“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.
Where did the air go in this room? “Dylan…”
“Please don’t be angry, I’m sorry I came here tonight, but I can’t get you out of my head or heart. You’re killing me.” He lifts a hand and strokes my hair, setting electrical charges across my scalp.
“You’re drunk.”
“Kind of. Went out with some of the band and had a shit time. So I came to see you.”
“You went clubbing in Bristol?” I ask incredulously.
“London.”
London’s over a two-hour drive. I hope he didn’t drive himself.
“I preferred you when you didn’t drink,” I retort. The smell of alcohol on his breath detracts from my arousal. I’m sure he smells of perfume too, unless he’s changed to a floral aftershave. I cross my arms tightly over my chest.
His shoulders slump as he backs off. “Yeah, me too.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say to you.”
He ignores me again. “Do you want to go to the States?”
I blink. Why does he always change the subject if he doesn’t like what he’s hearing? “What?”
“I’m touring next month. Going on tour is part of what I ran away from but I have to go. You can come - if you were with me I could cope…”
“I can’t drop everything and run off to the States, even if I wanted to.”
“Why not? If you haven’t found a job yet take time out with me?”
I yank open the kitchen cupboard to retrieve a jar of coffee, and a glimmer of temptation appears as the door handle comes off in my hand. Swap a crappy flat and non-job for a summer in the States? Am I mad not to?
I turn back, study the semi-inebriated guy who came to my flat in the middle of the night. Dylan stalked me here and that’s not normal. Nothing about him is normal.
“Do you often do this?”
“What?”
“Stalk girls because they say no to you?”
He stands straight in alarm. “No. I’m not stalking you!”
“How can you stand there and say that? Look at this situation. How was this behaviour going to change my mind? You’re being creepy! How many normal people travel over a hundred miles to visit someone who refuses to see them?”
The confusion on his face surprises me. Does he not see anything wrong here?
“Okay. I’m sorry. I did the wrong thing. I didn’t think.” Dylan runs a hand through his hair, drunken eyes fixed on mine. “What should I have done? What do I have to do?”
“Do? Go home maybe?”
“No, to change your mind.”
I shake my head. “Not be who you are, which will never happen.”
He catches me off-guard, moving forwards and placing his large palm on my face before I can react. “I love you.”
Insulted tears fight their way into my eyes and I push his hand away. “Don’t say that! Stop trying to manipulate me!”
“It’s true. Shit, Sky, I’ve not felt anything close to how I feel about you for years. This is what you’ve done to me.”
“Don’t you dare accuse me of doing this to you! You’re drunk and talking bullshit. Leave.” I push him in the chest, to push the surge of agreement in my mind away.
“Why won’t you believe me?”
I flick my fingers at him. “Because you’re a drunk mess. Nobody falls in love after less than a week!”
“Love isn’t something predictable, Sky, and doesn’t follow rules. You can’t decide who to fall in love with, or when. Love and logic don’t go together, but when I’m with you, everything makes sense.”
Why is he doing this to me? My heart is caged after Grant broke it, mending and fragile. Dylan will forget me, get bored, move on and my life will be upside down. This isn’t love; this is power play.
“I think you should leave now,” I say softly, scared he may get agitated if I won’t accept what he’s telling me.
“Something happened though. I can’t believe you didn’t notice. I feel like I found my missing piece and together we clicked into place. With you, I’m whole. We created something stronger because we’re meant to be together. That’s what I mean when I say I love you.”
“This isn’t love. I think you’re in love with the idea of us being in love.”
Dylan screws his eyes up and mouths the words. The words didn’t make much sense to me either.
“I’m in love with the idea of us, yeah.” He approaches me and I tense. The metal of his rings are cool against my cheek as he cups my face. Dylan’s face is so close; the tiny spark between our mouths I felt the night on the beach is there. His warm breath against my lips, so close I could lose myself in his orbit again.
“So am I, but only the idea,” I say hoarsely, fighting the inner screaming to place my mouth on his.
“We could be so good for each other, this is meant to be,” he murmurs.
“And so bad, too.” With monumental self-control, I pull my face away from his hand. “Please, can we just forget each other?”
Dylan’s eyes regain their lost confusion. “Forget? Never going to happen. You’re here, forever.” He holds a hand over his heart. Sensible Sky would laugh at him, but he’s earnest.
“And I’ll always carry a piece of you, Dylan. You touched my life and I’ll never forget, but I can’t let you take over.”
“Why do you say that? Why would I? Fuck, Sky, I know better than to try and mess with you.”
“Well, you’re trying…”
“I would never tell you what to do or ask you to do or be anything apart from yourself. Why would I want to change who I fell in love with into someone else?”
The late hour and onslaught of emotion from Dylan does nothing to help me hold things together. He has to leave before I cry; before I listen to what he’s saying and know his words make sense if I want them to. But the Sky standing here has only recently pushed her way out of someone else’s control. This Sky has to change, not replace Grant with someone else.
Even if he is a six foot, hot as hell rock star who makes a mean bacon sandwich.
“I don’t know, because I don’t know you.” Summoning my remaining courage, I weave past him and open the front door.
“You do. You’re the only one who does.”
I tense as he steps towards me again. Dylan shakes his head at my reaction.
“Dylan, please go.”
He steadies himself on the doorframe. “I won’t give up on you,” he says. “I’ll wait until you change your mind.”
My scalp prickles. “You may be used to getting
what you want, but you can’t make someone feel what you want them to.”
“Sky, if I thought you didn’t feel the same underneath your protective walls, I wouldn’t be here.”
He stumbles and leaves the flat without looking back. Closing the door, I rest against it and stare at the stained ceiling. Why can’t he be a normal guy living an everyday life so I could act on how I feel?
Chapter Twenty
Sky
After the restless night, I sleep in and don’t have time to shower before work. I hate not showering every morning, but I’m on a new contract and tardiness could end the job. Finding temporary work is easy enough but swapping around different companies is a pain in the backside. So I tie my hair back, use extra deodorant and attempt to make up my face so I look closer to human than zombie.
The summer sunshine warms the day, the cloudless sky brightening my mood. I wish the days in Broadbeach had been sunnier, and then chastise myself for allowing my memories to wander back there again. As I leave the flat, I join the conveyor belt world. Kids wander past the gate towards school; cars drive by and queue at the end of the road and people stack at the bus stop.
A young guy from the downstairs flat I see every morning, but never speak to, leaves at the same time. Today he’s wearing a Blue Phoenix T-shirt over scruffy blue jeans, unkempt brown hair hanging in his eyes. I stare in disbelief - as if a part of Dylan has to be in my world all the time. The guy watches me curiously from under his fringe. I rub my face, hoping I haven’t left toast hanging out of my hair or something. He mutters a greeting and I resolve to speak to him soon, giving him a breezy hello for now.
A man sits on the low wall outside the Victorian house. He’s middle-aged, dressed in slacks and a zipped green combat jacket. He stands as I walk along the path, but I don’t register him.
“Are you Sky Davis?” he asks.
I halt unable to control my wide-eyed response to him. “Why?”
Oh, shit. Why did I not notice the camera he’s holding in his hand, partly obscured behind his back. My look of realisation meets his and he grins. “I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to talk to you about Dylan Morgan.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He smirks. “Come on, sweetheart. I saw him here last night.”
Fuck. Not only does Dylan wake me up to profess his drunken love for me, but also he leads people to my front door. “No, I don’t think you did.”
I step to one side as the guy from my flats passes. He has earbuds in – hopefully, he didn’t hear what the photographer said.
“See, most people think this thing Dylan Morgan had with the strange girl is nothing. But I get there’s more to this, especially now I’ve discovered the girl’s name is Sky and he’s visiting her here. You can talk to us about everything, Sky.”
Perspiration breaks out across my back, the day I’ve dreaded is here. I don’t respond, mind whirling as I walk by.
“Sky.”
I turn back to him, and his grin reveals yellowing teeth. Shit. I confirmed what he needed to know by reacting to my name. Nice job, Sky.
When he points the camera at me, I know being late for work is the least of my problems today.
*****
I’m no fan of social media. I have Facebook but rarely use it – all my friends from school post pictures of their babies or their holidays and (bizarrely) their dinner but I can’t see the point in wasting my time. Twitter is a mysterious universe I haven’t touched.
And social media works at lightning speed.
Mid-morning, I’m sitting in the lunchroom, dunking Rich Tea biscuits into my instant coffee, when a text comes through from Tara.
A picture of Dylan walking away from my flat in the dark is attached. The bastard didn’t try to disguise himself.
My hand shakes as I type a response. ‘Not what it looks’
I don’t think I want to, but I do. A Blue Phoenix fan blog has posted a series of pictures – several of Dylan last night and one of me looking worse than I thought I did this morning, with added ‘wtf?’ expression for good measure. Both sets of pictures are clearly taken outside my flat – one in the dark, one in the morning but by the same gate.
Fuck.
Shit.
Already a thread decrying Dylan’s choice of woman has begun beneath. A discussion speculating where the picture was taken and how to find me has started.
How to find me?
Holy crap.
Text from Tara.
Tara works from home some days, although ‘work’ normally vies with TV chat shows for her attention.
My pale face and shaking is enough to convince my supervisor I have gastro and need to go home. Head down, heart beating in time with my rapid footsteps, I head for the bus. Dazed, I sit on the bus stop bench. The metal is cool against my legs, and grounds me. I stare at my shoes, mind reeling at what might be about to happen.
All because Dylan can’t take no for an answer.
*****
I perch on Tara’s expensive sofa in her immaculate flat. I always feel as if I’m walking into a show home when I visit. Unlike mine, there’re never empty mugs, half-empty biscuit wrappers or clothes strewn around her flat.
Chewing a nail, I stare at the photographs of Tara and friends - nights out, on holiday, at birthday parties. I absentmindedly wonder why I’m not in any; I’m sure I was at some of the occasions I can see on there. An ironic reaction, since appearing in pictures when I don’t want to is why I’m here.
Tara crosses towards me, dressed in yoga pants and a loose black top, hair pulled into a ponytail but somehow making her ensemble appear classy. She hands me a mug of tea.
“Will you tell me what’s going on with Dylan?” she asks gently.
“Nothing. Honestly.”
“Then why was he seen leaving your flat?”
I wipe my face with my hand. “I didn’t ask him to come. He won’t leave me alone.”
“And you want him to?” she asks, and her disbelief is clear in her tone.
I look at Tara as if she’s sprouted an extra, equally pretty head.
“Do you honestly think I could have a relationship with this guy and not end up with my heart torn out and my life a screwed up mess again? He’s only doing this because I’m saying no.”
“Sky, you already said yes. If he wants sex, he got that, didn’t he?” I don’t respond so she takes this as a yes. “Maybe there’s more? Maybe he really does like you?”
But he didn’t get sex, not entirely. God, all I have to do is recall one tiny memory of that night and my lady parts react. I pull a magazine from her table and point at the cover.
“Do I look like her?” I flick through until I find a section comparing models and actresses at awards nights. “Or her?”
My jab becomes more vehement with each person I point to, because this is something bothering me. This is what stopped me; each time I was tempted to reply to him in the first few days after I left Broadbeach.
I left a relationship with someone who tried to change me into the image of how he thought I should be, and I began to mould myself to Grant’s image. Dylan Morgan’s world’s idea of women isn’t mine.
Tara interrupts with the same words the other voice in my head uses. “But he already knows you don’t look like these girls. He’s seen you naked, right?”
“I’m not talking about being more than a size minus 20, I wouldn’t want to be. I’m comfortable with who I am. Look at how manufactured they are. What if he wants to manufacture me so I’ll fit his world?”
Like Grant did. And I did for Grant.
Tara doesn’t respond, sipping her drink. “Hell, so many women would give their right arm to swap with you. You’re crazy.”
“All this doesn’t matter because he’s going away soon anyway. Then he’ll forget about me.”
My words hurt, and I wonder what the hell is wrong with me. All the time the words that come out are denial – not wanting to be used or changed. But every time I think about him with someone else my stomach twists into knots.
“So, did you check out the website I linked?” asks Tara.
“Briefly.” I clamp up, blanking the not-so-pleasant things written about me. “Do you think they’ll look for me?’
“Yes.”
“Gee, thanks. Some kind of ‘maybe not’ encouragement would’ve been good.”
Tara shrugs. “You need to be realistic about this. I guess things will die down.”
“If he keeps away…”
Something in Tara’s expression concerns me, as if she doesn’t want him staying away either.
Tara places her mug on the coffee table. “How about we drive past your flat and see if there’s anyone there?”
As we drive across the city, my head spins. Even if they have discovered who I am and where I live, how the hell could they get there so quickly? I only left four hours ago. Tara pulls into my street, her Nissan Micra crawling towards my flat.
“Advance guard,” says Tara.
I follow her line of vision. Three girls sit on the wall next to the gate, chatting to the man who accosted me earlier. Tara keeps driving, and I glance at them hoping they don’t look up. They’re late teens, which is strange – you’d think they’d know better than to behave like the tweens who follow boy bands around. Two of them are bleached blondes in tiny shorts and tops, the third has sleek black hair. All three are beautiful.
“You think they’re waiting for me?” I ask when I turn my head back to Tara.
“No, him. But if they see you they might not be too friendly.”
Groaning, I slump down in the seat and put my face in my hands. “I should’ve said no to sharing his pizza and left the house that night.”
Summer Sky: A Blue Phoenix Book Page 14