by Lisa Swallow
“The day I kissed you was the day I came back to life. You breathed a new energy into me and as soon as I had one taste, I wanted more. All of you.” He kisses my cheeks and eyelids. “But I was terrified I’d fuck things up and you’d run away. So fucking scared what you’d do once you found out who I was.”
I put my finger to his lips. “Don’t rewind.”
“In my mind, I’m there,” he whispers, feather light touches on my inner thigh. “Can I show you what I wanted to do?”
My nipples harden at his words, the sandalwood Dylan scent and sensation of his stubbled cheek uniting with the memories of the kiss. His question is evidently a formality because he undoes the knot of the dress, letting the straps fall forward. Rubbing his lips together, he pulls the front of the dress down and frees my breasts. I open my mouth to protest, but when his tongue circles my pebbled nipple, I know there’s no point.
****
Dylan
Most of Christmas Day we spend in bed, which is a world away from what I imagined I’d be doing on Christmas Day if you’d asked me two weeks ago. This is the best non-Christmas Day I’ve had in my life. The house is warm and we lie covered by just a sheet beneath the slow turn of the fan. The peace is weird after the sensory overload of touring. Each minute I spend here, the further I retreat from the shit surrounding my life. As I lie here with Sky sleeping on my chest, I listen to her shallow breathing and focus on every sensation - her soft hair covering me, the feel of her cheek against my skin and her breaths warming my heart. I fucking love this woman and I’m scared I’m not good enough for her. I bury my nose into her hair; hold her fiercely to me and soon my breathing matches hers.
Somehow, Sky has extricated herself from me and has disappeared when I wake up. I stretch and bury my face into the pillow, loving the taste of her still on my mouth and scent on my skin. She really needs to come back to bed… I pull on my blue board shorts and wander out to find Sky. She’s curled up on a wicker chair with a book and glass of orange juice, dressed in denim cut-offs and a white bikini top that shows the perfect amount of her gorgeous tits.
“Why’d you get out of bed?” I ask, approaching and sitting next to her.
She leans and kisses the muscle of my arm. “You were sleeping and I knew if I was still in bed when you woke up that I wouldn’t be getting out.”
“Hmm. True that.” I move in for a kiss and she pulls her head back. “What?”
“I have your Christmas present.”
“We’re not doing Christmas…”
“Then you don’t get to buy me a present ever again,” she says with her ‘don’t challenge me’ look.
“Okay….”
Sky puts down her book and disappears; I sit back and watch how gorgeous her ass is in those shorts, planning what we’re going to do next. She reappears with a small square package. I knew she’d bought something because I saw the gift in her rucksack when I swapped all her clothes over and had to fight the inner child who wanted to open the gaudy Christmas paper there and then.
“I know you like tacky things, so don’t expect this to be anything nice.” She hands the present to me.
I rip off the wrapping paper and find a small white box. Inside is a tiny, red dragon painted with incredible detail. I grin at her. “Welsh dragon for the Welsh boy?”
“Exactly. You can look at him when you’re trying to remember who Dylan Morgan is.”
“This is awesome; the best present since I got a skateboard on my tenth birthday!”
Sky shakes her head in amusement. “You must’ve got some pretty bad presents since.”
Tipping her chin toward me, I brush her lips with mine. “It’s very you, buying me this. Thank you.”
“Keep him safe,” she says and kisses me back.
“Can we go back to bed now?” I ask, curling my hand around the dragon.
“No! If we’re only staying here until tomorrow, I want to see the island!”
“Fine, but a tour will take around thirty minutes because it’s not exactly big.”
Sky snorts. “Your own private island? I doubt it matters how big; it’s still unbelievably pretentious.”
“Fuck, you’re funny. No way could I be pretentious anymore with you in my life.”
As promised, the trip around the circumference of the island takes hardly any time at all. I’m wary of striding into the middle of the trees, and we stick to the white sands. Despite her calling this pretentious, there’s a quiet, wide-eyed awe to Sky.
“What else lives here?” she asks.
“A crap load of spiders, and lizards and snakes who eat them,” I say as a yellow and black bird flies over as if ensuring a mention too.
I wade into the water, and turn to Sky, who hesitates on the beach.
“Are you coming for a swim?” She wrinkles her nose at me. “No way can you say this sea is too cold. Let me show you something…”
She sloshes in and takes my hand. I continue into the low water then pause, winding an arm around her waist. As I’m shirtless and Sky only wears a bikini top, the electrical sensation of our naked skin together distracts me but I have to show her this. A bright blue fish swims close to our feet, joined by several others as they dart away from the movement of the water. As the fish swims by, a small shoal of yellow fish follow, reminding me of our restaurant date.
“I’m dreaming,” she says. “I should be in my tiny flat, watching crap TV and getting drunk.”
“If I had my way, you’d never go back to that flat. I know you don’t want to after…”
“And you do realise the more you show me the rock star life, the more tempting it is to run away with you? In fact, just leave me here; I’ll be good to live here for a few months…”
“Maybe we both should,” I say, wishing that was possible.
“Perhaps start somewhere a little lower key. Like sometimes I stay at your place, sometimes you stay at mine.”
“I’m touring soon, remember? This will never be ordinary, Sky.”
“Of course. Because you’re not ordinary,” she mutters.
Oh no, don’t get pulled out of the bubble. “And you…” I hoist her over my shoulder. “Are extraordinary.”
“And I’m dressed!”
I sink backwards into the water and she grips my neck, trying to keep her head above water. I grip her waist in case she goes under.
“What is it with you wanting to get me wet all the time?” she asks, sitting on the sand in the shallow water.
The word wet isn’t one she should use when I’m fighting down the urge to drag her back to bed. Or to the beach. Or anywhere, I guess since there’s no one around. “Be careful what you’re saying.”
The Sky pink creeps onto her face, of course. The water is waist deep where we sit, and she wraps her legs around mine. I pull her onto my knee, dragging my damp fingers through her hair as I pull my face closer.
“I love you,” I say, willing her to say the words I need to hear
Sky runs her hands across my shoulders, fingers playing around the nape of my neck as she kisses me. “I love you, Dylan. I’m scared what will happen but I can’t imagine not being with you. This can work, right?” she asks, blue eyes searching mine.
This is what I needed to hear, the words that allow me to forgive myself and know I’m worth more than the man I thought I was. “Us? I’ll do everything I can not to fuck this up again.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself, Dylan. Life doesn’t suddenly become what you want just because you decide things should be that way.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Sky puts her warm, wet hands on my cheeks and kisses me slowly and softly; I part my lips eagerly waiting for a deeper kiss, but she rests her head on mine instead. “You are an amazing, giving person with a lot of baggage. We can work on dumping that baggage because we don’t need that kind where we’re going.”
“Where’s that?”
“Well, apparently the States and then after that… we’ll see?”
Life is taking a new direction, Sky steering me towards a new path, one we can follow together. There’s an us when I never thought there would be again. I squeeze Sky to me, wishing I could absorb her into me so we’d never have to be apart.
PART TWO
Chapter Twenty
January 30th (Miami, FL)
Sky
Blue Phoenix’s stage show surprises me. Once I get over the shock of the size of the venues and the sheer number of bodies packed between the walls, I wait for the inevitable theatrical displays to match the stage shows I’ve seen on TV by other big name stars.
This doesn’t happen.
A huge screen behind the band projects images of the guys to the thousands of people who can’t see. Tonight, they’re playing to a capacity crowd of around 17,000.
When they started the set, I hid at the side of the stage and peeked out at the audience. The darkness prevented me seeing much, but the moment the light show strobed across the crowds, I felt sick for Dylan. Thousands of people with an expectation, girls at the front screaming the band members’ names. The intensity of the sight and sound screws my senses and I back away.
I head through the concrete hallways, a maze of doors and rooms until I reach one of the VIP boxes where Steve entertains the local media. They don’t notice me slip in and I hover at the back, heart pounding.
The volume hurts my ears even back here. Blue Phoenix’s music isn’t my taste, but I can hear the skill and see the connection between them. They morph together as one, each playing their part. As the set progresses, and Dylan heats up, he loses his shirt to screams of appreciation from the crowd. I don’t know whether to be put out by this rock star display or to cringe at his behaviour. Dylan tells me he switches off and goes through the motions of who he’s expected to be, but the passion and power of his voice isn’t a facade. The music is an integral part of who he is and the real reason Dylan won’t walk away.
I catch sight of Honey sipping champagne and chatting to a friend. They’ve placed themselves toward the rear of the VIP box and don’t pay a lot of attention to the band. She’s seen them perform before, hundreds of times, but as this is my first Blue Phoenix gig, the atmosphere grips my attention.
Honey rarely speaks, regarding me with a mixture of amusement and disdain whenever we cross paths. I was surprised to find her with the entourage when the band re-grouped after the hell of Christmas. Liam watched me nervously the first few times he saw me with her, but I have nothing to say to Honey. I’m curious what the deal was with the girl in St Davids at Christmas. I must’ve misconstrued the situation, as nothing in his relationship with Honey is different, especially as Honey’s constant, loud conversations about wedding plans continue each day. Extravagance would be too small a word to describe what Bridezilla is planning.
I haven’t avoided scrutiny since arriving with Dylan a few days before the tour kicked off. The media intrusion is nowhere near as bad as the UK, but I’ve seen myself on entertainment shows and internet pictures. I avoid them now. At first I obsessed about every word printed, hurt by negative comments until I managed to disconnect. This is a feature of my life as long as I choose to stay with Dylan, and I have to learn to deal with the scrutiny in a healthy way.
My ears ring as the music stops and Blue Phoenix leaves the stage; demands for an encore fill the stadium. I imagine Dylan landing back in his real world, ready to end the night. He attempted to hide how he felt pre-show, but Dylan’s edginess snuck in replacing the relaxed guy from our island retreat. He refused to see any of the band before going onstage and I panicked, afraid he was going to get hold of his pills again to cope. He refuses to see a doctor, tells me he’s stopped. I believe him. I haven’t seen any around; however, I’m no expert, but I didn’t think you could just stop? Apparently, he took them intermittently but I can’t see how that would change anything? He gets tetchy if I mention this, so I back off.
Instead, Dylan switched his focus to me, talking about everything but the looming night ahead. Before he went on stage, he leant against the wall outside his dressing room with his eyes closed, the sound of the support band filling the silence between. He has a month of this before a break and a European tour.
If he or Jem lasts that long.
The chanting becomes a raucous cheer as Jem reappears, striding across stage and grabbing a bottle from the floor. Spotlight shines on him as he drinks heavily then tosses the empty bottle to someone offstage. He pulls the guitar strap back over his head, plays a couple of chords, and then pauses. The crowd screams in recognition. Jem’s grin is projected onto the screen behind, before the stadium fills with the sound of Jem’s guitar, the other members absent. In the quietened stadium, I find myself transfixed, an impossible beauty to the sound skilfully teased from the solo instrument. I’m engrossed and I don’t notice the loud bass join or Dylan’s voice cut in.
I want the light to move to Dylan, to see his face, but this is Jem’s song. I recognise the track from years ago, one of those viral songs that permeate the world for months; the kind you know, but can never put a title to.
The infectious adoration for these men fills me, a new attraction to the power Dylan has and an understanding why his life has been filled with women. No one here would know his vulnerability beneath, his disappearing act from the summer all but forgotten. I remember his gran’s words about younger Dylan’s frequent disappearances and wonder how many times Dylan pulled a stunt like the summer in the past.
My thoughts are interrupted by a new song, one heralded by a slower guitar. I glance at the screen and see Dylan playing, damp curls stuck to his face. He’s backed up Jem’s lead guitar a couple of times this evening, but this time he’s solo. The familiarity of the song hits as he begins singing, the soulful voice of the real Dylan Morgan hidden beneath the mask sings ‘Summer Sky’.
I blink back tears; my heart squeezed by his simple words. The recording he sent to me only had his guitar playing; this one has been expanded to include the entire band, his ballad rising in intensity as the song progresses. Honey glances around at me just as I scrub a tear from my eye with a sleeve and she laughs and whispers something to her friend.
Gritting my teeth, I leave the box.
****
Back in Dylan’s dressing room, I sit back on the sofa nibbling on my favourite chocolate, stomach swarming with butterflies at the experience of Dylan singing about me to a crowd of thousands. Some girls would’ve loved him shouting out a dedication and pointing out I’m here but the fact he didn’t says more. He understands the extent of my reluctance to join him in his spotlight.
I made one comment a week ago about how I miss my English staple and the Galaxy chocolate appeared amongst his pre-show requirements. I reprimanded him in a half-hearted way, and told him to stop at chocolate. Recently I’ve noticed other items appearing for me, as if he doesn’t think I’ll notice if they come as a trickle. Mind you, my shiny new laptop was a welcome gift, and Dylan laughed when I told him he was allowed if this was a late Christmas present.
Dylan appears in the doorway, shirtless and glistening with sweat. His dark blue jeans sit loosely on his hips, and although he’s slightly skinnier than the summer, his lean, muscled torso hasn’t lost any definition. He comes over and places a soft kiss on my lips, and I wrinkle my nose as the warm perspiration touches my face at the same time.
“You okay?” he asks, grabbing a blue towel from the table on the corner and rubbing his wet hair.
“Are you?”
He shrugs and sits next to me, leaning across to kiss me properly. His heat from coming off stage warms me as he pulls me close, gripping my hair as he shares the passion still coursing through him from his performance. His heart thumping against mine, the situation fires the burn that never extinguishes. If he held me down and completed his night by screwing me on the sofa like the rock star I lusted after on stage, he’d get no complaints. I run an arm up the biceps I love and dig my nails in.
“W
here did your shirt go, Dylan?” I tease.
He pulls an apologetic face. “Yeah, that. Um…”
“I bet there are girls fighting over it.” I poke him in case he thinks I’m pissed off about him stripping on stage.
“Hey, I get hot when I perform.” He pokes me back.
“I’m winding you up,” I say and kiss his nose.
Dylan locates a new t-shirt and pulls it on. “You hanging around tonight?”
“Hanging around where?”
“Here. Because it’s first night of the tour, I have to stay.”
I thought he hated this? “Oh.” Images of groupies and debauchery jump into my mind.
“Seriously, this’ll be the only night I do. If I snub the guys, I doubt they’ll support me in what I want.”
He’s right. I inhale. “I don’t want to go to a party.”
“I can take you back to the hotel first?” he offers.
Maybe if he took me back there, I could seduce him into staying with me. However, I know he needs to do this, play his part until he gets the strength to move on. “I can get someone to take me back, don’t worry.”
Attempting to hide my disappointment and aware our worlds collided and don’t co-exist, I run my nails across his stubbled cheek.
“Everything is better with you here,” he says quietly.
“I’m only here for half the tour,” I remind him.
He pouts. “Yeah.”
“I have to encourage you to let go somehow.”
“Yeah,” he repeats, “I don’t want to think about being without you. Knowing you were waiting for me, channelling the passion you fill me with, that’s what made our performance fucking awesome tonight.” He tips his head and looks at me. “You liked?”
“I liked seeing you.”
He gives a short laugh. “You didn’t like?”
“You know I don’t like your music, Dylan. I mean your genre. But you guys are talented.”
Dylan strokes his finger along my nose and grins. “Ah, Sky Davis and her brutal honesty. I know you’ll always put me in my place if I ever believe my own hype again.”
