Death of a Rock Star: A Boy in the Band Novella (13 page)

The atmosphere lightens. They’re all grinning like dirty schoolboys at me as I leave them to resume their post-show revelry.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! I need to get out of here. Now.

What the hell was I thinking when I agreed to come back to London? I knew
she
was here. I knew what she did for a living. It was inevitable that our paths were going to cross sooner or later. I just wasn’t banking on it happening quite so soon. Not tonight, that’s for sure.

My heart is racing like a fucking Formula One car. I haven’t drunk nearly enough to deal with this shit right now. I find a way out, but it only leads to an enclosed courtyard. It’s pissing down with rain, so I tuck myself into a sheltered spot to have a smoke. I pull out my tobacco and Rizlas and attempt to make a roll-up. My hands are shaking so fucking badly it’s a complete bitch to do. I try to lose myself in the ritual, but my mind is crashing with panic.

What the fuck am I going to say to her?

I’m your dead ex’s best friend, and I’m torn between fucking hating your guts and wanting to fuck you senseless.

I’ve held you in my arms, but you have no idea. Not a fucking clue. You looked at me like I was the answer to all your prayers – but I’m not.

I’m your worst nightmare, because I want to fuck you, and I want to hurt you. But I can’t do either. Because I promised… I fucking promised.

I know I’ll never say any of this to her. Ever. I can’t. I won’t.

The fire door is slightly ajar just down the hallway. I edge it open and peer out. It’s absolutely pissing down with rain. The inner courtyard is a kaleidoscope of dingy reflections. It’s quiet out here except for the distant strain of music from the jukebox. It’s the Clash’s
Should I Stay or Should I Go
. I smile wryly to myself. I see it as a sign. I think the Rock Gods are giving me a wink and a nudge, telling me that this guy may just be worth the trouble.

I find Blake seated on a low windowsill slightly sheltered from the downpour. He’s dragging hungrily on a roll-up that looks way too thin to have any amount of tobacco, or any other substance, in it worth smoking.

I take a seat next to him and light up one of my own smokes. I’m trying to quit. Honestly I am. I offer him one of my Camel Lights and he screws his nose up at the pack.

“I only smoke roll-ups.”

“If you can even call that a roll-up.” I say dryly.

He regards me suspiciously out of the corner of his narrowed eyes. His lips are set in a grim line.

“I’m trying to quit.” He snaps.

“Me too.”

He gives me a dirty look. I’m not sure what I’ve done to piss this guy off so thoroughly. Offer him the opportunity to play a showcase for one of the most respected label bosses in the industry? Yeah, that’s got to be really annoying. What
is
this guy’s deal?

“Look, your bandmates in there, they’re pretty lit up about this opportunity. You gonna fuck it up for them?”

He sighs heavily.

“I’ve been thinking about quitting the band… I just haven’t got round to discussing it with them yet.”

Oh man, I’m going to have to lay it on thick with this one. Dust off all the old clichés.

“You know without you, they’ve got fuck all. You own that frontman spot. You’re the reason I’m here Blake.” I point at him with my cigarette for effect.

“You
are
The Flood. Without you, there is no band. Without you, those guys in there don’t get a shot at their Happy Ever After, their dirty dance with fame.” I cock an eyebrow at him, but he’s not taking the bait.

“I don’t want to be responsible for their Happy Ever After!” He spits those words out with such venom I’m actually pretty shocked.

“There isn’t going to be one.” He adds darkly.

Deep breath.

“Whether you like it or not you
are
responsible, and there
is
going to a Happy Ever After.”

I’ll make fucking sure of that. The only person I’ve ever failed on that front was Jamie, and that’s sure as shit never going to happen again.

“Not for me.” He tosses what is left of his roll-up to the floor, stands up and grinds it under foot.

I try not to think how fuckable he looks standing there in the rain, all dark and unpredictable. If he’s so intent on playing the martyr act, then I’ll play on his conscience.

“So why take everyone else down with you? Do the selfless thing Blake. Just show up for a fucking showcase. What harm could it do?”

He looks doubtful. He’s a stubborn arse that’s for sure, but I can out stubborn the best.

“At any point until you sign, you’re free to walk away. You’ll make me look like a total fucking amateur, but you can do that.”

His eyes glint with sudden interest, as though that’s exactly what he’d like to see happen. He’s trying to suppress a wry smirk that’s creeping across his face. I don’t get it. The attitude. The blatant dislike.

The truth of the matter is – if I can get this band to showcase, if Denton likes this band as much as I think he will, he’ll make walking away very difficult indeed. Money talks and Dent isn’t shy about throwing around crazy figures and terms that I would challenge anyone to turn down.

I flick my cigarette into the darkness.

I take a moment to really look at this guy. His dark hair is wet and curled up slightly where it skims the collar of his jacket. His face is a little gaunt but perfectly proportioned and sculpted. The rain that’s clinging there catches the light from the window. It’s breath-taking - a model face. His startling pale eyes seem at complete odds with the rest of his colouring. Thick dark lashes accentuate them all the more. With a little grooming he would be ridiculously stunning. Ally my stylist could do such great things with him. The scruff on his chin and his rumpled shabbiness make him look older than I guess he actually is. As a contemporary of Fran’s he must be in his mid-twenties but he looks more like thirty. That cocky smirk may have a boyish edge, but his eyes have that well-worn look of an old soul. They are the kind of eyes that can hold you captive, eyes that there’s no escape from.

I swallow hard as stares at me unashamedly. It feels like he’s weighing something up. He draws in a deep breath and then finally speaks.

“He said you were beautiful.”

In the silence that follows, those words settle heavily upon me and my mind is sent reeling. Blake is watching me too closely. His comment suggests that he knows of me from outside our dealings this evening. Who could he possibly mean? There have been far too many brief encounters. For the first time in a long time, I feel a little uncomfortable about that fact. Does Blake know that I’m a serial star fucker? That could explain a lot, his blatant hostility for one. I’m almost afraid to ask.

“Who? Who said I was beautiful?” My voice is barely more than a whisper.

After a long pause he finally answers, his voice is quiet and cold.

“Jamie.”

A muscle clenches in his jaw line.

Holy shit! I swear I feel the ground lurch away beneath me. Jamie? My mouth goes dry and my heart pumps way too hard. I feel like I’m going to puke.

“He said you were the fuck of his life.” He says this with blatant loathing.

The hard look in his eye tells me that he knows, as well as I do, what Jamie really meant by that.

“Oh.”

“But that you were the fuck of a lot of other guys lives too.”

Oh.

Now I get it.

“Well… forewarned is forearmed, as they say.” I try to joke, but it falls painfully flat.

I wonder just how much Blake knows about Jamie and me. There’s only one person in my life who knows what really happened between us. Bernie. When everything fell apart, she was there for me. She was there with me when the news broke, when I was practically catatonic with shock and grief. In the following months when I was still struggling to function, she covered for me over and over. She got me through the utter shitstorm of Jamie’s death, if not really over it. I’m still not over it now, nearly a year on. I owe Bernie so much more than a big night out. I owe more than I could ever repay in this lifetime or the next.

“You pretty much fucking crushed him, you know that?” He finally responds.

The blame in Blake’s voice is as cold as the hatred in his eyes.

How the fuck do I answer that?

NJ is an avid reader and obsessive writer, fuelled for the most part by chocolate and coffee.

During her postgraduate studies in English Lit NJ became a contemporary romance junkie and finally found her calling.
A twisted romantic at heart, NJ loves nothing more than losing herself in a good book with lots of passion and angst. She is always at the mercy of one book boyfriend or another. So creating her own book boyfriends, and torturing them has been a wicked dream come true… but she may have lost her heart to her victims in the process.

Although she has a passion for dark romance, NJ loves a ‘Happy Ever After’ and is eagerly pursuing her own!

Find NJ and her books on Goodreads:

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7248355.N_J_Frost

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Music has played a huge part in the inspiration for
Death of a Rock Star
&
The Boy in the Band
– my playlist is endless, but here are a few highlights…

Arctic Monkeys –
Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High

Bastille –
Icarus

Biffy Clyro –
Biblical

Birdy –
(Live Lounge cover of Passenger’s) Let her Go

Chvrches –
Recover