Page 31 of Not Another Rockstar
He smirked, and the way he was looking at her made the world feel a little less daunting.
She wasn’t sure whether to be glad when Nick called him away, but she took the chance to escape to her apartment, which she now knew she owned. It suddenly felt like everything in her life was tainted by Cillian’s secrets.
February turned to March, and Phoebe’s new routine was forming nicely. After her post-therapy nap, she walked to her art studio across the road from her apartment. She couldn’t paint yet, but she had some prints to package from her website and being in the studio with all her supplies and work made her feel safe. Despite her therapist’s advice, she was still napping during the day to help combat her insomnia—her nights were haunted by the recurring nightmare of Cillian reaching for her as paramedics pulled her from the crumpled vehicle. Though, last night, she had dreamt of another event that frightened her, this time involving a beautiful set of red lips and dark eyes. She hadn’t mentioned Axel—or his lips—to her therapist because she was too busy celebrating her physio telling her the mobility in her thumb was improving faster than anticipated, and it shouldn’t be long before she could start working on holding a pencil or paintbrush again.
As she reached into her bag for her studio keys, a call from Axel lit up her phone. She wanted to share the good news, but she hadn’t spoken to her brother or the others since the funeraltwo weeks ago. She’d been avoiding their calls, especially Axel’s. He was taking up enough of her thoughts already. Now wasn’t the time for complicated romances.
Her foot crunched on glass on the front step outside the abandoned bookstore turned art studio. She startled, noticing the smashed-in window panels in the front door, which hung ajar.
Why the hell would someone want to break in? She didn’t have cash inside, and even if her paintings had tripled in price since the accident thanks to the onslaught of media attention, large canvases wouldn’t be easy to take or sell.
Carefully, Phoebe pushed open the door with her sleeve in case there were fingerprints. She flicked on the studio lights, and her blood ran cold. The intruder hadn’t been interested in stealing her work, but destroying it. Slowly, she approached her last unfinished commission. The original sketch was of a fire-wrought figure in pink overalls blowing glass over a furnace. A glass artist had commissioned it for their workshop, but now, the word ‘IT’ had been streaked across the canvas in neon green. Taking a step back, she saw the paintings on the red brick walls were sprayed with ‘SHOULD’, ‘HAVE’, ‘BEEN’…
She nearly slipped on the paint spattered wooden floor, where she found the final message. ‘YOU’.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” she muttered to herself as her bag slipped from her shoulder. How could one of Cillian’s fans go so far?
The paint on the floor was still wet, which meant whoever did this wasn’t gone long. Reaching for her phone to call the police, she heard a scuffle coming from the back. She froze, terrified they might still be here. Ruining a canvas was one thing, breaking and entering another, but the threatening message left her trembling. From her toolbox by a stack of new canvases, she grabbed a box cutter and followed the sound through thesmall hallway to the storage room and kitchen. The light in the hallway had gone out months ago, and she suddenly regretted not getting it fixed sooner. There was a back door in the kitchen, so she hoped all she had heard was the intruder leaving.
“Come out! I’ve already called the police!” Phoebe yelled.
She swung open the kitchen door, brandishing the box cutter, hoping to scare off any intruder. Instead, a silhouette advanced on her. She lashed out with a loud cry. A curse and loud hiss caused her to jump back. She opened her eyes to find Axel holding his forearm and cursing wildly.
“Axel? Why are you lurking around my studio in the dark?” she yelled, only to notice the blood on the box cutter.
“Why do you have a knife?” Axel growled, holding his arm.
“You scared the shit out of me!” she said, forgetting about apologising. “It’s not a knife, it’s a box cutter. And I was scared because you broke in! Did you see the spray-painted message?” Not that she owed him an explanation.
He glared at her like she was the one breaking and entering. “I didn’t break in! Nick said you’d probably be here; I was coming to check on you since you aren’t answering our calls. When I arrived, the door was open and the window smashed. I came in through the back in case the person was still here,” Axel said, examining the cut on his forearm. She had sliced through his jacket to his arm. Not bad, given she couldn’t use her dominant hand. Moving around him, she turned on the kitchen light to get a better look.
“Sorry, I panicked, can you please sit down at the counter? I’ve got some plasters under the kitchen sink and some disinfectant. I don’t think I’ve ever washed this.” She put the box cutter down by the pink kettle. She had plenty of plasters since she always nicked herself putting together canvases.
“It’s a scratch, but if you insist,” he said, and rolled up his sleeve. Blood seeped from the thin slice but the tattoos hid the damage.
“I do. I don’t need fans thinking I’m trying to kill another band member. If they hear that I cut you they might go from spray paint to burning the place down.”
“You saw the new posts?” he asked while she grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink.
“You mean the ones accusing me of using his death to make money because people have been reselling my latest collection at triple the price? I’m well able to make my own way without him.” She felt better getting it off her chest.
“I’m sorry you had to see that. We hoped you hadn’t.” He looked at her like she was spiralling. Phoebe heard ‘we’, but the look in his eye told her‘me’.
“Did the others send you? Sorry I didn’t answer a few texts and calls, but you didn’t need to send in the cavalry. Speaking of cavalry, I should call the police,” she said, dabbing the blood away from the wound with cotton wool and some disinfectant.
“I sent myself, and don’t worry, I called the police when I first arrived. If you’d have answered your phone, you’d have known that,” he said as she took his hand in hers. He held her hand tighter as she secured the dinosaur plaster.
“Big baby, it doesn’t need stitches.”She smirked. “The cartoons really go with your tattoos.”
“Really brings out my bad boy persona.” He pulled down his sleeve.
“Thank you for calling the police. I got distracted by the mess. I never expected someone to go this far.”
“They should be here soon,” he said, taking a seat across from her.
The silence threatened to drown her as the space filled up with all they wanted to say.
“Can I ask if you’ve been avoiding me since the funeral? Is it because of what happened?” he asked, cutting to the point.
