Summer Star (The Blue Phoenix Series Book 1.5) (2 page)

CHAPTER THREE

The problem with getting into my car and pissing off without thinking things through is logistical issues. Sure, I booked the beach house from the old bird who owns the place, but as I arrive at the outskirts of Broadbeach it suddenly strikes me how conspicuous I'll be driving around in a car that costs as much as a small house. Add to that the personalised number plates and I’m not exactly hidden.

I pull onto the side of the road, beneath a canopy of willow trees. The English summer afternoon heads into evening and I need to get to the house, and get rid of my car. Nicely planned, Dylan. Now what do I do? There's one person I trust to ask and I call him.

“Bryn?”

“Dylan. Please tell me what the fuck is going on.” I expected anger but there's genuine concern in his voice.

“I need to get away from shit, Bryn. Can you help me out?”

“Come on, man, we've the album to finish and a tour starting soon. Bad timing.”

“I'm going fucking mad, Bryn. Seriously, this isn't me deciding to take a random holiday, I have to leave.”

“Did you tell Steve where you’ve gone?”

“Fuck, no!” I picture the admonishment that would be thrown my way. “Bryn, you've seen Jem. I don't want to go back down that route; it’s not the answer. Let me breathe for a bit and I'll come back in a week or two. I promise.”

I say drugs aren't the answer but the day the doctor handed me a prescription for benzos, I realised there isn't much difference. If I'm going to escape, it's to something real and not a denial of reality in some drug-induced haze. Fuck knows I've been there with the illegal kind and look at the shit that landed me in.

Bryn heaves a sigh down the phone. “What do you need me to do, Dylan?”

“Can you get someone to collect my car and drop me somewhere?”

“Where are you?”

“Cornwall.”

“What the fuck? Why?”

“Because it's where I need to be,” I say simply.

“Jesus Christ, Dylan, that's a fucking long way from London.”

“Exactly.”

“I'll see what I can do but we're talking hours here.”

I huff and slump down in the car seat. “Yeah, I didn't really think.”

“Really? Dylan Morgan running away and not thinking? What a surprise,” he says sarcastically.

I bristle at his recognition of my inability to face up to shit. “You gonna help me out or not?”

“Where are you - an exact location would help.”

Two hours later, a guy arrives in a taxi with John, one of the Blue Phoenix security team. Few words are exchanged as I hand the burly man my car keys. No idea who the taxi driver is; but I'm sure Bryn paid him enough to keep quiet. He's an older dude anyway - sixties maybe - so probably doesn't know who I am or give a shit.

I haul my rucksack and guitar case from the boot of my car, and sling it on the back seat of the white taxi. John closes the car boot and heads around to the driver’s side. A couple of minutes later, the Audi’s gone and my choice is made.

“You know the area?” I ask the taxi driver as I climb in the back of his car.

“Kind of. Don't usually come out here.” The man doesn't turn around, brown eyes in his lined face watching me through the rear-view mirror. I wrinkle my nose at the offensive fake pine smell coming from the air freshener hanging off the mirror and sit back.

Rummaging in my pocket, I pull out the envelope with the house key and address. Funny that I came to Broadbeach every year as a kid but never knew the name of where I stayed. All I remember is a white cottage by the sea, happiness, and holidays.

“I'll direct you if you like?” I suggest and punch the address into my phone. My car has sat-nav; this guy has a tattered map book.
Jesus, Bryn, is this the best you could do?

“Good idea, mate,” grumbles the man.

By the time we arrive at the house, the afternoon has faded to evening. I ask him to drop me at the top of the lane leading down to the white cottage. He may not know who I am, but if my disappearance causes enough fuss to get me in the media, which it inevitably will, he might recognise me so I'd rather he didn't know exactly where I was, and tell people.

The sand dunes separating the edge of the gravel lane and the beach evoke memories of scrambling up and sitting on the top of the mounds. From the higher vantage point, I would check the shore and see if the tide was out. At low tide, the rocks filled with pools I spent hours poking round in with my net and bucket.

Thanking the driver, I lug my gear out and stand at the top of the lane, breathing in the ozone and freedom. Each lungful pushes my real world further away, a queasy relief in my stomach that I've found escape for a few days.

I head down the hill, toward the whitewashed house, which appears the same as the last time I saw it over a decade ago. The white door is freshly painted and the garden beds neatly tended; pink and red flowers in pots by the door. Giddy apprehension fills me as I unlock the door and step inside to the world of my past.

The place is a time warp. The same old brown sofa sits on the polished wooden floor, the tall, heavy shelf against one wall filled with books. The TV is a new addition but from the pictures on the wall to the fraying blue curtains, this place hasn’t changed.

I heave a sigh of relief that something in my life remains unchanged, that somewhere part of the old Dylan Morgan exists, even if this is his history. Climbing the creaking stairs, I push open the main bedroom door to the place my parents slept in on our yearly summer holiday; until Dad left when I was twelve and we never came here again. This room has the best views of the beach and across to the town. The other bedroom overlooks the lane behind, and probably still has the bunk beds I slept in. One advantage of having no brother or sister, there was never an argument over who slept where.

I step inside the main bedroom then freeze.

The neatly cleaned room and immaculately made up double bed are covered in women's clothes. Not just a couple of discarded items on the floor but what looks like half the contents of the big blue bag propped under the window.

I throw my rucksack to one side of the room, drop the guitar case, and pick up an item from the bed. Some chick’s underwear? What the fuck? This isn’t the usual lace and silk that shops call lingerie either, but what can only be described as knickers. Cotton, flowery, cheap, and functional. Not the kind I usually find on my bed, or bedroom floor.

There's only one explanation for this: a fucking groupie knew I was coming here. The old woman I spoke to didn't seem to have a clue who I was, why would she tell anyone?

Same reason as always: money.

I grab the rest of the offending items and chuck them on the floor, the relaxed feeling I had replaced by blood pumping into my head. I suppose I should be grateful the girl isn't in the bed waiting. This is insane.

What if she's in the house?

Jumping downstairs two at a time, ready to confront whoever the fuck has invaded my privacy, I check the kitchen and lounge. Nobody. There's no other evidence of a guest apart from the bag in the bedroom. I rub my neck and consider if the items were left by a previous visitor.

Yeah, right. A whole bag full of clothes? Not exactly easy to forget when you pack up and leave.

My head hurts; eyes dry and tired from driving, and my hunger grows. On my list of 'shit I didn't think about before I pissed off to Cornwall’ is food. I can’t wander into town for what I need. People normally shop for me, so what do I do now?
Smart move, Dylan
.

I need to wake myself up and decide what to do. I hope the bloody shower works.

****

Plenty of hot water leads to a happier Dylan and I towel dry my hair in front of the mirror. Despite the fact the guy reflected looks nothing like me, I feel more Dylan than I did, as if I washed part of him down the drain when I showered away the city. My blue eyes are red though, tired smudges beneath them and the beginnings of lines around make me look older than my twenty-four years. The proverbial sex, drugs, and rock and roll does that to a guy I guess. I rub a hand over my short hair, the sensation weird after years of pulling curls from my eyes. I hardly recognise myself, so hopefully nobody else can. When I open the bathroom door, I pause and listen in case my mysterious visitor has returned. The dark and quiet house confirms not.

As I shuffle into my clean jeans, a noise alerts me. The front door bangs and keys jangle as someone enters the house. I straighten and listen. Do I storm down there and give her a piece of my mind? No, I want to see what the owner of the underwear does. I'll wait; give her the surprise of her fucking life if she decides to come back up here.

After ten minutes, the movement downstairs stops. I grin to myself as I sit on the bed and wait. I wonder what kind of girl she is? I hope she's young, stupid, and easily scared off because I really don't have time for this shit. Whoever she is, she's ruined my escape plan by knowing I'm in Broadbeach. I don't want to have to move on when I just bloody got here.

A microwave beeps as the person sets about cooking something. Seriously? She's making a snack? Needs her energy for her imagined night with me?

I'm not waiting here; I want her gone. Let's see what lame explanation she comes up with. I grab a pair of her panties from the floor and tread quietly downstairs.

The stairs end in the lounge room, close to the sofa. A girl sits on the brown sofa holding a large glass of red wine and resting her head back on the cushions, eyes closed. She's pale, blonde wavy hair splayed across the back of the chair and she’s wearing the same blue and white flowery summer dress that hugs her in ways she probably doesn’t realise.

The girl whose car I rear-ended a few hours ago.

I fucking knew it wasn't a coincidence.

“Is this your underwear?” I say, hanging the panties on my index finger in her direction.

The girl jerks in surprise, turning confused blue eyes toward me before jumping up. With a shaking hand, she wipes away some of the wine she's spilt on her dress. I'm about to believe she has no idea who I am, until I catch her checking out my naked chest. The chick can't help but appreciatively gaze at the body I spend a fuck load of time in the gym to achieve. She's only human, right?

Pale face now pink, the girl snatches her panties from my hand. She balls them and shoves the offending item onto the sofa. “Get out of my house before I call the police!”

“Your house?”

I'm no longer sure the pink face is embarrassment, anger, or desire. Possibly a mix of all three. “Where the hell did you come from? Did you follow me?”

Me follow her?
I'm too tired and hungry for this shit.
“How is this your house? This place is a holiday rental.”

“Well, my Gran's house but I'm staying here.”

“That's a problem then.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm renting the place for a month. I arrived about an hour ago and thought the last guests must’ve forgotten some items of clothing.” I point at the underwear, enjoying her increasing embarrassment. “Then I get out of the shower and find you here.”

“Gran never said when I asked to stay...” She rubs her face. “Well, I was here first! You have to leave!”

I cock a brow. “I have to leave? I've paid for the place. Have you?”

She's out of her depth, and this is funny. I wait to see what bullshit excuse she comes up with next.

“You can't kick me out!” she blurts, face reddening further by the minute.

“Stay then. But I'm having the main bedroom, and you’ll have to remove all your clothes and underwear.” I pause long enough for the words to register and smile to indicate I’m well aware of what I just said. “From the bed, I mean.”

“I'm not staying with you; you could be a psychopath or something,” she fires back, ignoring the connotations.

“Or something? What's worse than a psychopath?”

Again, she stares at my body; and in response, I stare at hers. The chick crosses her arms over her chest. Most girls would've changed their behaviour and become coy; she's standing her ground. Seriously, this is funny and takes the edge off my anger with the situation. Chicks do not speak to me like this.

A suspicion edges in, maybe she really doesn’t know who I am. Unlikely, but if it’s true, why is this chick hanging around in a house with a strange guy and not running the hell out of here?

“You have to go,” she repeats.

“Where?”

Her voice rises. “I don't know! Get in your penis extension of a car and find somewhere expensive!”

I'm momentarily shocked by her words, as I was when she called me a dickhead a few hours ago and then I laugh, something I haven’t done for a long time but she's fucking hilarious. Nobody has ever complained that I need a penis extension, car or otherwise; and no one dares speak to me like this in case they get sacked or kicked out of the Blue Phoenix inner circle. From this weird chick with the prickly attitude, her talking to me this way is a turn on.