by Lisa Swallow
“Are you threatening me?” Her low tone is the threatening one, the voice of someone who thinks they hold all the cards.
“No! I just don’t believe you and I can’t understand why you’re doing this.”
“Because he deserves it,” she repeats. “He doesn’t deserve to be happy.”
Silence fills the gulf between us. Myf said Lily’s actions were revenge, but why after all this time? That’s crazy. Myf. Should I call her?
“I hope you like press attention,” I snap at Lily.
“They don’t know who I am yet.”
She hasn’t thought this through at all. “You went to a top selling gossip magazine with the story a member of Blue Phoenix assaulted you? They’ll find you. Quickly. Someone will leak who you are; I suggest you prepare yourself because press attention is bloody hard.”
“The police will help me.”
If we were in the same room, I’d slap her. Not because I’m fucking angry with her, but because she needs the reality of her actions made clear. “What exactly is your evidence?”
“He wrote me a letter, apologising,” she says coldly.
The chill of her voice triggers my first doubt in months. “What letter? What does it say?”
“Do you want to see a copy?”
“No, I don’t want to see you.”
“I’ll scan and email. I’m taking the letter to the police anyway.”
Another silence and the tears press at my eyes. “Lily, why are you doing this to him?”
“Because he abused me.” This time, her voice remains steady, unlike the shaky voiced, teary girl in the cafe who told me Dylan raped her.
“Lily, Dylan told me what happened. And Jem. He treated you badly, but that was years ago. Don’t ruin his life.”
“He ruined mine,” she shoots back.
I realise this conversation is and always will be on endless repeat. This woman is determined to follow whatever her agenda is, holding onto the past and pulling it into my future. Irritation rising, and knowing how my sharp tongue can cause problems, I calm myself.
“I’m sorry I contacted you, I can see there’s no point. I won’t get in touch again.”
I end the call and wait for the new media onslaught.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
February 28th (New York City, NY)
Dylan
Steve hovers by the window of the hotel boardroom, staring out at the Manhattan skyline. I’m half-asleep, hauled in here before I had a chance to eat. I’m feeling like shit today anyway; toward the end of a tour I always get sick which pisses me off because it’s a huge fucking problem when you’re the singer and your throat is stuffed. A wide-eyed PA intern, a girl who looks way too young to be with us, tells me something has happened and I need to see Steve immediately. Panicked that this could be Sky related, I go straight to him.
“What’s going on?” I ask the moment I walk into the room.
He turns. Steve usually looks tired this far into a tour, but today he looks worse. He runs a hand across his greying hair. “Shit’s about to hit the fan, Dylan.”
“What’s happened?” I repeat, mind running through scenarios. “Has something happened to Sky? Or Jem?”
He huffs. “No. Remember Lily Parker?” Oh, fuck. “Yeah, well she’s gone to the police about that little situation you guys had.”
Stunned into silence, I lower myself into one of the leather chairs around the mahogany table. The day started badly enough waking up without Sky and now this.
“Why would she do that?”
“Who knows, but she did.”
Sky. The media will be swarming over her. “I need to go back to the UK.”
Steve laughs a short bitter sound. “Sure, but just so you know you’ll be arrested the minute you step off the plane.”
Fucking hell. The reality washes over me as I struggle to cope with the news. My body flows with anger and fear and all I want now is to talk to Sky. “I don’t care! I need to sort this out!”
“Don’t be an idiot!”
“Steve, Sky needed me last week, and I stayed here. Now she really fucking needs me.” And I need her. “She’s on her own over there; wait until the press gets hold of this.”
“No, Dylan. Don’t do anything until I’ve spoken to people and gauged how plausible Lily’s story is and what’s going on.”
Dragging my fingers down my face, I retreat to three years ago in my mind. “The story isn’t fucking true! Why? After all this time? I thought you sorted this back then!”
“Maybe you should’ve been more careful about which girls you stuck your dick in!”
His words are a slap, reminding me of the person I was. I’d used the same phrase myself back then; my respect for women was zero. Not now.
“Fuck you!”
I stand, throwing back the chair. I’m not staying here for a lecture; I’m over taking that shit from Steve. I burst out of the door, back along the thick, carpeted corridor to my room. Luckily, the Blue Phoenix entourage has a whole floor at the top of the hotel because I think I’m going to be holed up for a while.
I slam my suite door behind me, and stand with my head against the smooth, painted wood attempting to ground myself. Why? Why can’t the past stay where it fucking belongs?
Grabbing my phone from the bedside table, I sink onto the bed and dial Sky’s number. Sky answers within two rings.
“Dylan…”
“Are you okay?” I ask gently. “Is the press causing problems?”
“No.” Her tiny voice reminds me of the lost Sky from Christmas. “I was going to call you. It’s Lily, she…”
“I know. Steve told me a few minutes ago.”
“I don’t understand. Why did she?”
“Do you believe her?” I ask, terrified of her answer.
“No.” There’s a pause as she clears her throat. “But she sent me a letter, Dylan.”
“A letter about what?”
“One you wrote to her at the time everything happened. She’s taking it to the police.”
Shit. I’d forgotten about the letter. I can’t remember everything I wrote but if she’s held onto it, there’s a reason. Not a good one.
“Can I read the letter to you Dylan?” her voice cracks.
“Okay.” I swallow against my tightening throat. This isn’t good. Can’t be good.
And as I listen to Sky, the words are worse than I fucking imagined.
“‘Lily. About what happened the other night, I’m sorry. I did something very wrong, sex with you was a mistake and I wish I had controlled myself. I know how much this has hurt you, and I never meant to. If I could turn back the clock, I would. I don’t know what else to say, apart from, please don’t do something stupid and drag us both into a bad situation. Dylan’”
The sound of Sky inhaling sharply travels down the line. “Why send that? This reads as if you’re admitting everything, the part about not controlling yourself, Dylan!”
“I didn’t mean I forced her, I meant I should have had the control not to have sex with her. Why is she doing this?”
“Do you realise how incriminating this letter sounds?”
This isn’t happening. Can’t be fucking happening. I fiddle with the switch on the lamp by the bed, clicking it on and off. “Yes. Shit. I’ll sort this.” How? I don’t fucking know.
And I’m selfish. Again. “How’s Tara?”
“No change. Now going to see her will be difficult, won’t it? There’s already press outside the door.”
“Shit, I’m sorry, Sky. Want me to get someone to come and get you; you can go back to my house? Or the London place?”
“No. I need to be in Bristol for Tara.”
I’ve fucked this up, the past screwing over my present. Firstly, I couldn’t support her by going back to England with her, now she’s trying to cope with the stress of her best friend in hospital with my past adding more problems for her. Just as Sky begins to accept she could be part of my crazy life, the crazy
gets a thousand times worse. “What can I do to help? I have to be able to do something.”
“Sometimes I think the amount of crap that’s happened in my life recently is punishment for having such a tame, uneventful life.”
“Or for dating a dickhead rock star?”
“All the crap started before you.” She pauses then says in a quiet voice, “I wish you were here, I need to see you. We need to be together to get through this.”
“I can’t come back, Sky,” I say hoarsely.
“What? Why? Did Steve…?”
“I’ll get arrested if I do. There’s a warrant out now plus a shitload of gleeful paparazzi. The courts are trying to get me extradited from here. Such a fucking mess.”
The line goes silent, and knowing she’s crying partly because of what I’ve done, punches me in the chest. What if this is the final straw for her? I know she believes I didn’t commit a crime, but the situation again shows how life with me is totally screwed.
“Dylan.” Her voice is thick with tears and I control the desire to pick up the lamp and throw it against the fucking wall.
Instead, I inhale and close my eyes. “I’ll wait; see what Steve says later today but we have to sort this out.” I pause, willing her tears to stop. “The most important thing to me right now is that you still believe me.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.” The speed she replies and the softness of her tone reassures me.
“Are you okay right now? Do you need anything?” I ask, uselessly.
“I’m going to see Tara now.” There’s a distance to her voice and I hope this is shock and not her shutting down. Please don’t shut me out.
“I’ll call later? I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“For being a useless, fucking boyfriend.”
She laughs quietly. “Boyfriend. You’re funny. You’re so much more than that, Dylan.”
Relief pushes away some of the anxiety she’ll leave me. “I love you, Sky. You’re my world.”
Sky replies with the words I need to hear. “I love you; why can’t that be enough for the world to back off? I wish things could be easier.”
“We’ll get through, and then the world can fuck off.”
“You sound like my Broadbeach Dylan.”
“Yeah, if only.”
After I speak to Sky, I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. The world retreats further toward the alien. On tour, the unrecognisable hotel environment repeats every day until it morphs into one weird dream I float around in. Now empty of Sky, this world is starker.
My already aching head thumps as I attempt to digest the news. Someone brought in breakfast while I was with Steve, left the food covered on a tray by the window, and the sight of the bacon and eggs turns my stomach. I’m numb, body half-functioning because of the flu and mind splintered further by the start to the day. I’ll switch on the auto-Dylan later and perform my role. Then I’ll come back here and lose myself in a haze until the world can be kinder.
I throw some painkillers down my neck and crawl back into bed, pulling the sheets over my head to obliterate the outside world. Until then, I’m staying here.
What the fuck do I do next?
****
Evening. Gig. Jem avoids me. He’s in a drunken haze; I’m dosed up on benzos and the strongest cold medicine I can find. My head fucking hurts; the painkillers in the meds had better be strong. Tonight’s the second of two gigs in New York. When I arrive at Madison Square Garden, I burrow in and avoid the Green Room. Last night, the excited support band drowned the room with enthusiasm and questions for us. That environment isn’t for me right now.
I sit in my dressing room staring in the mirror trying to focus. A picture of Sky and me is tucked into one corner, a silly picture of us pulling faces taken one drunken night. I stuck the picture there last night before I went on stage. My heart squeezes as I remember the girl who’s holding onto my mind as I lose it. I’m wary of what will happen when we go on stage; even the pills aren’t combatting the rising panic. I fluctuate between numb and scared. The crowd of media outside the venue meant we had to skirt around back to creep in through service doors to the venue. Will the fans bay for the blood of the rapist Dylan Morgan in the same way? I pull the picture from the mirror and touch her face, planning how to get back to Sky or how to get through the evening.
I refuse to leave the room pre-gig, not sure, how I’ll react to anyone broaching the subject. Will I break down? Punch the hell out of someone?
To make things ten times fucking worse, Sky calls just before I go on stage, needing me because Tara is going downhill. Listening to the fear and despair in her voice steels me. I’m going back for her; I don’t give a fuck if they arrest me. When the call ends, I go straight to the fridge and pull out a beer.
Liam attempts to talk to me, as did Bryn as we waited to go on stage, but I’m closed down.
Jem steers clear.
If I expected a negative reaction from the fans, I was wrong. The girls at the front are as numerous as ever, screaming and flashing their tits. Surely, the crowd knows by now. The media have screamed the news about my crime across the TV and internet. The fans’ behaviour makes it easier to switch off, to pull on the disguise of Dylan Morgan, the Rock Star, and blank my mind of everything but the facade.
I stumble offstage, dazed by the lights more than usual. Did anyone notice? Am I that well-oiled that I can perform for almost two hours and not be present in the room?
I fool everyone apart from the rest of the band. Bryn catches me as we leave after the encore, gripping my arm so I can’t walk away. His calm persona radiates as much as the heat from his body after the performance, the concern in his eyes clear.
“Steve told me. Fucking hell, man. What are you going to do?”
I gaze back, the drugs and alcohol blurring reality. “I’m going back to England. I’m done.”
“This isn’t the answer,” he says then purses his lips, studying me as I steady myself against the wall. “What are you taking? Same as Jem?”
“No. I’m fine, just drinking. Coping.”
Bryn puts a supportive arm around my shoulders. “I spoke to Steve. He’s postponing the rest of the tour for a couple of months while we sort this out.”
“How? This is a bit beyond paying Lily off?”
“He’ll fix the situation, he always does.”
I shrug his arm off. “Do you believe that, Bryn?”
We walk down the wide hallway toward the Green Room, and he passes me one of the bottles of water he’s carrying. “But you’re right. We need a break. Jem needs out; you need… something to get you on track.”
“I need Sky. And some breathing space. You know that.” Unscrewing the cap, I drink deeply but I know I’ll replace this with beer as soon as I get my hands on a bottle.
“I need time too. A bit of ordinary.”
Thank fuck for that, finally someone on my side. “Then we tell him to postpone the tour for longer. Take back some control.”
Bryn side-glances me as he pushes open the heavy door to the room. “Thing is, you need his help right now. I wouldn’t rock the boat until this is sorted out.”
Just Jem is back here, Liam’s missing, presumably with Honey. He’s lying flat on the sofa with a beer bottle balanced on his chest. I’m surprised he’s not combing through the girls hanging around the stage door, searching for tonight’s companion. The fact he’s done this less over the last couple of weeks concerns me. Jem off sex? Things must be really, fucking bad.
Our gaze locks and behind his dull eyes, concern flickers before he shifts his look to Bryn. Bryn mutters under his breath, “He might do it for you, end the tour for a while.”
“What you saying?” demands Jem.
“Nothing, man. You know I’ve given up talking to you about how to sort your shit out.”
Jem stands and approaches. I will him to stand back, itching to grab him by his damp shirt and scream into his face,
‘this is your fault’.
“Nothing changes. Life goes on,” says Jem and glances at me, then back at the floor.
“Not going to say anything?” I ask icily.
“About?”
“Oh, you know. The arrest warrant over a fictional rape, all because you fucking dragged this up in the summer.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Acknowledge this is your fault.”
He scoffs. “Um. No. Wasn’t me fucked her and broke her heart, then paraded around a girl that could be her.”
“Guys, don’t do this,” says Bryn, as I shoot a hand out to grab Jem. “I’m not sitting through another episode of the Dylan and Jem Show.”
Jem giggles and my hackles rise. Is this really a joke to him? “Have a drink, Dylan. Reckon you need one.”
He crosses to the fridge, retrieves a bottle of beer then throws it across the room. I catch it. “Bryn?” he asks.
Bryn shakes his head. “You know what? You guys - talk.”
I remain in the doorway as Bryn turns away and slams the door behind. Cracking the beer, I swig and debate whether to stay in the room with Jem or leave.
“Sorry, man,” mutters Jem, as the door closes behind Bryn.
I stop my mouth falling open. “You’re apologising?”
“I might not like you much at the moment, but you don’t fucking deserve to get locked up. This is fucked up.”
“You triggered all this by talking to her.”
Jem sinks back onto the sofa. “I tried to call Lily today,” he says quietly, “but she won’t talk.”
“Don’t tell Steve you did that! Fuck, Jem. We need to keep the hell away, not make things worse.”
“Yeah, didn’t think.”
I bite back the desire to tell him his lack of thinking is the exact problem here.
“This is all fucked,” I tell him. “Everything that’s happened the last few months.”
“Yeah, when someone dies that’s pretty obvious.”
Jem hasn’t spoken about Liv since we arrived in the States. As soon as he turned back to the arms of the alcohol and drugs, he pushed us away. Suddenly, there’s a crack in his armour again; one I want to poke through. Jem catches my thoughts and stands.
