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The song for my summer Sky.
* * *
I swearHoney chooses to drag Liam to the Viper Room because of the guaranteed paparazzi. She loves the attention and checks herself out on the internet every day. The more she's in the limelight, the more fashion houses throw clothes at her to wear when she steps into the public arena. I'm itching for her to suffer a wardrobe malfunction and flash her tits—or worse—to the world. Not nice, yeah, but neither is she. I saw her hitting on Bryn a couple of weeks ago, and she knows I did.
Wearing a minuscule fire engine red dress, and heels any normal girl would face-plant in, Honey feigns annoyance at the photographer but ensures they get a picture of her best side.
Head down, I pretend I'm not here. The media scrutiny dropped off the last few months, but intensified following my Broadbeach escapade. Constant questions about Sky's identity are yelled by media and fans alike, and now the photos are out there. I toy with the idea of making a statement, telling people who she is, so she'll have to talk to me. But I’m not dumb; any chance of Sky agreeing to see me would be blown out of the water by that action. So, I stay quiet.
The Viper Room in Mayfair is a guaranteed Blue Phoenix haunt; one of us is here most nights when we're in England. Of course we're VIP, but for a price, and if they pre-book weeks in advance, the everyday clubbers can buy their way in. Early evening, the place is half-empty so I head through the purple-lit bar area towards our cordoned off VIP section. The white leather seats are arranged in an L-shape around round metal tables containing an ice bucket and champagne, a couple of empty bottles already lined up.
Jem is playing the rock cliché, each arm across a girl's shoulders. He appears to have a thing for dark-haired girls currently; a few months ago, all his conquests were blondes. When I approach, he pulls away, grabs his drink and watches me through narrowed eyes. In the past, we were like brothers—he practically was with the amount of time he spent at my house as a kid escaping his fucked up family. Then shit happened, our clashing personalities switched to animosity, and we don’t talk much anymore. In the purple hued room, his true state is difficult to make out. He's skinnier recently, dark curls tumbling over gaunter cheekbones, but his presence is the same—not only because he's the Blue Phoenix lead guitarist. Years of girl's falling over him inevitably adds to his confidence that every girl thinks he's hot as fuck.
The music fades as I approach, our space darker and quieter than the rest of the venue. Besides Jem's appendages, several other girls recline on the seats. A girl with Barbie hair shrieks a greeting to Honey and they embrace with false cheek kisses. Honey pushes the girl towards me.
"This is Jewel."
Jewel smiles seductively and I groan inwardly. I need a fucking drink.
Several hours and an uncountable number of drinks later, Jewel finds her way onto my lap. The row of violet spotlights above us spin as I stare upwards—I’m not used to this much alcohol in public after all those months dry. I remain motionless, as she strokes my leg, fingers playing across the exposed part of my chest. Her tits are at my eye level—awesome tits if you like a mouthful of silicone. Nothing stirs; no reaction from my dick and not due to the alcohol. Because she isn’t Sky.
So what the fuck am I doing letting this random girl touch me?
Jem's hand is up one of his conquests short black dress, as the couple devour each other. Me and Jem haven’t spoken; he's high again so there's no point. Jem's hardly said two words to me since I returned from Broadbeach, even at the studio. Suits me. He's a fucking mess—I thought I was bad but he's going to end up the ultimate rock and roll cliché and dead before he's twenty-five. Three stints in rehab and he's no better than before.
Seated the other side of me, Liam stares at the ceiling; ‘the limpet’ and friends are absent. Realisation hits: they're all fucking high.
This is why I left. I can't be this or do this anymore. I want to be on the beach eating fish and chips with Sky. I could be snuggling and covering her beautiful, warm body with mine and connecting to something real.
Without a word, I head towards the front doors. The dancers part as I take a shortcut across the dance floor, squinting at the lights strobing across the writhing bodies. I catch a glimpse of Honey gyrating with another guy, his hands holding her backside close to his crotch. She doesn't notice and if I said anything to Liam, he'd tell me to fuck off.
This is fucked up, all of this life.
I leave by the front door, not giving a flying fuck who sees me. I laugh drunkenly to myself: ‘come at me, paparazzi, do your worst’. The world shimmers in and out of view as I adjust my eyes to the light, and familiar camera flashes light my way as I head for the car where Dave waits to take us home. I'm not going home. I have to see Sky, cleanse the filth from my night with the clarity of her.
