Blur (Changing Colors Book 2)

by Alcorn, N. A.

I laugh. “Are you kidding me? Of course I do.”

  “Kitchen pantry. The black shoebox on the top shelf.”

  “Millie was hiding weed in the kitchen?”

  Ember cracks up, nodding her head. “So, this definitely answers my question regarding her final letter. You obviously haven’t opened it.”

  I tilt my head in confusion. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because I also got a letter. And one tidbit of wisdom she left us was the coordinates of her reefer stash.” Ember smiles. She grabs the spray bottle off the shelf and dampens my hair again. Her fingers part my locks before the scissors resume their snipping.

  I can’t believe my sister had the balls to read Millie’s last letter and I haven’t. Actually, I take that back. I can believe it. Ember has always been stronger than me in that aspect. She doesn’t shy away, doesn’t waste time on avoiding things. She faces shit head on. It’s one of the things I love and admire about her.

  “When are you going to get the balls to read her letter, Brooke?”

  I shrug, closing my eyes as she twirls a few curls with her fingers. I’m pretty sure having someone play with your hair and massage your scalp is pretty darn close to heaven.

  “You remember what tomorrow is?” she asks, voice quiet.

  “Millie would have been eighty-one. Not like it matters how old she would have been, though. If she was alive she would still be telling people she’s sixty,” I reminisce, smiling at the thought. Once she reached the age of sixty, she refused to acknowledge her real age. The woman loved celebrating her birthday, her sixtieth birthday that is, over and over again.

  Ember smiles at me through the mirror. “God, she was a ballbuster. I swear, if I’m half as vibrant and full of life as she was at eighty, I’ll have lived one hell of a life.”

  “So true,” I agree. “God, sometimes I wish I could channel her vibrancy.”

  “I think you should open the letter tomorrow. In honor of her birthday.”

  I don’t respond, and Ember doesn’t prod. She knows me well enough to understand that it’s going to take some serious strength to open that letter. Strength that I’m not so sure I have right now. Losing Millie has been hard. I miss her everyday. I miss the way that woman could get me to let loose and live in the moment. Even in death, she got me to leave LA and jet set to Paris. The woman was an enigma, a one of a kind person that was truly larger than life.

  I miss a lot of things, every thing. I miss her wise words and bubbly personality. And I miss our little traditions. Every year on her birthday, we would fly to Portland and spend a few days in the city before road tripping to Vancouver for some vintage shopping. Eventually, we’d head to our final destination, her favorite place in the States, Pacific City, Oregon.

  That yearly trip had become one of the highlights of my year.

  But now, I’m not sure I could do it without her.

  “Do you have plans tomorrow?” Ember asks.

  I start to shake my head, but realize I actually do have plans. Well, I think I have plans. “Yeah, I think I do. I mean, I’m supposed to work with Dylan on a song, but our last conversation didn’t exactly end on a good note. I wouldn’t be surprised if he finds an excuse to not work with me on writing music this weekend. Although, Nigel was pretty insistent about it…”

  “What’s Jamie doing this weekend?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure. His mother is in town, and I know he had plans for lunch on Saturday, but other than that, I haven’t a clue. He’s been crazy busy at the label. I think Alistair is secretly working him to death just to see how much bullshit he’ll handle. And you know how Jamie is when it comes to his father…”

  Ember lets out a knowing sigh. “I know our parents aren’t anything to write home about, but sometimes I think I’d rather tolerate their negligence than having to deal with Alistair Wallace’s wrath on a daily basis.”

  “Preachin’ to the choir, sis. And I couldn’t agree more.”

  A few quiet moments pass between us. Ember focused on my hair and I got lost in my thoughts. “So, tell me the truth. Do you love him?” Her question pulls me back to the present.

  I inhale a sharp breath, holding it in my chest until my lungs sting; forcing me to release it on an audible exhale. “Yes. I love him. I’m in love with him. I can’t help the way I feel about Dylan. I know it’s horrible, but I can’t stop loving him, wanting him,” I respond without a second thought. Of course, I love him. I’m in love with Dylan. It’s why I’m tied up in knots. It’s why I can’t seem to walk away from him.

  Her face turns serious. “I was actually asking about Jamie, but that’s interesting that Dylan’s the one who came to mind when I asked you about love.”

  “Oh.” My eyes go wide.

  Ember watches me for a moment, taking in my shocked expression. “Listen, I can tell by the panicked look on your face that you’re not ready to take this conversation any further, but I want you to think about what you just said. I want you to really think about it, Brooke. Don’t just shove it under the rug and avoid it, okay?

  I nod, watching her set the scissors and comb down on the vanity.

  Her fingers tousle my now, much shorter hair. “You need to search deep within yourself and decide who truly makes you happy. And you need to decide this sooner than later. You’re engaged to be married to Jamie, and soon there is going to be pressure to plan the wedding, which don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve been avoiding that topic like the plague. You deserve happiness, and if Jamie is the one who makes you happy, then marry him, and I’ll be there watching you walk down the aisle and supporting you.”

  “And if he’s not?” I whisper.

  Her hand grips my shoulder. “Then I’ll still be here supporting you in whatever you decide. You don’t owe anyone anything, Brooke. Just because you said yes to Jamie doesn’t mean you have to marry him. People fall out of love. People get engaged and then call off their engagement. Sometimes, it takes a monumental leap towards marriage to help someone understand that they’re not where they’re supposed to be. And that’s okay. If that is what’s going on, it’s okay.

  “You’re happiness is top priority. And your happiness is the only factor that should be taken into consideration when you decide what you really want to do. Not Jamie’s. Not Dylan’s. But yours. You’ve always been a bit of a martyr, constantly putting everyone else’s needs above your own. I think now is the time for you to do what Brooke wants. Do what makes Brooke happy.”

  The corners of my mouth turn down at her words. She makes it all sound so easy. Honestly, I wish it were that easy. But it’s not. It’s crazy complicated, and whenever I try to think about how I’m going to navigate myself out of it, I end up with a migraine. Which probably explains this onset of relentless aching that’s taken up residence on the right side of my forehead.

  “Thanks, Em. I love you.”

  “I love you too. Now, tell me what you think,” she says, turning the chair back around to face the mirror.

  “Wow. It’s short.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Uh, yeah.”

  My eyes go wide, fingers going to the ends of my hair. “Like really short.”

  “You actually asked me to cut it shorter, but I decided to ignore your demands and make it shoulder length.”

  Running my fingers through my hair, I grin at my reflection in the mirror. “I love it.”

  “Really? You’re not freaked out or about ready to burst into tears?’

  “Were those the kind of reactions you were expecting?”

  She nods in four exaggerated movements.

  I laugh, standing up from the chair and turning around to face her. “I’m not freaked out. I’m not ready to burst into tears. For some insane reason, I feel like a hundred pounds has been lifted from my shoulders.”

  She smirks. “Well, in a way, it has been. I chopped off a ton of hair.”

  I shake my head back and forth, watching my curls bounce and spring. They’re curlier
than ever now, which I kind of love. They’re wild and messy and sexy in an adorable sort of way. Even my eyes look bigger and more pronounced, lengthy hair no longer a distraction from my facial features.

  “I love it too,” Ember adds, grabbing the broom from the corner of the room. Before she starts sweeping the hair off the floor, she eyes me with an odd expression on her face.

  “What?” I question, uncertainty hinting at my voice.

  She steps closer, eyes examining my forehead. “What is this?” She asks, tapping the right side lightly with her fingers.

  “Ow!” I cringe in discomfort. Ignoring her scrutiny, I face the mirror again and study the three small, reddened and raised spots on my forehead. I’m well aware of the goddamn pimples that decided to grace my skin with their presence. How could I miss them? Since I turned seventeen, I rarely get pimples, but occasionally, if I’m stressed or binge on greasy food, I’ll get a few.

  “Pimples, Em. They’re goddamned pimples. Ones that I thought I did a better job covering up this morning.”

  She continues to invade my personal space, inspecting my forehead. “Nope. Those aren’t pimples, idiot. They look like blisters.”

  My face crinkles in confusion. “Huh? That doesn’t make sense. Why would I have blisters?”

  “Because you have Shingles.”

  “What?” I shout, covering the spots with my hand. “I do not!”

  Ember nods. “Yes, you do. Don’t you remember last year when Millie got Shingles near her ribcage?”

  “Yeah, but—” I stop midsentence, recalling the blister-like spots she had on her side. “Oh my god!” I cry. “How in the hell did I get Shingles? Don’t you have to be a lot older to get it?”

  “No, not necessarily.”

  “Am I contagious? Holy shit! I’m contagious, aren’t I? I’ve just infected all of LA with Shingles!” I’m panicking now, trying to remember everyone I’ve come in contact with in the past twenty-four hours.

  “Calm down,” Ember reassures. “You can’t give anyone Shingles. But you can give someone Chicken Pox. At least, people who haven’t been vaccinated and haven’t had Chicken Pox in the past.”

  “Who in the hell are you? Dr. Oz? How do you know all of this shit?”

  “Single mom…Four-year-old kid…Ring any bells?”

  “Oh, right.”

  “You need to get those looked at, Brooke. There’s meds they’ll give you to help it heal quicker.”

  “Fantastic,” I groan in annoyance. “Shingles, on my face. Just what I needed.”

  Be still our beating red hearts

  First Episode of Mad Sounds will air in two weeks.

  FlavoredLyrics.com

  C&E Network, in collaboration with producer Ari Richards, have officially started filming for the reality series based on the English band, Careless Cockups. The show, Mad Sounds, will document the band as they record their debut album.

  Their album, due out this February, will mostly be recorded in LA, until the band hits the road for a pre-release tour that will hit several stops in the States, as well as a few European destinations.

  A source close to the label reveals, “With the fast-paced schedule, the band will have to finish up recording on the road, spending time in a few studios in cities such as Seattle, New York, and New Orleans.”

  The C&E series will chronicle the making of Careless Cockups’ debut album through interviews, live footage of the band in the studio, and while their on the road for their pre-release tour.

  Tickets are already available for purchase for the shows in Louisville and St. Louis.

  Visit CarelessCockups.com for more information.

  Dylan

  Despite the not so nice text conversation Brooke and I had yesterday, I decide to shoot her a message and see if she’s still pissed at me. After my “Don’t beg me then,” response, I never heard from her. My inconsiderate digs about her lack of control when we’re together probably didn’t help my cause, that’s for damn sure.

  ‘Consider this message my form of an apology and my way of putting out feelers to see how the land lies…’

  ‘I think the natives are still pissed at you…’

  ‘Too pissed to take pity on a wanker like me and work on some music?

  I’m sorry by the way. I was a total bastard yesterday.’

  ‘Yeah, you were. But so was I.

  I don’t want it to be like this between us.’

  ‘Me either. Why weren’t you in the studio this morning by the way?

  Nigel said you were sick…are you okay?’

  ‘I’ve been better. But I’ll live.’

  ‘How about I’ll come keep you company?

  Maybe, we can work on some music if you’re feeling up to it?’

  ‘Nuh uh. No way, Bissette. You are not seeing me like this.

  Plus, I don’t want you to get whatever I have.’

  ‘Are you mocking my immune system?

  I’ll have you know I haven’t been sick in years.

  I’m as strong as an ox. Nothing can get me down, Sawyer.

  Not even you and your germs.

  What’s your address?’

  ‘Not happening. I’ll call Nigel and explain. We’ll reschedule.’

  ‘Fine, but you rest, I’ll handle Nigel.’

  ‘Thanks. I owe ya.’

  ‘I like the sound of that…’

  ‘*rolls eyes*’

  ‘*grins at the idea of you rolling your eyes*’

  ‘You’re incorrigible! Knock it off…

  Leave me alone to wallow in my germs in peace.’

  Despite Brooke’s insistence on not being seen today, I scroll through my contacts and shoot Nigel a message.

  ‘I need directions to Brooke’s, mate.

  I’m meeting at her house to work on Blur and LA confuses the fuck out of me.’

  It’s probably not the best idea I’ve ever had, but I want to make sure she’s okay. At least that’s what I’m telling myself I’m going over there for. I’m sure it has nothing to do with just needing to see her.

  It pisses me off her fiancé didn’t seem too concerned about her lack of presence this morning at our meeting. If Brooke was mine, I’d have told the board members to piss off and stayed home with my girl.

  Without questioning my motives, Nigel sends a detailed response that includes directions and her address. I’d say the “LA confuses the fuck out of me” was the perfect approach. And now, I just need to figure out how to get to Brooke’s house without Thomas—the infuriatingly quiet camera guy—following me. He took it upon himself to ride shotgun while I drove to the gym, filming a few clips of me working out.

  I couldn’t have been anymore annoyed. Why in the bloody hell would they need to get footage of my workouts? That has zero to do with music, which from my understanding, was the whole purpose for this show. If it weren’t for the rest of band wanting to do it, I would have told those wankers to shove their contracts up their pompous arses. I agree, this short series can help promote the band, but I’m concerned it could head in another direction—one where we look like fools instead of an interesting band who creates music people love to listen to.

  And filming me while I’m working out felt a little more circus clown than talented musician. Good thing Thomas is a quiet kind of guy. If he had started requesting I take my shirt off and flex in front of the camera, I would have knocked his bloody lights out.

  Now, I just need to find a way to lose him before I head over to Brooke’s. I’m worried she might commit homicide if I show up at her door with a camera lens hovering over my shoulder.

  Before I hop in the shower, I call down to Thomas, who’s currently watching the tele in the living room. “Jesse just sent me a message. Apparently, him and Alex are heading to a pub to grab a few pints for lunch before heading back to the studio. Do you mind taking the Escalade to pick up those bastards? Last thing we need is them drunk and wandering around the streets of LA,” I lie. My brother hasn’t sent m
e a message, but I can guarantee they’re at their favorite pub down the street from the studio. It’s become their lunchtime ritual.

  “What are your plans after this? Aren’t you heading back to the studio?” Thomas questions, voice skeptical.

  “After a quick shower and a nap. Nigel doesn’t need me until later this afternoon. And I was hoping you’d convince Jesse and Alex to head back here, instead of pints at the pub,” I suggest, silently praying it works.

  “Oh, all right. Are they still at the studio?”

  “Yeah, I’d probably head over there sooner than later, though. The keys are on kitchen counter, mate.”

  I hear the keys jingle, and a few seconds later, the front door closes shut. Thank God. That was a hell of a lot easier than I thought it would be. Knowing I’ve probably got about fifteen minutes to get out of here undetected, I proceed to get showered and dressed in a hurry.

  Brooke’s house is within walking distance of the place we’re staying at in Laurel Canyon. Deciding it was best to leave the pretentious Porsche Alistair gave us to drive; I made the five-minute trek with my guitar and backpack slung over my shoulder and a ball cap and sunglasses shielding my face. We’re not so famous that paparazzi are stalking our every move, but lately, there’s been a few times where cameras have documented our whereabouts. And I’m finding, when it comes to LA, paparazzi are practically swarming the area, waiting for any sighting of someone they deem a celebrity.

  It’s absurd, considering the words celebrity or famous are not something I would deem myself to be. I’m just an English bloke looking to do what he loves, make music.

  Three knocks on the door and I’m face to face with a sight I was not expecting. Brooke’s normally long blonde hair is now shorter, a lot shorter. One side of her forehead is covered with a bandage, and her right eye is rocking a white, gauze eye patch.

  What the hell?

  Her jaw drops, face morphing into a scowl. “What are you doing here?” she asks, hands flying up to her face and shielding the eye patch.

  I fight the urge to grin, eyes still perusing her adorably disheveled appearance. Her slender body is covered with a bright blue robe accented by yellow moons and stars. Feet hidden behind SpongeBob slippers. “Technically, I was in the neighborhood. And why are you bandaged up like you got in a fight?”