Blur (Changing Colors Book 2)

by Alcorn, N. A.

  She averts her eyes, whispering something into his ear. He nods, and together, hand-in-hand, they walk off the dance floor. A minute later, they’re walking out of the bar, leaving me feeling worse than I’ve ever felt before.

  Who’s Little Wing?

  Green Eyes Looked Pained in Seattle

  GossipNews.com

  Careless Cockups finished off the US end of the pre-release tour in Seattle this evening. Their set list was a stellar lineup. And these boys did not disappoint. They truly brought the house down at The Showbox.

  Mid-show, Dylan threw in a last minute song change. He covered Jimi Hendrix’s, Little Wing, and spoke to the crowd about what that song means to him. He talked about a woman he fell in love with in Paris. A woman that apparently broke his heart.

  Even though this was one of the best Hendrix covers we’ve ever seen, there’s only one question that’s currently on our minds.

  Who’s Little Wing?

  Was this cryptic song dedication for Brooke Sawyer?

  We’re extremely curious to see how Careless Cockups’ radio interview goes tomorrow morning on the Caine show. Apparently, Brooke and Dylan will be sitting down together.

  Tune into HotMix93 at 10am to find out.

  Brooke

  Thank God this is a radio interview.

  Tired eyes, dark circles, and hair that’s seen better days, I’m the picture of worn down.

  Even though Jamie and I left the bar before everyone else, I didn’t sleep a wink. I was too busy tossing and turning, replaying the horrible night in my mind and wondering what Dylan did after I left.

  Did he kiss her? Did he go back to the hotel with her? Did he touch her? Undress her? Did he—God, I can’t even think about the other heart-wrenching scenarios.

  I want to know, and I don’t want to know. I try to tell myself it doesn’t really matter because it’s none of my business. Dylan can do whatever he wants. We’re not together. But it doesn’t help, because inside, I’m still falling apart at the seams.

  This radio interview is the very last thing I feel like doing. It’s going to be torture, acting chummy with Dylan while we answer questions about the band, the album, and whatever else Caine Matthews throws our way. Hell, I’m having a hard enough time pushing away the images of Chrissy latching her mouth to his neck like a goddamn Hoover vacuum.

  But I don’t have a choice.

  Which is explains why I’m currently walking behind Dylan through the glass doors of HotMix93’s studio. Caine Matthews introduces us on air. “Now we’ve got Careless Cockups’ lead singer Dylan Bissette, along with the beautiful Brooke Sawyer. Let’s give them a warm HotMix93 welcome!”

  We sit across from him, slipping on headphones.

  “Let me officially welcome you to Seattle.”

  “Thanks, mate,” Dylan voices into the mic.

  “Jesse just informed us you guys killed it at The Showbox last night.”

  Dylan grins. “Of course he did. It was a bloody good time. Seattle fans are spectacular. And my brother is a bastard. Don’t listen to a word he says.”

  “He told me you’d probably say that,” Caine laughs, switching his attention to me. “What’d you think of the show, Brooke? You were there, right?”

  I nod. “I think it might have been their best to date. Careless Cockups brought their A-game, that’s for sure.”

  “We saw a clip from your New Orleans show on Mad Sounds. And I gotta say, after seeing you two cover Powerful, and then hearing a sneak peek of Blur this morning, I’m a huge fan. Can we look forward to seeing more collaboration in the future?”

  “Well, that depends on Brooke. It’s a bit like pulling teeth to get her to showcase that voice of hers. And she’s a bit shy about being in the limelight, but as you’ve heard, she should be there.”

  “For the love of God, get over it, girl,” Caine teases. “Your voice would sell a ton of records.”

  My cheeks flush. “Now, let’s not get crazy.”

  Caine laughs, looking at Dylan. “Is she always like this?”

  “Unless she’s got some liquid courage, yeah, she’s mostly like this.”

  I wish I had liquid courage right now. Actually, I wish I had about a gallon of liquid courage and my bed.

  “So, do you mind if I share the good news with our audience before I ask a few more questions?”

  Dylan nods. “Have it at, mate.”

  “In about five minutes, we’re going to debut a little song called Blur. It will be the first song by Careless Cockups to hit airwaves, and I can guarantee it won’t be the last.” Caine messes with a few switches on the soundboard, filling the studio with a soundtrack of applause. “Have you guys shot a music video for this yet?”

  Dylan shakes his head. “Nope. We’ve been too busy with the tour. We’ve got a few more stops to hit in Europe, but after that, we’ll be on a shooting schedule for a few music videos. “

  “Promise me something, Brooke?” Caine smiles wide, clasping his hands together in a begging gesture.

  I take a sip of water. “That depends. What am I promising?”

  “Promise me you’ll be in the video for Blur. God, the two of you together, rolling around in a bed or something, it’s an automatic VMA.”

  I burst out laughing. “What?”

  “Just think about it. I’ve got an eye for these things. And I can see why the public is fascinated with pairing you two together,” Caine voices. “Seriously, people, these two together, it’s not even fair. Dylan is so good-looking that I’m reconsidering my sexual orientation. And Brooke has me close to getting on my knees to propose marriage.”

  My skin heats into a full body blush, while Dylan chuckles beside me.

  “Oh God, now she’s blushing, folks,” he sighs. “I can’t even take it. Leave your fiancé and marry me. Please?”

  “Hey, now,” Dylan chimes in. “What about me? I thought you were all too ready to switch teams on my behalf.”

  “You’re right. Maybe I need to think about my options a little longer. Don’t want to make any rash decision.” Caine laughs, and then whispers to me, “But seriously, Brooke. Just say the word and I’ll book us the next flight to Vegas.”

  I giggle, tapping my chin with my hand. “You know…I’ve always hoped Elvis would make an appearance at my wedding…”

  “You’re killing me.” Caine groans into the mic. “All right, Brooke and I can flirt later. Let’s get to the one question everyone wants me to ask. What’s going on with you two?”

  Dylan smirks. “Well, a minute ago, you were flirting with me, and in about an hour, I’ll probably head over to Pike Street for a bite to eat.”

  “Oh, come on, you know what I’m asking here. Are you two really just friends?”

  “Brooke is happily engaged. And I’m very single,” Dylan answers without a glance in my direction.

  My heart plummets to the ground.

  Caine glances back and forth between us before finally asking. “Did you hear that ladies? Dylan Bissette is single, on the prowl, and will be eating somewhere on Pike Street this afternoon.”

  Dylan laughs. “Thanks for that, mate. Really appreciate it.”

  “Any time, man. I’m always here to help,” Caine teases. “All right, let’s take a quick break. This is Caine in the Morning on HotMix93, and we’ll be back shortly with more Dylan Bissette and Brooke Sawyer.”

  Three commercials later, and we’re back on air.

  “Before we debut Blur, we’re going to play a little game called Cover It,” Caine announces.

  “Seriously?” I groan, feeling my cheeks flush again.

  He grins. “What can I say? I’m a man who loves to see a woman blush.”

  I flip him off, laughing despite myself.

  “Uh oh, folks, Brooke is gesturing dirty things to me.”

  Dylan chuckles. “Get used to it, mate. It’s her favorite finger.”

  Caine grabs two note cards, holding them up. “Our audience has spoken. I’ve got tw
o fantastic song choices here, and you guys get to decide which one to play.”

  Dylan glances at me. “You want the honors, Sawyer?”

  I shake my head. “No way. I’m already on the verge of puking on air. You pick.”

  He laughs, standing up and taking the note cards from Caine’s hand. Flipping them over, he scans the words, and then glances back at me. His face turns serious. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah,” I answer, even though I’m not so sure about this anymore. His sudden change in mood has me on the edge of my seat.

  Dylan stares down at the cards. His lungs inhale a cavernous breath. He looks at me one more time, and then finally chooses. “Looks like we’ll be singing Say Something by A Great Big World,” he announces, voice low.

  “You both know this song?” Caine asks.

  All I can do is nod. My heart is stuck in my throat, making it impossible to form words.

  “Yeah,” Dylan answers. “I’m assuming listeners are looking for the version with Christina Aguilera?”

  “You guessed it,” Caine responds, bubbly voice feeling like shards of glass against my skin.

  God, this is about to be the longest, most painful few minutes of my life.

  Two of Caine’s interns hand us guitars. I strum my fingers over the chords, getting used to the feel. Instead of being nervous, my mind is fixated on what the other song choice might have been. I get a profound feeling in my gut that I might be crushed if I see it.

  But I want to know. No, I need to know.

  With my free hand, I reach out and flip over the card sitting in front of Dylan.

  Baby Says by The Kills

  My mind flashes to Paris. I remember wearing his shirt. I recall our conversation on his terrace. I told him it was favorite song by The Kills. I told him I love that song because it made me feel like the lyrics were saying, “I know I’ve made a mess of things, but I’m going to make something positive out of this.”

  I sang my favorite lyrics from that song and he smiled. He smiled and flashed those lively eyes of his. Bright Eyes. The look I’ve come to know as mine. And in that moment, while we were sitting on his terrace, smiling and laughing, I started to fall in love with him. Or maybe I was already in love with him by that point.

  But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. He knows what that song means to me, to us. And he didn’t choose that song. He chose a different song.

  I’m on auto-pilot—too numb to really be present.

  “You ready, Brooke?” Dylan asks.

  I nod.

  He stares at me, green eyes dim. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he offers once last fleeting glance, and then focuses on the guitar in his lap.

  Dylan leads, playing the opening chords, and I follow suit. His voice starts out soft, building as he finishes the first verse. When he reaches the chorus, I join him, my sound harmonizing with his.

  Our eyes lock. I search his gaze. Sorrow. Regret.

  The sharp edge of awareness slices open my chest.

  He’s giving up on me.

  That’s why he chose this song. That’s why he’s singing these words and holding my gaze. That’s why his face looks torn, his eyes look sad. And that’s why this moment feels like goodbye.

  My voice wobbles as we sing the chorus again.

  Tears flood the back of my eyes, and I have to avert my gaze from his to hold back a sob. My vision is blurred as I stare at my fingers moving across the chords of the borrowed guitar.

  While Dylan’s voice fills my ears, whispering the words I never wanted to hear, my heart falls out of my chest. It breaks. Shatters. Then it’s gone.

  And I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for losing him.

  “Careless Cockups have Platinum potential”

  TheInfluence.com

  Careless Cockups debuted Blur on “Caine In The Morning” last week, and the reception to this song has been nothing short of open arms and enthusiastic appreciation.

  Since the song first hit airwaves, it found instant success across the nation. Radio stations everywhere are receiving listener requests to play Blur.

  We asked Caine Matthews for his take on the English rock band, and without hesitation, he responded, “Careless Cockups have platinum potential. This is just the beginning for these guys. I have a feeling ten, fifteen, even twenty years down the road, they’ll still be gracing our speakers.”

  That’s a huge compliment coming from the notorious radio host whose known for being short on praise and harsh in his opinions.

  And he’s not the only one with good things to say about this band. It seems the majority of the music world is welcoming them with opened arms.

  We can imagine Alistair Wallace is feeling pretty proud of himself. He said from the very start that Careless Cockups is the next big band in rock.

  They will spend the duration of December, January, and February hitting a few stops in Europe. And they plan to celebrate the release of their debut album on February 1st in their hometown, London, England.

  Rumors are also swirling that the Cockups will make an appearance at this year’s MTV’s EMAs.

  Brooke

  I flew back to LA a day early. I was supposed to stay in Seattle another night and sit for a few promotional interviews with the band at the Four Seasons, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  The radio interview was too painful. My heart was too broken. And I knew if I had to sit in a room with Dylan for several hours, fielding questions about our relationship, I’d lose it.

  The second we finished Say Something, Caine brought the rest of the band in and debuted Blur. While the band sat in the studio for another fifteen minutes, hearing fans call in and expressing their love for the song, I slipped out of the studio doors and headed straight for the hotel.

  Dean started to follow me out, but I came up with some crazy (and awkward) lie about having to change my tampon. I’ve never seen a man turn for the other direction quicker. Disgusting excuse, but genius tactic, if you ask me.

  Luckily, Jamie had already flown back to LA earlier that morning. It was definitely for the best. I wasn’t in the mood for company, and there was no way I could have put on a happy face and pretended everything was okay.

  I packed my shit and hopped on the first flight home. I snagged a first class seat, hidden away from everyone, and spent the short plane ride drowning my sorrows in cheap wine.

  I haven’t seen or heard from Dylan since leaving Seattle. We haven’t called, spoken, or texted. Nothing. All forms of communication are empty.

  I’m finding that Dylan had become my reason for waking up with a smile on my face. While I was on tour with the band, he was my something to look forward to. But now, he’s gone, and he’s taken my happiness with him.

  The holidays have come and gone. They were mostly a haze of faking smiles and pretending to be okay.

  Jamie and I spent the majority of Christmas with Ember and Teddy. He had a blast opening presents from Santa and doing our pancake tradition downtown. Those are two of the rare moments I did enjoy, where I actually felt a sliver of happiness.

  The majority of my days and nights are spent in this purgatory of heartbreak.

  Heartbreak. God, it’s the worst.

  I understand it now. Hell, I’m on a first name basis with it. If you’ve never experienced it, let me give you some insight into what it means to me.

  Heartbreak is lying on my bathroom floor, trying my hardest to breathe while wondering where it all went wrong; and how in the hell am I going to get up and pretend like everything is all right? And what about this hole in my chest? How am I going to hide it?

  Yeah, that’s heartbreak.

  And it’s turned me into a pathetic mess. I have made it a morning ritual to check Dylan’s Instagram and Google search his name. Okay, who am I kidding? It’s become a several times a day ritual.

  I’m grasping at straws for some tiny shred of him.

 
; It’s bittersweet seeing the pictures he’s posting on his Instagram account. I may have started it as a form of payback, but my motives had nothing to do with revenge. I know how much he loves photography, and ever since he signed with Wallace & Wright, his midnight photo sessions had become nonexistent. And I had hoped Instagram would be one way for him to channel his second love.

  Through his photos, I’ve followed the band through Europe. He’s posted images of interesting architecture, late-night drinks with the guys, and amazing views of the audiences at their shows. But all of those photos are missing one important thing—him. He’s never in any of them, and its equal parts torture and relief.

  I can’t stop my mind from wondering if he’s as miserable I am. Or what he’s doing? Who he’s with? Who is he doing? Just the idea of that question brings up images of Chrissy and him on the dance floor.

  And my brain always takes that scenario, twisting it into something else. Him kissing her, touching her, his hands moving along her curves while she moans his name…

  I’m a stupid, stupid woman who used to think time was the only thing someone needed to get over a broken heart.

  Boy, was I wrong.

  Time won’t heal this. Time will only serve as a reminder of what I’m missing. It will make me remember all of the seconds, minutes, hours, days, and years that pass by without him by my side. Time has become my nemesis.

  After Dylan gave up on me, I understand true heartbreak. I know what it feels like, sounds like, tastes like, and the unbearable pain that accompanies its hearty appetite for misery.

  And no matter how hard I try to put myself back together, there is still this ache.

  Always this ache, right underneath my lungs in the pit of my stomach. The ache of knowing what the empty future holds. No more signature smirks. No more green gazes. No more odd compliments. No more late night chats. No more silly texts. No more teasing smiles. No more acoustic jam sessions. No more Bright Eyes.