Chapter 4
Four
I emerged from the hotel bathroom in a cloud of steam, the cold air from the AC hitting me like a slap in the face. I’d spent too long in the shower—I was going to make Phillip late—but I couldn’t get over the amazing water pressure.
That and I was just plain old stalling. I loved my little trailer and would never feel anything but at home there, and I was used to roughing it—happy to, most of the time. But being pampered with room service, high thread-count sheets, a mini bar, and an amazing bathroom with two showerheads and a jacuzzi tub had me feeling all kinds of precious. Maybe the hotel in Florida would be similarly nice, I hoped as I ran my fingers through my freshly dried hair, teasing it. Oh, who was I kidding. It would be a dive.
The truth was, I wasn’t ready to leave this cocoon with Phillip and head back out into the real world where shit always seemed to be coated in fifteen layers of stress and secrecy, and where I was always either on the run or running after someone, constantly prying open secret after secret only to find more awfulness buried within like my own personal set of torturous Russian nesting dolls. At least here, time had stopped for a moment and I could breathe.
But outside these cushy hotel walls, life carried on, from my missing father and the mysterious circumstances surrounding his disappearance to the likely curious and cheerful buzz of fans as they woke up tomorrow to news breaking that cult-status rock star Phillip Deville had been found alive, well, and bumming around the beaches of Florida. I could hide in here forever, but I couldn’t stop the forces at play from bursting their way in. Might as well face the music while I had some semblance of control.
“You’re still primping?” I stood in the doorway and laughed, regarding Phillip, who was seated in front of the hotel vanity, squinting into the mirror. “Save some of that makeup for me. I do need a turn, you know.” He’d been preening in front of that mirror since before I’d gotten in the shower. I surveyed him; there was no need for all that fussing because he looked damn good. His hair, starting to grow out, was tousled with a little pomade, giving him a shiny, sexy bedhead that was undeniably hot. He’d let his facial hair grow just past a five-o-clock shadow, and I was surprised to see a thread or two of gray on his chin. Like most men, it gave him a debonair sort of worldliness that only made him all the more sexy. I walked over to him, noticing on closer inspection that he’d used a swish or two of my eyeliner under his eyes, just enough to smudge and give a slept-in, grunge look. It was very nineties, but it worked. Lord, did it work.
Phillip Deville had always, always been hot as fire, if my decades-long fandom was any indication. But with a scruffy beard, threaded with strands of silver foxiness, slicked-back hair, and smudgy, smokey eyes? My mouth actually watered.
Phillip had already dressed in the new black shirt and jeans he’d bought earlier at the local mall, and laced up his black leather boots, the bottoms of his jeans rolled up over them. The fitted black blazer I recognized from the day when I’d almost murdered him from jealousy upon finding out he was meeting his ex-wife for dinner hung on the chair, freshly dry-cleaned and ready to slip on. Phillip looked so damn good. He turned to me with a sly look, and as he did, I caught a whiff of his delectable cologne, hints of musk and ocean water enveloping my senses.
“They aren’t going to be able to smell you through their phones, you know,” I teased him, and he pulled me down into his lap, grinning.
“I know,” he murmured into my ear. “I did that for you.”
“Mmmm, I’m grateful,” I murmured back, snuggling into his neck. His skin was warm and clean, and I wanted nothing more than to drag him over to the bed and bite him on his scruffy chin. “You smell amazing.”
“So do you,” he growled, and I purred into his neck. If we were quick…
But no, we had somewhere to be. I couldn’t keep stalling, not even for the sexiest of reasons.
“Go ahead and do your makeup,” Phillip said, seeming to come to the same conclusion, reluctantly standing up and giving me the chair. “I’m as ready as I’m going to be.”
“Are you nervous?” I asked, settling into the chair and reaching for my concealer. I dabbed a little more than usual under my sleep-deprived eyes and blended it with my foam brush, patting it gently over my puffy skin. I glanced in the mirror at Phillip standing behind me. His face was pinched with nerves, but he shook his head.
“Yes and no,” he admitted. “Dealing with the media is the same as it’s ever been, I guess, so I’m not so much nervous about the interview itself. It’s more…the fans that I’m worried about.”
“You think they’ll be upset?” I blended a neutral eyeshadow over my brow, then swiped a hint of red in the corner of each lid.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “I hope not.”
“Well,” I said, hoping my hand would stop trembling long enough to apply my liquid liner straight, “I guess we’ll know soon enough. I think…I think it’s going to go okay.”
“You’re probably right,” Phillip said, but when I searched for his eyes in the mirror, he was looking off into the distance, his face full of uncertainty.
I sat on a bench directly in front of the statue, sitting slightly to the left so I could peer around and see Phillip and the reporter, Dylan Quint, sitting on a bench across from me. I couldn’t hear much of them speaking with the large expanse between us, but if I craned my ear to the left, I could just barely make out Phillip’s voice.
He had chosen this little park because he said it seemed peaceful . Obviously, Phillip wasn’t as up on his Savannah history as I was. But he was right; the beautiful green foliage, sweetly placed benches, and tourists milling around looking at statues of James Oglethorpe and John Wesley were rather quaint. On any other day, I’d be cackling with laughter at the irony of this goth-metal rock king choosing such a goofy, downright wholesome locale for an interview, but I was too nervous to laugh at Phillip today. What was going to happen once my lover threw the gauntlet down and revealed himself to the world?
We were lucky it hadn’t happened already. By some divine miracle, the guys who had ambushed us by the elevators the night before had, so far, refrained from releasing their footage. Before Phillip would even sit down, he’d presented Dylan Quint with a piece of paper he’d drafted, explicitly banning them from releasing the footage and pictures under threat of legal action, and Dylan had signed it quickly.
But they hadn’t kept totally quiet. I’d managed a covert Instagram search while in the bathroom earlier and had seen that #PhillipDeville was trending. News had definitely “broken” that he’d been spotted, and a few diehard fans were speculating wildly about that, but so far, there was no official word from Dylan Quint, Kevin Ramford, or anyone else. It was all just rumors for now. I’d seen a couple of theories, including one very far-fetched kidnapping plot that involved the British royal family that had me laughing uncontrollably, but for the most part, the news had not broken on any major news outlets. Yet.
It wouldn’t surprise me at all if Dylan Quint had leaked a teaser from some anon account just to gain a little traction ahead of time. I figured that by dinnertime today, the news would be circulating among the Who’s Who of media conglomerates. Which was why this interview was so important. Phillip had one shot to get his narrative out there before one could be created. He might not quite understand, but I certainly did, as someone who lived in this world and had never left it—you become the story before the story becomes you.
I thought back to that scene in the foyer and felt a chill. The way the journalists had confronted us so easily, how they’d caught us off guard. How I’d stupidly led Phillip to the hotel like a lamb to slaughter. Phillip had handled the situation in a relatively chill way, but it still bothered me how easily the man had stepped onto the elevator and how calmly and confidently he’d turned to us and demanded that Phillip speak. As though we owed them something, as though we had no right to privacy at all. Thankfully, Dylan Quint or someone at Vice/GOTHzine had had the good sense to tell Kevin Ramford to keep his ass at home today.
While following celebrities and influencers and political figures on social media and seeing how one fluke could become a viral sensation was entertaining, how the concept of “fame” had changed so drastically even from the early aughts. It was one thing to live through those changes and see them play out in everyday life. But it was another thing entirely to suddenly be living it.
I knew my life was about to change in a very, very big way. I’d undergone some pretty major changes already. And while it should seem that learning I was a witch—with actual powers and all that entailed—and that there was an entire past’s worth of experiences and memories that had been wiped clean would be the biggest transition I had to go through…I couldn’t help the sense that this, this thing with Phillip, would be even bigger.
This threat—or promise?—of newfound fame, combined with my new, very uncertain life as a witch at the forefront of a coven I hadn’t even known existed two weeks ago, was all very stressful and very hard to wrap my head around. But there was something else too. Something that had been nagging at my consciousness, popping up in my dreams, making it hard for me to sleep. Something I hadn’t allowed myself to fully think about yet. But I couldn’t keep the thought contained forever.
The woman I’d seen standing near the front of the hotel, wearing a sleek black coat and dressed to the nines like she was a rich woman headed to a cocktail party, the woman whose face had worn perfectly applied, elegant makeup; all dramatic eyes and impeccable foundation, but bare lips shiny with ChapStick…
Phillip had been too distracted by the elevator ambush and hadn’t noticed her.
But I had.
I hadn’t said anything to anyone yet. Why I was keeping it quiet, I didn’t quite know, but I thought it might have something to do with the fact that I missed her. And I was ashamed to admit it.
What I did know, though, I knew without a shadow of a doubt—the elegant, beautiful woman standing in the doorway, watching us as we dodged cameras in our faces, trying to navigate a situation out of our control, her face lighting up in a dazzling smile, had been Sloan.
Whatever nerves Phillip had had back at the hotel seemed to have dissipated. He sat with perfect posture, one long leg slightly positioned over the other, his black boots propped against the foot of the bench, his large hands clasped in front of him and resting lightly in his lap. The wind moved his black hair, whipping some of his shiny locks in front of his face, where they fell just below his brow and over one eye. Phillip pushed it gingerly to the side with one long, graceful finger, and as he did, the reporter snapped a picture.
That’s the money shot, I thought to myself. Might as well pack it in now.
Jesus, he was handsome. Sometimes I’d look at him and my breath would catch, in awe of the fact that Phillip Deville was alive and hearty and strong and oh so beautiful and somehow, despite everything, mine. As he sat there, graceful and hulking at the same time, his black hair a sharp contrast to his bright, striking eyes, I found it hard to breathe. Phillip was so laid-backand yet sophisticated, effortlessly cool and sexy. It just came naturally to him. Phillip Deville lived and breathed rock god; he didn’t even have to try. As if on cue, he extended one arm and casually busied himself with adjusting the sleeve of his black jacket, effortlessly sexy, almost as though he’d heard me.
“Let’s start with the obvious,” Dylan Quint was saying as I snapped back down to earth. “Obviously—because we’re sitting here talking to you—you’re not dead. Can you explain, Mr. Deville, where you’ve been for the past twenty-three, almost twenty-four, years?”
“Of course,” Phillip answered in a measured tone, an easy smile on his face, as though it were the most natural question in the world. “I’ve been everywhere. Like the Johnny Cash song?” He waited for the reporter to smile, and when he only got a puzzled look, he went on. “I lived in Boston for a while, traveled some, then I moved here to South Georgia not too long ago.”
“Well, what I mean, Mr. Deville…more specifically…what have you been doing all these years?”
Phillip shrugged. “I was just living. Laying low. I wasn’t deliberately trying to hide.” Phillip lied smoothly, brushing his hair out of his eyes again. He leered a little, the sunlight catching his bright white teeth. It was the wolfish grin I’d come to know and love. The rock star grin, the grin that made Phillip. Another money shot.
“How did you stay hidden for so long?” Quint pushed. “You’re a recognizable figure. It seems like someone would have spotted you, unless you were making some concerted effort to like…”
“To disappear?” Phillip chuckled deep in his throat. “And they did, from time to time,” he answered evenly. “Recognize me, I mean. I suppose people just assumed I was a lookalike or something and went on their way.” His eyes twinkled with mirth. “People can convince themselves of anything if they want to believe it hard enough.”
“Can you explain how the whole thing started? Why you faked your death?” Dylan Quint asked, sitting forward eagerly. I could almost read his mind through his body language. He was flashing forward to the awards, the promotions, the recognition he might get for this interview.
“I didn’t fake my death,” Phillip clarified. “People thought I had died, and I just…let them think it. I never corrected them.”
I covered my mouth to hide my surprise. Phillip hadn’t thought this answer through. There was a death certificate. The internet sleuths, the amateur reporters, they’d go looking and they’d find it. All it would take was a membership to one of those genealogy websites and someone would find every single public record available. Phillip simply didn’t realize just how accessible these things were now.. But how would he explain that away once people started digging?
“But allowing people to think you had passed away?” the reporter pressed. “Isn’t that unfair?”
“I suppose it is, in hindsight,” Phillip replied. “I wasn’t exactly in my right mind at the time.”
“Can you take us through those moments?” Dylan Quint asked. “Your last moments, as it were, or what the public at large thought were your last moments?”
“Sure,” Phillip said patiently. “I did indeed overdose; those reports were true. I had quite a hefty drug problem, you understand. After that last time—and I did legally die for a few seconds— everyone in my life, my family, friends, my band, they all came together and staged an intervention. They told me they couldn’t let me slowly kill myself.
“And I knew they were right. I was headed down a very dark path, and I wasn’t going to make it if I didn’t make some big changes.” Phillip paused for a moment, likely remembering his very real past, and my heart hurt for him. “However, I knew as long as I continued with the band—continued as a rock star, if you will—that I wouldn’t be able to kick the habit. Unfortunately, for me, as with so many others in my profession, sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll do indeed go hand in hand. It wasn’t possible for me to get clean and turn my life around so long as I was famous.”
“So you decided to leave public life?”
“Yes,” Phillip answered. “It was a split-second decision but not one that I made rashly. I’d been thinking about leaving the business for a very long time. The overdose was just…the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
“That’s understandable. But why not just…retire? Make an announcement that you’re done with showbiz and quietly fade into the night?” Quint asked.
Phillip nodded. “I could have done that, yes. But as you well know, being in the profession that you’re in, just announcing that you’re leaving music isn’t a foolproof way of getting your privacy. You see actors and musicians doing that sort of thing from time to time, announcing they’re quitting the biz or whatever, but it always takes months, sometimes even years, to completely leave the public consciousness. The paparazzi still follow them. The gossip mill still makes money off them. They get harassed online. They’re hounded for interviews or tell-all books. It doesn’t end just because you decide you’re done.”
“You were afraid the public wouldn’t let you go?”
“Perhaps,” Phillip said thoughtfully, stroking his chin. “Or perhaps I was more afraid I’d use the public—and my fans—as an excuse not to ever let go myself , even though I knew I needed to.”
“I see.” Quint nodded, appearing thoughtful. Now it was a smile I was hiding behind my hand. Phillip Deville could charm the pants off anyone.
Phillip paused, then went on. “And in my case, there were unique circumstances that led up to my decision, that made it possible. You see, news leaked about my overdose almost immediately. The word was out before my family had even arrived at the ER. And someone leaked to the press that I’d died.” He shook his head. “Even though I’d been revived, everyone in the media thought I was a goner. And they ran with the story. When I came to in that hospital room, and all my family and friends were there staging that intervention…well, all my fans had already heard from Kurt Loder”—his lip turned up at the mention of the MTV veejay, who he hated—“that I was dead. They already thought I was gone.”
“So you just…”
“So I just…decided to let them think it,” Phillip finished for him. “It seemed like the best decision at the time. It’d give me some time to decompress, to get clean, to decide what to do. Celeb death hoaxes were already a thing…I figured if I changed my mind and popped up a few days later, like, ‘surprise, I’m not dead,’ it wouldn’t be a huge deal; people would understand. But as the days went on and I started rehab, I realized I didn’t want to come out of hiding. I didn’t want to come back. I wanted to stay gone.” Phillip’s face was deeply sincere and a little sad. “There was such a freedom in it. For the first time in years, I felt like I belonged to nobody but myself, and I wasn’t ready to give that up.”
I felt a pang listening to him. He might be lying about the details, but the feelings he was expressing were very real. A current of worry ran through me. What if getting back into this very public life was a mistake? One that would harm not only Phillip, but me as well?
“So you disappeared,” Quint prompted, the charmed look gone from his angular, bearded face, replaced with an expression of almost irritation. I wondered if he had been into the Bloomer Demons, way back when. “Leaving your fans to mourn. And did you indeed stay clean and get well during that time?”
“I did,” Phillip said. “I haven’t touched a single drug in over twenty years.”
“Mr. Deville, you never did say definitively what you’ve been doing all this time. You mentioned some travel. Did you get married again? Have any children? How have you made money?”
Quint was getting too personal. That look returned to Phillip’s his face, the homicidal deer in the headlights look. But Phillip took a deep breath and answered. “I don’t know what to tell you. I laid low. I lived off my estate for a long while and did a few odd jobs to make money when I needed it. Nothing terribly fancy or that needs going into detail.” He shifted and crossed his legs, sighing. “And no, I never did remarry or have any children, but…well, I do have someone special in my life, and let’s just say I’m very much looking forward to the future in that regard.”
He didn’t look my way—I knew he didn’t want to draw any attention to me lest Quint decide to focus on me, even temporarily—but I could feel his inner gaze warming me, lighting me up with a glow. I could feel his love, his intention, and it made my heart start to thump fast and hard. I stared at Phillip, watching the way his strong jaw moved as he spoke, the way his long, inky eyelashes tickled his cheek as he closed his eyes to carefully curate his answers. He was so beautiful it hurt.
Marriage and kids? I hadn’t even thought about it. Not once. I hadn’t had the chance. But evidently, Phillip had.
Oh, boy…
I tucked those thoughts away, intent on concentrating on the interview, but the idea poked at my brain like a Q-tip in the ear, tickling ever so lightly, distracting me. What would it look like—what would it feel like—what would it be like—to be married to Phillip Deville? To tour with him, meet his family, set up a home with him, possibly have his children…?
Stormy Deville…
I didn’t have any real feelings on changing my name. The only reason I’d taken Tess’ was because I didn’t feel any strong tie to my parents, my father especially. I didn’t know how many people even knew my maiden name was Bradley; I wasn’t sure Phillip even did before the news of Charles ‘Chad’ Bradley’s house burning down and him being missing had taken over our lives. At the time, changing my name to Spooner had felt like I was purging my past, a thought that was laughable now. Could I shake off Stormy Spooner for good and become someone else? Stormy Deville did have a nice ring to it.
I shook off the thoughts again and focused on paying attention, avoiding the flashes of heat in my head that were undoubtedly coming from Phillip. He wasn’t looking at me, but he was thinking at me, and inside my head, he was laughing. His chin rested on his closed fist, a gesture of both attentiveness and slight annoyance. His body language said he was getting bored of this interview, and he was pretty much done, whether Dylan Quint was or not.
“Is there anything you’d like to say to your fans? The fans who mourned you, attended your memorial, bought your posthumous album, who have visited your grave every year since? The fans who have admired and loved you, even in your absence?” Lord, Quint was laying it on thick. He seemed to be taking this betrayal quite personally for an impartial rock journalist.
“My fans,” Phillip said in a dulcet tone, as though butter wouldn’t melt on his tongue. “I assume most of those fans have spent the past twenty-three years focusing on much more important things than little old me.” He threw back his head and laughed, his sharp, white teeth glinting in the sunlight. Then he stroked his salt-and-pepper jaw and smiled a megawatt smile, another money shot for the coffers. I felt a pulse of heat low in my belly, a pulse that his fans would no doubt feel too once this interview went live. Good Lord, Deville…
“Of course, though,” Phillip said, his grin still firmly in place. Behind the grin, though, his eyes were sad. Only I knew the truth—the hidden pain that he still felt. This was hard for him. Spinning tales, pretending that he’d been alive all this time, that he’d been quietly experiencing life when the truth was, he’d actually missed the past twenty years, and had had no time to make up for all the regrets of his past life. “I’d like to say thank you to the fans. Thank you for your love and support, and for listening to my music all this time. It does my heart good—truly—to know that people still find my work meaningful, that it resonates with them. I’m very touched that they’ve kept my memory alive all these years. And I hope my story—either version—can be a cautionary tale about how not to handle things, and that those fans who struggle with addiction or mental health problems seek out help. There’s no shame in that.” Phillip clasped his hands in his lap and leaned forward. “That’s it. That’s all. Just thanks.”
“And I suppose there’s just one more question, the one that everyone will be wondering,” Dylan Quint said as Phillip stood up to go.
“What question is that?” Phillip asked. “I think I’ve answered all the big ones. The sound bites.”
“Oh, there’s just one more big one, Mr. Deville,” Dylan Quint answered.
“Shoot.”
“Is there new music on the horizon?”
I expected a flippant denial, or possibly a deflection, since Phillip had told me he and the guys hadn’t ironed out details. From what he’d said, his former bandmates were interested in a reunion for the financial possibilities, but he’d acted like he wasn’t sure, telling me he’d only agree to something if I was on board.
But Phillip did not seem surprised by the question, nor was he offended by it. In fact, he stopped laughing, his eyes taking on a little sparkle. He leaned forward, almost conspiratorially. “Well…as you know, the Bloomer Demons can never reform with the original lineup.” His face fell a little. “Since Kim is gone.”
“And Kim Rzeznick is really gone?” the reporter asked. Phillip flinched almost imperceptibly. “Really, truly? Nothing faked?”
“He’s really, truly gone,” Phillip said, his face darkening. “God rest his soul. And I told you, I didn’t fake?—”
“So no current plans for a reunion or any new music?” Quint interjected, and in a way, I was thankful for his rudeness. I didn’t want Phillip to feel sad, thinking about Kim. And I didn’t like where this interview was headed, not at all.
“I didn’t say that,” Phillip said slyly, and my breath caught. “I am, after all, a musician. Whatever form that artistic expression takes…well, we’ll just have to wait and see. I can say that I’ve been writing some music lately…and I wouldn’t mind having the chance to perform it. We’ll just have to see how things go and if it’s something the fans might be interested in.” He smiled. “I guess the answer is ‘stay tuned.’”
“Well, that’s certainly very exciting,” Dylan Quint said, barreling forward. “I know another question that fans have is about your ex-wife, Barb. Have you had any contact?—"
“I believe you said that was your last question,” Phillip said, his voice turning on a dime from sly and lighthearted to curt and dry. “And I think it was a good note to leave things on. I won’t be answering any more questions today.”
“But Mr. Deville, the fans want?—"
“I think the fans will respect my privacy and hers,” Phillip said, extending his hand to shake Dylan Quint’s. “And so should you.”
Dylan Quint had the good sense to stop it there; he extended his own arm, skinny and limp next to Phillip’s strong, muscular one, and shook his hand. He clicked his phone off and slid it into his jeans’ pocket, his face a mixture of excitement and disappointment. He’d clearly wanted to get more, but what he had gotten was a gracious plenty. It would be viral in no time.
I took my cue to get up from the bench and walk over to Phillip, as eager as he was to get out of here and back to the hotel. Some of what Phillip had said had alarms bells ringing, and other things had me warm with pleasure. I extended my own hand and shook Quint’s, figuring I may as well cultivate a good relationship with the reporter; if things went the way I thought they would, we’d likely be seeing him again.
“Sorry about yesterday,” Quint said to me as I pulled my hand back. “That ambush was unprofessional.”
“Yeah, it was,” I answered. “But it’s all forgotten now. Just see that you uphold that contract you signed.”
“Are you his manager?” Dylan asked, watching as I put the signed piece of paper in my bag. “I thought you were just the girlfriend.”
I bristled. “ Just the girlfriend? Is this 1950? Are you high? Jeez.”
Phillip put an arm around me and gave me a goofy smile. He could tell I was upset, and about more than just the disrespectful, sexist camera guy. “So that wraps it up,” he said, a curt nod and a straightening of his shoulders doing the talking for him.
“If you’re certain you won’t answer any more questions, then yes,” Dylan said, extending his hand to shake Phillip’s again, this time off camera. Phillip obliged. “We got enough pictures and stuff for the article and a few extra for our Twitter and Instagram.” Despite Phillip’s obvious irritation, the reporter was beaming; he looked positively thrilled to have gotten the story. I didn’t like the guy, but I could hardly blame him. Breaking a story like this was the opportunity of a lifetime. “We’ll probably put up a teaser, the big ‘breaking news’ announcement, on social media in a couple hours or so? The hour after lunch is always good for the most activity and clicks. Then late tomorrow morning we’ll post the whole interview. That work for you?”
“I guess,” Phillip said with a shrug. He still didn’t quite understand, or have any interest in, social media.
“We’ve already sent payment to the address you gave us,” the reporter said, and rattled off an email address that took me by surprise. It was the one linked to my payment app. I had totally forgotten that Phillip had insisted on being paid for the interview.
Phillip nodded. “Good. Well, I guess that’s it, then. Thanks for your time.”
“Were you a Bloomer Demons fan?” I asked Dylan Quint on impulse. He looked surprised. “You were, weren’t you?”
“The biggest,” he said after a pause, then smiled. “I used to visit Phillip’s grave every year. I guess that’s weird now.”
“How did you find Phillip?” I asked. “How did you know to come here?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say. I have to protect my source,” Dylan Quint said after another uncomfortable pause, then extended his hand to shake mine again. We’d all shaken hands so many times it was beginning to get awkward. “It was nice meeting you both. And Phillip—Mr. Deville—I’m really glad you’re alive. I really was a huge fan of yours. Still am.”
“Thanks,” Phillip said.
Dylan Quint moved to leave, then turned around and said, “Prepare for the onslaught, Mr. Deville. When the story breaks, it’s going to be everywhere. I mean, rock stars faking their deaths is a tale as old as time—Tupac, Elvis, Jim Morrison—but you’re the first who ever came back . It’s going to be wild for a while. Paparazzi, crazed fans, the whole nine. You might want to lay low somewhere for a while.”
“We intend to,” Phillip said with a grim smile. “Somewhere you’ll never find us, god willing.”
I hoped and prayed he was right, but as we walked down the cobblestone street back toward the hotel, I couldn’t help but think that Panama City Beach, Mecca of spring breakers everywhere, was probably the last place in the world we should be going.