet, he would have to. Dylan Quint had seen him, and it was only a matter of time before he went public with what would assuredly be the most groundbreaking story to come out of the rock music world since 1994.
For Phillip, telling the truth—that he’d been brought back to life by a spell (twice, actually, if you wanted to get technical) and was now walking earthside in the same body (and at the same age) as he’d left it twenty-three years before was impossible. Nobody would believe it. And on the off chance that someone did believe it, it’d put us both—and our very motley crew of friends and associates—at major risk. Nobody could know how it happened or what powers I—and one other just like me—possessed. Nobody could ever know I was the one who brought Phillip back to life.
That knowledge that could mean death for me. It already almost had. More than once.
My hand still clutching Phillip’s, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would never, ever give me up. He’d never tell the truth about how he’d come to be alive again. He’d carry that secret back to the grave with him. He’d climb in willingly, if that’s what it took to protect me.
But as we stared at each other, silently reading each other’s thoughts, listening to the third set of knocks sounding on the hotel-room door, we both knew good and well what we’d known since Driftwood Beach—the jig was up.
“What do we do?” I hissed, whipping myself off the bed and reaching for my clothes. I pulled on my Black Sabbath T-shirt and black jeans quickly and stepped into my black slip-on Chucks.
Phillip didn’t answer me, instead cupping his hand over his mouth and calling out, “Who is it?”
“Room service,” a muffled voice answered back. “I have a delivery of flowers for a…Ms. Spooner.”
Phillip looked at me quizzically. I pulled my hair into a hurried ponytail and shook my head. “Only two people know I’m here, and neither one of them would send me flowers,” I said.
“I’m going to answer it,” Phillip replied in a fierce whisper, his face clouding over. I didn’t have to ask why. He was fed up and ready to confront whatever—whoever—it was head on.
“Phillip, no,” I said, darting over and placing a hand on his chest to stop him. He could have easily overpowered me, but he didn’t. He sunk back down instead, giving me a pleading look. “I’ll get it. You’re not even dressed. Just cover me, okay? Just…in case.”
He nodded, displeased but resigned, and I walked over to the door, taking a deep breath. With so much happening all at once, there was no way of knowing whether the person on the other side of the door was friend or foe. Just a lowly room service lackey with a delivery, someone intent on doing me harm, or a snap-happy journalist hoping to break the music story of the decade? Might as well find out.
With another deep breath, I opened the door, doing my best to make myself seem imposing. A laughable prospect since I was barely 5’6” on a good day and had chicken arms. Only the low pulse of electricity in my fingers indicated that I had any kind of strength, and I flexed my hand instinctively, at the ready for whatever threat might come.
A man in the hotel’s uniform, a burgundy blazer and dark slacks, stood there holding a bouquet of peonies. I looked at them in surprise. Peonies were my favorite flower, but not too many people knew that. My mom, Tess, possibly my (now former) best friend Sloan…certainly none of my new friends and not even Phillip. I took them reluctantly and thanked the bellboy, gingerly pulling the card from the plastic holder.
I sighed with relief as I opened the envelope and read the card. “I’m so sorry about all this, honey. But it’s going to be okay. I’m in town. We need to talk soon— can we meet? Love, Mama.”
That was sweet of her, I thought. I did feel better to know my mother was here in Savannah, keeping an eye on us. It was the least she could do after years of lies and drunken neglect, but I’d take it.
I looked up at the room service guy, who was standing there expectantly. “Oh, sorry,” I said, digging in my pocket for some bills. I’d stayed at a nice hotel maybe two times before, and things like tipping the bellboy were totally off my radar. “Oh damn, I don’t have any cash…”
“I’ve got it.” Phillip appeared behind me, still clad in his white robe, and produced a twenty-dollar bill. “Thanks, man,” he said, then pushed past me to shut the door. He took the flowers from me and read the card, his brow furrowing.
“You should have let me handle it,” I said to him sternly. “What if that bellboy recognized you?”
“He was too busy eyeing the money in my hand to look at me,” Phillip said with a shrug. “I was getting nervous watching you standing there. Somebody could’ve snatched you right out of the doorway.”
Phillip had wanted to go home immediately—as in, back to my house in Brunswick—but I’d talked him out of it. My little singlewide off in the woods wasn’t going to provide him—or me—with any kind of protection or privacy. If this journalist or photographer or social media coordinator or whatever he was calling himself had managed to find us on a deserted, isolated stretch of beach the next town over, he obviously knew where I lived. I’d suggested we book a hotel, which might be more inconspicuous, not to mention cushy. We deserved a little luxury after all we’d been through. I was relieved when he agreed, not realizing how badly I’d needed some time away to decompress. Though between our diligent moves to keep ourselves hidden and the developing situation with my father, Phillip had been unable to relax.
“Why are you still so freaked?” I asked. “Anyone – or anything – that was after me is long gone. If anything, you’re more at risk than I am!”
“Force of habit, I guess,” he said with another shrug. “After all you’ve been through…” He gestured at the flowers. “You never know.”
“They’re from my mother ,” I argued.
“I know,” Phillip said, digging in his bag to produce a black T-shirt and dark jeans. I smiled despite myself. He wore the same uniform pretty much every day. And today we were matching—dark, inconspicuous partners in crime. “But Stormy, look, if that Dylan guy knows I’m here, it’s not like we can make him unsee it. If he was able to track me to some random beach on a random Tuesday, he can track me anywhere. Which means anyone can track—and hurt— you. I’m not going to run for the rest of my life just to avoid a camera. Not when there’s more important stuff going on.”
“Phillip—"
“I’m just saying, Stormy, that eventually he – or somebody else – will catch up with me.” Phillip pulled his jeans up over his long, muscular legs and buttoned them. I grabbed a pair of black socks from his bag and threw them at him. “Thanks. I’m just thinking…we’ve got to be prepared. Rather than figuring out ways to hide, I need to figure out what I’m going to say – how I’m going to explain – when the news breaks. How best to spin all this in a way that protects you.”
“It’s going to be everywhere,” I said with a shudder as he reached for his black combat boots. “ You’re going to be famous all over again.”
“Maybe not,” Phillip said calmly, sitting down and lacing up his boots. “It’s been over twenty years. Fame is a fickle thing. When I died, I was in my prime, the band was in their heyday…now it’s like…well, I’m old now. Or I should be, anyway. People have moved on. We’re not the ‘it’ thing anymore, if we ever were.” He looked at me and smiled sadly. “And it’s not like I was ever Axl Rose. I’m not a superstar. Maybe I’ll be able to fly under the radar more than you think.”
“Oh, you sweet summer child,” I, sitting down on his lap. He pulled me close. “Are you kidding? Just look at you. You’re like a vampire come to life, and that’s very much the ‘in’ thing right now. All the angsty teens are rediscovering old rockstars from the eighties and nineties. There are whole fan groups on Instagram dedicated to the lead singer of Ratt, for the love of hell, so it stands to reason they’re deep diving into Phillip Deville too.” I booped him on the nose. “You’re the perfect poster child in every way. The death of the autotune era, all the cool kids are rediscovering rock music and falling in love with hot, sexy lead singers all over again, and here’s a real, bona fide rock god from the alternative era, in the flesh, literally back from the dead? What could be more perfect?” I gave him a sloppy kiss on the lips. “You’re about to be huge. You’re gonna be the next Vampire Lestat.”
“Don’t call me a vampire,” Phillip said with a laugh, grazing my neck with his teeth. “Unless you want to get bit.”
“I mean, I’m happy to take one for the team.” I giggled and nuzzled into him.
“I probably shouldn’t,” Phillip murmured into my neck, his breath making my skin prickle deliciously. “Being vegan and all, you’re probably B12 deficient as it is.”
“Wow, it’s so hot when you talk to me about vitamins.”
Phillip pulled back, still laughing. “If I recall, all hell broke loose for ol’ Lestat”—I grinned at the way he pronounced it correctly, Les-dot —“didn’t he have to pretty much fight a whole crew of undeads at some big show? And he unleashed some ancient evil that had been buried in two immobile vampires for centuries? A lot of people got killed for his stupid ego.”
“Of course you’ve read Anne Rice,” I said, rolling my eyes, but I was beaming. “Of course you have.”
“I’ve read all five books,” he boasted. “The last one was killer.”
“Five?” I laughed. “I think we’re up to like, thirteen books now.”
“What? Are you serious?” Phillip scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I wish bookstores delivered. I need to catch up on those.”
“Oh, you sweet, sexy, dusty old relic.” I chuckled, making a mental note to buy him the damn books on Amazon. He was simply too cute.
I started to tell him about Anne Rice’s public retirement from all things vampire and her big comeback, but then my phone pinged. I grabbed it from the nightstand and settled into Phillip’s shoulder. The text was from Roberta.
Are you guys good?
Yes, I typed back. Still holed up in here. Just got a delivery of flowers that almost gave me a coronary, but they were from Mama. I think Phillip is about to crack, though. He’s going stir crazy in here. I bit my lip, then typed, How are you guys? Benny? Lee?
While I was waiting for her response, Phillip got up from the bed and poured us both a fresh cup of coffee from the tiny two-cup pot on the small bar that doubled as a kitchenette. It wasn’t great coffee —likely some generic brand repackaged with the hotel’s logo—but I accepted the paper cup from him gratefully and took a long sip, ignoring the immediate dry, sandpaper feeling of my tongue from the hot liquid that scorched it. The levity from the moment before had dissipated, the way it always did when we heard from anyone. It was always bad news, it seemed, and we’d become accustomed to the dread that came along with the chiming of a cellphone.
We’re okay. Ish. Lee is taking care of Benny. He won’t let me do anything.
I responded with a grim smile. Sounds about right. Taking care of everyone but himself, I’m sure.
Yep. Same old Lee. As I began to type, another text pinged through. I’m actually with your mom, Stormy. She said she didn’t send you any flowers.
I frowned at the phone, then looked up, dreading having to tell Phillip. The look on his face as he stood by the counter told me he’d already figured it out. He’d pulled it from me, as usual. We’d been joined by that magical tether—which I found wonderful most of the time, but occasionally was annoyed by—that allowed him to hear my thoughts and sense my feelings ever since I’d brought him back. Combine that with his superhuman strength, ability to heal from mortal wounds, and odd habit of sensing things before they happened, and my undead boyfriend was basically a superhero.
I stood up and grabbed the little card and read it again. A bunch of platitudes about how it was all going to be okay, and then a request to meet. If it wasn’t my mother, then who had sent me the flowers, and why?
“Probably that Dylan guy or some other journalist trying to get us to come out of the hotel,” Phillip said from behind me, and I jumped. I hadn’t even heard him. He wrapped his arms around my waist.
I sighed, leaning into his shoulder. “Fucking assholes. But you know, Phillip, I think you might be right. Let’s just get it over with.”
“I think so too.”
I tapped out another text to Roberta and hit “send” before I could stop myself: I guess we can’t hide forever. Want to meet for lunch tomorrow?
She responded immediately. I was just going to ask you the same. We need to talk, and texting is no good. Lunch it is.
I groaned. Roberta had dropped so many bombshells on me in the past several days. If she “needed to talk,” that meant she had more of them, and I wasn’t sure I could handle any more. As much as I loved Roberta, and I really did—the dark-haired vixen I’d once gleefully described as my ex-husband’s “mistress” among other, worse (and definitely sexist) monikers—was fast becoming one of my best friends. But she seemed to attract trouble as much as I did, if not more so.
Despite my dread at having another talk in which I’d likely be flatlined with forgotten memories of past trauma or be roped into some hairbrained scheme against an evil villain, I felt a pang of excitement at the thought of seeing Roberta, even though it’d only been a couple of days. We’d become such fast friends, and we had so much in common. It was nice, having somebody like that to talk to, to laugh and vent with, who you knew had your back, who wasn’t interested in a friendship based on competition. I hadn’t realized as I’d sat alone in my trailer so often after my divorce just how alone I was. How lonely I had become. It had crept in so slowly, so quietly, that it had almost overtaken me before I’d realized what was happening.
Sloan, my former best friend, had been my closest confidante and partner in crime from middle school up until very recently. I’d been too blind to see how harmful, how co-dependent it had been. I don’t think Sloan herself had even realized how toxic our friendship was until it had all come to a head. I’d been totally blindsided when she’d betrayed me, and truth be told, I was still reeling a little. To discover that someone you thought was your “person”—your best friend, soulmate, BFF, whatever you want to call it—actually hates you and has for a long time, and not only that, but they’ve been planning to do you harm with a whole host of people who hate you too…well, it takes a toll. When I’d finally been able to confront her at Elvin’s, after she’d conspired with him to kidnap Lee and try to kill Benny, it had literally come to blows. Both the emotional and physical kind. I’d never forget the hatred on her face, and even after I’d quite literally knocked her on her ass, I still felt so much anger and bitterness toward her. Our friendship was over, for good. I could never, ever forget what she’d done to me, the years she’d spent gaslighting me, manipulating me, and trying to hurt the people I loved. And why? Because of a little jealousy over a magic I’d never asked for? A power that had brought me nothing but pain?
Even with all the drama that came with Roberta, I knew that she had nothing but good intentions toward me. I could feel it brimming out of her like an aura, and it was an awesome feeling; nice to know I had a friend who had no agenda, who didn’t want to compete with me or try to knock me down a peg. With Roberta, what you saw was what you got.
Hit you up in the morning to make plans, I typed, then added, Love you. I hit send, slid my phone into my back pocket, and turned around to face Phillip.
“Have you talked to Jason and Ollie?” I asked him, leaning forward to plant a quick kiss on his jaw. Jason Langley and Nate “Ollie” Green were the two remaining members of the Bloomer Demons, Phillip’s old band, the cult favorite that had thrust him into fame. The drummer, Kim Rzeznick, had passed away shortly after Phillip’s death. I knew that Phillip must be thinking of his band mates, as well as his family and his ex-wife Barb, in light of being discovered. All the implications…what it would mean for the people whose lives had been so impacted already. It was a lot.
“I texted Jason this morning,” Phillip replied, rolling his eyes.
“I assume that eyeroll means someone didn’t react the way you wanted?”
“They’re excited,” Phillip said after a pause. “Of course they are. Neither of them have to explain how and why I’m back. They’re thinking tours and albums and money. As if the band could ever get back together. What a stupid fucking idea.”
Phillip’s mouth was saying one thing, but his face was saying another. He wasn’t a very good liar, for whatever many other talents he possessed. A tremor of alarm went through me, but I kept my mouth shut and gave him a tight hug. He was so much taller than me that I had to stand on tiptoe to wrap my arms around his neck. I pulled his head down to mine and gave him a peck on the lips. “They won’t do anything you don’t want them to. You know that. They’re like your brothers.” The unspoken words lay between us. Phillip had actual brothers. Blood family, relations that I knew, even if Phillip didn’t, were still very much living and had no idea their world was about to be turned upside down. So far, the only people from Phillip’s old life who knew he was alive were his band mates and his ex-wife Barb, who he had briefly seen and talked to a week ago. I was still dealing with my feelings of envy and jealousy over that . I knew that the thought of seeing and talking to his family again filled him with equal parts dread and excitement.
“I know,” he said into my neck, his lips warm and soft against my skin. “They’re good guys.”
“And you’re a good guy too,” I said, facing him again, smiling as I looked into his eyes. “Whatever you decide, I’m behind you.
“I love you,” he said, and I kissed him again, ignoring the dread that had started up in my belly.
“We’re in this together, Deville,” I whispered as I pulled away, touching his stubbly chin with my finger. “For better or worse.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said with a sad smile, his eyes far away. “That it’s going to get much, much worse before it gets better.”
“Naturally,” I said in a bright voice, making devil horns with my fingers. “The lives of a rock star and a witch are never dull.” I trailed a kiss from his collarbone to his chin, enjoying the pleasant shudder that went through him. I looped my fingers with his and pulled him toward the bed. “But for now, it’s late. Bedtime.”
“As you wish,” my prince answered.