“Well, let’s get started,” Alistair says, motioning towards a blonde dressed in a tight skirt and cleavage-revealing blouse. “Audrey, go ahead and pass everything out.” I guess bombshell assistants must be a requirement when you’re the CEO.
Alistair starts to ramble on with his well-versed spiel of why we’ve made the right decision and how Wallace & Wright is the only label that can take us to the top.
A packet of papers is set in front of me. I sigh heavily, staring down at the Wallace & Wright emblem etched on the cover. The sooner this meeting gets over with the better. I’m already bored and too distracted to keep up with what’s being said. Don’t get me wrong—this is fantastic, and I’m not taking this opportunity lightly. It’s just that men like Alistair Wallace don’t impress me. They live and breathe money. And I get the feeling that if you’re not actively helping him make money, he has no qualms with tossing you off the freight train that is his label.
The glass door flying open pulls my attention from the table. I glance up to see a blur of blonde curls striding into the meeting room. Jamie stands up and takes the coffee cups from her hand, giving her the opportunity to tuck away the veil of hair covering her face.
My heart jumps out of my throat and hits the table.
Brooke.
My Brooke.
So many unsaid words, so many questions, and yet all I can think about is how god damn beautiful she looks. It’s a brutal punch to the gut. She’s here, in this meeting room, standing in front of me, and hugging some guy named Jamie.
Jesse nudges my arm to get my attention, but I’m too focused on her.
She slides her messenger bag off her shoulder, and starts to sit down in the seat near Jamie, but Alistair says her name. “Brooke, before you sit down let me introduce you to the guys.”
She stands next to him, her eyes smiling at the familiar faces she knows at the table.
Her eyes make their rounds, until they stop at me. Once she registers that I’m sitting in this meeting because my band is signing with this label, those big brown eyes of hers turn into saucers.
But why is she here?
“Dylan, Jesse, Alex, Zach, this is Brooke Sawyer, otherwise known as my son’s gorgeous fiancée, and the woman who will help produce your debut album…Brooke, this is the band you’ll come to know and love as Careless Cockups.”
Produce our debut album? She works here?
Wait…did he just say fiancée?
My jaw tightens in response, ticking like a goddamn time bomb.
Did he just fucking say FIANCÉE?
I know I heard him wrong. I take inventory of her hands. A giant diamond sits on her ring finger, her left ring finger. The brilliant stone mocks me, taunting me, and I have the urge to throw the conference table out of the fifteenth story window.
And the guy is named Jamie. When I saw Jamie’s name on her phone, in my flat, I assumed it was a girl, but no, it was her fucking fiancé. She was lying to me the whole time.
Why would she do that?
I’m about to explode any second. My fists clench underneath the table.
Jesse nudges my arm again. “Take a breath, mate,” he whispers.
How can I take a breath when all of the oxygen has been sucked out of the room?
She looks away from me, clears her throat, and offers a quiet greeting. She doesn’t say a thing about already knowing us, knowing me.
Everyone but me offers something nice and noncommittal in response. Zach is the only one who hasn’t met her, but no one says anything about it. They’re just as shocked as I am. Jesse and Alex have drunk with Brooke. They’ve seen her pissed and singing Madonna at Au Fait. And me, I’ve had my cock so deep inside her that she didn’t know where I ended and she began. How in the hell am I supposed to act like that didn’t happen? That we didn’t happen?
She sits down in the seat beside her fiancé. Her fucking fiancé.
And I stare at her like a mad man, boring holes into her skull.
She has a fiancé. That’s the big secret?
Her honey eyes glance towards mine. She has the audacity to look like she might cry. Obviously, I don’t want to see her cry—it’ll fucking kill me if she does—but seriously? Why does she look hurt? I should be the one curled up in the fetal position underneath this table.
This isn't goodbye. It's just, not right now, the letter mocks me. Not right now? I’d love to know when exactly we were going to get back together since she has a FUCKING FIANCÉ! Was it going to be after the wedding? Or before? Or maybe I was going to get to occasionally fuck her the entire time?
I make myself breathe slowly and count to ten in my head to keep from doing anything crazy.
Alistair talks about marketing plans.
I stare at Brooke
A guy named Nigel talks about a recording schedule.
I stare at Brooke.
Jamie talks about our pre-release tour.
I stare at Brooke.
Remember when I said I’m going to hold up my end of the bargain? It’s going to be pretty bloody hard now considering the other end of that bargain has plans of marrying someone else.
Someone that isn’t me.
The contract is placed in front of us. I sign in spite of her. She created this fucked-up mess. She strung me along the whole time when she had a fiancé back home. My pen flows smoothly across the dotted line. I glare at her the entire time.
Her response, she shuts her eyes. Coward. You did this! You ruined us! You fucked me over!
Once the meeting is over and people start filing out, I find myself tossing out hurtful words loud enough for her to hear. “You ever feel like you’re tired of getting fucked in ways that don’t end in an orgasm?”
Her spine goes stiff in response.
“Uhhh… I guess?” Jesse answers, and then proceeds to ask, “So are we still going to Venice Beach or…” He can tell I’m about fifteen seconds away from losing it.
“You guys go without me. I need to go punch something.” I get out of my seat, and instead of confronting her, I stride out the door.
I hear Jesse play it off with a laugh. “Music gets him so amped, mate. He can hardly contain his excitement about signing.”
I find the nearest gym. Sign up for a membership. And the Sunset Sons sing She Wants in my ear—bloody ironic song—while I spend the next three hours taking my rage out on a punching bag.
By the time I leave the gym, I’m convinced I made the right decision by not confronting her in front of everyone. Believe me, I wanted to. I wanted to berate her with all of the questions rolling through my head, but it wasn’t the time back there surrounded by executives from our new label.
Besides, Brooke and I, we’re going to have plenty of time to talk this out seeing as she is our new producer. Maybe my mind is too clouded to think clearly or maybe I’m truly a bastard, but I convince myself that I won’t make this easy on her. I’ll give back as well as I’ve gotten, and if my life is going to be hell, so will Brooke’s.
Welcome to LA? Yeah, LA and Brooke’s fiancé could go fuck themselves.
Hot off the Black & White Presses: Alistair Wallace announces the name of his newly signed, top-secret band
MusicWorld.com
It’s official. Wallace & Wright have signed Careless Cockups, whom they’ve dubbed the next big name in rock music. Fresh out of LAX, the London-based band headed over to Wallace & Wright, signing a two-record deal this afternoon. The record producing duo of Nigel Matthews and Brooke Sawyer have been brought onboard to produce Careless Cockups debut album. Brooke Sawyer also happens to be the fiancée of Jamie Wallace, son to Alistair Wallace. Coincidence? Probably not. But we can’t deny that with the help of Nigel and Brooke, The Distorted’s debut album, Sweet Disaster, went platinum.
More to come as this story continues to develop.
Brooke
Dear Lilah Belle,
Over a year ago, I was sitting beside Millie while she was getting another chemo treatment, read
ing a magazine. There was an article about a woman who was gifted with tetrachromacy. She was an impressionist artist who claimed to have the ability to see over a million different colors.
The human eye is packed with millions of cone-shaped cells that allow for color to be perceived. People with normal vision have three types of cone cells. This artist had a fourth type of cone cell, and it allowed her to see colors that average folks can’t even fathom. Even if an object is one color, she claims to see a range of other colors existing in a mosaic. It was why she created impressionist art pieces, giving her the freedom to add splashes of colors as vibrant parts of her compositions.
I thought this was an incredible gift, and often wondered if I saw colors the way she did. Only my colors weren’t used to produce gorgeous pieces of art, my colors were the mosaic canvas that was the various shades of my pain.
Pain.
Pain has a face. She is unreasonably beautiful. Her eyes change colors, her mouth whispers hurtful truths, and her ears eavesdrop on our lives. She is patient, hiding in the darkest parts of our souls, waiting for the chance to make an appearance. When opportunity knocks, pain opens her door, revealing enchanting eyes and an angelic voice. Soft and sweet, harsh and cold, bittersweet irony is her middle name. Once she’s there, we feel her presence until our tear ducts run dry and our nerves go numb. But I guess that’s the thing about pain—her presence is not a request, it’s a demand.
If pain proctored multiple-choice tests, there would be one option.
A. Feel Me
There are no limits in terms of color, shade, or hue, but pain’s canvas is personal. No matter the person, no matter the circumstance, the hurt is real. All. Of. It. Every sting, every bite, every deep wound is very real. Pain’s eyes have pain-ted my life with various shades. Those vibrant colored retinas stand out most in my mind.
PINK polka-dots scattered across worn sheets.
One YELLOW daisy mocking a grief-filled room.
Three WHITE pills spread across a nightstand.
And now…Emerald GREEN eyes filled with shock and disbelief, and maybe even hate now.
My colors. My pain.
The memories they spur are the worst part. The bone-aching hurt will dull, and the strangling sobs will subside, but it’s the memories that make it hard to move on. And now, I’m just wondering how I’m going to move on from this. God, the look on Dylan’s face when Alistair introduced me as Jamie’s fiancé…
His eyes said everything. Bright Eyes was gone. Fragments of the aurora borealis showcased the myriad of colors that represented his pain. I would have done anything to take that hurt away. I could hear my heart shouting, “Forget, Dylan. Forget me!” In that moment, I was desperate to erase his pain. I’d rather I cease to exist than witness that heart-shattering look on his face.
Everything was simple before Dylan. Black and white. End goal easily in sight. And the only person who would get screwed in the end deserved it. But now, it wasn't simple. The colors had changed. My choices, my decisions, my lies were a blur of grey regrets. Dylan had stepped into my life and distorted the lines.
How can I move past the horrible fucking mess I’ve made? How can I forget that look on his face? It started out as shock that I was there and then turned into something resembling a car crash—too excruciating to watch, but I couldn’t look away—and then, something else took over. Something closer to hate than love. Something that showed me what I’ve done is unforgivable.
I’ve ruined everything.
And in the wake of the destruction I’ve caused, I’m devastated that I can’t talk to Millie about it. If only I could sit outside, underneath her favorite oak tree, and pour my heart out to her. She’d listen, make me a cup of her favorite hot chocolate (chocolate imported from Paris, no less, and comfort me with her perfect wisdom and advice.
If only Millie was still here, maybe I wouldn’t be so torn up inside, maybe I would’ve handled this better…
But I can’t deny that her bucket list was the catalyst for my trip to Paris. Because of Millie, I met Dylan. Because of Millie, I opened my heart to falling in love. It’s bittersweet. Not wanting to take my trip to Paris back, but still wanting my grandmother to be here.
More Later,
-B
I toss my journal on the nightstand, and grab my cell phone, dialing Lindsay’s number.
She answers on the first ring. “Hey, how’s it hangin’ in LA?” Her voice is too chipper for my black mood.
I don’t bother with a hello or small talk, I literally word vomit into the receiver. “Dylan is here…in LA…Careless Cockups are now the newest band signed to Wallace & Wright Records…I’m supposed to produce their album …How am I going to produce their album when he probably hates me? How in the fuck am I supposed to deal with all of this? God, Lindsay, the look on his face when he saw me again…I can’t even explain to you how awful I felt. I was ten seconds away from crawling underneath the conference table and sobbing like a baby.”
“What? Hold on. Slow your roll, Susie. What did you just say?”
“Dylan is here. And I’ve been chosen to help produce his band’s debut album.”
“Holy shit.”
“I know.”
“Holy shit.”
“I know.”
“Holy. Shit.”
“Okay…Seriously, I need you to say something else besides that.” For the love of God, make me feel better about this situation.
She exhales a huge breath. I picture her bangs poofing away from her face like a parachute. “I just…I don’t really know what to say to you. Are you okay? Have you talked to him?”
“Besides the lovely meet-and-greet where Alistair introduced me as Jamie’s fiancé? No, we haven’t exactly talked.”
The silence lasts for a good thirty seconds, but it feels like forever. Hell, right now, seconds feel like days, minutes feel like weeks. “Can I ask you something without you getting mad?” Lindsay’s voice is too tentative.
“You wouldn’t be asking me that without knowing whatever you’re going to say will piss me off.” What is with that, anyways? People do that all the time, myself included. Why can’t we just say ‘Hey, I’m going to say something that’s going to piss you off, but I think you need to hear it.’
“Why are you engaged to Jamie?” She doesn’t hold back, laying it all out there. “I know you love him. I know the two of you go way back. And I know that you truly care about him. But why are you engaged to him? It just seems really fucking sudden for a girl who was just in Paris a month ago, falling in love with a gorgeous man who really cares about her.”
A week ago, when I told her that Jamie and I were engaged, she didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet and start planning my bachelorette party. Needless to say, she wasn’t thrilled—still isn’t thrilled. She’s skeptical to say the least. I can’t blame her. To someone who’s one of the closest people in my life, it probably appears sudden, rash…bat-shit crazy.
I need to end this conversation before it goes any further. There are things Lindsay doesn’t know about Jamie and me. Things that only Jamie and I know. Things I can’t tell a single fucking soul. “This isn’t up for discussion, Lindsay. I love you, but I don’t need to explain my engagement to you or anyone else.”
“Yeah, but why do you get so defensive over it? I’m just asking you a simple question. One that should have a really easy answer,” she spits out, tone filled with suspicion. This is one of those moments where having a best friend who you tell almost everything to can be a huge pain in the ass.
I toss my free hand up in the air. “I’m not!”
“Are you sure about that?” she asks, voice still questioning, still one-hundred percent doubting.
I groan in frustration. “Yes!”
“Because…you’re awfully shouty for someone who isn’t getting defensive.”
“Maybe I just like to shout! Maybe I’m just feeling shouty today!”
She laughs softly. “Look, I love you,
Brookie, and I only want you to be happy. Call me crazy, but I don’t think you’re happy. I think you’re pretty fucking miserable. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be calling me at midnight to tell me that you’ve just seen Dylan again, or the fact that you’re pretty torn up about the whole situation. And it still doesn’t answer the simple question of why you haven’t just said, ‘I’m planning to marry Jamie because I’m in love with him.’”
“I am in love with him.”
“Who?”
“What do you mean who?”
“Who are you in love with?”
“Dyl—Jamie! I’m in love with Jamie!” Shocked and eyes wide, my hand slaps over my mouth with a harsh smack. Holy hell…
“Brooke—”
“Can we not talk about this right now?” I cut her off, because honestly, I can’t handle this. How can I be honest with her when I can’t give her the full truth?
“Okay.” Lindsay sighs softly into the receiver.
“Please, talk about something else. Anything else,” I beg.
The line goes silent for a few beats. I grab a bottle of water out of the fridge, opening it up and taking a sip—distracting myself from the warring emotions wreaking havoc inside my body.
“Do you think cocks have doppelgängers?”
I spit water all over the kitchen counter. “What?”
“I swear to God, the guy I banged last night, I’ve seen his dick before. He dropped his pants and boom! Déjà vu. His schlong looked so familiar. Seriously, do you think it’s possible for a penis to have a doppelgänger?”
“Uh…I’m not sure I’m the right person to add insight into this topic. I don’t exactly have a lot of cocks to go by.” Is it bad that the only cock I can picture right now is Dylan’s? If it’s possible to achieve perfection in the dick-appearance category, Dylan Bissette’s dick deserves the major award. I’ve never thought penises—or is it peni?—were attractive until I laid eyes on his. And good God, his is perfect. Beautiful. Mouth-watering…
She rambles for a good two minutes, and I lose myself to dirty thoughts. My brain too consumed to hear a word she’s saying.
Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) Page 2