But barely touching you and talking to you for about ten seconds in front of cameras? Not okay.
Sure, Brooke. I think I’ve got it now…It’s clear as fucking mud.’
I want to toss my phone out the window and then run over it with my car. God, I want to call him an asshole and tell him to fuck off. But he’s right. He’s so right.
Yeah, but he’s also being a huge prick.
‘How about just don’t fucking touch me?
Not in private. Not in front of cameras. Not ever.
Sound good?’
‘Don’t beg me then.’
Those four words might as well have been lit on fire and shoved down my throat. My eyes burn from the harsh tone I know is insinuated within his message. He just blatantly threw my lack of control—when it comes to him—in my face. He might as well have smacked me across the cheek with it.
In this moment, I wish I could hate him. I wish I could tell him to leave me alone and mean it. I’m wishing a lot of things right now, but none of them are reality.
My reality is that I know he’s right.
I know I deserve his ire. Actually, I deserve more than that. I deserve to have my face rubbed in the mess I’ve made. I deserve to have him call me out on all my lies and secrets in front of everyone.
I’m more than thankful he hasn’t done that. Undeniably relieved. If Dylan made it known that he and I were together in Paris—have been together in LA—then Jamie would be involved. And if I thought my heart cracked in half the second I saw Dylan’s eyes take in my engagement ring, I know, without a doubt, that Jamie being pulled into the middle of this would finish me off. I’m not sure I’d survive knowing I’ve added more pain to his already too full list.
I’ve earned all of this. No doubt about it.
But it still doesn’t change how I feel. I can’t stop these emotions—this desperate need—I have for Dylan. I want to promise myself I won’t yearn for his touch, his kiss, his eyes on me. I want to convince myself I’m not desperately in love with him.
But I can’t. I can’t promise something I don’t mean. And I can’t convince myself of something that isn’t true.
Every day I wait with bated breath, wondering, if this will be the day Dylan decides he’s done with me.
I’ve given him no reason to wait, but every reason to move on. I walked away from him in Paris, without a word, without an inkling of hope. My note couldn’t have been anymore more ambiguous. And when we were reunited in LA, he was hit with the shocking news of my engagement.
What man in his right mind would put up with that?
I’m lucky he didn’t out me to everyone the day we locked eyes in the conference room. I’m lucky he didn’t completely lose his shit and call me a lying whore, pointing out the stark fact that I had given myself to him for weeks before I flew back to LA.
I’m lucky he hasn’t outed me since he’s been in LA.
Twice now we’ve crossed the line. And one of those times he fucked me without a condom—luckily, without resulting in a surprised pregnancy. The other time, he got me off in my office, and Lord knows, if he had offered his cock, I wouldn’t have said no. The entire time I rode his hand, I was desperate for something else that only he could give me.
I’ve lied. I’ve avoided.
I’ve done everything but tell him one undeniable truth—I’m in love with him. I love him so fiercely that any second my heart threatens to burst into flames and blaze until there’s nothing left but ash.
He’d be better off walking away from this mess, from me. But I know without a doubt, having to sit back and watch him move on with someone else will kill me. It will tear my soul straight out of my body.
But isn’t that what he deserves? To move on? To be able to move past what he and I shared in Paris and find someone who is worthy of him?
Someone who doesn’t cause him pain. A girl he can fall in love with and who will actually tell him she loves him too. A girl who isn’t shouldering enough baggage to fill an entire cargo plane.
Obviously, I love him. I love him so deeply, his name has been sewn within my heart since the moment he painted pink polka-dots across my hands and told me I was still beautiful, despite the scars of my past.
But do I love him enough to just let him go? Do I love him enough to make a grand gesture that will give him the closure to move on?
Grabbing my journal off my nightstand, I sit cross-legged on my bed and pour my thoughts onto the paper, the pen hardly keeping up with the quick pace of my hand.
Dear Lilah Belle,
You are a coward.
You are selfish.
You are cruel.
You don’t deserve Dylan.
And he doesn’t deserve this. Jamie doesn’t deserve this.
This terrible fucking mess that you’ve put everyone in.
You made your decision. You said yes to Jamie. You walked away from Dylan.
You made your promise to Jamie, a promise you intend to keep, no matter how hard it may be.
Dylan isn’t your Bright Eyes anymore.
He deserves to be someone else’s.
Give him that.
Let him go.
LET HIM GO.
More later,
B
Standing in front of my bedroom mirror, I stare at my reflection. From my long, blonde curls to the tips of my toes, I just stand there, staring, taking in every facet of my features. I have the strong urge to shed something, to let something go, a symbolization in a way.
My hair has gotten so long it reaches my lower back. Blonde curls twisted in chaos. I think about all of the times Dylan has slipped his hands through these locks, savoring their feel, inhaling their scent. I think about the way his fingers slid a loose curl out of my eyes, tucking it gently behind my ear, and all of the times he did that very same gesture in Paris.
Picking up my phone, I shoot Ember a text.
‘I need your help with something.’
‘Okay…I’m at the shop right now.’
‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Get the scissors ready.’
‘Huh?’
‘I need you to cut my hair.’
‘Like a trim?’
‘No. Something more drastic than that.’
‘Whaaaaaaat?’
‘Just get the scissors. I’ll be there shortly.’
“Are you sure you really want to do this?” Ember asks, wide eyes staring at me through the mirror. The scissors are clutched in her hands like she’s bracing for the zombie apocalypse.
“It’s just hair, Em,” I sigh, sitting down in the salon chair.
My sister is a genius when it comes to hair. Honestly, if we hadn’t opened Wild Spirit, she would have started her own salon. She has a list a mile long of regulars, which explains the makeshift salon in one of the backrooms at the shop. And since she’s my sister and ridiculously talented, it goes without saying she’s the only person I let touch my hair. Which is a very rare occasion. I’ve always preferred to keep my locks their natural blonde color, and their length long and flowing. I can’t tell you how many times Ember has begged to do more than my every three months’ trim.
But now, she’s staring at me like I’m asking her to buzz it.
“Seriously, stop looking at me like that. I just need you to chop it. Give me a cute bob or whatever you think will look good at a much shorter length.”
Ember’s brown eyes crinkle in uncertainty. “Brooke, this feels a little crazy. I mean, what in the hell is going on with you? You barely let me trim your hair, much less chop it. Why do you want something so drastic?”
“I just do, okay?”
“Is this because of the reality show? Are you feeling too much pressure? I mean, I get it, but I don’t think it warrants a radical hair change.”
I groan. “Em, please don’t question this. Just cut my damn hair. It’s just hair, okay? No big deal. And if I don’t like it, it’ll grow back or I’ll get extensions.”
“Extensions?” She huffs ou
t a laugh. “Coming from the girl who rarely blow dries her hair and gets a trim every three months because I demand she lets me cut off the dead ends. Honey, you wouldn’t be able to manage the up-keep for extensions. And I’m refusing to dye your hair. It’s not happening. You’re, like, the only real blonde left in LA. Women would literally throw themselves off buildings to have your natural color.”
She points the scissors at me. “And don’t even think about buying a box of hair dye. I will end you if you change your color. End. You. Slowly and painfully too.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh my god, don’t be such a psycho. I’m not asking for jet black or purple, I just want a nice, warm shade of brown.”
“This. This is what it would look like.” Ember points to her brown locks, which are currently highlighted with hot pink streaks. Anyone else and I’d probably hate it, but my sister can literally pull off any shade. “And I’m not doing it. So get that crazy ass, horrible idea out of your head.”
“So, basically, what you’re telling me is that you won’t dye my hair? And you’re also refusing to chop it?” I raise a pointed eyebrow. “I think I need a new stylist.”
“First of all, you’re wanting me to dye your gorgeous, golden hair a stupid shade of brown and chop off like a million inches!” she yells. “Brooke! This is insane. I’m having flashbacks of Britney Spears buzzing her head.”
A laugh escapes me. “Oh my god! I’m not asking you to buzz it. Just darken the color and shorten up the length a bit.”
“A bit? You’re asking me to chop off the beautiful hair, that’s nearly reaching your ass, and bring it up past your shoulders. That is a lot of hair, Brooke.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I say, standing up from the chair. “Fine. If you can’t do it, I’ll do it. Give me the scissors.”
She clutches the scissors to her chest. “No way. I’m not letting you butcher your gorgeous hair.”
We stand there, staring at each other for a good minute, before she finally realizes I’m not messing around. I’m one-hundred percent serious.
“Fine,” she snaps. “Sit your bony ass down. I will cut it shorter, a lot shorter, but you’re not coloring your hair.”
“Fine,” I snap back, plopping back into the seat.
Ember fiddles with her phone, turning up the volume loud enough for the song Toxic to echo against the four walls of the small room.
Shaking my head, I laugh. “Seriously? You’re going Britney Spears on me?”
She nods, grinning. “You bet your sweet ass I am. I figured since you’re channeling your inner Britney, might as well add the soundtrack.”
“I am not channeling my inner Britney. This is not a psychotic break. You are not shaving my head. I just needed a change.”
She eyes me with a wry smile, holding up the scissors. “Sure. If you keep lying enough, maybe I’ll become stupid enough to start believing you.”
“Stop stalling and start chopping.” Within minutes, I’m watching strand after strand unceremoniously fall to the floor. And Ember cringes with each quiet snip of the scissors.
“Don’t be such a baby,” I tease. “It’s just hair.”
“Yeah, coming from the girl who would barely let me trim off two inches,” she mutters, eyes focused on the task at hand. “Tell me what in the hell is going on. Seriously, Brooke, I know you better than this. You’re doing this for a reason.”
The track changes to I’m a Slave 4 U, and I laugh. “Really, Em? Is this her Greatest Hits album?”
“Shut up. You know you love Brit just as much as I do. I have several memories of you sporting half-shirts and singing Hit Me Baby One More Time into your hair brush.”
“Oh my god, let’s not replay those memories,” I groan, smiling at her reflection in the mirror.
She giggles. “I’m going to keep bringing up your embarrassing teenage years until you spill the beans. I’ve barely skimmed the surface with Britney. There’s still that notorious hair crimping phase you went through…”
I meet her knowing expression in the mirror. Once Ember is determined to find something out, she’ll do pretty much anything to get her way. And since I’m stuck in this chair for the time being, and I’m desperate to talk to someone besides my therapist about this, I decide to open up a little. “If I tell you this, you can’t judge me.”
She holds both hands up, scissors in one and comb in the other. “I’m your sister and I love you. I’ll never judge you.”
“Something happened in Paris.”
Ember stays silent, focusing on my hair, and knowingly avoiding eye contact so I don’t lose my backbone.
“I met this guy. He’s gorgeous and wonderful and I know you’d love him. I was with him. I’m pretty sure I fell in love with him.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure?”
I roll my eyes. “So, this guy…well…I kind of just left him in Paris. I left him without a good explanation. I took the coward’s way out. I was in far too deep and couldn’t face telling him goodbye. I just couldn’t. What I did, Em, it was pretty horrible.”
“Does Jamie know about this?”
“No. And that guy, well, he’s in LA now.”
Her jaw drops. “Here? In LA? Holy shit. Have you seen him?”
My head nods in two subtle movements.
“Wow. Okay, so who is he? Where is he? I mean, what in the hell is going on? Did he come here for you?”
“He didn’t exactly come here for me. He sort of signed on with a music label, and his band is working on their first album.”
Her nose scrunches up in confusion. “What label?”
“Wallace & Wright.”
“Wait. His band signed with your label?”
“Nigel and I are currently working on producing their debut album.”
Fingers stop abruptly in my hair. Her eyes blink several times as she processes the bomb I just dropped. “He’s with Careless Cockups? The same band that’s the sole reason your pretty face is now being filmed for a reality show?”
Nodding, I respond, “His name is Dylan Bissette, and he’s the lead singer.”
“Holy. Hell.”
“I know.”
Ember is silent for a several long minutes. The snip, snip, snip of her scissors is the only thing filling the too quiet room. “Brooke…I don’t even know what to say. Are you okay? I mean, this is insane. How hasn’t Jamie found out about this? How are you working with this guy every day?”
I don’t know why, but tears fill my eyes. My lids blink against the drops of emotion, pushing it past my cheeks. “I have no idea how Jamie hasn’t found out. I have no idea why Dylan is staying so quiet about it. Well, at least when it comes to everyone else he’s quiet about it. He’s made the way he feels pretty clear to me in private.” I inhale a shaky breath. “God, I don’t know why he didn’t out me the first day he saw me in that conference room, and Alistair introduced me as Jamie’s fiancée. This is a mess, Em. A giant, fucked up mess.”
“Who else knows about this?”
“I think only the guys in the band. One of whom is his brother. I actually hung out with Jesse and Alex in Paris. I didn’t meet Zach until they came to LA.”
“Jesse Bissette? The hot drummer?”
I groan, laughing despite myself. “Oh my God, not you too.”
She laughs, smirking at me. “What? He’s fuckhot. I won’t deny that I stalk his Instagram. And I’ve seen pictures of Dylan, by the way. The apple does not fall far from the tree, if you know what I mean.”
Laughing, I admit, “Lindsay knows Jesse pretty well. They met when she surprised me in Paris.”
“That lucky bitch. I swear, she’s like my sex idol. That girl gets to bang all the good ones.”
“The perks of being a hot model,” I add, completely in agreeance. Lindsay definitely has her pick from the hot guy cookie jar. “And for the record, you could be with anyone you want, but you never let yourself.” Which is so true. Ember is gorgeous, but too focused on Teddy and the s
tore to let herself find someone. I can’t remember the last time she went out on a date.
She waves me off. “Oh, shut up. We’re not talking about my lack of a love life right now. We’re talking about you and this crazy, convoluted, clusterfuck of a situation you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“Aptly labeled.”
“What are you going to do, Brooke?”
“I have no idea.”
“How much longer do you think you can hide this from Jamie? That can’t be easy. Especially when you’ve got a seriously ticked off rock god who’s probably about ready to blow the lid off your secret rendezvous any second. Do you really think this guy is going to be able to keep it quiet much longer?”
“I don’t know, Em. I really don’t know.” I stare at her concerned reflection in the mirror. I wish I had an answer. But I don’t. I’m not sure of Dylan’s motives. A part of me wonders if he’s staying quiet about us because the man who gave his band a contract just so happens to be the father of my fiancé.
And I’m conflicted, torn between telling Jamie the truth and facing the aftermath of what it could mean for him, and hiding the truth and continuing to hurt Dylan.”
“Not only do you have to work with him on a daily basis in the studio, but now you’re in a reality show with him?” Ember questions, voice baffled.
“Yeah, it’s not a good situation. I think my therapist might need to prescribe me Xanax just to survive this. If I survive this.”
“Just raid Millie’s weed stash. That’ll help relax ya,” Ember teases.
I huff in disbelief. “Millie doesn’t have a weed stash.”
She laughs, nodding her head. “Oh, yes, she does. I’ve helped myself to it a time or two.”
“What? No, you haven’t.”
“Don’t be such a narc. I’m a single mom, running a store, and dealing with a crazy four-year-old all by myself. Believe me, I’ve had a few nights with Mary Jane. She’s wonderful, by the way. I quite enjoy her company after a long day of working and chasing after Teddy.”
“I can’t believe my baby sister is toking up after she puts my nephew to bed,” I say in mock disappointment.
She taps my head with the comb. “You wanna know where it’s hidden, don’t ya?”
Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) Page 14