Unplugged (Blue Phoenix, #3)(8)

Oh, shit. Bad enough her words are turning me on in an inappropriate way, but her body is so close I can practically feel the soft curves against me. Don’t do it. Don’t touch her. What the f-uck do I say to a comment like that?

For an eternal moment, we hover close to each other, fighting the past. I’m not sober, but sober enough to resist the urge to do what my dick is telling me would be an awesome idea. Yeah, sex with Cerys has crossed my mind on more than one occasion since I got home but is she saying how she feels exists now, or is she rewinding?

She places her soft hand against my cheek. “You’re a nice guy, Liam. I didn’t think you would be.”

“Oh, my God!” shrieks Louise from behind. “Are you hitting on my brother?”

Cerys steps back dropping her hand. “No! I was just telling him about the crush I used to have on him.”

Louise pulls a face. “Eww, no idea why!”

“Sure, we won’t tell him about you and Jem then.”

“Noo! Shut up!”

“What the f-uck?” I growl.

“Your sister made out with Jem,” giggles Cerys. “Same night you...” Cerys puts a hand over her mouth.

“Cerys! Shut up!”

I stiffen more than aware what Jem’s like with girls. “When? When you were younger? I f-ucking hope not.”

“It doesn’t matter. Jesus, Cerys, go to bed!” Louise shoves her friend.

When they stagger out of the room together, I absent-mindedly tidy up the bottles from the kitchen table and put them on the kitchen counter. My ego loves the idea of Cerys having pictures of me on her wall, and likes the fact she crushed on me even more. Bloody good job we’re in my parents’ house and I’m not drunk too or I doubt I’d stop at kissing her this time



CHAPTER 5



LIAM



Jet lag kicks in and my body clock pulls me out of the bed I’m scrunched into. 5 a.m. I groan, some days, that’s the time I go to bed and here I am getting up because I can’t sleep. I’ve only been in bed two hours. Pulling on my jeans and t-shirt, I pad quietly from the room and downstairs.

Goldie’s claws clatter across the lino floor in the kitchen, his tail wagging. I quietly close the door and look around for coffee. Mum and Dad still drink the instant crap, no fresh beans here. Oh well, better than nothing.

Coffee in hand, I retreat to the lounge. At least I’ll get to watch what I want on TV this time. I rest my legs on the coffee table, my head on the back of the sofa and turn the volume down. Classic eighties Simpsons episodes. Perfect. Half an episode later and I hear the stairs creak.

I turn to see Ella hovering near the sofa. She’s dressed in pink fleece pyjamas with a cartoon cats pattern and grips her raggedy blanket. The little girl’s brown hair sticks up in several directions and her bleary eyes remind me of her mum’s last night.

Without a word, she disappears again, and after the fridge and cupboards bang, she returns to the lounge with a huge glass of orange juice.

“Do you always get up so early?” I ask her.

“I’m not tired.”

She wanders to the Christmas tree and pokes at the dangling silver and gold baubles. “Can you put the lights on?”

I flick a switch and the multi-coloured fairy lights shine against the green pine, flickering in a random pattern. In the half-light of the room, the colours scatter across the walls. Christmas. I heave a satisfied sigh at being here and not in the heat of California.

Distracted by the tree, I don’t notice Ella switch channels and the bloody pigs reappear. She’s positioned herself with her back to me, close to the TV, which amuses me because it’s obvious Ella’s doing this to stop me asking her to change the channel.

Little kids. Funny. I finish my coffee then stretch out on the sofa, eyes closing, lulled to sleep by the voices on TV.

****

In my dream, somebody is messing with my hair. I open an eye and ground myself, catching up to where I am. Definitely not LA or a hotel room. Home. I shift around on the uncomfortable leather sofa and look straight into Ella’s wide brown eyes. The little girl’s lips are stained orange from her juice and she’s holding a hairbrush.

“Your hair is pretty,” Ella says.

Half-asleep, I don’t have a response. Has she been brushing my hair? I touch my head. The side of my hair is loosely wound into something that uncomfortably resembles a loose plait.

“I learned to do plaits. I do them to Mummy’s hair, too.”

I scrunch my face up in confusion, looking back into her innocent happiness.

“And my dolls.” She holds up a couple of dolls, one of which has long platinum blonde hair and is wearing scraps of clothing, reminding me why they call Honey, Barbie. Their hair is twisted into weird shapes.

A troubled look mars her happiness. “Don’t you like plaits? You have girl’s hair.”

I laugh at her and she giggles back.

“I haven’t had a plait for a long time,” I say.

“Can you get me breakfast?” she asks.

“Umm. What?” My brain isn’t awake enough for rapid subject changes. “Isn’t your mum up?”

“No, she’s very tired.” Ella tugs at the dolls hair, winding it around her fingers.

Heh. I bet she is. “Nobody else around?” I don’t know what to feed a four year old and this isn’t my idea of a relaxing time at home.