Summer Sky: A Blue Phoenix Book Read online

  Man-whose-name-I-don’t-know-even-though-he’s-seen-my-underwear cocks an eyebrow at me.

  “Why are you there?” asks Gran.

  “You said I could stay for a week.”

  “In July.”

  “No, now.”

  Gran shouts at her dogs, forgetting to take the phone from her ear and I wince at the volume. “I thought you said July.”

  Great, I knew she wasn’t listening when I asked. “I told you about…” I almost remind her about Grant, and then realise I don’t want the guy knowing my business. I lower my voice, “The thing with the thing.”

  “Thing?”

  “Yes, the thing that’s made me want to come here for a week. Remember?”

  “You’re making no sense, Sky. Have you been drinking?”

  So much for escaping everything. “Has he paid?” I whisper. “You’ve got his details? Is he…you know…genuine.”

  “I spoke to him myself. He transferred the money straight away and paid over the odds. And yes, I have the usual: drivers licence number, bank details and such. They were definitely him. Bit cagey about giving them to me, maybe he has a mistress he’s bringing down, wouldn’t be the first time…”

  She’s burbling; Gran loves red wine as much as I do. Hmm. Paid in full, so definitely not someone she wants me to kick out. “Oh.”

  “I’m sure you’ll work something out, sweetie! Listen, I have to go. Monty is eating the curtains.”

  As she hangs up, I stare at the phone. Why me?

  “And?” he asks with an eyebrow still cocked.

  “Fine. I’ll pack.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “No idea.”

  He looks at me with that look again, curious and amused. “I won’t kick you out into the night. We can stay together for one night?”

  I splutter. “Yeah, right.”

  “Is my reputation bothering you?”

  “Reputation as a bad driver?”

  “No.” Shaking his head a little, the guy holds out a hand. “I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Dylan. Dylan Morgan.”

  I stare at his hand, and wonder why he has so many rings on. Big solid silver things. When we shake hands, I’m aware of a weird, but not unpleasant, tingling continuing up my arm and somehow hitching my breath.

  “Um. Sky.”

  His mouth tilts at one side. “You’re funny. It’s refreshing.”

  I have no clue whether he’s insulting me or not, but for some reason, under his scrutiny, heat creeps across my cheeks. Am I supposed to know who he is, or something?

  The curry congeals on the floor next to me, and as if on cue, my stomach rumbles. I cough to try to disguise the sound.

  “Pizza,” he says as if forgetting himself. “You will share a pizza with me? I don’t often get to share pizza with funny chicks.”

  I scowl, but he’s earnest. Do serial killers have a detectable aura? I always thought I was a good judge of character, though that’s cast into doubt recently, thanks to Grant wearing a girl on his head. Dylan has a presence. Confident, a little arrogant, but I don’t feel unsafe. He’s tired, and I think something is dragging him down too. How do I know? I don’t, but something in his presence reflects my own state.

  What bothers me more than his possible psycho status is how those eyes have brightened since we spoke and how they’ve disarmed me.

  “I think I’ll eat a whole one. Meatlovers.” I promise myself I’ll eat less chocolate tomorrow.

  *****

  I lied. Despite my best attempts, there’s no way I can finish a whole pizza. Not with half a cow on top, and a fair bit of pig too. Plus, Dylan studies me with barely concealed amusement. Again.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask, swapping a slice of pizza for my wine glass.

  “You’re not pretending.”

  “What do you mean ‘pretending’?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He finishes his last slice of pizza and stretches. Thankfully, he put a T-shirt over his way too distracting toned chest, but the faded black T-shirt rides up revealing a washboard stomach I have only ever seen in pictures. Or on Facebook. He grins at me as he drops his arms. He so knows I’m checking him out…

  More wine. I tip the bottle but only a dribble comes out. Tapping my fingers on the table, I debate whether to open another. Dylan refused a glass of wine, telling me he’s having a dry spell, drinking one of my cokes instead.

  “So now what?” he asks.

  I wipe tomato sauce from the edges of my mouth. “I’ll pack my bag?”

  “Already? We’ve hardly spoken.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  He places his elbows on the table, and fixes his baby blues on mine. “Why you came here.”

  “Why did you come here?” I shoot back.

  “Same reason as you.”

  “How do you know what my reason is?”

  “Coming to a two-bedroom seaside house on your own? You’re taking time out from something. Running?” Dylan cracks another can of coke with slender fingers and watches for my reaction.

  “So what are you running from?” I ask him.

  “Life’s a bit intense. I need to pull back, unwind. Disconnect from the people around me.” His expression darkens.

  “Oh, well, at least you didn’t say the police,” I say attempting to lighten the mood.

  Dylan laughs, the dark look blowing away from his face. “Funny, Sky. So who are you running from?”

  “No one.” But the speed of my retort doesn’t fool him.

  “It’s none of my business. That’s cool. We can ignore each other’s business together for a bit if you like?”

  The way he trails his hand up and down an arm, long fingers stroking those unfortunately tattooed biceps distracts me. The expression on his face as he looks at me suggests he’s thinking, not trying to act seductive. Is this seductive? I really can’t remember because Grant never was.

  “A bit?” I ask.

  Dylan spreads his ringed fingers on the table. “How about we chat about stupid stuff, irrelevant stuff, not the real life crap? We know nothing about each other, no preconceptions. What do you think?”

  His eyes shine at the idea and I scrunch my nose. “No preconceptions isn’t true. You did ram your car into the back of mine. Your expensive car. Then you wouldn’t give me your insurance details so I’ve already formed an opinion.” Great, here comes the wine-induced burbling.

  “Which is?”

  “Straight up?”

  “Straight up.”

  “Not the kind of person I’d sit and share pizza with.” Telling him, I think he’s a serial killer with an underwear stealing fetish springs to mind.

  “Fair enough, but you just did share pizza with me. Anyway, I haven’t formed any opinion of you.”

  “Liar.”

  Dylan tips his head. “You’re not transparent enough. I can’t see through you. I think you’re one of those people who are more mirrors than windows.”

  The wine fuzzes my head, lulling me into a possibly false sense of security. So, I get up and open another bottle. God, I love the glug sound, even if drinking alone makes me feel a little judged. Who cares? I’d open another if he weren’t here.

  Dylan watches me walk over, elbows on the table, chin in his hands. He can’t be a serial killer. Surely, serial killers aren’t six-feet of searing hotness, are they?

  “How about if you agree to stay and chat with me for a few hours, I’ll leave and you can have the place for the next couple of weeks.”

  “But you paid to stay here.”

  He shrugs, curling his fingers around the can. Well, who am I to argue? My options are limited and I don’t want to go back to Bristol.

  “Okay. But I’m not talking about anything to do with my normal life.”

  “Oh, that’s such a good idea.” Why do his eyes darken when I mention reality? “Ask me something. Anything.”

  “Um. What’s your favourite colour?”

  He
splutters. “You can do better than that! Black. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

  “Here. I came here every year as a kid so I see this house as my happy place. Where would you go?”

  “Here.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Dylan frowns. “I’ve travelled a lot and seen a lot of places. But I always came here too, when I was a kid.”

  “Oh?”

  “My summer childhood too, Sky. We rented this place.”

  He stands and wanders to the tall bookshelf in the corner, stacked with books I doubt anyone has read for years. He pulls one forward and drags it out. “I left this here one year.”

  Dylan places the book on the table, a book about animals and the seaside. He opens to the first page. “See.”

  In childish scrawl is his name - Dylan Morgan.

  “Huh.” That’s not what I expected.

  “Funny, how we’re attracted to the places of our childhood when we need to get away.”

  The guy standing in front of me has a strange vulnerability, and for a moment I imagine him as a ten-year-old boy fishing in rock pools and collecting shells on the beach. Carefree.

  This is not what I expected, from today, from him, or from fate. He’s a mirror too, when I think about his ten-year-old self, I picture mine. He has to be who he says or has concocted a lie worthy of MI5, which would be a bit extreme to commit a crime against a broken-hearted girl from Bristol.

  “Did you go to Mrs Hughes for ice creams?” I ask.

  He sits back down. “Yes - and she made those ice lollies, great big ones in cups that melted down your arm before you finished.”

  “Yes! And she had a dog - I think she might still have it…”

  “…has one eye. Buster.”

  We grin in unison, and suddenly, we don’t seem as far apart as we once did.

  Chapter Three

  Firstly, I’m aware of the drool creeping out of my mouth. Next the sensation of being scrunched into a bed half a foot too short. And the smell of bacon.

  I open an eye and ground myself. I’m lying on the sofa of my gran’s cottage with a blanket over me. Sitting, I turn towards the kitchen area. Through the door, Dylan stands over the stove, pushing sizzling bacon around the pan and singing to himself. Shirtless. I have never seen a back like his, how does anyone have muscles in their back like this? Sinewy, strong and sexy as hell.

  Who is this guy? And why is he still here? I stumble to my feet and creep past him, up the stairs and into the small bathroom. I study my bleary-eyed self in the mirror. Dark smudges rest beneath blue eyes, flushes of pink on my cheeks contrast pale lips. The night of pizza, wine and sofa slumber hasn’t improved my generally tired appearance. Or my hair. I pull the straw-coloured blonde mess through my fingers, wishing I’d left my brush in the bathroom, not in my rucksack in the bedroom.

  Peeking around the corner, Dylan is nowhere to be seen, so I sneak into the bedroom to recover my toiletries bag. A sinking in my chest accompanies the realisation I have to pack soon. Or is Dylan going? I can’t remember; the evening is hazy. The bedclothes are scrunched, so he slept there last night. I wonder if he sleeps naked. What the hell? I need slapping. My clothes have been piled into a corner, and my cheeks flare red again at the thought of him picking up my underwear. Dylan’s bag is a black rucksack, placed under the window and unpacked.

  “Please tell me you’re not throwing your knickers around the room again.”

  I spin round. Dylan leans on the doorframe with mussed hair but a brighter expression than yesterday. I’ve no idea if he’s changed as he’s wearing similar clothes, but I’m in a creased up and not so pleasant smelling summer dress.

  “No,” I squeak.

  Squeak?

  Rubbing a hand across his face, Dylan scrutinises me. “You look tired. I should’ve woken you. Let you go to bed.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “The sofa is shorter than you - can’t have been comfy?”

  “I didn’t really notice; I was so… tired.”

  He grins at my embarrassment. “Okay. Well, I made breakfast.”

  I gape at him as he wanders back downstairs again. Grant never made me breakfast. He’d get a bowl and spoon for my cereal and stick a teabag in a cup but that’s as far as his culinary skills went. I follow the inviting smell and equally inviting body downstairs.

  “I hope the bacon’s okay. Kind of been a while since I cooked.” Dylan scrunches his nose, looking as if he’s a kid trying to make a meal for the first time.

  “I like bacon crispy…”

  The image of a tall, tattooed, shirtless guy holding a spatula and a concerned expression amuses me and I giggle.

  “What’s so funny?”

  I don’t think he’s used to people laughing at him. “Nothing. Well, you.”

  He purses his lips. “I guess we’re both funny then.”

  As we eat our surprisingly good bacon sandwiches, I’m aware of a new aura around this guy. Dylan’s loosened physically but also in his demeanour. Maybe, because he got a good night’s sleep unlike some of us.

  “Why was I asleep on the sofa?”

  “Ask those empty bottles of wine.” Dylan tips his head to the two by the sink.

  “Ah.” Shit.

  “Don’t worry; all you did was fall asleep with your mouth open. Nice look by the way, the little drool hanging down the side of your mouth was special.”

  I refuse to blush every time he teases me. “So you left me and went to bed?”

  “The bed I paid for, yeah. Once I removed your underwear.” He pauses, and a glint of something appears in his eye.

  Now that is what I think is termed a ‘panty-dropping look’. Involuntarily, my mouth parts and a soft breath escapes. In response, Dylan shifts his eyes and frowns at the floor. I should be relieved he left me on the sofa and didn’t take advantage. Not that I think I’m his type; something tells me he’s not into girls with a natural look. And there’s nothing more natural than the state I’m currently in. As a teen, I dreamt of long legs and a skinny body like my friend Tara, but I ended up average height with plenty of curves. Nowadays, I’m happy with my size and shape and have no desire to emulate the girls in magazines. Looking like that would take sacrifices I could never make - such as not eating the food I love. I exercise and I’m a healthy weight, and that’s all I want to be. Why try for the unattainable and be miserable? The one thing I would change is my hair - I can never get it to behave unless I have the wild blonde waves captured in a ponytail.

  “Anyway, what should we do today?” He slaps his large hands on the table and smiles.

  “We?”

  “I thought we could revisit some childhood haunts and see if ours match?” he continues, as if we’re best buddies.

  “No, I mean…we? I thought one of us was leaving?”

  “Hmm.” He taps his ringed fingers on the table. “Later? I’d like to spend some time with you.”

  No ‘panty dropping’ look accompanies these words, and a secret happiness this man wants to spend time with me sneaks in. Okay, so I came here to be alone and lick my wounds but I’m flattered. And intrigued.

  “Spend time doing what?”

  “Like I said, revisiting some of the places we chatted about last night.”

  I clench my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t remember a lot of what was said last night.”

  A knowing smirk crosses his face. “Yeah, you ramble on after a few glasses of wine. Mostly about your childhood though, I still don’t know why you’re here.”

  That’s one good thing, I suppose. But the drool, that’s downright embarrassing.

  “How about a walk to the beach?”

  “I smell. I need a shower,” I say.

  Dylan smiles the kind of smile I rarely see on anyone, happiness filling his face. I have no idea why.

  “Get your shower, summer Sky. Then you can come to the beach and search for shells with me.”

&nbs
p; *****

  Pulling my damp blonde hair into a ponytail, I head downstairs in my denim cut-off shorts and plain pink T-shirt. There’s no sign of Dylan in the kitchen or lounge and my stomach sinks a little. Did he leave?

  The sea breeze blows through the open front door, the salty scent of the ocean pulling me back to childhood. The sun decided to shine today, and the breeze is warm. One of the rare and perfect English summer days to match my brighter mood. I stand in the doorway and close my eyes, letting the sound and smell wash over me.

  A noise around the side of the whitewashed house alerts me, and I wander around. A pile of shells rests against one the house walls, a white and pink mix of flat and spiralled, some intact but mostly broken. Dylan crouches on the sandy ground, pushing through the mound, and spreading them across the floor. He’s swapped his jeans for blue board shorts and the colourful, mash of tattoos on his legs catch my eye.

  “Why do you have so many tattoos?” I ask.

  “Don’t you like men with ink?” He straightens, holding a shell in his hand.

  “Doesn’t matter if I do or not. I’m curious.”

  “I like them.” Offering no additional explanation, he returns to his digging.

  The sound of shells scraping together as he digs around triggers another childhood memory. “I think I made this pile,” I say

  “Or you added to it. I think I made the pile,” he says not looking round.

  “No, I’m pretty sure it was me. Look.”

  I crouch next to him and scoop to the bottom of the pile. There’s a small, rusty steel tin that once contained shortbread biscuits. I prise open the lid. Inside are three spiral purple and white shells. These are intact and bigger than the others in the pile are; and they have vibrant purple winding around the edges. Perfect specimens I sought for days on the beach. My forgotten treasure.

  “That’s what I’m looking for,” he remarks holding a hand out toward me.

  I grip the box in a childish manner, like I did to stop my brother getting hold of my prized finds years ago. “Why?”

  “I remembered finding the box one year. I thought it was someone’s secret stash.” He peers inside. “I left a shell in here too but it’s gone.”