Summer Sky (14 page)

An older couple passes by holding hands. They're a similar age to my parents, although mine would never hold hands since they divorced a couple of years ago. The woman wears knee-length beige shorts and a loose brown T-shirt, greying hair is stylishly cut into a bob, her body touching the man as they walk in a natural, years’ old rhythm. The carrier bag he's holding suggests they've been buying junk at souvenir shops, like Dylan's shell monster.

"Most people here are that age," I say, indicating the couple. "Not your audience, I suspect."

Dylan watches them silently for a few moments. "I hope one day that's me,” he says eventually.

"A balding man at the seaside carrying his wife’s bag?"

"Yeah, living in a house by the sea with my dribbling wife asleep on the sofa," he says and laughs, placing his other hand over mine, trapping my fingers between his warm palm.

His words arrest me as I remember my night asleep on the sofa the day we met. Is there something behind them? I side glance at him and he's staring at the ground, arms resting on his knees. "I'm sure you have the money to do what you want when you get old?"

"I have the money to do what I want now, but I can’t do what I want."

"That's an odd thing to say."

He laughs softly. "I'm odd remember?"

I rest my head on Dylan's shoulder and he wraps an arm around me. After a few minutes Dylan shifts. "Okay, you're right, I'm too fucking hot."

I chomp hard on my lip against making a comment about how ‘fucking hot’ I think he is as he removes his jacket. The tattooed arms stand out against the muted greys of the seaside town and I lean across and kiss his bicep.

Dylan raises an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't like tattoos."

"I don't, but I like your arms.” I raise an eyebrow in return.

He wraps the muscled arms around and pulls me close. “Sky?”

“What?”

“I’m the happiest I’ve been forever,” he says, and rubs his nose into my hair.

“I think you’re exaggerating, Sandchurch isn’t that exciting.”

“Here, with you, is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

A seagull nearby pokes around at a discarded wrapper, and the sound of the breaking waves on the beach below fill me with the happiness of past summers here.

“Because we’re caught in our childhood memories?” I ask him, turning my head to meet his eyes.

“No, because I’m here with you. I’ve never wanted to be around someone as much as I crave to be around you. Weird, huh?”

“Odd.” I know what he means, but surely he knows this is an illusion too.

“Odd…” He captures my face in his hands, soft mouth on mine. We lose ourselves in a magical kiss to match the spellbinding world we’re living in, a kiss and a place I want to go on forever.

I don't know who Dylan Morgan is, but my heart hurts at the thought of how this will end. Famous or not, I'm leaving this man behind in a couple of days and trailing back to Bristol. I crave Dylan too, but I can’t tell him. We enmesh more as each hour passes and I’m dreading the pain when our lives are pulled apart again.

Chapter Fourteen

We head home to Broadbeach, and I tell Dylan I need to stop at the supermarket and pick up some snacks. He looks at me as if I'm speaking a foreign language.

"Snacks? You just went shopping yesterday. How much do you eat?"

I slap his shoulder. "Cheeky... I forgot to buy chocolate yesterday. And you drank half of my cans of coke."

"Right. Sorry, I'm not used to buying my own food. I'll give you some money."

"Seriously? No, I don't want your money."

Dylan pulls his wallet from his shorts pocket. "How much is chocolate or whatever? I haven't shopped recently."

"Seriously?" I repeat.

The more time passes, the greater my suspicion this guy is more famous than I realise. He chews his lip, and I get he doesn't want me to comment.

"I presume you're not getting out of the car. Do you want anything?"

“Not at the moment. Maybe later.” He raises a suggestive eyebrow and I tut at him and open the door.

We've chosen to stop at the out of town supermarket again, a trip here will be quicker and the car park is bigger for hiding in. With a basket full of high fat and high sugar snacks, I pick up some apples too. For balance.

Following a trip through the self-serve checkout, I stroll across the car park. Dylan is slouched in his seat, sunglasses and cap on. I dump the bags on the back seat and smirk at him.

"What's funny?" he asks.

"You. In this car. Not quite your style is it?"

"I like being in your car; because I'm with you.”

Again, Dylan’s simple words fill my stomach with a warm fuzziness, partly because I feel exactly the same. Following our weird date to Sandchurch, a tiny part of me believes there could be more to this than a holiday romance.

Holding the thought, I turn the ignition, the car doesn't start. Several attempts later and things aren't looking good. Grinding and spluttering from the engine indicates we won't be moving anywhere soon. As I repeatedly attempt to start the car, Dylan shifts in his seat, stiffening.

"What's wrong with the car?" he snaps.

"How the hell should I know? I'm not a mechanic."

An elderly couple pass the car, the man struggling with a piled trolley and Dylan slumps in his seat, holding his forehead. "Fuck."

"What?"

"We have to get out of here? There’s a lot more people around than Sandchurch.”

"I'm trying!” To reinforce this, I grind the ignition again.

At a loss of what to do, I pop the bonnet and climb out. Propping it open I stare in confusion at the greasy engine. What am I looking for? There's plenty of petrol and I know how to check the oil and water but that's the limit of my expertise. Tears of frustration prick my eyes as I slam the bonnet shut again. Through the windscreen, I see Dylan sitting arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Today is another unusually hot summer's day and the sun adds to the perspiration on my forehead. I climb back in the car and Dylan looks expectantly at me.

"What? I haven't fixed anything."

"Shit!" He lowers his window. "It's fucking hot in here."

"Calm down. I'll call the breakdown people and get them to take a look. Maybe it's the battery."

Dylan squeezes his eyes closed, and sucks in a breath. "No. You can't call people."

"What? Do you want to sit here all day? Or walk back to the house?"

We're at least ten miles from the town, and further to the beach house.

"They'll recognise me. Tell someone."

"I don't think everyone in Britain is looking for you. Don't be ridiculous!"

"Wait." He pulls his phone from his pocket and stares at it. Putting the phone on the dashboard, he taps his cheeks with his fingers, retreating into his thoughts. I cross my arms and watch him. His eyes glaze.

"What are you doing? Trying to fix the car with Zen?"

"I should've fucking stayed at the house," he mutters.

"This isn't exactly my idea of a great end to a day out either," I retort.

The happy glow from our date dissipates as the stress-head Dylan reappears.

"Fuck this!” He climbs out of the car and sits on the bonnet, long legs splayed out in front of him.

As he talks to someone on the phone, a young mother with a trolley containing a toddler and what looks like half the shop wheels past him. Her eyes grow to saucers as she looks at Dylan. For a moment, I think she's going to stop and I flick my gaze between her and Dylan. She pauses.
Shit.

I spring out of the door and grab his arm. He looks around in alarm.

"Get in the car!"

"What?"

"Jamie! Get in the car - the kids are waiting for us to pick them up!"

Dylan's eyes narrow. "What the fuck are you on about?"

"I don't have time to hang around in the middle of a supermarket car park." I emphasise the part about the car park and tug his hand.

The supermarket car park isn’t Dylan’s natural environment, and I’m pretty sure any fan of his would still recognise him, even without his hair; but he doesn't move.

"I'm talking to someone about moving the car."

Is this guy insane? I move closer and wind my arms around his neck, tiptoeing and holding my face close to his ear. "I think someone recognised you."

Dylan's hands roam around to my backside, pulling my hips into his. He slides his face towards my ear. "Who?"

I hunch my shoulders as his cool breath tickles. "Some woman with a trolley."

Sliding hands up my back, he pulls his head away and holds my face, crushes his mouth on mine. Annoyed he’s gone from swearing at me to presuming I want to kiss him, I nip his bottom lip. He nips mine in return and loosens his grip, laughing. Wobbling slightly, I steady myself on the car, touching my mouth. I swear I'm about to fall on the floor in a dizzy heap.

"Has she gone?" he whispers.

What? My addled brain tries to catch up. "Who?"

"The person who was looking."

"Probably, why?"

"I thought that might throw her off the scent."

"So Dylan Morgan kissing a woman is more inconspicuous than hanging out in a supermarket car park?"

Dylan lightly touches my face; small zaps of electricity seem to flow from his fingers. "Don't take this the wrong way..."

Oh, right. As soon as people say something like that, you know you will. I tense. "What?"

"You called me Jamie so I carried on the charade." As if the word charade isn't enough of a punch in the guts, his next words follow this up with stab in the heart. "And you're not the sort of girl Dylan Morgan would be seen kissing."

I smack my hands into his chest, hurt firing straight to the insecure centre of my brain, triggering immediate anger. "What the hell? You dickhead!"

He steps back, alarmed, and tries to catch my arm but misses. "No, listen, that's not what I meant."

Head whirling from the desire replaced by anger, I go to the other side of the car and grab my handbag from the footwell. "Stay here and find someone else to help you. I'll get the bus and bloody walk home!"

Tears of humiliation press behind my eyes, blurring my vision. I know he won't follow me, expose himself more and even if he does, I don't care. I storm across the car park towards the bus stop I saw near the other side of the store.

"Sky!" he calls. "Really, you got this all wrong. I'm not saying that's what I think." I keep walking as Dylan's heavy strides catch up behind. "Sky!"

Dylan grabs my arm and spins me around, causing a tear to fall from my eye. Great.

He stares at it in alarm. "Sorry, you’re right, I’m a dickhead, I didn't mean for you to take what I said this way."

"Let me go."

Strong hands cup my face, and I twist my head trying to get away from the intensity of his look. "Listen to me, Sky. I'd swap you for a hundred of the girls the press and public expect me to be with. You're genuine, funny and real. You've touched a part of my soul I thought died years ago."

"Cut the crap, Dylan."

"No, I'm not just saying this - it's true. I know we don't know each other very well but something about you fills a space inside that's been empty for so long. Don't let me fuck this up before we've started."

I yank his hands from my face, before his words break through my defences. "Maybe you should write a song about it."

"That's unfair, Sky."

"I wish I'd left the day I first met you, the games don't stop, do they?" I snap. "Don't follow me."

He doesn’t.

*****

I sit on a metal bench at the bus stop controlling my ragged breaths. How stupid am I? Letting this guy play with me; indulge in his fantasy for ordinary girls. I chew the inside of my mouth, willing the stupid tears to stay unspilt.

To get to the house, I need to take two buses and walk a couple of miles. Sweat sticks the summer dress to my back and legs, by the time I reach the door my calves sore from walking in crappy summer sandals. All the way back, my chest stayed tight, his words replaying; not the lies about touching his soul and that crap, the ones about him not being seen with someone like me.

I step into the shower, washing off the day and him. What was I doing? Living a fantasy with a mysterious rock star? The type in books who profess undying love before the story ends? My story isn't ending this way. If I listen to my head and not my heart, mine is about to end on a train back to Bristol, car dead in a supermarket car park.

One of Dylan's T-shirts lies on the floor by the sink and I stare at it. If I were a worse person, I'd take the item as a souvenir. But of what? What was this? And if I were a complete bitch, I'd call a newspaper to see if I can bargain for information of his whereabouts. Find out what his real worth is, because it'll be more than I'm worth to him.