Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (32 page)

And I know she can pull through. I’ve seen her in action. Once she swallows back the discomfort of putting herself out there, she’ll ease into the music and lose herself in the best kind of way.

“Nice, mate.” He pats my shoulder. “I’ve been waiting for a moment like this since I first heard that girl sing. She’s hell bent on hiding that voice while I’m hell bent on letting the world in on her secret.”

“Do you think she’s all right?” I ask, worrying etching my brow.

“She’s good.” He nods. “I caught her in the act of warming up her voice, which she wasn’t too thrilled about, but it’s gravy now, baby. She forced me to take a shot of Patron with her. Calmed her nerves a bit.”

I laugh, remembering her eighties karaoke debut at Au Fait. “Brilliant. Liquid courage and Brooke go way back.”

Nigel quirks a brow. “Is that so?”

“C’mon, mate, liquid courage has been helping musicians for years,” I tease, trying to cover my cockup.

“Right.” He nods, but curiosity still etches his brow.

We get the signal for the stage.

“Let’s rock and roll!” Jesse calls over his shoulder

We roll through our set list, taking a short break after
Quicksand
to rehydrate, regroup, and get ready for Brooke to come on stage.

“Tonight, you’re in for a treat,” I address the crowd. My eyes find Brooke stage left. Her guitar is strapped over her shoulder, gaze hesitant. I offer an encouraging smile, nodding for her to join us. “Get out here, Sawyer.”

While Brooke walks onto the stage and gets settled, I chat up the crowd. “Beautiful people of New Orleans, please say hello to a very good friend of mine. This is Brooke. Because she lost a bet in Louisville, she’ll be gracing your ears with her gorgeous voice.”

Nigel wolf whistles from stage right.

Adjusting her mic, she tosses a glare in my direction.

“You okay?” I whisper, starting to feel a tad guilty about forcing her into this.

Brooke nods, eyes towards the audience. “Never bet against this cocky bastard,” she tells them. “He will not show mercy, even when his form of compensation has nerves knotted inside your stomach.”

“Oh c’mon, Sawyer—”

“Pretty sure no one is talking to you right now, Bissette.” She cuts me off, shoving her middle finger in my face. The crowd, my band mates, even Nigel, are smiling and laughing, clearly amused by her feistiness. “Crowds make me a little nervous. Go easy on me okay, New Orleans?”

“We’ll do anything you want, gorgeous!” A guy shouts from the back.

Brooke laughs, shaking her head.

“Hey, now!” I shout back. “No flirting with our guest. It’s bad manners, mate.”

Even though he’s a total twat, homeboy is right. Brooke looks stunning tonight. Long legs displayed beneath her favorite pair of cut-off jean shorts. Doc Martens cover Tinkerbell’s feet. And last but not least, a tank top that reads
Show Me Your Kitties
peeks out from beneath a red and white flannel shirt that’s tied at her tiny waist.

“I hope you don’t mind, but we’re changing things up a bit. Here’s a cover of Major Lazer’s
Powerful.
”

“You got this, love,” I whisper. Brooke has nothing to worry about. Today’s sound check was perfection.

She nods, closing her eyes and inhaling a cleansing breath.

My fingers run over the opening chords, easing Brooke into the first lyrics. Jesse, Alex, and Zach follow suit, and then, she’s there, pushing her voice into the mic.

Brooke singing these lyrics slays me. Bloody overwhelmed. Through these lyrics, she’s relaying all of my feelings,
for her
, back to me.

This is everything I want to say. Everything I want to hear.

This song
is about the power love has over you. The overwhelming emotion that consumes you when you’re in love with someone, and how you can’t help but be pulled in by them. You can’t do anything but want them and
beg for their love
.

She slides through the first verse. Her shoulders are relaxed and eyes no longer hidden. Brooke is feeling the music. She’s losing herself in this song. Her gaze meets mine, tilted to the side and watching in rapt attention as I sing the pre-chorus.

Our eyes stay locked as I sing and beg for her to
jumpstart my heart with her love
through the lyrics.

Then, we’re flowing into the chorus. I’m reminded of Paris. I’m reminded of her wrapped up in my arms. Of the way her body reacted the first time I touched her. Of the way she moaned my name the first time I slid inside of her. Of how perfect she looked splayed across my kitchen table, across my bed, beneath my body.

Brooke’s confidence soars as she sings the second verse. Her fingers run over the guitar strings, playing the riff to perfection. Her voice is on another level. She’s beauty incarnate, standing on this stage, singing her heart out. And I’m the lucky bastard who’s standing by her side.

The crowd loves her. Some are dancing and singing along, but most are riveted, standing in awe of Brooke’s presence. If only she could realize the power her talent has over people.

The power she has over me…

I’m song-struck for Brooke. It’s like love-struck, but more powerful. She’s that one song that hits me hard, sliding deep into my soul. And no matter how many times I hear it, once the first beat begins to play, I’m consumed by it, by her.

And I want more. I want it all.

Brooke

“You really sang on stage tonight, Brooke?” Ember asks. I’ve been chatting with her on the phone for the past hour. She called after seeing a clip of Dylan and me on stage. Apparently, a fan recorded it on their phone and posted it to Twitter, which then trickled out to a few entertainment channels.

“Yeah, I really sang tonight.”

“I’m so freakin’ proud of you! I saw a clip on C&E, and you looked amazing. You sounded
so
good!”

“Thanks, Em.”

“Are you worried?” she asks.

“Worried about what?”

“Oh, come on, Brooke.” Ember sighs. “Don’t act so dense, sweetheart. You know that little performance is only going to feed the gossip hounds. And let me tell ya, that little monster is real fixated on you and Dylan.”

I shut my eyes, head resting on my pillow. She’s right, but I made a promise to myself when I started this show. I won’t live my life differently because I’m worried about what the media will say. I stay away from magazines, blogs, websites, even episodes of Mad Sounds are off limits.

And so far, I’ve stuck to that promise. Sure, some days, it’s hard. Sometimes I accidentally come across an article while scrolling through some of my favorite websites, but I do whatever is in my power to avoid it at all costs.

The media can consume you. I’ve seen some of the biggest, up-and-coming, musicians get too wrapped in what the media is saying about them in magazine articles, or what fans are commenting on their Instagram pictures, that they lose their grasp on reality.

Reality isn’t the bullshit stories gossip magazines churn out. It’s not what some faceless person says about you on the Internet. Reality is the people you surround yourself with. And my reality is living my life for me and
not
what I think the media will want to see.

“By the way,” Ember chimes in, “I have a bone to pick with you.”

“About what?”

“You mentioned my little boutique in some random fashion article, and now I’m struggling to keep up. All of the stock I purchased for next month is already gone, Brooke!
Gone.”

“What?”

“Style IT did an exclusive on you about the outfit you wore in Louisville, and you must’ve mentioned to an interviewer that you purchase all of your clothing from Wild Spirit. Well, because of that mention, my little shop has had a line out the door from the time we open, until the time we close. I’m probably going to have to hire more people!”

“Isn’t that a good thing, Em?”

She groans. “It is, when you’re prepared for it. I was not prepared, Brooke. I woke up one day and bam! My shop’s revenue has shot through the roof. I’ve been so busy at the store that I haven’t had a chance to even look at my website orders.”

Shit.
I can tell she’s getting worked up.

“Listen, I’m really sorry about that. I had no idea something like that would happen. Let me fix this for you. Nigel’s nephew is in college, and he’s a genius at website design and anything computer related. I’ll text you his contact info. All you have to do is call him, and I guarantee he’ll be able to help you out. I’ll even pay for his services.”

“Damn straight you’ll be paying!” She retorts a smile in her voice.

“Because of me, you’ve got more business than you know what to do with, but for some reason, I’m being punished for it. What are the odds?”

Ember laughs. “The odds are good the next time you’re in LA and in need for a haircut, I’m refusing your business.”

“You’re such a pain in my ass.”

“I love you too, Brooke” she sing-songs.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Right back at ya, bossy” I add, a smile in my voice.

After chatting with Ember, I grab hot shower, a bottle of wine, and get cozy on my hotel bed. The guys, along with the some of the chicks from Second Hand Girls, went out for the night. Despite their insistence, I stood my ground, saying a big hell no to bar hopping.

With re-runs of
Friends
in the background, I strum my guitar, reworking a few songs I wrote on the tour bus. Obnoxious knocking stirs me from my musical trance. I glance at the clock,
12:01am. 
I have no idea who would be at my door this late. Since the guys are out indulging in drunken debauchery New Orleans style, my guess is some random person with the wrong room.

“Just a minute!”

The knocking continues as I walk towards the door. “Who is it?” I ask, peeking through the peephole. A hand blocks my view.
What the hell?

The knocking turns to fingers mocking drums, playing a tune I can’t quite catch. Dylan’s voice fills my ears, his fingers accompanying his impromptu solo of
Sweater Weather
by The Neighbourhood.

I let him continue, watching his mouth move through the peephole. That perfect dimple peeks out from his cheek and waves.

“Are you going to let me in? Or do I have to chance waking up the whole floor? I can switch to something different…maybe, a little Lionel Richie?”

I slide open the door, fighting my grin. “You’re out of your mind.”

His eyes rake over my body. “I sure am.”

I glance down, realizing my attire. Black panties and a cami. No bra, mind you.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Pajama party?” He smirks. “And I didn't get invited?”

My hands move quick, covering my obvious nipples. The hotel hallway is cold and Dylan is, well,
hot,
so it’s no surprise my nips are seeking attention. He moves towards me like a panther, picking me up by the waist and carrying me inside my room, before I can say no.

“Put me down, you idiot!”

He laughs, kicking the door shut with his boot. Dylan throws me onto the bed; my ass bounces on the mattress a few times.

And then he’s a blur of clothes and boots being removed, until he stands in front of me, clad in just skivvies.
Nice skivvies at that
. Black boxer briefs highlight his perfect Ken Doll line. You know that perfect V that dips down a guy’s hips? The one leading you straight to his…
Yeah
. Dylan has that line, and it’s battling those smile lines of his for sexiest lines I’ve ever seen on a man.

His knowing gaze points out my obvious perusal of his body. “All set, love?”

I roll my eyes, leaning up on my elbows. “Uh, no, we’re not all set. Why are you—”

Before I can say anymore, he’s jumping on the bed, sprawling out beside me. “You were right, Sawyer.” He smirks, patting the pillow beneath his head. “
Now
we’re all set. Let the pajama party begin.” Turning on his side, his head rests in his hand. “So what’s next on the agenda? Pillow fight? Girl talk?”

“This is so inappropriate, Dylan.” I shake my head, laughing. “I thought you were going out tonight with the guys? Weren’t the
mean girls
tagging along too?”
Maybe I’m not the world’s biggest Second Hand Girls fan. Chrissy and her band minions remind me a little—
okay, a lot
—of The Plastics from
Mean Girls
.

Evil, conniving, vain. When they’re not practicing, they’re shopping, plumping their cleavage, or hitting on anything with a cock. If Chrissy could climb Dylan like a spider monkey, she’d do it.

Did I mention that I’m not a fan of Chrissy?

“
Mean girls?
What are you talking about?”

“Second Hand Girls. Chrissy, Josie, and the rest of the pussy parade.”

He cracks up. “Pussy parade?”

“Oh, you know what I mean. There’s like six of them. I can’t keep their names straight.” I wave him off. “But seriously, what happened to your plans?”

“What plans?”

“Bars? Strip clubs? Drunken shenanigans? Ring any bells?”

He shrugs. “I got bored. Jesse was four lap dances deep with a stripper named Lucky. Hell, he's probably confessing his love for her as we speak. Honestly, fake tits and glitter isn’t my preference. I like my women au naturale and prefer to end the night without wearing their makeup on my clothing.”