Mirrored (Follow Your Bliss series Book 4) (2 page)

Chapter Three

The following morning, the flight to Heathrow and awkward
goodbye in the arrivals terminal was more uncomfortable than Alex’s throbbing
lip and sore rib courtesy of Finn. The guys hadn’t talked about the punches
thrown, but Albert confided that Finn had been gummy and Graham said he’d
deserved the hits Alex got in. He’d added that he thought Finn was jealous
because Brighton’s attention took Alex away from his role as wingman, standby
party buddy, and let’s-cause-a-riot partner; he was still as committed to the
band as ever. As for Jamie, Alex doubted they’d be welcomed back, although,
despite his surfer vibe, he didn’t seem to be a stranger to fighting for honor.

Alex’s phone remained silent after the guys retreated to
their respective homes to recover before the scheduled photo shoot for the
rock-mag the following day. Alex considered cancelling so he and Finn had more
time to cool down. But if band priorities were the crux of the issue, and not
something else, as Graham had suggested and Alex intuited, the shoot was on.

Well after midnight, and alone in his father’s flat in
London, Alex considered calling out for some take-away, but hunger for
something else gnawed at him. He closed his eyes, imagining her soft lips on
his, the curves of her chest, and how her hands rubbed his neck, his stomach,
and continued down, down, down.

His mobile vibrated. A photo of Brighton, that he’d taken the
summer before, appeared on the screen. She wore sunglasses and a sneer.

“I was just thinking about you.”

“Naughty thoughts I hope,” she said.

That was the Brighton he knew, not the pensive, sullen girl
he’d spoken to a couple days before. Actually, if he was honest, he knew that
version of her too. He wondered if she’d been missing her father. At unexpected
times, he’d find her grieving over losing him too soon. It had gotten much,
much better since when they’d met, but she still had her moments. He worried
that suggesting she visit her father’s old stomping grounds had triggered her
grief. Then again, he knew that feeling—of being left behind, alone, and
abandoned, all too well.

“They were actually sexy,” he said, casting his mind back
into the gutter. He sensed her smiling. Those lips.

“Good news, you’ll only have to fantasize for the next twelve
hours. I bought a ticket,” she slurred.

“I would have arranged it for you. Wait. Are you drunk?
Making major purchases while under the influence is ill-advised.”

She laughed. “Sometimes I think I make my best decisions
while wasted.”

“Bri, let’s hope not.” He wanted to laugh and to be drunk
with her, but anxiety squeezed the air in his chest. “When does your flight get
in? I’ll meet you at the airport.”

After exchanging travel information, Brighton encouraged him
to tell her in detail what he’d been thinking about before she’d called. Alex
hung up, very satisfied.

The following afternoon, he pulled on a clean t-shirt, jeans,
and slung a jacket over his shoulder before heading out to his father’s garage.
He hauled a dusty tarp off a Jensen Interceptor, a seventies-era British sports
car. He pulled another tarp off a Mercedes convertible, also part of Chaz’s
collection of classic cars, before landing on a slate grey Jaguar XJS. Brighton
liked fast cars, and he knew she’d appreciate his pick.

After grabbing a bite to eat and navigating away from a mob
of hysterical fans, waving tabloids in his face, he pulled behind the decrepit
building the photographer had scouted. Albert popped out of a cab. The two went
up together, exchanging polite banter about everything except their last night
in Costa Rica. Graham greeted them dressed in a purple, velour suit complete
with rhinestone-studded crocodile shoes.

“Check out these tiger stripes,” he said, running his hand
along the jacket lapel. He tipped his plumed hat.

“Halloween costume or did you find a new profession?” Alex
asked.

A chuckle slipped from his lips, fully immersed in character.

“Wonderful, you’re here,” said a stylist. “Are we still
missing Finn?”

No one answered.

“I’m Sonya. I’m the stylist for the shoot.” Her inked
eyebrows were like the edges of a butterfly’s wing. “The inspiration for this
visionary cover is alter-ego slash Halloween slash sexy magazine spread.”
Noticing the gash on Alex’s face, she tsked. “I supposed make-up will have to
work that into your pirate ensemble.”

“This is daft,” a loud voice called. “I didn’t sign up to
dress up.”

Alex didn’t avoid Finn’s bruised eye.

Graham spoke. “No, you signed up to be in The Gracks and
today The Gracks are playing dress up. Finn, if you need to talk, talk.
Otherwise just do your job.”

Alex wasn’t entirely sure how seriously Finn would take
Graham, dressed up like a pimp. Nonetheless, he didn’t utter a word or crack a
smile.

The remaining three, still in street clothes, quickly changed
into costumes and went into a brightly lit room for styling. Graham laughed
when Alex appeared as a pirate, and Albert padded into the room dressed as a
superhero, cape and all.

Minutes later, Finn joined them on the roof of the building
dressed as a vampire. The costumes acted as a shield between them, relieving
Alex of having to interact with Finn in a meaningful way. Although they had to
pose together, neither said a word; though, at least for Finn, it may have been
because of the fangs stuffed in his mouth.

After four grueling hours, the photographer called, “That’s a
wrap,” and everyone disappeared to change into their regular clothing. Alex
caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. An assistant to Sonya began removing
his heavy pirate jacket when he had an idea.

“Do you mind if I hang onto this? I have somewhere to be.”

The girl shrugged. Alex returned the sword. After saying
goodbye to Graham and Albert, he dashed out to the car.

Plodding through traffic, his foot danced between the
accelerator and brake as he rushed to Heathrow.

After parking, assuring himself his disguise would work, he
waited for Brighton outside the arrivals area. Weary travelers passed him
wheeling suitcases and hugging in reunion. As the stream of people dwindled, a
slim figure with red hair appeared. She was class and sass, green eyes and
glass features, lips that could kiss and kill. There, was his girl. He had the
urge to run up to her in greeting and sweep her off her feet. But security
wouldn’t take kindly to a pirate tackle-hugging a young woman just arriving
from America.

When she cleared TSA, he walked quickly toward her, but her
gaze hovered around and behind him until he planted himself a foot away.

“Bri.”

Her face flashed with recognition. “You scurvy dog,” she said,
playing along and pulling him into a kiss. Another flight arrived as travelers
brushed by them, but their lips never left the other’s, as tongues explored
mouths and breathing became optional.

Finally, Brighton looked into his blue-grey eyes. “I missed
you. I just didn’t realize how much.”

Chapter Four

After they’d tucked Brighton’s bags in the Jag, she stood
back admiring it. “This,” she nodded her head, “I like. But I’m not sure how I
feel about touring London with a pirate.”

“The costume is leftovers from a Gracks photo shoot.”

“How’d it go?”

“Disastrous. But being at the airport and not surrounded by
flashing cameras and screaming fans is a welcome relief. I figured this was a
suitable choice. I’m semi-incognito.”

At the reference to his fear of flying, a shadow crossed
Brighton’s face. He instantly regretted reminding her of his former instability
and reliance on drugs and alcohol to cope with daily life. It was only after
they’d met; he’d dealt with his wacked ex, and realized how very bright reality
could be, especially in her company, that he was able to manage with a beer or
glass of wine in social settings and not a drop more. He also knew how he’d
probably forever balance on the edge of venturing into dark places if he didn’t
remain vigilant. There were some things, namely his mother walking out on him,
that he’d never be able to resolve. But he had Brighton, and he’d do whatever
he could to keep in the light.

He dangled the keys in front of her palms. “Want to drive?”

She peered through the driver’s side window. “Let me get used
to being a passenger on the left side of the road before you put me behind the
wheel of an expensive car. I assume this is your father’s.”

“Indeed. Just say when you’re ready, and the keys are yours,”
Alex answered, opening the door for her.

“You trust me?” she asked.

“You trusted me first,” he said, recalling when she let him
drive her father’s 1969 Chevelle, her beloved CC.

As she lowered into the car, she pecked him on the lips, her
long lashes fringing her emerald, green eyes. A smile hitched at the corner of
her mouth filling him with longing. Alex couldn’t wait to get out of the stupid
pirate suit.

Back at the flat, he shuffled out of the costume, while
Brighton ran a bath.

Poking his head in the doorway, she stood, naked, with her
back to him. Her long hair cascaded over her shoulders. She wiggled her finger
for him to enter. Heat surged beneath his navel.

She reclined in the bath, bubbles revealing just her head and
chest. Alex stepped in behind her, and she leaned into him. When they once may
have faded together, like dying stars, folding inward, both lost in their own
brands of pain, instead, they’d grown and healed, melting into each other with
molten attraction, connection, and audio vibration. They fit together
perfectly, shining brightly from the flames of renewal.

“I think the last time I was in this time zone was when I was
still young enough to take baths,” she said.

“Yeah, and my dad couldn’t get me near one.”

“You were a grubby little kid.” She turned over, her chest on
his stomach, her chin resting on her hands. She smirked. He loved the way her
lips curled up, almost crooked. The curve of her breasts, teased him from under
her hair and bubbles, and the smoky, yet feminine sound of her voice turned him
on, on, on.

“Let’s clean that stage makeup off. I want to see you,” she
said, grabbing a washcloth.

He’d forgotten the makeup artist had fitted him with a couple
scars and eye makeup to make him look more authentic.

When she scrubbed near his eye, he winced. “That one’s real,”
he said.

“Did you get hurt surfing?”

“Something like that. Finn and I had a barney, a scuffle.”

“Should I ask why?”

Alex didn’t answer, but instead he placed his lips on hers,
sensation building between his legs. They dripped out of the tub and into the
bed, kissing and groping all the while.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he whispered. Overcome with lust
as he ran his hands along her waist, he hiked her legs around his. They sent
the pillows scattering. He felt her heartbeat fluttering against his chest as
he pressed into her.

“I’ve been wanting this every day we were apart,” she said,
her breath coming quick.

In a swift motion, he flipped onto his back so she could be
on top. He watched her bump and swell as she moved her hips back and forth
until they both fulfilled their desires.

As they lay side by side, from around a chain on her neck,
Alex plucked up the guitar pick he’d given her. Printed on it were the
coordinates for Brighton England, where they’d first, first met, before loss
and life had spoiled them both. It was a place he’d always called home and
hoped she would too. He flipped it over. On the other side, was the word,
Always
.
Meaning he’d always love her—no matter if oceans or continents divided them or
if she went off with someone else or discovered she was a lesbian. It also told
her she always had a home to return to with him and in that town by the sea.
The pick reminded him of how far they’d traveled together, actual miles in her
Chevelle and the kind that were uncountable, but populated by landmarks like
laughter, and tears.

Chapter Five

The dim grey light of a London morning filtered through the
heavy drapes. Alex woke, alone in bed. He followed Brighton’s voice to the
kitchen where she sat on a chair with her knees drawn up to her chest. She
smiled weakly and then got off the phone with an, “I love you, Mom.”

“How’s Claire?” Alex asked, pouring himself a cup of tea.

“Going to sleep.”

“She’s a night owl, huh?”

“We’ve both been struggling with that lately.” Brighton
looked out the window as if traveling outside the kitchen to a private, shaded
place.

“Did last night help?”

Turning back to him, she grinned.

“I see you made toast. It looks cold,” he said, taking the
chair opposite her.

She took a sip of his tea, stood, and then planted herself
onto his lap. Apparently, she cast off whatever had clouded her face for those
moments after the phone call. “So, when does this tour begin?” she asked,
tracing her finger down his chest.

“I was going to say let’s start with a proper English breakfast,
but…”

After they made love, they set off. The morning was cool for
summer, even by London standards. Alex pulled a hat over his shaggy hair.

“Not so incognito,” Brighton said.

“Let’s just hope it’s too early for the mobs to be out.”

“Tell me where we are,” Brighton said, glancing around the
street lined with austere flats bordered by gates and hedges.

Alex went on to describe the neighborhood. Even though it
wasn’t where Bang Bang, their fathers’ famous band, had started out, they’d
laid claim to it later on when they’d risen to fame with late night parties,
street races, and recorded Neil, the drummer, playing a song in the rain.

“Right there by that hydrant. It was that song with the eerie
pattering. Clock Washer, off the third album. That sound you heard, that was
the rain. Neil actually reminds me of our drummer, Albert. He’s quiet and slow
moving, but then he’ll have these explosive, revolutionary ideas that will just
blow your mind, but it’s completely unexpected.”

Walking those familiar streets, he saw the history with his
own band, The Gracks: a sticker on a sign from when they were still Gracked,
the spot where Finn lost his lunch after trying a hair of the dog to relieve
his hangover, and the bench where he sat when the idea for the hit song,
Cin-escape came to him.

“It’s a shame I can’t be a normal guy walking down the street
anymore.”

“I don’t think you were ever normal,” Brighton said,
laughing.

He loved that sound.

They took a table at the back of
Mother’s Pantry,
a
classic breakfast joint in Shoreditch. After placing their order, Alex said,
“They used to come here, your dad and mine, but I guess it was smaller then,
just that area there.” He pointed across the room to an aged section of the
building.

Alex was careful, unsure what kind of effect touring memory
lane would have on Brighton. He wanted to help her heal and relieve the burden
of loss she carried. He wanted to see her happy and light. So far, she wore a
mask of cheer, but beneath that, he saw stony trouble, like rocky plates
grinded together, building pressure, ready to tremor and quake.

“Crap,” he said as a group of people with wide lens cameras
crowded the window by the entry. “Someone here must have clued them in. Back
door exit for us. I’m sorry.”

Brighton shrugged and finished her coffee.

On the street, Alex heard a man say, “He’s leaving this way.”
Footfalls echoed on the sidewalk. He ushered her forward, toward the sidewalk
on the other side of the block. Camera shutters clicked. The paparazzi shouted
questions he wasn’t interested in hearing. Then one got especially close and
said, “Is that the girl who’s breaking up the band?”

Alex rounded on them, tucking Brighton behind him. “Go ahead.
Take your bloody photographs,” he said, with his arms outstretched. “You think
people really give a monkey’s arse what I eat for breakfast? How about this,
what if I let the public know you wankers chased me down an alley? Threatened
my girlfriend and ruined my morning? I suggest you take a break for a few days,
else you’ll be hearing from my legal team.”

Alex made a grand bow, sneered, and they stepped back onto
the street. He exhaled loudly, saying, “Now, maybe we can be proper tourists.”

After they’d successfully visited the Tower of London and
admired the Queen’s Jewels, scaled the Bridge, waved to the guards in front of
Buckingham Palace, checked out an exhibition at the National Gallery, and then
evaded some teens—on a field trip, tailing them—Alex took Brighton off the
beaten path to an umbrella shop.

“Brollies, all shapes and sizes. It rains here, a bit,” he
whispered facetiously as they entered the dusty store.

Brighton’s face lit into a smile at the reminder of the
summer before, in Portland, when she’d used the term,
brolly
. “Do you
also remember this?” she said, leading him into a corner. Out of sight of the
shopkeeper, she planted her lips on his.

At the sound of a stern throat clearing, they pulled apart
and dashed out onto the street.

“We have a couple weeks, right?” Alex asked, unsure the
duration of her stay since she’d booked her tickets while intoxicated. He knew
she had to return to UCLA for her senior year the last week in August.

“I think I saw half the city today.”

“That was the touristy, cheesy stuff. Tomorrow I’ll show you
the London your dad knew,” Alex said, gauging how she tolerated the words.

“Yeah. That’d be good,” she said.

Alex was slightly dubious; she seemed preoccupied.

That night, he woke to the sound of Brighton’s voice,
carrying from the kitchen. Just as he had in the morning, he found her there on
the phone. Tears streamed down her face. She quickly hung up. He took her in
his arms, carrying her back to the bed. Tucking the blanket close, he said, “Do
you want to talk about it?”