Page 20 of Dead Rockstar

“Well, I told you I had something to show you...”

“Oh god,” she said. “You've got a guy over.”

“Y-e-e-e-s....” I said slowly. “Kinda. But it's not-”

“Stormy got laid, Stormy got laid...,” she sang. “Who is he? Do I know him? Is he still there? Oh god, are y'all still in bed-”

“Stop!” I laughed. “I'll explain everything when I get there. But listen, Sloan, be prepared. You might be kind of surprised.” That was an understatement.

“Oh shit, Stormy, no. Don't tell me it's Tess-”

“It isn't Tess,” I said. “I swear.”

“Okay, thank god. Anyway, I'm going to let you go. Gotta clean up my booth. But try to get here soon, okay? I want to go see Dan this afternoon.”

So she was back to Dan. I couldn’t keep up. “I told you I'll be as quick as I-”

“Byeeeeee!” She hung up the line. I groaned. Sloan was Sloan.

The shower had cut off. I took the tray with the coffee cups into the kitchen and could hear Phillip humming in the bathroom. It was eerie, listening to him – the same voice I'd heard through my speakers for the last two decades, amplified in my tiny bathroom. I was tempted to turn on my phone and record it, as much to prove to myself that he was here as anything else but decided not to. That was sketchy moral ground, even for the world's biggest Bloomer Demons fan. Besides, who would ever believe it was him anyway?

Phillip emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam. I blushed to my roots when I saw he was clad only in a towel, cinched around his waist. My yellow bathroom towels were tiny – I was too cheap to buy the big fluffy ones, and I just used them to tie up my wet hair – ending mid-thigh on Phillip and making him loom even taller. “Um...change of plans,” I stuttered. “My friend Sloan can't come by after all. Her car's dead. She needs a jump. I need to go help her out.”

“Oh, ok. No problem.” It seemed like nothing bothered Phillip Deville. I supposed if I'd been brought back to life after twenty some years underground maybe nothing would bother me, either.

“I thought you might want to come?” I tried to keep the eagerness out of my voice.

“Is she cool?”

I knew what he meant. “Yes. She won't go blabbing, I swear.”

“She knows who I am?”

I had to giggle. “Uh yeah, I'd say she does. I've only forced her to listen to the Bloomer Demons every day of her life since we were twelve. She's familiar with your work.”

He grinned. “I'll just throw on some clothes and I'll be ready.”

“Me, too.” I went back to my bedroom and shut the door, my heart pounding. The longer he was here, the more nervous I felt. I threw on a pair of faded skinny jeans, black slip-on chucks and a Nirvana tank top, and threw a purple flannel over that. It wasn't very dressy, but I didn't want to appear like I was trying too hard. The jeans were tight, and my boobs looked good in the tank top. I took extra care with my dark blonde hair, which I braided in a side-braid, and put on a little mascara and bb cream in my vanity mirror.

I supposed what looked back at me wasn’t terrible. I regarded myself; the dishwater hair, my wide-set light-brown eyes, my rosy cheeks. As a kid, I’d always hated how I blushed over any little thing, my cheeks always pink and flushed. It was humiliating. Now, as a woman in her thirties, I was mostly glad for them. Everybody my age was buying blush and dewy highlighters, and I had natural rosy cheeks. They still embarrassed me sometimes, though, since they tended to turn bright red anytime I felt anything intense. This meant they’d been permanently magenta ever since Phillip Deville had shown up at my door. I dabbed a little more bb cream on and swiped absently with my fingers, smoothing it over the few freckles that dotted the bridge of my nose. They were nothing like Lee Courtenay’s, whose face was absolutely covered with them.

I rolled my eyes at myself in the mirror, setting the bb cream on the table. Why was I thinking of that guy, of all people, when I had a bona fide rock god waiting for me in the other room? I started out the door, then went back to the mirror again, dabbing on burgundy lip gloss Sloan had given me at Christmas. Phillip Deville was in my house for fuck's sake. I wanted to look good and according to Sloan, darker lip shades made me look sexy and dangerous.

When I emerged, he was already dressed in his same black outfit and was sitting on the couch plucking at a bass. “I forgot we had that,” I said. The black bass had been Tess'. He barely played it. If I remembered correctly, a friend had let him borrow it forever ago and he'd never returned it. He cared so little about it he'd just left it with me. It was somewhat pathetic that I'd never moved it. “It can't be in tune after all this time.”

“It isn't,” he replied, looking at me. His eyes moved down the length of my body so quickly it was almost imperceptible, and I was glad I’d taken a little extra care with my clothes and makeup. “I'm tuning it. Do you play?”

“No,” I answered. “I wish I did. I never took the time to learn.” Tess hadn't been very amenable to teaching me the one time I had asked.

“Want me to teach you?”

“Sure,” I responded, my heart lifting that he'd be around long enough to do so. Or maybe he was just being nice. “I'd love to learn that slide thing you do. But we should go – Sloan's waiting for me.”

“Come here a second. I want to show you something,” he said, beckoning to me with a finger. I raised an eyebrow and walked over to the couch.

He stood, holding the bass, and gestured for me to stand in front of him. He placed the strap over my shoulders and put the instrument in my hands while he adjusted it for my height. The bass was heavier than I'd have thought.

“I'll show you the basics later,” he said, standing behind me, his voice dangerously close to my ear. “But the slide is easy.” He placed his hands lightly over mine, moving one to the top of the neck, and the other onto the body. His skin was warm, and I could feel his long thighs pressed up against me. My entire body began to thrum along with the strings as he lightly tapped with his long, lean fingers. His hands were huge – one of mine fit entirely inside of his.

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