Plastic Jesus by Poppy Z. Brite Read Free Book Online

much more than Seth ever had, and Seth knew it. “I don't want to sit on my ass and count the money we've made. I want to keep making music."
    â€œWe will make music—with or without Dennis and Mark. People can decide for themselves whether it's as good as before."
    They'll say it isn't , Peyton thought. Even if it's the best music we've ever made, you know they'll say it isn't. He wondered if he was right or just afraid.

    * * * *

    Harold's funeral was private, but of course the press got in. When you were big enough, the press always got in. Seth knew that was one thing he wouldn't miss about fame if it left him.
    At the graveside, he reached over and took Peyton's hand. Flashbulbs went off in the distance. Seth wondered how much even the London paparazzi could make of two friends holding hands at a third friend's funeral.
    Well , he promised himself, if they try to make anything of it, I'll give them more than they bargained for .

    * * * *

    But nothing came of those photos. So Peyton worried, and Seth watched television. In this paleolithic era of technology, he had managed to purchase a device that would change the channels at the press of a button, so that he could sit cross-legged and naked in bed flipping through them for hours. From the cathode torrent he gleaned song lyrics and bits of obscure knowledge.
    Peyton always made sure there were plenty of good drugs around: acid, weed of stratospheric quality, occasional downers. Sometimes Seth thought Peyton was trying to keep him quiet by keeping him stoned. Sometimes he thought it was working. The drugs made him feel cozy and contented. The pain of Harold's death began to fade, and Seth wondered why he had ever wanted to throw away such a perfect life for the sake of a principle. He'd never considered his romantic relationships public business before; why should that change now? He was happy with Peyton. The loving was great, the music was great, and everyone was nice to them everywhere they went. If he told, how much of that would change?
    So when somebody offered him a line of heroin at a party, Seth snorted it with no hesitation. He liked it a lot, and soon managed to get some more. As long as he didn't inject it, he couldn't get a habit; he kept telling himself that like a mantra. Heroin was the final step in the warm-safe-Mummy equation he'd been trying to solve for years. Seth felt as if he would never need to worry about anything again.
    Peyton didn't approve of heroin, which didn't stop him from trying it once. They lay curled together on their bed, swathed in cashmere blankets, floating on the warm narcotic sea. “It is awfully nice,” Peyton admitted. “Too nice. No wonder you never get anything done anymore."
    â€œI've written two songs this month."
    â€œYou used to write ten a month."
    â€œFuck you, Peyt. Can't you just enjoy a thing?"
    â€œI can,” Peyton said. “For now, I can.” He propped himself on one elbow and began to kiss Seth deeply. For a few hours the problems went away.
    In this manner, two years passed. The Kydds released two new albums, each marking a major growth not just in their music but in the concept of rock music itself. Or so the critics said. The Kydds themselves never quite stopped feeling like four ne'er-do-wells from Leyborough, and in their weaker moments they supposed the world would see through them eventually, but in the meantime they intended to have fun. Mark and Dennis had their money, their girls. Seth had his happy home and his little low-grade habit. And Peyton, as he'd wished for long ago, had everything.

viii

    By 1969, Peyton didn't worry as much as he used to, but Seth still watched a great deal of TV. He watched commercials, cartoon shows, body counts from the war in Vietnam all with equal absorption. That summer he saw something that would change both their lives.
    Seth had become something of a recluse in these past two years. If the Kydds weren't in the studio, Seth was