Summer Sky (18 page)

Despite the fact her betrothed is here, Honey sweeps an appreciative look over my sweaty body. What is it, exactly, that girls like about guys covered in stinking sweat? Her gaze lingers on my chest and she bites her lip coyly.

There was a time, very early on when we first made it big, when we’d share girls. I’m ashamed about this now, but I was eighteen, high and had girls crawling all over me. More than once, I woke in bed with several girls, not entirely clear how I got there. Man, I was fucking stupid. How I avoided any major diseases, I don’t know. Maybe some guardian angel watched over me - one prepared to accept my lack of morality.

I'm a one girl at a time guy now - in my life and my bed. I'm definitely no saint, I have my needs, but I can't stick with a girl. I try but the only chicks I meet are through the industry - groupies and journalists mostly. They already think they know Dylan Morgan, they expect nothing of me so I give them nothing. Sure, I let them in my bed; but I send them away straight after sex, and I'm left with a hollow emptiness. Yeah, I had a few short relationships in the last few years but gave up - the fall out is too hard. Only once, did I let someone close, and she tore my heart into tiny pieces. There's zero desire to try a real relationship again.

Or there was, until Sky. I'm beginning to think she's my punishment.

Sometimes, I consider if Honey is hoping to get to me through Liam; which sounds bigheaded but isn't beyond possibility. Chicks often prefer the lead singer to the bass player in my experience. If she tries, I’ll have her out of here on her backside so quick she won’t know what’s hit her. Liam’s the nicest of the four of us – he’s had his heart broken more than once, and he deserves better.

"Whatcha doing, babe?" she asks Liam, sliding a hand down his arm. Her huge diamond ring glints in the sun streaming through the window.

"Came to see Dylan, he missed studio time this morning," he replies.

"You guys didn’t need me, not for what you were putting down." I swig from my water bottle, why the fuck did I down another bottle of bourbon last night? Honey and Liam exchange glances. "What?"

"Man, you gotta pull this together. What the hell happened to make you like this? Not just the chick – the disappearing, the attitude…" retorts Liam.

“That’s your idea of helping is it?" I snap

"He hasn’t come to help; he’s here to ask you to come out tonight." Honey smiles, and I feel like I’m being sized up for something.

"Out?" I ask Liam

"VIP lounge? Viper Room?" he asks.

"Some of my friends are coming," interjects Honey. "I got some plain ones too if that’s your taste these days."

I stiffen. Bitch. "Did you know honey is technically bee puke?"

Leaving her open-mouthed, I stalk out of the room.

I’m a lucky bastard. I own a huge mansion in the country, surrounded by state of the art security. Tennis courts, pools, the whole fucking cliché. I prefer my LA place; God, how up myself do I sound? My bedroom alone is probably the size of the entirety of Sky’s crappy flat, the one I know she lives in now. My freshly made bed should be unmade with Sky beneath the covers; I should be smiling and laughing with her, not feeling miserable as fuck.

I sit barefoot on the daybed beneath the bay window and pick up my guitar. The last few days I’ve attempted to finish the song I started writing in Broadbeach, and working some chords out on the acoustic. I end each session frustrated, and then the drinking starts. But I’m almost there.

The song for my summer Sky.

*****

I swear Honey chooses to drag Liam to the Viper Room because of the guaranteed paparazzi. She loves the attention; checks herself out on the internet every day. The more she's in the limelight; the more fashion houses throw clothes at her to wear when she steps into the public arena. I'm itching for her to suffer a wardrobe malfunction and flash her tits - or worse - to the world. Not nice, yeah, but neither is she. I saw her hitting on Bryn a couple of weeks ago, and she knows I did.

Wearing a miniscule fire engine red dress and heels any normal girl would face-plant in, Honey feigns annoyance at being photographed but ensures they get a picture of her best side. And round, shapely backside.

Head down, I pretend I'm not here. The media scrutiny has dropped off the last few months, but intensified following my Broadbeach escapade. Constant questions about Sky's identity are yelled by media and fans alike, and now the photos Sky showed me are out there. I toy with the idea of making a statement, telling people who she is so she'll have to talk to me. Any chance of Sky changing her mind about us would be blown out of the water by that action. So, I stay quiet.

The Viper Room in Mayfair is a guaranteed Blue Phoenix haunt; one of us is here most nights when we're in England. Of course we're VIP, but for a price, and if they pre-book weeks in advance, the everyday clubbers can get entrance. Early evening, and the place is half-empty so I head through the purple-lit bar area towards our cordoned off section. The white leather seats are arranged in an L-shape around round metal tables. An ice bucket and champagne is propped against one, a couple of empty bottles already lined up.

Jem is playing the rock cliché, each arm across a girl's shoulders. He appears to have a thing for Asian girls currently; a few months ago, all his conquests were blondes. When I approach, he pulls away, grabs his drink and watches me through narrowed eyes. In the past, we were like brothers - he practically was with the amount of time he spent at my house as a kid escaping his fucked up family. Then shit happened, our clashing personalities switched to animosity and we don’t talk much anymore. In the purple hued room, his true state is difficult to make out. He's skinnier recently, dark curls tumbling over gaunter cheekbones. His presence is the same - not only because he's the Blue Phoenix lead guitarist. Years of girl's falling over him inevitably adds to his confidence that every girl thinks he's hot as fuck.

The music fades as I approach, our space darker and quieter than the rest of the venue. Besides Jem's appendages, several other girls recline on the seats. A girl with Barbie hair shrieks a greeting to Honey and they embrace with false cheek kisses. Honey pushes the girl towards me.

"This is Jewel."

Jewel smiles seductively and I groan inwardly. I need a fucking drink.

Several hours and an uncountable number of drinks later, Jewel has found her way onto my lap. The row of violet spotlights above us spin as I stare upwards - I'm not used to this much alcohol in public after all those months dry. I remain motionless, as she strokes my leg, fingers playing across the exposed part of my chest. Her tits are at my eye level - awesome tits if you like a mouthful of silicone. Nothing stirs - no reaction from my dick and not because of the alcohol. She's not Sky. So what the fuck am I doing letting this random girl touch me?

Jem's hand is up one of his conquests short black dress, the couple devouring each other. Me and Jem didn't speak - he's high again so there's no point. Jem's hardly said two words to me since I returned from Broadbeach. Suits me. He's a fucking mess - I thought I was bad but he's going to end up the ultimate rock and roll cliché and dead before he's twenty-five. Two stints in rehab and he's no better than he was.

Seated the other side of me, Liam stares at the ceiling; ‘the limpet’ and friends are absent. Realisation hits: they're all fucking high.

This is why I left. I can't be this or do this anymore. I want to be on the beach eating fish and chips with Sky. I could be snuggling and covering her beautiful, warm body with mine and connecting to something real.

Without a word, I head towards the front doors. The dancers part as I take a shortcut across the dance floor, squinting at the lights strobing across the writhing bodies. I catch a glimpse of Honey gyrating with another guy, his hands holding her backside close to his crotch. She doesn't notice and if I said anything to Liam, he'd tell me to fuck off.

This is fucked up, all of this life.

I leave by the front door, not giving a flying fuck who sees me. I giggle drunkenly to myself: ‘come at me, paparazzi, do your worst’. The world shimmers in and out of view as I adjust my eyes to the light, and familiar camera flashes light my way as I head for the car where Dave waits to take us home. I'm not going home. I have to see Sky, cleanse the filth from my night with the clarity of her.

Chapter Nineteen

Sky

Dylan knows where I live.

The first clue is indicated by the housewarming gift from him - a beautiful oil painting of the Cornish coast with a house looking a lot like Gran's in the background. My reaction: I have to move. Can I take out injunctions against world famous rock stars for stalking? Is this stalking yet? I have a low threshold for hassle.

The second clue is the incessant ringing of my doorbell at 3am. I'm particularly pissed off about this because I’m not sleeping well since I got back from Broadbeach.

Aware the doorbell won't stop ringing anytime soon, I crawl out of bed and peer out of a chink in the curtains. The streetlight casts a glow over the road and front garden, but the visitor is too close to the house to see.

I tie my pink, towelling robe and press the intercom button. "What?"

"Sky..."

Dylan.
Quelle surprise
.

"I repeat: what?" Waking me up is a big mistake. Always.

"Can I talk to you?"

"It's three o'clock in the bloody morning, Dylan! Do you think I'm going to change my mind if you turn up on my doorstep in the middle of the night?"

"Sorry. I had a bad night and you're the only person who can make things better."

It’s difficult to tell over the intercom crackle, but I suspect he's been drinking.

"Will you go away if I ignore you?"

"No."

"Will you go away if I say I'm going to call the police?"

"No."

I knock my forehead against the wood chip wall above the intercom. "If I talk to you, will you go away and never come back?"

There's a long pause before the crackling voice replies. "If that's what you want."

Pressing the button to open the main door to the building, I run two hands across my hair. The sleepy-eyed girl in the mirror has creases up one side of her face where I've been lying on scrunched up sheets. I definitely have the scarecrow thing perfected here.

The entrance door below closes and butterflies swarm to escape through my navel as footsteps climb the carpeted stairs. I don't want to see Dylan because I want to see him so bloody much. I'm a huge contradiction and my head aches with the confusing thoughts circling. Each day that passes, I'm hopeful Dylan will fade from my short memories of our time but he doesn't. I feel as if a chemical reaction happened when we kissed, and I absorbed part of him into my psyche. I waver every day in my desire to keep away, my heart and mind in a constant battle over whether to contact him.

The footsteps halt outside my flat and I take a deep breath before unlatching the door. 'Must be mad at him. don't be nice. And definitely don't listen to my body.'

Dylan hovers outside the door, an apologetic look on his tired face. An unsure smile flickers across his full, all–too-kissable lips and I squeeze my eyes closed against his immediate effect on me. Denying how I feel when I see him in pictures on the internet is easy, in the flesh this denial is impossible. 

"Hey," he says.

"Hey?" I open my eyes and step to one side so he can come in.

Closing the door behind, I stand against it and face Dylan who immediately sits on my sofa. "Make yourself at home!"

"Thanks."

Something is different about him. His eyes are less focused and his muscles looser as he reclines on the sofa and my sarcasm sailed over his head.

"I thought you didn’t drink?" I say.

"Some chick drove me back to the bottle." He sticks his bottom lip out.

Dylan not very subtlety scans my night-time ensemble of striped flannel pyjamas beneath my robe. Typical. I make an exasperated noise before I stalk past him into the shoebox kitchen, hoping he doesn’t follow. Wrong. Over the noise of the kettle, I hear the rustle of movement and turn to see him in the doorway. He's dressed differently - an expensive looking black woven shirt over his distractingly tight jeans has a couple of buttons undone, allowing a glimpse of the taut muscle beneath. I'm as bad as he is, I decide, as I appreciatively take in how his jeans shape his long legs.

"Why are you doing this?" I demand.

I had a long day in a new temp contract and a visit from rock god Dylan Morgan in the middle of the night wasn’t part of my day's plan.

"Because I want you," he says. Not seductively, not arrogantly, but quietly, accompanied by a sadness drawing his features.

I’m disarmed by the simplicity but tell him what I tell myself every time I’m tempted. "This wouldn’t work."

"Why?"

I cock an eyebrow. "Do you really need to ask me that question?"

"Sky…" He moves towards me and in the limited space, I can’t move away. The lingering effect from the night in the kitchen hovers between us; the desire to reconnect with the passion of that night is hard to escape from.