Page 11 of Dead Rockstar

“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.

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