“Well, once our oldest, little Led, turns sixteen, we'd find out that our kids are music geniuses like us. We'd take their talent on the road, and the Bissette Six would become musical sensations, taking the world by storm. We'd write their music, and occasionally join them onstage. You playing the guitar and me playing something eccentrically brilliant, like the didgeridoo.”
“Big Jackson Five fan?” I tease.
“Anyone that says they don't enjoy a funky earworm with Michael and the gang is a liar.”
He has a point. The Jackson Five are classic. I was guilty of jamming out to them growing up. Hell, not too long ago, I was driving through Laurel Canyon and singing I Want You Back at the top of my lungs.
“So, Led?” I ask, grinning. In my opinion, Led Zeppelin will always be one of the best rock bands to ever grace the stage.
“Of course, Led…” He trails off, wheels turning behind his eyes. “Led, Joni, Sid, Nancy, Hendrix, and Tito.”
“Let me get this straight…You named our fictional kids after Led Zeppelin, Joni Mitchell, Sid Vicious from the Sex Pistols and his drug addicted girlfriend Nancy, Jimi Hendrix, and Tito Jackson?” I raise a skeptical brow.
"Tito was the most underrated Jackson brother. The man deserves some recognition.”
I laugh. I swear on everything that is holy, Dylan is the most intriguing, charming man I’ve ever met.
My mind basks in the pretend life he created for us. We were two people without two nickels to rub together, but what we didn’t have in cash, we made up for in happiness. He painted a picture void of money or fame, one where our love was enough.
I never wanted to be a housewife with zero money living in a crappy house filled with six kids—until now. Because who am I kidding? Dylan would make beautiful babies. And I'd gladly be a part of our fictional band, with little Tito and the gang, if it meant I’d get to make music with Dylan every day for the rest of my life.
But that’s just a dream. It’s not my reality.
“Brooke!” Alex shouts, waltzing towards me. Waltz is the only way to describe it. Careless Cockups’ lead guitarist just has this swagger about him. He wraps me up in bear hug, lifting my feet clear off the ground.
I squeak out his name in response.
It doesn’t faze him. He proceeds to nuzzle his face into my neck, sniffing my skin. “You smell so good. Like cinnamon apples and…” He sniffs again. “Rainbows with a pot of gold, and a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels at the end.”
I giggle. I probably do smell like whiskey. That amber liquor always has a way of seeping into my pores after just a shot or two. “Rainbows and Johnnie Walker,” I correct.
Alex sets me down, grinning at Dylan. “I see you’re drinking the good shit tonight.”
He holds up the bottle. “I was coerced into drinking it.”
“Brilliant.” Alex nods his approval. “You sharing, or do you need all of it to get out of that emo funk you’ve been sporting since we left the Bowery?”
Dylan scowls. “Emo funk, my arse. Just because I’m not on the pull like the rest of ya doesn’t mean I’m being a downer.”
Alex grins. “Could have fooled me, mate. I thought maybe you’d gone off and grown a pussy.”
“Piss off,” Dylan retorts, chuckling.
A tall brunette sashays into the kitchen, interrupting the guys’ jesting war. I size her up, because as much as we might deny it, all women do this to one another. It’s absurd, I know, but for some reason, it’s ingrained in us. I’m blaming society and its constant scrutiny of women’s bodies. There’s always this unspoken pressure to be a size zero with soft, flawless skin and curves in all the right places. The media’s photoshopped images only add to the problem. They make a point to erase every wrinkle and dimple from anyone, especially females gracing the front cover.
It’s a goddamn travesty, to be honest, but it’s our unfortunate reality.
This chick’s tits are huge, by the way. Huge, and real, which is pretty rare these days. And her scantily clad attire proves she knows their curvaceous draw. “Hey, do you guys know Sarah? She's kind of short, brown hair, probably talked your ear off about her new bisexual lifestyle?”
Dylan glances at me, brow raised in amusement.
Alex eyes her with a wicked gleam. “I'm Sarah. It's been a long time," he responds, straight-faced and full of shit.
Confusion takes over her features, until she realizes the flirtatious web he’s spinning. “Oh, hello,” she giggles. “I guess it’s been a long time, Sarah. You look so different.”
Hook, line, and sinker, she’s done for.
“I changed my hair up a little.” Alex adds, smirking.
“Wow. That's just what she sounds like.” More girlish giggles escape her red and pouty lips. “Wait…” she trails off, recognition setting in. Her expression changes from flirty to mesmerized. “Omigod! You’re on that show! Mad Sounds!” She looks at Dylan. “You’re the lead singer of Careless Cockups.” And then, her gaze moves back to Alex. “And you’re—”
“And I’m the genius working the guitar,” Alex chimes in.
She twirls her hair around her finger. “I’ve never met a guitarist.”
He wraps his arm around her shoulder, tucking her close. Pervy eyes stare at her cleavage. “There’s a lot of fan-fucking-tastic things about guitarists, love. For one, we’re very talented with our hands. Finger faster than anyone you’ve ever met.”
She lets out a breathy sigh, mouth forming a tiny ‘O’.
Dylan chokes on a laugh, feigning a coughing fit. And I’m fighting the urge to roll my eyes.
“Cheesy pick-up line and all, I’ve got twenty on her falling for it,” Dylan says for my ears only.
“No way,” I whisper back. “Her eyes are all dreamy and glazed over. She might melt into the hardwood any second.”
Alex gestures towards the door. “Would you like a tour of the apartment? You know, Andre’s casa sue casa and all that other good host shite.”
She giggles…again, following him like a lost puppy. “You’re such a gentleman. I’m Lena, by the way.” Her voice trails off, down the hallway, towards God only knows where.
Being on tour with the band, I’m starting to understand that every girl has the same reaction to Alex…they follow. They always fucking follow. The same can be said for rest of the band. With their increasing notoriety and undeniably gorgeous faces, panties disintegrate and women become giggling clichés when they walk into a room.
“I can’t take you guys anywhere,” I tease.
“Why am I included in this? Pretty sure I was the one having the one-man word magnet party, which you crashed without permission.”
“Because lately you guys pull one of four reactions from women: screaming, giggling, falling to their knees, or contemplating throwing their panties.”
He makes a show of looking around the room. “Who’s throwing their knickers?”
I shove his shoulder, rolling my eyes. “Shut it, Bissette.”
Dylan grins. “I’m just saying, if women are throwing around their undergarments, I should know about this sort of thing. Seems a waste if there’s no one there to witness it.”
“Pervert,” I mouth.
He laughs. “Coming from the girl whose brain immediately went to pornos about ten minutes ago.”
“Shut up.” I nudge him in the ribs. “So, Alex takes the cheesy ‘guitarist’s finger faster’ route when hitting on women. What route do you take?”
“You know what route I take.” He offers a wry smile. “I’m more of a branding kind of guy.”
“Hold up.” A hand goes to my hips. “I remember you saying I was the only woman you’ve branded.”
“Exactly my point.”
My cheeks flush bright red. Fuckin’ hell, why’d I steer the conversation towards this direction. I need a muzzle. Especially for times like these, when my brain doesn’t filter the words leaving my mouth.
Even though my glass is half-full, I distract myse
lf with making another drink. “Need a refill?” I offer, pointedly keeping my back in his direction.
“That’s quite sweet of you, Sawyer, but I’m good. Probably heading back to the hotel soon.”
I turn around, fresh drink clutched in my hand. “Really? Why are—” And before I can finish, Lindsay is striding into the kitchen, yelling my name like a lunatic.
“Brooooookie! Where did you go? We’re getting ready to play beer pong. I need my partner!”
“Beer pong?” Not to sound judgmental, but this doesn’t seem like a drinking games kind of party.
She nods her head. “Oh yes, beer pong. And we’re going to show these models who the boss bitches are.” Lindsay grabs my wrist and attempts to drag me out of the room. Dylan watches on with amusement.
I dig my heels into the floor, stopping her momentum. “You want to join us?” Considering we suck hard at beer pong, a back-up plan (aka Dylan) would be good. In college, we generally missed every throw and became too shitfaced to play by game three.
Lindsay chimes in, “Oh hell to the nah, he’s not joining us. We are a two-woman team.” She glares at me, and then moves her focus to Dylan. “Your brother and Zach are out on the terrace. We’ll come find you guys when we’re done kicking ass.”
He smirks. “By all means, don’t let me stand in the way of beer pong greatness.”
And with that, she’s pulling me out of the kitchen and towards the game room, where the beer pong has commenced.
Dylan
The girls are getting pummeled. Jesse and I are sitting back, watching them miss every throw. They’re good spirited about it, but it’s probably the beer talking at this point.
“Are they trying to lose on purpose?” I mutter towards Jesse.
He laughs, nodding his head. “They’re terrible. I’m not sure if I should be shocked or impressed that two people can be this awful at throwing a little ball into a cup.”
I catch sight of Brooke’s phone, and shoot her a text.
‘The point of the game is to make it in the cup.’
‘I resent that…’
‘What? It’s becoming quite the mystery that two people can miss this many throws.
Jesse and I are starting to wonder if you’re actually trying to lose.’
‘What are you trying to say, Bissette?’
‘You’re quite terrible at beer pong.’
‘And here I thought you were a perfect English gentleman…a GOOD guy?’
‘Are you fishing for compliments, love?
Is that what you really wanted when you asked me about cheesy pickup lines?’
Brooke glances at her phone, but doesn’t respond. She rolls her eyes, fighting a smile, and proceeds to take her next shot. It goes without saying, she misses the shot by a mile. Her feigned annoyance only fuels me further. I decide to start a round of our odd compliments game. They’re bloody awful, but funny nonetheless.
‘You have the voice of an angel doing an impression of Josh Groban.’
While Lindsay is throwing, she peeks at her screen and bursts into laughter.
‘I think that’s the worst one yet.’
‘I’ve got plenty more where that came from…
If I was Peter Pan and this was Neverland, I’d only have to think of you to fly. And all the Lost Boys would be like, “Man, you fly a lot.”’
‘Okay, maybe that’s the worst one yet.’
‘You know that’s the point. Your turn, Sawyer. Hit me with the best you’ve got.’
Her brow furrows, fingers typing away as the opposing team slam two shots in a row, earning another turn.
“Goddamnit, Brookie!” Lindsay shoves her. “Focus! We’re getting crushed!”
She laughs, glancing up from her phone. “Linds, we suck. You know this. I know this. But for some reason, whenever you get liquored up, you forget just how bad our suckage is.”
“She’s right, love!” Jesse calls from beside me. “You ladies are bloody terrible!”
“Bite me, Jesse!” Lindsay yells over her shoulder.
“Don’t tease me, sweetheart!” he retorts.
‘You’re like the fanny pack of life. You’re cool, but in your own way.’
‘Well, fuck, Sawyer. I should’ve known you’d get out the big guns.
I almost forgot you’re a natural at this.’
She turns around, facing me, and that sassy hand has found her hip again. “Are you calling me weird, Bissette?”
I grin, nodding. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, love, but in the nicest way.”
‘You’re kind of awkward.
But in a cute way.
Like an elevator ride, but with puppies.’
‘I like you so much, that if I were a cat,
I’d want to spend at least six lives with you.
Which, if you think about it, is a pretty big commitment for a cat.’
‘If airplanes in the night sky were like shooting stars,
I’d make sure you never got on another flight
because that just sounds really unsafe.’
‘If I had a nickel for every time I thought of you, people would be like,
“What are you doing with all those nickels? That’s too many nickels.”
And they would be wrong.’
“Brooke! You’re not even trying,” Lindsay whines, chugging another loser’s cup of beer.
Brooke shrugs, a lazy smile consuming her face. “Get over yourself. You’re not good, either.”
“All right, boys, I’m calling this game,” Lindsay announces. “Enjoy your shitty game of beer pong, you fucking cheaters. We’re out of here.” And with that, she pulls Brooke over to us, and makes the executive decision that we’re “blowing this popsicle stand.”
“Where in the hell are we going?”
Lindsay wags her eyebrows, grinning.
Brooke backs away, hands raised. “Nope. No way. The last time I saw that look, I ended up with my face in Frankie’s toilet, praying to the porcelain gods.”
“Well, maybe this time, you shouldn’t drink so much. Anyways, I’ve got a special surprise for you, Brookie. I promise it’ll make you super, super happy.”
She points an accusing finger in Lindsay’s direction. “That’s exactly what you said the last time!”
“Ladies,” Jesse interjects. “Now’s not the time for a cat fight.”
“Shut. Up. Cockelgänger.” They respond in unison, ignoring my brother.
“Frankie is having one of his impromptu house parties, isn’t he?” Brooke asks, staring at Lindsay.
“Don’t you think the guys deserve to experience at least one of his epic shindigs? It feels like such a waste if we don’t make an appearance.” Lindsay clasps her hands together, begging, “Please, Brookie. Pretty, please can we go?”
Brooke stares up at the ceiling for a second. “Fine,” she sighs. “But if we don’t make it back to the hotel by nine tomorrow morning, you are handing over your Fendi.”
Lindsay’s mouth gapes. “Not the black crocodile baguette?”
“That exact one. Take it or leave it, sister.”
“Goddamnit…Fuck…Shit…Okay, fine. It’s a deal.” She grimaces, taking Brooke’s hand and shaking it.
BREAKING NEWS: Dylan “Green Eyes” Bissette is on Instagram!
EyeCandy.com
Ladies, it’s past midnight, and I have spent the last ten minutes staring at this gorgeous picture of rock god Dylan Bissette.
I mean, look at him. Just look at him! Eyes closed. Mouth pressed to the mic. He’s the epitome of sex on stage. The photo is from Careless Cockup’s New York show on their pre-release tour.
Are you ready for the really good news?
The photo was posted a few hours ago from his official Instagram account. Get ready, ladies, because Dylan Bissette will now be gracing our social media feeds.
It’s okay to scream. We did.
Tonight, they played to a sold-out crowd at the Bowery in New York City. Their set lis
t included our personal favorite, Blue Daze, along with Moan, Lovely Calamity, and a cover of the Arctic Monkeys’ Do I Wanna Know. Rumor has it that Brooke Sawyer was in the crowd, and that song was dedicated to her.
Despite their “we’re just friends” claims, we’re skeptical. Two episodes deep into Mad Sounds, and every time Dylan looks at Brooke, a collective swooning sigh can be heard across the country.
His mouth is saying platonic, but his eyes are saying something else entirely. If Phoebe Buffay saw the way he looks at Brooke, we know she’d be yelling, “She’s his lobster!”
Even though, we’d love for Dylan Bissette to fall madly in love with us and serenade us on stage, we’re Team #NoSleepTillBrookeDylan.
Now, let’s keep our fingers crossed that he continues to send more pictures like that our way. Consider us here at Eye Candy your official Dylan Bissette Instagram stalkers.
Brooke
Frankie’s house is out of control. A few years back, he converted a Brooklyn warehouse into his own personal haven. It was designed with the motive of throwing insane parties, and tonight, he’s merely living up to his reputation. The party is in full swing, bodies covering every space of his living room, which has now turned into a makeshift dance floor. The massive glass windows have disappeared, opening up to a rooftop deck. I’m sitting beside Frankie while he works his DJ magic. He’s set up a booth for himself in the loft area, looking down on the gyrating bodies filling the space below. It’s a sight, that’s for sure. This might as well be a popular nightclub in LA.
But that’s what I love about Frankie. The man can turn a mere night out into the best night of your life.
I met him a few years back when he was fresh on the music scene and temporarily signed under Wallace & Wright. The first time I saw him in action, I realized he was more than just a DJ—he’s an innovator. He can mash together the craziest sounds to create something beyond your wildest dreams.
The lights are dim, colors flashing from the ceilings, painting the crowd in neon pinks, blues, oranges, and greens. Dylan and Jesse walk in from the rooftop deck, and I watch them make their way through the crowd. Women on the dance floor try to grab their attention. Jesse laughs as a brunette wraps her hands around his neck, swinging her hips erotically in front of him. He gives in to her demands, gripping her waist and returning her dancing advances. Her friend attempts the same moves on Dylan. He smiles and shakes his head, pointing up in the direction of the DJ booth.
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