Page 66 of Dead Rockstar

Seeming to read my mind as always, Phillip murmured near my ear, “He's alive. There's still hope. Right?”

I nodded, meeting his deep green eyes, and made myself smile for his benefit. He returned it gratefully. I rose to join Jason. “Your cup of tea is sitting on the table, ice-cold,” Phillip said to me with a fake scold and made his way toward the kettle. “I'll make us all another cup and I'll join you guys in a minute.”

“Just what he needs,” Jason said from his chair, and I walked over to sit beside him. “Him and his fucking tea.”

“Yeah, this side of him came as a surprise,” I agreed. “Especially after years of watching YouTube videos of him upending whole bottles of wine onstage.”

“Oh, he loved his wine and liquor, imagine he still does,” Jason answered. “But any time of day you could catch him with that stupid mustard-yellow ceramic mug of his, filled with black tea, brewed strong enough to pour in your gas tank.” He leaned closer to me, smiling. “I have a demo that's never seen the light of day in the basement. The song's called 'Earl Grey.' Wanna hear it later?”

“Jesus fuck, yes.”

“Later, then. Don't tell Phil,” he said, lowering his voice. “I told him I threw it away. At the end he yodels.”

“No.”

“Yes ma'am.”

I arched my neck toward the kitchen, where an apron-clad Phillip was pouring steaming hot water into mugs and tried to suppress a giggle. “I like it,” I admitted, letting the laugh escape. “The little quirks. Like the tea. The apron. It makes him seem so...normal and human. So ordinary.”

“I know,” he said, facing me, “all about the spell. I told Phillip I knew, the first day I saw him here, digging up the money. He tried to pretend, to make up some dumbass story. Then he tried to tell me I was just high, hallucinating him or some shit. Fucking asshole.” He shook his head. “But I know. And I wish you guys had come here first and talked to me. I could have saved you a lot of trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know Guthrie. I know his wife, too. Let's just say that they've sniffed around here more than once. This obsession with Phillip didn't start with you, Stormy. They're bad news, man.”

“Don't suppose you know how to get us out of it?”

He shook his head sadly. “I'm still wrapping my head around the fact that somebody did that fucking spell and it worked. I mean, all these years I've expected to see him walking through the door – I never had any doubt that he would, but-” He rubbed his hands over the stubble on his jaw. “Now that he's here, I can't seem to believe it. I remember when he put it in the liner notes. I thought it was fucking stupid. I told him so. He was shitfaced, we all were. ‘Gotta put something there,’ he said. ‘It's either this or that photo of me with my ass cheek hanging out.’ As you can imagine, we agreed to the spell.”

“And the ass cheek picture still made it out to the public.” I laughed.

“Oh, of course it did. Who do you think leaked it? He always pretended that photoshoot embarrassed him, and he wouldn't even talk about it interviews. He'd get all bent out of shape, claim the photographer was a hot chick who got him stoned and tricked him. But he's full of shit. He made sure every one of those pictures got out. He always was vain. Meanwhile the rest of us in the band are looking like gargoyles. Me with that crusty ass eyebrow ring and my hair dyed neon red...”

“Oh, I remember that.” I was still laughing. “That eyebrow ring was as big as your actual eye!”

“I never took care of it, either. I was too blitzed.” He pointed at his eyebrow, and I could see a little scar streaked in one brow where there was an absence of hair. “You don't want to know what it looked like when they took it out.”

“Please don't make my girlfriend puke, you fuck.” Phillip entered the room, holding a tray with three steaming cups on it. The tray was gold, olive green and orange and had little mushrooms all over it – 70s style at its finest. He handed Jason and I both a mug of tea and took one for himself – it was mustard yellow, with a chip in the rim. Earl Grey. I looked at Jason and smiled.

“What?” Phillip asked, settling in a chair beside me, looking from Jason to me. “What is it?”

“I like your sweet little mug,” I said, leaning over to kiss his cheek, enjoying the double entendre. “Unless you snuck in a generous pour of bourbon, I'd have to say that your rock star card is officially revoked.”

“Fucking take it,” he said with a grin. “I was a shitty fucking rock star.”

“Fuck you, man,” Jason said, wiping at his brow. “You had it down to a science.”

Phillip raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. He sipped his steaming tea.

Jason went on, “Look at you, you dick, still sitting there in those tight black pants and combat boots. Not even death could take it off you. You always lived the shit. You looked the part because you were the part. Didn't even have to try. And all that tortured, ‘I don't want to be famous’ stuff? That's part of it, too. Every big-time rock star says that shit, and most of them probably really feel that way, except for when they don't. You didn't fool us back then, Phil, and you ain't foolin' me now.”

“Says the guy with all our platinum records hanging all over the living room and his guitar in the corner with brand-new strings, tuned and ready to go,” Phillip countered. “And the stack of demos in the basement he said he destroyed back in '92.”

“Yeah, so?” Jason mopped at his brow again. He really didn't look well, but his eyes were sparkling and happy. He seemed to be enjoying their banter. “I never claimed I didn't want it. You were the one always pretending you didn't.”

“Well, if you hope to ever reclaim some of that glory, you’re going to have to get clean, dude. You aren’t gonna accomplish shit, strung out like you are,” Phillip thundered, his bemusement suddenly turning to anger. I cringed.

“Phillip!” I protested, horrified, but he didn’t look at me.

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