Death of a Rock Star: A Boy in the Band Novella (6 page)

A twisted, fucked up legacy of epic proportions.

“She’s so fucking beautiful, like you can’t even fucking imagine. But she’s fucking everyone. It’s killing me. I can’t handle it.”

I suspected him of being a little delusional.

“Are you sure, this isn’t the big P rearing its ugly head?”

“No, it’s not fucking paranoia, and it’s not the drugs that are the problem. It’s her and the fact she has to fuck anything with a cock that catches her eye. None of those fuckers turn her down. Why would they?”

“I would.”

“What?”

“Turn her down.”

“You say that, but…”

“I mean it. I wouldn’t do that to you man. I wouldn’t touch her – ever. I see what her fucking around has done to you and I hate her for it.”

“I was okay with it in the beginning.” He confessed. “She was totally unapologetic about it. It’s who she is. She didn’t sneak around or promise me anything. But the deeper and deeper I got, the more and more I wanted her not to be fucking other guys. For a while, she did knock it on the head. I monopolised all her time – didn’t give her the opportunity. Then, utter fuckwit that I am, I went and mistook that for commitment… I asked her to be just mine, and she went fucking postal… threw herself at the next guy who came along. I caught them fucking in her office. More fool me eh?”

“More fool her.”

“I pushed and pushed, until something happened that just about fucking destroyed me.”

“What?”

What the fuck did she do to push him so completely over the edge?

“I can’t… it’s too painful.” He told me. “Too painful to even think about.”

I knew not to press him on this. Whatever she’d done, it was the reason why he was in this state.

“But, you’d really never touch her?” He asked this like the idea was unthinkable.

“I said I wouldn’t.”

“You promise? No matter how hard she gives you the fucking come on? And she will, if you ever cross paths.”

Suddenly it made sense why I’d never seen this girl. He thought that I wouldn’t be able to keep my dick in my pants. That I’d fuck him over, with her – even though we were like brothers and fucking my friend’s girls has always been a huge no no for me. This woman had completely annihilated his sense of reason.

“I shouldn’t fucking have to, but yeah, I promise.” I told him.

“That means a lot… such a fucking lot.”

He was fighting back tears as he said this. Who was this wreck of a man and what kind of girl would tear someone apart like this?

“You’re better off without her.” I told him. “Seriously. That’s if you can get your shit together and get yourself cleaned up. You’re Jamie. Fucking. Grimes – wunderkind of the rock world, for fuck’s sake. She’s just a girl. Don’t let a girl fucking sink you.”

“She’s not just a girl though.”’

I knew that empty faraway look. I recognised it for what it was and it gave me the chills. He’d already checked out. I knew even then that it would only be a matter of time until I’d be sitting here drinking to his memory. And sure enough, here I am.

Darcey’s considerable powers of persuasion are not impaired even after knocking back the best part of two bottles of wine. By six o’clock we’re settled in The Feathers, the haunt of the old St Martin’s set. I wasn’t feeling particularly sociable, but the alternative was to stay home with that bag of gear burning a hole in my conscience. I’d have ended up getting fucking blottoed and not resurfacing for a day or two. I decided to do the right thing, mainly because I didn’t want to be alone tonight.

I was part of this crowd once, but now I feel so apart from it – so distant. I’m polite. I speak to people, laugh at their jokes, tell them they haven’t changed since I last saw them. I drink with them. I go outside for a smoke. But I feel nothing. Just empty. My thoughts and lines of conversation unravel as I’m forming them, and they all pull me back to Jamie, and to
her.
This whole charade of sociability to deal with our grief is such a fraud. It’s so fake.

I’m outside having a smoke when a girl approaches me who I half recognise. She’s one of the art school crowd and pretty enough. I think I may have fucked her way, way back, but she doesn’t set my heart racing, she doesn’t make my whole fucking body feel alive with need.

“Blake… long time no see.” She says coolly. But I can tell, by the way she’s chewing on her lip, she’s interested in me. Or rather, interested in what’s in my pants.

I smile at her blandly. I clock the Welsh accent, but I have no fucking clue what her name is.

“Carys.” She fills in, as if sensing me drawing a blank.

“Ah, yes Carys... You were in my life class?”

“Art criticism.”

“Sorry, my head’s all over the place. You know, with all this shit with Jamie.”

“You two were close.” She’s not asking this, just stating it. There’s genuine sympathy in her eyes.

“Not that I’d forget a face like yours.” I offer as an appeasement, smoothly changing the subject.

She blushes fiercely. She really is very pretty. She just seems too nice. The kind of girl I would have enjoyed corrupting in my younger days.

“Did we…” I prompt, flashing her my bad boy smile, ramping up the charm. She blushes again confirming my suspicions.

Of course we did. I fucked most of the pretty girls in my classes. There were so many of them and the drugs were so abundant. Those conquests kind of merge into one; they’re all just a blur.

“Jamie and I... we used to throw a sick party, didn’t we?” I grin.

This flirtation is just what I need. The perfect distraction from all the emotional crap I don’t want to deal with.

Carys is silent for a moment and then she confesses.

“I lost my virtue at one of them.” She’s still blushing, but getting bolder now, holding my gaze.

“Not to a nasty boy like me? Surely?”

The look on her face tells me that she did.

Come to think of it, I did pop a few virgin’s cherries during my St Martin’s rampage. It was a consequence of having a reputation like mine. It was like a honey trap to all those innocent good girls wanting to dirty up their own reputations.

“Really?” I ask feeling a little bit smug, but like a shit for not remembering her.

“Really.”

“I feel like I don’t really need to ask,” I smirk confidently, “but was it good?”

“It was an eye opener.” She smirks back.

As our conversation takes this unexpected turn and my day long drinking session finally catches up with me, Carys doesn’t seem like such a good girl anymore, and my horniness rears its head.

“What’s say we go round everybody up and I throw another party to debauch you at?” I say cockily. Her eyes light up in response.

This is party number three this week. There’s been one every night. Just like last week which was also a blur of drinking, partying and random hook ups. It may seem crass that indulging in copious amounts of sex and booze is how I’m dealing with Jamie’s death, but it’s the only way I know how – that doesn’t involve class A substances. Darcey has been tolerant of my acting out. She’s been subtle about it, but she’s definitely keeping an eye on me, like she would a completely irresponsible younger brother.

I’m trying to be good I really am, but I’m still feeling despicable. Every girl I’ve fucked has had
her
face. I’ve come so hard, so many times thinking about Sylvie Smith that I’m worried that it’s becoming another unhealthy addiction. I’ve even resorted to stalking her online to get my fix of her beautiful face. I didn’t think to do it before, when Jamie was being all shady about her. I’ve never been one to stick my nose in where it’s not wanted, and I wasn’t that fucking interested in who she was. She was just the thorn in Jamie’s side. That was until last week.

Since then I’ve been bombarded with photo after photo of her partying, wrapped around some fucking rock star or other. She may be a shit hot A&R girl,
the
It girl who discovered and signed Jamie, and the likes of Vertigo, Elsa Wood, The Weeks – I have to concede, the list is pretty fucking impressive – but it’s also clear as day that she’s a rampant groupie. Not that I’m averse to the odd groupie now and then, but it seems so beneath her, so shallow. Maybe Sylvie Smith is all surface, maybe there’s nothing underneath that beautiful exterior of hers. But the artist in me is
so
drawn to that exterior – I have an unshakable urge to shatter it, to see if there’s the faintest glimmer of remorse there, or even a heart.

To balance out all the debauchery, I’ve been working out like a madman, trying to purge my seemingly insatiable urges. To fuck, to drink, to smoke, to do drugs, to fuck
her
. But I feel like a husk of a man. Empty. Soulless. Like nothing will ever be enough.

I haven’t fucked the same girl twice during my time in London, but Carys is here again tonight, and she’s so fucking accommodating. She bends to my desires so easily, so willing to please, to be whoever I want her to be. It helps that her long brunette hair is in a twisted scruffy plait tonight. Even with my Jack goggles on she’s a poor replica of Sylvie, but reminiscent enough that my cock springs to attention the minute I set eyes on her. Her skimpy clothes are clearly intended to catch my eye. They’re an invitation which I won’t be turning down.

I end up fucking Carys on the stairs. I’m that desperate. A beautiful, harsh face swims before my eyes, not the face of the girl I’m fucking. The girl I’m fucking is not complaining though. She’s gasping my name over and over.

Then I hear another voice say my name.

“Blake!”

It’s the last voice on earth I wanted to be hearing tonight. It’s cold and full of hate. I’m pulled out of my fantasy instantly. It’s the fucking Stepwitch!

I pull out of Carys unsatisfied, and make myself decent while she scrambles to do the same. I turn to the Stepwitch. Her face is a fucking picture. Fury and something darker are simmering there.

“Mother?” I say, the word dripping with sarcasm.