Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (37 page)

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about lunch with mom to discuss wedding plans.’

‘Did you finalize anything?’

‘I wouldn’t do that. Not without you.

I just wanted to give my mom something to make her smile.’

‘Okay.’

‘When did we start hiding things from each other?’

‘I don’t know…’

‘I don’t like it. You’re my best friend, Brooke.

I don’t want any secrets between us.’

That guts me. I’ve been hiding so much from Jamie, lately. I’ve lied about anything and everything Dylan related. I can’t keep doing that to him. It’s not fair.

‘I don’t want that either.’

‘Clean slate?’

‘Deal.’

‘Call me tomorrow, okay?

I’m sure you’re going to be out all night since Lindsay is with you.’

‘It’s a phone date. Everything okay with you?

You feeling all right with new meds?

I’ve been worried. I feel bad I’m not there for you.’

‘Everything is good. Don’t worry your pretty little head about me.

I’m good, I promise. Have fun tonight with Lindsay. We’ll chat tomorrow.’

‘Okay. Love you.’

‘Love you more.’

A deep ache settles in the pit of my stomach. Something is up with Jamie, but I’m not sure what it is. As the ending riffs of
Blue Daze
resonate in the venue, I’m choking on the anxiety that continues to build.
Is he really okay?

I feel like we’ve both lost something along the way. Our friendship used to be the strongest constant in my life. But now we’re hiding things from each other, and being on the road with the band while Jamie is back in LA busy with meetings and jet setting across the country to audition new talent isn’t making things any easier. It’s been hard to find time to schedule daily phone chats.

I just wonder if we’re going to be able to repair whatever we’ve broken.

“So, are you going to tell me what’s really going on with you and Dylan?” Lindsay whisper-yells into my ear, grabbing my attention.

I slide my phone into my pocket, looking at her with an ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about’ expression.

She raises a perfectly plucked brow. “Don’t act aloof.” Her eyes glance up at the stage, nodding towards Dylan. “I know something’s up.”

Unfortunately for me, the stage is silent—the guys regrouping and taking a quick hydration break. I wish Jesse would chug his water faster so I didn’t have to be a victim to his favorite model’s interrogations.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Nothing is going on between us.”

“Go peddle your lies to someone else, because I’m not buying them.” Lindsay takes a sip of her beer, still eyeing me with a knowing glare. If she could telepathically force me to admit the truth, I think she would.

“What do you want me to say, Linds?” I ask, defeat in my voice.

“I want you to tell me the truth, babe. Just be honest with me. I’m your best friend and you know,
you fucking know
, you can tell me anything.”

“My dear, wise, and all-knowing best friend, what do you think the truth is?”

“You love him,” she mouths in my direction, fully aware of the cameras that lurk within the four walls of this venue.

We stare at each other for a good thirty seconds. She silently pleads for the truth, while I beg for her to stop prying.

“Just admit. Just admit I’m right about this.”

I stare down at my heels, wishing I could burrow into the ground. Eventually, I find the courage to look up at her, giving a subtle nod of my head. “Feel better?” I finally ask. “Are you ready to say I told you so?”

She offers a sad smile. “No, Brookie. I’m beyond sorry you’re in this situation, and I wish I could fix it for you.” Lindsay wraps her arm around me, and I rest my head on her shoulder. “You know you’re my favorite person in the whole wide world, and I hate that you’re in the middle of something like this,” she says softly. “I know there’s more to it, more that you’re not telling me, and I hope one day, when you’re ready, you’ll really let me know what’s up. But just know, I’ll stop prying—”

I make her pause midsentence with a disbelieving glance.

She grins. “I’ll stop prying,
at least
for a little while.
Just know I’m always here for you. No matter what.”

I blink back the tears flooding my eyes. “Olive juice, Linds.”

“Right back at ya, Brookie.”

“All right, New York…” Dylan addressed the crowd. “We want to change it up a little, play a tune you’re probably very familiar with. It’s by a bloody brilliant band, who’s probably more British than we are.”

Jesse follows up with a rimshot on the drums, the “ba-dum-chssh” sound prompting laughter from the crowd.

Dylan chuckles into the mic. “Thanks, Jessica.”

“Anytime, Dylana!” Jesse calls from the behind the drum set.

“I think we should leave him after the show,” Zach jokes. “Let him find his own way to the after party.”

Some women in the crowd shout, begging to take Jesse’s place. Others yell for Jesse to let them give him their version of an after party.

“Their fans are a bunch of hoochies,” Lindsay whispers to me. “A bunch of horny hoochies.”

“Horny hoochies?” I repeat, smirking. “That sounds like the beginning of a poem.”

Of course, Lindsay takes that as a challenge. “Horny hoochies everywhere. Horny hoochies say hell nah to underwear. Horny hoochies spread their coochies begging for—”

I slap my hand over her mouth, cracking up. “All right, Emerson. That’s enough.”

“And I was just getting started!” Her words are muffled behind my palm.

“And I was just getting ready to sacrifice your crazy ass to the horny hoochies of this crowd.”

Lindsay laughs, slapping my hand away from her mouth. “You love my crazy ass.”

“It’s times like these I wonder why.”

“This song is dedicated to the biggest Arctic Monkeys fan I know.”

My eyes go wide at Dylan’s words, praying he’s not talking about me.

“You’re welcome, Tinkerbell!” Jesse adds, chuckling.

Well, fuck…

Dylan smirks in my direction, his gaze dances with amusement. I roll my eyes, trying to act annoyed, but can’t stop my lips from flashing him a wry smile.

Jesse executes the opening beat of
Do I Wanna Know
. The psychedelic guitar riffs follows suit, And then Dylan’s voice fills the venue, velvety and rich. He’s hitting all the right chords, singing in that version of heady perfection I’ve come to know.

My heart rate increases. My pupils dilate. My skin heats, body temperate rising with each word pushed from his lips. A tingly chill whisks down my back, urging goosebumps to pepper my skin. I’m on a physiological joyride, my body high off the music. This song, combined with his enticing presence, rivals the thrill a night of hot, messy sex can give.

He’s a snake charmer, spellbinding me into submission. I can’t do anything but stare, watching the way his lips move, pushing into a seductive pout as they form each word.

If music could be a font, good musicians would be bold-faced print, etching textbook perfection with their talent. But Dylan is something different, something magic. He’s calligraphy—free-flowing and utterly breathtaking. His talent goes further than classic perfection. His music is its own entity, seeping from his soul.

My heart continues to pound, the rhythm fast and erratic. I lose my breath as the meaning of this song catches up with me. The lyrics are about a man wondering whether he wants to remain in doubt about the girl he’s after, or really know if his feelings for her are mutual, or just a heartbreaking case of unrequited love.

Passion and pain. Love and heartache. Amazement and bittersweet regret. Contradicting emotions swell inside of me.

I shut my eyes. It’s the first time I’ve pulled my gaze away from him. The first time I’ve had to seek solace behind my lids to keep my sanity. I’m on the verge of sobbing. Or maybe I’m on the verge of screaming. Or maybe it’s this aching, desperation that claws at my throat to run onto that stage and press my mouth to his.

I’ve lost control, a mere reckless victim to my emotions.

Lindsay must sense my inner struggle. She wraps an arm around my shoulder, fingers run in soothing motions through my hair. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head. Despite my valiant effort to keep the tears at bay, they escape from beneath my lids, slipping down my cheeks.

She pulls me into a fierce hug. “He loves you too, you know,” she whispers into my ear. “His heart is damn near bleeding onto that stage. God, Brookie, he’s baring his soul for you.”

“I love him, Linds,” I choke out. A fresh batch of tears bubbles up from my throat. “I love him so much it hurts,” I finally admit out loud.

“I know, darling. And I think deep down, he knows that too. I think that’s why he’s doing this. He’s trying to get you to see he’s willing to wait.”

“But what is he waiting for?” I ask, leaning back.

We lock eyes. A perceptive expression is sewn within her gaze. If I could take back my question I would. What she’s about to say is going to hurt. It won’t be sugarcoated with an apologetic smile. It will be exactly what my best friend thinks about my situation. And even though I haven’t really told her all the details, I know she has an idea. She has enough truth to understand that not everything is as it seems. There’s more. There’s so much more.

“He’s waiting for you to open your eyes and see the truth.”

Her words are too much. I look away, focusing on two random people in the crowd. They’re smiling, dancing around and singing along to the song.

God, I want what they have.

Happiness. Carefree elation. The ability to truly live in the moment.

My subconscious slaps me in the face. Regret brews within. These secrets Jamie and I have been carrying around feel more like weighted shackles than the path to freedom that was their original intent.

The guys had to play a four-song encore before they could exit the stage. And still the crowd was begging for more.

Lindsay relented on her questions, ordering me a vodka and Sprite at the bar and keeping the conversation light. Distraction by laughter seems to be her method of choice, and I’m in full support of this. We sat at the bar while the guys did their after show thing, meeting and greeting fans and just plain winding down from the adrenaline rush of being on stage.

We got a few more drinks in until the guys were ready to head to a New York style house party. Lindsay was invited by one of her model friends, and I reluctantly came along, more interested in curling under the covers of my hotel bed than partying the night away.

My mood is still suffering from the impromptu cover Careless Cockups played on behalf of my love for the Arctic Monkeys. The lyrics of that song pretty much say everything that hasn’t actually been said between us. That fucking song has my mind freaking out over everything.

Marrying Jamie. Losing Dylan. Calling off the engagement. Betraying Jamie.

Internally, I’m a mess, completely losing my shit.

Externally, I’ve plastered on a fake smile, trying to muster the energy to have some fun tonight. Instead of worrying over all of this, I should be enjoying my time with my best friend.

After giving myself a mental pep talk, I ask the hired bartender inside the posh Manhattan apartment to pour me a vodka and Sprite. He offers a professional smile as he mixes my drink, sliding it in front of me at an efficient pace. I lean against the bar, taking in the beautiful and famous people milling about the swanky pad.

A male model by the name of Andre owns the place. He’s fuck-me hot and one hundred percent batting for the other team. Lindsay met him a few months ago during a Glamour Magazine photo shoot. Needless to say, his sass combined with Lindsay’s snark was an immediate match made in model heaven.

Which explains why I’m constantly craning my neck towards the ceiling just to hold a conversation. Even in my heels, I’m the shortest person in the room. That goddamn Tinkerbell nickname is ringing more true by the second.

Bone tired of small talk and meaningless chitchat, I head towards the back kitchen in search of reprieve. Dylan stands in front of Andre’s fridge, beer in one hand while he messes around with word magnets on the freezer door.

I peek over his shoulder, reading, “
Love is foolish pigs rolling around in a desert filled with frantic emotions.”

He must sense my presence. Dylan glances over his shoulder at me, before staring back at the words.

“I'm not judging,” I offer, moving beside him.

“You can judge, Sawyer. I don't mind. Lord knows I'll willingly take anything you throw my way.”

If words were needles, those would puncture. Noting the slight slur to his tone, I choose to ignore the possibility of a double meaning in his statement. “You look bored,” I note, trying to change the focus.

He shrugs. “A little.”

“That is downright intolerable. You just finished playing one of the best concerts I’ve ever seen. I refuse to see you bored. Not even a little a bit.” I grab a fresh bottle of Johnnie Walker off the counter. Twisting off the cap, I take a hearty swig. The liquor burns the hell out of my throat, but I woman up, holding the bottle out to Dylan. “Drink up, buttercup.”

He chuckles, downing his own healthy pour.

I move back to the fridge, scrambling his pseudo-poem about love, turning new words into my own.
We are all just dancing light in the restless dream of life.

Dylan reads it and shakes his head, free hand running through his hair. “Sometimes I wish we had met under very different circumstances.”

Despite the red flags waving inside my mind, I ask, “What kind of circumstances?”

His eyes flit to mine, melancholy resting within their depths. “Any other circumstances than the ones were in.”

I know I shouldn't encourage this. Dylan and I have danced around our fair share of conversations like this one. And they’re always trouble. Big fucking trouble. “I need an example.” Despite my better judgment, I guess trouble is on the menu tonight.

His head tilts to the side. “You want me to paint a different circumstance for us?”