Page 71 of Dead Rockstar

Phillip sat on the edge of the bed, his back to me, shirtless, his long hair hanging in tangles down his back. I moved from my cozy spot, buried in the covers, and inched down the creaking bed, which I was quickly getting used to, to touch him lightly on the shoulder. “Are you okay?” I asked, running a hand over his pale skin.

“Yeah.” He turned his head a little, smiling in my direction, but his gaze was faraway and remote. I wondered what he was thinking. Gone was the playful mood from before. After making love he'd turned inward again, working something over. His face was full of dread, an expression I'd never seen in person, but it chilled my blood because I had seen it – in interviews, in magazine spreads, the occasional paparazzi shots of Phillip from years ago. That look of dread, of almost-bitterness, and apathy had followed him for the last couple years of his life.

I could look at any picture of Phillip Deville and tell you what era it was from. Some of it had to do with his various hairstyles and colors, the slope of his body – gangly in his early years, giving way to hard muscle later on, starting to soften just a bit when he hit his thirties – but mainly it was his facial expressions that made it so easy to pick out the approximate year. In the beginning he'd had the cocky, excited energy of a young guy with his entire future ahead of him, full of possibility. Later, some of the excitement had gone, but he was still plucky, confident and hot as hell. But toward the end, right before his death, around the time of the last album, all his photos took on a sad, bitter edge. His eyes no longer shone, but were haunted and sad, his dark hair often wrapped around his face like a security blanket, his cheeks gaunt, and the tight line of his mouth showed his unhappiness. I didn't really like pictures from that era. I’d always preferred the ones from his earlier days, even though he was more handsome as he got older. It made me too sad to see him so obviously miserable.

It was how Phillip looked now.

I wanted to insist that he tell me, to force it out of him, but I knew him well enough by now to know that'd have the opposite effect. And anyway, I knew what he was feeling without having to ask. Whatever power he had of knowing my thoughts and feelings, I had some lesser version of that same power. After releasing him, it had started to feel stronger, which was weird, because I'd assumed the opposite would be true. In severing the magical cord, I'd managed to strengthen the cord between him and myself.

Looking at the back of Phillip, I suddenly remembered a dream – no, a nightmare, or I supposed, a daymare, since it had occurred right before I woke up – that I’d been having as I dozed in his arms. I closed my eyes, trying to pick out the threads of the dream, which was fading quickly from my memory. A beach, several shades below overcast, gray and moody, the waves sweeping over the beach like cooled lava, thick and slushy, blanketing the hot, clammy sand. A man, off in the distance. A sound, loud and cracking like thunder, causing him to turn and crane his head. His expression quizzical, his movements jerky and sinister. A bright flash of forking light from the sky. Smoke. Screaming. Pain. A bright, colorful light, almost like an aura, a haze, shimmering over everything, sparkling like glitter, raining down on me along with the rain.

And then nothing.

I shuddered and stared out Phillip’s window. It was a beautiful, sunny day with no hint of rain, much less an approaching storm. I was nowhere near the ocean, and it was probably just a dream. I shook my head, clearing out the sense of foreboding, telling myself to stop worrying so damn much. I had enough on my plate without adding more helpings.

Phillip’s expression was faraway. I wanted to pull him back to me, back to us. I reached out and touched the hair at his temple, pushing it behind his ear gently, my fingers getting caught in the tangle of black. Since I'd been with him, he'd carefully brushed his beautiful hair every morning, but it stayed tangled anyway. Today, it was the worst I’d ever seen it; a mess of snags and knots that would take forever to loosen. I realized as I touched his strands that it was curlier than I'd thought. It was thick and dense and unruly. It was unusually heavy on his head today; I could almost feel the heaviness wearing at him, giving him a headache. I leaned closer to him and gathered the soft black mass in my hands. Instinct told me he was too sensitive for a brush, so I parted it gently into three parts and set to work without one. I worked soundlessly, mindlessly. It was though my hands had imparted, outside of me, that they were to do this, and set themselves to the task.

Phillip sighed and leaned into me, his skin warm against my shoulder. I smiled and continued working, enjoying the soft-yet-brittle feel of his hair on my fingers, the warmth that radiated through me. I was filled with a feeling of gold, bright and gleaming, warm and sound. I braided his hair slowly, letting my hands caress the strands, the back of his neck, his ears. I remembered from childhood how good it felt, how relaxing and safe, to have someone braid your hair. When she hadn’t been too drunk to hold a brush, my mother would sit me in the kitchen, gently and methodically dividing my hair into parts, taking her time to French-braid my blond hair, her fingers soft and ticklish and comforting. My entire body would buzz with wellbeing when she did my hair, all of it an experience of bliss, from the clicking of the little plastic barrettes to the gentle slope of the soft baby-brush she used well into my teen years, to the murmurs of apology when she’d accidentally hit a snag. I remembered how it felt, for someone to focus their attention on something so delicate and personal. It was one of the few times in my life I’d felt my mother’s love, strong and poignant, and as I held Phillip’s hair in my hands, I took that love from deep in my soul, that warm, glittering feeling of gold, that bright light, and imparted it to him. I felt it moving from deep within me down the length of my arms and into my hands, flowing forth from my fingers in an invisible stream.

Phillip’s breathing slowed and he closed his eyes; he might have dozed. His weight was heavy and solid against me. When the braid was finished, I fished a hair tie out of my own hair, letting it fall over my shoulders in a messy cascade, and secured the braid behind his back. “There,” I said, leaning over his shoulder to place a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Now it won't be in your way.”

“Thank you,” he said in a soft voice, still staring straight ahead, but he seemed lighter now. “It was bothering me. It felt...heavy.”

“I know.” I put my arms around his shoulders and pulled him into me, placing another kiss on his cheek, then one on his ear, his temple, and the top of his head. He sighed and leaned into me further. I held him tight.

“Don't go away from me,” I said.

“I'm right here.”

“You know what I mean.” I rested my cheek on his large shoulder. “I can feel you...drifting.”

He said nothing, only placed an absent kiss on my arm. I felt my heart catch.

“Promise me,” I said. “That if you ever leave me, it's because you want to leave, because it's over, and not because you think you have to.”

He sighed and reached for me, pulling me into his lap, cradling me there. His large arms wrapped around me completely, and I nestled into his embrace. He returned my kisses, placing one on my cheeks, my forehead, and finally my mouth. His braid fell into my face, grazing my cheek, as he closed his mouth on mine, opening against me, tasting me. His lips were salty.

The kiss lingered, and I felt my body erupt into flame, and I instinctively pulled him closer, not able to get close enough. “You didn't answer me,” I murmured when my lips were momentarily free. But he kissed me again, silencing me. He wasn't going to make me that promise.

He pushed me back onto the bed where we'd just lain together minutes before, ready for me again, and I was ready for him, too. It was amazing how much I wanted him, how I never felt satisfied, like we always had more to give each other. I'd never felt that way with Tess. Just the sight of Phillip filled me with fire, made me burn. I couldn't stop touching him. I loved the way his skin felt, both warm and cool all at once, how deep his green eyes were, how rough his mouth was, how big and strong his hands were. He was so very real, big and tangible and alive.

His weight pinned me down, but it was a steady, comfortable weight, and the delicious woodsmoke-scent hit my nose and made me woozy. He bent to kiss my neck, his lips trailing up from my collarbone to behind my ear. His breathing was rough, the breath hot on my skin. His hands were exploring the rest of me, stopping here and there at points all over my body, making me wild with passion.

We would have to talk about this. He couldn't do this every time I brought it up. “You're not being fair,” I said out loud, placing my hands on his bare shoulders and pushing him back so I could look him in the eye.

“I'm sorry,” he said, bending down to kiss me again, rough. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” I said, and he smiled. With one deliberate thrust he was inside me, and our bodies fit together, seemingly made for each other, thigh flat against thigh, his arms tangled up with mine, his weight bearing down on me. He moved against me, slow at first, then rougher, faster, and we both cried out. He kissed me, muting the sound, and I opened my mouth to his, wanting to taste him, to bite him.

His face was in my neck again, and I felt wetness there. Was it tears? And he murmured in my ear, “I love you.” That was as much as he would give me.

We emerged from the bedroom a while later and trudged down the stairs. There were voices in the living room. I followed Phillip, noting that the tension in his shoulders was back. He pricked an ear to the right as we rounded the kitchen. Then he stopped just outside the door, and turned to me, his face white.

“I know that voice,” he said, his eyes searching mine, almost scared.

I craned my neck, listening. Jason was laughing with someone over the sounds of the stereo. He was playing a Bloomer Demons record, but it wasn't one I'd heard before. It sounded like a live cut. “Who is it?”

“Nate,” he said, still pale.

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