Summer Star (The Blue Phoenix Series Book 1.5) Read Free

and will never see again. I should be getting the hell out of here to anonymity, relieved she never found out who I was.
    But I'm not; I wanted to talk to her more. Not because she was an amusing girl with nice tits who would be a challenge, but because she didn't know who I was.
    If this chick is a taste of how people treat the anonymous Dylan Morgan, I like it.

 
    CHAPTER THREE
     
     
     
    The problem with getting into my car and pissing off without thinking things through is logistical issues. Sure, I booked the beach house from the old bird who owns the place, but as I arrive at the outskirts of Broadbeach it suddenly strikes me how conspicuous I'll be driving around in a car that costs as much as a small house. Add to that the personalised number plates and I’m not exactly hidden.
    I pull onto the side of the road, beneath a canopy of willow trees. The English summer afternoon heads into evening and I need to get to the house, and get rid of my car. Nicely planned, Dylan. Now what do I do? There's one person I trust to ask and I call him.
    “Bryn?”
    “Dylan. Please tell me what the fuck is going on.” I expected anger but there's genuine concern in his voice.
    “I need to get away from shit, Bryn. Can you help me out?”
    “Come on, man, we've the album to finish and a tour starting soon. Bad timing.”
    “I'm going fucking mad, Bryn. Seriously, this isn't me deciding to take a random holiday, I have to leave.”
    “Did you tell Steve where you’ve gone?”
    “Fuck, no!” I picture the admonishment that would be thrown my way. “Bryn, you've seen Jem. I don't want to go back down that route; it’s not the answer. Let me breathe for a bit and I'll come back in a week or two. I promise.”
    I say drugs aren't the answer but the day the doctor handed me a prescription for benzos, I realised there isn't much difference. If I'm going to escape, it's to something real and not a denial of reality in some drug-induced haze. Fuck knows I've been there with the illegal kind and look at the shit that landed me in.
    Bryn heaves a sigh down the phone. “What do you need me to do, Dylan?”
    “Can you get someone to collect my car and drop me somewhere?”
    “Where are you?”
    “Cornwall.”
    “What the fuck? Why?”
    “Because it's where I need to be,” I say simply.
    “Jesus Christ, Dylan, that's a fucking long way from London.”
    “Exactly.”
    “I'll see what I can do but we're talking hours here.”
    I huff and slump down in the car seat. “Yeah, I didn't really think.”
    “Really? Dylan Morgan running away and not thinking? What a surprise,” he says sarcastically.
    I bristle at his recognition of my inability to face up to shit. “You gonna help me out or not?”
    “Where are you - an exact location would help.”
    Two hours later, a guy arrives in a taxi with John, one of the Blue Phoenix security team. Few words are exchanged as I hand the burly man my car keys. No idea who the taxi driver is; but I'm sure Bryn paid him enough to keep quiet. He's an older dude anyway - sixties maybe - so probably doesn't know who I am or give a shit.
    I haul my rucksack and guitar case from the boot of my car, and sling it on the back seat of the white taxi. John closes the car boot and heads around to the driver’s side. A couple of minutes later, the Audi’s gone and my choice is made.
    “You know the area?” I ask the taxi driver as I climb in the back of his car.
    “Kind of. Don't usually come out here.” The man doesn't turn around, brown eyes in his lined face watching me through the rear-view mirror. I wrinkle my nose at the offensive fake pine smell coming from the air freshener hanging off the mirror and sit back.
    Rummaging in my pocket, I pull out the envelope with the house key and address. Funny that I came to Broadbeach every year as a kid but never knew the name of where I stayed. All I remember is a white cottage by the sea, happiness, and holidays.
    “I'll direct you if you like?”