Page 16 of Dead Rockstar

He actually flushed. It only added to his beauty, gave him a reckless, boyish charm. “Really?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “I figured I probably looked the worse for wear. You know, considering.” He came over and took the pillow from me. “I was afraid to look in the mirror. Thought I might have bolts coming out of my neck.”

“No, not at all,” I assured him, looking into his eyes. This was going to be trouble. “You're as gorgeous as ever. More so, I think.”

“Stop it, you,” he said softly, staring back at me. I'd read once in an interview that he'd always hated his appearance. It was why he'd done so many things with his hair over the years, to try and hide what he thought were his shortcomings. He'd called himself “Lurch” in interviews and referred to his “face even my mom couldn't love.” I never could understand that, and definitely didn't now that I was seeing him in the flesh. He was so handsome it was almost supernatural.

“It's true.” I suddenly had the sensation of falling. Alice down the rabbit hole. I felt woozy, and he reached out a hand to steady me.

“You've had a shock,” he said in that quiet, low voice. “I know you have questions. I'll tell you what I can...tomorrow. Ok?”

“Yes.” I was speaking in a whisper, marveling again at his intuitiveness. I had lots of questions; about him, about the magic that had brought this about, about the weird guy, Lee...and I felt more than a little shocked. He squeezed my shoulder and smiled. I smiled back. I felt stuck to the spot, still falling into his eyes. Finally, I wrenched myself away and pushed another blanket at him. “I'll go in my room so I won't disturb you.” I knew I wouldn't be able to fall asleep any time soon. I had way too much to think about.

“Thanks, Stormy Spooner.” He grinned. “I'll see you in the morning.” I grabbed my phone off the coffee table and turned toward the hall. “And hey...Stormy?” I turned back. “Thanks again. For making me undead.”

I managed to laugh and went to my room, shutting the door with a gentle click. I sat down on my bed in a whirl of nerves. My hands were still trembling. I heard my couch creak and could scarcely believe that it was actually Phillip Deville lying in there, under the afghan my grandma had crocheted for me. Philip Deville...no, it wasn't possible. I'd had some kind of psychotic break, brought on by grief over my divorce, or drinking on an empty stomach.

But no. I knew he was out there. I could still feel him, feel his aura, coursing through my house, through my own nervous system. I tapped out a text to Sloan, my head spinning.

“What's going on with you tomorrow? Need to see you – got to tell you something, but in person.” I hit send.

She called me back immediately and I sent it to voicemail. She hated when I did that; I was apt to get cussed out, but it seemed clear enough that when somebody wanted to just text, you texted. Nobody talked on the phone these days except Sloan, and besides, Phillip was asleep out in the living room.

A second later, she pinged back. “What is it, hooker? You know I hate it when I call you and you don't answer even though you're HOLDING your phone. What's so important?”

“Going to bed,” I typed. “Tired. But I need to talk to you – have to show you something. Can you come by tomorrow?”

“I'll try to around lunchtime.”

“Awesome. TTFN,” I typed back. “Loves.”

“Loves, too,” she responded. “Now leave me alone so I can fuck Dan.” I was glad she hadn't said Gus. Maybe she was figuring her shit out.

I put my phone down on the nightstand and listened. The trailer was quiet as a tomb, the thought of which gave me a chill. I dug through my hope chest for my cutest pair of pajamas, knowing that Phillip would see me in them in the morning. Normally I just slept in a loose-fitting tank top and underwear or gym shorts – but I couldn't let him see me like that, in all my no-bra, sagging glory, with pasty legs. I didn't have any decent lingerie, only a crotchless red monstrosity that Tess had bought me one Valentine's Day. But I managed to dig out a cute set of boy-style button up jammies in a silk-like material that had little skulls on them. I'd had them since high school. I pulled my hair up in a bun, then sat back on my bed. I counted to thirty-five, then counted backward to one. Unable to wait any longer, I stood up, opened my door, and quietly padded down the narrow hall.

The kitchen light was still on, a beam of light shining onto the back of Phillip's head. He was lying in the fetal position, long legs curled under him, the afghan barely covering him; he was too big. His hair was curled over one shoulder, his mouth in a little pout, and I imagined he'd slept the same way since he was a little boy. In the dim light, his inky eyelashes fluttered a bit; no doubt he was dreaming. His breathing was shallow, and he moved a little, throwing an arm over his eyes. He began to snore, and I suppressed a giggle. I glanced at him one more time, committing the image to memory, then went into the kitchen and turned off the light so he could sleep in peace.

I went back to the bedroom, heart pounding, turning off my own light and easing into bed. For a brief moment, I had the thought that I could climb onto the couch with him...or maybe he'd come visit me in the night...then I shook my head. Stop being silly. Two nights ago, he was dead. He isn't coming in here. You just leave him alone, you weirdo.

I figured I'd be up all night, tossing and turning, unable to quiet the excitement I felt over PHILLIP DEVILLE sleeping in my living room. But the events of the day had worn me out, and despite my wariness at the strange Lee Courtenay (not to mention his even odder, scarier partner), I felt safer knowing that Phillip was on my couch, keeping guard.

Six

I awoke, startled, to a tall, brooding man throwing open my door, his long, disheveled black hair streaming behind him. “He’s outside again,” Phillip seethed as I cracked one eye open, confused. “Do you want me to go deal with him?”

“Huh?” I sat up, trying to get my bearings. I'd been so sure I'd wake up and this would all be a dream. But there was Phillip, standing in my doorway, still in his tight boxer briefs that left little to the imagination, his face full of barely controlled fury. “Who?”

“The guy that was sniffing around here last night, with the phony story about the escaped convict.”

“Oh. Lee.” I rubbed at my eyes and patted my hair self-consciously. I knew I looked like busted ass. “Did he knock on the door? I'll go get it.”

“No, he didn't knock,” Phillip replied, coming over and sitting on my bed. I could smell him – smoke and sandalwood. His hair was in a tangle, and I noticed there was a small hole in the sleeve of his t-shirt. He needed to get some new clothes. “He's out there snooping. In your barn. I saw him creep out of the woods and go in.”

“There's nothing in there but Tess' old junk. Just a couple of shovels and some cans of paint,” I said, but I was suddenly angry. Who the hell did that guy think he was, snooping on my property? “I'll call the cops. I don't think they'll take kindly to one of their own poking around without a warrant.”

Phillip put a hand on my arm. “No, don't do that,” he said. “Let me deal with him. I'll go out there and make sure he never comes around you again.” He paused. “And he's not a cop. I told you, he's looking for me.”

“If he's looking for you, it's probably best you don't go,” I argued. “I don't want you to get hurt. What if he has a gun?”

He looked at me for a few beats, then threw back his head and laughed.

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