‘If people suddenly became Beanie Babies, and the year was 1995, you’d be sold out in a day.’
Fucking Beanie Babies. My laugh catches the attention of Chrissy, Second Hand Girls’ lead singer. She made a point to sit next to me at dinner. Actually, Chrissy has been making a lot of points since joining our tour. None of which are platonic by any stretch of the imagination.
“What are you laughing about?” she whispers into my ear. Her tits purposefully brush against my arm as she endeavors to get a gander at my text conversation.
I move the phone from her line of sight, mumbling, “Nothing,” as I wipe off the smile that’s consumed my face.
Ignoring Chrissy’s attempts at catching my eye, I reply to Brooke’s text. It’s not that Chrissy isn’t attractive, because she is. I have zero problems understanding her appeal, but she isn’t my type. She doesn’t intrigue me nor spur the desire to converse for more than a minute a two.
I’m not most guys. I’ll choose the girl who wants to discuss random, intelligent topics like Quantum Theory or what really inspired Morrissey to write the lyrics for I Know It’s Over instead of the girl who wants to grind on me in some seedy nightclub. That’s just how my mind rolls.
I knew that Chrissy wasn’t my type within fifteen minutes of meeting her. We were backstage in Chicago, and instead of being grateful for actually being on a tour with fans who were excited to see her band play, she was bitching about how the venue failed to supply every item on her band’s backstage list. The venue had apparently set out bottles of Aquafina instead of FIJI. Tragic, right? After that insolent display, I knew that Chrissy was so far from my type that a miracle couldn’t bring us together.
‘You’re almost as wonderful as boobs. Like, so close. Wait, you have boobs…
Congrats on the boobs. I’m so proud of how well you grew them.’
Occasionally, I’ll push the boundaries with Brooke, checking to see how inappropriate she’ll let me get before throwing the red flag. It undoubtedly stems from this need stirring from my desperate soul. I need her to want me the way I want her. Some days it feels like I need that more than I need music.
Brooke merely grins, shaking her head. Her cheeks flush my favorite shade of pink. I hope my text makes her think. I want her to think about my attraction for her and how well that attraction worked out for us in Paris. I still make a point to steal glances of her body when she isn’t looking. I love her body. Her curves are my favorite fucking curves. They’re subtle, but they’re the most luscious, mouth-watering curves I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Some days it feels like I need to be reacquainted with the beauty that is Brooke naked and moaning underneath me more than I need oxygen to breath or legs to stand.
‘In terms of Nintendo 64 games, you’d definitely be the Mario Kart in the group.’
“Dude, you’re being a twat right now,” Jesse yells from the end of the table.
Taunts and shite-talking commence around me, but I don’t care. I tune them out, my fingers preparing another text message. I know I’m a hypocrite, sitting at the table, surrounded by my band mates with my eyes fixated on my phone. I can’t stand when I see other people do it. And I hate that this type of behavior has become a commonality in our world.
There’s nothing worse than seeing two people sitting across from each other, not even making eye contact because they’re too bloody busy checking Facebook. They’re missing out on life, on the world moving around them, because their brains are too wrapped up in a piece of technology.
I find social media extremely ironic. The more social media we have, the more we feel like we connect with one another, yet in reality, we’re merely disconnecting. People are losing precious moments in their lives because they’re too immersed in some cyber world.
Technology has simultaneously become the downfall and epiphany of our society.
Life is too short to let ourselves miss out on the real moments of living. Life is brief and time isn’t forgiving. Time will screw us all by secretly putting a deadline on our relationships, on our lives. She’s a bit of a frugal whore that way.
But like I said, right now, I don’t give a shite. I’m going to use technology to my advantage; I’ll draw out this moment of having Brooke’s attention for as long as I can. I don’t miss the irony in the fact that I’m the Chrissy in this scenario. Although, I think I’m a little less slutty and not as obvious in my attention-seeking ways.
‘Mario Kart? I always thought Goldeneye was a way better game.’
‘That's because you probably picked Princess Peach and she never wins…’
God, this girl knows me better than I know myself sometimes. Our brains are on the same wavelength, one that no one else is on. If the world is listening to FM Radio, Brooke and I would be listening to an obscure podcast discussing the domino effect that MTV’s Loveline had on Generation Y.
‘Princess peach is sexy. What twelve-year-old boy didn’t love her?
She’s hot and bloody adorable. Princess Peach is the kind of girl you
can take home to your mum after banging her in the back seat of your car.
She might look sweet and innocent, but Peach is a dirty, dirty girl.
Plus, I’ve always had a thing for cute blondes.’
‘You just liked the idea of getting underneath Princess Peach’s magical dress.
Her dress kicks ass though. That bitch can float better than anyone.’
‘You’re not a Toad kind of girl are you?’
‘Toad’s cute as hell, but I’m Team Yoshi. We kick ass together.
He’s the best sidekick and can pull off green and still be crazy cool.
He won me over in Super Mario World with his super-long tongue
and ability to lay eggs.’
‘There’s nothing better than hitting a question block and finding a Yoshi Egg.
Nothing. It’s better than fire-flowers, frog-suits, and invincibility stars….
Nothing even comes close to the coveted Yoshi Egg.’
‘EXACTLY. #TeamYoshi (That’s a hashtag.)’
I glance up at her, smirking at the sarcastic jab towards my lack of social media use. I’ve been getting flak from our label about being “more active and accessible” for our fans. It’s annoying.
Of course, I’m thankful for what social media has done for my band. Jesse had taken the reins when we first got together, way before our record deal, getting our live shows and music buzzing about sites like YouTube and Facebook. Social media gave us a start in an industry that’s really hard to step foot in. I’m more than thankful for that, but I’m still hesitant to open myself up to that world.
I like to keep my personal shite personal. And technology has pushed our society into a very weird place where people share every little detail of their lives. It’s both a good and bad thing.
I think the permanence of it is what makes me uncomfortable.
I might drunkenly post something crazy like a picture of my balls on Twitter, and wake up the next day realizing I just royally fucked up. Sure, I could “delete” the picture from my account, but that wouldn’t mean it would be gone. That picture could have been saved by thousands of people and posted somewhere else. My balls would eventually find their fifteen minutes of fame on another website. And no one’s balls needs notoriety.
‘I will find a Nintendo 64 AND Super Mario Kart for the tour bus.
I’m going to dominate you.’
‘Check yourself, Princess. You have no idea what you’re in for.’
Our server, Elliot, drops the check on the table. “Is there anything else I can get you guys tonight?”
“Elliot!” Jesse shouts from his seat. “My man! We need your Louisville expertise. Where should we end our night?”
He chats with Jesse about various bars and nightclubs that his city has to offer while I attempt to close out our tab. I reach for the bill, planning to pay for everyone’s meal tonight. The advance we received from our contract was more than gen
erous, and my mum raised me to be the kind of man who paid it forward.
“I got this.” Brooke snags the check.
“No way, you’re not paying for this.”
“Let me rephrase that. The label has this.” She pulls out an American Express Black Card. “This is exactly why Jamie gave me his Black Card. You’re on a Wallace & Wright tour, which means they’ll pay for everything while you’re touring under their label.”
I sigh, more than annoyed. Even a thousand miles away, Brooke’s fiancé finds his way into the room. It’s a knee-jerk response only a caveman would have, but what can I say—Brooke turns me into a caveman.
She stands up with the bill, walking over towards Jesse who’s still chatting up our server. She hands the bill to Elliot, thanking him for taking care of us, and comes back in my direction, pulling out the vacated seat on my left and sitting down.
And like a stalker, I watch her the entire time.
Her eyes assess my facial features. “I know it’s hard, but you have to get used to other people taking care of monetary things now. You’re starting to reach a point in your career where people…companies…maybe even Obama…” she pauses, smirking, and then continues, “will want to send you free shit. They’ll want to wine and dine you. It’s crazy, and I’m sure hard to wrap your brain around, but that’s just how the music industry is,” Brooke articulates in a soft voice, keeping the conversation between us. She’s intuitive that way, having an innate sense to deliver the right words.
“Obama wants to wine and dine me?” I question with a hint of sarcasm, attempting to lighten the mood.
“Yeah, the Obamas want to invite you to Applebee’s for potato skins and boneless wings.” She snorts in laughter. It’s cute. She’s cute. Why is she always so fucking cute?
“Before or after six o’clock?” I found out about the magic that is Applebee’s and their half-priced appetizers during a pit stop in Indy.
“Obviously before six. Even though it’s the President and First Lady, it doesn’t mean they want to foot the bill on full-priced appetizers. I mean, you’re pretty popular, but you’re no One Direction,” she teases, flashing a pearly white smile.
“I think you get a thrill out of busting my balls,” I add, before dropping the sarcasm and being completely honest with her. “Well, before I make plans to meet Barrack and Michelle at Applebee’s, I need to say thank you.”
“Thank you?”
“Yes, thank you.” I nod. “Seriously, Brooke, thank you for everything you’ve done for the band, for me. Thank you for always saying the right things when it comes to our music. You’ve made this crazy journey into the unknown easier to deal with. I don’t think we could have gotten this far without you. I feel like you really have our backs. There are no ulterior motives. You just want the best for us.” It’s true. Even though Brooke quite literally tore my heart out, when it comes to music and the band, she’s always had our back. For a girl who fights the spotlight, the fact that she agreed to Mad Sounds speaks volumes on the lengths she’ll go to for us.
She blinks, a small tear escaping down her cheek. The candlelit atmosphere of the restaurant turns that single tear into a shimmering devastation.
My intentions weren’t to make her cry. I want to pull her in my arms and kiss away those damn tears, but I have to settle, and God, I fucking hate settling. I’ve been settling when it comes to Brooke for what feels like an eternity.
My thumb swipes away her tears. “I wasn’t trying to make you cry.”
“Good cry, not bad cry.” She smiles past it. Her petite hand reaches over, covering the hand resting on my leg. “Thank you for that. Your words mean more than you’ll ever know.”
This moment needs something besides words. I throw caution to the wind. Standing up from my seat, I pull Brooke along with me, drawing her into a tight hug. And she doesn’t hold back, wrapping her arms around me and hanging on for dear life.
God, this feels so right. I could be anywhere in the country, the world, the fucking universe, and if Brooke Sawyer is beside me, it would still feel like home. Back-and-forth, up-and-down, Brooke and I have covered every square inch of the metaphoric dance floor that is our relationship. And I’m beginning to feel like the orphan in this lovely, calamitous scenario.
No matter how hard I try to act like it, we’re not just friends. The friends-ship sailed a long time ago. Hell, it’s docked somewhere between our magnetic attraction and me eventually giving in to the incessant need to ravage the fuck out of her. I know it, and I feel like somewhere deep down in her beautiful soul, she knows it too.
She pulls away too soon, leaning back into my arms and staring up at me. “I think we need a drink, and I’m sure your brother has interrogated our server long enough to find a good spot to get one.”
I nod, refusing to let go of her little waist. She’ll have to make the first move to disconnect us. “Does Wallace & Wright Records foot the bill for drinking and debauchery too?”
“As long as we engage in some album related conversation, I’m pretty sure we can consider it a prolonged business dinner—which moved to an alternate location—because it’s hard finding an establishment that wants to stay open past four in the morning.” She winks.
My brow furrows in surprise. “We’re staying out past four tonight?”
“Get your big girl panties on, Dylan. The bars in Louisville stay open until four and who are we to question their authority on when it’s time to go home?”
I shake my head on a laugh. “You’re full of surprises tonight.”
I doubt she’ll make it past one. Since we’ve been touring, this girl has been more of an early riser than a night owl. Her eyes almost always become sleep-filled by midnight.
“Don’t get that look,” she declares, finger pointed in my direction. “I will make it to the end of the night.” Determination shines bright in her golden eyes.
“One more drink, and I bet you’ll be calling it a night,” I retort, smirking down at her. My fingers still grip her waist.
She scrutinizes my face. “How much?”
“You wanna put a wager on this, Sawyer?”
She nods, stepping back and crossing her arms.
I slide my hands in my pockets. “Count me in. Name your terms.”
“You’re agreeing to the bet without even knowing what you’ll have to do when you lose?”
“Me losing?” I chuckle. “That’s not how this will play out.”
Her eyes crinkle in irritation. “All right, Bissette. If I win, which I will, you have to play the didgeridoo for me.”
“The fucking didgeridoo…Seriously, Brooke? The last time I played the didge, I was twenty, and there was a lot of weed floating around the room.”
Christ, I knew that one would come back to bite me in the arse. During one of our late night tour bus chats, I might have mentioned my amateur talent in playing the didge. Figures she’d put that bit of info in her back pocket for a later date.
“Yes. You’ve already agreed to this bet so…” she pauses, a smug smile kissing her lips. “Man up, Bissette. You and the didgeridoo are going to get reunited…and it feels sooooo gooooood,” Brooke quietly sings the rest of the chorus for Peaches & Herb’s hit song.
She couldn’t be any fucking cuter if she tried.
“All right, all right, you’ve made your point…” I try to interrupt, but she keeps on singing.
“If you win, I’ll play the bloody didgeridoo,” I declare, once I let her finish the chorus for the second time. I manage to keep an annoyed look on my face during her sarcastic solo, but I’m far from annoyed. I could listen to Brooke sing for days, and it still wouldn’t be enough.
The biggest, self-assured grin crests her mouth.
“Don’t get too excited. I still have to choose what you’ll do when I win.”
“Let’s hear it.” She gestures with an impatient hand.
I stay silent, acting like I really have to think about it. I don’t. I knew what I wante
d the second she said how much.
That impatient hand of hers makes its way to my shoulder, shoving in frustration. “Oh come on, just spit it out. I know how your brain works. I’d lay money on the fact that you already know what you want. It’s written all over your self-satisfied face.”
She’s getting riled, and I love it. A frustrated Brooke equals a feisty Brooke, which equals a sexy as hell Brooke.
“You want to bet on the bet we’re currently betting on? How does that even work? Do I have to come up with two wagers then?”
She sighs, rolling those pretty golden eyes heavenward. “Stop screwing with me and just name your price.”
I chuckle. “Okay. If I win, which I will, you’re going to join me on stage again. New Orleans, baby, you and I will bring back Touch My Body.”
“Is it too late to say the whole bet thing was just a joke?” she asks, eyes begging to be let off the hook.
I shake my head.
“Your fans don’t want to hear us sing Touch My Body. Well, maybe they’d tolerate you singing, but me? Hell no. Careless Cockups’ fans will boo me off the stage.”
Determine to get her on stage with me again, I cut her a little slack. “How about I’ll choose a different song? Something more mainstream. Maybe I’ll even let you have the last say…”
She ponders for a second or two, her gaze still busy scrutinizing my face. Brooke isn’t thinking about a song choice, she’s still trying to extricate herself from our bet.
Sorry, Little Wing, that’s not happening.
“Okay,” she blurts out. “Okay, I’m still in, but I’m saying a big, fat fuck no to anything Mariah Carey.”
If I could fist pump in this moment without looking like a cunt, I would.
“All right…” I pause, grinning. “I’ve decided. I know exactly what we’ll sing.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Let’s hear it.”
“In honor of your love of pop princesses, I’m choosing something by one of my hometown favorites. Major Lazer’s Powerful with the lovely Ellie Goulding.”
Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) Page 22