Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (3 page)

Someone that isn’t me.

The contract is placed in front of us. I sign in spite of her. She created this fucked-up mess. She strung me along the whole time when she had a fiancé back home. My pen flows smoothly across the dotted line. I glare at her the entire time.

Her response, she shuts her eyes.
Coward. You did this! You ruined us! You fucked me over!

Once the meeting is over and people start filing out, I find myself tossing out hurtful words loud enough for her to hear. “You ever feel like you’re tired of getting fucked in ways that don’t end in an orgasm?”

Her spine goes stiff in response.

“Uhhh…
I guess
?” Jesse answers, and then proceeds to ask, “So are we still going to Venice Beach or…” He can tell I’m about fifteen seconds away from losing it.

“You guys go without me. I need to go punch something.” I get out of my seat, and instead of confronting her, I stride out the door.

I hear Jesse play it off with a laugh. “Music gets him so amped, mate. He can hardly contain his excitement about signing.”

I find the nearest gym. Sign up for a membership. And the Sunset Sons sing
She Wants
in my ear—
bloody ironic song
—while I spend the next three hours taking my rage out on a punching bag.

By the time I leave the gym, I’m convinced I made the right decision by not confronting her in front of everyone. Believe me, I wanted to. I wanted to berate her with all of the questions rolling through my head, but it wasn’t the time back there surrounded by executives from our new label.

Besides, Brooke and I, we’re going to have plenty of time to talk this out seeing as she is our new producer. Maybe my mind is too clouded to think clearly or maybe I’m truly a bastard, but I convince myself that I won’t make this easy on her. I’ll give back as well as I’ve gotten, and if my life is going to be hell, so will Brooke’s.

Welcome to LA? Yeah, LA and Brooke’s fiancé could go fuck themselves.

Hot off the Black & White Presses: Alistair Wallace announces the name of his newly signed, top-secret band

MusicWorld.com

It’s official. Wallace & Wright have signed Careless Cockups, whom they’ve dubbed the next big name in rock music. Fresh out of LAX, the London-based band headed over to Wallace & Wright, signing a two-record deal this afternoon. The record producing duo of Nigel Matthews and Brooke Sawyer have been brought onboard to produce Careless Cockups debut album. Brooke Sawyer also happens to be the fiancée of Jamie Wallace, son to Alistair Wallace. Coincidence? Probably not. But we can’t deny that with the help of Nigel and Brooke, The Distorted’s debut album, Sweet Disaster, went platinum.

More to come as this story continues to develop.

Brooke

Dear Lilah Belle,

Over a year ago, I was sitting beside Millie while she was getting another chemo treatment, reading a magazine. There was an article about a woman who was gifted with tetrachromacy. She was an impressionist artist who claimed to have the ability to see over a million different colors.

The human eye is packed with millions of cone-shaped cells that allow for color to be perceived. People with normal vision have three types of cone cells. This artist had a fourth type of cone cell, and it allowed her to see colors that average folks can’t even fathom. Even if an object is one color, she claims to see a range of other colors existing in a mosaic. It was why she created impressionist art pieces, giving her the freedom to add splashes of colors as vibrant parts of her compositions.

I thought this was an incredible gift, and often wondered if I saw colors the way she did. Only my colors weren’t used to produce gorgeous pieces of art, my colors were the mosaic canvas that was the various shades of my pain.

Pain.

Pain
has a face. She is unreasonably beautiful. Her eyes change colors, her mouth whispers hurtful truths, and her ears eavesdrop on our lives. She is patient, hiding in the darkest parts of our souls, waiting for the chance to make an appearance. When opportunity knocks, pain opens her door, revealing enchanting eyes and an angelic voice. Soft and sweet, harsh and cold, bittersweet irony is her middle name. Once she’s there, we feel her presence until our tear ducts run dry and our nerves go numb. But I guess that’s the thing about pain—her presence is not a request, it’s a demand.

If pain proctored multiple-choice tests, there would be one option.

A. Feel Me

There are no limits in terms of color, shade, or hue, but pain’s canvas is personal. No matter the person, no matter the circumstance, the hurt is real. All. Of. It. Every sting, every bite, every deep wound is very real. Pain’s eyes have pain-ted my life with various shades. Those vibrant colored retinas stand out most in my mind.

PINK polka-dots scattered across worn sheets.

One YELLOW daisy mocking a grief-filled room.

Three WHITE pills spread across a nightstand.

And now…Emerald GREEN eyes filled with shock and disbelief, and maybe even hate now.

My colors. My pain.

The memories they spur are the worst part. The bone-aching hurt will dull, and the strangling sobs will subside, but it’s the memories that make it hard to move on. And now, I’m just wondering how I’m going to move on from this. God, the look on Dylan’s face when Alistair introduced me as Jamie’s fiancé…

His eyes said everything. Bright Eyes was gone. Fragments of the aurora borealis showcased the myriad of colors that represented
his
pain. I would have done anything to take that hurt away. I could hear my heart shouting, “Forget, Dylan. Forget me!” In that moment, I was desperate to erase his pain. I’d rather
I
cease to exist than witness that heart-shattering look on his face.

Everything was simple before Dylan. Black and white. End goal easily in sight. And the only person who would get screwed in the end deserved it. But now, it wasn't simple. The colors had changed. My choices, my decisions, my lies were a blur of grey regrets. Dylan had stepped into my life and distorted the lines.

How can I move past the horrible fucking mess I’ve made? How can I forget that look on his face? It started out as shock that I was there and then turned into something resembling a car crash—too excruciating to watch, but I couldn’t look away—and then, something else took over. Something closer to hate than love. Something that showed me what I’ve done is unforgivable.

I’ve ruined everything.

And in the wake of the destruction I’ve caused, I’m devastated that I can’t talk to Millie about it. If only I could sit outside, underneath her favorite oak tree, and pour my heart out to her. She’d listen, make me a cup of her favorite hot chocolate (chocolate imported from Paris, no less, and comfort me with her perfect wisdom and advice.

If only Millie was still here, maybe I wouldn’t be so torn up inside, maybe I would’ve handled this better…

But I can’t deny that her bucket list was the catalyst for my trip to Paris. Because of Millie, I met Dylan. Because of Millie, I opened my heart to falling in love. It’s bittersweet. Not wanting to take my trip to Paris back, but still wanting my grandmother to be here.

More Later,

-B

I toss my journal on the nightstand, and grab my cell phone, dialing Lindsay’s number.

She answers on the first ring. “Hey, how’s it hangin’ in LA?” Her voice is too chipper for my black mood.

I don’t bother with a hello or small talk, I literally word vomit into the receiver. “Dylan is here…in LA…Careless Cockups are now the newest band signed to Wallace & Wright Records…I’m supposed to produce their album …How am I going to produce their album when he probably hates me? How in the fuck am I supposed to deal with all of this? God, Lindsay, the look on his face when he saw me again…I can’t even explain to you how awful I felt. I was ten seconds away from crawling underneath the conference table and sobbing like a baby.”

“What?
Hold on. Slow your roll, Susie. What did you just say?”

“Dylan is here. And I’ve been chosen to help produce his band’s debut album.”

“Holy shit.”

“I know.”

“Holy shit.”

“I know.”

“
Holy. Shit.”

“Okay…Seriously, I need you to say something else besides that.”
For the love of God, make me feel better about this situation.

She exhales a huge breath. I picture her bangs poofing away from her face like a parachute. “I just…I don’t really know what to say to you. Are you okay? Have you talked to him?”

“Besides the lovely meet-and-greet where Alistair introduced me as Jamie’s fiancé? No, we haven’t exactly talked.”

The silence lasts for a good thirty seconds, but it feels like forever. Hell, right now, seconds feel like days, minutes feel like weeks. “Can I ask you something without you getting mad?” Lindsay’s voice is too tentative.

“You wouldn’t be asking me that without knowing whatever you’re going to say will piss me off.” What is with that, anyways? People do that all the time, myself included. Why can’t we just say
‘Hey, I’m going to say something that’s going to piss you off, but I think you need to hear it.’

“Why are you engaged to Jamie?” She doesn’t hold back, laying it all out there. “I know you love him. I know the two of you go way back. And I know that you truly care about him. But why are
you
engaged to
him
? It just seems really fucking sudden for a girl who was just in Paris a month ago, falling in love with a gorgeous man who really cares about her.”

A week ago, when I told her that Jamie and I were engaged, she didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet and start planning my bachelorette party. Needless to say, she wasn’t thrilled—still isn’t thrilled. She’s skeptical to say the least. I can’t blame her. To someone who’s one of the closest people in my life, it probably appears sudden, rash…
bat-shit crazy
.

I need to end this conversation before it goes any further. There are things Lindsay doesn’t know about Jamie and me. Things that only Jamie and I know. Things I can’t tell a single fucking soul. “This isn’t up for discussion, Lindsay. I love you, but I don’t need to explain my engagement to you or anyone else.”

“Yeah, but why do you get so defensive over it? I’m just asking you a simple question. One that should have a really easy answer,” she spits out, tone filled with suspicion. This is one of those moments where having a best friend who you tell
almost
everything to can be a huge pain in the ass.

I toss my free hand up in the air. “I’m not!”

“Are you sure about that?” she asks, voice still questioning, still one-hundred percent doubting.

I groan in frustration.
“Yes!”

“Because…you’re awfully shouty for someone who isn’t getting defensive.”

“Maybe I just like to shout! Maybe I’m just feeling shouty today!”

She laughs softly. “Look, I love you, Brookie, and I only want you to be happy. Call me crazy, but I don’t think you’re happy. I think you’re pretty fucking miserable. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be calling me at midnight to tell me that you’ve just seen Dylan again, or the fact that you’re pretty torn up about the whole situation. And it still doesn’t answer the simple question of why you haven’t just said, ‘I’m planning to marry Jamie because I’m in love with him.’”

“I am in love with him.”

“Who?”

“What do you mean who?”

“
Who
are you in love with?”

“Dyl—Jamie! I’m in love with
Jamie
!” Shocked and eyes wide, my hand slaps over my mouth with a harsh smack.
Holy hell…

“
Brooke
—
”

“Can we not talk about this right now?” I cut her off, because honestly, I can’t handle this. How can I be honest with her when I can’t give her the full truth?

“Okay.” Lindsay sighs softly into the receiver.

“Please, talk about something else.
Anything
else,” I beg.

The line goes silent for a few beats. I grab a bottle of water out of the fridge, opening it up and taking a sip—distracting myself from the warring emotions wreaking havoc inside my body.