Page 15 of Dead Rockstar

“Would you have?”

I flushed. “Probably.”

The silence in the room was suddenly very silent.

“I'll play for you, then,” he said after a moment, clearing his throat. “As a thank you.”

“That would be amazing.” But I couldn't think about that right now, though my teenage self would have died. “I have to tell you, I have a million questions. This is all so confusing. I just don't see how you can really be here.”

He smiled slowly, like a cat. “I'll answer what I can, but I have to tell you that I'm in the dark too, on a lot of it.” He took a deep breath. “It smells so good in here. Like cinnamon and cloves. It makes me think of Halloween. Are you burning incense?”

“It's my wax melt burner,” I said. That look of confusion again. “It's like a candle, but in electric form.”

“I don't know what that is.” That slow smile reappeared. “I had these big candles once that I kept in the studio. They smelled sort of like that. I'd light them all and just sing my vocals in the dark.” He looked thoughtful. “I was usually shitfaced. Once I actually caught my shirt on fire. I was halfway through a verse on The Death of Love before I realized.” That grin. “I thought I was Jim Morrison reincarnated. I guess I took 'Light my Fire' a little too literally. What a douche.”

“You or Jim?” I asked.

“Yes.” He smirked.

“Is that where the scream comes from, at the end of that line?” I asked, excited. “On The Death of Love? Because your shirt was on fire?”

“Yeah.”

“It's so fucking sexy when you do that,” I said. I flushed crimson and clapped my hand over my mouth. “I had no idea.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said with a big grin. “That's what I was going for. Well, until the second-degree burn.” He pulled his shirt up to reveal a section of stomach, the skin taut and muscular but with a blotch of raised, shiny skin. I stared. His face turned wistful. “Of course, later that night I was in the toilet shitting my guts out from too much cheap wine and cocaine, wearing a sweaty shirt with a huge-ass hole burned in it. Not very sexy. Being a rock star is such bull shit, all smoke and mirrors.”

“I think I prefer the smoke and mirrors,” I said with a laugh. “Now you've ruined that song for me.”

He grinned, then looked down at his lap, his face turning serious. “So - my band,” he said. “Are they all...” He swallowed. “...still with us?”

“All but one,” I said.

“Which one?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but he stopped me. “Never mind,” he said, taking a long drink of wine. “I'm not sure I'm ready to know yet.”

I realized both of our glasses were empty and moved to take his, but he held a hand out and stopped me. “I'm sorry, Stormy, I know it's rude, and you have so many questions, but I'm really tired. I think...this whole process...it's just worn me out. This body isn't used to walking upright again yet. Could I trouble you for somewhere to sleep? The couch here is fine, if you don't mind.”

“Oh! Oh, of course!” I looked at the clock. It was after ten. Not terribly late, but just hours ago he'd been six feet under. “I'll take the couch, you can sleep on my bed. It's more comfortable.”

“No, I don't want to do that,” he said firmly. “I'm fine here, really.”

I looked at him, dubious. He was 6'5” and my couch was little more than a love seat. “Let me at least get you a blanket and a pillow, then.”

When I returned, he'd stripped down to his boxer shorts – black and tight-fitting, and I forced myself to look away – and his soft black t-shirt. He'd pulled his hair back and was holding it with his hand.

“Would you like a hair tie?”

“If you have one.” He smiled at me. “So many little things about living to get used to. Like tying back your hair and brushing your teeth.”

“There's a spare toothbrush in the cup in the bathroom,” I said. “I'm a stickler for always having a spare toothbrush. You never know when you'll have a houseguest.”

“Might even be a dead one,” he joked, and headed toward the bathroom. I watched him retreat, then realized I was gawking at him in his underwear. Phillip Deville. In my house. In nothing but black boxer briefs. Alive. I clutched the pillow to my chest. How in the hell could this even be happening?

I made up the couch as bed-like as I could, fluffing the pillow and even spraying some Febreze on the blanket. I could hear him in the bathroom, running water, the swish swish of the toothbrush. He emerged from the bathroom as I was straightening the afghan on the couch and propping up my pillows, embarrassed at what meager means of comfort I had to offer him. He'd found a hair tie and now that his black, silky hair was out of his face, I could see just how sharp and fine his features were. I'd always assumed that he wore makeup in his photos, that some of them must be airbrushed, even though he'd come to fame in a time when airbrushing wasn't a huge thing yet. I'd always figured there was simply no way a man could be as beautiful as him in real life. Eyes simply weren't that deep green, brows heavy but with a delicate arch. A man's jawline couldn't be so angular, his teeth so blindingly white. His nose, while on the big side, was perfectly shaped, coming down at a long slope to a fine upturn. A genuine rosebud mouth without benefit of a lip pencil or a computer program to finesse it. He couldn't be real, but he was.

“Holy shit,” I breathed, not realizing I was speaking out loud. “You're so beautiful.”

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