Page 28 of Dead Rockstar

“Who did?”

“Phillip,” I said. “Sloan, I know you're going to tell me I'm fucking insane and try to drive me to the hospital to have me committed, but I'm telling you the truth. The guy in my house right now is Phillip Deville. THE Phillip Deville. He's not some impersonator or singer for a cover band, it's not a big joke or a huge coincidence. He looks so much like Phillip Deville because he IS him. He showed up at my house two nights ago because I summoned him.”

“You summoned Phillip Deville with a spell,” she said slowly, as though talking to a confused child. “You uh…brought him back.”

“Yes. I know it sounds fucking crazy-”

“You think?” she asked. “Have you gone completely loopy? This shit with Tess has rotted out your brain. First of all, you have told me how many gazillion times that you don't even believe in that crap-”

“I know, but-”

“And putting aside that fact, Phillip Deville has been dead for over twenty years. I remember when he died. You came into math class in 9th grade with your blue mascara running down your cheeks, hysterical. You cried for weeks.”

“I know.”

“People don't come back from the dead, Stormy,” she said. She looked kind of mad. “They just don't. You can't expect me to believe this. This is some kind of crazy...I don't even know. You're cracking up. This is...like some next level delusional shit. Trying to pretend this impersonator guy or whatever he is is real? I mean, I like him – he seems cool, and I'm glad you're moving on. God knows you need to get laid. But I think you should see someone. A professional.”

“Look, I know how it seems. How it looks,” I said, trying to stay calm. We were almost at Mazzios. “But think about it. Isn't it kind of eerie how much he looks like Phillip Deville? And what about your car? We both know that battery was dead as fuck. He put a hand on it and your car came on without you even having to turn the ignition. Explain that!”

“He wiggled a wire,” she said.

“I was watching him,” I said. “He didn't wiggle any wire. He literally just put his hand on the battery for a second.”

“This is stupid,” Sloan said. “If you want to have a fling with a guy who looks like your favorite dead rock star, fine by me. But why all this theatrical shit? Why the big show, trying to convince me?”

“I'm not making this up.”

“Fuck you. Stop it, right now. This isn't funny, Stormy, I'm worried.”

“There's no reason to worry. I'm telling you the truth.”

“The fuck you are.”

“Don't get angry, Sloan-”

She put up a hand to silence me. “Don't pull that shit with me, Stormy Spooner. I am angry. I am.” I knew better than to argue with that tone of voice. Sloan in a rage was a thing to behold. I sighed and turned my face back toward the road. I could see Sloan reapplying her ChapStick out of the corner of my eye, her face a black cloud.

Moments later, I pulled into the parking lot and into a space right in front of the doors. Sloan got out and slammed the door behind her. I sat there for a few moments, taking in some deep breaths, then followed. She might want to slap me right now, but I didn't want her to have to pay for the pizza. She was broke. We rarely ever fought, and I hadn't seen her so angry at me in a long time. For the second time that day I felt like crying. I had the sense that whatever I'd done, whatever magic had happened in my living room, I'd unleashed something much bigger than myself. Much bigger than even Phillip Deville. There were forces at work here, and I hadn't the first idea how to control them. Until I did learn, they were going to wreak havoc all over my personal life.

It was hard to believe, I knew, but couldn't Sloan see right in front of her? It was obvious that the man was Phillip – the resemblance was too uncanny. There were plenty of guys around going for that look, but none of them were six five and full of rock-hard muscles or had green eyes the color of gems. I supposed that when a thing seems too preposterous, you find a way to explain it away, to dismiss it. That was what Sloan was doing. But I knew a way to convince her. When we got back with the pizzas, I'd have Phillip sing for her. He could do one of his most familiar songs and once she heard that unmistakable razor-velvet voice, she'd know I was telling the truth.

Once she was back in the car, though, still treating me to stony silence, I soon forgot all about having Phillip play for her.

I pulled out into the highway, the fragrance of hot pizza making my mouth water. I opened my mouth to say something to Sloan, to make her smile – I really couldn't handle it when people were angry at me – but my words died in my throat as I saw a car pull out of the parking lot right behind us. It was a burgundy colored Mazda, old and beat up, and just the sight of it filled me with dread. I couldn't make out the two figures inside the car, but both were wearing ball caps pulled down over their eyes. As they followed me down the street, I knew that they were up to no good. A shiver went up my back, and I instinctively crouched down in my seat, as if that would be any help.

They were following me. Whoever they were, I wouldn't lead them to Phillip. I passed the turn off for my road and went further into town, toward the library. Sloan turned to look at me. “Where are you going?” she asked.

I replied in a low voice, “I'm being followed.”

She gave me an incredulous look. “Why on earth would somebody follow you? Girl, you are seriously losing it.”

“Look in the mirror,” I said. “That car. They're following us. Watch.”

I veered right suddenly, turning onto a side street at a hard angle, and the car immediately followed. “They aren't even trying to hide it, see?”

“You're crazy,” she said, but she looked nervous.

“I'm going to try to lose them,” I said.

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