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27
Dylan
My favourite place tobe when I’m in England is the old barn I had converted into a studio. Blue Phoenix never record here—this is my place; a time capsule of our journey. Posters decorate the exposed brickwork—from small A4 print outs from early gigs to huge posters from festivals. Follow the posters around the room and you'll see Blue Phoenix switch from tiny print at the bottom, up to second support and finally to headlining. Glastonbury. Summerfest. Rock in Rio. We’ve done them all, worldwide, over and over.
Now this life is killing me.
In the photo on the middle shelf, four teenage boys pull moody faces for the camera. Jem has his hands extended into the devil horns salute, brown curls obscuring his eyes, arm across my shoulders. Liam’s face is barely visible under his long red hair and Bryn is the nervous looking one, clutching his drumsticks. The last boy in the picture is me—tall and skinny with curls like Jem’s. Jem’s belief in us was fierce, pushing us into every opportunity to play and sending demo tapes the world over.
Like Jem, I believed we’d make it big and a year after this picture was taken, we did. I changed from the strange kid who sat at the back of the classroom, ignored, to someone everyone wanted a piece of. Suddenly, I was the hot lead singer of a world-famous band and the guy the chicks wanted. Man, I fucking loved it.
The shot was taken shortly before our first ever real gig supporting Chain Saw Babies, a new up-and-coming band. We were seventeen year old, long-haired boys with no clue what would hit them in a few months time. That night, the four friends from St David’s were noticed by Steve Bennett.
Blue Phoenix rose and the world turned upside down.
Everything happened so fucking fast—one album later we hit the festival circuit and then toured our backsides off for three years. I saw half the world but was never part of it. By the end of that time I wasn’t Dylan Morgan any longer; I was part of the Blue Phoenix brand and played my role. Would I rewind and do things differently? No. I’ve made some huge mistakes, some that haunt me still, but living for music, fame, and money is what I wanted. The problem is, I don’t want this anymore.
The soundproofing helps hide where I am, and the distance from the house acts as a warning to others who know where I am. If Dylan is in his cave, keep the fuck away.
The song I’m writing is killing me as much as the girl the song is about. I’m unsure what bothers me more—the fact she’s making me feel like this, or the fact she doesn’t feel the same way. Strumming chords on my acoustic, I piece together the lyrics and sounds. The songwriting pulls me back to the beach and away from the life I dragged myself back to. I wish I could say writing this song is cathartic, but the emotions released are raw.
This afternoon I’m in hiding from Steve. Drunken tweets at 3am after fending off Honey’s slutty friends did not make for a happy Steve. He tore a strip off me about the amount of damage control he’s had to perform recently, from the day I cut my hair and fucked off, and now this. I shut down, told him to fuck off but Steve had a careful line of attack.
His words eat at me several hours later: 'You ruin her life; she’ll never want to be in yours.'
Those words hit harder than when my car and life collided with Sky's, the exact consequences of my actions crystal clear. I held Sky out to the world and said ‘here she is, come and get her’. I didn’t mean to. Now I've monumentally fucked up any chance with her.
Headphones on, drowning in the music, I turn back to the laptop. Something's missing; I can't make this track work. The caller name flashing on my mobile phone catches my eye.
Steve.
Fucking great.
I can ignore him, but the mood Steve's in today, he’ll likely come and haul my ass out of here.
"Yeah?" I snap as I answer, "I’m busy."
"So am I, sorting out your shit. She’s here." His words are staccato, fed up.
"Who?" Not his PA as well, I hope, anything but that stuck-up bitch.
"Sky, you dick."
Excitement and apprehension vie for space in my head. "Here? As in she’s at the house? You’re at the house?"
"Yes. Here. Now fucking sort this out. I don’t have time for your lovelorn bullshit, we’re already behind on the album deadline and the tour kicks off in two weeks. Sort it." He hangs up.
Why did she agree to see Steve, but not me?
* * *
The sightof Sky standing and gazing out of the kitchen window kickstarts my heart. She faces away from me, her small figure rigid in jeans and dark blue shirt. The denim hugs her gorgeous backside, and I blink away images of her naked and in my arms. The colour contrasts her dark blonde hair, the thick waves pulled into a ponytail.
Sky. Here.
I fight my body's screaming need to stride over and hold her, the need to run my hands along the curves of Sky’s body, remember how her skin feels beneath my hands. I could bury my face in her strawberry scented hair and close my eyes to imagine we're in Cornwall again. But I don’t want to scare her, so I hesitate before moving over. She senses me and turns before I reach her.
The Sky looking at me now is nothing like my Sky. Her eyes are stony, face hard and a mask of hurt. Arms crossed tightly over her chest, she challenges me to dare approach. Not the reunion I hoped for.
