then,
little more than a nineteen-year-old fan handed a winning ticket in
the lottery of life, his hours of obsessive practice in his
small-town bedroom turning into a reward he could not have dreamt
of.
And now he
couldn't even go home to his mom and step-dad. The gossip mags had
filled pages every week with every little detail of his
on-off-on-again-off-again relationship with Taylor, and he burned
with shame at the memory of how he'd let his mom discover the truth
from a sleazy gossip column, instead of calling her and warning
her. The fact that she'd been totally cool about it just made him
feel even worse, and it hadn't sat right with him ever since.
Damn Taylor.
Even hundreds of miles away in LA, Taylor haunted him, invading his
thoughts at every turn. Those ice-cold pale blue eyes, the taut,
whip-thin body, the hands and lips that could melt him inside and
make him feel like no one had ever made him feel, before and since:
Phoenix was obsessed, and the only way he knew to get Taylor out of
his system for once and all was to keep a safe physical distance
between them.
The doorbell
rang again, more insistently this time. He groaned. It would only
be a matter of time before the neighbors complained about the scrum
outside and he had to move out. He'd thought the madness wouldn't
last more than three or four days at most, but it had been more
than a week, and they showed no sign of leaving.
He walked over
to the door and pressed the intercom without waiting to hear what
the sleazeball had to say, whoever it was.
He knew there
were good journos, of course, like Ethan, who had promised to be so
much more than just a friend until Phoenix had hurt him, too, but
they were few and far between.
"Why don't you
fuck off and leave me alone?" he snarled into the box. "Go and find
yourselves someone else to stalk."
"Phoenix, stop
being an asshole and let me in."
He stepped back
in shock. It wasn't the last voice he expected to hear - that would
have been Taylor's - but it was close.
The last time
he'd seen Mudride's bass player, it was the look of disappointment
in Dylan's eyes that had hurt him the most. Dylan had been the rock
that he turned to every time things got bad with Taylor, and he had
even fallen asleep in Dylan's arms one night after writing himself
off with a bottle of Jack and sobbing himself into a stupor.
He'd wondered
briefly how his life would have turned out if he'd fallen for Dylan
instead of Taylor... not that he'd planned to lose his heart to a
guy in the first place. But nothing had ever happened between
Phoenix and the handsome blond bass player - and nothing ever
would, now that Dylan was head-over-heels crazy in love with his
tattooist boyfriend, Sam. No, he and Dylan were like brothers, or
they had been until Phoenix ruined it all.
"OK, but make
sure you don't let in any of the scum that are down there," he
said, buzzing Dylan in and leaving the door open.
Thirty seconds
later, Dylan was in through the door, hands up in surrender.
"It's OK, I
haven't come to give you a hard time," he said, his blue eyes
showing nothing but compassion for the sorry figure slumped on the
narrow bed.
He loped over
to Phoenix and put his arm around him.
Phoenix leaned
against him, grateful for the first physical contact he'd had with
anyone in five days.
Dylan put his
hands on Phoenix's shoulders and looked him in the eye.
"Don't worry,
Murphy, I'm not here to talk you out of it. We tried that and I
know your mind's made up. I hope you don't hate me for what I'm
going to ask you."
"Ask away. My
life really can't get a lot worse." Phoenix's voice was dull.
"I've got a
hired bike outside. If we can lose the paps, there's someone I need
to take you to meet."
Phoenix
recoiled in shock.
"If it's
Taylor..."
"It's not
Taylor," reassured Dylan. "There's no way I'd do that to you. I'm
sorry I can't tell you any more, but if I let
little more than a nineteen-year-old fan handed a winning ticket in
the lottery of life, his hours of obsessive practice in his
small-town bedroom turning into a reward he could not have dreamt
of.
And now he
couldn't even go home to his mom and step-dad. The gossip mags had
filled pages every week with every little detail of his
on-off-on-again-off-again relationship with Taylor, and he burned
with shame at the memory of how he'd let his mom discover the truth
from a sleazy gossip column, instead of calling her and warning
her. The fact that she'd been totally cool about it just made him
feel even worse, and it hadn't sat right with him ever since.
Damn Taylor.
Even hundreds of miles away in LA, Taylor haunted him, invading his
thoughts at every turn. Those ice-cold pale blue eyes, the taut,
whip-thin body, the hands and lips that could melt him inside and
make him feel like no one had ever made him feel, before and since:
Phoenix was obsessed, and the only way he knew to get Taylor out of
his system for once and all was to keep a safe physical distance
between them.
The doorbell
rang again, more insistently this time. He groaned. It would only
be a matter of time before the neighbors complained about the scrum
outside and he had to move out. He'd thought the madness wouldn't
last more than three or four days at most, but it had been more
than a week, and they showed no sign of leaving.
He walked over
to the door and pressed the intercom without waiting to hear what
the sleazeball had to say, whoever it was.
He knew there
were good journos, of course, like Ethan, who had promised to be so
much more than just a friend until Phoenix had hurt him, too, but
they were few and far between.
"Why don't you
fuck off and leave me alone?" he snarled into the box. "Go and find
yourselves someone else to stalk."
"Phoenix, stop
being an asshole and let me in."
He stepped back
in shock. It wasn't the last voice he expected to hear - that would
have been Taylor's - but it was close.
The last time
he'd seen Mudride's bass player, it was the look of disappointment
in Dylan's eyes that had hurt him the most. Dylan had been the rock
that he turned to every time things got bad with Taylor, and he had
even fallen asleep in Dylan's arms one night after writing himself
off with a bottle of Jack and sobbing himself into a stupor.
He'd wondered
briefly how his life would have turned out if he'd fallen for Dylan
instead of Taylor... not that he'd planned to lose his heart to a
guy in the first place. But nothing had ever happened between
Phoenix and the handsome blond bass player - and nothing ever
would, now that Dylan was head-over-heels crazy in love with his
tattooist boyfriend, Sam. No, he and Dylan were like brothers, or
they had been until Phoenix ruined it all.
"OK, but make
sure you don't let in any of the scum that are down there," he
said, buzzing Dylan in and leaving the door open.
Thirty seconds
later, Dylan was in through the door, hands up in surrender.
"It's OK, I
haven't come to give you a hard time," he said, his blue eyes
showing nothing but compassion for the sorry figure slumped on the
narrow bed.
He loped over
to Phoenix and put his arm around him.
Phoenix leaned
against him, grateful for the first physical contact he'd had with
anyone in five days.
Dylan put his
hands on Phoenix's shoulders and looked him in the eye.
"Don't worry,
Murphy, I'm not here to talk you out of it. We tried that and I
know your mind's made up. I hope you don't hate me for what I'm
going to ask you."
"Ask away. My
life really can't get a lot worse." Phoenix's voice was dull.
"I've got a
hired bike outside. If we can lose the paps, there's someone I need
to take you to meet."
Phoenix
recoiled in shock.
"If it's
Taylor..."
"It's not
Taylor," reassured Dylan. "There's no way I'd do that to you. I'm
sorry I can't tell you any more, but if I let
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