Page 65 of Dead Rockstar

Phillip moved around the kitchen like he still owned it, pulling open cabinets, digging an old kettle out from below the island, boiling water for tea. I sat at the counter, watching him and trying to digest all that had happened. My head was reasonably clear now, but I was confused and more than a little down in the dumps. The moment we were safely in the confines of my truck, I’d wanted to immediately head back to Jekyll; do not pass go, do not collect $200. But Phillip had insisted we should get at least one night of rest before making such a long trip. I supposed I saw the logic of that, but honestly, I was just ready to be free of Boston all together. I wouldn’t feel safe or like myself again until I was back home. It all felt so heavy. Phillip poured me a cup of tea, dumped in a few spoons of sugar, and passed it to me, his face full of loving concern.

“Drink that,” he said. “It'll make you feel better. My grandmother always used to say that nothing is more comforting than a cup of tea.”

I smiled wryly. “It's so weird to hear something so poignant and vanilla coming from a junkie rock star who used to snort coke off of girls’ butt cheeks.”

His color rose and he managed to look offended. “That was one time,” he said, turning to rinse off the sugar spoon. “And I had a cup of tea afterward, as I recall.”

I snorted. The tea was hot, strong and sweet, and I had to grudgingly admit that I did feel better.

“I'm making you a meal,” he said, rummaging through the pantry. “And I don't want to hear any arguments out of you. You need to eat; you can't keep living off Swedish Fish and crackers. You need your strength. What can I make you that's vegan?”

“I don't know,” I said unhelpfully. I didn't feel hungry at all.

“Spaghetti?”

“Ok,” I said dutifully. “Just leave off the parmesan cheese.”

He nodded and set to work. I noticed as I drank down the hot tea that he was pulling out cans of crushed tomatoes and spices from the top of the pantry. He pulled a pot down from the island and a knife from the cupboard. He was going to make the sauce from scratch.

“Don't go to any trouble-”

“Shut up. I want to,” he said, then winked at me, heading toward the kitchen door. “We used to keep fresh basil out back when I lived here.” He disappeared for a moment, then came back inside holding a bright green bunch in his large hands.

“Is there anything you can't do?” I asked, watching him with pleasure.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can't work a cell phone.”

I giggled. “That's true. So,” I said, looking around the room, which was total 80s kitsch, complete with blue-ribboned geese and gingham curtains to match, “this is where you grew up.”

“Yeah. This is my house,” he said, leaning up against the counter. “Or was. Now it's Jason's.”

“What did you tell him?” I asked. I hadn't met Jason yet, but I knew he was here somewhere. Phillip had spoken to him quickly and furtively before ushering me into the house. So far it appeared that we'd been lucky and had lost the cops. We had a clear view of the driveway from the kitchen window, and Phillip had been periodically checking around back. What Jason felt about all of this, I didn't know and didn't want to ask, though secretly I was dying to meet him.

“Just that we were in a little trouble and I'd explain more later. He didn't really ask,” Phillip answered, running a hand through his long, dark hair. “He's not as bad today as he was when I saw him before. I think the shock of seeing me has him going straight. But still – he's not at all like you remember from our glory days.”

“And here I was thinking you'd talk shit about me behind my back.”

Phillip and I both turned to the doorway. The man standing, leaning against the door frame, had skin that was pale and a little sickly, but the smile on his face was wide and real. He had shaggy mid-length brown hair that was slightly curly, cool, light-blue eyes that were pretty and almond shaped, if somewhat bloodshot, and a five o’clock shadow covering boyish, soft cheeks. Jason had always had a baby face. Doing the math in my head, I knew he had to be in his fifties, but he didn’t look a day over thirty-five. Short and wiry in stature, especially compared to Phillip, he still had a presence about him, an aura. I supposed it came from years of being on stage and in front of cameras. There was a warmth to him, something genuine. He exuded a purity, a calm, that was the perfect foil to Phillip's dark, cynical, thunderous dynamic. I supposed Phillip’s memories of the guy must be quite different, but I thought he looked remarkably well, considering. His skin had a pallid sort of look to it, but I thought Phillip had exaggerated when he'd said this guy was on death's door. I knew from all the photos I'd seen over the years that he had looked much worse before, especially in the few years after Phillip and Kim's deaths. He looked much more robust than the last paparazzi photo I'd seen of him. Though we were inside, he was wearing a brown corduroy coat with wool trim around the collar – I hadn't seen a coat like that since the mid-90s and I could easily imagine he'd had it at least that long.

He extended a hand. When I took it, it was warm. “Hi, Stormy,” he said, his voice deeper and clearer than I'd expected. “Don't believe a word that tall piece of shit says.”

Phillip was both right and wrong. It was true that Jason was a shell of his old self, but I could still see the enigmatic guitar player shining through his eyes. I'd never known him in person, after all, so it was easy to imagine him as he once was, young and vibrant, standing beside Phillip on stage, backing Phillip's baritone with his warbling, clear-throated alto. His laugh was musical, his pursed lips full of bemusement, and I liked him immediately.

“Hi, Jason,” I said, feeling the flush creep into my cheeks. Being around Phillip for days hadn't done much to quell my status as a fangirl. I shook his hand eagerly. “I'm so happy to meet you. And please forgive me for saying this but – I'm a huge fan of yours. I have been for twenty years.”

“Thank you,” he said, appearing not even a bit embarrassed. Phillip's eyes had shifted to the side – he still hated the fawning – but Jason clearly relished it.

“I know it's weird to say-” I smiled, a big, cheesy grin that I couldn't contain. “-but it's just so – it's like a life's dream realized, you know? Not just to meet Phillip, but now to meet you too...well, I'm just so happy to see you both here, together. My favorite band. Wow.” I burst into giggles.

Phillip's brows furrowed as he looked at me curiously, but he wasn't angry. What's come over you, his eyes seemed to say. All I could do was shrug and try to stop the giggles, which were still erupting from my mouth. It was weird, but somehow seeing Jason Langley, seeing him as real, standing there in front of me – made Phillip seem more real, too. I thought I might burst from the hilarious, wonderful, weirdness of it all. For the first time in days, I felt something other than terror.

“I appreciate it,” Jason said easily, still laughing, though he did look a bit weak. A sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead and he took a breath. “I haven't met a fan in such a long time. I don't get out much, and they stopped coming to look for me, so it's nice to meet one again. Especially one Phillip is so fond of.” He gave his friend a sly smile.

“Don't get any ideas, Jase,” Phillip said in a mock warning, stirring the sauce he'd thrown together. It was already smelling heavenly in the kitchen. “Those days of two guys, one groupie are over.”

I opened my mouth to protest hotly, but he burst out laughing. “Oh, pull your panties out of your ass, Stormy,” he said with a laugh. “I'm just kidding. We never did that.”

“Well, not more than once, anyway,” Jason said, also laughing, but he headed toward the living room and slumped down in a chair in the corner. I wondered if he was okay. “Join me in here, Stormy?”

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