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30
Sky
Waking the next morning,and refusing to be intimidated, I shower, dress in my non-Honey clothes and seek out breakfast. The adrenaline kicks back in when Jan’s friendly face from the normal world is absent. There’s milk in the fridge but I don’t want search around the kitchen so I settle on a glassful and an apple from the bowl on the kitchen counter. Now the excitement of books and baths has worn off, discomfort has pushed in. I want to go home.
I sneak back to my room, snuggle onto the day bed beneath the bay window and read a book about college kids in America—I’ve avoided all books with famous heroes since Broadbeach. Several hours later, with a headache coming on, I summon up the courage to leave the room. I’m a guest; I should explore, and I need fresh air.
Following half an hour wandering the grounds, I definitely feel like I've been spirited to a different world. To navigate the whole estate would need a car; the house alone is twice the size of the hotels in Greece I stayed in with Grant and a lot more luxurious. The outside of the house contradicts the interior with the preserved brick facade and carefully restored windows. I pass a huge, sparkling pool overlooked by several wrought iron balconies, steps leading upwards. Why would someone have a pool in the English climate? Oh, yeah, status.
The lawned gardens stretch in every direction, the woods bordering the property in the distance. There’re other buildings further from the house—one looks like an old estate cottage and another a converted barn or stables.
I sit on a wall near the entrance to the house, attempting to take everything in. I haven't seen Dylan since yesterday, even though he's on my mind the whole time. The anger towards him ebbed with the confusion on his face at what he'd done wrong. Then witnessing how Steve treats him added in sympathy. His life truly isn't his own, and he doesn't have many coping strategies in his struggle to step outside.
An expensive red sports car heads down the driveway and pulls up close by. I stand to leave, not wanting to meet the tall guy who climbs out. Then I back towards the stairs leading to the front door, debating whether to run inside or not.
He’s broader than Dylan, with a mass of darker auburn curls falling across his face and shoulders. Tight black jeans, a baggy band T-shirt and combat boots finish off his image. Is this Dylan world of Blue Phoenix a collection of clichés? And if it is, what does that make me? As he has sunglasses on, I’m unable to tell if he notices me hiding in the shadows.
The stocky man pulls off his sunglasses and strides over. I tense, waiting for a loaded comment but instead he grabs me in a bear hug, big arms wrapping around me and squeezing out my breath like a hairy boa constrictor. He then holds me by the shoulders, chocolate brown eyes studying mine.
"Summer Sky!"
I wish people would stop calling me that.
"Yeah. Hi."
"You changed your mind?" He raises an eyebrow.
"No, she didn’t."
I jump at Dylan’s voice. His sharp tone reminds me of the Dylan I met when our cars collided, and the closed off expression from before remains. He's dressed in his usual jeans and T-shirt combination, but for the first time he's wearing a Blue Phoenix T-shirt. The head of his phoenix tattoo disappears under the sleeve stretching across the biceps I pictured myself licking on the first day. He's in the Dylan Effect proximity and my nervousness doesn't help the short breathing.
Dylan strolls down the steps towards the other man. "But you can keep your hands off, Bryn. She doesn’t do rock stars." His eyes flick to mine. "Much."
Colouring, I shove my hands in the back pockets of my jeans and examine the ground.
"Bad luck, man." The sound of Bryn clapping Dylan on the back follows, and their voices retreat into the house.
* * *
For the restof the day I float around like a ghost haunting the place, invisible and hovering at the edge of their life. I make frequent trips to the kitchen in the hope of finding Jan but never do. Occasionally, I hear male voices carrying along the hallways from other rooms, raucous laughter and shouting. There are also girls’ voices, and I picture a room full of half-naked groupies. Jealousy isn't something I'm permitted when I've rejected Dylan.
This isn’t for me. The lifestyle of the rich and famous equals boredom. Bird in a gilded cage, I traipse from room to room trying to decide what to do. Clouds roll in outside, the end of the English sunny summer's day, and the rain pours. Running out of options, I make a quick sandwich from the cold meats and salads I find in the fridge before retreating to my room.
One day down, two to go?
I take a wrong turn again; this place is a bloody maze, and Dylan's lack of variety in decor doesn't help navigation. Maybe breadcrumbs from the sandwich will help find my way back to the kitchen next time, like Hansel and Gretel lost in the woods. I pick at the edge of the sandwich as I prepare to back out of the opulent sitting room I've stumbled upon.
"Hey, it's the little lady herself." A man's voice carries over the low music coming from the huge speakers across the room.
From my position, I can see long legs in dark denim jeans and bare feet, a tattooed arm resting on the edge of the sofa. His head is hidden by the white leather cushioned chair and he leans forward, face obscured by long, dark brown curls. His hair is longer than Bryn's, matching mine for unruliness. Pushing his hair back with one hand, he takes a good look at my figure, slowly and deliberately.
"Sorry," I say and turn to leave.
"What for? Come in! Jacinta is around somewhere. She'll fetch you a drink."
Something about this man bothers me. Not because he hasn't told me his name, but because along with his over-enthusiastic tone, he appears tightly coiled, like a rubber band ready to fly across the room.
"I'm okay. But thanks."
