Blur (Changing Colors Book 2)

by Alcorn, N. A.

  Her visible eye blinks several times, focusing on the fingers fidgeting with the guitar in her lap. She inhales and exhales a breath, and then nods, softly agreeing, “I want that too.”

  Ignoring her saddened expression, I push forward, forcing a smile on my face. “All right, well, now I feel a lot better about you reading these lyrics,” I add, opening my notebook and handing it to her.

  She reads through them. I’m not sure if the tension in her face is from physical or emotional pain, but it’s definitely there, visible in the furrow of her brow and tight, firm line of her mouth.

  Once she’s finished, she sets the notebook beside me on the couch. “Those are good, Dylan. They’re really good. Would you mind running through a few riffs you think match the words?”

  “You want me to play the whole song?”

  She nods. “That’d be great, actually. It’ll give me a better idea of where your head is at in terms of style and sound.”

  “Okay, but it’s real rough, so no mocking me, Sawyer,” I joke, adjusting my guitar in my lap.

  She just smirks and gestures for me to play.

  So I do.

  In a calculated way, I’m trying to use this song, and these lyrics, to convey a cryptic message for her. Obviously, I don’t want to just be friends. Fuck that nonsense. I want to be everything with her. Friends. Lovers. Together. I want it all.

  And I’ll play the friendship card if it means getting close enough to Brooke to get her to let her guard down and open herself up to me. I’ll do it for as long as I bloody have to, if it means getting her to realize she’s about to make a big fucking mistake by marrying Jamie.

  I’m going to do whatever it takes to get Brooke to open her pretty little eyes.

  And I might be a bastard, and it might be completely evil to feel this way, but I can’t deny the satisfaction I’m getting from the guarded look in her eyes as I sing these lyrics. I know she’s trying to hide the fact that the words are getting to her. The feelings, the emotions, the sentiments I conveyed in these lyrics are doing exactly what they’re supposed to.

  They’re making Brooke think about things, about us, about all the reasons why we belong together.

  Blur

  Baby, don’t ignore our melody

  I know what your eyes are tellin’ me

  I still feel you

  I still need you

  I’m trying to live through this mess

  My heart’s convinced it’s worth the stress

  I still feel you

  I still need you

  I taste your love, my pain

  Don’t let us be a shame

  I’ll even take my time

  I’ll show you that your mine

  Baby, that golden gaze

  Transports me to our Paris haze

  Let it be me

  Let it be me

  I’m not going to waste one line

  Because I know you’re not fine

  Give me that perfect kiss

  I’ll erase that regret off your lips

  It should be me

  It should be me

  We’re not a tragic story

  I know what your silence is tellin’ me

  I still feel you

  I still need you

  Baby, our colors are still a blur

  But I’ll always be sure

  I still need you

  I still love you

  We managed to work on the song for a good three hours before Brooke threw in the towel. She was getting too uncomfortable. Which brings us to why we’re currently lying on her bed—after indulging in some of Millie’s Mary Jane—and watching reruns of The Office.

  It’s the British version, mind you, and Brooke is giggling like a lunatic.

  “I told you this is the best version. The UK version of The Office kicks the US version’s arse.”

  “Oh, go fuck your face, Bright Eyes,” she says, encouraging another giggling fit to consume her. Brooke is now turned over on her back laughing her little arse off.

  I didn’t miss the Bright Eyes sentiment.

  She hasn’t called me that since Paris. Christ, this girl has a one-way ticket to my pathetic heart. All it takes is two measly words out of her mouth and I want to fall to my knees like a twat, begging her to call off the engagement and run off to Vegas and marry me.

  But I don’t. For one, that’s not the plan, but mostly because I’m too blazed to remember how to work my legs. Brooke’s grandmum had quite the weed hookup. To say it’s some potent shite is an understatement. One bloody hit and my face went numb.

  Brooke’s hair is strewn across her face. I lean on my side, sliding the curls out of the way, and staring at her endearing expression. “Fuck my face?”

  She nods, grinning.

  “My you’ve got a way with words. I think we should scratch the lyrics I wrote for Blur, and let you rewrite the whole song,” I tease, grinning at her, and caressing her cheek with my thumb.

  Her eyes turn soft. Well, her good eye turns soft. She inhales an uneven breath, never releasing her hold on my gaze.

  And we just stare at each. Not saying any words. Just taking each other in.

  I’m sure the weed isn’t helping our cause. Being high has a way of releasing your inhibitions, sometimes more so than alcohol ever could. I feel weightless, yet an invisible string ties my soul to hers, constantly tugging me forward and pulling me into her orbit.

  My eyes glance at her lips. Her full, soft lips that are a vibrant pink hue. I want those lips. I want them so fucking bad, but I remember how Brooke has refused me those perfect lips.

  But she’s staring at my lips too.

  I watch her tongue slip out from her mouth and softly swipe across her bottom lip.

  She’s begging me with her gaze, begging for me to kiss her.

  Shutting my eyes, I try to gain some perspective. I know I’m not in my right mind. I know she’s not in her right mind. I know both of us, together not in our right minds equals a recipe for disaster—or perfection, depending how I look at it.

  But I don’t want this.

  I want Brooke when she’s clear-headed.

  I want Brooke, rational and without any type of influence, to choose me because she understands we belong together.

  Now is not that time.

  Somehow, someway, I dig deep within myself and grab ahold of reason. I lean forward, softly pressing my lips to her forehead.

  Her fingers grab ahold of my shirt, urging me closer, but I resist.

  “I think I better go,” I say, quietly.

  She releases my shirt, looking at me confused.

  I sit up on the edge of her bed, staring down at her with a warm smile. “It’s getting late, and I was hoping we could both get back to work on the song tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh,” she mutters, adjusting her robe and sitting up beside me. “You could stay here if you want?”

  Christ, she’s making this hard. Literally and figuratively. “I appreciate the offer, but I think it’s best if I go back to the house tonight.”

  “I guess that’s probably a good idea,” she agrees, voice small. “Do you want me to drive you?”

  I flash a knowing look.

  “Oh, right,” she says, shaking her head. “Probably not the best time to get behind the wheel.”

  “No, probably not,” I agree, laughing lightly. “Plus, it’s only a five minute walk.” I stand up from her bed, and despite every cell in my body trying to gravitate back to Brooke, I find the strength to walk towards the door. “Call me when you wake up tomorrow?”

  She nods, but doesn’t meet my eyes. Her fingers fidget with the material of her robe. The lamp from the bedside table casts shadows over her face, hiding the expression I’m so desperate to see.

  I want her to be disappointed.

  I want her to be upset.

  I want her to be wishing I were staying right here with her.

  But I can’t see the look on her face, and I know, if I don�
�t walk out of her bedroom door in the next two seconds, I’ll never leave.

  “Sleep well, Brooke. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I find the strength to leave her sitting on the bed, head still down and hands still clutching the material of her robe.

  Before walking out the front door, I stop in the kitchen and pull a book from my backpack. It’s a copy of Memories of Suffocation. The book Brooke urged me to read while she was in Paris. She actually left her copy in my flat, which has now been mailed to Florence, Italy, on a top-secret mission. One that I’m praying will work out.

  And since I remember her saying how often she reads this book, I wanted to make sure she still had a copy on hand while hers is otherwise occupied.

  Setting the novel on the counter, I write out a quick note.

  Brooke,

  I wanted to make sure you had a copy to read. (Since you left yours in Paris.)

  I still can’t fathom how you have the strength to read this book over and over again.

  It literally tore my heart out.

  But I can’t deny I loved it.

  Thanks for sharing this with me,

  Dylan

  Careless Cockups Channel on Vevo: And we’re beside ourselves over the song, Blue Daze

  MusicEnthusiasts.com

  When it comes to Careless Cockups, we’ve all been wondering the same thing: Are they as good as their label claims? Or is it just hype?

  We can’t deny their label is the best in the industry when it comes to marketing and promotion.

  Femme Fatale is proof. Their talent is still questionable, and yet the pop foursome has managed to tuck two platinum albums under their belts. There’s no denying the all-female band is over-the-top when it comes to sex appeal, but generally speaking, the sex should only sell so far before the band just becomes another flash in the pan. (Considering Femme Fatale is still managing to perform in front of sold out crowds, now might be the time for us to eat our words.)

  But back to Careless Cockups.

  Is this English band the real deal?

  We know they’ve developed quite the cult fan base back in London, but we were still skeptical.

  The band is contracted with Ari Richards’ production company, along with C&E Network, to appear in a six-episode reality series, Mad Sounds, which spotlights the band while they produce their first album and hit a few pre-release tour shows. The first episode aired two weeks ago, and by the high ratings it’s received, it seems all of America is head over heels in love.

  Honestly, the show only fueled our skepticism. We hadn’t even heard a song by these virtually unknowns, and they’ve already got a reality show? Seriously?

  We were officially boycotting the show, but today, our skepticism, and boycott, has been put to an abrupt end. Careless Cockups has now graced our ears with their very own Vevo Channel. Since we’re a bunch of cheap bastards, and have yet to subscribe to Vevo TV, we listened to few of their songs on YouTube.

  The videos are indie rock cool and live versions of the band recording a few songs in the studio. Each clip is portrayed in black and white and laced with the band’s chill personalities.

  You’ll overhear Dylan laughing and telling Jesse to piss off. You’ll witness Alex crack up when Zach figures out someone screwed with his amp as a prank. And you’ll see that this band isn’t a bunch of pretentious musicians fighting over egos.

  Careless Cockups has an iridescent energy that is backed up by confidence and craft. They’re compelling, appearing wise behind their years.

  One song in particular, Blue Daze…well, it’s brilliant. Blue Daze is a haughty beat that is dark and overwhelming, yet wickedly thrilling.

  If this is a taste of what Careless Cockups is going to bring us with their debut album, consider our glass half-full, better yet, consider it brimming and spilling over the top.

  We’re now all ears when it comes to Careless Cockups, and we can’t wait for more.

  Brooke

  “This is the eighth session we’ve had in the last four weeks, and yet you still haven’t really told me what’s going on with you, Brooke,” Susan addresses. I’m finding the more sessions I have with her, the more intrusive her questions become.

  “Nothing is going on.” I shrug, averting her neutral eyes. My fingers exam the frayed edge of my jean shorts like it’s the most interesting thing in the room.

  “You keep saying that, but your visibly saddened by something.”

  Saddened? Do I really appear sad?

  It’s been four weeks since Dylan and I wrote the music for Blur together.

  Four weeks since I read lyrics to a song that’s words were a punch to the gut.

  Four weeks since I tried to get him to sleep at my house. Four weeks since I nearly threw myself at Dylan and begged for his kiss, for his touch, for him to make love to me.

  One month and the sting of his outright refusal is still there.

  And not only did he leave me sitting on my bed, when I was so desperate for him to stay, he also left a copy of my favorite book on my kitchen table for me to find the next morning. The note lying next to Memories of Suffocation had me holding back tears. I did everything in my power not to replay those perfect Paris moments I shared with him.

  But nothing could stop my mind from going there.

  The following day, I laid in bed wallowing in my misery until Dylan called, ready to meet up again and finish writing the music. It was a rough several hours spent with him. He was the perfect picture of laidback and friendly, and I was a ball of pent-up frustration and regret.

  And Dylan has stayed that way since. He acts nothing but friendly towards me. He doesn’t push the boundaries, hasn’t whispered words intent on testing the limits and leading us towards a path of passion and uninhibited moments.

  He hasn’t done any of that. He appears to be moving past what we had in Paris, and focusing on cultivating a friendship that remains strictly platonic. Maybe he truly thinks I’m steadfast in my decision to marry Jamie. Maybe he really believes all of the things we want everyone else to believe.

  I should be rejoicing, right? I should be thankful he’s backed off and appears happy with this new relationship we’re falling into.

  Yeah, I should be. I really should be. But I can’t refute this incessant ache in my chest. I can’t deny that I’m heartbroken over the idea that maybe he’s really moving on. So if anything is making me appear sad, it would be the nagging thought that maybe this is the part of our story where I get to watch him move on.

  “Where did you go?” Susan points out.

  Jesus, can’t I just keep it together for one minute…?

  “There’s just a lot going. We’ve been doing sixteen-hour days in the studio, and tomorrow we’ll be hitting the road for the band’s pre-release tour. I’m probably a little distracted at the moment.”

  “Interesting, since you’re the one who scheduled this last minute appointment with me. Don’t get me wrong; I’m happy you’re here. I always enjoy our sessions together, but I think you’re distracted, and it has nothing to do with any of those things, Brooke.”

  I stare up at her, surprised by her forwardness. “What happened to the subtle questions? I think I liked those better.”

  Susan smirks. She sets her pen and notebook down on the table beside her, giving me her full attention. “I’m sure you prefer the subtle approach, but I realize when it comes to you and the way you’ll avoid certain subjects, subtle is not the correct tactic to help you make any progress.”

  “Are you sure about that? I think subtle works really well for us…” I trail off, smiling in her direction.

  “Brooke, I’m sure.” She flashes a knowing look. “Tell me what’s new with you and Jamie.”

  “Nothing really. I’m working a lot. He is too. And now, I’m getting ready to be on the road for several weeks. But we’re good. We’re always good.”

  “Just good?”

  “What’s wrong with good?”

  “There’s nothing wrong
with good, Brooke. I’m just surprised you haven’t mentioned anything about wedding plans or honeymoon destinations…”

  “Like I said, we’re just really busy right now,” I cut in, tone audible with irritation.

  “I’m not trying to rile your feathers, I can promise you that. I’m just being honest with you in my surprise that, so far, throughout all of our sessions, you’ve yet to mention anything related to wedding planning or excitement in getting married. Are you excited about getting married?”

  My brow furrows. “Of course I am. I’m very excited.”

  “You don’t appear excited. Are you having second thoughts?”

  “These questions feel a tad invasive.”

  “I’m merely asking about your life, and one of the big things going on in your life is being engaged to Jamie. You’re still engaged to him, right? Or did I miss something along the way?”

  “N-no, we’re still engaged. Nothing has changed in that respect.”

  “Then in what respect have things changed?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I sigh. “I just meant nothing has changed, no matter what the press and paparazzi are currently gossiping about.”

  “What are they currently gossiping about?”

  I tap the sole of my brown, slouchy boots along the side of the coffee table. “Well…they’re speculating that I’m having an affair with the lead singer of Careless Cockups.”

  “Dylan Bissette?”

  I nod, but then register that she just name-dropped Dylan. “Wait…” My head tilts to the side in confusion. “You know the band?”

  “I’ve heard a few of their songs. Seen a few articles about their up-and-coming status. They’re fantastic by the way. It’s taking all of my strength to stay professional and not ask you to get me an autograph,” Susan adds, grinning.

  “Have you seen the show?”

  “Actually, I have. I don’t normally make a point of watching or reading anything my patients are involved in, but what can I say? I’m a big music fan, and now, I’m a big Careless Cockups fan.”

  “Well, that’s just fantastic. My psychiatrist watches the reality show I’m on and also happens to be a fangirl for the band I’m producing an album with,” I tease, laughing at the ridiculousness of it.