Page 33 of Dead Rockstar

“Yeah. I've got to sort all this shit out. Do you still want to go?”

I nodded. The thought of him going and leaving me behind was impossible.

“Ok, then. But before we go, you need to do one thing,” he said. “It's probably stupid and won't work anyway, but I want to try it.”

“What is it?” I was curious.

“Guthrie told me almost nothing about that damn spell. And I didn't ask.” He was still holding my hand. “But there's one thing I do remember.”

“What is it?”

“I heard him say something to somebody else once. This strung out hippie type he gave a spell to – a different spell. He told him when he summoned someone to make sure he had salt sprinkled all over the place.”

“Salt? Why?”

“He said that the practitioner should bathe in salt. That it would help protect them, to counter-balance the black magic they'd performed. I guess kind of a reversal, maybe? A cleansing?”

I took a deep breath. Until he'd said the words 'black magic' it hadn't even occurred to me that that's what I'd done. Not the good kind of magic. Not the benign kind. Black magic. I'd opened myself up to all kinds of bad things, and I hadn't even bothered to think about it. I shuddered. “Okay, so. How do we do it?”

“I'm not really sure. We'll just wing it,” he said. “Do you have salt?”

“Yeah, I've got one of those huge cylinders of Morton salt with the pourable spout,” I said. “Top cabinet, above the stove. With the spices.”

Wordlessly, he went into the kitchen and returned with the salt.

“Do you think it'll work?” I asked.

“I hope so,” he said. “Another thing I used to hear Guthrie say, is that magic is all about intention. If you believe, that's 75% of the battle.” I nodded. I'd been saying the same thing to myself for days, which was a serendipitous little detail I didn't want to think about just now. But it was true, if the fact that he was standing in front of me was any indication. “Come on. Let's get this over with. See if we can't cleanse some of the evil off you.” His grin was wolfish and impossibly sexy.

“Leave a little of the salt,” I said, standing up, feeling suddenly coy. I came just under his chin; near him, I felt so short. There was a heat coming off him, something electric. He stared down at me, his eyes on fire. “Not much, but just a sprinkle. It might come in handy.”

“Careful what you wish for.” He gave me a long, slow smile. He leaned in toward me, and for an achingly long moment it seemed like he was going to kiss me, but then he leaned back and touched my arm. “Come on. Let's get you cleaned up.”

I followed him into the bathroom and held out my hand for the salt. “Do I just, like, pour a ton of it into the bath, or what?” I asked. “Would it be better to use epsom salt?”

“No, the plain stuff. Table salt,” he answered. I was still holding out my hand, and he shook his head. “If it's okay with you, I want to be the one to do it. I feel like that will make it more potent.”

“You're going to bathe me?” I was incredulous.

“Yes.” He gave me another one of those slow smiles. “Is that okay? May I?”

“I mean, I guess...” I said, my thoughts racing. Had I shaved...areas...recently? Oh god.

“I have seen naked women before,” he said dryly, noting my discomfort.

“Oh, I know,” I said. “And therein lies the problem.” I imagined a bevy of impossibly thin and toned, busty supermodels, strippers and groupies parading around him, and wished I could hide my belly and stretch marks.

“If you're not comfortable, you could leave your underwear on,” he said helpfully.

“Okay,” I said, nervous. “The washcloths are under the cabinet there.” He turned to grab one, and I undressed quickly, leaving on my underwear and bra, which thankfully matched, though I realized as I settled down in the steaming water that they were both white and would become see through in a few short moments. The hot water hit my scraped leg and I yelped. Phillip was by my side in a flash.

“You ok?”

I nodded. He glanced down at my underwear but met my eyes again in seconds. Smooth, this one. Despite the pain in my leg, the hot water felt amazing and I felt my limbs relax. Phillip dipped the washcloth in the steamy water and dabbed it at my head. It felt like a little of the swelling had gone down. Without thinking, I closed my eyes and settled down in the water as he ran the washcloth over my shoulders, my arms. How long had it been since someone had bathed me? It felt so good, calming and primal at the same time.

“I'm going to do the salt now,” he said in a quiet voice, and I opened my eyes. He was pouring it onto the washcloth, rubbing it into some kind of body scrub. “I have no idea if this is the right way, but we'll see. Can you sit up a little?”

I leaned forward, closing my eyes again, and felt the washcloth caress my skin. It was grainy and rough with the salt; it felt like sandpaper, but in a good way. I sighed with pleasure. He moved it back and forth over my back in circles, scrubbing me methodically, then down to my lower back, then my hips and legs, taking special care with the scrape, back up to my arms, over my stomach and breasts, my shoulders and neck, and finally my face, which he washed very slowly and gently. “Lean back,” he said, “So I can do your head.”

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