Page 18 of Dead Rockstar

I raised an eyebrow.

“I mean my waist. I guess the beer pooch is gone.” He slapped his belly, his shirt riding up to reveal bare skin. I tried not to stare at the dark hairs leading down to his navel.

“I think I can help,” I said. “My friend Sloan is dropping by around lunch time. I could ask her to bring something with her. She's a hairdresser, so she could cut your hair, too.” I sipped my coffee. “You know, if you were worried about being recognized or whatever.”

A hand flew to his head and he looked alarmed. “Oh, no. I can't cut my hair, Stormy.”

“Your vanity?” I teased.

He grinned. “Not exactly. I'll hide it under a cap or something if I go out. Until I figure all this out.”

“Yeah, so what is your game plan, anyway?” I asked. “What are you going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, what's your purpose for coming back?”

“I don't have one,” he said simply.

“But then why...” I fumbled. “Why did you – the liner notes, the spell...”

“I did it on a whim,” he said. “It was just a joke. I used to try and do weird artwork in our liner notes, stuff for the fans to find. I was high for most of it; it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“So you put the spell out there as a joke,” I said slowly, “And I recited it as a joke.” I thought back to how intensely I had gone into the spell and shrugged it off. How could I have known what would happen?

“And here I am.” His eyes dazzled. “My whole life was a joke, really, so I think it's pretty appropriate.”

“I guess mine, too.”

“Nah,” he said. “You've got a good one.”

I opened my mouth to tell him how wrong he was, then changed my mind. He didn't need to hear about all my pathetic crap right now.

He must have read it on my face, because he put a hand on my knee and gave it a squeeze. “The spell... if you want to know the truth, and this is kinda embarrassing, considering-” He leaned in close to me. “I got it off a drug dealer.”

“What?” I said. “No way.”

“Guthrie his name was. Guth. He was my fixer guy when I was home. He was this hippie guy who lived around the corner from my mom's and I knew him before I was famous. He was this peace n' love guy who also happened to sell drugs. He was on the up and up most of the time but one time he shorted me, and I went over there and said I was gonna rough him up. Who did he think he was, trying to short me just because I was famous now? I was drunk and pissed off and being a fucking asshole. He said to calm down, that he didn't have the money or the coke to make up for it, but he had something else. And he scribbled out what looked like a poem and gave it to me. I almost put him through the wall. But he kept swearing that it was a real spell, that it would really work. That he was a warlock, and it was legit.”

“And you believed it?”

“No, I didn't. I just didn't feel all that great about roughing him up. I liked the guy. And I figured if he'd come up with a stupid ass story like that on the fly just to save his ass, he might be alright. So I took it and warned him never to short me again. He didn't.” He smiled.

“What made you decide to leave it for the fans?” I asked.

His face darkened. “I dunno. Like I said, I was high. Drunk, too. I can't remember.” I got the impression he wasn't telling the whole truth. “Anyway, turns out ol' Guthrie wasn't full of shit. Man, if he could see me now. Alive.”

“And in my house, of all places.”

“My witch lady, who brought me back to life.” His eyes danced, but his face was a little sad. “As for my plans – since you asked – I haven't got any. I can't go home. If my family, my ex-wife, my bandmates, see me – how am I gonna explain? I can't resume any kind of life there. I've got to lay low. And I don't know how long I'll – how long I'll actually be here. I don't know if this is temporary. I don't know anything, really.” He snickered. “I never believed for a second that this was real, and now I'm fucking here, and I have no idea what to do.”

“I'm sorry,” I said helplessly. “I should never have messed with that stupid spell.”

“It's okay,” he said easily. “I wasn't trying to blame you.”

“You know what you should do?” I asked.

“What's that?”

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