Mirrored (Follow Your Bliss series Book 4)

by Riordan Hall, Deirdre

  Alex’s phone remained silent after the guys retreated to their respective homes to recover before the scheduled photo shoot for the rock-mag the following day. Alex considered cancelling so he and Finn had more time to cool down. But if band priorities were the crux of the issue, and not something else, as Graham had suggested and Alex intuited, the shoot was on.

  Well after midnight, and alone in his father’s flat in London, Alex considered calling out for some take-away, but hunger for something else gnawed at him. He closed his eyes, imagining her soft lips on his, the curves of her chest, and how her hands rubbed his neck, his stomach, and continued down, down, down.

  His mobile vibrated. A photo of Brighton, that he’d taken the summer before, appeared on the screen. She wore sunglasses and a sneer.

  “I was just thinking about you.”

  “Naughty thoughts I hope,” she said.

  That was the Brighton he knew, not the pensive, sullen girl he’d spoken to a couple days before. Actually, if he was honest, he knew that version of her too. He wondered if she’d been missing her father. At unexpected times, he’d find her grieving over losing him too soon. It had gotten much, much better since when they’d met, but she still had her moments. He worried that suggesting she visit her father’s old stomping grounds had triggered her grief. Then again, he knew that feeling—of being left behind, alone, and abandoned, all too well.

  “They were actually sexy,” he said, casting his mind back into the gutter. He sensed her smiling. Those lips.

  “Good news, you’ll only have to fantasize for the next twelve hours. I bought a ticket,” she slurred.

  “I would have arranged it for you. Wait. Are you drunk? Making major purchases while under the influence is ill-advised.”

  She laughed. “Sometimes I think I make my best decisions while wasted.”

  “Bri, let’s hope not.” He wanted to laugh and to be drunk with her, but anxiety squeezed the air in his chest. “When does your flight get in? I’ll meet you at the airport.”

  After exchanging travel information, Brighton encouraged him to tell her in detail what he’d been thinking about before she’d called. Alex hung up, very satisfied.

  The following afternoon, he pulled on a clean t-shirt, jeans, and slung a jacket over his shoulder before heading out to his father’s garage. He hauled a dusty tarp off a Jensen Interceptor, a seventies-era British sports car. He pulled another tarp off a Mercedes convertible, also part of Chaz’s collection of classic cars, before landing on a slate grey Jaguar XJS. Brighton liked fast cars, and he knew she’d appreciate his pick.

  After grabbing a bite to eat and navigating away from a mob of hysterical fans, waving tabloids in his face, he pulled behind the decrepit building the photographer had scouted. Albert popped out of a cab. The two went up together, exchanging polite banter about everything except their last night in Costa Rica. Graham greeted them dressed in a purple, velour suit complete with rhinestone-studded crocodile shoes.

  “Check out these tiger stripes,” he said, running his hand along the jacket lapel. He tipped his plumed hat.

  “Halloween costume or did you find a new profession?” Alex asked.

  A chuckle slipped from his lips, fully immersed in character.

  “Wonderful, you’re here,” said a stylist. “Are we still missing Finn?”

  No one answered.

  “I’m Sonya. I’m the stylist for the shoot.” Her inked eyebrows were like the edges of a butterfly’s wing. “The inspiration for this visionary cover is alter-ego slash Halloween slash sexy magazine spread.” Noticing the gash on Alex’s face, she tsked. “I supposed make-up will have to work that into your pirate ensemble.”

  “This is daft,” a loud voice called. “I didn’t sign up to dress up.”

  Alex didn’t avoid Finn’s bruised eye.

  Graham spoke. “No, you signed up to be in The Gracks and today The Gracks are playing dress up. Finn, if you need to talk, talk. Otherwise just do your job.”

  Alex wasn’t entirely sure how seriously Finn would take Graham, dressed up like a pimp. Nonetheless, he didn’t utter a word or crack a smile.

  The remaining three, still in street clothes, quickly changed into costumes and went into a brightly lit room for styling. Graham laughed when Alex appeared as a pirate, and Albert padded into the room dressed as a superhero, cape and all.

  Minutes later, Finn joined them on the roof of the building dressed as a vampire. The costumes acted as a shield between them, relieving Alex of having to interact with Finn in a meaningful way. Although they had to pose together, neither said a word; though, at least for Finn, it may have been because of the fangs stuffed in his mouth.

  After four grueling hours, the photographer called, “That’s a wrap,” and everyone disappeared to change into their regular clothing. Alex caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. An assistant to Sonya began removing his heavy pirate jacket when he had an idea.

  “Do you mind if I hang onto this? I have somewhere to be.”

  The girl shrugged. Alex returned the sword. After saying goodbye to Graham and Albert, he dashed out to the car.

  Plodding through traffic, his foot danced between the accelerator and brake as he rushed to Heathrow.

  After parking, assuring himself his disguise would work, he waited for Brighton outside the arrivals area. Weary travelers passed him wheeling suitcases and hugging in reunion. As the stream of people dwindled, a slim figure with red hair appeared. She was class and sass, green eyes and glass features, lips that could kiss and kill. There, was his girl. He had the urge to run up to her in greeting and sweep her off her feet. But security wouldn’t take kindly to a pirate tackle-hugging a young woman just arriving from America.

  When she cleared TSA, he walked quickly toward her, but her gaze hovered around and behind him until he planted himself a foot away.

  “Bri.”

  Her face flashed with recognition. “You scurvy dog,” she said, playing along and pulling him into a kiss. Another flight arrived as travelers brushed by them, but their lips never left the other’s, as tongues explored mouths and breathing became optional.

  Finally, Brighton looked into his blue-grey eyes. “I missed you. I just didn’t realize how much.”

  Chapter Four

  After they’d tucked Brighton’s bags in the Jag, she stood back admiring it. “This,” she nodded her head, “I like. But I’m not sure how I feel about touring London with a pirate.”

  “The costume is leftovers from a Gracks photo shoot.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Disastrous. But being at the airport and not surrounded by flashing cameras and screaming fans is a welcome relief. I figured this was a suitable choice. I’m semi-incognito.”

  At the reference to his fear of flying, a shadow crossed Brighton’s face. He instantly regretted reminding her of his former instability and reliance on drugs and alcohol to cope with daily life. It was only after they’d met; he’d dealt with his wacked ex, and realized how very bright reality could be, especially in her company, that he was able to manage with a beer or glass of wine in social settings and not a drop more. He also knew how he’d probably forever balance on the edge of venturing into dark places if he didn’t remain vigilant. There were some things, namely his mother walking out on him, that he’d never be able to resolve. But he had Brighton, and he’d do whatever he could to keep in the light.

  He dangled the keys in front of her palms. “Want to drive?”

  She peered through the driver’s side window. “Let me get used to being a passenger on the left side of the road before you put me behind the wheel of an expensive car. I assume this is your father’s.”

  “Indeed. Just say when you’re ready, and the keys are yours,” Alex answered, opening the door for her.

  “You trust me?” she asked.

  “You trusted me first,” he said, recalling when she let him drive her father’s 1969 Chevelle, her beloved CC.

  As she
lowered into the car, she pecked him on the lips, her long lashes fringing her emerald, green eyes. A smile hitched at the corner of her mouth filling him with longing. Alex couldn’t wait to get out of the stupid pirate suit.

  Back at the flat, he shuffled out of the costume, while Brighton ran a bath.

  Poking his head in the doorway, she stood, naked, with her back to him. Her long hair cascaded over her shoulders. She wiggled her finger for him to enter. Heat surged beneath his navel.

  She reclined in the bath, bubbles revealing just her head and chest. Alex stepped in behind her, and she leaned into him. When they once may have faded together, like dying stars, folding inward, both lost in their own brands of pain, instead, they’d grown and healed, melting into each other with molten attraction, connection, and audio vibration. They fit together perfectly, shining brightly from the flames of renewal.

  “I think the last time I was in this time zone was when I was still young enough to take baths,” she said.

  “Yeah, and my dad couldn’t get me near one.”

  “You were a grubby little kid.” She turned over, her chest on his stomach, her chin resting on her hands. She smirked. He loved the way her lips curled up, almost crooked. The curve of her breasts, teased him from under her hair and bubbles, and the smoky, yet feminine sound of her voice turned him on, on, on.

  “Let’s clean that stage makeup off. I want to see you,” she said, grabbing a washcloth.

  He’d forgotten the makeup artist had fitted him with a couple scars and eye makeup to make him look more authentic.

  When she scrubbed near his eye, he winced. “That one’s real,” he said.

  “Did you get hurt surfing?”

  “Something like that. Finn and I had a barney, a scuffle.”

  “Should I ask why?”

  Alex didn’t answer, but instead he placed his lips on hers, sensation building between his legs. They dripped out of the tub and into the bed, kissing and groping all the while.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he whispered. Overcome with lust as he ran his hands along her waist, he hiked her legs around his. They sent the pillows scattering. He felt her heartbeat fluttering against his chest as he pressed into her.

  “I’ve been wanting this every day we were apart,” she said, her breath coming quick.

  In a swift motion, he flipped onto his back so she could be on top. He watched her bump and swell as she moved her hips back and forth until they both fulfilled their desires.

  As they lay side by side, from around a chain on her neck, Alex plucked up the guitar pick he’d given her. Printed on it were the coordinates for Brighton England, where they’d first, first met, before loss and life had spoiled them both. It was a place he’d always called home and hoped she would too. He flipped it over. On the other side, was the word, Always. Meaning he’d always love her—no matter if oceans or continents divided them or if she went off with someone else or discovered she was a lesbian. It also told her she always had a home to return to with him and in that town by the sea. The pick reminded him of how far they’d traveled together, actual miles in her Chevelle and the kind that were uncountable, but populated by landmarks like laughter, and tears.

  Chapter Five

  The dim grey light of a London morning filtered through the heavy drapes. Alex woke, alone in bed. He followed Brighton’s voice to the kitchen where she sat on a chair with her knees drawn up to her chest. She smiled weakly and then got off the phone with an, “I love you, Mom.”

  “How’s Claire?” Alex asked, pouring himself a cup of tea.

  “Going to sleep.”

  “She’s a night owl, huh?”

  “We’ve both been struggling with that lately.” Brighton looked out the window as if traveling outside the kitchen to a private, shaded place.

  “Did last night help?”

  Turning back to him, she grinned.

  “I see you made toast. It looks cold,” he said, taking the chair opposite her.

  She took a sip of his tea, stood, and then planted herself onto his lap. Apparently, she cast off whatever had clouded her face for those moments after the phone call. “So, when does this tour begin?” she asked, tracing her finger down his chest.

  “I was going to say let’s start with a proper English breakfast, but…”

  After they made love, they set off. The morning was cool for summer, even by London standards. Alex pulled a hat over his shaggy hair.

  “Not so incognito,” Brighton said.

  “Let’s just hope it’s too early for the mobs to be out.”

  “Tell me where we are,” Brighton said, glancing around the street lined with austere flats bordered by gates and hedges.

  Alex went on to describe the neighborhood. Even though it wasn’t where Bang Bang, their fathers’ famous band, had started out, they’d laid claim to it later on when they’d risen to fame with late night parties, street races, and recorded Neil, the drummer, playing a song in the rain.

  “Right there by that hydrant. It was that song with the eerie pattering. Clock Washer, off the third album. That sound you heard, that was the rain. Neil actually reminds me of our drummer, Albert. He’s quiet and slow moving, but then he’ll have these explosive, revolutionary ideas that will just blow your mind, but it’s completely unexpected.”

  Walking those familiar streets, he saw the history with his own band, The Gracks: a sticker on a sign from when they were still Gracked, the spot where Finn lost his lunch after trying a hair of the dog to relieve his hangover, and the bench where he sat when the idea for the hit song, Cin-escape came to him.

  “It’s a shame I can’t be a normal guy walking down the street anymore.”

  “I don’t think you were ever normal,” Brighton said, laughing.

  He loved that sound.

  They took a table at the back of Mother’s Pantry, a classic breakfast joint in Shoreditch. After placing their order, Alex said, “They used to come here, your dad and mine, but I guess it was smaller then, just that area there.” He pointed across the room to an aged section of the building.

  Alex was careful, unsure what kind of effect touring memory lane would have on Brighton. He wanted to help her heal and relieve the burden of loss she carried. He wanted to see her happy and light. So far, she wore a mask of cheer, but beneath that, he saw stony trouble, like rocky plates grinded together, building pressure, ready to tremor and quake.

  “Crap,” he said as a group of people with wide lens cameras crowded the window by the entry. “Someone here must have clued them in. Back door exit for us. I’m sorry.”

  Brighton shrugged and finished her coffee.

  On the street, Alex heard a man say, “He’s leaving this way.” Footfalls echoed on the sidewalk. He ushered her forward, toward the sidewalk on the other side of the block. Camera shutters clicked. The paparazzi shouted questions he wasn’t interested in hearing. Then one got especially close and said, “Is that the girl who’s breaking up the band?”

  Alex rounded on them, tucking Brighton behind him. “Go ahead. Take your bloody photographs,” he said, with his arms outstretched. “You think people really give a monkey’s arse what I eat for breakfast? How about this, what if I let the public know you wankers chased me down an alley? Threatened my girlfriend and ruined my morning? I suggest you take a break for a few days, else you’ll be hearing from my legal team.”

  Alex made a grand bow, sneered, and they stepped back onto the street. He exhaled loudly, saying, “Now, maybe we can be proper tourists.”

  After they’d successfully visited the Tower of London and admired the Queen’s Jewels, scaled the Bridge, waved to the guards in front of Buckingham Palace, checked out an exhibition at the National Gallery, and then evaded some teens—on a field trip, tailing them—Alex took Brighton off the beaten path to an umbrella shop.

  “Brollies, all shapes and sizes. It rains here, a bit,” he whispered facetiously as they entered the dusty store.

  Brighton’
s face lit into a smile at the reminder of the summer before, in Portland, when she’d used the term, brolly. “Do you also remember this?” she said, leading him into a corner. Out of sight of the shopkeeper, she planted her lips on his.

  At the sound of a stern throat clearing, they pulled apart and dashed out onto the street.

  “We have a couple weeks, right?” Alex asked, unsure the duration of her stay since she’d booked her tickets while intoxicated. He knew she had to return to UCLA for her senior year the last week in August.

  “I think I saw half the city today.”

  “That was the touristy, cheesy stuff. Tomorrow I’ll show you the London your dad knew,” Alex said, gauging how she tolerated the words.

  “Yeah. That’d be good,” she said.

  Alex was slightly dubious; she seemed preoccupied.

  That night, he woke to the sound of Brighton’s voice, carrying from the kitchen. Just as he had in the morning, he found her there on the phone. Tears streamed down her face. She quickly hung up. He took her in his arms, carrying her back to the bed. Tucking the blanket close, he said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Chapter Six

  “My mom, she found a lump,” Brighton said, her voice small and faraway.

  Alex pulled her closer as fear-filled tears dampened the sheets.

  “She went to the doctor. They had to take a biopsy, and now she’s waiting.”

  “They say that’s the worst part.”

  She nodded against his chest.

  “How’s she holding up?”

  “That’s the thing; she’s going along as if everything is fine, like she might not be dying.”