Unplugged: A Blue Phoenix Book Read online

  Unplugged

  A Blue Phoenix Book

  Copyright © 2014 Lisa Swallow

  Cover designed by Najla Qamber Designs

  Editing by Hot Tree Editing

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

  Dedication

  In memory of Steve.

  You deserved to be the rock star you wanted to be, so Liam is for you.

  CHAPTER 1

  DECEMBER 2013

  LIAM

  The pictures leaked on the internet hit the front page of the celebrity magazines and I’m done. I don’t speak to her; I pack and leave.

  Her. Honey. My fiancée, on the front page of Hello magazine attached to another guy. Some minor Hollywood celeb, Mason Rogers. I think he’s in some new but shitty comedy show. I don’t care who he is but I care that Honey’s been photographed on nights out with him.

  When the pictures hit, Honey denied everything and I believed her. The tears were genuine, washing half her perfectly applied make-up to her neck. But what kind of tears? Guilt? Fear of losing me? Who knows? Mason denies there’s an affair, too. Cosy meals at exclusive restaurants and kisses in corners where they think nobody can see. Pretty damn incriminating. Affairs are hard enough for the ordinary person to hide – if you’re engaged to a member of Blue Phoenix, you’ll never get away with this shit.

  I can’t face more of the same tear-filled excuses and if I hung around in the States my soft-hearted self would believe Honey. Again. This isn’t the first time this has happened. Honey needs to get a grip on her self-esteem and not accuse me of screwing around. Every time she’s suspicious of me, this happens, her fucked-up revenge for nothing. We’re supposed to be getting married in May. No way, not anymore.

  So, I leave a note, telling Honey I’m going home for Christmas. St Davids, the tiny city in Wales, hasn’t technically been my home for a lot of years but always welcomes me. Honey wouldn’t want to come here anyway; this place falls far below her designer standards. She’d be like a caged animal, on display for people to stare at and wonder.

  At the moment, I fucking wonder, too. Wonder if I’m an idiot thinking someone as beautiful as Honey wants me, and not just the money and status I bring her.

  ****

  I walk off the plane at Heathrow and head toward the usual route out of the place, which stops the press seeing who arrives. Although, I doubt the press are interested; much to Honey’s disgust, we don’t get the press attention she’d like. This year, Dylan’s disappearing act and disastrous relationship with this chick, Sky, he found while he was away, and Jem’s idea of a joke, dating an heiress, is way more interesting than the bass guitarist engaged to up and coming actress Honey Wilson. Suits me.

  I slept on the flight after a few whiskeys so I don’t feel too jet lagged. I asked Dave to bring one of my cars up from London so I can drive myself to my parents. Home for Christmas and I’m leaving all the rock star shit behind, no chauffeurs now.

  Mum and Dad’s house is in a housing estate which rests half way between the small town and the coast; their detached house has all the room we longed for when I was growing up. I bought the house for them, despite Dad’s protests. He’s old school, doesn’t think his son should be looking after him. I teased Dad and told him now he’s an old fart; it’s my turn to look after him. The house I bought isn’t as exclusive or expensive as I’d like, but at least my parents are mortgage-free with an easier life.

  My younger sister, Louise, still lives at home. She left school and works at a local bank, hasn’t the desire to get the hell out of St Davids that I had. I offered to buy her a place of her own, but she refuses. Sure, Louise loves her rock star brother and his occasional expensive gift, but she won’t let me pay her way in life. I respect her for that.

  The smell of winter, damp earth, and the cold air hits as I climb out of the car in my parents’ driveway. Memories of Christmases as a kid follow me up the pathway as the red and gold tinsel glints in the window, catching the late afternoon sun. I have a key but if I let myself in that could be too much of a surprise.

  I ring the doorbell and the imaginatively named Goldie, our spaniel, runs to the door barking. Through the frosted glass, a female figure approaches and the childish excitement grows.

  The door opens and Mum stares at me as if I’m the ghost of Christmas past, as she holds the collar of a wriggling Goldie.

  “Liam? You never said you were coming home!” She never seems to age or maybe that’s me not wanting time to pass. Dressed in black slacks and a brown jumper, she’s my mum and she’s my home. Mum lets go of the dog’s collar and wraps her arms around me, squeezing tight. The dog leaps around my feet, clawing at my legs. I lean down and scoop up Goldie who half-jumps into my arms. Holding the licking, happy dog, I walk into the warmth of the house.

  Christmas cards cover the magnolia painted wall, strung between photo frames holding mine and Louise’s years of school portraits.

  “Louise! Liam’s here!” calls Mum as I follow her into the kitchen.

  Sitting at the old oak table in the kitchen, a little girl looks up from her plate. She’s eating tinned spaghetti, the orange sauce covering her chin and cheeks. I don’t know who looks the more surprised, me or her. I figure she’s around four years old, but what the hell do I know? And who is she? The girl’s dark brown hair touches her shoulders and she licks some of the sauce from her face.

  “You’re the same colour as Goldie,” she says.

  The dog is a golden spaniel, and I’m wearing denim and a leather jacket. I’m confused.

  She points with the fork. “Your hair.”

  “I’d say your hair was more the colour of the spaghetti,” says my sister from the hallway. Louise wasn’t blessed with my colouring; her hair is brown like Mum’s, although currently it’s almost blonde.

  I drop the dog and my sister comes over, wrapping me in a huge hug. She smells of the same floral perfume that she wore as a teen, one that used to fill the air in the upstairs of our small house. Louise’s perfume, Mum’s cooking, and the smell of oil on Dad’s clothes when he came home from working at the car garage; these are the scents that pull me back in time. Mix in the Christmas smell of tinsel and already I’m pulled away from the crazy shit in the States and back to a comfortable normality.

  Louise grabs my face and squeezes my cheeks. “So, big brother, what’re you doing sneaking home? Where’s Barbie?” She looks past me and I give her a warning look.

  “You haven’t met her, don’t judge.”

  “Is she here?” asks Louise.

  “No.”

  “Did you split?”

  “Leave him alone, Lou.” Thankfully, Mum interrupts with a mug of tea. I take it automatically although I can’t remember the last time I drank tea. Over-priced coffee, yes; tea from a teapot? Only here.

  Through the whole exchange, the little girl has stared; mouth open and spaghetti sliding off her fork. I imagine myself in her eyes: tall man, bright red hair (call me ginger and I’ve been known to punch) pulled back in a ponytail, tattoos spreading from under my sleeves and across my wrists. I probably look like shit, too. The girl doesn’t look frightened, just amazed.

  “What about you, Lou?” I ask. “I only saw you a year ago and you have a three year old?�
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  “I’m four!” protests the girl.

  Now I’m confused. “You babysitting? Or have you started adopting strange children?”

  “Ella and her mum are staying with us,” Mum says, passing me a chocolate biscuit, which I automatically shove in my mouth.

  “For Christmas?”

  They glance at each other. “For a few weeks.”

  Some kind of woman code thing passes between them, I think. Whatever, none of my business.

  “Sorry about that, is she behaving?” A woman’s voice with a Welsh lilt to match the others carries into the room from behind my sister.

  Louise steps to one side. “She’s fine, Cerys.”

  “Oh, good...” Cerys halts as she notices me and my hearts stutters.

  I thought I recognised the name.

  Cerys, my sister’s best friend all grown up. They were fifteen when I left town with Blue Phoenix at eighteen so they’re twenty-two now. I remember her as a teen — shy, a little awed by the scruffy rock band making a name for themselves around Wales. Anyone and anything to do with my little, teen sister annoyed me, and half the time I was drunk or high on weed so I ignored them both.

  I saw Cerys again one summer, a few years ago, amazed at how much she’d grown up. Like fucking beautiful, curvy woman grown up and no longer the baby faced girl who used to peer at me from under her long brown hair with a look that stoked my ego. The guys teased me about her, but she was too young and an amusement.

  A couple of summers later, I came back as Liam Oliver, bass player of the international Blue Phoenix, and she was Cerys Edwards, hometown girl with hometown boyfriend. One night me and the guys went out with our old friends from school and her and Lou tagged along. Suddenly our three-year age gap narrowed. We both got drunk, I rambled on about how fucking gorgeous she was now she’d grown up. Then I kissed her. I shouldn’t have, she was young and star struck and had a boyfriend, but at least kissing her is all I did. I look back to the little girl who’s tucking into her spaghetti. If I wasn’t a hundred percent sure we’d stopped at the kiss, I’d panic whether this kid was mine.

  Looks like Cerys grew up pretty fast if the kid is hers.

  Today I’m sober and can see Cerys has changed again. She’s still little, not much taller than my mum’s five feet. Is petite the word the chicks use? Her hair is shorter now, huge brown eyes staring into mine as if she can see the Liam Oliver who left town seven years ago. Not the rock star, but her friend’s scruffy big brother.

  Cerys nervously tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and my gaze is drawn to the full lips she parts as she catches my eye again. Her pale skin flushes and I blink. I didn’t expect this reaction. Thank fuck she’s wearing a sloppy blue jumper over those tight black leggings because I really don’t want to see what her body looks like when her eyes and mouth are turning me on.

  What is with this reaction to her? One kiss and I can barely remember the night it happened. I push away the flaring desire. She’s got a kid, which means the dad can’t be far.

  “Hey, Cerys,” I say and offer her a friendly smile.

  The pink grows. “Oh. Liam. Hey.” She turns to Louise. “I’m so sorry; I didn’t know he was coming home.”

  “Nobody did, don’t worry about it,” says Mum. “We’ll organise something.”

  Cerys’s hair shines in a glossy, natural way that makes me want to stroke it. What the hell? I summon images of Honey, memories of my hands in her hair and lips on mine, but the image of her lips on Mason in the blurred photos also jumps in.

  I need to walk away before inappropriate thoughts about Cerys begin.

  “I’ll grab my stuff from the car,” I tell the three women around me. “Then head to my room and unpack.”

  Again, the whole eyeing each other and not telling me shit. “What?”

  “I like your guitars,” pipes up Ella. “And the pictures.”

  I push my hair from my face, confused. “My guitars?”

  “In your room. Cerys is sleeping in there,” says Louise breezily, as if my room is open for guests. I stiffen. I have gear stored in there, untouched from when I left.

  “Where do I sleep then?” I ask gruffly.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know you were coming back or I’d have stayed somewhere else.” Cerys looks to Louise discomfort in her wide-eyed expression. “We can leave.”

  “Don’t be silly!” says Mum firmly. “We’ll sort something out.”

  “I can move into the room Ella is in until I find somewhere else,” offers Cerys.

  Something odd is going on here and although I’m pissed off about a stranger in my room, there’s something more I’m not aware of. I get the impression the kid’s dad isn’t around after all.

  “I’ll grab my bag and you work out who’s sleeping where,” I mutter.

  4 p.m. and the English winter evening greys the world. I head for my car and the coastal wind smarts my cheeks. I’ve swapped California sun and a comfortable house, for a cold winter and a lukewarm reception here?

  Louise appears next to me as I lug my bag from the car boot. “We didn’t know you were coming home, Liam, and Cerys doesn’t have anywhere to go.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “She just split from Ella’s dad and it got a bit nasty. Her mum and dad disowned her after she had Ella, and they live in Scotland now anyway. She’s my best friend and needs somewhere to stay until she gets sorted. Be nice to her.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” I ask. “Anyway, it’s not my house so it’s up to Mum and Dad who stays.”

  “Don’t get shitty about her being in your room. The spare room where Ella sleeps is tiny, they’d have to share a single bed, or one of them sleeps on the floor.” As Louise pushes away the long hair the wind blows into her face, I know what’s coming. “Let them both stay in your room and you have the spare?”

  “I’ll think about it.” I stroll back toward the welcome warmth of my family home.

  “Don’t be selfish, Liam,” Louise calls after me.

  All I wanted was to recreate my childhood Christmas, with my family and my old normality. I know I should sympathise with Cerys a little more, but she’s spoilt the Christmas fantasy that was going to help me cope with my hurting heart Honey stomped on.

  CHAPTER 2

  LIAM

  The last time I slept in a single bed I must’ve been around eleven. I grew too tall and nagged my parents until they bought me a double; man, I felt grown up that day. A king size in a bedroom as large as five of this tiny bedroom is my style these days. I scoop up the flowery duvet Ella has been using and place it on the floor outside the room. I guess she’ll need it for sharing my bed with her mum.

  Dumping my bag on the unmade bed, I huff and wander downstairs. Mum bangs around upstairs, fussing as she makes the rooms up for the new sleeping arrangement. The TV plays loudly from the lounge room, irritating, squeaky voices from some crappy kids’ TV show. Fantastic… Has this child taken over?

  A plate of sandwiches rests on the kitchen counter and I smile to myself as I pick them up. Peeking inside, I recognise my favourite cheese and ham filling and know Mum left them there for me. Leaning against the counter, I take a huge bite and debate whether to ask the kid to let me watch TV.

  Cerys comes into the kitchen. My mum always has the heating full and Cerys has taken off her jumper, revealing a tight cotton top stretching across her chest. I can’t help myself, but I stare at her tits. So, I’m a tits man and as it’s a while since I saw natural, I stare a bit more than I should.

  “Do you mind not staring at my breasts?” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Breasts. The word makes me smirk. Whoops. “Sorry, couldn’t help it. You’ve got nice...” I stop as her face darkens.

  “You’re disgusting!” she retorts. “Is this how you look at all women? Like they’re objects?”

  I blink at her immediate defensiveness. Wow. “No.”

  “Leave the rock star attitude at the door,” she snaps.<
br />
  “Hey, you’re sleeping in my bed, the least you could do is be nice to me.” I grin but her disgusted face remains. “Far out, sorry. Uptight much? It’s not like I touched you!”

  “I’m a person, Liam, not a pair of tits.”

  Fuck, I’m not having this conversation. “Tell your kid I want to watch TV and she has to change the channel.”

  “You tell her!” Cerys pushes past me and I catch her scent, roses I think, and her bare arm touches mine. I’m overwhelmed by the urge to take her arm and apologise because behind her disgust I can see I upset her. Louise’s words about how Cerys is having a hard time pushes guilt over my arrogance.

  Still, I don’t apologise. Instead, I step away and go into the lounge. Ella sits on the black, shaggy rug, nose practically touching the TV as she watches cartoon pigs at high volume. Grimacing, I sit behind her and pick up the remote.

  “I want to watch something different,” I inform Ella.

  Ella ignores me or is so transfixed on her show she doesn’t hear. I flick onto a different channel and she twists around. The expression on her face matches the sour one her mum gave me several minutes before.

  “Switch it back!” she says, and then adds, “Please?”

  “No.” I turn back to the TV and keep flicking through the channels.

  I expect Ella to scream like the kids in the shops who don’t get what they want. Instead, her face crumples and she stands, eyes brimming with tears. In her hand Ella grips a ragged piece of cloth I expect was once brightly striped, but is now dull and dirty. A tear crawls down her cheek and the quiet sadness cuts through my determination to do what I want in my parents’ house.

  My hatred of women crying extends to tiny girls, and I hold out the TV controller to the rainy faced child. Ella takes it and perches onto the sofa besides me, dropping her piece of blanket as she does. The pigs reappear on the screen and I stand to leave, no way am I staying round to watch this.