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

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