Falling Sky (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

February 25th
(Portland, ME)

Sky

I’m in the Jacuzzi, indulging my love of bubbles, books and wine when Dylan wanders in. Shirtless. I swear he walks around like this to flaunt how goddamn sexy he is, in case I’ve forgotten in the few hours since I last saw him naked. As always, my gaze seems to wander across his chest, down his abs and then my imagination into his jeans. He sits on the edge of the bath and runs his fingers across my cheek.

“A definite no to coming to see me play tonight?”

How do I tell him I can’t sit through any more Blue Phoenix concerts? They have two opposing effects on me. Either I get turned on by watching this hot as hell man performing on stage or I’m tired from a day of sex with the hot as hell man and the noise does nothing for me. The intense physical connection we share isn’t waning; the need to be skin on skin with Dylan takes over my day sometimes. I’m locked in a cross between a holiday and a bizarre road trip. Not having to worry about anything but travel sickness, the fantasy I live in with Dylan overtakes everything.

“I’m tired,” I tell him, placing a wet hand over his.

Dylan takes the book from me and leans in to kiss me. “If I didn’t have to go, I’d be in there with you.”

“Who says I’d let you?”

In response, Dylan opens my book and begins reading with an eyebrow cocked. “You prefer spending time with Chase. What the hell kind of a name is that?”

I attempt to snatch the book from him, but he continues reading. “Do I have to worry you’ll trade me in for an
internet billionaire? Rock stars not do it for you?” he teases.

“You’ll do for now,” I say and smirk at him.

“Is that right?”

I sit forward and wrap my arms around his neck, his warm, dry chest meeting mine. The moment my soapy breasts brush his skin, Dylan covers my mouth with a hard kiss, roughly parting my lips. Then as suddenly as he started, he stops. Pulling back, he circles my nipple with his finger and fixes a heated gaze on me.

“You don’t need fantasies, Sky. I’ll do whatever you want.” He pauses just long enough to hear my breathing. “And I’ve noticed the guys in your books also do exactly what they want to.”

We watch each other in challenge, but I refuse to succumb to him. “Save your energy for tonight’s performance.”

When the familiar Dylan sexy grin spreads, I realise what I’ve said. “Oh, I will. Once I’ve finished tonight’s gig.”

His lips leave the promise behind his words on my face, breasts, and mouth before he disappears out of the bathroom. Exhaling, I sink under the water, surging with love, desire, and happiness.

Once Dylan has disappeared, I wind my robe around myself and prepare for an evening alone. Some nights, being able to lie in bed and watch old comedy shows on cable channels is all I want. I crave Dylan but without my own breathing space, I think things would be hard. I toy with the idea of writing or reading, but I’m sleepy after my hot bath. Curling up with a bag of crisps, I drag my laptop onto my knee and run through my emails.

Junk. Junk. Mum. Junk.
Lily.
I hover the mouse over. Since the third message from her, I don’t read them anymore and this is the sixth. They’re all the same, decrying my decision to stay with Dylan. I delete. Junk. Recruitment agency. I smile when I find one’s from Tara.

Today’s email almost stops my heart because the message isn’t from her. The email is from Tom, her boyfriend, informing me Tara’s been in a car accident and is badly injured. He doesn’t elaborate, but I freak out imagining all kinds of horrific scenarios. Within seconds, I’m on the phone to him, hysterically demanding answers. Tara, my best friend and the person playing the biggest part in my life since I was a kid, is in a coma in hospital. When Tom has little else to say, I know this is bad. Is he not saying anything because of how bad?
Or because he’s in shock?

Dylan will be mid-performance so I can’t call him; instead, I immediately search flights. I need to get back to England as soon as possible. Hands shaking, I book a flight for tomorrow and attempt to calm myself. Please don’t let anything happen to her before I get home.

****

Dylan

I’m a selfish bastard still, losing that facet of my personality will take longer than I expected. Because as I sit in the VIP lounge at the airport with Sky, I’m pissed off she’s leaving me. The lounge is quiet, some older couples immaculately dressed sip champagne and a minor celebrity I vaguely
recognise taps messages on her phone, looking out of place in her slouchy (although designer) travel clothes. The actress stares at me momentarily, I look back to Sky who’s slumped into the plush chair.

She’s
distant, eyes vacant, and refusing to share the emotion that she’s bottling inside. For fuck’s sake, this is her best friend and I’m getting pissy about her visiting her in hospital? Sky isn’t leaving forever. But she’s my anchor to a new world, and when she leaves, I’m fully immersed in the Blue Phoenix world again.

I take Sky’s hand, rubbing the soft skin with my thumb. She’s cool beneath the air-conditioning, her face pale. I know Sky’s not herself because when I told her I’d upgraded her seat to first class she didn’t admonish me. Definitely not Sky. And here I am fighting with whining about her going.

“Have you heard anything else?” I ask softly.

Sky turns and looks at me as if she’s forgotten I’m there. “About Tara? I called but nothing’s changed.”

I don’t press her to say anymore; hoping my handholding, silent support is enough.

“Sorry, I can’t come with you,” I tell her.

“I never expected you to. You can’t ditch everything; I’d have your fans pursuing me across the globe if I stopped them having their night with Dylan Morgan.”

“A week,” I tell her. “Then I’m coming home.”

She smiles weakly. “Which one?”

“Whichever one you’re staying at.”

“Oh? I was going back to the flat. I’m still paying rent on the place.”

“Sky, no.” The idea of her staying in the flat I know she feels unsafe in horrifies me.

“She’s in hospital in Bristol! Where else would I go?”

The rising hysteria in her voice warns me to back off from interfering. “Okay.”

“But I wish you were,” she says quietly, “coming with me, I mean.”

I cup her face in both of my hands. “It’s killing me that I can’t. You need me, and I can’t be there; how shit does that make me feel when you’ve been here for me over the last few weeks.”

“A week and you’re done,” she says.

“Even tomorrow is too long to be apart from you.”

Realisation hits me that since the night of the break-in at her flat we’ve not spent a day apart, and I’m scared that if she leaves she might rejoin her old world again, like when she left me in Broadbeach. She pulls her phone out and checks for messages for the tenth time in as many minutes, and when the screen is blank, her mouth turns down at the corners. Gently tipping her head toward mine, I place my mouth on hers and Sky sighs, winding her hands around my neck and kissing me softly. Then I cocoon her in my arms, hating the small movement of her back as she cries.

If only I could take the pain from her, the way she takes away mine.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Sky

One of the Blue Phoenix drivers meets me at Heathrow. After a motorway journey, which feels like forever, he drops me straight at the hospital. Getting to the car from the plane involved running the gauntlet of media asking if I’d split with Dylan. Too tired to deal with their crap, I wrapped a large, silk scarf around my head and pushed through. Now the image of my red-eyed, haunted look is shared, a big question mark over our relationship. And so, continues my twisted relationship with the press. To my relief, they don’t follow the car.

Tom meets me at the hospital where I stand helplessly by Tara’s bed, dazed by the sight of her. This isn’t Tara; this is a pale, shadow of a girl with her normally beautifully styled brown hair splayed on the pillow behind her. Machines and IV lines surround her and I try to figure out what they do. Keep her alive, I guess. Her head injury worries the doctors and she’s in an induced coma. I know they’re supposed to have ‘game’ faces, but I don’t read anything positive between the lines.

I don’t know Tom well; he’s a lawyer at the firm where she works. On the occasions I’ve met him in the past, he was smartly attired and oozing confidence. This man looks lost; exhaustion is etched into his face. Tara’s parents are there too, in shifts at her bedside, and although they don’t say or do anything, the situation makes me feel intrusive.

That evening, searching the blogs to see how Blue Phoenix’s gig went last night, I’m sickened to see a picture of me hugging Tom, comforting the poor guy whose girlfriend lies in the hospital bed in another room. Who the hell took the picture? And how low for them to take something like this out of context; they know who he is. But where’s the story in that when this supports the current
rumours of me and Dylan splitting up and question marks over my return to England?

I’m making dinner (okay, microwaving a ready meal) when Dylan calls. I check the clock on the cooker and calculate he’s recently woken.

“Who’s the guy?” he asks. “Is that Grant?”

“No.” I’m irritated; he knows enough about the media to know how they twist things. His insecurity is worse than I thought. “That’s Tom. Tara’s boyfriend.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

“That’s pretty lousy of you, Dylan.”

“I just woke up and saw the picture; someone emailed it to me for a response. I’m not thinking straight.”

“Why the hell would I want to see Grant?”

“I don’t know, maybe because you all go back a long way. Lifelong friends from school supporting each other because one of you is… in hospital.”

“I’d hardly call Grant my friend,” I mutter.

“I’ll switch my brain on before I call next time.”

“Good idea.”

He pauses. “How is Tara?”

Tears sting my eyes. “Not great.”

There’s a long pause. Has he hung up? “I could come back; if you need me to.”

I suspect he’s the one who needs. “Don’t be silly, Dylan. A week. Then you’re back here and we sit down with Steve and the band and tell them your plans.”

“Shit hits the fan, you mean.”

“Yeah, I hope you have somewhere you can hide for a while.”

“There’s the island,” he says matter-of-factly.

I choke back a laugh. “Very funny.”

“No, we could.”

“I’m not a big fan of the boat ride there. You’ll be there on your own.”

“Fuck, you’re funny. A guy offers you a holiday in tropical paradise and you turn your nose up.”

I stare at the dull English winter and consider how a tropical paradise is a better idea. But not right now.

“How are you, being back at the flat?”

I bite back telling him I don’t feel safe here, because I have visions of him charging back from the States to look after me. Following a couple of weeks on tour, and wrapped in cotton wool by security teams, I suddenly feel exposed. I haven’t told him about the emails from Lily either, and I hope her messages are a rant of disgust and not the start of something.

“I’m okay.”

“Liar.” He huffs. “I wish I was there for you.”

“Of course I wish you were here, Dylan, but it won’t be long.”

“I love you, summer Sky. I couldn’t sleep last night.”

I tense. “Promise me you won’t start taking anything. Not when you’ve left the medication alone.”

“Nope, I’ll just cover myself in your strawberry body wash and imagine I’m covered in you,” he says in a low tone.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

God, I want to be with this man. I woke up cold this morning, realising how used to having him around I was, and now he’s heating me up. The microwave beeps.

“I’ll talk to you later; Skype?” I ask him.

“Sure thing. Enjoy your curry and don’t drop it on the floor,” he teases.

“How do you know I’m having curry?”

“Because I know you.”

We end the call and I hold the phone to my chest, summoning images of Dylan into my mind to calm the anxiety over Tara.

Attempting to watch TV and eat, my mind remains full of images of Tara in the hospital bed so I open my laptop. Maybe if I wrote instead, immersed myself in a different world, I won’t have to worry about either.

I read a couple of emails, one from my older brother, asking if I’ll visit him as I’m in the States. I reply, telling him the news. We were
all close, attended the same school, and teen parties and I hope Tara’s situation doesn’t hit him as hard as me.

As I scroll through my messages, my heart seizes. Lily Parker. Again. This one was sent half an hour ago. This one I decide to open.

<
no subject

If you’re back in England, I need to see you. What did he do to you
?>

Unease prickles across my scalp. My original fear she was a crazed fan doesn’t seem far off the mark. I believe and trust Dylan now; I’m uncomfortable with his behaviour but nothing in the Dylan he is now threatens this trust. Why is she doing this?

I don’t reply.