Death of a Rock Star: A Boy in the Band Novella Read Free Page B

recognise that no one is invincible, that drugs can destroy anyone, at any time. It felt almost as though were speaking directly to me. Memories of the old days resurfaced – memories of getting high with Jamie, all the times I shared gear with him. Memories tinged with so much guilt and shame. But I wasn’t to blame for this. He’d kicked it all, kicked it so fucking completely, until her. No, it wasn’t me who fucked Jamie up, not this time.
    The girl – her name has just come to me – Sylvie, sits down on the edge of the pavement, pulls out a packet of cigarettes, taps one out and lights it. She’s staring at the road, scraping at it with those huge motherfucking boots, dragging away savagely, the cherry glowing like a warning light in front of her face. She blows purposeful plumes out. Fuck you, badass clouds of smoke – as though daring God to strike her down. I’m so tempted to go and sit down beside her, to crash a smoke. Fuck! I must be crazy. I want a drag on that cigarette she keeps punishing with those beautiful lips. I want to know what she tastes like.
    But as soon as I have that thought, some other fucker sits down beside her. A real tosser wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his face and a hoodie over that. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? He’s an idiot obviously. Probably a boy band prick. That cocky swagger is unmistakable even hidden beneath the streetwear camouflage. He clearly thinks he’s someone . Sylvie doesn’t look up at him until he reaches out and strokes her face. He smoothes his hand over her hair. She leans into him, and he puts his arm around her, kissing her temple. Something horrible unfurls in me as I watch them. There’s an intimacy between them that eats away at me. It’s like acid. I could puke.
    I have to remember that I should hate this girl – that she and her fucking around destroyed my best friend. I try to convince myself that that’s why this guy pawing all over her bothers me so much. That it’s disrespectful to Jamie. The truth of the matter is that it’s killing me that it’s not my arm around her, or me she’s falling into. I’m such a poor fucking excuse for a friend. I hate myself almost as much as I tell myself I hate her. She flicks away the butt of her cigarette, and I see her wipe at her cheeks. Something tightens uncomfortably inside me. The guy gets up and stands over her, holding out a hand. Don’t fucking take it, is all I can hear crashing round in my thoughts, please don’t. But she does. That tightness runs its whore-like hands up my chest and then locks its grip around my throat as he leads her away into the night. It feels like I’ve just taken my last breath.
    On the way home I call Viper. He’s pretty shocked to hear from me, but I can hear him mentally counting the cash already, rubbing his hands together. He’d happily bleed me and my trust fund dry. He’s going to bring me a little bit of everything I like, says he’ll do me mate’s rates. I know his game. He’s a sly bastard with morals to match. If he didn’t sell such good shit, and wasn’t so discreet, I really would go elsewhere.
    It’s funny; with a street name like Viper you’d think he’d be a tattooed, shaven headed hard nut. He’s actually a fellow ex-public schoolboy whose Daddy’s country pile is eating away at the family coffers. As the heir apparent he’s been forward thinking enough to build up a nice side-line in drugs and girls. He doesn’t look out of place on the streets of Chelsea that’s why he became my dealer in the first place. I could pass him off as an old school friend. He may be an aristocrat, but he’s no gentleman where money is concerned. In the hallway he leans up against one of the Freuds to count his money. Such a fucking philistine!
    “There’s only five hundred here.” He says, fixing me with his cold eyes.
    That’s a fucking fair price for 6gs of the good stuff, some K and a handful of Es and Benzos.
    “You said