Dead Sexy: Second Endings 1 Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Lulu M Sylvian

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Editing: Full Bloom Editorial

  Cover: Laura Medeiros

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Need more Lulu

  About the Author

  For all the muses I've loved before…

  Now Hollywood Report: Peter Keith—best known for his teen role in the network sitcom series “Trouble Trouble”—was found dead in his home in Malibu this morning.

  Keith’s estranged wife discovered his body after she arrived at his home to go over divorce documents.

  Coroner’s Offices have not made any confirming reports, but Keith’s wife has stated that he was taking fentanyl to increase the pain killing effects of an Oxycodone prescription for severe back pain. If true, Keith is another celebrity lost to the opioid crisis plaguing this country. He was fifty-six.

  1

  I will never forget the details of meeting Peter Keith. The dream was sparkly and shiny. He was not. He wore tight, faded jeans and a dark shirt with the sleeves pushed up, and a black leather vest. His straight blond hair parted in the middle and slightly feathered from the front toward the longer, ubiquitous mullet of the early nineteen-nineties in the back. He was clearly not part of the dream. He didn’t fit in.

  He looked right at me with those big brown eyes. They were full of pain. After I woke up, Peter and those eyes stuck with me all day.

  I remembered meeting him so profoundly, I felt obliged to comment the following morning on my social media.

  Weird dream with Peter Keith last night, the post read.

  Okay, I admit, I feel obliged to comment about most things on social media. I’m not a total narcissist, I’m just a child of the times. While I don’t post pictures of every meal I eat, and I may not post daily selfies, the habit of the over-share has been a long time in the making.

  Someone commented, Wasn’t he the Trouble Trouble guy?

  I had such a crush on him. Didn’t you? I responded to this comment because I did have a little crush on him when I was about five. It didn’t last long and then I moved on and fell deeply in love with the color sparkly-purple. It had to be sparkly and purple, or it wasn’t true love. To this day, purple is my go-to color.

  So, I shared my dream vision with the internet. I’m kind of glad I did. It gives me a date that I can go back, and see and know, I met Peter Keith, TV hottie and teenybopper magazine favorite about six months after he died.

  When Peter died and all the news stories circulated, I probably commented something like, “Oh how sad,” or “RIP Peter.” I didn’t pay much attention beyond that. And then there he was, six months later, in the middle of my dreams, not fitting in.

  We were in a smoky bar in the mid-twentieth century. Another dream with Peter, he had been here, in my dreams, every night for at least two weeks. Again, Peter didn’t fit in, he never did. It was almost as if the lighting effects on him were not the same lights that illuminated the rest of the dream.

  This dream was film noir, black and white, men with big shouldered jackets and fedoras. Peter was in full Kodachrome color, jeans, and that leather vest. He wasn’t even obscured by the smoke that hung in the air. He pushed away from a wall he leaned against. I assumed he would walk away as he frequently did after observing everything.

  I let the actions of my dream continue, but I pulled myself out and stopped interacting with the dream. “So that’s it? You’re just going to watch, like this is some kind of a movie? And when the plot doesn’t suit you, you just leave? These are my dreams mister, not your cheap entertainment.”

  He stopped, turned around, and approached me. He looked deep into my eyes, taking my breath away, and then said, “I’ll see you later.” And then he walked off.

  Those were the very first words Peter Keith said to me. I guess that’s the moment my relationship, if it could be called a relationship, with Peter began.

  I like to think I had my shit together when I met Peter. I survived that gut wrenching year of being twenty-nine, and turning thirty. I had a fantastic place to live with a great roommate, and rent I could afford. I finally had a career-level job as an in-house medical illustrator for the big medical teaching university. And I had the most wonderful boyfriend, who I really was beginning to think was ‘the one.’ I loved where I lived. I loved my job. I was good. I was not looking for complications.

  Complication was spelled P-E-T-E-R-K-E-I-T-H.

  “What are you doing, Gilly?” My roommate Mike liked to ask easy, obvious questions. He dumped his groceries on the kitchen counter and came to stand behind the couch where I sat.

  “I’m watching a show.” I pointed to my laptop set up on the table in front of me. Behind that was the wall of black that was Mike’s ridiculously large television. Mike was a TV junky, and frankly, his set up with all the bells and whistles, intimidated me.

  “Why aren’t you watching it on the TV?”

  “I don’t want to break it,” I confessed.

  “C’mon Gil, take notes, I’ll set you up. What are you watching anyway?” Mike pushed buttons on remotes. He had a bucket of them, since there really was no such thing as a universal remote for all of those devices.

  “That old show Trouble Trouble.”

  “Ooh, with that cute little boy, what was his name?”

  “Johnny?”

  Mike paused, his hand placed over his heart as if it were going to flutter out of his chest. “Such a hottie. Love me some blond surfer boy. What episode are we on? Are we binge watching? Can we start from the beginning?”

  I loved how it went from just me watching, to we watching as Mike set the TV up, and got season one, episode one ready for action.

  I made popcorn. Mike made margaritas. We watched Peter for six glorious hours.

  Mike and I sat next to each other and squealed when Peter jumped down those last three stairs of the set’s living-room and waggled his eyebrows. We cringed at how they dressed him. Who thought baggy pants and baggy shirts in neon colors were attractive? Why did they do that to him? In season two they started dressing him in his signature look for the rest of the show, a little more bad-boy in Levi 501s and a leather vest. But the makeup people kind of negated any benefits of the new style by giving Peter a perm. He had a fuzzy blond mullet, it was painful to watch.

  Trouble Trouble had been the most popular TV sitcom in the late eighties, early nineties. Peter played Johnny, the insanely cute older brother of twin girls. The plot revolved around the girls and the shenanigans they would cause or get into as identical twins. Johnny was frequently the butt of their jokes, and occasionally their heroic older brother. He was a bit of a dork, otherwise with his good looks, he would have been too perfect.

  After that first mini-marathon, Mondays became Trouble Trouble
night. We had to limit ourselves to no more than six episodes at a time or we would never go to sleep, or work. That show ran for something like eight years and had two hundred plus episodes.

  I became obsessed with Peter. He was in my dreams almost every night and on screen when I was awake. He had been so good looking. He had a chiseled face, a high brow, broad high cheek bones, square jaw tapering to a strong rounded chin. His lips were pleasantly full without being feminine. He had a straight nose that turned up ever so slightly at the end.

  In my opinion, his best feature was his eyes. They were big and round and soft, a rich teddy bear brown rimmed with black lashes. I got all fuzzy when I thought about his eyes. He stood just at six feet tall, and had well defined muscles. He kept his silky-straight blond hair a little on the long side. A classic mullet, and then, when he got a little older, the front grew a bit longer, the feathers left as did the mullet. After that, he had kept his hair mostly generic medium long and on the shaggy side.

  I retro-actively developed a new crush on him. David, my dream-man, lover, boy-toy, laughed at me about it, and promptly ignored my silliness, as he should. After all, how was a crush on a dead guy going to do any harm to our rock solid relationship?

  Dreams with Peter were not the typical mini-movie style of normal dreams. They felt real. I couldn’t distinguish them from an actual memory. Had they actually happened? Where was the line between dream and reality?

  I sat cross legged on my bed. Peter sat next to me, he braced his feet against the floor, and gripped the edge of my mattress as if was all that kept him from leaping off into space. He was overwhelmingly sad, all slumped into himself. I didn’t know what to do for him. Pain rolled off him in tangible waves.

  I stroked his back and murmured comforting sounds. I don’t know how long we sat like that. I don’t remember how we got there, but it had been the same for several nights in a row now. Sometimes, I would be tucked up under blankets, sometimes, I would sit next to him. We would sit, and though I don’t remember actually talking, we talked. Peter told me all about his life, and I told him about mine. Tonight was different, he didn’t speak.

  I leaned against his back, and tried to rub the tension out of his arm. His grip was so hard I was afraid he would rip my bedding. He snatched his arm up and away from me like a cat. I let him, I didn’t want to hurt him.

  “I don’t know what to do for you, Peter.” Probably a stupid thing to say, but I didn’t know what to do. My heart broke for him.

  He shook his head. “It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.”

  I didn’t exactly know what he was talking about, and yet, I knew he meant having died. When he turned to me, his eyes were rimmed with dark pink. Full of pain and tears.

  I adjusted myself on the bed and reached up to guide him down to my lap. His legs stretched out, and hung over the end of my bed. His head rested on my thigh, his breath hot against my skin. With out of focus eyes, he stared into the void.

  I stroked his hair, and watched his face. Even in his sadness, he was beautiful, and large. I tried to soothe him until the texture of his shaggy hair made my fingertips go numb. Are men’s heads always so big? Why did I think the weirdest things at the most inopportune moments?

  I whispered, “I’d help you if I knew what you needed.”

  He rolled his face into my leg. I could feel his body quake.

  I curled over him and held him the best I could. He hurt, and somehow, he found me. I felt like there was a reason for this, and I wanted to help.

  I rolled over and woke with a snort. My dream of holding Peter was replaced with the reality of my bedroom in the middle of the night and David’s naked shoulder in front of me. I reached up to pet his skin. How different these two men were—one so very real, and one in so much pain.

  I closed my eyes to go back to sleep. I had to remember to ask my friend Trina what she thought about tonight’s dream with Peter. She would tell me to stop analyzing everything so much and find out what the man wanted. Clearly, he wanted something. I rolled over, safe in the confidence that my best friend would not judge me for thinking I had a pet ghost of some dead actor.

  2

  I swiped at my eyes, and quietly cussed the allergy gods about how badly they watered. I placed the metal erasing template down on my paper, and gently ran the white hi-polymer eraser over the errant pencil marks. I blinked. Maybe this wasn’t allergies, maybe I had eraser crumbs in my eyes.

  I left my drawing table in my super-sized double cube—perks of being the only departmental illustrator—and went to the restroom. Once out in the hallway, my waterfall leakage calmed down. Not one to waste a trip, I made use of the destination. When I finished, I washed up and decided to wash my face. Allergens and stray eraser bits could whirl away down the sink.

  I felt better until I slid back onto my stool, and damn if my eyes didn’t start leaking again. I needed a distraction to keep me from thinking about my watery eyes. This illustration was not claiming all of my attention.

  “Okay line, you need to be a happy little representation of a virus.” I found that talking to the illustrations did actually make them behave. Sometimes, I would even narrate the drawing process like I was on a TV painting show.

  My mother used to paint.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  Yeah. I would sit and watch her.

  “You didn’t want to paint?”

  I wasn’t old enough, I don’t think. I would play with my Matchbox cars and she would stand in the light and paint flower vases set up on our kitchen table.

  I pictured Peter sitting behind me. In my head, he wore a pink striped polo and played with pens while we carried on a perfectly mundane conversation. This was exactly the kind of side distraction my brain needed so than my fingers could turn pencil lead into viral receptors.

  I didn’t pay much attention to him being there, because I honestly thought nothing of it. A nice little pretend conversation with my imaginary friend—that wasn’t exactly not normal for me. Why wouldn’t my recurring dreams turn into a day dream? He hung out and we chatted for most of the afternoon.

  He showed up again the next day. Same place, in my cubicle while I worked. This time, my eyes only watered a bit. Really, no more than if I had yawned really hard, not the down pour of the day before.

  I was very much focused on the particular anatomy of a specific viral receptor structure in cellular walls. I needed to get this right, the article I read had all of my attention. So, when he spoke, I dropped the medical journal I held and looked for him. I could have sworn he was there. Of course, I couldn’t see anything. I tried to go back to my research when I heard him chuckle.

  “All right,” I said out loud as I turned and got up from my desk. “Who’s that?” I looked out of my cube to see if anyone walked past, figuring that must have been what I heard. I popped my head over the wall to peak at my cubicle neighbor, but she wore headphones and focused on her computer pretty intently.

  Now, the day before my mind had really been wandering all over the place, and I had probably already been talking to myself. So, I would have assumed that’s all my Peter conversation had really been, voices in my head entertaining me.

  I’m right here, Gillian.

  I heard him as clearly as if he stood right next to me. But there was no one there. I turned around slowly, and as my gaze passed where he sat and he went just out of my range of vision, my brain picked him up. I spun back around, expecting to see him there. Well, not Peter specifically, but someone.

  You didn’t mind yesterday, what’s up today?

  “Yesterday, I was talking to myself,” I hissed. “This isn’t real.”

  Close your eyes, and see.

  “That makes no sense,” I whispered. I was very aware that I was talking to myself all of a sudden, and very self-conscious about it.

  Use your brain, not your eyes, he explained.

  I closed my eyes and turned back toward where I thought he sat. There he was, sitting in the chair at
the drawing table. I opened my eyes, there was no one there. I fumbled to find my desk chair. I was going to fall down. I wanted to land in the chair and not on my ass on the floor. I stared into the empty space. “How?”

  Same as yesterday, he said with a shrug.

  “But, you’re real.”

  I was real yesterday.

  “No, yesterday was my imagination. This is just my imagination. Maybe I need to eat something.”

  Gil, this is the same as yesterday. Sorry, not your imagination. His spoke in calm, soothing tones.

  “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” I covered my face with my hands. This was too much. I manifested my day dreams. I took a deep cleansing breath.

  “Ok, so you’re here. You’re actually here?” I asked. I started whispering, very much aware that I was going nuts.

  Yeah, I’m here. Even though the conversation took place in my head, it really did sound like he occupied the same space with me.

  Why are you here, Peter? The dreams, that’s actually you and not just me dreaming is it? I asked in my head.

  Nope, that’s me too. Since I’ve been able to get into your dreams, I decided to try this and it worked, he explained.

  Okay, so, wow. I don’t know what to say. I really was stymied. The previous day, I chatted on and on, but this time, I was at a complete loss.

  Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing? Yesterday it was obvious you were drawing, and you described everything as you went. Today, you’re reading magazines.

  I couldn’t believe he actually took interest in what I was doing. I think it was a ploy to get me to calm down and keep talking.