Page 79 of Dead Rockstar

“Maybe you don't get to decide everything,” I countered, walking over to him.

“When it's my life, I do.”

“And my life? Is that of any consequence? Do you think you can just exit stage left and leave me to pick up the pieces?”

Stalemate. We stared at each other, both breathing heavily, as though we’d been in a physical altercation, when in reality, there were yards between us. His eyes were wet with tears, but his mouth turned up in the slightest smirk. He was still angry, oh yes, he was so angry he could spit, he could hit something, break something. Instead, his green eyes bore through me like liquid fire. I stared back at him, defiant, daring him to say one more thing, to question my motives, to question my love for him and the depths to which I’d go to keep him alive.

It took him less than two steps to get to me, and then his arms were around me, crushing me against the counter, my arms splaying out, accidentally knocking over the cup I’d just rinsed. It hit the floor with a clatter but didn’t break, and Phillip picked me up and carried me to the stairs, his mouth already on mine with a fury and a passion I’d never felt before.

I was halfway to swept away, but I managed to pull back, putting my hand on his chest, making him stop. “No,” I said fiercely, pushing at him. “Put me down.”

He deposited me on the step immediately, his expression puzzled. “I’m sorry,” he said, his fury gone, his voice uncertain. “I thought you wanted-”

“I do,” I said, my hand still on his chest, my nails scraping at the skin through his thin black shirt. I let my fingers trail down, finding his nipple, running my nails over it. “But I’m capable of walking myself up the damn stairs, Phillip Deville.”

His mouth curved into a smile, and I knew I was forgiven.

Phillip rolled over in bed, clutching a pillow to his naked chest, and asked softly, “How did you do it?”

“I don't know,” I answered honestly. I lay in bed beside him, pecking at my phone, sending another text to Sloan. I still hadn’t heard from her. I didn’t know whether to be hurt, pissed off or worried. Either she was ghosting me, which would be truly shitty at a time like this, or something was wrong.

“Surely you must remember what you did, or at least a little bit,” he said, reaching over to push my hair behind my ear. “I just want to know. Lydia was so sure it’d be permanent, and in, like, five minutes, you brought me back. Again.”

I sighed, putting down the phone. “You should have seen the look on her face, Phillip,” I said, loving the feel of his hand in my hair. “She was shocked. She didn’t know I could do it, either.”

“So what’d you do?”

“I just…like…” I positioned my hands to show him what I’d done, and described the ball of golden light, how I’d focused on enveloping him in it. “All I know is it felt different this time. Back home, when I did that spell, I had no sense of it working. I just felt silly afterward. But this time, I could feel the light building up, I could feel it responding to me. It was all unconsciously done. I didn't recite anything; I wasn't even thinking clear words. I was so frantic. I just sort of...sent it – the feeling, the magic, whatever... - toward you.” I cleared my throat. “You're welcome, by the way.”

He chuckled. “I’m still not quite at the point where I’m willing to thank you. It’s just weird…I’m trying to understand.” His eyes fell on me, the intensity of his gaze unnerving. “According to her, the moment I cut my hair, it should’ve been over. Boom, dead, you know? Lydia was very clear on that. And I knew, deep in my being, that it was true.” He ran a large hand through its shortened length and sighed. “Remember how I didn’t want to get a haircut back in Brunswick? I instinctively knew my hair was my protection.”

“When you cut it, you hit the ground like a lead balloon,” I said, shuddering at the memory. “So Lydia was right, in a way.”

“Well, I hit the ground, and I was like, out or something, but I wasn't gone,” Phillip said, his face thoughtful. “I could hear you, feel you. I felt your magic flowing into me, and it gave me strength. But it didn't bring me back because I was never gone.”

Suddenly I knew. “It's because I released you,” I said. “When I released you yesterday the magic left you. It was no longer in you, and therefore no longer in your hair. Remember when you said it felt so heavy? It’s because all the lightness was gone, all the power.” Lydia's Samson and Delilah comparison had been eerily close to the mark. I bit my lip, remembering. “And then, when I braided it…well, I kind of infused it, infused you…with my love. With warmth. I didn’t exactly know what I was doing, but I…I think I put a protection spell on you.” I remembered the feel of his hair in my hands, the feeling of gold. Light.

“So you cancelled out the old spell and put me under a new one.”

“I think I did, yeah,” I said sheepishly, putting my hands up in mock surrender. “Oops.”

“Fuck,” he said. “That's the stupidest shit I ever heard. Magic fucking hair. My life's a fucking joke. It's a goddamn b-movie straight to VHS.”

I began to laugh.

“What exactly about this fucking situation is funny to you?” he demanded, suddenly angry again. He was still clutching the pillow to him as though his life depended on it.

“Honestly?” I looked at him. “All of it.” I laughed. “The question is, what isn’t funny about this situation? I just had sex with a zombie rock star with epic, magical hair. And I’m imagining you as a goth Charlton Heston in some biblical biopic, dressed in long, flowing robes.”

He didn’t crack a smile.

“Without all the guns,” I added.

Still nothing. His eyes blazed and I shuddered under their intensity.

“You shouldn't have brought me back, Stormy. I was trying to help you. To save you. From them. To make all this right. You fucked it up.”

“Good.”

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