Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (30 page)

It’s absurd the things I notice about Brooke. The little things. All of these awesome, tiny details that are sprinkled throughout her personality.

Things like her laugh. It’s distinctive and hearty, seeming to start from her toes. And she never holds it back. When Brooke laughs, everyone else around her can’t help but to join in. She has the most infectious laugh in the history of laughs.

Or the way her nose wiggles when she’s deep in thought. I doubt Brooke realizes she has this adorable wiggling habit, and I love that her nose and I have our own little secret.

I can guarantee the question
“Have you seen my sunglasses?”
will come out of her mouth at least once a day. The answer never changes—they’re always sitting on her head.

Then there’s the way Brooke throws her phone into that giant bag she calls a purse, and then three minutes later won’t be able to find it when it rings. I never understand why women carry around so much random shite, but with Brooke, I find it amusing she can hand me anything from a rubber band to scotch tape to a goddamn ketchup packet. It’s like she secretly plots for the moment when she might need to MacGyver us out of a hostage situation in the middle of a bank robbery.

Christ, I even think her inability to be on time is cute. She sets her alarm for ten minutes earlier than the time she needs to get up, yet she still manages to hit snooze a million times. Oversleeping is a given for her.

My phone vibrates on the table with a new text message notification from Brooke.

‘You’re cooler than Mr. Rogers, which might not seem like a big deal, but that dude would put his shoes on just to chill in his own house. That’s crazy cool.’

I internally laugh. Odd compliments have become a secret game of ours. And I don’t miss the irony of it being our
secret
game. Hell,
Secrets with Brooke
could be our theme song.

‘You’re kind of awkward. But in a cute way.

Like an elevator ride, but with puppies.’

I watch her from across the table. I don’t miss the hint of a smirk peeking from her mouth as she reads my message. Her fingers start typing their response, and that cute nose of hers graces me with a little wiggle when she pauses to think. She’s striving to one-up me.

‘If people suddenly became Beanie Babies, and the year was 1995, you’d be sold out in a day.’

Fucking Beanie Babies.
My laugh catches the attention of Chrissy, Second Hand Girls’ lead singer. She made a point to sit next to me at dinner. Actually, Chrissy has been making a lot of points since joining our tour. None of which are platonic by any stretch of the imagination.

“What are you laughing about?” she whispers into my ear. Her tits purposefully brush against my arm as she endeavors to get a gander at my text conversation.

I move the phone from her line of sight, mumbling, “Nothing,” as I wipe off the smile that’s consumed my face.

Ignoring Chrissy’s attempts at catching my eye, I reply to Brooke’s text. It’s not that Chrissy isn’t attractive, because she is. I have zero problems understanding her appeal, but she isn’t my type. She doesn’t intrigue me nor spur the desire to converse for more than a minute a two.

I’m not most guys. I’ll choose the girl who wants to discuss random, intelligent topics like Quantum Theory or what really inspired Morrissey to write the lyrics for
I Know It’s Over
instead of the girl who wants to grind on me in some seedy nightclub. That’s just how my mind rolls.

I knew that Chrissy wasn’t my type within fifteen minutes of meeting her. We were backstage in Chicago, and instead of being grateful for actually being on a tour with fans who were excited to see her band play, she was bitching about how the venue failed to supply every item on her band’s backstage list. The venue had apparently set out bottles of Aquafina instead of FIJI. Tragic, right? After that insolent display, I knew that Chrissy was so far from my type that a miracle couldn’t bring us together.

‘You’re almost as wonderful as boobs. Like, so close. Wait, you have boobs…

Congrats on the boobs. I’m so proud of how well you grew them.’

Occasionally, I’ll push the boundaries with Brooke, checking to see how inappropriate she’ll let me get before throwing the red flag. It undoubtedly stems from this need stirring from my desperate soul. I need her to want me the way I want her. Some days it feels like I need that more than I need music.

Brooke merely grins, shaking her head. Her cheeks flush my favorite shade of pink. I hope my text makes her think. I want her to think about my attraction for her and how well that attraction worked out for us in Paris. I still make a point to steal glances of her body when she isn’t looking. I love her body. Her curves are my favorite fucking curves. They’re subtle, but they’re the most luscious, mouth-watering curves I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Some days it feels like I need to be reacquainted with the beauty that is Brooke naked and moaning underneath me more than I need oxygen to breath or legs to stand.

‘In terms of Nintendo 64 games, you’d definitely be the Mario Kart in the group.’

“Dude, you’re being a twat right now,” Jesse yells from the end of the table.

Taunts and shite-talking commence around me, but I don’t care. I tune them out, my fingers preparing another text message. I know I’m a hypocrite, sitting at the table, surrounded by my band mates with my eyes fixated on my phone. I can’t stand when I see other people do it. And I hate that this type of behavior has become a commonality in our world.

There’s nothing worse than seeing two people sitting across from each other, not even making eye contact because they’re too bloody busy checking Facebook. They’re missing out on life, on the world moving around them, because their brains are too wrapped up in a piece of technology.

I find social media extremely ironic. The more social media we have, the more we feel like we connect with one another, yet in reality, we’re merely disconnecting. People are losing precious moments in their lives because they’re too immersed in some cyber world.

Technology has simultaneously become the downfall and epiphany of our society.

Life is too short to let ourselves miss out on the real moments of living. Life is brief and time isn’t forgiving. Time will screw us all by secretly putting a deadline on our relationships, on our lives. She’s a bit of a frugal whore that way.

But like I said, right now, I don’t give a shite. I’m going to use technology to my advantage; I’ll draw out this moment of having Brooke’s attention for as long as I can. I don’t miss the irony in the fact that I’m the Chrissy in this scenario. Although, I think I’m a little less slutty and not as obvious in my attention-seeking ways.

‘Mario Kart? I always thought Goldeneye was a way better game.’

‘That's because you probably picked Princess Peach and she never wins…’

God, this girl knows me better than I know myself sometimes. Our brains are on the same wavelength, one that no one else is on. If the world is listening to FM Radio, Brooke and I would be listening to an obscure podcast discussing the domino effect that MTV’s
Loveline
had on Generation Y.

‘Princess peach is sexy. What twelve-year-old boy didn’t love her?

She’s hot and bloody adorable. Princess Peach is the kind of girl you

can take home to your mum after banging her in the back seat of your car.

She might look sweet and innocent, but Peach is a dirty, dirty girl.

Plus, I’ve always had a thing for cute blondes.’

‘You just liked the idea of getting underneath Princess Peach’s magical dress.

Her dress kicks ass though. That bitch can float better than anyone.’

‘You’re not a Toad kind of girl are you?’

‘Toad’s cute as hell, but I’m Team Yoshi. We kick ass together.

He’s the best sidekick and can pull off green and still be crazy cool.

He won me over in Super Mario World with his super-long tongue

and ability to lay eggs.’

‘There’s nothing better than hitting a question block and finding a Yoshi Egg.

Nothing. It’s better than fire-flowers, frog-suits, and invincibility stars….

Nothing even comes close to the coveted Yoshi Egg.’

‘EXACTLY. #TeamYoshi (That’s a hashtag.)’

I glance up at her, smirking at the sarcastic jab towards my lack of social media use. I’ve been getting flak from our label about being “more active and accessible” for our fans. It’s annoying.

Of course, I’m thankful for what social media has done for my band. Jesse had taken the reins when we first got together, way before our record deal, getting our live shows and music buzzing about sites like YouTube and Facebook. Social media gave us a start in an industry that’s really hard to step foot in. I’m more than thankful for that, but I’m still hesitant to open myself up to that world.

I like to keep my personal shite personal. And technology has pushed our society into a very weird place where people share every little detail of their lives. It’s both a good and bad thing.

I think the permanence of it is what makes me uncomfortable.

I might drunkenly post something crazy like a picture of my balls on Twitter, and wake up the next day realizing I just royally fucked up. Sure, I could “delete” the picture from my account, but that wouldn’t mean it would be gone. That picture could have been saved by thousands of people and posted somewhere else. My balls would eventually find their fifteen minutes of fame on another website. And no one’s balls needs notoriety.

‘I will find a Nintendo 64 AND Super Mario Kart for the tour bus.

I’m going to dominate you.’

‘Check yourself, Princess. You have no idea what you’re in for.’

Our server, Elliot, drops the check on the table. “Is there anything else I can get you guys tonight?”

“Elliot!” Jesse shouts from his seat. “My man! We need your Louisville expertise. Where should we end our night?”

He chats with Jesse about various bars and nightclubs that his city has to offer while I attempt to close out our tab. I reach for the bill, planning to pay for everyone’s meal tonight. The advance we received from our contract was more than generous, and my mum raised me to be the kind of man who paid it forward.

“I got this.” Brooke snags the check.

“No way, you’re not paying for this.”

“Let me rephrase that. The label has this.” She pulls out an American Express Black Card. “This is exactly why Jamie gave me his Black Card. You’re on a Wallace & Wright tour, which means they’ll pay for everything while you’re touring under their label.”

I sigh, more than annoyed. Even a thousand miles away, Brooke’s fiancé finds his way into the room. It’s a knee-jerk response only a caveman would have, but what can I say—Brooke turns me into a caveman.

She stands up with the bill, walking over towards Jesse who’s still chatting up our server. She hands the bill to Elliot, thanking him for taking care of us, and comes back in my direction, pulling out the vacated seat on my left and sitting down.

And like a stalker, I watch her the entire time.

Her eyes assess my facial features. “I know it’s hard, but you have to get used to other people taking care of monetary things now. You’re starting to reach a point in your career where people…companies…
maybe even Obama…”
she pauses, smirking, and then continues, “will want to send you free shit. They’ll want to wine and dine you. It’s crazy, and I’m sure hard to wrap your brain around, but that’s just how the music industry is,” Brooke articulates in a soft voice, keeping the conversation between us. She’s intuitive that way, having an innate sense to deliver the right words.

“Obama wants to wine and dine me?” I question with a hint of sarcasm, attempting to lighten the mood.

“Yeah, the Obamas want to invite you to Applebee’s for potato skins and boneless wings.” She snorts in laughter. It’s cute. She’s cute. Why is she always so fucking cute?

“Before or after six o’clock?” I found out about the magic that is Applebee’s and their half-priced appetizers during a pit stop in Indy.

“Obviously before six. Even though it’s the President and First Lady, it doesn’t mean they want to foot the bill on full-priced appetizers. I mean, you’re pretty popular, but you’re no One Direction,” she teases, flashing a pearly white smile.

“I think you get a thrill out of busting my balls,” I add, before dropping the sarcasm and being completely honest with her. “Well, before I make plans to meet Barrack and Michelle at Applebee’s, I need to say thank you.”

“Thank you?”

“Yes, thank you.” I nod. “Seriously, Brooke, thank you for everything you’ve done for the band, for me. Thank you for always saying the right things when it comes to our music. You’ve made this crazy journey into the unknown easier to deal with. I don’t think we could have gotten this far without you. I feel like you really have our backs. There are no ulterior motives. You just want the best for us.” It’s true. Even though Brooke quite literally tore my heart out, when it comes to music and the band, she’s always had our back. For a girl who fights the spotlight, the fact that she agreed to Mad Sounds speaks volumes on the lengths she’ll go to for us.

She blinks, a small tear escaping down her cheek. The candlelit atmosphere of the restaurant turns that single tear into a shimmering devastation.

My intentions weren’t to make her cry. I want to pull her in my arms and kiss away those damn tears, but I have to settle, and God, I fucking hate settling. I’ve been settling when it comes to Brooke for what feels like an eternity.

My thumb swipes away her tears. “I wasn’t trying to make you cry.”

“Good cry, not bad cry.” She smiles past it. Her petite hand reaches over, covering the hand resting on my leg. “Thank you for that. Your words mean more than you’ll ever know.”

This moment needs something besides words. I throw caution to the wind. Standing up from my seat, I pull Brooke along with me, drawing her into a tight hug. And she doesn’t hold back, wrapping her arms around me and hanging on for dear life.

God, this feels so right.
I could be anywhere in the country, the world, the fucking universe, and if Brooke Sawyer is beside me, it would still feel like home. Back-and-forth, up-and-down, Brooke and I have covered every square inch of the metaphoric dance floor that is our relationship. And I’m beginning to feel like the orphan in this lovely, calamitous scenario.