Falling Sky

by Lisa Swallow

  “Okay.”

  “Really?”

  “Someone has to keep an eye on you,” she says but under the joke is the truth.

  “Fuck, I love you.”

  “Can you not do that?” she mutters.

  I let her go, unsure what she means. I’m not touching her in the places I’m aching to. “What?”

  “Prefix the sentence ‘I love you’ with the word fuck.”

  Smirking, I kiss her nose. “I fucking love you, Sky Davis.”

  Sky smacks me in the chest, but she laughs too. “Yeah, I kind of like you, too.”

  “Well, I’ll have to work on that, won’t I? Go and pack.”

  Snaking a hand beneath my t-shirt and across my stomach, fingers hovering above the waistband of my jeans, Sky leans in and tugs my lip between her teeth. When I move to respond, mind already racing ahead to what I’m going to do to her, she kisses me quickly on the mouth then steps back.

  “Okay, I’ll pack.”

  I scrunch my face up as she throws me a smug smile. “You are in so much trouble,” I growl.

  “I’ll look forward to whatever trouble that is.”

  Her fucking sexy self walks away and I summon up every ounce of self-control not to follow her.

  I need to talk to Jem.

  ****

  I bang on Jem’s door. He’s chosen to hole himself up at the opposite end of the house to everyone else, shut behind the old oak door of a room overlooking the hills toward the back of the house. Although I doubt he’s sitting and enjoying the view.

  Five minutes of standing here and I’m pissed off. “Jem, open the fucking door!”

  Still no response. Shit. The idea he may have overdosed too crosses my mind and I hammer loudly. We should’ve kept a closer eye on him. Jan told me she’d seen him briefly this morning, maybe I’m too paranoid.

  “What the fuck, man?” yells Jem’s voice.

  “Talk to me. If you want to stay in my house, open the door.”

  The door creaks open and Jem stands barefoot and shirtless. The dark room behind is a haze of blue smoke and smells of weed. His hair hangs in his face, over his stoned eyes.

  “What?”

  “I want to talk to you. I’m going away for a few days and I’m worried.”

  “Nothing to say.” He begins to close the door, but I push past.

  “Fuck, Jem, how much crap are you filling this room with?”

  The place spills with empty pizza boxes and beer bottles; the bedside table contains overflowing ashtrays and signs of drugs, not just weed. “I’m not happy. The police are all over us and you’re creating a drug den?”

  “So?” Jem sits and lights a cigarette.

  “Steve and Tina want us out of the country before the funeral. I came to let you know.”

  “Yeah. I wouldn’t go anyway.” He registers the disgust on my face. “Not because I don’t care. Because I don’t want to get arrested for kicking the shit out of someone. Bunch of fucking hypocrites.”

  I close the door and lean against it. “Who are?”

  “Perfect specimens of English nobility? Ha. Fucking abusers more like.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Jem shakes his hair from his face and takes a drag from his cigarette. “Doesn’t matter. Fuck all I can do about things now.”

  “Talk to me, Jem”

  “Nah. I’m good.” He crosses his legs and continues to smoke. “Can’t believe she died though. That’s fucked.”

  “Talk to me,” I press. “Or someone.”

  Jem pushes hair from his eyes and doesn’t answer. “When we going? Need to get the fuck away.”

  Surveying the room, I agree. “Steve’s around somewhere. Go ask him. Maybe sober up a bit first.”

  Jem snorts. “I’ll stick with this reality for now, thanks.” He tips his head. “And don’t try talking to me about this. I’ll deal my own way.”

  I want to say so much to the shadow of a man in front of me. The animosity thick from the summer has retreated in the last couple of months, my anger toward my almost-brother morphed into concern and frustration. He’s semi-coherent and looking to the tour for escape, maybe Steve is right. The only thing I can imagine stopping him now is if his creativity ends. Because if a death won’t change his behaviour, I’ve no idea what else can.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sky

  The boat’s journey across the water is calm, but my stomach isn’t. I sit on the edge of the small boat and stare at the horizon, the huge blue sky meeting the azure water and blending into one. The small island grows bigger as we approach. Dylan rubs my back and if I look at him and see he’s smirking, I know I’ll get annoyed. Instead, I focus on not throwing up.

  “The water is completely still, how can you feel sick?” The smirk I suspected is in his voice.

  “I just do,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Good job the trip from the mainland is short.” He places a warm hand on my clammy forehead. “I’ll leave buying the yacht I had my eye on then, if you don’t like boats.”

  “You don’t have a yacht? You’ll get kicked out of the billionaire club,” I mutter.

  “A private island doesn’t go one better?”

  When Dylan suggested we go away for Christmas, I thought he meant a secluded hotel somewhere. At most, his house in LA he’s mentioned before. He refused to tell me where, and we landed in the Bahamas where I presumed there was some kind of secret and exclusive resort. When Dylan told me he owns an island, I thought he was winding me up. Yet here it is, looming out of the water in front of us. As we get closer, the white sand of the beach stretches back into long strips of green trees. The pilot edges the boat around the other side and a house, a white painted wooden building with a terracotta-tiled roof emerges, half-hidden by the trees, set on the beach.

  I’m dreaming. I have to be.

  Stumbling off the boat and relieved to be on land, I sink onto the sand beneath the hot sun. I’m sure in the movies when girls are taken to tropical paradises by smoking hot men, they don’t sit on the beach trying not to vomit. “Did I tell you I don’t like boats?”

  Dylan looks down at me, his figure shading the sun. “About twenty times in the last half hour. Come on, you can’t stay there.”

  The guy from the boat strides past carrying bags and laughs at me, saying something I don’t catch. Embarrassed, I let Dylan pull me to my feet and heave in breaths.

  “Do you want me to carry you?” he asks.

  “No.” I pull off my sandals and trudge through the white sand after the man.

  The wooden and glass double doors are propped open, the white gauzy curtains blow in the gentle breeze. I sink into the nearest chair, a wicker seat with plump blue cushions. Dylan appears with a glass of water and a smile.

  “Will you stop laughing at me?” I snap.

  “I’m not, I’m happy to be here.”

  I take in the surroundings. A large ceiling fan, set into a wooden ceiling, twists slowly above. A cream tiled floor gleams and spreads through the open plan house into the kitchen. A bedroom lies opposite, the door open to reveal the edge of a bed.

  Is this real or a seasick induced illusion?

  “Slightly different to the last place we stayed at by the sea,” I say.

  “Just a bit.” Dylan sits next to me and laces his hand through mine.

  The sound of the boat leaving the shore fades. “Why didn’t you come here before, instead of going to Broadbeach? I doubt anyone could get close enough to bother you here?”

  “It wasn’t just the press I was running away from. This place is a part of rock star Dylan Morgan, who I was running from too.”

  “And Christmas? Why go back to London when you could spend time here away from everyone and everything?”

  If I owned this place, and liked the sun, I’d never leave.

  “I had more chance of seeing you if I went back to the UK.”

  I stroke his hand with my thumb. “I’m glad y
ou did.”

  “You look pale, are you still feeling sick?” He touches my forehead. “You could rest until you feel better? Want me to show you the bedroom?”

  I open my mouth to respond and see the teasing glint to his eye. He cups my face with his hand and brushes his lips against mine, testing. The nausea is replaced by the slow burn his lips cause inside and I press my lips harder to his. Dylan slides his hand to the nape of my neck, gripping my head to his and thrusting his tongue into my parted lips. Shocked by the sudden intensity of the kiss, and my body’s immediate arousal, I pull away. He slides his hand along my back, sneaking fingers beneath my shirt and lightly running them across my skin. I know where this is leading. I grab Dylan’s hand and lean away from him.

  “Sky…” He attempts to get his hand back under my shirt.

  Wriggling away from him, I place my hand over his tenting board shorts. “You’re going to have to wait,” I whisper.

  Dylan closes his eyes and rubs his lips together. “Don’t tease me.”

  “I want to see the island. Show me around.”

  “There are four beaches,” he says. “And a lot of trees. That’s about it.” He grasps my hair and attempts to pull me closer.

  “Dylan.”

  He rests his head against mine. “Fuck. Okay then.”

  I stand, extricating his hand from my hair. “I’ll get changed. Maybe we can look for shells?”

  “Shells? Seriously?” he asks in a low voice, watching me with darkened eyes.

  As I walk into the bedroom and pick up my bag, Dylan calls after me, “Feel free to throw your knickers around the room.”

  “Ha, ha, your wit and originality astounds me,” I call back.

  He doesn’t stay away long, enfolding me in his arms as he approaches from behind. He nudges my ear. “Start with the ones you’re wearing.”

  I slap at his hands, fighting down a giggle. “Dylan Morgan!”

  Despite his best attempts to get my underwear off and onto the bed, I stop him. He wanders off muttering and I sigh, and sit on the bed. Then I catch sight of the view.

  Wow.

  At the foot of the bed, the wooden floor leads to matching dark wood double doors open onto a beach. I shake my head, as if to dislodge the hallucination. A warm tropical breeze flows through the doors and the fan whirs overhead. Where the sea laps the sand a few hundred metres away, there’s no sound.

  I’m exhausted after the last-minute overnight plane trip (even though we travelled first class) and the vomit-inducing boat ride and I have the spaced-out feeling that can only lead to one thing. I lie back on the cool sheets, bury my head into the pile of the softest pillows and drift off to sleep, unaware of Dylan until he climbs on the bed next to me and spoons against me, head buried into my neck.

  ****

  I wake up late afternoon, the silence strange after months back in the suburbs. Dylan isn’t around so I pad across the floor toward the kitchen, half-expecting to find him cooking. A door leads from the kitchen to a paved terrace beneath a palm pagoda and Dylan reclines on a lounger in just a pair of green board shorts.

  “Tell me this isn’t real,” I say as I cross toward him.

  He opens his eyes and sits forward. Shirtless, the curve of his abs barely move as he shifts position and I attempt to look away. But he’s amazing and deserves to be looked at frequently. And licked. I rub my lips together. “Why wouldn’t you want this to be real?” he asks.

  “I don’t mind, everything just feels unreal.”

  “Don’t mind. I bring you to a tropical paradise and you’re ‘meh, I don’t mind.’” He makes a shrug, teasing me.

  I push his shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

  Dylan catches my hand and kisses the palm. “What do you normally do on Christmas Eve?”

  “Christmas Eve? Oh. I forgot. Quite often sit in a traffic jam and wish I’d left to get to Grant’s parents sooner.”

  I catch something in the way Dylan’s cheek muscle twitches and looks at my hand rubbing the back. Is he jealous of Grant? “How about you?”

  “Not much. Go out, get drunk, and go back to wherever I was staying. Rinse and repeat.”

  “Didn’t you go home?”

  “Which one?”

  “I meant to see your parents.”

  Dylan rubs his hand along my arm. “We can’t eat fish and chips on the beach tonight but I can still make us something.”

  “Not noodles I hope? I told you about those and taking girls on dates.” This is one of his problems; he avoids things.

  “I’m not dating you tonight, Sky. I’m doing to you on the beach exactly what I wanted to last time we made out on the beach.”

  My breath hitches at his words, unable to believe he can set off hot, wet chemical reactions in my body with a few words and a look. He arches a brow waiting for my response.

  “I’ll get a shower then.”

  Dylan runs his tongue along his teeth, sweeping his gaze along my figure. “Me too.”

  “Nope, you finish cooking.”

  He laughs and grabs me, squeezing me to his chest. “This is going to be an awesome Christmas!”

  ****

  I unpack my rucksack and grit my teeth as I discover someone has unpacked it already and repacked the bag with new clothes. I pull out a variety of summer dresses and bikinis. And lacy underwear. Half-annoyed and half-delighted by the surprise, I look through for something I like the look of. I settle on a short cotton dress which ties around the neck, blue with small cherries printed on. Then I look at the underwear. Is this Dylan’s taste? I pick up the lacy black briefs, relieved they’re not G-strings because the idea of wearing those the entire time I’ll be here doesn’t appeal. The cut of the dress doesn’t allow for a bra, and I wriggle into the cool cotton. I examine myself in the mirror and separate my hair with my fingers. Flushed from the shower and thoughts of Dylan removing the underwear I just put on, at least I’m not the pale mess I was when I arrived.

  I step outside. Halfway between the bedroom doors and the beach, a large blanket is spread on the sand. Plates and bowls covered by cloth are set out, and two glasses and bottle of champagne rest in a bucket buried into the sand. The browns and greens are woven together with gold and the material is soft against my legs as I sit down. Dylan stands in the water, ankle deep, unaware of me. His damp, green boardies hang low on his hips and I admire the sinew of his bare back, picturing myself beneath him as I often do when I watch him.

  We’ve escaped again, back to our bubble but this time we know who we are, or are beginning to. When he doesn’t approach, I stand and walk across the sand that’s cooling as the sun lowers in the sky. The sea is warm as I step into the water next to him.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, taking his hand.

  “I’m on an island I own with a beautiful woman I love. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

  “We’re not leaving everything behind though.”

  He pulls a face. “Why not?”

  “Because I think we need to talk about the future and deal with the present.” I pause. “And put the past to rest.”

  “Oh, so serious, Sky. Let’s just enjoy Christmas Eve?” He takes my face in his hands and kisses me softly on the lips. His way of shutting me up. “Pretty dress.”

  I scowl at him. “Yes.”

  “They must’ve accidentally swapped your bag at the airport?” he asks innocently.

  “Yes, with someone exactly the same dress size as me. That was lucky.”

  Dylan smirks in his annoyingly sexy way. Annoying because I can’t be mad with him when the smile sharpens his cheekbones and the happiness in his face adds to his attraction.

  Taking my hand, we wade out of the water. He kneels on the blanket, and he uncovers the bowls. Underneath, cold meats and salads remind me I haven’t eaten.

  “I couldn’t manage fish and chips, unfortunately.”

  I smile at the memory as he spoons some onto a plate and hands it to me. “Thank you.” I lean in and kiss
his cheek.

  We sit quietly, watching the huge orange sun descend beneath the horizon and eat. Dylan rubs his hand along my leg, fingers playing under the hem of the knee-length dress.

  “Do you remember the first night on the beach?” he asks.

  “How am I ever going to forget the first night you kissed me, Dylan?”

  “What did you think of me?” In the dimming light, his expression is difficult to make out.

  “Before or after you gave me the most amazing kiss of my life?”

  “Before.”

  I rewind to the time in the summer that feels a lifetime away. “By that point, I thought you were a little lost like me. I’d stopped worrying about your knicker-thieving fetish and was finding you way too attractive.”

  “My what?”

  “Nothing.”

  Dylan tugs his brow together and shakes his head slightly. “Don’t you want to know what I thought about you?”

  “That I was a sarcastic mouthed girl who amused you?”

  “Were you surprised when I kissed you?”

  “A little.”

  Dylan leans close and brushes his mouth against my ear. “Do you know how hard it was to control myself on the beach that night? I’d spent almost every moment I was around you fighting the urge to find out how your lips tasted, how your skin felt beneath my hands.”

  The tingling his breath starts on my face and spreads through my body. The sensation of his hand rubbing my thigh heats between my legs. As usual. “Really?” I ask breathlessly.

  “Right from the moment your angry-faced self gave me a piece of her mind in that country lane. Fuck, Sky, nobody had spoken to me like that for years, and for you to, was a huge turn on.” He caresses the nape of my neck, lips moving across my skin to my lips.

  “I don’t believe you,” I mumble. “You said you liked me because I didn’t want to fuck you, remember?”

  Dylan pulls away, eyes shining. “Correct, but I never said I was happy about that.” He runs his tongue slowly across my bottom lip, and I part them. Gently, he moves his mouth against mine, pressing me to him as he holds his hand to my back. The impossible tenderness of the kiss isn’t what I expected. His tongue plays with mine and we focus on the kiss, not touching anywhere but each other’s faces. Dylan pulls away and strokes my cheek with the back of his hand, the way he did the last time we kissed on the beach.