Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (10 page)

His fingers slip underneath my chin, pulling my gaze upwards. “I can’t help it, love. Tell me why you got this. Tell me what this means.”

I swallow hard, tears burning my throat. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Emerald eyes squint, silently calling me out on my lie. He slides a loose lock of hair behind my ear. His touch is too intimate, too knowing, and sends me into panic.

Abruptly, I push his hand away. “Nothing, Dylan! It means nothing!”

His face goes hard as stone. “It doesn’t look like nothing,” he says through gritted teeth. “It looks like more than nothing. It looks like everything you want, but you’re not letting yourself have. It looks like you’re still feelin’ it, love. Like you’ll always feel it, no matter how much you try to deny it.”

“Fuck you,” I hiss. “I don’t feel anything.” The lie is a poison on my tongue, bitter regret filling my mouth. I don’t know why I’m lashing out at him. This isn’t his fault. But the wrong words, horrible lies, keep sliding past my lips. “I’m sorry,” I mutter past the tears that have latched themselves inside my throat.

Face ashen, Dylan steps back, turning away from me. “Fuck!” he shouts, head tilted back, eyes facing the sky. And then, he’s moving towards me. His face is mere inches from mine, eyes boring into my soul. “I wish I could believe you. I wish I could let your lies sink in and become truths. Maybe then I’d be able to forget this pain. But I know you’re lying to yourself. It’s still there.
This
…” He grabs my hand, moving it from my chest, and then to his chest, pressing it against his warm skin. His heart pounds against my palm. “This isn’t something you can just forget. This isn’t something that you can make yourself
not
feel. You want to continue not telling me what’s really going on?
Fine.
You want to keep trying to fuck me out of your system?
Fine.
Lord knows I’m not strong enough to resist you. I’ll take any of your fucking scraps.” He takes a sharp inhale, anger and frustration framing his face, vibrating the fingertips against my hand.

“But no matter what, Brooke, you and I both know this isn’t over. While you’re lying in bed at night, beside the wrong man, you won’t be able to forget how perfect we are together. How bloody right this is.” And with that, he drops my hand. My arm falls unceremoniously to my side—cold and empty—as I watch him walk away.

A sob bubbles up from my throat. Tears stream down my cheeks. And my knees threaten to buckle, forcing me to grasp one hand against the brick. I don’t know how long I stand there, just staring at the now empty space.

Dylan is gone, and now all I have left is the empty, nagging hole in my chest.

By the time I muster enough strength to get inside my car and drive away, I’m sobbing, mourning what I’ve done. The guilt, the regret are like cancer—nasty and malignant, burrowing inside each cell until they are the only things I feel.

And it’s not until I get home, when I’m sitting in a bath, nearly drowning in my remorse, that I realize Dylan was inside of me
bare
. We didn’t use a condom.

Oh. My. God.
We didn’t use a fucking condom.

I was so far gone, so lost to him, that I didn’t have a single thought about protection.

And he came, buried to the hilt, without anything guarding against getting me pregnant.

Dylan

After I sent the guys a text that I was leaving, I drove around for hours,
Rage Against The Machine
blaring through the speakers, loud enough to pierce my eardrums. Once the fuel light clicked on, I decided to drive home, forgoing a stop at the gas station.

Bloody hell. What just happened?

Memories of Brooke consume me, flashing across my eyes in various shades of love and pain, torturing me to my very core. I can still see her lying on that bench in Paris, pink polka-dots painted across her delicate hand, heart in her eyes.

I love her. I’m so far gone in love with her, that I don’t see an end in sight. I can’t see a future that doesn’t include me loving her. And deep down, even though I feel like she’s ripped my fucking heart out of my chest, I know this isn’t unrequited.

If that tattoo told me anything, it’s that Brooke loves me.

But what just happened between us…didn’t exactly feel like love. It felt like we’d crossed this terrible line of love and hate. Pleasure and pain. Giving and taking from each other. I was a bastard, saying things just to torture her. And she responded physically—scoring her nails into my back, sinking her teeth into my skin.

Once I’m in the bathroom, I turn on the shower, choosing ice cold over comforting warmth. I need to wash her off my skin before I go insane. Her flowery perfume mixed with the inherent scent that’s just Brooke has taken my pores hostage. She surrounds me, and it’s torment. A cruel reminder of what I don’t have.

My hands shake as I fumble with the buttons of my jeans.
Fuck.
She’s wrecked me. Brooke Sawyer has utterly destroyed me. After tossing my clothes to the floor, my eyes catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. The prominent bite mark stands out, a neon bright sign on my body. A dull laugh escapes my throat as my fingers inspect the wound. This makes the second time she’s bit me. The first time was well worth it though. We were at a house party in Paris. My hand was up her skirt, and she rode my hand, begging me to get her off. And I did. I had her trembling in my arms as I swallowed her moans with my lips. It was the first time I ever made her come. The first time
anyone
had ever made her come.

Me.
I did that to her. Still do that to her. No one else. Not even her fiancé. I’m the only one than can make Brooke let that guard down and become reckless and wild, losing herself in the moment.

Her teeth marks are evident beneath the small layer of dried blood. It’s the mirror image of the mark she left on my chest in Paris. Goddamnit Brooke, my beautiful, stubborn girl with vampire tendencies.

“Shit,”
I groan at my brain’s sudden amnesia. She’s not mine. And it’s wrong. I don’t know why she’s doing this, but I know with a fierce truth that she’s wrong. So bloody wrong. She should be mine. Fuck that. On every level besides the sodding lie of an engagement ring she’s wearing on her finger, she
is
mine. Her heart belongs to me.

And I marked her too. My teeth sank into the soft flesh of her thigh.

Will her fiancé find the remnants of my possessiveness? And what would happen if he does?

I know I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have been so careless and cavalier. But in the heat of the moment, I wanted to make her mine, even if it was just for that moment. Just for that perfect sliver of time when she was letting me love her body and letting herself love me back in return. Even though our actions were primal, motivated by anger and desperation, and she refused to let me kiss her, we were still loving each other. We were still Brooke and Dylan. Us. Together.

The water is a nice reprieve. It forces my brain to be single-minded, focusing on how to rinse off fast enough to keep my balls from freezing off. I scrub my skin until it’s red, washing her off of me.

As my body adjusts to the temperature, I remember again how she wouldn’t let me kiss her. Like it was too personal, too intimate. In a round about way, I guess she treated me like a bloody one-night stand. Good enough to ride my face and my cock, but not good enough to kiss me.
What the fuck was that about?
Why would she give me her body, but deny me her lips?

Because of him? My chest aches just thinking about her kissing him, giving herself to him in that beautiful way of hers—savage yet tender, wild yet gentle.

But the more I think about it, I’ve never actually seen Brooke kiss Jamie on the lips. I’ve witnessed hugs, small kisses on the cheek or forehead, but I’ve never seen him
kiss
her. I’ve never seen him graze his eyes up her perfect body, flashing her a knowing look. I’ve never seen Brooke bite that plump bottom lip of hers while golden eyes gaze into his, turning into liquid heat.

Sure, I’m not with them all the time. I’d say it’s pretty evident I avoid being around those two as much as physically possible, but the times I’ve been around, I’ve yet to see him look at her like the way
I
look at her.

I can’t put my finger on it, but something just feels off about the entire situation.

In the short time I spent with Brooke in Paris, I’d seen her shy and blushing. I’d also witnessed her brazen and confident, damn near encouraging me to fuck her against the wall in the middle of a party.

I’ve never seen Brooke act like that in front of Jamie.

I’ve seen her comfortable and smiling warmly. I’ve seen her laughing and joking around. But I’ve never seen her act like she can’t keep her hands off of him. I’ve never seen her look at him like he’s her reason for breathing.

But tonight, I saw her look at me like that. I saw her beg and plead and eyes burst into flames the second I slid inside of her. I’ve witnessed her give me everything—every emotion, every beautiful thought—with just her eyes alone.

And she let me come inside of her without anything between us. I didn’t use a rubber. I didn’t pull out. I knew it felt good, too bloody good, but the whole idea of protection wasn’t even a thought in my mind.

I don’t understand. I don’t get why she would allow that to happen. Hell, she fucking begged for that to happen. But never once stopped us, never even uttered a word about our lack of protection. The rational part of me knows that was a monumental cockup, but I can’t deny that there’s another part of me—most likely the possessive and caveman side of my personality—that relishes the idea of getting her pregnant.

God, this girl, she’s fucking with my head, turning me into a ruddy twat over every little action, every little word.

Her taste is still on my tongue. No matter how hard I scrub my skin, her scent still permeates in my brain. I’m infected. Infected with Brooke. Even Zach knew who she was without asking, whispering in my ear,
“I don’t even have to ask if she’s the girl that’s got your head all fucked up. I can tell just by the way you look at her. You know I always have your back, but just be careful, mate. Just be fucking careful.”

How in the fuck am I’m going to get through these next few months? How am I going to stand by and watch her with another man when I know she should be with me?

Exclusive Bissette Interview: We got the red-hot scoop from Dylan & Jesse on all things LA, music, and juicing.

Daily News UK

We were lucky enough to grab a quick chat with the hilarious and always bantering Dylan and Jesse Bissette from one of our hometown bands, Careless Cockups. Our London boys recently signed on with Wallace & Wright Records to produce their debut album, which is rumored to be out by February. They’ve flown across the pond and are currently hard at work in LA, preparing to bring more of their delicious sound to our ears.

Four Londoners living in Los Angeles – you must make quite the first impression…

Dylan Bissette:
It’s not like we’re Jude Law. There are so many English people over here; we’re probably not that exotic to them.

Jesse Bissette:
Everyone just thinks we’re a bunch of Aussies, anyway.

Yeah, but we’ve heard there’s been quite a stir from American women loving on your English accents.

DB:
I’m not taking the piss on that one.

JB:
Pussy. I’ll take the piss. Tell those gorgeous American women that I’m loving on their accent as well.

How does a Friday night in LA compare to London?

DB:
I think quite a bit more laidback, not quite as lairy as it is in the UK. LA doesn’t have groups of lads going out drinking in a small town centre. I guess it’s not as scary that way.

JB:
I do miss that excitement, though, that someone’s gonna punch someone in the middle of the pub for no reason.

DB:
Probably because you were the one doing the random punching, and then we’d—Zach, Alex, & I—have to come to your rescue, throwing a few punches of our own.

JB:
You’re such a twat.