Blur (Changing Colors Book 2)

by Alcorn, N. A.

  “If we’re just friends, then why are you singing Do I Wanna Know on stage and dedicating it to me?” she asks, voice tight.

  I knew that would come back to bite me in the arse. Sure, I chose that song for a reason, but it was a heat of the moment sort of thing. I just couldn’t help myself, standing there, watching Brooke sing and dance in the front row. She just looked so perfect.

  “Because it’s catchy, and I know you love the Arctic Monkeys. There was no double meaning in the choice.” The lies continue to build. But what other choice do I have? I’ve laid it all out there before, damn near begging her to end things with her fiancé, but she stayed resolute in her decision. She’s still engaged. And as of the phone conversation she had with Ember this afternoon, she’s still planning a bloody wedding with someone that isn’t me.

  She sits up, swiping tears away from her cheeks. “Next time, just don’t do that. Don’t dedicate songs to me. Don’t brush my hair out of my face. Don’t say things to me about being together under different circumstances. Don’t flirt and text me funny things. Just don’t, okay? It’s become blaringly obvious that we both need to be more cognizant of the way we act around one another.”

  Her words might as well be bullets. I’m bleeding out onto this rooftop deck. I stare up at the dark sky. How did the night end up like this? Christ, how did Brooke and I end up like this? This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. The second I laid eyes on her in Paris, I thought to myself, Bloody hell, that woman is beautiful. I could stare at her face for the rest of my life. And then, after I made love to her in my flat, I thought, She’s the one. She’s the one I’ve been waiting my whole life for.

  You know what? Fuck this. I refuse to sit here and play the victim while she spouts off utter bullshite. Pulling myself off the ground, I get to my feet. I stare down at her, irate with what I see. Shoulders hanging in defeat, tears still slipping from her lids, she’s a vision of pain. She looks like she just hurt herself more than me.

  My lungs inhale an irritated breath, eyes staring out at the skyline. “One day, you’ll wake up, and you’ll be in a loveless marriage, related to a fucking dick by the name of Alistair, and you’ll look back on the way things went between us. And you know what, Brooke? I pray to God that I’m not there when it happens. Even after all of the nasty things you’ve said to me, and the way things ended between us. Even after all of the fucking lies you’ve thrown in my direction, I still love you.

  “Your broken heart is in your eyes and staring back at me, Little Wing. And if this is how you look after forcing yourself to spout a few minor things you don’t really mean, I can’t imagine how you’ll look when you finally open your eyes and realize you were wrong. Honestly, I think it would kill me. I think it would utterly destroy me to see you that way.”

  She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look up. Her eyes stay fixated on the ground. Tears shimmer down her cheeks beneath the glow of the city lights.

  I kneel down before her, pressing my lips to her forehead. “Je vous aime pour le reste de ma vie, mais je pense qu’il est temps que je laisse aller.” I’ll love you for the rest of my life, but I think it’s time I let go. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Brooke. I’m heading back to the hotel, away from you and your self-destruct button, and where I can’t give anyone the wrong impression about us.”

  And then I walk away.

  Careless Cockups going green?

  TheWord.com

  This just in: Careless Cockups enjoy the reefer.

  Mary Jane, ganja, whacky tobacky, grass, chronic, Bob Marley, reefer, pot, giggle smoke, hemp, herb, Maui Waui, whatever you call it, apparently the stars of Mad Sounds are quite the fans.

  After their show at the Bowery, the band attended an after party at Frankie J’s Tuesday night in New York. An anonymous attendee at the party managed to get a few shots of Jesse and Dylan Bissette passing around a joint outside on Frankie J’s terrace. Rumored lover Brooke Sawyer and her close friend, popular supermodel Lindsay Monroe were also in the shot.

  An insider at the party reveals, “They snuck out onto a private rooftop terrace and lit a joint. And pretty much looked blazed for the rest of the night.”

  Although it shouldn’t be a controversy that members of a rock band indulge in a little reefer now and again, some Careless Cockups fans weren’t too thrilled.

  We took to Twitter to find out the scoop. Our personal favorite is @BigDonnieJ…#CanIGetAnAmen.

  @MusicIsMyJam

  Dylan and Jesse smoke weed? #appalled #RockStarCliches

  #NextStopRehab

  @GranolaAndProud

  Careless Cockups smoke pot? Is this really newsworthy?

  #ItsLegalInSomeStates #GetTheStickOutYoAsses #ConservativeFuckwads

  @LisaLove

  God, you’d think Careless Cockups are the first ones to ever smoke pot.

  #PassTheJoint #WeedIsGoodForYourSoul

  @HeartOnMySleeve

  Why do rock stars love destroying their bodies with drugs?

  #Disappointed #CarelessCockups

  @BigDonnieJ

  Duuuuuuuuuude. #CarelessCockups #JointLitAndHappy

  Lindsay Monroe is #bangin btw

  @SweetEscapes

  This is why I listen to Christian Rock. #CarelessCockups are #losers

  #YouAreBetterThanThat

  @BigDonnieJ

  @SweetEscapes I bet Jesus loved weed. #CanIGetAnAmen

  WWJD? #PassTheJointToTheApostles #SharingIsCaring

  @SweetEscapes

  @BigDonnieJ You’re going to hell.

  @BigDonnieJ

  @SweetEscapes Baby, if getting’ lit is wrong, I don’t ever want to be right.

  Anyways, #JesusLovesMeThisIKnow #TheBibleTellsMeSo

  Brooke

  We're in Seattle at The Showbox on Pike Street. It’s the final US stop of the band’s tour. The venue is small, intimate, and yet large enough to hold over a thousand people. I'm enjoying the concert from the crowd, only a few feet from the stage. The guys are unbelievable. Dylan, Zach, Alex, and Jesse are all in their element. This is the best I’ve ever seen them perform. Not that they ever play a bad show, but I feel like tonight might be their best concert to date. It's on another level.

  They slow the end of Moan down, eventually coming to a smooth stop. There is only one song left on their set list. Dylan walks back to Jesse, telling him something I can't decipher, and then grabs the bottle of whiskey sitting by his brother's drums, taking a hearty swig.

  “Finish it, pussy,” Jesse eggs him on. Laughs from the crowd fill the venue.

  Dylan flips him off as he turns around. He's smiling, but it doesn't reach his glazed over eyes. It’s so unlike him to drink this much before and during a show. My gut clenches at the idea it has everything to do with our night in New York and Jamie making a surprise appearance for tonight’s show.

  “I’m switchin’ it up a bit," he addresses the audience. “I hope you don't mind.” He changes out guitars, sliding the strap of his coveted Fender Strat over his shoulder.

  "What's going on?" Jamie whispers in my ear.

  I shrug in response, my eyes still fixed on Dylan. This wasn't on the set list, but neither was their impromptu cover of Do I Wanna Know.

  I'm tied up in knots because Jamie is here. And it’s pathetic to feel this way. He came to support the guys' success and celebrate with them after the show, not to put me in an awkward situation or piss off Dylan.

  How could he do something like that when he doesn’t know anything about the real kind of relationship Dylan and I have?

  Or had… The past week he’s been avoiding me like the plague.

  And now he’s up there—getting drunker by the second—making last minute set list changes. A feeling of doom overcomes me. There’s this nagging ache in my gut warning me that tonight won’t end well.

  This is one of those times I wish teleportation devices were a real thing. I'd transport my ass straight to Mars if it meant not being in the middle of this. The
fact that this could very well turn into a disaster is a very real possibility.

  Dylan turns to Zach, conversing with him for a second or two before looking out into the crowd. “Since this is the birth place of the one of the greatest musicians that’s ever lived, I'm finding myself in a Hendrix state of mind.” He strums a few chords. The crisp sound vibrates throughout the venue. It's a gorgeous sound, hinting at what's to come, and the fans eat it up, clapping and shouting their approval.

  “Have you ever been in love?” he asks into the mic.

  A few girls shout, “I love you Dylan!” Of course they do. Who wouldn’t love him? He’s easily the most lovable human being on the planet.

  He chuckles. “I fell in love with a girl in the City of Lights, Paris, my second home. I fell in love with this beautiful girl. She had me…” He pauses, staring past the bright stage lights and searching the crowd. His eyes meet mine. My heart falls out of my chest and straight onto the floor.

  “This girl was kind of it for me…” He smiles again, still not reaching his eyes. “But she tore my fucking heart out.”

  His words cut deep. I’m locked in his gaze. My feet are frozen to the dirty venue floor. My lungs can't seem to get their shit together, refusing to accomplish the simple inhale-exhale task that’s expected of them.

  “She reminded me of this song the second I spotted her. I should have known it was a bad omen.” He barks out a harsh laugh. “When I saw her on the métro I thought to myself, she's just like that Hendrix song—painfully beautiful and our time together on this train is going to be painfully short. I would have done anything to make it last longer…” He pauses, running a hand through his messy hair.

  The crowd is so quiet, rooted to his every word. I swear everyone around me can hear the hammering inside of my chest. I glance over at Jamie and Nigel, but they’re looking towards the stage, wondering and waiting just like everyone else.

  “So, it's pretty fucking ironic that in the end, this song still rings true. I'm not sure I can do Hendrix justice, but I'll sure as fuck try.”

  And it all comes together. My mind finally trips into understanding. Little Wing. He's going to play Little Wing by Jimi Hendrix. I can't believe it took me this long to figure it out. The heavy insight has me on the verge of passing out or throwing up. I feel so vulnerable, so exposed, that I might as well be standing here naked.

  Tears prick my eyes. Anger tightens my chest.

  He strums the opening chords, and they couldn’t sound more perfect. Not many people can do Hendrix justice, but Dylan plays the Strat with expert fingers, holding his own. The moment Jesse hits the drums, I force my lids closed in a pathetic attempt to steel myself for Dylan's voice. That raspy, deep voice will break me.

  And it does. The instant the first verse passes his lips, I swallow back a sob bubbling up from my lungs.

  I don't want to look at him, but I can't help myself.

  He's baring his soul in front of this crowd. I hate it. I hate that he's taken something that is ours, something that should be private, and let the world in on our secret. I feel like a scab has been ripped off of my heart. I'm too raw, too bared. My trembling arms wrap around themselves, trying to shield this pain.

  I hate that he sounds so perfect. The emotion lacing his vocal chords has turned this into more than just a cover. This is something else, something powerful. It's one of the best versions I've ever heard. And it's too much. It's way too much.

  The song is a little over two minutes, but I swear he's been up there for an eternity.

  He sings the last words, telling Little Wing to fly on. Shadowed eyes meet mine. They're a harsh mirror, reflecting my emotions. His pain. My pain. They suffocate. Hot tears flow down my cheeks. I swipe them away, but it’s fruitless.

  Keeping my head down, I peer over at Jamie. He's busy clapping and chatting with Nigel. I whisper into his ear, telling him I forgot to do something, and I'll meet him backstage after the show.

  Before he can see my tears or ask questions, I’m pushing past the people, moving away from the stage. I nearly trip over my own feet, my legs moving too fast towards the back of the venue. I'm taking the ass backwards way, but I don't care.

  By the time I make it outside, I'm sobbing. People stare, but I don't care about that, either. My mind is absorbed with getting somewhere discreet where I can continue to break down in private. I’ve already lost the battle. Tears and hiccupping breaths pour out in unpredictable waves as I walk around the venue and towards the back entrance. I flash my VIP pass for security, and all three men guarding the doors flash pitying looks of concern.

  Once I'm in the backstage area, I push through the door into the dressing room the manager of The Showbox was nice enough to let me use tonight. I grab a half-empty bottle of vodka and an opened two-liter of Sprite from a table, and shut myself into the private bathroom. I just want to be numb. I don’t want to feel this anymore. Three shots of vodka chased with flat soda are down my throat in record time.

  I stare at myself in the mirror. Wavy locks are a mess. Black mascara shadows my eyes. So much for being waterproof. I shake my head and curse the makeup company who plastered my mascara with lies. The only thing that’s remained intact is the red lipstick covering my lips.

  How can I face anyone like this? My fingers brace the sink as I focus on slow, deep breaths. I stay like this for God knows how long, eyes shut, hands white-knuckling the sink.

  The door slams open, startling me.

  Dylan's eyes meet mine in the mirror. He shuts the door and locks it. His gaze grips mine, and then he catches sight of the bottles of vodka and Sprite on the floor. “Start without me?” he asks.

  My body trembles. “What are you doing in here?”

  “You’re in here,” he says. Want and need and anger etch his face. His hair is a disheveled mess, making it obvious he's probably run his fingers through it a thousand times.

  And I’m mad. I’m so fucking mad, yet I've never wanted him more. I want to feel his mouth on me, growling into my neck. I want to kiss him, actually feel his lips against mine. It’s been too long since I’ve tasted those lips, that mouth. It’s been too long since I’ve felt his body pressed against me.

  God, I want him more than I've ever wanted anything.

  “You need to leave,” I demand, but my voice is too shaky to back it up.

  “Leaving is not what I need to be doing right now.” His voice dips, sharp like a knife, and deep enough to cut through all of my lies.

  I grip the sink again, bracing myself as he walks towards me.

  “You and I both know that me leaving this room isn't what we need.” Dylan stands behind me, not touching, but I feel the heat of his body wrapping around me.

  “People are going to wonder why you're not out there.” They’re probably wondering right now. He should be chatting with fans and signing autographs, not holed up in some backstage bathroom with me.

  “I don't give a fuck.” His gaze is equal parts heat and pissed off. My skin burns underneath it.

  “Why did you do that?” I shut my eyes. If I keep looking at him, seeing my desire reflecting in his eyes, I won't be able to hold back. “Why did you say all of that on stage and then sing that song? You know what that song means to me…to us.” I'm trying to stay mad at him, trying not to give in to this suffocating desire.

  Large hands grip my waist. Warm lips suck at the sweet spot behind my ear, whispering hotly. “Because you needed to be reminded. You need to remember what makes us so right. The minute I saw you sitting on that train, I thought you were every fantasy I’d ever had come to reality. I couldn't take my eyes off you. Your long hair, full lips…” He pauses, thumb reaching up and brushing across my bottom lip. “And eyes that I swear could see right through me. You were so fucking beautiful, Brooke. You're still the most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on.” His mouth moves to my neck, kissing and sucking at my skin, hard enough to mark me.

  I moan in response.

  He pre
sses into me, his body hard and ready. “And then I got to know you. Spontaneous. Free-spirited. The biggest goddamn heart. And when we were together, the second I was inside you, you turned into this wild, reckless girl, giving me everything she had.” His fingers slide down my thighs and under my dress. “That's when you let all the lies, all the bullshit holding you back, go. That's when you're Little Wing. Painfully beautiful, giving yourself to me, making me fall in love with you, and then taking it away too quickly. I want more, Brooke. God, I need more. I need everything.”

  My eyes open at the hoarse tone in his beautiful voice.

  He grips the material of my dress, pulling it above my waist. His mouth is on my neck again. And I'm lost to the feral attraction that pulses between us. It ebbs and flows and fills every one of my senses until I'm drenched in him.

  Dylan turns my body towards his, and now, it's his hands’ turn to grip the sink, blocking me in. Green eyes stare at my lips, then at my eyes, and then at my lips again.

  What is it about him that makes me lose all rational thought? When it comes to Dylan, I'm a lost fucking cause.

  I prove that point when I crush my mouth to his. He groans against my lips, hand fisting my hair. He kisses me like he’s never kissed me before. All of this time I’ve refused him this, and now I can feel the anger, the need, the passion pouring from his lips to mine.

  My hands clutch his shoulders. Legs wrap around his waist. His hands cup my ass, holding me to him. I'm lost in a sea of sensation, drowning in his presence. His touch, his smell, his tongue dancing erotically with mine…All of it consumes me.

  The top of my dress is pushed down, freeing my breasts. His mouth latches on to a pert nipple, sucking and licking hard enough to spur moans from my lips. “Tell me you want me,” he says against my skin.

  “Oh god, yes…yes…” Shaking hands work at his jeans until he’s freed for my wanting gaze. I slide my hand around his hardened cock, stroking him roughly. There's nothing gentle about us right now. We're lips and tongues and incomprehensible words laced with desperate hands and heated eyes.