Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (11 page)

What’s your drink of choice in LA?

JB:
Margaritas make more sense in LA than they do in the UK. If I was spotted with a margarita in a London pub, I’d probably fall victim to a random punching.

DB:
(laughing) He speaks the truth. Jesse’s thankful he can enjoy his girly drinks in LA without getting his arse kicked.

Have you found yourselves embracing the LA culture? Is it all juice bars and hippies hiking in Laurel Canyon, or weed and Mexican food?

JB:
(laughing) A bit of both, perhaps with an emphasis on the latter.

DB:
Mexican food is something I’ve definitely had a lot of lately.

Is it true that Careless Cockups have embraced the LA juicing trend?

DB:
Bloody hell, I’m blaming this one on Jesse. Twat bought us a juicer the first week we were in LA. Now, the ruddy thing follows us everywhere, even the studio.

JB:
Don’t act like you’re not enjoying the fruits of my juicing labor.

We should probably talk about music – I’m sure you didn’t expect such a debate on juice…

DB:
(laughing) I’m sure Jesse could go into a monologue on how juicing has helped his sensitive immune system. This wanker’s big on getting his daily dose of Vitamin C.

JB:
You’ll be eatin’ those words come flu season, twat.

DB:
(laughs) Not likely.

Tell us something about your debut album. Anything in particular that should be exciting to your fans?

DB:
I think our London fans will be equal parts surprised and thrilled with the new music we’ve come up with. Sure, there will be a few favorites on the album, but there will be tracks that we’ve yet to play live.

Do you think the February release date is obtainable? There’s a lot of naysayers out there who feel it’s an awfully quick timeline for a band who’s never recorded before.

JB:
We’re not worried about what the pessimists of the industry are saying. We’re focused. We’re putting in the time. We’re working hard and making bloody fantastic music. And that’s all that really needs to be said.

Well, you’ve heard it from the source. It would seem the London quartet is ready to take on the challenge that is producing an album in record time. And frankly, here at Daily News, we’re behind our boys one-hundred percent.

Visit
CarelessCockups.com
for more information on album release and tour dates.

Dylan

“Is this new?” Nigel asks, brow raised and fingers thumbing through my notebook. It’s filled with every song Careless Cockups has ever written, including a few unfinished ones. Songs that I’ve yet to show the band.

Songs that were inspired by a certain someone who’s become the reason for this constant ache in my chest.
Brooke.
The only woman who’s ever infiltrated my thoughts, my lyrics, my fucking everything. No matter how much I want to deny it, she’s my muse. The tension, the angst, the underlying mutual craving that’s ever-present between Brooke and me has burrowed under my skin, sinking beyond my pores and filtering into my blood. With each beat of my heart, she’s
everywhere.

It’s becoming a problem. A bloody bitch of a problem, I might add.

“Uh…yeah, that’s new. It’s a little rough, though. I haven’t had time to sit down with Zach and write the music for it.” That’s our process. I write the lyrics, and Zach writes most of the music. Jesse and Alex add their input once we’ve rolled through it a few times. It’s a fluent method. It’s why our band has come this far. We’re on the same page—a cohesive unit.

And not one of us is more important than the other.

I hope that’s how it’ll always be—our band, always looking out for each other and never letting fame get the best of us. That’s my biggest fear of signing with a label and striving to pave our place in this industry. Losing ourselves. Losing what makes us Careless Cockups. And most importantly, losing the friendship that’s our foundation.

I’ve already gotten a taste of this world—the endless parties, the VIP clubs, the alcohol, the drugs passed around like candy. And the red carpet is rolled out for us like we’ve already made it, when in reality, we haven’t done shite. We haven’t come close to proving ourselves. Bloody hell, we haven’t even produced a fucking single.

It’s ridiculous the way it all works. Sign with a label like Wallace & Wright and all of a sudden you’re worthy of special attention. All of a sudden everyone and their mother wants to blow you. It’s bollocks. I’ve come across more talent singing at dive bars than I have listening to the mainstream radio. True talent. The kind of musicians that can write a song that’ll make you stop and listen the second the first lyrics slip past their lips. The kind of music that ingrains itself into your soul.

Nigel scans the lyrics in the notebook. It’s a song I wrote after the party at Bar Marmont. The night I fucked Brooke against the side of the building and had to take four cold showers before I felt like her scent wasn’t suffocating me.

“I think it’s brilliant, mate.” Nigel shuts the pages, sliding the notebook across his desk.

“It’s rough.”

“Yeah, but I think it might be exactly what we need. I think it might be
the
song, if you catch my drift.”

I choke on a laugh. “It’s just words until Zach and I actually write the music.”

He grins. “Then write the fucking music.”

Shaking my head, I slide my fingers through my hair in frustration. “And when would you suggest we do that? Between hours in the studio and all of the promotional rubbish, we’re not exactly sitting around with our cocks in our hands.”

“You got a point.”

“Yeah,” I chuckle.

He glances at his watch, processing something behind his eyes. “All right, it’s Monday. Let’s cancel your time in the studio this weekend. I want a rough version by next week.”

“Next week?”
Has he lost his bloody mind?

He nods.

Obviously, he has. The man should get his head checked, “No pressure or anything, yeah?” Sarcasm edges my voice. “What about Zach?”

“Does he have a say in
all
of your music?”

“Most of it. There’s a handful of songs that are just mine, but—”

“I got an idea.” Nigel smirks, pulling his phone out of his pocket. With the speaker on, the loud ring bounces off the four walls of his office.

“Hey, Nigel.” I don’t even have to question who he called. Her voice is embedded in my brain.

“Brooke, we’ve got a change in plans for this weekend. How flexible are you?”

“Well, that depends. What do you have in mind?”

“Oh, come on, you know my last minute changes in schedule always end up with the best ideas.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” She’s all sass, a smile in her voice.

“Name one time that I fucked up the flow.”

“You’re making this too easy. Julia Crow. Christmas album. Last year…” She pauses. “Ring a bell?”

Nigel grins, chuckling. “One time! That was one ruddy time!”

She’s laughing into the receiver now. “Uh huh. Whatever you say.”

“All right, well, we’re canceling Dylan’s studio time this weekend.”

She cuts him off. “
What?
That’s going to put us—”

“We’re gaining something much more valuable in the long run, darling. Just trust me on this, okay?” He pauses, waiting for her rebuttal, but it doesn’t come. “I need you to work with Dylan on a new song. I’ve got a feeling about this one. And I want a rough version by next week.”

“Oh…uh…” She clears her throat. “But what about Zach? I thought that was kind of their process? Dylan and Zach write their music together…”

“I can’t lose any more time in the studio. You already know this, Brooke. Dylan is one thing, but Dylan
and
Zach would royally screw us. Alistair has us on a grueling pace, and he’s already told everyone and their mother to expect this album by February. ”

She sighs. “God, I’m so fucking tired of his outrageous schedules.”

“I hear ya, but there’s not a whole lot we can do about it.” Nigel smiles towards me, amused by the choice words she mumbles to herself. “Listen, Brooke. Sorry to cut this short, but I’m off to a meeting. Dylan’s with me now. I’ll have him give you a call. You two can work out the details. I have faith in you, darling. I know you can help him pull this off.”

What in the bloody hell just happened? I’ve been handed an entire weekend with
her.
I’m not sure if the world is against me or doing everything in its power to pull us together.

A few minutes later, I leave Nigel’s office and call Brooke on my way to the gym.

She answers on the second ring.

After the initial pleasantries, awkward pleasantries I might add, I’m at a loss of what to say. Why is this so sodding uncomfortable? Outside of the studio, the last time we spoke was over two weeks ago. And I walked away from her after having the best sex of my life. Hell, her bite
still
stings along my skin. It’s a welcomed pain, one that reminds me of why we’re so fucking good and why, right now, we’re so goddamn bad.

“So…” I guess I’m not the only who’s unsure how to navigate this.

I clear my throat, deciding to gain control of the situation. “Listen, I’m heading to the gym. What are your plans for today?”

“I’m actually going into my office for an hour or two. I’ve got a conference call at one.”

Glancing at the clock, I note that it’s five minutes past one. “It’s at
one?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say I’m running a little late. I had to take Teddy to preschool. Ember had some giant clothing emergency at the store,” she mutters, annoyance highlighting her tone.

“Teddy? The cool little dude with the curly hair?” I remember when he face-timed Brooke in Paris. We were having lunch outside with my brother and her best friend, Lindsay.

It feels like a million years ago. It feels like yesterday. A large part of me wishes I could go back in time and have a do-over, but honestly, I don’t know what I’d do differently. I doubt I’d change anything. Despite the mindfuck of a situation I unknowingly walked into when I stepped foot in L.A., I still wouldn’t want to take back any second of the time I spent with Brooke in Paris.

My chest tightens. The tone of this conversation heading towards far too friendly territory, making me forget why I shouldn’t want to talk to her, hear her laugh, hear the way her voice curves upward when I know she’s smiling.

“That’d be him,” she answers. “Listen, I don’t mean to cut this short, but—”

“No worries. How long is your call?”

A door shuts in the background, followed by quick footsteps. “Should be done by two.”

“I’ll meet you in your office in an hour.”

“Okay. See you then.”

Freshly showered and muscles sore, I head into Wallace & Wright Records and ride the elevator to the tenth floor. Figuring it was best to release all of this pent-up tension and frustration
before
meeting Brooke in her office
,
I probably went a little overboard on my workout. I let Claude—one of the trainers at the gym, who also happens to be an up-and-comer in the UFC circuit—kick my arse a few times in the ring. Needless to say, I’ll be hard pressed to find the motivation to get out of bed in the morning.

Her office door is closed. I knock once. Then I’m greeted by a faint, “Come in,” on the other side of the wall. She’s standing with her back to me, body facing the windows that look out towards the Hollywood Hills. “Em, it wasn’t a big deal. I got Teddy to school on time, and Alistair ended up missing the conference call. He’s the only one who would have pitched a fit about me being a few minutes late.”

She turns towards me, holding one finger and mouthing, “Sorry, give me one second.”

I nod, sitting down in the leather chair across from her mahogany desk. Brooke walks along the wall of windows, holding her phone in front of her face. It’s now I realize she is actually face-timing with her sister, Ember.

“Brooke, you know, that’s your soon to be father-in-law you’re talking about,” Ember teases, grinning at the screen. Their resemblance is uncanny except where Brooke is all wild, blonde curls and golden gaze, her sister is the darker version—straight chestnut hair and brown eyes.