Death of a Rock Star: A Boy in the Band Novella (10 page)

Sylvie fucking Smith! I don’t want to think about that moment when she looked up at me, and it felt like the whole fucking world came to a halt. I can’t let myself think about it. I’m going to get this girl home and then I’m going to run and stay as far away as possible, for as long as possible. Right now she’s wrapped around me and fuck me if it doesn’t feel so right. So right, and yet so terribly wrong. I wish that this girl wasn’t
the
girl. But she is, in more ways than I care to think about.

The cab pulls up outside her place, and my heart sinks a little at the thought of moving her from where she’s settled on my lap. I could stare at her face forever.

I have to move her to pay the cabbie. I give him a huge tip, and he jumps out to get the cab door.

“Take good care of your girl. She’s a beauty.” He says to me in a strongly accented voice as I lift her out.

“She’s not
my
girl.” I tell him.

“Yet…” He says giving me a hearty pat on the back and a wink.

No. Not ever.

It’s not very dignified, but I have to give Sylvie a fireman’s lift in order to negotiate the steps, her keys and the front door. I try hard not to think about her gorgeous arse just inches away from my face. My hand wrapped around her beautiful legs is torture enough.

When we finally make it into Sylvie’s apartment, I’m struck by how much this place is a reflection of her. It’s understated and yet stunning. It’s a grown up’s home, not a fucking student dive, like our pad in Brighton. The apartment is set over two floors, and I have to trek up another set of stairs to the bedroom.

I wish I was carrying her up here under different circumstances. I wish there was no backstory. I wish that she was sober and willing, and that I was about to peel off her dress, ravage her and bury myself in her.

The master bedroom is huge and has a huge fucking bed at its centre. Oh, the bad things I could do in this bed! I have to remind myself of the bad things virtually every other fucker in London has probably done in this bed.

As I lay Sylvie down I tug off Jamie’s jacket. My breath catches a little as I take in the full effect of that killer black dress. I slip off her heels and smile to myself that her toenails are painted green, not harlot red. It’s a quirky little thing that piques my interest in her. I wonder what she’s really like, when she’s not fucked up on meds and booze. It’s then that I notice the very expensive looking turntable and the stack of vinyls beside the bed. I’m intrigued. I have a quick skim through them. It’s a pretty fucking impressive collection. There are some of the rarest vinyls here that I’ve seen outside of my collection. Sex Pistols, The Beatles, The Stones, Velvet Underground, Bowie, Hendrix… Had we actually met under different circumstances, outside of the shit storm of her relationship with Jamie, I think I may have actually liked this girl. A lot.

Just as I’m making her comfortable, rolling her on to her side, covering her with a throw, her phone rings in her bag. I open it up to see who’s calling. Dent? Alex Denton I presume. She rouses a little at the sound. I can’t answer her phone. How would I explain myself?

It stops. Seconds later it buzzes a text alert.

Dent:
Where are you? You okay? Need some company?

Fuck no! The old perv. I’m all the company she needs right now. I’ve got this.

I feel a little sketchy doing it, but I send a reply.

Me:
No. I’m fine. Home safe. In bed

Shit! As I press send my stomach knots, I hope the old dog doesn’t take that as an invitation.

Thank the fucking stars, he doesn’t.

Dent:
Ok. Lunch at ours Sun… if you feel up to it? If not see you Mon

I don’t respond.

I sit on the edge of the bed and watch Sylvie Smith – heart breaker, mind fucker, soul destroyer – sleep. It twists my heart a little that she can sleep, but it’s not untroubled. She starts to whimper a little, and she’s muttering things that I can’t make out.

I hate this girl. I shouldn’t care that she’s hurting. It should make me happy that she is. But my throat feels dry, and I’m finding it hard to swallow watching her pain bleed out of her in her sleep. She’s silently sobbing. My body aches to comfort her. I tell myself it’s that basic human trait in all of us – an aversion to suffering – that makes me want to soothe it all away for her.

I’m feeling stone cold sober now, so how I justify this to myself I don’t know. I shift over to stroke her hair and find myself unpinning it from the artful swirl. I run my fingers through it as it fans out in beautiful mahogany waves. The urge to bury my face there is just as strong as the moment when I first laid eyes on her, maybe more so. But that would be creepy, right? I need pull myself together. I don’t get like this over girls. Ever. Especially not
this
girl.

I freeze as she turns into me, embracing me, pulling me into her. I could so easily resist that pull, but I don’t, and I don’t stop to ask myself why. My heart misses a beat as she curls herself around me. It feels like being wrapped in pure, unfiltered grief and it pulls and frays at my own pain. Here in the enemy’s bed, something fucking weird happens. It’s as though our pain binds together, twists and tangles and becomes inseparable. Like a strange connection is made. I stroke her hair gently, and I feel oddly at peace as her sobs wain and still.

I hate this girl. I fucking hate this girl. Don’t I?

I finally give in to the urge that has been burning white hot inside me since I first laid eyes on her, I breathe her in. Holy shit, she’s like the drug to end all drugs. I’m a dead man.

Jamie is holding me. Not the crazed, ravaged Jamie of recent memory. Not gaunt or unkempt. He’s not twitching and ticking, looking for a way out – a bleak escape. His eyes don’t have that dead look about them. Instead, he’s glorious, golden.
My
Jamie. His arms have found me, pulled me out from a darkness that I don’t want to face. He’s holding me close, caressing me and all the broken pieces are fusing back together, making me whole again. I’m finally home, here in these arms.

How long I’ve sat here holding her, I’m not sure. It feels like forever and no time at all. Sylvie is fast asleep, but I don’t want to risk waking her and breaking this weird fucking spell I’m under. She feels too good in my arms to let go of just yet. I’m being the good Boy Scout, making sure she’s okay. That’s all. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway. And I have been surprisingly good. I’ve tried to keep all thoughts of peeling off her dress at the back of my mind, despite the fact that one of her beautiful tits is almost visible at the plunging neckline. I keep getting tantalising glimpses of a delicately inked tattoo there that I can’t quite make out. I’ve been watching her chest rise and fall purely out of concern for her wellbeing. Honestly. I haven’t ached to brush my lips there at all.

Her phone buzzes again. It’s on the night stand in her bag. I’d better check it’s not Alex Denton again, or someone else wanting her. I don’t want to get caught here in her apartment. This would take some explaining. I slide out of her grip to check her phone. It’s a text from a contact named CK and my hackles rise straight away at the tone of the message. It’s far too fucking familiar for my liking.

CK:
How you doing gorgeous?

I’m tempted to reply:
Fine, now fuck off
, but I restrain myself.

Her phone buzzes again.

CK:
You said you’d call when you were done. You want me to come over? I could help you shake off the day ;)

This has to be a guy. A guy who she’s more than familiar with. A fucking winky face? I’ll be tempted to give this fucking prick a winky face if he shows up while I’m here. But whoever this CK is, he’s persistent I’ll give him that. A few minutes later her phone buzzes again.

CK:
Dent says you’re home… in bed. Come on Sylv, don’t leave me hangin. You said you’d be up for a fuck. I’m at your service. Call me

So this
is
some guy she’s fucking. It makes me more than a little sour to think that he’s tapping her up for sex barely hours after Jamie’s funeral. I’m disgusted that she told this fucker she’d be up for it. I’m disgusted and furious with myself. I’d started to let my guard down, dazzled by this girl’s beautiful exterior. In its glare, I let myself forget that, beneath it, there’s
nothing
.

I can’t help myself though. I find myself replying, trying to put this fucker off.

Me:
Not tonight

CK:
Not going to let you mope. I’m coming over… good job I still have a key ;)

Shit!!!

Me:
Don’t

CK:
Too late. On my way

Oh Fuck! I have to leave. Now. This guy could live across the street. He could be minutes away for all I know.

But because I’m pissed off, and I’m way beyond feeling despicable, I let myself stoop even lower. As I’m putting Sylvie’s phone back in her bag, I take out the note from Jamie. I unfold and read it. It may be a shitty thing to do, but I don’t owe Sylvie Smith anything. I feel like I deserve to know what it says – what words of Jamie’s she’s hanging on to.

Written down in his unmistakably artful hand are lyrics to a song. They’re beautiful and tortured and so fucking sad. It takes a moment for it to sink in, but this song, for all intents and purpose, is a suicide note. A cry for help. A cry for help that
she
fucking ignored.

Sylvie,

When you hold my soul

It feels so right

My heart is in darkness

But you are the light

If I beg for forgiveness

Will you banish the night?

How I wanted your truth

Now I can’t deny

The future I crave

Feels like a lie

I crumble, I cave

To your lethal high

So, take my heart and crush it

Take my love and push it

Push it away

Take my mind and blow it

Take my tomorrow and throw it

Throw it all away

When I close my eyes

I see your face

It feels like the bends

It feels like fate

Like this night may end

Before I wake

So, take my heart and crush it

Take my love and push it

Push it away

Take my life and watch me

Mainline it

Mistime it

Throw it all away

Watch me

Throw it all away

Thanks for the good times

And the not so good

I’m glad I spent them with you…

J x

I fold the note back up and put it back where I found it.

As I get up to leave Sylvie shifts, murmuring something in her sleep. Asking me not to leave? Well fuck that!

There’s one thing as clear as fucking day that I take from that note. Sylvie had so much power over Jamie – power that she fucking abused. She was the only one who could have saved him. If she’d cared at all she would have, but she didn’t.

With this realisation, I become more and more certain in my mind that Sylvie Smith is rotten to the core. She crushed my best friend without a fucking care in the world, and she’s already onto her next victim, the oh-so-eager CK. I wonder if CK knows what he’s letting himself in for. I’m sure as fuck not going to put myself in the firing line. I’m out of here.

I wish I could undo everything that has happened this afternoon. That I could wipe out every feeling that has stirred in me since I first set eyes on this girl. It all felt so fucking fated. Like a ride that I couldn’t step off. A force I couldn’t resist.