Stone: A Standalone Rock Star Romantic Comedy (Pandemic Sorrow)

by Stevie J. Cole

  “You in a nursing home? You’ll be trying to dry hump all the orderlies.”

  “Probably.”

  Shaking my head, I push away from the counter and drag my ass over to Lauren’s sofa and collapse on it. “I swear, I think I had alcohol poisoning.”

  Lauren comes over and sits on the end of the couch, moving my legs over her lap. “Okay, so what were you doing last night where you were so drunk you ended up in Stone’s shirt and didn’t fuck him?”

  I close my eyes and cover my face with my hand. “I went over to Harvey’s, and I got shitfaced.”

  “Standard.”

  “And he tried to… like…” I shiver at the thought, “Seduce me.”

  “Seduce you?”

  “He was kissing on my neck and telling me step sibling sex was hot or some crap.”

  “Oh. Dear. God.” She laughs. “Had you fucked him, I would forever be calling you Cersei.”

  I move my hand away from my face and stare at her. “What?”

  “Game of Thrones.”

  I keep staring, because I have never watched that show.

  “All the brother and sister sex? Oh my god, what do you do with your life?”

  “Anyway,” I continue, “I was drunk and went out onto the beach after he locked me out, and I stumbled into Stone…”

  “And you fucked him.”

  “No! I went to his house and threw up all over his bathroom.”

  Her eyes go wide. “Oh, wow.”

  “Yep, he watched me vomit in his toilet.” I shrug. “And I still feel like death.”

  She pats my legs. “Well, in honor of your near incestual relations–”

  “It was not even close to relations.”

  “Yeah, yeah, let me have my dreams, okay? In honor of it, I’m turning on Game of Thrones and you just sleep off your hangover.”

  I close my eyes, listening as the theme song to her incestuous show comes on. And while I try to force the sleep I know I need, I think about him and his kiss and how good it felt to wake up in his arms.

  Shot through the heart—fuck me. Rock and Roll.

  19

  Stone

  I’m staring at a commercial for vaginal itch, lying on my couch with my hand down my pants, because this is the lifestyle of the rich and famous. There’s no show. No album being recorded. No interviews.

  I grab my phone from the coffee table and check the latest selfie I uploaded. Only 796,001 likes. I always get more than a million. At least. And panic slowly sets in.

  It doesn’t take much in this industry to be forgotten about. And, if I’m honest, I know our days are numbered. Jag’s on a crash course. I’m not far behind him, just not as publically open with my fall from grace as he is.

  Fame is fleeting. I know that, and it looms over my head like a leather clad Grim Reaper. Because what the fuck do you do when it’s over?

  I’m not addicted to drugs. I’m not addicted to sex. I think I may be addicted to fame, to being on the stage and having an arena full of people staring at you, screaming for you, singing each and every word to your songs. I don’t have to do a damn thing, and people like me. I can be a raging dick. People like me. I can be a saint. People like me. None of it matters, because I’m not really real. I’m a thing. An object. A fucked up version of a god…

  I wonder if this is how an addict feels? If they hate the thing that gives them a high? And I guess they do, because at the end of it all– we’re all slaves to our vices, our wants and desires, dreams. A slave to ourselves.

  Fuck, I need to stop thinking. I close my eyes and will sleep, but that fucker’s nowhere to be found, so I sit up and grab my guitar from the side of the couch, strumming over the strings.

  I let the sound of the music fill the room and I close my eyes, losing myself in the melody and somehow, my mind drifts to Phoenix. To the way her lips felt, the way her warm breath washed over my mouth. Sighing, I open my eyes and lay the guitar on the couch before I grab my phone again and skim through my texts, searching for the one Phoenix sent me the other day.

  Phoenix: I’m not dead. I sent her a thumbs up sign and jazz hand emoji because I’m fucking stupid… Shit.

  I type out a message: Hey, what you doing?

  And press send. I haven’t even sat the phone down before my phone dings.

  Phoenix: Not much, fuckface.

  Fuckface? That’s not nice.

  Phoenix: I’m not nice. You know this.

  True. Want to bring me my shirt? And watch a horror movie.

  Phoenix: No, because you have shit grammar.

  What

  Phoenix: You’re missing a question mark.

  ? There’s your fucking question mark.

  Phoenix: Fine. I’m not leaving, so you can come get your shirt if you want.

  And watch a horror movie?

  Phoenix: Sure… 1414 Echo Building

  I toss the phone down, pull on some clothes, and head out the door.

  _________

  I sit in my parked car staring at the side of the building. I’m not exactly sure what the fuck I’m doing, but hey, when have I ever been sure of what I’m doing? My heart is slamming against my ribs like a bass drum. My palms sweaty. I get up on a stage in front of thousands of people and don’t bat a fucking eye, but this – showing up to Phoenix’s apartment – has me anxious as all hell, which makes me smile, because it makes me feel alive.

  I brush my hair from my face, pull my shades over my eyes, and hop out of my car, locking it as I strut down the sidewalk. A few girls stare. One stops me for a picture. I smile. I sign autographs, and then I buzz apartment 1414 and wait.

  I hear the click of a camera shutter going off, but I don’t turn around. Fucking paparazzi.

  “Stone,” a guy shouts, “can you turn around so I can get a picture?”

  I don’t move, just place my arm on the corner of the brickwork and press Phoenix’s call button again.

  “Got a new love interest? Who is she? A model? An actress?”

  I stand, silently waiting for the lock to click, and when it does, I’m straight inside and to the elevator.

  When the elevator doors slide open, I’m staring at a silver square with the number 14 illuminated by a blue backlight. I step off into the narrow hallway. Black and white photographs of skylines line the walls. These apartments are easily a few million, and it’s at this moment I realize, she’s not actually normal. This chick doesn’t understand struggle, she doesn’t understand what it’s like to worry about bills, about affording food. She’s as far away from normal as I can get. So why do I feel that connection? Because I’m not normal. No matter what I tell myself, I’m no longer normal.

  I come to the end of the hall and stand in front of her door, my nerves crawling over my body. I shake them down, put on my hard face, and knock.

  The door swings open and she shoves my shirt in my hands. “There’s your shirt.”

  And now, we’re just standing here in the doorway looking at each other like a pair of fucking idiots.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  She nods, still blocking the doorway.

  “So…” I take one of her fingers that’s gripping the edge of the door and pluck it loose, followed by another then another, “you promised me a horror flick.”

  She drops her arm and allows me inside. Everything’s white and clean and organized. “Nice place,” I say.

  “Thanks. Henry bought it for me since Pam couldn’t wait to get me out of their hair. I’ve lived here since I was 16. Alone.”

  “That’s a nice way to get kicked out.” I laugh.

  “Yeah, basically.” She closes the door and skirts around me, taking a seat on her sofa. “But it was a relief. I took care of Pam more than she did me.”

  “Pam?”

  “The woman who birthed me. If you ever need to know what to do with someone when they nearly OD from coke, I’m your girl, been doing it since I was 10.” She sighs. “Also, I’m pretty good at kicking out one night
stands, so, you can see why I’m not the kind of girl who needs saving much.” She smiles.

  “Wow…” Down the rabbit hole we go. I take another quick glance around her apartment. Not one picture of her or her family. Sure, there’s artwork on the wall, but there are no personal touches to her apartment at all, and I’m starting to think I get why she stared so hard at the picture of me and my mom. She has no idea what family is like.

  “Anyway,” she grabs the remote, turns the TV on, and goes straight to Netflix, “what kind of screwed up movies do you like?”

  “Slasher shit.”

  “Slasher shit?” She glances at me with a look of complete disdain. “Original… a rocker who likes slasher ‘shit’.”

  I fall onto the couch next to her and run my hand over the back of my head. There’s this awkward tension coiling around me, and she scoots away from me.

  “The Human Centipede it is,” she says.

  “The what?”

  She selects the movie from the browser and glances at me with a sick, sadistic smirk. “Just watch. We’ll see how much of a man you really are.”

  _________

  When the credits roll, I’m left with my mouth hanging open. Phoenix laughs before shoving me. “What’s wrong?” she asks. “If that’s not slasher shit…”

  “That,” I point at the TV, “that is the most deranged, twisted shit I have ever seen.”

  “It gets less deranged the more you watch it.” She smiles.

  “And why in the hell have you watched it more than once?”

  She shrugs. “I think it’s genius, I mean… come on, if your gonna torture someone there can be nothing worse than sewing someone’s mouth to another person’s anus.”

  “You’re not fucking right.”

  She grins and pushes up from the couch, stretching just enough to reveal a small tattoo of a Raven on her hip. “Alright, come on.”

  I look at her.

  “Get up and come on,” she says, snapping her fingers.

  “Did you just snap at me?”

  She snaps again and cocks a brow. “Yeah, I did. Let’s go. I want to get out of my house.”

  Shrugging, I stand. She grabs her purse and keys and heads to the door. “Where are we going?”

  “Someplace quiet.” She smiles and opens the door, stepping out into the hallway.

  I follow her to the elevator. We stand on opposite sides, that weird silence stretching between us. This shit right here– normal human interaction that doesn’t involve sex– I suck at it. The doors ping open and I follow her out to the parking lot.

  “I’ll drive,” I say.

  She stops and glances over her shoulder at me. “Are you high?”

  “No,” I scoff.

  “You swear?”

  “Oh my god, I’m not Jag. I don’t stay high all the damn time.”

  She glares at me, and I cross my hand over my chest. “Swear to god, I’m completely sober.”

  “Fine.”

  I walk in front of her and lead her to my car, opening the door for her. She gives me the eye as she slips inside and I close the door. When I climb behind the steering wheel she shakes her head. “What?” I ask.

  “You’re just so…normal,” she says.

  I smile because that is a fucking compliment. “Thanks, you’re pretty normal, too.”

  She fastens her seatbelt and I crank the engine. “So, where are we going?”

  “Just take a left out of here and get on the freeway. I’ll tell you when to get off.”

  I glance over at her, smirking. “Yes, for the love of god, please tell me when to get off.”

  “Oh shut up, you perv.”

  Laughing, I put the car in drive and cut my eyes over at her. “You know, I should probably be a little more cautious about where you’re taking me seeing as how that centipede shit is what you like to watch in your free time.”

  She swats at me. “Shut up and just drive.”

  _________

  Forty minutes later and we’re way outside of LA. Not going to lie. I’m starting to get concerned. That centipede shit was not right.

  “Turn here,” Phoenix says, pointing out the passenger window.

  “Here?”

  “Yes, here,” she sighs. “Jesus. Men.”

  I turn down the tiny road with large trees overshadowing the path. The pavement’s beat to fuck and back. My car rattles along and I just hope it’s not throwing the alignment off. “Okay,” I say, “where the fuck are we?” I lean down and peer out the windshield. The sun’s nearly fallen behind the hills of the Sierra Nevada.

  “A place you can hear yourself think.”

  “Uh-huh,” I glare warily at her, but she’s all fucking grins. “A place where you can sew my mouth to someone’s asshole flap?”

  “Asshole…flap? Wow.”

  “Well…”

  “Just wait…”

  I keep following the road for another half mile. “Stop!” she shouts. “Right here.”

  I slam on the brakes and look around, but there’s nothing but woods. “Um…”

  Phoenix is already throwing the door open and climbing out. “Just park it,” she says.

  I pull to the side and park my car under a tree, then get out. The horn beeps when I lock the door. “And again,” I say, “where the fuck are we?”

  “You scared?”

  “I’m just wondering what the actual fuck we are doing in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Going on an adventure.” She grins and starts into the tree line.

  I follow her, swatting low hanging limbs out of my way.

  “Shit like this,” she huffs, pushing a branch out of her path, “you just have to do normal shit.”

  “Normal shit,” I mumble.

  “Yeah, normal people shit.”

  “I do normal people shit all the time.”

  She turns around and smirks. “Really?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Like hang out in your massive, ocean-front mansion with all your platinum records lining the hallway? Lounge out on your private beach? Go to the VMAs…stand on stage and put on a concert? Walk down the street and have people ask you for your autograph–”

  “Okay, okay. I get it.”

  “You can’t do normal people shit even if you try because of, well,” she shrugs when she stops in front of a small gate overgrown by vines, “people.”

  “God, that makes so much sense.” I roll my eyes, and she shoves me.

  “So, take the people out of the equation.”

  “By sewing their mouths to assholes?” I laugh.

  “I never should have shown you that.” She pulls a few of the tangled vines off the latch and pushes the gate open, the hinges groaning in protest. I follow her inside and glance around through the dusk of sunset, shaking my head as my gaze drifts over rows and rows of moss-covered tombstones. “And, now I know you’re fucking crazy.”

  “What?” she walks in front of me, trailing her fingers over one of the crooked markers.

  “A graveyard?”

  “Doesn’t get much quieter than this, now does it?”

  “Or much more fucked up…” I say.

  She smiles and fuck, she’s so pretty when she does that. I think maybe it’s because she saves those for genuine moments… in graveyards. What the fuck?

  “Don’t tell me you never did this? Didn’t you grow up in Savannah? They have all those haunted cemeteries and stuff.”

  “Yeah, I grew up in Savannah.” I narrow my eyes at her. “Fucking stalker.”

  “It’s public knowledge, fuckface. Not hard to Google.”

  “So, you’ve Googled me?” I step in front of her and smirk. “I see.”

  She shakes her head, shoves me out of her way, and goes to a headstone. “I thought most kids did shit like this. Go to cemeteries and drink beer or something?”

  “Nope. Never did. I was usually busy riding my bike or setting fire to bags of dog shit, not hanging out with the dead.”

>   “Boring.”

  I step up behind her and the wind kicks up, howling through the trees. The soft vanilla scent of her perfume catches on the wind and I find myself inching closer to her, wanting to touch her, but I stop myself.

  “Judith M. Myers,” she says, reading over the headstone. “Beloved wife, mother, daughter… Hmmm. I always wonder about them, you know?”

  “I must say,” I laugh. “This is a way to make a lasting impression on someone. Take them to a graveyard and refer to the dead people as ‘them’.” I shudder. “Sounds so sinister and serial killer like.”

  “Seriously, think about it. Who were they? What did they look like? Can you imagine the stories that went to the grave with all these people?” She turns around with this whimsical look on her face before she starts down one of the rows. “I’ll show you my favorite.”

  “Your favorite?” I ask, following slowly behind her. I’m so getting my mouth sewn to an asshole…

  “Yeah,” she says, “where is she?”

  Dear fuck. This girl is legit off her rocker and for some reason, I find it endearing. She’s…one of a kind. That’s for sure. “She?” I ask. “I take it you come here often?”

  “I haven’t been here in a year, but I used to. This is my favorite cemetery. It’s the oldest one here, you know?”

  “That a fact?”

  “Yep.”

  “So you study cemeteries or some shit?”

  “Nope. I just Google them.”

  “You and Google… and then you just come here, alone?”

  “Until today.” She looks up and smiles. “Thought you might appreciate it. Deep tortured soul and all– Here she is!” She kneels down and pulls weeds away from a headstone before dusting dirt off the plaque. “Mary Elizabeth Davidson,” she reads. “For true love knows no boundaries.” She takes a breath. “She was only 26 when she died. Probably Typhoid Fever or something tragic like that. And I like this one, because there’s a picture, come look.” I take the few steps toward the marker and she grabs my hand, yanking me down next to her. She takes the little metal flap between her fingers and lifts it, revealing a sepia colored photo of a woman. No smile. Hair swept over to the side. Phoenix glances over at me. “For true love knows no boundaries, what do you think that means?”