Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (27 page)

He points his index finger at me. “That’s exactly what you said! And I know you know exactly what that means!”

“I don’t think so…” I shrug, mumbling, “
Cockelgänger,”
under my breath.

His eyes squint in accusation. “You just said it again!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I flash him a wink before grabbing the last bag of barbecue chips.

“What the fuck, Tink?”

Okay, so these chips might be the exact chips I saw him drooling over a minute ago.

“Sorry,
Cockelgänger
. These are mine, and I bet they are going to be fucking
de-li-cious
.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re evil, you know that?”

“I know nothing. Now, grab your shit and let’s roll. I’m ready for Bob to take us somewhere with greasy burgers so I can enjoy these kickass chips.”

Jesse attempts to grab the bag out of my hands, and I speed walk towards the checkout, nearly barreling straight into Dylan’s back.

He doesn’t even turn around, too distracted by what’s happening at the counter.

A boy asks the cashier to take a few items off his bill. “I d-don’t have enough money, ma’am,” he stutters. “Can I put a few things back?” The boy awkwardly moves from one foot to the next, hands clutching the bills in his hand.

The counter isn’t covered with typical gas station loot composed of junk food and sugary sodas. Milk, bread, cheese sticks, off-brand cereal, and bottles of water…the boy’s items resemble a grocery list an adult would write. Not an armful of candy and potato chips a kid his age would normally choose.

I glance around the store, looking for his mom or dad, or even an older sibling, but there’s no one else. The parking lot reveals the same dismal assumption. No other vehicles, just our giant tour bus sitting in front of the gas pumps while Bob fills up the tank.

And I’m left to assume he came here alone. This kid is grocery shopping,
all by himself,
at a hole in the wall gas station in the middle of nowhere
.
It’s hard to wrap my brain around this, especially when I try to understand the possible circumstances that would have him in this dire situation.

He’s young
, too young
, maybe nine or ten. Both his worn-in gym shoes and faded t-shirt have holes in them, making it apparent those clothes have seen better days.

Emotion wells up within me. It’s dizzying, practically choking me from the discomfort. I wonder if anyone ever saw me like this. This young, trying to buy groceries or other items Ember and I needed. Lord knows, there were several occasions where I had to step up because my parents were too fucked up to remember.

I pray this kid isn’t in a similar situation.

“Well, how much money do you have?” The cashier asks, jaw chomping at her gum in slow, harsh movements. Her fingers tap out a repetitive beat against the counter.

“I only have fifteen dollars,” he responds quietly.

“Fifteen?” She rolls her eyes, sighing in an exaggerated breath. “Look, kid, you’re going to have to put a hell of a lot away to get this down to fifteen dollars.”

Jesus, lady, give him a break.

And before I can intervene, because dear God, who wouldn’t want to help this poor boy, Dylan steps up beside him. “No worries, mate. This one’s on me.” He grabs his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans, pulling his credit card out.

“I-I couldn’t take your money, sir.” His cheeks are flushed, eyes uncertain.

“Of course you can. Anyways, you really don’t have an option.” Dylan smiles, trying to put the kid at ease as he hands his credit card over to the cashier. She starts to tell him the amount, but he waves her off, gesturing that he’ll pay no matter the cost.

“What’s your name?” he asks, face gentle.

“Alexander,” he stutters, holding his hand out. “My name is Alexander.”

“Great name.” Dylan grins, shaking his hand. “I’m Dylan.”

His eyes go wide, recognition setting in. “Uh…Y-your name is Dylan Bissette, isn’t it? That’s why there’s a tour bus out there. You’re from the band Careless Cockups, aren’t you? Holy cow, no way this is real…” The need to breath is the only thing that stops his adorable rambling.

“It’s real, my friend.” Dylan winks, patting his shoulder. “Big music fan?”

Alexander nods several times. “Yes, sir. I love music. I heard your song,
Blue Daze,
when I was at the library the other day. It’s awesome!”

The cashier continues to show no interest in their conversation, too busy sighing and guffawing as she bags Alexander’s groceries.

“Thanks, mate. I’m glad you liked it.” Dylan points at his t-shirt. “Cool shirt. The Foo Fighters are brilliant.”

“They’re one of my favorite bands.”

Dylan nods. “David Grohl is a beast. Broke his leg at his last show and still managed to finish it.”

Alexander’s shoulders go back, confidence replacing the embarrassed slouch. “I know! I saw a picture of him in the newspaper. A guy was casting his leg while he was playing on stage!”

“To think bands cancel concerts over the bloody flu. And Grohl
broke his leg
and still finished the show. That’s insane.”

“He’s my idol. I want to be just like him when I grow up.”

Dylan’s brow quirks up. “You play?”

He shakes his head. “No. I want to, but we don’t really have the money for a guitar or lessons.”

“Well, that’s a shame, kid. You know who Jimi Hendrix is?”

“He wrote
Purple Haze,
right?”

Dylan chuckles. “If
Purple Haze
is the only song you know by Hendrix, we’ve gotta fix this situation.”

Alexander shrugs, staring at his shoes now. “My mom doesn’t have the money to buy me a lot of stuff. I have to go to the library if I want to listen to any music besides what’s on the radio.”

Despite the cashier’s original impatient attitude, she took her grand old time bagging the groceries. She gives his credit card back, receipt wrapped around it, and slides the bags towards the edge of the counter.

“Thanks.” Dylan grabs a few bags, nodding towards the parking lot. “Let’s walk outside and chat some more so we’re not holding up the line.”

We make eye contact as he pushes open the door. A silent moment passes between us. I know it only lasts a second, but it feels so much longer. I smile at him, silently telling him I’m more than awed by what he just did. He smiles back, eyes tender, and then walks out the door.

My hand goes to my chest, clutching at the material above my shirt.

Be still my beating heart. Dear God, be still.

Dylan affects me like no one else. His smile. His laugh. The way his green eyes light up for me in that perfect way. And he’s such a good man. Probably far too good for someone like me. No matter what circumstances may be perpetuating my lies, the bottom line is I’m not being honest with him. And I’m sure, in his eyes, I’m a liar. A cold-hearted liar who’s yet to give him a real reason for why things ended the way they did.

But despite my inner turmoil, and the taunting past that’s brought us here, I can’t stop my heart from falling more in love with him. Every day, all of these little moments keep adding up. The way he’s so serious about his music. He’s all business in the studio, solely focused on perfection. The way he can drop the serious act at a moment’s notice and be his playful, loving self. His heart is so big, so kind, and he proves it time and time again.

He didn’t have to help Alexander.

He didn’t have to do anything. But he
wanted
to, and that’s what sets Dylan apart from everyone else. That’s why my heart wants so badly to beat in time with his. That’s why I’m standing here speechless, watching him walk towards the tour bus with Alexander in tow.

The cashier clears her throat. “Are you going to buy those or just hold them all day?”

Man, she’s a ball of fun.

Even though every nerve in my body wants to tell her where to shove her attitude-ridden expression, I take the high road, smiling apologetically. “Sorry, it’s been a long few days on the road.”

I toss a pack of gum, a bottle of water, and the barbecue chips onto the counter. Ignoring the bristling cashier, I hurriedly check out and walk outside.

Dylan and Alexander stand beside the tour bus. The kid has a guitar in his hands, bags sitting beside his feet. Choosing to give them space, I stop at the garbage can outside the store and fiddle with my purchases, tossing the extra paper and wrapper into the trash.

“Did you know Hendrix taught himself to play?” Dylan asks.

Alexander shakes his head, entranced by the gorgeous acoustic guitar in his hands.

It’s Dylan’s guitar, one of his favorite guitars to use when writing music. The one he calls
baby
and constantly refers to as female. Hell, he strokes the chords like he’s petting a damn cat whenever he takes it out of the case.

“Well, little dude, you’re in luck. I want you to have this guitar, but under one condition.”

Alexander’s eyes are as big as saucers.

Dylan slides an iPod and ear buds out of his back pocket and holds it out him. “Promise you’ll listen to the music on this and use it as motivation to learn to play. Like I said, Hendrix didn’t need lessons. He just loved music. Hell, he lived for music. It was in his blood. When he was a teenager, he listened to his favorites and slowly learned to play from their sound. When you love something that much, nothing can stop you.”

Alexander’s jaw is damn near falling off at the hinges. “Are you kidding me? You’re joking, right?”

Dylan chuckles, shaking his head.

“I can’t…I don’t even know what to say. Thank you so much. I can’t believe I just met the lead singer of Careless Cockups, and he’s giving me his guitar. Is this real life?”

“We all started somewhere, mate. This is your start. I have a feeling about you. I think you’re going to be bloody brilliant with that guitar in your hands.”

Alexander remains silent for a few moments, staring down at the guitar and iPod. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Do…do y-you think playing the guitar makes girls like you more?”

Dylan lets out a loud laugh. “Consider yourself the next Casanova of the playground, my man. You’ll have more girlfriends than you’ll know what to do with.”

“Girls like her?” he nods in my direction.

Dylan’s eyes meet mine, a soft smile cresting his mouth.

Shit.
I realize I’ve been standing here eavesdropping. Shaking myself from my gawking trance, I start walking towards them.

He leans closer to Alexander, keeping his voice low, yet loud enough for me to hear. “Have you ever seen the movie
Almost Famous
?”

Alexander shakes his head.

“Well, you need to watch it, because that pretty lady is the Penny Lane to my William Miller. She’s the girl…” His voice turns to a whisper, and I can’t make out the rest of what he’s saying.

She’s the girl…who what? I try to think of what Penny Lane was to William Miller in the movie. Broke his heart? Lied to him?

This is the first time someone has referenced
that
movie and I didn’t internally cringe or want to curl into the fetal position. My mind doesn’t have enough brainpower to venture into painful territories or fixate on the reasons that movie is usually a big-time trigger for me. I’m too busy wondering what in the hell he said.

Seriously? What. Did. He. Say.
Christ, it’s going to drive me crazy trying to figure this out, and I’m not even sure I want to know. Because what if it’s bad?

What if it’s something that will rip my heart out?

Dylan

Well past two in the morning and I’m wide-awake, lying in the bunk while the rest of the guys saw logs. A loud, high-pitched whistle, followed by a low-frequency rumble fills the silent bus. I’m half tempted to suffocate Zach with his pillow. The man could wake the dead.

I stare at the door to the back bedroom, wishing I could walk in there for so many reasons. The temptation of Brooke—for one—I’d say that much is obvious. I’m not even talking sex at this point. I just want to see her, be next to her, hold her in my arms behind the seclusion of that door—a beacon of privacy that would muffle out the infuriating noises coming from Zach’s nose.

After Bob stopped to refuel around midnight, our camera stalkers resided to the other bus for some shut-eye. Brooke also called it a night, heading to bed after telling us good night. But the soft sounds of music coming from her room tell me otherwise. I’m guessing she’s up writing or reading or plotting some evil plan to pay me back for tossing her over my shoulder and spanking her beautiful arse.

Considering we were under the watchful eye of Dean’s camera, it probably wasn’t the best plan I’ve ever come up with. Brooke and I have now become fodder for the gossip hounds, everyone skeptical that our relationship is just platonic. The words ‘love triangle’ have been tossed around more than a few times.

A part of me feels bad about this, worried about what it could mean for Brooke. I don’t want her to receive backlash because I lost myself in the heat of the moment, forgot the part I’m supposed to play.

But another part of me,
a bigger part of me,
feels a small victory. It’s a caveman’s instinct, but when you want someone as much as I want her, love someone as much as I love Brooke, you want everyone else to know. You want everyone around you to see that she’s it. That she’s everything. That she’s yours.