Memphis
The coffin is heavier than it should be.
Storm is front left. Chandler front right. I’m behind Storm. Two roadies fill in the rest because Phoenix can barely stand without swaying. Which is why he’s following close behind in a wheelchair a private nurse is pushing.
On a silent count of three, we lift.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath, as we head for the church doors. “What’d they bury him with? A few kilos of coke and a keg of beer?”
Storm snorts. “Think he snuck a groupie in there with him?”
Chandler snaps over his shoulder, “Knock it the hell off. Both of you.”
We go quiet.
But not out of respect.
It’s because we know if we don’t laugh, we’ll all start screaming.
At Josh.
At each other.
At how fucked we all are now.
Inside the church is packed.
Not with family.
Josh didn’t have family…aside from me, Valerie, and Archie.
It’s filled with groupies.
They’re all crying with mascara streaks running down their cheeks, sobbing like they lost the love of their lives.
Girls who know little else other than the taste of his dick and whatever drug he preferred using that night.
In the first pew, Valerie’s crying, too, silently weeping into a tissue. For Josh. For Archie.
I’m all that poor woman has left now.
Although she didn’t really have Josh once he decided they had nothing else he wanted and would be of no more service to him. Bastard.
However, unlike the groupies who are in some unspoken rivalry trying to one-up the other’s grief for attention and for the videos they’ll undoubtedly post later, her tears are real.
The only woman who isn’t crying is Skylar, who’s seated on the opposite end of the pew in the front row.
She’s composed. Blank.
A statue carved out of strength and resilience.
Phoenix sits beside her in a wheelchair, looking small. Which is ironic because Phoenix is one tall motherfucker.
But right now? Glass looks less fragile than him.
The minister steps up to the podium at the head of the church.
“We are gathered here today to honor the great Joshua Roland. A man of generosity, who donated to charities and was always putting others before him—”
I laugh.
Biting. Ugly. Sardonic.
I can’t help myself. His opening words make it comically clear that he doesn’t know a single goddamn thing about Josh.
Storm’s head snaps to me, and he mouths, ‘What the fuck?’
What the fuck is right.
“Who the hell paid this guy off?” I mutter.
Storm’s expression tells me he’s wondering the same exact thing.
As if on cue, we glance at Chandler.
He clears his throat and stares very intently at the hymn book.
Guilty.
The minister continues. “Joshua was deeply devoted to his childhood sweetheart. His beautiful fiancée, Skylar—”
Deeply devoted my ass. His dick was balls deep in a different pussy nearly every night.
I glance at her in my peripheral. She doesn’t react to the minister’s words.
Not even so much as an eye twitch.
“And to his bandmates, whom he considered his family.”
Storm rolls his eyes.
I snort.
Phoenix’s glassy eyes make it clear he’s still buying Josh’s bullshit, even from the grave.
“Want to grab some burgers after this?” I ask Storm.
“Hell yeah,” he says under his breath.
Evidently, we aren’t being quiet enough because Chandler shoots us a glare like we’re disobedient five-year-olds and he will ‘pull this car over right now.’
“And above all else,” the minister prattles on. “Josh held a deep love for music, which he shared with his brother and best friend, Memphis.”
A record scratching sound goes off inside my head, and everything comes to a screeching halt.
Storm waits for the punchline. Chandler waits for me to make a scene.
Valerie sniffles louder.
But I’m too focused on my hand.
The scar is a faded white line across my palm. You’d need a magnifying glass and great lighting to even see it these days.
Even still, I know it’s there. Identical to the one Josh has.
Had.
I run my thumb along it. Blood brothers.
Best friends.
Bandmates.
My muscles tense.
Liar.
Saboteur.
Manipulator.
Exploiter.
Slow poison haunting every good thing I ever had, making sure I’d never be able to fully enjoy it.
The kid I taught to play bass.
The kid who used to spend hours listening to me play guitar.
The kid who asked me to keep a lookout whenever he went into the shower because I was the first person he trusted.
The kid I didn’t complain about being around because he was the first person I met who could relate to me, and it made the world a little less lonely.
I stand.
Storm nudges me. “It’s not over yet, dude.”
I don’t respond.
I just walk out.