Summer Sky: A Blue Phoenix Book Read online

  There’s the sexy, amused smirk again.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I’m trying very hard not to say something,” he says in a low voice, “about you preferring to be on top.”

  “Jeez! Captain Cliché!” I throw a pillow at him and he catches it. Then I jump down, and start sorting through my clothes, so he can’t see my dilated pupils and heavy breathing reaction to him as easily as he did last time. Why isn’t he leaving the room? God, please make him leave because every moment he stays in the confined space with me, the harder my heart beats.

  “I’m glad you decided to say,” he says softly. “I like being around you. Here.”

  Straightening, I turn back to Dylan, thankful he’s in the doorway and at a non-gravitational distance. “But this is weird.”

  “Yeah, but it’s good weird?”

  “My life is beyond boring and nothing like I imagined. It’s safe and predictable, or was until this week when everything turned to shit.” He makes a mock gasp at my swearing. “So I guess sharing a holiday house with some guy who may or may not be famous is weird. But I feel like it’s time I did something weird.”

  I can’t have a conversation with him now; I need this man to leave the bedroom so I can stop picturing what he said about being on top. In my imagination, I’m not on the bunk beds, I’m on him running fingers across those muscles while he…I need to stop this. “I want to unpack.”

  “You already did.”

  “Tidy then.”

  “You mean you want me to leave you alone?”

  “I’m a bit tired; I’ve had a long week. Think I’ll have a rest while you make dinner. Oh, wait, sorry. Order pizza.”

  He purses his lips. “I can cook!”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s not much I can make with bread, cheese, crisps, chocolate and wine, Captain Cliché,” he teases.

  “Cliché?”

  “Girl going through a break-up? Eating her way through the pile of junk food in her cupboards.”

  Now, he’s hit a sore spot. “Fine. Whatever. Leave me alone.”

  Dylan backs off. Literally and figuratively. If I’m in my happy bubble of weirdness, he’s not bursting it.

  Chapter Five

  Day Three of Weirdness. I’m still alive, so it seems unlikely Dylan Morgan is a serial killer even though he shares the same initial and surname as a fictional one.

  We missed each other for the rest of the day yesterday. My rest turned into several hours, and the house was quiet when I woke up at 10pm. Downstairs, half a pizza sat on the table with a note from Dylan informing me he’d eaten and gone for a walk. Then this note was crossed out and he’d written he’d gone to bed beneath. Half asleep, I munched on the cold pizza considering the strange domesticity of this arrangement, and how I didn’t imagine rock stars (or whatever he is) went to bed so early. My phone beckoned me towards googling him, but I resisted. Bubble walls are very thin.

  This morning, Dylan’s bedroom door is open, bedding scrunched into a pile. He’s not downstairs but a dirty bowl rests in the sink. No bacon sandwiches this morning then. I sit and eat toast, in the silence of the house I came to be alone in, a house with an unwanted emptiness without Dylan, the man who shares my summer memories. I rub my eyes, fighting thoughts of Bristol and dickhead, cheating boyfriends. And wondering if I’ll have sex with Dylan before I go home.

  Oh, wow.

  Does he have this effect on every woman?

  I suspect so.

  But do I really want him to, as he so subtly put it, fuck me, and then leave? There’s adventurous and then there’s shameful. I don’t know. I’m being a little presumptuous he wants to do that; he said the reason he likes me is because I don’t. Then he teases me by saying things about wanting to kiss me. Can he relate to women on a non-sexual basis?

  I pack up my confusion and head for the beach.

  Today, the sun fights with grey clouds, the idyllic summer weather gone. Instead of walking between the sand dunes, I scramble up the side, grasping onto seagrass as I do. The dunes aren’t high, but elevated enough for a better view of the area. The almost-empty beach stretches between two rocky outcrops, and I can count the number of people in the surf on one hand. The grey sky turns the seawater to the colour of lead, the break of the waves higher than yesterday.

  The wind whips my untamed hair across my face and goosebumps rise on my arms, so I clamber back down towards the beach. The tide is out, and I fix my attention on the damp sand, hoping to find shells as I walk along the shoreline. Half an hour later, I have a sandy pocketful but none to match those in my treasure box. I stand in the break, enjoying the sensation of waves lapping my toes and wriggle them into sand. With or without Dylan, this trip to Broadbeach was the best move; there’s something raw about the sea that pushes away thoughts of the world I left behind in Bristol.

  I’ve walked a long way from the house, so I head back, holding my hair wishing I’d tied it back. As I get closer, I notice a male figure in the waves. The man lets the waves carry him to shore, then swims back out to repeat the process. As I continue walking, this happens three times. The only other people in the sea are the same two kids I saw yesterday, who are getting into trouble for copying this swimmer.

  I stop near the spot where the waves sweep the swimmer. Dylan, who else? I wait for the foaming waters to carry him to me. Emerging from the surf like some kind of movie scene, Dylan’s chest gleams from the water trickling across his abs, and his board shorts hang lower, revealing the tantalising line of dark hair disappearing into his shorts.

  Breathtaking doesn’t even begin to cut it when describing this guy.

  “Morning, summer Sky,” he says, out of breath.

  “Having fun?”

  Of course he is; the guy’s face is lit up like a Christmas tree. Water shines on his face, drops landing on his lips, which he licks away. This fires the desire to touch my lips to his, igniting the slow burn inside so I tear my gaze away.

  “The water’s a bit colder than the beach near my house…”

  “Your house?”

  He shakes water from his hair at me. “Forget I said that.”

  “The water’s bloody cold!” I step back and rub the water off my arms. “How can you stand swimming in this?”

  “Because it makes me feel alive! Free. Fuck, I’d forgotten how awesome this place is. I can breathe again.” Dylan’s half talking to himself, I can’t help but smile too. His happy enthusiasm is contagious. “Come in the water!”

  But not that contagious. “I’m okay. Not my thing.”

  The waves pull at my feet, as if joining Dylan in persuading me to let my inhibitions go.

  “I thought you said you wanted to do weird stuff that wasn’t your usual thing?”

  “I draw the line at hypothermia. I’ll see you at the house.” Despite the overwhelming urge to continue staring at the water dripping down Dylan’s chest, abs and into his shorts I take a deep, calming breath and turn away.

  “The water’s not that cold!” he calls after me, as I traipse across the beach.

  I don’t get far. Footsteps thud across the sand, as he races towards me. Before I can register what’s happening, Dylan grabs me around the waist, lifts me over his shoulder and turns back to the sea.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I shriek.

  I’m half upside down, face against his damp back and my legs gripped by strong arms. The body I’ve lusted after, in an ‘I will not lust after’ way, is closer than I ever imagined. Wet. Cold. And almost naked. My breasts squash against his back, nipples hardening as his skin dampens my t-shirt.

  “Put me down,” I demand unconvincingly.

  “Come and have a swim with me.”

  His behaviour spins my mind, reckless and free. “No!”

  I wriggle unconvincingly, but his grip is steel. “Yes.”

  “Stop behaving like a cave man.” I slap his backside, secretly pleased to get a chance to touch him.

  He slap
s mine in return, “Stop being boring!”

  “I’m not! I have all my clothes on!” I say through a giggle. This is insane, freeing and a huge turn on.

  Until, he tips me over, dumping me in the middle of a cresting wave. My backside hits the sand and water pours over my head. Bloody cold water. Dragging myself upright, before another wave covers me; I wipe my hair from my face and shake water from my arms.

  “Oh, my God! I can’t believe you did that!” I yell.

  Dylan laughs; the sound pushes through my irritation to the freedom of the situation. I screw my face up, attempting not to laugh.

  “Don’t! I’m annoyed with you! Look at me!” A wave drags my footing and I stumble. When he doesn’t catch me and instead lets me fall into the sea, I’m disappointed. I sit in the wet sand and cross my arms.

  “Here!” he holds out a hand, to pull me up.

  Gripping his wrist, I give him a hard stare as I stand but I’m not convincing anyone. “I’m soaked! If I’d wanted a swim, I’d have put my swimming costume on!”

  “You don’t have a bikini?” he asks, looking me up and down.

  “Who the hell would wear a bikini on an English beach?”

  “Plenty of people.”

  I won’t tell him I haven’t the confidence to parade my pasty body covered in scraps of material for the world to see. Oh, my God, he’s staring at my tits. I pull forward my T-shirt, loosening from where it’s sticking to my chest, and then cross my arms across my protruding nipples. Dylan bites his lip, turning darkened eyes back to mine.

  “Sorry, I was just picturing you in your bikini.”

  Which is pretty close to him imagining me naked. So now, I’m imagining him naked. Jeez, Sky. “I don’t have one.”

  “You do in my imagination,” he says in a low voice, leaning towards me, “You’re lots of things in my imagination.”

  I can’t do this - have him suggest things like this to my sex-starved brain. “Well, you can keep them there!”

  If we were on TV, or maybe somewhere warmer, and I was a foot taller, we could pretend to be a romantic couple playing in the sea and using the water as an excuse to get skin to skin. But we’re not. And I’m bloody cold. I turn and wade out of the sea before I’m pulled under again - by Dylan or the waves.

  I need a shower, but now I’m unsure whether to go for cold or hot.

  *****

  Dylan stays out most of the morning; and when he gets home, I remain buried in my book world and ignore him, despite being hyperaware of his every move. Following a shower, he makes me a sandwich and tells me to stop sulking. I carry on sulking. With a darkly muttered, “Fuck this.” Dylan disappears upstairs for the rest of the afternoon.

  Hours later, a pen lands on the book I’m reading, thrown by Dylan who’s holding his writing pad under his arm.

  “Fish and chips?” he asks.

  So engrossed in the peace of the world around and the hot sex occurring in my book, I hadn’t noticed Dylan reappear. He’s back in distressed jeans, and a black T-shirt stretching across the ridges of his chest. I point at the band name and symbol printed on the front.

  “Is that your band?”

  “White Stripes? No. I wish. We opened for them on a tour though, a few years ago.”

  I give him a blank look. He’s speaking a different language. He smirks and shakes his head. Reading about red-hot sex in my book while Dylan is in the house is not a great way of controlling my um… urges.

  “Are you okay? Your face is flushed.”

  “Fine,” I tuck the book under a cushion.

  “Ah! What’s this? Fifty Shades?”

  “No!”

  He roots under the cushion then pulls the book out. Momentarily, he appraises the semi-naked kissing couple on the front, and then flips over to the blurb on the back. Ground open up and take me now.

  Dylan’s eyebrows shoot up. “Sounds…interesting. Any good?”

  I pull a face. “Guilty pleasure.”

  A snaking grin almost reaches his ears. “We all have guilty pleasures.”

  Oh, holy crap. Is he going to switch up the seductive looks now he’s caught a glimpse of the Sky who wouldn’t exactly say no if he offered? Were the beach and the dip in the sea another test?

  I clear my throat. “Fish and chips?”

  “My guilty pleasure? Nope, way off the mark, Sky.”

  “Ha ha. Shut up. I mean, you said you wanted fish and chips.”

  “Oh, so I did. Sorry, got a little distracted.” He puts the book on the coffee table. “How does fish and chips on the beach sound? I don’t want pizza again; it sends you to sleep.”

  “Maybe I’m still pissed off with you,” I say.

  “I don’t think you are. I think you secretly liked it earlier.”

  “Oh, yes? Which bit?”

  Dylan smirks. “All of it. Get changed; otherwise, we’ll miss the sunset.”

  “The sky’s too cloudy.”

  “She is today.”

  Unable to find a good retort, I stalk upstairs.

  As I change into jeans and a fitted blue T-shirt, I peer at myself in the mirror. Flushed cheeks and brighter blue eyes - a couple of days without tears, living in my fantasy world and the layer of sad is peeling off my face. I touch my lips, visions of Dylan’s lips dancing into my mind’s eye. When his stubble touched my legs before, it scratched lightly and sent a not very chaste tingle through my body. Will he kiss me if I ask him? I snort at myself. He said he liked me because I didn’t want to…ah…screw him. But he did say something about changing my mind.

  Deciding all this is having a bad effect on my heart rate, I head downstairs vowing to think only pure thoughts for the rest of the evening. And not admit to anyone (including myself) that every word of the hot sex in the book downstairs involved a man who looked uncannily like Dylan.

  Chapter Six

  Warm English summers often lead to cool, cloudless evenings, and I shiver as we walk along the beach towards the town, wishing I’d brought my jacket. When we reach the stone steps, Dylan waits on a low wall at the bottom, and I make the five-minute trip to the fish and chip shop. We don’t discuss why he decided to wait, but we both know why. Dylan wears a navy hoodie, and sits with the hood over his face, hands burrowed into the pockets.

  What would it be like to live his life? The fact he may be more famous than he’s making out pushes on the edges of the bubble. I like my bubble; I won’t be the one to burst it by pushing to find out if he is.

  I wrap my bare arms around the welcome warmth of the paper fish and chip packages as I carefully climb back down the steps. Eating straight from the greasy paper used to be a tradition of our holidays. Is this Dylan’s too? I stand in front of him, hugging the meal.

  “Where did you used to go to eat your fish and chips as a kid?” I ask.

  “Normally, we’d sit here on this wall. You?”

  “We used to sit on the beach and watch the sunset.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Dylan holds his hands out for the food but I keep hold, passing him the cans of orange Fanta.

  We find a sheltered spot and sit against the tall rocks at the edge of the dunes, looking over the beach. If I’d planned this better, I’d have brought a blanket. I unwrap the parcels, and peel the greasy paper back. The smell is heaven. Heart attack inducing, celestial goodness. I close my eyes and inhale, making a satisfied noise.

  Dylan chuckles. “Funny, Sky.”

  I open an eye. “What?”

  “Nothing, at least you’re not obsessed about what you eat.” With deft fingers, he unwraps his bundle too. “Forks?”

  “Umm. I forgot.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Fingers it is then.”

  As much as I love fish and chips, the sensation of Dylan’s hard thigh pressed against mine interferes with my appetite. We’re touching, his soft cotton hoodie warm against my goosebumped arm, the material rubbing me as he eats. Whatever his presence fills my stomach with; it won’t be chips. Damn. I pick at th
e food, attempting to quell the shaky excitement of being close to this man.

  “We can go back to the house and get forks if you don’t want to use your fingers?” he suggests through a mouthful of chips.

  I wrinkle my nose. “It’s fine, I’m not as hungry as I thought.”

  Dylan shrugs and returns to his food. As the sun drops behind the horizon, the temperature drops to match. I gaze at the red and orange clouds streaking across the sky and touching the grey sea, and focus very hard on not getting aroused by Dylan.

  “Wow, it’s a long time since I’ve had decent fish and chips. Not quite LA style,” he grins, rubbing his belly.

  “I suspect if you had too many fish and chips, you wouldn’t have the body you do…” I trail off. Nice one, Sky, lay yourself open.

  He lets me off. “True. Being on stage burns a lot off though. If I stay in Broadbeach and eat junk food for a month, I’ll be sporting a party pack instead of a six-pack.”

  I giggle and fight my overwhelming urge to check out his six-pack, in case he needs any advice on the intactness.

  “So why did you really come here?” I ask him, twisting around as I sip from the can of Fanta.

  Gaze fixed on the sea, he doesn’t reply for a few seconds. “I want to remember what life was like before all the crazy shit. Coming back here, I can block out the rest of the world without using alcohol and drugs.”

  “You had an alcohol problem?”

  “Yeah. For years, it was great until alcohol became the way I coped with my weird reality. I stopped drinking and drugging and had nothing else to fill the hole with.” He pauses, then continues quietly, “The hole gets bigger every day.”

  Was I filling my emptiness in the same way and craving affection from Grant, a man who only gave me love conditionally? Is that what’s happening here - my need for affection rebounding me into Dylan like a huge jump on a trampoline?

  “So you came back here?” I ask.

  “A couple of days ago, I got up and thought ‘fuck this’. So I cut my hair and left.”

  Forgetting myself, I reach a hand and touch the short hair above his ear. “You had long hair?”