Rage (17 page)
them splitting.
“I don’t know, Steph. Maybe you should stay out of it.”
Cheyenne replied.
Steph cocked an eyebrow at her as she waited for an an-
swer. “Are you fucking for real?”
In seconds it was obvious that she’d gone to voicemail.
“Sarah, its Steph. What the fuck? Call me.”
Steph’s tense behavior gave Cheyenne a feeling of forebod-
ing, so when they approached Nathan, she didn’t blink as Steph
went after him like a rabid Rottweiler.
“Relax, Steph. I told your lover boy you were out gallivant-
ing around the jungle like Tarzan. I made sure to tell him Phillip wasn’t with you, so he had nothing to worry his pretty new nose
about.” Nathan exhaled smoke through his nostrils and handed
the cigarette back to Saffron, who chuckled.
“Sometimes I want to backhand you.” Steph folded her
arms and peered intently down the road.
“Sometimes he likes that.” Saffron retorted, without missing
a beat.
“You’re not helping,” Cheyenne snapped at Saffron, who
said nothing. The ride to the club was fairly silent until Steph’s phone rang as they were clambering out of the Land Rover trying to not to flash anyone in their mini-dresses.
“Sarah?” Steph answered, and Cheyenne and Nathan shot
each other surprised glances. With an apprehensive glance at her companions, Steph wandered away from them toward the stun-106
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ning beach. Nathan and Saffron made for the bar, but Cheyenne
anxiously awaited Steph’s return, hanging out by the entrance.
When Steph returned, her eyes looked misty.
“What did she say?” Cheyenne caught herself biting her
nails again and forced her hands to her sides. Steph just shook
her head.
“Let’s get a pitcher.”
By the time they’d downed the first pitcher and were work-
ing on the second, Steph had filled Cheyenne in on the details of the call. Sarah had broken down sobbing on the phone and said
she just couldn’t take the lifestyle anymore. The band constantly acting like children, the late night phone calls that he wouldn’t be coming home, the constant innuendo from friends and family
that Bret screwed around on the road. The continuous insults in
the tabloids about her for being “poorly dressed” or “dumpy
looking.” Stalkers trying to take her kids at the park or attempting to pick them up from school and cameras continuously snap-
ping in their faces. Sarah had seemed devastated when Steph had
argued how much Bret loved her and how much his missed her.
Steph sniffed when she told Cheyenne Sarah had sobbed so bad-
ly she could hardly understand her.
“She said ‘I’ll never love a man like I love Bret. But I can’t
live like this. It’s not good for me. It’s not good for the kids to have their mom be a constant nervous wreck.’” Steph emptied
another glass of beer and filled it from the pitcher. Cheyenne
shuddered like someone had walked on her grave.
“Jesus.” Cheyenne’s empathy for Sarah turned to self-
doubt. She wondered if she’d be in the same predicament five
years down the line. It was a depressing train of thought. She
turned to Saffron and asked for a cigarette. Ten minutes later,
Nathan and Saffron went out onto the dance floor to greet
Cedric, David, and Yara, Cheyenne turned to Steph. “Are you
going to tell me about Phillip and the beach?”
Steph sighed and launched into the details. Cheyenne lis-
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tened raptly to Steph’s buzzed and colorful interpretation of
events.
“So that’s the story. And I haven’t called Christopher since.
Any brilliant words of wisdom?” Steph blinked at Cheyenne ex-
pectantly. Cheyenne groaned, but only on the inside. She’d
watched Steph’s mood grow steadily darker all day. Phillip was
playing games with her, and Steph was totally disintegrating into angry punchiness. None of this was surprising—just disappoint-ing. It was Steph’s M.O.—using anger and humor as a defense
mechanism when things got too real or something touched her
too deeply. Cheyenne had spent a great deal of the past couple of years in therapy, so she’d picked up a bit of knowledge along the way. Steph shined at compartmentalization and transference.
Dating Christopher had been great for her. She’d been really lev-el and actually had a serene glow about her. Now, less than sev-
enty-two hours of contact with Phillip had her spiraling the
drain.
Steph took one look at Cheyenne’s facial expression and sat
back. “I’m sorry, Chey. You need my lame-ass problems like
you need a hole in the head. Let’s just get drunk.”
Cheyenne glanced up at her husband who was having a
laugh with Cedric. She shoved her issues aside and downed her
drink.
“Stephanie…you need to call Christopher. Now. And you
need to tell Phillip the truth.”
Phillip turned off his beard trimmer and turned his head
from side to side, appraising the fruits of his labor. Today’s scuba diving excursion had been productive in more ways than one.
He’d finally popped his “diving cherry”—so to speak—and tak-
en the introductory course, aptly named “the baptismo.” In the
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absence of Cedric—who begged off due to his bum leg—the
bridesmaids seemed to have set their sights on him and/or Bret.
Better late than never, he thought. His dalliance with Steph
the day before had yielded…troubling side effects. It had taken
every ounce of willpower he had to walk away from her. He’d
forgotten how good she tasted, like salty caramel or butterscotch.
The way she responded to him had always been atomic. Being
that close to her again had been intoxicating—and excruciating.
However, none of that changed the fact that she’d discarded him
like rubbish and humiliated him by promptly hooking up with
Clive Richards. Richards! That twat was the one person in the
United Kingdom whose grave he’d would cheerfully piss on.
He and Clive had started as friends with a normal rivalry.
The barbs they tossed back and forth were all in good fun. They
continued to trade insults for a year when they ran into each oth-er around the British club circuit, which was a very small world.
Their friendship quickly deteriorated as Fury became more suc-
cessful and Toxicity was left in the dust. When Fury got their
record deal, things got pretty ugly. The pièce de résistance of
their tale was when Clive caught Phillip shagging his fiancé be-
fore a show. At that point, Toxicity was Fury’s opening act. At
the time, Clive blew it off. He even said, “Fuck that bird. I was done with her anyhow.”
After the concert a major party was in full swing backstage.
Phillip’s little sis, Danielle and her friends turned up as planned.
Clive was falling down drunk at that point and broke a beer bot-
tle by Danielle’s head and threatened Philip with it. Phillip
dodged, and the drunken git stumbled into Danielle, scarring her cheek. Looking back on things, it made complete sense that
Clive had set his sights on Stephanie as the ultimate payback.
He frowned at his reflection and threw a smidge of product
in his hair, while trying to block out how it had felt to have
Stephanie’s hands running through it. He took a deep breath and
tried to shake her off like a layer of dust. He needed to party.
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Tonight’s itinerary included going into the village—or Vila dos
Remédios as the bridesmaids cheerfully taught him—to see some
popular Carnival percussion band. They all seemed pretty jazzed
about it, so he figured it would be a good time, and he might actually get laid.
All of the other SUV’s were gone by the time Phillip and
Bret wandered out to the parking lot with the bridesmaids.
They’d already been doing body shots in the pousada bar, and by
the time they were on the road, the girls were getting pretty
friendly. The chauffer practically drove off the road looking in the rearview mirror a couple of times. Luckily the trip was short; the girls started making out with each other, and things in the
back seat were about to become positively indecent.
He was the first to climb out of the Land Rover and held the
door for Bret and the ladies. He surveyed Bar do Cachorro, their drinking hole for the evening. It was a sprawling open-air com-pound of thatched tikis with paved walkways and a half-wall to
protect drunks from unintentionally stumbling into Cochurro
Bay below. The moon was nearly full, so the view was still im-
pressive after sunset.
They wandered into the party, and Phillip felt the thumping
of the drums reverberate all the way up to his teeth. The large
crowd was surprisingly exuberant for a Monday night. Most of
the audience shared the floor with the band, dancing and min-
gling with colorful drinks in their hands. Bret guided the girls up to an elevated table, and Phillip shouted at him over the music.
“I’ll go get the first round!”
Phillip wove his way to the bar and stopped short when he
saw Stephanie with her beautiful bare back to him. Her dress
wasn’t so much a dress as a handkerchief. She leaned forward,
focused on a conversation with Cheyenne.
“I’m going to say this one last time, Steph. You need to tell
him.” Cheyenne’s expression was grave and her voice emphatic.
Then she glanced up and spotted Phillip. She sat straight up,
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wide-eyed, and paled. Steph looked over her naked shoulder at
him, and her eyes narrowed slightly. She swiveled back around
and picked up her drink.
“I’ve got to go to find Scot.” Cheyenne stood, and he saw
Steph grip her arm. Cheyenne tugged it away and shot Phillip an
unreadable look. Considering she’d called him an “incomprehen-
sible bastard” and an “egotistical jackass” the night before when Steph was off being a drama queen, she seemed fairly reserved
tonight. Phillip took advantage of the vacancy and slid into her spot at the bar. He placed his order, and as he waited, he leaned against the bar. Feeling her eyes on him, he turned toward Steph.
She seemed oddly focused on her drink. Every muscle in her
mouth-watering body looked tensed.
“You look like you could use another drink or two.” He
couldn’t stop himself from picking at her like a half-healed scab.
She glanced up at him from under long eyelashes, and what he
saw in her eyes hurt his heart. She was abjectly terrified of him.
Feeling like a world class bully, he turned back to her to make
some sort of amends.
“Stephanie…” He began, trailing off. After the crevice,
what could he say?
“You know what?
Screw this
.” She slurred and was on her
feet and headed toward the exit. He looked after her, shaking his head at her crass, but typical, reaction. He was about to turn back to the bar when he noticed his chauffer sitting by the door. The chauffer’s eyes roamed her body lustfully, as if she were already naked. And in that dress, she practically was. Steph stumbled a
little, and the chauffer jumped up and placed his arm around her.
A moment later they disappeared into the darkness.
Before his brain had time to process the situation, Phillip’s
feet had carried him outside. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and by the light of the torches, he spotted Steph stumbling down the crude steps toward the beach. The
chauffer trailed behind her and grabbed for her wrist. He heard
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the chauffer call her “sexy” and Steph slur “you can let go of my arm now, Dude,” and his vision seemed to go crimson. His long
strides closed the distance between himself and the pair just as they reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped onto the beach.
Phillip had the guy by the throat and shoved him onto the sand
so fast that when he turned back to Steph, she was stumbling
around in a confused circle looking for the guy like he’d evapo-
rated. When she turned and saw Phillip standing in the chauffer’s place, she recoiled.
“Seriously?” she slurred and brushed past him, nearly trip-
ping over the chauffer who’d had the good sense to stay down.
She stopped and blinked at him in tipsy confusion. “Enrique!
Dude! Are you okay?”
The bloke mumbled something unintelligible, and Steph
nodded and kept walking toward the water. Phillip continued
after her.
