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2
OCTOBER
SKY
Heathrow Airport’sbright light bounces off the tiled floor and into my tired eyes as I prepare to negotiate my way through the terminalwith Dylan. Following ten hours cocooned in first class on a flight from LA, we’re back to blinding reality. I steel myself for the inevitable press attention. London is always the worst, and despite my desire to be back on home soil, I dread running the gauntlet of photographers and reporters.
Dylan and I haven’t been seen in public recently, which means worse attention than usual heading our way. Who knows what reason the gossip mags haveconcocted to explain our “disappearance” on holiday? Jim, one of Blue Phoenix’s security detail, meets us at the gate. We don’t chat. The bulky man with his taciturn face shares our desire to exit the airport as soon as possible.
Dylan grips my hand as we head along the wide hallway, equally anxious to reach the car stationed outside the airport.
“Looks like somebody tipped them off,” he mutters as we approach a doorway where a crowd, some with cameras, gather on the other side.
A dark look crosses Dylan’s face, and he pulls the plain blue baseball cap lower. The peak obscures his face, pushing regrowing curls against his ears.I’ve wrapped myself up in a black padded jacket with a large hood. I gave up trying to tame my hair and pulled it into a ponytail, which means my face isn’t as obscured as I’d like. I look like crap too.Foreign cuisine doesn’t agree with me.I’m on my third bout of gastro since we embarked on our worldwide travels several months ago.
Before anybody notices us, I halt at the edge of the doorway and take a deep breath as my pulse rate picks up. Will I ever get used to this?
Dylan stops too. “Are you okay?”
Aware I’m digging my nails into his hand, I loosen my fingers. His ocean blue eyes are concerned but tired, the time zone shifts affecting us both. I touch Dylan’s face with the back of my hand. “You look exhausted.”
“Don’t change the subject. You’ve been quiet for most of the flight,” he replies.
“I find this hard to deal with.” I gesture at the waiting media.
Dylan pushes down my hood, the concern on his face growing. I look back at him as we pull back to us, to the world we share nobody is part of.When Dylan places his lips on my forehead, the calm he manages to exude takes over as if he’s poured some of his confidence into me.
He slides his hand along my back, and under my hair, until his fingers rest at the nape of my neck. “Your face is clammy. Is this just nerves about those idiots?” he murmurs, lips moving against my skin.
“I’m still feeling rough, long flight. Not a great combination.”
Dylan tips my chin with his long fingers and kisses me softly. “We can wait somewhere else until you feel ready to deal with them?”
“No, I want to go home.”
Dylan’s face brightens into a smile. “Home. Our place.”
“Yeah, the little house in the country.” I poke him. Dylan suggested we spend a couple of days at his place in London, but I’m not ready for the craziness of city living just yet. I need to ease back into the real world.
“Come on, let’s get this over with.” I tug his hand and stride through the door towards the waiting cameras. Instead of bowing my head, I stare straight ahead and disconnect. These people aren’t here. They’re not part of my life.
But they are if Dylan Morgan is.
Immediately our names are called, cameras flashing as the photographers jostlefor their exclusive shot. Through the crowd, I spot a group of young teenage girls hovering at the edge of the pack, not calling our names or pointing cameras,holding pictures of Dylan and the band. Two of the girls jump up and down, clutching at each other and repeatingomigodas they see us. The third, a girl with short brown hair dressed in a Blue Phoenix T-shirt,stares silently at the pair of us with eyes the size of saucers.
I slow, but Dylan keeps walking. He stops and turns. “Come on!”
“Speak to them,” I say quietly.
“Who?”
I indicate the girls with my head. All the while the excited journalists flash cameras and shout questions we refuse to answer, thrilled we’ve stopped walking. Whoever the girls are, they’ve taken a lot of trouble to find Dylan as our travel plans were last minute. This normally annoys me, but their lack of screaming or grabbing hands is unusual.
“The girls.”
“Why?”
“Because they love you, Mr Rock Star, go and make their day. It’s 3:00 a.m. and they’re here for you.”
