Read Online Death of a Rock Star: A Boy in the Band Novella by NJ Frost - Free Book Online

seem to be lit from within. It’s like I’m looking at the sun through them. The pain and sadness there are tempered by a vacant look I know all too well. She’s taken something. Fuck!
    “Are you okay?” I finally manage to ask. My voice comes out all forced and nervous. What the fuck? Girls don’t make me nervous. Ever.
    She holds my gaze, a slight crease forming between her brows. She looks almost puzzled.
    “Did you take something?” I try.
    She closes her eyes, and it’s like the room goes a million shades darker.
    My heart is still hammering like crazy. I reach out and brush a stray hair from her face. My hand lingers there, over her. Up close her scent washes over me. It’s musky and dark and sends my mind off to dark places. Dark places where I can be with her.
    “Hey. Can you sit up?” I say, nudging and shaking her slightly.
    She lifts her head like it weighs a ton, and then she attempts to sit up. I help to lift her and lean her back against the stale upholstery of the booth seat. Her head is turned to me, and she’s squinting and blinking like she’s trying to clear her vision.
    “What did you take?” I ask again.
    She murmurs something that sounds like Xanax.
    “How much have you drunk?”
    Her eyes drift over to the empty glasses on the table. A pint glass and a shot glass. I pick up the shot glass and sniff it. Whisky. Cheap shit too.
    “How much Xanax?”
    “My bag.” She mumbles.
    Her bag is on the seat beside her. She glances down at it and then back at me. I reach down for it and she gives me a barely perceptible nod. I open it, and my heart almost stops. There amongst her girly shit is a folded up note, addressed to her in Jamie’s handwriting… on yellow legal paper. I know what that means. I try to ignore it, but to say my interest is piqued is an understatement. I look up at her, and she’s watching me through narrowed lids. I’m guessing it’s the effect of the Xanax though, not suspicion. She has no fucking clue who I am, or who I was to Jamie. Does she? I take out the sheet of pills. There’s two gone.
    “Is this all you’ve taken?”
    She nods. Thank fucking God! She should be fine. She’ll pass out and have one hell of a hangover tomorrow. She won’t remember a thing. Xanax on top of booze is a bitch like that. I wish I could wipe this fucking day from my memory, but right now I have to be the sensible one. I’m not the one in need of catching.
    I think Jamie maybe is pulling strings from somewhere beyond this mortal coil. He’s looking out for her and I’m his man on the ground, his wing man. I have to be a gentleman about this and put my anger with her to one side. I have to get her home.
    I grab her face and make her look me square in the eye.
    “I’m going to take you home. Can you tell me your address?”
    “Camden, Albert Street.” She slurs.
    “Number?”
    “Eight. Flat B”
    So ridiculously trusting! I think how glad I am that it’s me she’s trusting and not some fucking weirdo.
    “Right, let’s get you out of here. Can you walk?”
    She shakes her head. Marvellous, I’m going to have to fucking carry her. The thought of her in my arms thrills and terrifies me all at once.
    I call a cab. Now I have ten minutes to kill, waiting. Ten minutes of sitting here, watching her, thinking about how much I hate her, how much I want her. Ten minutes of exquisite torture.
    She lays her head back and lets her eyes fall shut. She starts to slump over a little, so I pull her into me and let her ballast herself against me. I find myself lost in her face. It’s one of the occupational hazards of being an artist. Portraiture was my specialism at St Martins, so the human face fascinates me. I love the challenge of seeing past the façade. There are little tells in every face. The worry line between Sylvie’s eyebrows is still there even though she’s passed out. Her façade is very polished, very perfect, but it is a construct. The heart stopping fissures in those