Chapter 2
Two
The flames shot out the windows and onto the roof. They were a deep, dull red, not the bright-orange flames normally associated with a house fire. It was as though the house itself was angry, consuming itself in its own rage.
I stood, helpless, tears drying on my cheeks as I watched, my feet stuck to the spot, the sand beneath unfamiliarly light; soft, so unlike the damp, dark sand I was used to. At home on Jekyll, the sand was almost gray, a match to the always ominous sky and the bleached, dreary bones of the trees on Driftwood Beach. At nearby Tybee Island, sand mixed with dirt and silt from the mouth of the Savannah River, turning the beach into a mottled, dirty state of perpetual dampness. Here, the sand was soft and pale; welcoming. I stared straight ahead, watching as the house transformed into cinders, cinders that were drifting upward from the burning beams, flying off into the inky black night like upside down snowflakes.
I blindly reached out beside me, feeling for Phillip’s hand, craving its warmth and safety, but it wasn’t there. I pawed at the air, reaching out to my other side, hoping for Phillip, or Roberta, or even my mother—anyone who could offer me comfort—but I was alone. Completely, terrifyingly alone. Again.
I tried again to move my legs, to make myself run into the night, away from this place, to flee the sight of so much melting heat. But I was stuck to the spot, rooted there, a tree growing out of an unlikely home. I’d been bound twice in my life—once by Lydia, and again by Elvin—and this felt both different and the same. The heat seemed trapped inside my own body, melting my bones down to liquid, the pain an all-consuming thing that was both inside and outside of me, a black hole that used to be my heart. Now, darkness.
I opened my mouth and began to scream. The name I screamed out was one I hadn’t uttered in a very long time. Not since I was a child. All that pain, that loneliness, that sadness, that bitterness, that fear came out of me in a flood, like flowing lava, like pulsing blood, in one loudly screamed word ? —
“Daddy!”
The hand that shook my shoulder was rough but warm. I felt its heat through my thin T-shirt as I sat straight up in bed, my eyes open wide, trying to throw it off me before I got burned.
“Stormy!”
“No, it’s burning!” I tried to shrug myself out of whatever was holding me down, the heat dangerously close to my skin.
“Stormy, it’s okay,” Phillip said from beside me, pulling me into his arms before I fully knew where I was. I blinked a few times, still seeing dull red flames behind my eyelids. I leaned into Phillip’s strong chest, allowing him to hold me, though I was covered with a sheen of sticky sweat and it couldn’t be very pleasant for him. “You’re not burning.”
“I…I…” I faltered, mentally back on the beach, the lick of the flames still fresh in my mind. I shuddered. “I was having a nightmare.”
“I know, honey.” Something about the term of endearment made me want to hide, to nuzzle further into his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re okay. It was just a dream.” Phillip’s voice was tender, so why did it make me feel so sad? I felt like a little kid, lost and alone, scared and confused.
I rubbed at my eyes, picking the sleep from them, and took a shaky breath. “It was a bad one.”
“I heard you call out,” Phillip murmured. “Hell, everybody on this floor probably heard it. You were calling for your daddy.” I had to smile at the way he pronounced it— Deddy —just like my Southern drawl, which was no small feat for him with his Boston accent, thick as chow-dah. “You must be so worried about him.”
“I guess I am,” I admitted, pulling back to look at him, feeling exposed and embarrassed.
“Stormy, it’s okay to admit that,” Phillip said, sitting up and flicking on the bedside lamp. His eyes were bleary, but his expression was serious. “It’s okay to admit that you love your father.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I sighed; Phillip knew me too well, and he was always in my damn head. Chills ran up my arms, and I rubbed at them absently, swallowing. “It’s weird. I haven’t wanted much to do with him since he left us. And then once he got remarried, I really didn’t. I’ve been wanting to go no-contact forever, and the only reason I didn’t is because I guess I…I just couldn’t bear the thought of completely cutting him off, especially since I have a sister now…” I bit my lip. “And now that I know he’s in danger, it’s like…I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about him.”
“Of course you can’t,” Phillip said tenderly, rubbing my shoulder. “Anyone would be worried in your situation. It’s complicated, but you’re a good, caring person.” He gave me a squeeze. “Remind me what your stepmother told the authorities?”
I only knew bits and pieces of what my mother had been able to glean from the police officer who had called her. We couldn’t figure out why he’d phoned her in the first place, since they’d divorced over a decade ago and my dad had remarried. They hadn’t talked in years. They didn’t even live in the same state! Not to mention my stepmom Dee had turned up after the fire with my stepsister in her arms, rattled but safe. “She said that she and Shably had gone to her parents for a family weekend, and that my dad had said he was going to visit a friend in Pensacola. A guy’s weekend or something. They were going to fish and go sing karaoke—good ol’ boy shit. So unless he changed his mind and went home, none of them were in the house.”
“I assume they’ve tried calling this friend in Pensacola?” Phillip asked.
“No answer, and nobody home when they sent a deputy out. But if they’re gone on a fishing trip, that tracks. They might be out on the water with no cell service. It’s just that?—”
“The entire went up in flames, so who knows what they’ll find in the wreckage,” Phillip finished for me.
I thought back to the frantic voicemail from my mother, how beside herself she’d sounded. “Your dad’s house burned to the ground, Stormy! And he’s missing!” I hadn’t heard her so scared in, well, ever. For someone who had said many times over the years that she hoped my dad would die and rot in hell, her voice sure had been cloaked with tears. Now that I was on the other side of my own divorce, I could understand my mother a lot better. It was indeed possible to hate someone who had utterly betrayed you and love them at the same time.
Phillip gave my hand a squeeze, feeling my emotions. “I hate to ask this, but”—he looked at me, his face dark— “just in the interest of dotting all the T’s and crossing all the I’s…” He smiled grimly. “Would your stepmother have any reason to hurt your father? Maybe some other woman…?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. I’d told Phillip my dad had been unfaithful to my mom, hence the question. “But I really don’t think so. For starters, she’s this tiny little thing not much older than me, and she’s sweeter than divinity; she wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s one of those syrupy sweet country girls; you can imagine.” Phillip nodded. “And Daddy’s been playing the family man for several years now.” I thought for a moment. “But the old him? You wouldn’t have to hunt for a reason to hurt that guy.”
“I wonder if he might’ve fallen off the wagon,” Phillip mused. “Got in with some bad people from his past, pissed the wrong person off.”
“I don’t know.” I bit at a fingernail. “All I know is that I shouldn’t care, but I do. I’m worried, Phillip. Really worried.”
“That’s all there is to it, then,” he said firmly, pulling me close. “We can’t just sit here doing nothing. We need to go down there.” His voice took on a note of finality. “And that’s just what we’re going to do.”
“But—"
“We’re going,” he said in a tone that brokered no argument.
“What about the fuckers outside?” I demanded.
“I’ll deal with them.” I leaned back to look at him again. His face was set in a hard line of resolve. “Let’s face it, Stormy. They’ve spotted me, and they know it’s me. I can try to hide and wait it out, and they might take off, but they’ll be back. I’ll say something to try and fob them off, and hopefully they’ll…” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Hopefully they’ll leave me alone after that.”
While it was true that Phillip, even in his heyday, had never been super famous—not a legend or infamous rock star whose reputation preceded him, like Bowie or Axl Rose—he had been well known enough to be considered famous. His band, the Bloomer Demons, had enjoyed a cult following among the grunge, alternative, and goth kids who enjoyed the dark, dreary, and slightly scary aesthetic of the music combined with the sexy and dangerous persona of their front man. Phillip had easily been the band’s most popular member, and when he was alive (the first time), he was never without a throng of groupies and wannabe rocker kids vying for his attention. He’d enjoyed that persona to the fullest, he’d told me. And when he’d died, he’d only solidified his own legacy. He’d never be on par with David Bowie, but he was included in the annals of history alongside all the other rock boys who had met their demise too soon, often tragically. Phillip was underestimating just how beloved he was and how excited his fans would be to find out he was alive. To say nothing of the story it would make. Even those who weren’t Bloomer Demons or Phillip Deville fans would get swept up in a scandalous, juicy tale like his—a rock star supposedly dead for over twenty-three years suddenly emerging in a random, rural Georgia town, no worse for wear and seemingly unaged?
They were going to have a field day.
Phillip Deville would be more famous than ever. And he could deny it, but I’d seen the look on his face, in his eyes, when he’d talked about the band getting back together. A part of him wanted it.
I wasn’t sure that was something I wanted, though. But did I have a choice?
“Let’s wait a little while longer on Florida,” I begged. “Let me see if we hear anything from my stepmom tomorrow. If not, we’ll talk about going down there later.”
“You’re afraid to go,” he countered, looking at me with knowing eyes. “You’re afraid you’re going to see him. What about that scares you, Stormy?”
“Don’t go psychoanalyzing me, Deville,” I said grumpily. “Of course I’m nervous, of course I’m scared. After everything that’s happened! You just worry about you and let me worry about me.”
“Yes, boss,” he said. He gave me a sweet smile to let me know he wasn’t ruffled by my outburst. “I certainly do have enough to worry about with my own drama. That’s for sure.”
“So what will you do then?” I asked, finally calm enough to sink back into the pillows. I pulled the duvet over myself and gestured for Phillip to join me. “Just go down and greet ‘em?”
He grinned, nuzzling me under the covers. “Hardly. I figured I’d call up GOTHzine and offer them an exclusive if they call off their shitty reporter and tell him to stop lurking in the hotel lobby.”
“Exclusive or no,” I pointed out, “they’ll want a picture. And they’re going to ask a lot of questions.”
“And I’ll feed them a few lines and be done with it.”
“You make it sound so easy,” I said, lying back, my arms behind my head. “As if we haven’t been trying to avoid this very thing since you came back.”
“Yeah, well,” he replied, getting back out of bed. He stood up and walked over to the balcony window, staring out. “There’s so much traffic. You always hear of Savannah being this sleepy, Antebellum old thing full of moss and wisteria and from a time gone by. But it’s as bustling as Boston, even in the middle of the night.”
“We’re right downtown,” I said. “So it just seems that way.”
“It’ll be a good backdrop, this place,” Phillip mused, still staring out the window. “Downtown Savannah is very quaint. I love the trees.”
I laughed. “Don’t you dare touch one. They’re covered in chiggers!”
“I don’t know what a chigger is, and I don’t want to know.” Phillip laughed, turning back to face me. Then his face turned pensive. “First thing in the morning, I’m going to make a phone call or send an email or whatever it is I need to do. Go ahead and get it over with. That is, if it’s okay with you.” I bit my lip. “I’d like to have your blessing first. I want to make sure you’re okay with it—with being in the spotlight, however fleeting—before I proceed.”
I wanted to argue with him that I suspected it wouldn’t be fleeting at all. Nor would it be as easy or painless as he thought it would. Phillip simply didn’t understand the time we lived in. Gone were the days of calling up a reporter and giving a straightforward statement or meeting for coffee and a quick interview where you signed off on the questions and left with your image fully in your control. These days, celebrities had to hire entire teams to manage their “brand,” a feat that required round-the-clock monitoring and availability to deliver a statement, a rebuttal, or a well-timed tweet or Instagram post to offset anything that might leak. Everything was cultivated to the point that it was hard to know what was real, if anything. With everyone on the planet connected via multiple apps, it was impossible for anyone with a modicum of celebrity to keep a low profile. Your every move could end up on Twitter or Facebook, pictures splashed over Instagram, videos uploaded to TikTok, and your every intention analyzed and picked apart on reddit. And it wasn’t just the media spurring it on anymore. Journalists, reporters, and influencers all used social media to garner likes and views and engagement. The more salacious and interesting a story, the more they stuck with it. They would wring Phillip’s particular story out for all it was worth until there wasn’t a drop left. Even if it never blew up and he was able to fly somewhat under the radar, which was unlikely…even then… the attention would be too much to bear.
And there was no way in hell he’d be able to keep me a secret. When you were famous and you looked like Phillip Deville, people would ask if you had a girlfriend. And Phillip wouldn’t be able to lie, not convincingly. They’d be picking apart my entire life, pulling up old tweets and pictures, before the day was out.
Phillip just didn’t understand.
But how could I explain? It was his life, after all. He’d come to this decision of his own free will, and who was I to tell him he had to stay hidden?
I could choose to stay out of the limelight myself, of course. But to what end? It would mean having to stay away from Phillip. Likely breaking up. That was something I’d already tried, and it had been miserable. A few days without him and I’d been inconsolable, missing him so much that my longing had become a chasm of pain and despair. I didn’t want to do that again, not even if it meant sacrificing my privacy and anonymity.
Phillip simply meant too much to me. He was worth it.
“Come to bed,” I said, patting the pillow beside me. “You’ll need your beauty sleep if you’re going to make that important phone call in the morning.”
Phillip smiled and moved away from the window, sliding into bed beside me. He reached his arms out, and I entered them happily, sighing as I snuggled against his broad chest. He placed a kiss on my temple, then raised my chin with a finger so I was facing him.
“Can you sleep?” he asked in a soft voice.
“Yes,” I lied, though I knew I wouldn’t be falling asleep any time soon, not after that dream. My entire body felt jumpy with nerves, and my heart thudded fast in my chest.
“Liar,” Phillip said, pulling the thoughts from my head. He leaned down and kissed me tenderly on the mouth, a sweet, nurturing kiss that soon turned into something more passionate. He placed his hand behind my head and brought me closer as I moaned against his lips, wanting to be devoured. His breath was hot and sweet, tasting of the toothpaste he’d used just before bed. “Maybe I can help tire you out.”
“Maybe you can,” I whispered, reaching down to touch his taut stomach, my fingers trailing from his belly button over to his hips, down his thighs, and back up between his legs, waiting for the inevitable catch of his breath and involuntary shudder that always made me weak. I kissed him again, inching myself closer to him, not able to get close enough. No matter how close we were, it always felt like I wanted to be closer, deeper, as if I could actually get into his skin and inhabit him for a while.
“You’re so weird.” Phillip laughed against my mouth and grazed my lower lip with his teeth, making me growl. “Should I be worried that you want to wear my skin?”
“Are you afraid of me, Phillip Deville?” I nibbled at his earlobe with my teeth.
“Should I be? Considering what part of me you’re currently holding?” Phillip’s laughter was like music. I applied some pressure, and his laugh was replaced by a gasp.
“Alright, that’s it. You’re not playing fair.” Phillip flipped me over onto my back, his hard body suddenly on top of mine, and bared his teeth. “You don’t scare me, witch.”
“Oh yeah? Then prove it.” I smirked.
And he did.