“Change of plans.” He sits down beside me as the rest of the band files off stage and heads straight towards the bar.
“We’re playing this one acoustic. Just you and me.” He places the guitar strap over my head. His fingers brush against my collarbone, spurring a shiver to roll through my body.
I ignore the way his touch threatens to ignite every nerve ending like a livewire and focus on the instrument in my lap. A large exhale accompanies the overwhelming relief from having a shield. It’s not my favorite make of guitar, but it’ll work. I strum the chords, adjusting my fingers to the substitute.
“Thanks,” he tells the stagehand who hands him a guitar. He adjusts the strap over his form. His muscles ripple and stretch underneath his shirt. The two times I’ve been in his presence, I’ve noticed that Dylan doesn’t dress to impress, he dresses for comfort. And he rocks that look—white tee, blue jeans, black boots.
Even with the tattoos and messy brown hair, he appears clean-cut, yet somehow, still so easily distinguished from everyone else. Clean-cut, yet distinct. He is the sexiest oxymoron I’ve ever seen.
“Okay, we’re going to switch this up. You ready to get a little creative, Brooke?” he asks as his long fingers run over the cords.
How could one simple movement that I’ve seen a million times look so fucking sexy?
And he won my musical brain over with that one word. “I like creative.”
He smiles. Not that small smirk I’d already witnessed a few times tonight, but a full smile, showcasing his gorgeous white teeth. The kind of smile he gave me on the métro, the one that had my heart threatening to beat itself out of my chest.
“I had a feeling you threw out the song request just to test me. See what kind of musician I really am.”
I shrug, batting my eyelashes in feigned innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m a huge Mariah fan. Huge.”
“I bet you are.” Dylan chuckles, his little smirk making a reappearance. “So the chorus is about the only thing I know. I’ll sing that, you sing the rest, Little Wing.”
I glance down at the guitar, and then stop once the words Little Wing register in my head. “Little Wing?” My eyes tilt in scrutiny. “You need to tell me the meaning behind that.”
“Only if you tell me why nearly five days have passed without a phone call or text being sent my way.”
“Touché.”
He winks. “How about this? You sing, and I promise I’ll buy you all the drinks your tiny little body can handle once we’re finished. And maybe, if I’m feeling generous, I’ll let you in on the Little Wing secret.”
You sing, I repeat his words in my head. Shit, that means I have to sing. I swallow hard. “I will need to get positively hammered once I’m done making an ass of myself up here.”
“Just follow my lead.” His eyes reassure me.
I have a fleeting thought that he hasn’t asked me about my music background, never questioned my talent, and for some reason, he just trusts that I can play. I’m oddly comforted by this fact, but that comfort only lasts a few seconds, flying right out the door once Dylan re-adjusts his mic.
“I have to take back my statement from earlier in the night. Now, I’m one lucky bastard because I’ve got this pretty little thing named Brooke sitting next to me, and she’s about to grace me, and all of you, with her beautiful voice. We’re going acoustic with this one. Here it is, Touch My Body.”
He starts playing, and I follow suit, mimicking his rhythm. I’m impressed by his chord choices. Let’s face it, I’m already easily impressed by him, but his talent is undeniable. He is a musician through and through. A rare gem. The kind of musician I search for on a daily basis, one that Wallace & Wright Records would be lucky to have under their label.
I discreetly clear my throat, swallow the anxious energy threatening to make my feet run off the stage, and sing the opening lyrics into the mic. I keep my eyes shut, imagining I’m sitting in the recording studio back in L.A., just playing with Dylan.
I feel like we’ve been playing together for years. Our brains are just in tune, jiving perfectly. We’re similar, Dylan and me, cut from the same cloth. Our musical instincts and passions run bone deep and seem to connect on a higher level. And the feeling, the rush I’m getting from it, is addicting. I want to play with him every single day of my life. I want to eat, sleep, and breathe jam sessions with Dylan.
The chorus comes, and I finally open my eyes, watching him intently. He raises a devilish eyebrow in my direction before beginning his own rendition of Mariah, changing up the lyrics, and making them his own. He replaces every me or my in the chorus with you or your, and it takes my brain to a million dirty places.
We could rename the song Touch Your Body.
He is singing to me, his eyes never releasing their hold on mine. I might as well be the only one in the room. I can’t stop imagining all of the things he’s singing, my mind fantasizing about him, about us . . . together.
My eyes stay wide open for the rest of the song, determined to watch him, soak him in and savor every detail. And I’m hooked. I think this is the first time in history someone got high as a kite without actually consuming drugs.
Before I know it, the crowd is clapping, Lindsay and Jesse’s cheers rising above everyone else. Dylan runs a hand through his messy hair, grinning at me with a wide, easy smile. He grips the back of my neck, leaning his body close to mine.
“You’re amazing,” he whispers into my ear, his lips brushing against my skin.
I wonder if this is what people mean when they say melt. My body feels tingly inside, and I’m definitely feeling less than solid. If just his smile and words alone have the power to make me feel like this, what else could he make me feel? If just his presence alone has the power to make me forget about Jamie and my life in L.A., what else could he get me to do?
MAYBE IT’S FROM ALL of the alcohol flowing freely in my blood, but being on stage with her felt like a bloody dream. I’ve never in my life seen or heard something as beautiful as Brooke singing. She is a tiny little thing, but once she opens her mouth, this huge, undeniably breathtaking sound comes out. I think my heart stopped for a good minute from shock. Her voice reminded me of sex. Mind-blowing sex.
When I first met her, she was adorable. Blushing every three seconds, and nervously biting on her bottom lip. She appeared restrained, trying to hide the way her body reacted to me.
But I knew better.
I knew it was there. I couldn’t see it or hear it, but I could feel it. I knew, behind those reserved eyes, there was a woman who was spontaneous and full of life. While I saw glimpses of that woman when I first met her, I really got to see her once she let go on stage.
She was wings spread wide, fluttering free.
She was the soft whisper of a breeze across the water.
She was Little Wing. And she was fucking magic.
Brooke isn’t made like other women. Once she really lets go and lives in the moment, she’s the kind of woman who was put on earth to blow a man’s mind. And bloody hell, did she ever. Normally, when I’m on stage, I focus on the crowd, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. Like I said, the woman possesses magic. And the fact that she doesn’t even fucking know it, makes her all the more irresistible.
I wasn’t the only one mesmerized. The bastards in the crowd eyeing her up and down had me feeling irrationally possessive. I changed up the chorus, staking my claim through the words of the song. It didn’t help my “now is not the time to get a hard-on” cause. Singing about throwing her on a bed and tasting her body had my mind running to all kinds of filthy places.
And the sexy look she’s sporting doesn’t help the cause, either.
We’re sitting at the bar, sharing a drink, and I can’t stop looking at her. I swear I feel a smack to the face every time her long lashes swipe down in a blink. And her mess of untamed curls has me itching to run my fingers through her hair. She looks like she just got out of bed after a night of
wild sex.
And her legs, the best damn pair of stems I’ve ever laid eyes on. Long legs spill out from her shorts, and her beautiful curves are covered by a shirt that reminds me of Woodstock. She’s a modern-day version of a hippie. Unless she was naked, in my bed, and begging for my cock, she couldn’t be any sexier right now.
“How long are you in Paris?” I ask, watching her lips wrap around the straw inside her drink. Those lips give me ideas. Bloody brilliant ideas.
She shrugs. “A few more weeks.”
A few more weeks? I can handle that. Sure, it’s not months or years or forever, but a few more weeks is more than enough time to pursue her.
“Are you with anyone?” It’s a question that’s been bugging me since five days had passed without a word from her.
“I’m with Lindsay.”
I laugh at her misinterpretation.
She tilts her head, confused. Her cheeks are ingrained with a faint, rosy blush. I’m not sure if it’s from the multiple drinks she’s had or my presence, but I’m going with the latter of the two.
“I meant, are you with anyone, not here with anyone. Like a boyfriend? Fiancé? Unless, Lindsay is your . . .”
“Oh!” Her gorgeous brown eyes turn wide. “Oh my God, no!” she exclaims. “Not that there’s anything wrong with women being into other women . . . or guys liking other guys for that matter . . . but I don’t swing that way. Purely heterosexual woman right here.” She points to herself.
Did I mention that tipsy Brooke is really fucking cute?
“Did I just say heterosexual?”
“Yes, you did, and honestly, I’m beyond happy about that, but you still didn’t answer my question.”
She doesn’t say anything for what feels like forever.
Eventually, a pained smile crosses her face as she answers, “No, I’m not with anyone.”
Maybe she’s not feeling well? I’m pretty sure she’s drank well out of her weight class tonight. “You okay?”
“Perfect,” Brooke nods. “I’m really happy I’m here, but also kind of sad about the reason I’m here. It’s kind of bittersweet, ya know?”
Slightly confused by her words, I question their meaning. “What brought you to Paris?”
“Let’s not get into it.” Her small hand grips my bicep, and even though her fingers are cool from her iced up vodka and Sprite, my skin warms to her touch. “Let’s focus on the fact that I’m really happy I’m here right now. Here with you.”
I’m quite enjoying where this conversation is heading. It leaves a world of possibilities, all of which I plan to explore. “I’d love to focus on that.”
“You’re beautiful. Did you know that? I’ve never thought a guy was beautiful before, but you are. And when you were on stage I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.” She leans in closer to me. Her sweet breath brushes past my face.
God, she has no idea. “I could easily say the same, love.” The restrained look is lost from her eyes. Something far better has replaced it. “I found it quite difficult to perform with you sitting beside me.” I cup her cheek, moving closer until our noses are mere centimeters from touching. “You’re quite the distraction. Did you know that? I couldn’t think about anything besides these gorgeous lips of yours.” I brush my thumb across her mouth, feeling her quick intake of breath. “And when that sexy voice of yours was filling my ears, I’m shocked I could remember the chorus to that terrible song.”
She giggles. “Don’t hate on Mariah.”
“I’m not hating. I’d sing Mariah covers all day, every day, if it made you happy.”
“You’re crazy.”
Brushing my lips across hers, I whisper, “Tell me you feel it too, Brooke.”
She doesn’t answer, but her hooded eyes and parted lips are response enough.
I run both hands into her hair. My fingers grip the soft curls, fully intent on pulling her lips to mine, but a hand on my shoulder and a feminine voice purring “Dylan” stops me in my tracks.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lucie beside me. She’s a woman I’ve known for years, one who often enjoys a careless fuck in the bathroom. Lucie’s love for occasional sex used to be something I indulged in, but it’s been over a year since I’ve touched her.
In my mind, she’s inconsequential. She’s old news, doesn’t mean a bloody thing.
Annoyed and fully intent on brushing Lucie off, I glance back at Brooke when I feel her pull away. She sits back on her bar stool, arms crossed, and the woman who was all too ready to kiss me is long gone. Her hooded gaze is now replaced by scrutinizing curiosity.
Bloody hell.
I knew the pursuit of Brooke was going to be one hell of a challenge, but something tells me that Lucie’s flirtatious voice and tits spilling out of her shirt just made it ten times harder.
Dear Journal? Dear Me? Dear whoever?
Where’s the gun? Because holy hell, I drank my weight in alcohol last night.
I can’t believe that I was the live music last night. I sang, on stage, in front of a room full of people, and it felt amazing.
Millie, if you’re reading this, I hope you enjoyed the show.
I’m shocked Lindsay and I were out of bed before noon. We didn’t leave Pop In until well after 1:30 a.m., when the bartenders started shouting for last call. I planned on going back to my hotel, but the guys insisted we follow them to another joint a few blocks away. My best friend did her typical routine. She spent the last few hours of the night dry humping Jesse on a makeshift dance floor.
Whereas I found myself in a quiet corner chatting with Dylan over drinks and a few more shots. I think it was three more rounds to be exact. To say it had been a while since I’d put away that much liquor is an understatement, and holy hell, English men can drink. It was a lost cause trying to keep up with Dylan’s pace. By the end of the night, I was far past tipsy, probably slurring my words and stumbling around in my boots, but he still looked composed. His only signs of being drunk were a thicker English accent and an adorable lazy grin.
Dylan. Holy hell, that man.
He’s pretty much everything I thought he would be, but multiply it by about a million. Ridiculously charming, and has the best sense of humor—the perfect amount of dryness and deadpan-ness. He kept me laughing with the most ridiculous stories, but somehow managed a straight-face while he told them. It kind of reminded me of Lindsay, but better. He’d toss out one-liners, not the corny kind, but the kind that stick with you for hours.
And when Jesse and Dylan were together, telling funny stories and bantering back-and-forth, it was my own personal comedy show.
I’ve never been so taken by a man.
Being someone who’s worked with a lot of musicians, I’ve become well acquainted with his type of magic. Sure, he’s human, but Dylan has this intangible quality about him. He could be a backup singer on stage, and every single person in the crowd would track him, watch him. It’s more than charm or good looks. It’s not even charisma, which he has in spades.
It’s something else entirely . . .
Magnetism! That’s exactly what Dylan has, and I’m starting to realize I never stood a chance.
I’m not the only one who comprehends his appeal. The whole night, women eye-fucked him, flashing that cliché come-hither look. There were quite a few who seemed positively, for lack of a better word, swoony over him. Some of those bitches had no choice, because it was obvious it was their first time in his presence, but others appeared more than fans, more than acquaintances, and one, in particular, knew him pretty fucking well.
I’m wondering just how freely he enjoys the single life. Is he the type of guy who literally spreads his love around? I’m praying that’s not the case.
Swooning over a guy has never been my style. I honestly can’t remember a time in my life where I was really interested in a man. That’s crazy, right? I mean, I’m 26, I should be able to name at least one guy that made me swoon, even just a little bit.
Is it because it’s
not part of my personality or did my childhood fuck me up more than I realize? Or does it have more to do with the actual guy inciting that type of reaction from me?
Love at first sight. Serendipity. Meet-cutes.
Those are not part my real-life vocabulary.
And I refuse to admit, on some subconscious level, Dylan makes those words pop into my head. He makes me feel a little . . . swoony. Just writing that word in this journal makes me feel anxious.
The way he makes me feel is far too surreal to face at the moment.
Millie, on the other hand, was quite the opposite of me. She was completely smitten with the idea of loving one person for the rest of your life. The idea of giving so much of myself to one person is practically abhorrent. I’ve never wanted anyone to have that much power over me.
Millie tried her damnedest to get me on board with her dreamy ideas of love, but she never scratched the surface of the steel walls I have built.
I blame shitty parenting and negligent adults for most of my walls and baggage.
By the time I was ten and moving into Millie’s home, the damage was already done. To make a long story short, the first ten years of my childhood were not so great, and the last year and half of those ten years was pretty fucking terrible.
And since I’m refusing, to delve into that part of my past, it’s time to end this entry.
Until next time,
-B
“So, do you think we could get out of here at some point today?” Lindsay is leaning towards the bathroom mirror, watching her reflection while she applies lip gloss.
I’m staring off into space; the blow dryer pointed up towards the ceiling. I turn it off and proceed to put the finishing touches on my hair. “Sorry, I guess I was a little lost in my thoughts for a minute there.” Which I was. That damn journal Millie wanted me to use is making me do the opposite of my normal coping mechanisms. Instead of bottling shit up, I’m thinking about everything.
Forget (Changing Colors Book 1) Page 7