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Part II
27
January 30th (Miami, FL)
Sky
Blue Phoenix’sstage show surprises me. Once I get over the shock of the size of the venues and the sheer number of bodies packed between the walls, I wait for the inevitable theatrical displays to match the stage shows I’ve seen on TV by other big name stars.
This doesn’t happen.
A huge screen behind the band projects images of the guys to the thousands of people who can’t see the stage. Tonight, the band play to a capacity crowd of around 17,000.
When they started the set, I hid at the side of the stage and peeked out at the audience. The darkness prevented me seeing much, but the moment the light show strobed across the crowds, I feel sick for Dylan. Thousands of people with an expectation, girls at the front screaming the band members’ names; the intensity of the sight and sound screws my senses and I back away.
I head through the concrete hallways, a maze of doors and rooms, until I reach one of the VIP boxes where Steve entertains the local media. They don’t notice me slip in and I hover at the back, heart pounding.
The volume hurts my ears even back here. Blue Phoenix’s music isn’t my taste, but I can hear the skill and see the connection between them. They morph together as one, each playing their part. As the set progresses, and Dylan heats up, he loses his shirt to screams of appreciation from the crowd. I stare in further shock—at the man who hates attention now drawing more.
But I understand. Dylan tells me he switches off and goes through the motions of who he’s expected to be, but the passion and power of his voice isn’t a facade. The music is an integral part of who he is and the real reason Dylan won’t walk away.
I catch sight of Honey sipping champagne and chatting to a friend. They’ve placed themselves toward the rear of the VIP box too and don’t pay a lot of attention to the band. Honey watched the band perform before, dozens of times, but as this is my first Blue Phoenix gig, the atmosphere grips my attention.
Honey rarely speaks, regarding me with a mixture of amusement and disdain whenever we cross paths. I was surprised to find her with the entourage when the band re-grouped after the hell of Christmas. Liam watched me nervously the first few times he saw me with her, but I have nothing to say to Honey.
I’m curious what the deal was with the girl in St Davids at Christmas. I must’ve misconstrued the situation, as nothing in his relationship with Honey is different, especially as Honey’s constant, loud conversations about wedding plans continue each day. Extravagance would be too small a word to describe what Bridezilla is planning.
I haven’t avoided scrutiny since arriving with Dylan a few days before the tour kicked off. The media intrusion is nowhere near as bad as the UK, but I’ve seen myself talked about on entertainment shows and in internet pictures. I avoid them now. At first I obsessed about every word printed, hurt by negative comments, until I managed to disconnect. This is a feature of my life as long as I choose to stay with Dylan, and I need to learn to deal with the scrutiny in a healthy way.
My ears ring as the music stops and Blue Phoenix leaves the stage followed by demands for an encore filling the stadium. I imagine Dylan landing back in his real world, ready to end the night. He attempted to hide how he felt pre-show, but Dylan’s edginess snuck in and replaced the relaxed guy from our island retreat. He avoided the other band members before going onstage and I panicked, afraid he use might use pills again to cope. Dylan refuses to see a doctor and insists he’s stopped. I believe him. I haven’t seen any around—however, I’m no expert, but I didn’t think you could just stop? Apparently, he took them intermittently but I can’t see how that would change anything? He gets tetchy if I mention this, so I back off.
Instead, Dylan switches his focus to me, talking about everything but the looming night ahead. Before he went on stage, he leant against the wall outside his dressing room with his eyes closed, the sound of the support band filling the silence between. He has a month of this before a break and a European tour.
If he or Jem last that long.
The chanting becomes a raucous cheer as Jem reappears, striding across stage and grabbing a bottle from the floor. Spotlight shines on him as he drinks heavily then tosses the empty bottle to someone offstage. He pulls the guitar strap back over his head, plays a couple of chords, and then pauses. The crowd screams in recognition.
Jem’s grin projects onto the screen behind, and the stadium fills with the sound of Jem’s guitar, the other members absent. In the quietened stadium, I find myself transfixed by the impossible beauty to the sound skilfully teased from the solo instrument. I’m engrossed and I don’t notice the loud bass join or Dylan’s voice cut in.
I want the light to move to Dylan, to see his face, but this is Jem’s song. I recognise the track from years ago, one of those viral songs that permeate the world for months. The ones you know, but can never put a title to.
The infectious adoration for these men surrounds me, and I’ve a new attraction to the power Dylan has—an understanding why his life is filled with women. No one here would know his vulnerability beneath, with his disappearing act from the summer all but forgotten. I remember his gran’s words about younger Dylan’s frequent disappearances and wonder how many times Dylan pulled a stunt like the summer in the past.
My thoughts are interrupted by a new song, one heralded by a slower guitar. I glance at the screen and see Dylan playing, damp curls stuck to his face. He’s backed up Jem’s lead guitar a couple of times this evening, but this time he’s solo. The familiarity of the song hits as he begins singing, and the soulful voice of the real Dylan Morgan hidden beneath the mask sings ‘Summer Sky’.
I blink back tears; my heart squeezed by his simple words. The recording he sent to me only include guitar playing; this one expands to include the entire band, his ballad rising in intensity as the song progresses. Honey glances around at me just as I scrub a tear from my eye with a sleeve and she laughs and whispers something to her friend.
Gritting my teeth, I leave the box.
* * *
Back in Dylan’sdressing room, I sit back on the sofa nibbling on my favourite chocolate, stomach swarming with butterflies after experiencing Dylan singing about me to a crowd of thousands. Some girls would’ve loved him shouting out a dedication and pointing out I’m here but the fact he didn’t says more. He understands the extent of my reluctance to join him in his spotlight.
I made one comment a week ago about how I miss my English favourite, and the Galaxy chocolate appeared amongst his pre-show requirements. I reprimanded him in a half-hearted way, and told him to stop at chocolate. Recently I’ve noticed other items appearing, as if he doesn’t think I’ll notice if they come as a trickle. Mind you, my shiny new laptop was a welcome gift, and Dylan laughed when I told him he was allowed if this was a late Christmas present.
Dylan appears in the doorway, shirtless and glistening with sweat. His dark blue jeans sit loosely on his hips, and although he’s slightly skinnier than the summer, his lean, muscled torso hasn’t lost any definition. He comes over and places a soft kiss on my lips, and I wrinkle my nose as the warm perspiration touches my face at the same time.
“You okay?” he asks, grabbing a blue towel from the table on the corner and rubbing his wet hair.
