Page 12 of Dead Rockstar

“Is that even a thing?” I asked incredulously. “Night-Train? I thought that was just a Guns 'n Roses song.”

“It was real back in the day,” he said, closing his eyes. “Cheap shit. Worst hangover of your life. Make you wish you were dead.”

The word “dead” gave me a chill. “I can't...believe it's really you,” I managed to say, leaning against the table for support. “I may die. Of a heart attack. Or possibly a stroke.”

“Don't stroke out on me. I'm not sure if dead guys can do CPR.” He grinned. “Though I do appear to be breathing.”

“This is all a dream. Just a dream. I'm going to wake up any second.” I shook my head back and forth, hard enough to make my cheeks jiggle. “I'm going to pick up the phone and dial and it won't ring. Or I'll try to scream, and no sound will come out. Or I'll run and run and never get anywhere. This is a panic dream.”

He smiled. “You're funny. Hey, what year is it?”

My mouth fell open. “Seriously?”

“My clock seems to have stopped,” he said with a wry smile.

“Um.”

“You got it, right?”

Phillip Deville, my favorite dead rock star, told dad jokes. I rested my head on my hand, feeling tunnel vision set in. “2019,” I said slowly.

“I died in...1997. So I've been dead what...” He thought. “Twenty-two years?”

“Closer to twenty-three,” I said weakly, staring down at my glass. “I was in, um, my first year of high school.”

“Christ,” he muttered. “All those supposed die-hard fans and it took twenty-two years for somebody to do the fucking spell.”

“Well, you did have it hidden pretty well,” I said. “That rare vinyl goes for like five hundred bucks on Ebay these days. I just lucked out.”

“That record seriously pulls five hundred bucks? Fucking gougers.” He looked pleased with himself.

“Shouldn't surprise you. The second you died all that stuff skyrocketed in value. People love their dead rock stars.”

Did he wince? “I guess they do.” He took another sip of wine. “I guess it took my being dead to hit the big time. But still...five hundred bucks for that shitty record. I can't believe it, man.”

“It's not a shitty record,” I said defensively. “It's a piece of art.”

He raised an eyebrow and laughed.

“It is,” I insisted. When he didn't respond, I added, “I got it for a steal.”

“Well, I'm glad for that.” He was still smiling. “And obviously, you deciphered the spell on the back?”

“Kinda. I found some folks speculating about it online, on reddit-” He looked confused. “-and just sort of looked over it. Honestly, I don't even know how – I mean, I'm not a witch, I've never done a spell before, I didn't even have half of the proper supplies-”

His dark eyes settled on me, a question in them, and I had to look away, my words getting lost. He was too intense. “But you had the power, evidently.”

“I didn't mean to.” My cheeks burned. “I've been listening to your music a lot lately. It helps get me through-” I looked down. Famous people probably thought it was so cheesy when they heard that type of flowery, pathetic praise from fans. “I'm sure you were tired of hearing that from desperate, sad losers two decades ago.”

“No,” he said softly. “I'd never get tired of that.”

I blushed. “I've been your biggest fan since longer than I'd care to admit.”

“High school, at least,” he said with a sly grin. “I'm not sure how to feel about that. I'd say I feel old, but.” He sipped his wine. “I think that's pretty ungrateful, considering.”

“How do you feel?” I asked, curious. “I mean, considering where you've, er, been...”

He put his long, muscled arms out in front of him and considered them. Somewhere between my front door and the kitchen he'd pulled off his black leather jacket and was now only clad in a faded black t-shirt that looked about a hundred years old. The skin of his arms was a soft, pale white, save for the tattoos on his bicep and forearms – a phoenix on one arm, and the number “7” on the other. I had the sudden thought I'd like to lick one of those arms and felt my face grow even hotter. He looked at me with a smirk, almost as if he'd heard my thoughts, then back down at his hands. He picked up his glass and as he raised it to his lips, I noticed his hands shook a little. “Now that I know you're okay, I'm starting to feel a little freaked myself.” He took another deep drink of wine and looked at me intently as I sat across from him. “It's not every day someone brings you back from the dead. All things considered, though, I feel pretty damn good.” He splayed out his fingers, made a fist, and ran his hands up and down the length of his arms.

---