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15
Sky
The apologetic lookDylan throws me as we pull into the underground car park of his apartment complex does nothing to soften my mood. The snoring from the rear of the car irritates me further. Dylan looks over his shoulder at his comatose friend.
“What do we do with him?”
“Phone your manager!” I retort.
Dylan pulls the sleek black car into his allocated space, beneath the apartments. “I’ll text him.”
“What the hell?” I run my hands through my hair and hold my hand out. “Give your phone to me!”
Warily, Dylan passes the phone and I scroll his contacts for Steve. Only 11 P.M and the evening is over.
A gruff Steve answers the phone and silence replies when I tell him who it is. There’s a brief exchange about the fuckwit in the car—and I’m mostly talking about Jem here, although Dylan’s sense in dragging us into Jem’s assault situation doesn’t strike me as sensible. Dylan stares, eyes widening each time I cut dead Steve.
Smacking the screen to cancel the call, I shove the phone at Dylan. “He’s aware. Talking down police involvement. Can we go inside now?”
He takes the phone, shaking his head as he watches me. “You’re amazing.”
“Just get your friend out of the car before we have a Jimi Hendrix rock star death-in-own-vomit situation,” I snap, throwing open the car door.
He blinks at my mood but I’m upset that our first official Dylan and Sky date is screwed up by the guy who hates me.
Once we’re back in the apartment, I kick off my shoes and pad across the shining marble floor to the fridge. Champagne. I’m acquiring a taste for this–beats bottles of ‘sparkling wine’ from Asda. Life with rock stars should include champagne, right?
Dylan hauls his friend onto the sofa; Jem now in a semi-conscious state after being moved from the car.
“I see you’ve had practice?” I retort.
Jem pushes himself up and blinks at his surroundings. “Get me a drink, dude.”
“You’ve had enough, Jem. Go sleep it off in the spare room. Wait there.” Dylan strides along the tiled hallway to the other side of the apartment.
Yawning and dragging hair from his eyes, Jem focuses in my direction. He rubs his nose then stretches his fingers toward me. “What do you have, summer Sky?”
“Have?”
Jem hauls himself to his feet and my heart rate jumps to match. Surely, he won’t touch me.
“How come you’re back? You gonna screw him over?”
I grip my glass. “You’re the one screwing him over, dragging him into crap like tonight.”
Bumping his backside onto the sofa arm, Jem frowns in the way drunk people do who are trying to remember what they were going to say. I focus on one of Dylan’s strange pieces of artwork spanning the wall behind Jem, a spiral of bronze and silver metal several metres wide. Communicating with Jem is inadvisable and pointless and I opened my big mouth. Great.
“And you’re okay with what he did?”
“Are you talking about Lily?”
He rubs his face. “Yeah, her. Didn’t she talk to you?”
“You know she did.”
“And you’re okay with it?”
“Okay with what?” Dylan reappears with a duvet in his arms.
