Page 24 of Dead Rockstar

“I can do better,” I said with a bright smile. “I'd like to go with you.”

“You would?” He sounded surprised.

“Sure,” I answered. “I've got vacation time at work – two years’ worth saved up, believe it or not. And I have a vehicle, even if it is an ugly piece of crap. You won't have to worry about some idiot on the bus recognizing you. And you'll have someone along for company.”

“No offense, but why would you want to come with me?” he asked. “What's the appeal for you?”

“Only to go on a road trip with my favorite musician of all time,” I said, incredulous. “Why wouldn't I want to go?”

He actually blushed. Then I blushed. He said quietly, “Well, as flattered as I am, I can't ask you to do that, Stormy. I don't know what this Guthrie guy is like now. He seemed harmless enough at the time, back when I was an idiot, but he had guns and shit. And with that weird Lee guy sniffing around your place, I don't know what kind of forces are at work here, you know? What if it puts you in danger?” He looked serious. “And anyway, it'd be lot of driving, and I can't ask you to-”

“You can drive, then,” I said. “I assume you remember how. And won't I be safer with you than home alone? I've seen Lee Courtenay three times now. Twice at my house. If he's been there that many times, he'll come again. I'd feel better with someone around if that happens.”

“I suspect you're capable of protecting yourself just fine,” he said with a laugh. “And you can argue your way out of anything.”

“All the more reason to bring me along,” I said, “You need some brains with you.”

“And beauty too,” he said with a smile, and reached across the table to touch my cheek. I felt the blood rush to my face, hot.

“Alright, Stormy Spooner. You've twisted my arm. You can come with me, if you really want to.”

Seven

Walking into the library Monday morning, I felt a spring in my step that hadn't been there in a long time. Holding my mint-mocha in one hand, I fished in my bag and pulled out my cell phone, looking at the screen.

I'd bought Phillip a burner smartphone at Target, shown him how to use it, telling him to call me if there were any issues. So far, he hadn't, but I'd only been gone from the house for an hour. Jeez, I had it bad.

That morning I'd woken up early, showered and got ready, and made him a full breakfast. After seeing the way he'd eaten at the diner and remembering how skinny he was in those damned boxer briefs, I decided he needed to be fed, well and often. When he'd come into the kitchen an hour later, he'd raised an eyebrow. “Get yourself a coffee,” I said, gesturing to the pot. “Just brewed it.”

He poured himself a cup, black, and regarded the table with a look of awe. “Do you do this every morning?”

“Ha. No. I don't ever do this, actually. I'm not a breakfast person,” I said with a laugh. “This is all for you. I can't have you starving to death just two days after you've come back to life.”

“Jesus, pancakes.” He moaned. “I'd forgotten pancakes.”

“Sorry there's no bacon,” I said. “Or eggs. Pancakes, tofu scramble, and fresh fruit it is.”

He smiled. “Are you going to hit me if I tell you I've never been a breakfast person either?”

I laughed. “Nah. Just save it for your lunch. I'm about to go to work.”

He drank two cups of strong black coffee, tucked heartily into breakfast, and walked me to the doorway as I left for work. “I might write a song,” he said, looking over at Tess' old bass.

My heart leapt at the thought of him sitting in my house, drinking my coffee, writing a song. Maybe it'd be about me? Our little practice session came to mind, and I felt the blood rush to various places. Get a grip, you pathetic loser.

I sat down at my desk, booted up the library computer, rummaged in my purse for my reading glasses, and busied myself signing in books from the overnight drop-off. Jean wasn't in yet and the library was quiet. I re-shelved the returned items then opened a program to check for overdue books. I wondered what Phillip was doing right now. Writing a song? Showering? The thought of that tall, chiseled body standing in my shower...

Stop, stop, stop. I was having a hard time thinking of anything else but him, even for a moment. The night before I'd lain awake half the night, just thinking about him in the next room, his long, athletic legs tucked under him. That beautiful black hair on the pillow, the rosebud mouth pursed. He was so beautiful. Maybe asking to go along with him on this trip was a bad idea, because just being around him was driving me totally insane. And it had barely been two days.

My phone dinged and I jumped, scrambling to pull it out of my pocket, eager to see what Phillip needed. But it wasn't Phillip. A text from my dad – the first I'd heard from him in what seemed like forever – made me grimace. “Was wondering if you were coming home for Thanksgiving this year,” he had typed. “Dee and Shay and I would love to have you.”

I made a gesture at the phone and placed it face down on my desk, not bothering to respond. Talking to my parents took a kind of mental energy that needed to be built up, prepared for. And when my dad started chattering about his new family and his fancy, happy little beach house in PCB, well, it was hard for me to keep my decorum, even when he was making the effort to include me. It was weird, being thirtysomething years old and having a baby sister. Shay. The cutesy nickname rolled around in my head as I tried to shake off the jealousy I felt. I didn’t begrudge my baby sister her life; she was a sweet, dear little thing, what little I knew of her. Dee was okay, too – I secretly thought she was a bit dim, but she was nice enough, if a bit shallow. I was glad my dad had finally cleaned things up and could offer her something better. But it didn’t mean I’d forgotten everything from my own childhood, either.

I sighed. I'd respond to Dad later, if I bothered to at all. I was grateful for the invitation, but I doubted I’d take it. Even if I could let go of my angsty feelings long enough to have Thanksgiving with Dad and his family, it wasn’t worth the all-out war it would cause when Mom found out. God knew where she was – it had been even longer since I'd talked to her. I assumed she was doing fine; like any good narcissist she always knew how to land on her feet. I wondered if her last stint at rehab had stuck or if she was off the wagon again. Red wine had been her drink, too.

She’d been begging me for years to come see her for Thanksgiving and Christmas, to stay with her for a few days, and I never did, because I knew how it would go. The pair of us, wine-drunk and sad, either crying over her dusty records, tallying up points over our terrible ex-spouses (she would always win; there was no competition with Mom where she didn’t emerge victorious), or worse: a screaming match. “You look down on me now,” she’d accused me once when I’d made excuses not to come. “Because I’m still here.” Whether she meant it literally, as in still in the trailer park, or metaphorically, as in, still an alcoholic, I never asked, because it didn’t matter.

I didn’t look down on her. Really, I didn’t. After all, I lived in a mobile home, didn’t I? I drank like a fish, especially now that Tess was gone. The life we’d had together turned out to be eerily similar to my own parents’. I didn’t have a leg of judgment to stand on, with either of them, since I’d repeated every bad example they’d ever shown me. The truth was far sadder. It was just too painful to be near her, near either of them.

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