when he took the seat next to her, she surprised him by grabbing him by his shirt and pulling him down on top of her. He made a
half-hearted effort to pull away, knowing they needed to fasten
their seatbelts for takeoff. But she tasted so bloody delicious, his instinct was to strip her down and take her, privacy or not. When he heard the flight attendant clearing her throat, he was neither 8
RAGE
surprised, nor overjoyed.
“Seatbelt, Mr. Kersey.” The flight attendant insisted, her
whimsical Irish accent matching the amused twinkle in her eye.
“Yeah. Seatbelt, Phillip. Gosh.” Steph chimed in, acting
frigid and proper, as if she weren’t the instigating vixen. He
cocked an eyebrow at her, but she merely blinked her blue eyes
innocently. Cedric’s ability to lie like James Bond shouldn’t
have been all that surprising to him, in retrospect.
Sadly, they had zero privacy on the plane so they spent the
flight catching up on band happenings, who and what she’d been
photographing, and trying to cram a month’s worth of “Honey,
how was your day,” moments into about an hour. He talked at
length about the new songs he and Bret had written since they’d
last seen one another. When she asked to hear them, he promised
he’d play them for her when they reached their destination. Since she’d been the inspiration for his lyrics, having her be the first to hear them had been part of his plan all along.
Steph launched into a recap of her schedule and mentioned
that after Paris, she planned to slow way down. Her agent had thrown a fit when she heard the news, so Steph had responded in
typical Steph fashion: She immediately sacked the agent and
hired a new one. One whom she felt really had her best interests in mind. A British agent. This seemed like a sign that they had similar paths in mind and were moving in the same direction. He
smiled slyly to himself.
When they landed, his Aston Martin was full of petrol and
waiting curbside. They’d had to be escorted by airport security
when some Furies spotted them and got a bit unruly, but it was
very minor scene in the grand scheme of things. That’s what the
media had taken to calling Fury fans. Furies. The fact that the
term represented terrible winged goddesses with serpentine hair
who pursue and punish people was most likely a coincidence.
Since midway through the American tour, every member of the
band had been forced to hire around-the-clock security. He’d had 9
TAMMY COONS & MICHELLE PACE
a vicious row with the head of his team about going to Ireland
unescorted. The paparazzi made Steph livid. The entire debacle
with her movie star ex-boyfriend Kevin had had long-lasting re-
percussions. Strangers in their car and zero privacy had been the status quo for months. He just wanted this trip with her to be as normal and stress free as possible.
Minutes later, they were on their way out of Dublin in the
direction of their love nest. With her again as a captive audience, he pressed her about what she planned to do with all her upcoming down time. But before she could answer, her damn phone
rang.
“Uncle Keith! You never call, you never write. How the
hell are ya?” She answered, rolling down her window and snap-
ping a quick picture of a shepherd and his sheep. She nodded and responded with unintelligible monosyllables and seemed to be
continuously cut off when she tried to speak. She turned to Phillip and made an obscene gesture, implying that the person on the other end liked the sound of his own voice.
“I’m sorry, what? Can you tell Mick to shut the hell up? I
can barely hear myself think.” Phillip gaped at her and nearly
swerved into oncoming traffic. World famous lead singer or not,
Steph’s contacts still made him feel like a pimply faced fanboy
playing in his parent’s garage.
“Yes, Uncle Keith. No. Tell him to call my new agent in
London, Christopher Hoult. And tell Mick to keep his belt on.”
She practically threw her phone back into her purse and
groaned. “Ugh! Getting a new agent is like creating a new email
address. Such a pain in the ass!”
When she mentioned wanting to see his pictures of her and
Baby Liam, he pulled out his phone and handed it to her.
“I want to know how people as svelte as Cheyenne and Scot
produced such a rotund spawn.” Phillip stated as Steph flipped
through his pictures. She cooed and carried on for a bit in her
typical exuberant manner. He was still a bit overwhelmed by her
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reaction to Liam. He’d had no idea she liked children so much.
They’d never talked about whether she wanted kids. Come to
think of it, they’d never talked about the future at all. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure Steph had even known she liked kids until
the moment she first held Liam in her arms.
She giggled and the sweet sound lightened his mood. “Look
at that chubby little pork chop! I just want to chew on that fat little leg!”
“You and your cannibalistic tendencies…” He smirked and
after she placed his phone on the dash, he was forced to grasp
ahold of her tiny hand as it wandered up his thigh driving him to distraction.
As they drew nearer to their destination, he wiped sweat
from his brow and realized his hands were shaking.
Fucking brilliant. You sing in front of hundreds of thou-
sands of people and don’t bat an eyelash, but a tiny American ginger makes you fall apart!
When he slowed to make the turn, he saw Steph’s brows
knit. She turned to him, momentarily confused. The landscaping
was dramatically different since the last time they’d been here, and they’d approached on foot-and in the rain. The cottage had a long lane that crossed a traditional humped-back bridge over a
sparkling stream. Though it was remote-located on 6 private
acres, he’d had extra trees and shrubbery planted to make the
cottage invisible from the road. He knew it seemed paranoid, but he very much hoped that the tabloids would never discover their
secret home. As they rounded the curve, the freshly white-
washed cottage came into view. Its bright red door reminded him
of an inviting
