by Frost, NJ
Death of a Rock Star © 2014 NJ Frost
Published by NJ Frost
Interior Design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
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THURS 13TH SEPT 2012
FRI 14TH SEPT 2012
WEDS 26TH SEPT 2012
THURS 27TH SEPT 2012
EPILOGUE
THE BOY IN THE BAND
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PLAYLIST
A special thank you to all my writing group members past and present. Without your encouragement I would never have made it this far. Melinda & Vanessa, you’re always so generous with your friendship, support and advice. I love you ladies!
Thanks to all the amazing authors who inspire me every day (there’s far too many to name!) and to all the dedicated bloggers out there, whose love and passion for books makes being an indie author even possible.
Thanks to my lovely beta readers for your enthusiasm! Your feedback has made me so much braver about self-publishing.
Finally, thanks to you readers for taking a chance on a newbie. I hope you enjoy! :)
For my beautiful family
I love you x
Oh my fucking God! Fuck! No.
The phone drops out of my hand as every cell in my body seizes up. My eyes are glued to the TV screen. Words are coming out of the newsreader’s mouth, but I don’t hear them. The images of the body being stretchered into the back of the ambulance are like some weird fucking vortex pulling me in. Everything pours into those images. There is nothing else. No me. No vicious September sky spitting at the window. No Bernie trying to pull me into her embrace, trying to make me look away. I can’t. A huge fucking void has opened up in the middle of everything. He’s gone. My body has forgotten how to breathe. It feels like I’ll never breathe again.
The fucking idiot! He only went and did it. I should be shocked, but I’m not. I should be sad, but I’m not. I just feel fucking furious – with him for being so weak, with her for slowly taking him apart piece by piece. I’m furious with a world that destroys the most beautiful of us without even stopping to pause on its axis for a moment. My mind feels shattered. It’s screaming for relief, to disappear down the rabbit hole again. I’m itching to use, to not feel, to forget. But there’d be no honour in that, what kind of memorial would that be? A pretty fucking shameful one, that’s what.
Instead, I hunt around the flat for Fran’s stash of booze. I find a bottle of tequila under his bed and knock back a shot to end all shots – straight from the bottle. Nearly half a bottle later I’m still feeling too much. I scroll through the contacts on my phone to call someone up for a fuck. Bethan, she’ll do. The voicemail from Jamie’s number is still on here. I haven’t got the stomach for it just yet. I don’t know if I ever will. I never called him back – the guy who was like a brother to me, who saved me from myself countless times. Our lives may have been pulling us in different directions, but that’s no excuse, I wasn’t there for him when he needed saving. The guilt is nauseating.
Bethan shows up all chatty and pretty and pert, wearing some absurdly provocative underwear. While she babbles away I’m monosyllabic, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. If she suspects that anything is off, she doesn’t mention it. She’s so very eager to please, but I couldn’t give a shit if I give pleasure or not. Today I will not be fucking like a gentleman. This act will be all about me, about trying to purge this empty panic that has a death grip on me.
Lucky then that Bethan is also in up for something brief and brutal. She’s screaming out my name, clawing at my arse, shuddering through her own climax, as I come fast and furious. But for once fucking doesn’t help. With my release, the emptiness gets thicker. It gets even harder to breathe. Bethan tries to wrap herself around me, to draw some after-show tenderness out of me, but there’s not a speck of tenderness in me right now. I feel empty, wraith-like.
“Get dressed and get the fuck out.” I order, peeling her off me.
I’m not usually such a dick. I don’t usually kick girls out before they’ve barely had a chance to catch breath, but I want her gone. She won’t appreciate this, but I’m doing her a favour. Even I don’t want my own fucking company right now. I don’t look at her as she gets dressed. I don’t watch as she pauses at the door, or make eye contact with her as she tries to engage me.
“Blake–”
“Just go.” My voice is cold and feels alien to me.
“You know what – don’t bloody well bother calling me again!”
From the sound of her voice, I can tell she’s pouting. Little Miss Pretty isn’t used to feeling quite so disposable. I close myself off to the hurt in her voice. She knows nothing about hurting. I’m the one fucking hurting here, like I haven’t done in a very long time.
“I won’t.” I say, but my words are lost beneath the slam door of the door.
Usually I don’t mind the lingering smell of sex, the smell of a girl’s perfume on my skin, the taste of her on my tongue. Maybe it’s guilt at being such a shit to Bethan, but I want every trace of her gone. I run a scalding shower and let it sear me, yet it does nothing to lessen the pain or the need to use scratching in my veins. I brush my teeth viciously until I taste blood and grimace at myself in the mirror to see the damage. It gives me a perverse sense of satisfaction. Although my looks have always allowed me free rein with the opposite sex, I’ve always been uncomfortable with my reflection.
My pale, haunted eyes could be cut and pasted from an old vintage tint photo of my mother. My unruly black hair is thanks to her too. The hard chiselled planes of my face are attributable to my father – who, in his younger, happier days, by all accounts, was a good-looking man. My appearance is a mash-up of a fucked up love. Every time I look in the mirror I’m reminded of the destructive power of it. I’m a product of it. A poster boy for it. Beneath my ‘pretty boy’ exterior lurks something darker that only I can see.
I start watching some crap on TV, but the sounds don’t make any sense. These people screaming at each other are idiots. I hit the mute button and watch humanity at its worst in silence.
I’m knocking back the last of the tequila when Fran comes rolling in. We played The Arc last night and he went home with one of the groupie girls. I came home alone.
“Is this mine?” Fran asks, snatching the bottle from my hand.
I hold his gaze but don’t speak.
“Did you go poking around in my room?”
I still don’t speak.
“I thought you were supposed to be laying off this shit?”
“I need you to drive me up to London.” I say. It feels robotic.
Fran looks slightly puzzled for a moment and
then suspicion hardens his expression.
“You haven’t been fucking using have you?”
I’m really not in the mood for this shit. I hate how that’s always the first assumption if I’m acting off in some way. I haven’t used in almost a year. Two hundred and fifty three days to be exact, okay so maybe not quite a year, but that’s 6072 hours, not that I’m counting. I understand Fran’s concern, but it’s not really for me, it’s for the band. If I go off the map again they’re basically fucked. I’ve been writing some good stuff lately, and our shows have been generating quite a bit of buzz. He doesn’t want all that to go to shit.
“Haven’t you seen the news?” I ask him.
“Why would I be watching the fucking news?”
“Jamie’s dead.”
Fran stills. His eyes dart to mine.
“Shit man! I’m sorry.”
“Pretty fucking inevitable really.”
Fran sits down beside me. For a minute there I think he’s going to pull me into a man hug or some shit. He doesn’t, it’s so not his style. Bad-arse guitarist. He just watches me closely.
“Still...” he says. I know he’s struggling to find some words of condolence. There aren’t any.
I’m swallowing hard. Trying to keep down the bile that’s been fighting its way up all morning.
“And you honestly haven’t used?”
I’m starting to think I may as well have done, for all this shit he’s giving me.
“No, not unless you count a soulless shag with Bethan.”
He smiles grimly. We all have our addictions and afflictions. As much as he tries to be the fun police, to keep everyone straight, Fran is not whiter than white. He fucks around like a man possessed. He’s worse than me, and that’s saying something.
“What are you going to do in London?”
Get fucked up, is the first thought that pops into my head. I’m trying not to think it. I really am trying.
“I don’t know.”
“Where will you go?” He’s going all parental on me. I wish he’d back the fuck off.
“Dad and the Stepwitch are in Antibes, so I guess I’ll crash there.”
“You need company?”
“No.”
“We have a gig tomorrow night at Gas.”
I glare at him. He sniffs sharply then looks away. Our friendship has been on pretty rocky footing since my fall off the wagon last Christmas. We have that classic love/hate thing going on. On stage, when we’re playing and when we’re writing together, this inexplicable magic happens. You’d think that would translate into the real world but somehow we seem to rub each other up the wrong way these days. It’s not really a clash of egos as such. It’s more a difference of opinion as to where the band is going. Fran has a blind hunger for the big time that I just don’t share. I’ve seen first-hand how fame and expectation can fuck with your head. It’s a fucking dead-eyed beast. It annihilates good hearts and good intentions, and I have a horrible feeling that it will end me, just like it did Jamie. I’m only a three years away from being eligible for the 27 club. The way things are going, with the band beginning to take off, the stars are lining up pretty spectacularly for that grand finale. Jamie’s death feels like a horrible foreshadowing, rather than a warning.
We drive up to London with the radio blaring so that Fran and I don’t have to speak to each other. I stare out of the window for the whole journey. The autumn light is so dreary, there’s an oppressive feeling of rot about the day. It feels like everything is dying. I feel the need to colour it with bright razor edges, to feel that sharpness that only a hit can give. I need to call NA when I get to my parent’s house. I need a new sponsor.
When we arrive in Chelsea Fran doesn’t get out of the car, and I don’t invite him in.
“Any idea how long you’re planning on staying?” He doesn’t meet my eye as he asks this. He obviously knows he’s sounding like a heartless dick.
“It’s just that the students are back next week, and I’ve got those gigs lined up…”
“Look, I don’t know, okay – until I get my fucking head sorted. Maybe ’til the funeral… Sorry for the inconvenience man, but what can I say, I didn’t fucking plan this.”
Fran sighs heavily and then finally meets my eye.
“I know. Sorry….” Before he drives off he adds, “Hey, take care of yourself. Don’t get into any trouble okay?”
Code for don’t get fucked up and need bailing out.
He’s gone before I have the chance to reply.
So, my Dad has a huge fuck off town house in Chelsea. And despite being the black sheep of the family, the outcast, the fuck-up, I still have a set of keys and the entry codes. It’s a good job Dad and the Stepwitch aren’t here. I don’t think I’d exactly be welcomed with open arms if they were. I haven’t seen them since Christmas, the time of my spectacular fall from grace. I said some pretty biting stuff when I was off my head on a crazy cocktail of K and coke. Although I’m still speaking to my old man sporadically, the Stepwitch will not be forgiving me anytime soon that’s for sure.
I shoot my Dad a quick text to tell him that I’m in town and that I’m going to be using the house. I ask him to keep it quiet from the Witch. He asks me not to trash the place. He’s only half joking.
Getting in the place is like entering Fort Knox. This is the problem when your father is a dealer… an art dealer that is. There’s always some priceless fucking masterpiece hanging up somewhere. Low and behold there’s a triptych of Freuds hanging in the hallway. Dad always has been a showy bastard.
I need another drink, so I make a beeline for the old man’s office and his stash of the good stuff. His refined tastes extend to all areas of his life – except for women. His whisky cabinet is a connoisseur’s wet dream. I crack open a Macallan. It’s ridiculously old and beautiful, but then he doesn’t allow himself anything unless it comes with an exorbitant price tag. That does include his women, Stepwitch being the prime example.
I sit in my Father’s chair surveying his domain. This is what I’ve been trying to escape. The weight of all this. The expectation. This is the man who has Degas sketches on his wall for fuck’s sake. How was I ever going to measure up to that?
My being in the band wasn’t ever about success or the money. It wasn’t ever really meant to be a middle finger in the face to my father either. It was about doing something I loved as much as the art, but without all the crippling expectation. I’m pretty comfortable with being the bad boy, fucked up drop out. Besides the old man won’t let me starve. I remind him too much of her. My mother, the beautiful, tragic ingénue. My father’s heart gets crushed every time he looks at me. But he won’t ever disown me completely, I’m his fix. His Margot fix.
Riding the tube late at night is like an out of body experience. I think I’ll always associate it with being fucked up on something. The harsh white light makes everyone look haunted. The drunks. The commuters. The lovers. They all look like they’re riding this train to hell, not home. The rattle of the carriage – the rattle of our cage. At Charing Cross, a girl gets on and sits down opposite me. She has one of those slightly familiar faces. It’s beautiful, but a little odd, she’s probably a model. Dressed impeccably. Her legs go on forever, but they are hidden by a long skirt. The thought of peeling that skirt up and burying myself in her flashes into my mind. I raise my eyes to hers. She’s watching me with interest, appraising. She wants to fuck me too. It’s a look I’m all too familiar with. I’m no stranger to giving or receiving sexual favours on the tube. You’d be amazed at what you can get away with, how many people turn a blind eye, how many surreptitiously watch, but this carriage is too busy for any of that shit.
For a couple of stops I study her, she’s brazen in watching me too. I get up well before the Goodge Street stop, to give her fair warning. She comes and stands beside me, our hands just touching on the hand rail. Our eyes meet in silent agreement.
We don’t speak as we make our way up and out of the tube
station. Up the deco staircases that seem endless. We’re spewed out into the night, drawn along by the neon pulse of the city. We find ourselves gravitating towards the shadows, heading down the first deserted alley we come to. I lead the way to make sure that this is what she wants, and she follows.
I don’t even ask her name. In this light she could be anyone. This kind of fucking is about as soulless as it comes, but it’s what I need and it must be what she needs too. There’s no mistaking the signals here.
She grabs my hand and backs into a shuttered up entrance dragging me with her. I’m 6’2 and she’s not much shorter than me. Definitely a model, I think as I get a tight close up of her face. She laces her fingers in my hair and pulls until our mouths collide. The kiss is a little too crazed for my liking, our lips and tongues fighting to the death. It feels too vicious. I eventually pull away, and she’s gasping, her body heaving, the need in her eyes hot and unfathomable. I feel the familiar rush as my hand goes up inside her skirt and she opens herself up for me eagerly. Being in control of someone like this, the power of it, is intoxicating. I don’t care that it’s reckless. I need this. I slip my hand inside her underwear and let my fingers tease at her gently. She’s writhing, trying to get some friction, some relief, but I just keep teasing, hinting at what I could do to her. She gets that I’m playing with her and she darkens.
“Are you going to fuck me or what pretty boy?” She hisses through her teeth.
Her ferocity snaps me out of the shadowy trance I’m in. In a moment of sudden crashing clarity, I wonder what the hell I’m doing here. I was on the train to Camden, on the way to Jamie’s house. I was going to pay my respects. What the fuck am I thinking? Surprisingly, my cock decides to behave for once.
