“You ready, Dylan?” purrs Honey.
I turn and walk over to grab my leather jacket and Liam follows me in with his entourage.
“Who’s this with Honey? Strawberry Jam?” I ask.
Liam sniggers but Honey and friend appear genuinely confused.
“This is Tania, my friend. Liam said she could come along.”
“Did you?” I ask an obviously coerced Liam.
“Kind of.”
“Great, so groupies get personal invites now?”
Tania, who has gawked at me the whole time she’s been in the room, breaks her reverie. “I’m not a groupie. I just wanna go to the after party.”
Should I be insulted or relieved? “So, you’re someone else’s groupie?”
“She wants to meet some famous people,” replies Honey, flashing her bright teeth at her friend. They both giggle like six-year-olds. “She was going to go with Jem, but you know, he’s not great at the moment and I don’t want her around him.”
“She wants to tag along with us,” explains Liam
“How about Bryn?” I shoot back. “Can’t she ‘tag along’ with him?”
“He’s currently sobering up Jem…”
I run my fingers through my hair. “Fantastic, just what I fucking need.”
“If he can walk, we’ll be fine. We’re not playing tonight - just getting an award.”
Why the fuck didn’t I persuade Sky to come?
*****
I call and speak to Sky between the awards and being dragged into the VIP after party. She’d waited up to talk to me before bed and to give me a blow-by-blow account of what she thought of the performances at the awards. Hearing her smart comments is a breath of fresh air in the suffocating night. Escape is possible now I have Sky.
The dimly lit, red-carpeted room is filled with other musicians and their entourages. As usual, I bump into a stream of stars and we gush about each other’s work, enthusing how awesome to meet up with each other again. I don’t have a fucking clue when or where I last saw most of them, probably when I was high.
Danni-K, the latest darling of the music scene attracts hangers-on like flies. A drunken Jem turns his full attention to her, and her security team is wary. A black-suited guy twice as broad as me and a good few inches taller sticks to her side, throwing warning looks at an oblivious Jem. If there’s one thing Jem likes better than multiple groupies, it’s getting into the knickers of squeaky-clean stars. Singers, actresses, heiresses… He loves them all and his reputation helps, not hinders.
Having fulfilled my smiling and socialising duties, I slump on one of the black leather benches in a corner. Blue Phoenix get whatever the fuck they want, as organised by Steve, so the metal table holds several of my choice in beer. I grab an open bottle and drink deeply.
My head pounds, as the alcohol mixes with the medication in my system. Steve’s around somewhere - I need to arrange a car so I can get the fuck out of here. Fed up of a stream of girls attempting to engage their bodies with mine, I stare at my Converse and the plush carpet. Right now, I’d give anything to be snuggled on the sofa in Broadbeach with Sky.
Someone plonks onto the seat next to me. “Dylan, man, have you met the beautiful, fuckable Danni-K?” he asks, a little too loudly.
I glance up at the starlet; I don’t think she heard. Beautiful, yeah. Fuckable? He can work on that one; I’m not interested. Sleek black hair surrounds her heart-shaped face, her huge brown eyes heavily made up and the dark red lipstick contrasting her mocha tone skin. Clueless about fashion even after all these years, I suspect whoever created the tight blue dress slit to her thigh will get a few orders after tonight.
“Hey, Dylan,” she says and smiles.
“Hey. Nice performance tonight.”
Flicking her hair over her shoulder with a hand containing enough rings to rival mine, she sits next to me, Jem forgotten about. “Thanks. One for everyone to remember.”
A theatrical show with enough semi-naked dancers to fill a strip club, and a raunchy number with The Five, the latest boy band sensation. I suspect she’s trying to lose her innocent image. She’s hanging with Blue Phoenix, so she must be. The Five are here now, teen boys covered in groupies. Wait until they learn… if they last long enough before their star burns out.
I give her a noise of agreement and swig my beer, scanning the room for Steve. Where the fuck is he?
“Hey! D-K. How’s about a picture with The Dylan Morgan,” says Jem, pulling his phone out. “Just for us - no press.”
I snap my head up. Jem has his phone pointing in our direction ready, and there’s a glint in his high eyes worrying me. He’s lying. Shit, let her say no.
“Sure,” she says in her Southern accent and places her head on my shoulder.
“Aww, c’mon, you must wanna get closer to him than that?”
What the fuck? In a stunned moment, Danni-K rests her skinny behind on my knee and wraps her arm across my shoulders. No. Fuck. Before I get a chance to move, her hair sweeps across my face as her lips meet mine. Instantaneously, Jem’s phone camera flashes.
“Holy fuck!” I yell.
An alarmed Danni-K climbs off my lap, lips pursed. “Sorry, not you - that dickhead,” I say to her, aware her security is watching the obnoxious Dylan Morgan who’s had his hands on their star. “Give me the fucking phone, Jem!”
Jem holds his phone high in the air and laughs at me. “I told you I’d fuck things up for you.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sky
Speaking to Dylan before I slept filled me with a giddy happiness that everything he says about loving me is true. Each day I spend with Dylan encourages me to think this is worth a shot; the further we entangle our lives the harder it will be to disentangle. Dylan’s right - I can’t apply logic to love; especially my skewed logic. The truth is I care about Dylan. I’m passionately addicted to him physically and see part of myself mirrored in him. I could be fatalistic and agree we were “meant to meet”, perhaps we were because this situation goes beyond what I admit. If love is craving to be around someone, being soothed by his presence and not having to find the right words when alone with him, then I’m falling in love with Dylan. If I change my definition of love from living side by side in a house in Bristol, to a scary, consuming need for someone I resisted for those two weeks, then I’m not falling for Dylan - I’ve crashed into a scary place where I am in love again.
The one thing I can’t let go of is the sneaking fear our colliding worlds will explode, taking me with them.
I switch on my laptop and I’m faced with the possibility this has happened sooner than I thought. On my favourite Blue Phoenix stalking blog are pictures of the band at the after party Dylan complained he needed to go to. The most prominent picture is of Dylan with a celebrity singer I’ve vaguely heard of. My stomach tightens in horror. The image is of a stunning woman in a blue dress, which exposes more of her than the material covers.
Kissing him.
I refresh the picture twenty times, studying the blurred pixels. Maybe they’re not quite kissing? The refreshing doesn’t wipe away the image of their lips locked or her sitting on his knee.
The alarm I set on my phone to get me out of the house on time sounds, and I rub my eyes. I can’t deal with this right now. In a haze, I head for work, fighting tears all the way. I sit on the ordinary bus amongst everyday people leading monotonous lives. This is my life, not the ridiculous Dylan fantasy. I let down my defences, and was screwed over again.
Halfway through the day, my phone buzzes. A text from Dylan. The coward doesn’t even have the decency to call me.
I ignore him, shaking so much afterwards that Jenny, my boss, asks if I’m okay. I nod through tears and a false smile, and then switch my brain off.
His intermittent calls and texts through the day are ignored.
Ignored.
<
Let me explain.>
Ignored.
At this point, I switch the phone off. Then I check my favourite Blue Phoenix stalking site once more. They’re in Europe for another day, and amongst their entourage is the girl in the blue dress.
*****
Anger. Hurt. Betrayal. A bottle of wine and a family size bag of crisps. That’s what I work my way through. Deja bloody vu.
I bunker down with the wine, crisps and a book. Why does this tear at me more than Grant? Grant was my life for five years; Dylan was five minutes.
I wake with my book on my face and a sore neck as the home phone rings incessantly.
“What?” I snap when I answer.
“It was Jem,” Dylan says.
“I think it was pretty obviously you!”
“I meant he took the photo and leaked the picture.”
“Oh, so he forced her to sit on your knee and play tonsil tennis?”
“No, Sky, she sat on my knee, gave me a friendly kiss on the mouth and he took a picture. Two seconds later, I was nowhere near her; I swear. Were my hands on her? No. Were there any other pictures? No.”
Friendly kiss on the mouth? What the hell?
“Why would Jem do that?”
“You know why.”
“No I fucking don’t!” Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
“I’m back tomorrow and I’ll come over and explain everything. Not just Jem taking stupid pictures, but what’s going on between me and him that’s making Jem behave like this. I’ll take you out - show the world you’re who I want!”
There’s a desperation to his tone I haven’t heard before, a panic unlike him. Is he telling the truth? He has to understand why I have a hard time believing him so soon after Grant did something similar.
“Why is she still with you in Germany if it’s not true?”
Dylan huffs. “Jem. She’s with Jem. Everything will come out soon, and then you’ll see.”
“You mean Steve and her manager will fix everything?” I snap.
There’s a long pause; this isn’t the time for this.
“I’m tired, Dylan, and I’ve had a lot to drink. Call me when you get back to England.”
“You do believe me?” His question comes straight back without a pause. “You mean so much to me! After fighting for you so hard, why would I fuck this up?”
“Maybe. I don’t know, shit Dylan, I’m drunk. Yeah, probably I do believe you.”
The sound of Dylan exhaling comes down the phone. “When I get back, we can talk this through? I don’t want to be away from you, I need to figure out what to do.”
“To do about what?”
“The tour, everything I ran to Broadbeach from. Shit, if I could walk away and be the ordinary person you want me to be, I would.”
His logic is skewed, I wouldn’t ask him to change for me and I don’t want him to. “Be the person you want to be, Dylan,” I say softly. “That’s your problem right there. You spend too much time being the image of Dylan, rather than the reality.”
“I want to create a new reality with you, my current one sucks.”
Sometimes his whining about how bad life is as a multi-millionaire grates, but then I consider what he gave up to achieve this - himself. “Dylan, I need to go, I’m really tired.”
“But you believe me?” he repeats.
“Yes. Okay…”
“Sky, I love you so fucking much.”
He pauses, waiting for my response. This is what he gets because I’ve had too much wine. “And I’m falling in love with you, despite concerted efforts not to.”
He laughs softly. “So you’re not leaving me again over this?”
“My heart won’t let me walk away,” I say, “And my heart was broken very recently, so it’s fragile, which is why I’m guarding it.”
“I’ll give you my heart to take care of, if you’ll give me yours to mend.”
“If I do, will you be careful with it?” I whisper
“Always, I promise.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sky
The next morning, I regret telling Tara things didn’t work out with Dylan, because now I don’t have anyone to discuss this with. My head hurts from the stupid amount of wine I drank to drown my sorrows, and when I remember telling Dylan how I feel, I cringe. Now I’m exposed, raw and able to be hurt more.
I call into work and tell them I’m sick, I don’t think this contract is going to last long. The job was only a week of data input anyway, not the kind of thing I can do today with a head thumping with hungover dehydration.
I retreat to Tara’s and my coffee haunt, sit beneath The Great Gatsby pictures and ponder the Dylan situation over several cups of coffee. What holds me to Dylan and allows me to believe him when in a normal situation I’d kick his backside out of my life? Overreacting is more my style, but I allowed myself to believe him. Why? Dylan tells me I overthink things, but not overthinking is what led me to the Grant situation. Besides, when I’m in close proximity to Dylan, rational thinking isn’t something that happens a lot.
He may be famous, wealthy and have the sexual prowess of any billionaire in any book I’ve read; but underneath everything, he’s Dylan. My Dylan from Broadbeach, who looks at me as if I fell from the stars.
How can I have spent five years with Grant and felt a fraction of what I do for Dylan after less than a month? This inexplicable desire to be with him; the sick feeling when we’re apart. The teenage crush feelings we recreated by the sea have stuck - maybe they’re not teenage. I sip the coffee. Dylan doesn’t understand how I gave myself to someone else’s life for years, and why I can’t do this again. However, I know this is different. If I walked away from Dylan now, I’d spend my life asking why. I don’t think Dylan will try to change me - he’s too busy trying to change himself. Perhaps that’s part of what we recognise in each other, our lives have travelled in different trajectories, and now we’re pulled onto the same course. I remember Dylan’s words on the beach, how he’s sure we met at the moment we needed each other.
Deep down, I believe him about Danni-K. My experience of Jem suggests he’d do something like this, his attitude to my relationship with Dylan makes no sense, but the vitriol in his words the night of the party would match this kind of action. But I need to see the truth in Dylan’s face, not just hear the words.
I’m aware a girl at a nearby table has been here as long as I have, nursing one cup of coffee the whole time. This isn’t illegal, although the cafe owners might not be too happy, but she keeps staring at me. Not the odd glance where you accidentally meet someone’s eyes, but full on staring. On alert for crazed fans, I study her when she’s not looking. She’s around my age and has long blonde hair, which she wears loose across her shoulders, a natural Scandinavian blonde. Her piercing blue eyes are huge in her oval face and her long, slender legs are curled beneath the table.
Sometimes, I think she’s about to come over and talk to me, but if I meet her eyes, she looks away. I can’t figure out what she’s doing. The longer this goes on, the more convinced I become that she knows who I am. My current situation has me paranoid; one run-in with the paparazzi and fans and I’m on high alert. I shake the thought from my head.
I finish my latte and pick my bag up, ready to leave.
“Are you Sky? Can I talk to you?”
I look up in surprise as the tall, blonde girl hovers around my table. Her face is paler, hands trembling slightly. I glance around. The cafe is half-full, if she is a crazed fan I’m pretty sure I’ll be safe.
“Um, okay.”
“Would you like another coffee?” she asks, pulling a purse from her oversized brown leather handbag.
“I’m leaving.”
“I need to talk to you about something.”
“What?”
“Dylan.”
I drop back onto the wooden chair and sigh. “Are you a fan?”
She laughs softly. “No.”
“Then what?”
“I’ll ord
er coffees.” The girl disappears to the counter and I stare at the chalkboard advertising drinks and cakes, a little dazed already.
She returns with a number attached to a metal stand, which she places on the table, then sits opposite me. I’m stunned by how pretty she is in such an understated way. Her face is clear of make-up and her plain blue summer dress matches her cornflower eyes.
The girl plays with the sugar dispenser. “I heard about you and when I found out you’d decided to have a relationship with Dylan Morgan, I knew I had to warn you about something.”
I stiffen. “Heard about me from who? Nobody knows whether I’m with Dylan or not.” I scan my mind; the only people who know are part of the Blue Phoenix entourage.
“It doesn’t matter.”
”Yes, it does; because they’ve obviously told you where I live!” I snap back. “Did Jem tell you?”
When she inspects her short fingernails, I get my answer. What the hell is Jem’s game now? “You’re in a relationship with Dylan Morgan.” Her words are a statement, not a question.
“Fine. What do you have to tell me?” I ask. “I’ve read most of what’s on the internet about him; I doubt there’s much new you can add? They pretty much dug all the dirt.”
“Sometimes, things can be covered up.” She looks up, eyes wide. “For a price.”
Whatever she’s alluding to, I’ve no idea, but if she’s the sort of person who can be paid off, I’m not sure I’ll believe anything she tells me.
“A price?”
“Yes, and then there’s the impossibility of taking on Blue Phoenix’s lawyers and winning.”
“Who are you?” I ask.
The girl looks down at her shaking hands curled around her bag. When she looks back to me, her eyes brim with tears as she draws a shaky breath.
I know who she is.
“My name’s Lily Parker and three years ago Dylan Morgan raped me.” Her voice cracks and is barely a whisper.
The room lurches, her words piercing my heart. “I don’t believe you, what sort of sick joke is this? Are you jealous or something?”
Summer Sky: A Blue Phoenix Book Page 23
