Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (38 page)

I nod, gesturing for him to follow through.

“All right…” He pauses, and then snaps his fingers. “Okay, I’ve got it.” His mood morphs into something else, something happier. “I'm a mechanic. I’ve been working for my dad in his repair shop since the day I graduated high school—”

A wry grin crests my lips. “Do you even know how to work on cars?”

“Cool it, Sawyer. You asked for a different circumstance, but did not state any requirements that it had to have anything to do with our current lives.”

“So, what, this is like a fictional circumstance?”

He nods. “Exactly.”

“By all means, please continue.”

“I live in a small town in the middle of nowhere—”

“Wait.” I hold up my hand. “One question. Where is this small town? The States? England? France? Japan?”

His brow rises.
“Japan?”

“I’m just trying to picture it.”

Dylan laughs. “Definitely not Japan. Let’s say somewhere in the States.” He glances at my mouth, noting the small frown. “What’s that about?”

I shrug. “I was kind of hoping I had a sexy English accent. Even French would do.”

He shakes his head, visibly amused. “Sorry, love, this is my fictional circumstance, not yours. Okay, so back to
my
story. One day, while I was hard at work fixing cars, which I’m an expert at by the way—
in both real and fictional realms
.” He flashes a pointed look. “So, I’m at the shop, all greased up and looking sexier than ever, and this beautiful girl named Brooke walks in. She’s desperate for my services.”

“This sounds like the beginning of a porno.”

His mouth morphs into a devilish grin. “Do you want it to be a porno?”

I shake my head, trying my damnedest to not smile. “Keep going, pervy. I want the non-porno version.”

“You're no fun.”

I ignore his adorable pout, waving my hand for him to continue.

“I'd fix your car, and unlike every other girl in town, you'd be immune to my charms.”

“Every other girl in your small fictional town would be throwing themselves at you?”

“Of course they would be. I mean, look at this face, Sawyer. Who could resist?” He winks. Good Lord, It’s a sexy fucking wink.

“So fictional, roguishly handsome Dylan had to stalk beautiful Brooke around for weeks, acting like they just keep running into each other. It took some serious charm and persistence. But eventually, I convince her to go out with me. I think it’s my
huge
…” He trails off, grinning like the devil. “
Huge brain
that ends up winning her over. Get your mind out of the gutter, Brooke. Remember, this is the PG version.”

“Whatever. My mind wasn’t the one taking a turn down Dirty-ville Road,” I lie.

It’s taking every ounce of willpower to maintain eye contact with him. My eyes want to drift down…down…
way
down. I can’t help it. There are several huge-like qualities Dylan has, one of which has bestowed some huge fucking pleasure on my behalf.

He clears his throat, urging my eyes to focus again. I can only imagine the hazy expression I’m currently sporting.
And dear God, did this room suddenly get warmer?
I need a fan, and a glass of water, and possibly a cigarette, because the visuals I just replayed in my mind have me all sorts of flushed.

“So, after I win you over with my winning personality and highly intelligent mind, I'd take you to a movie, ending our night with a chaste kiss at your doorstep.”

I snort in amusement. “Chaste kiss?”

“Yeah, because you're not the kind of girl who'd let me past first base on the first date.”

I push down the memories of our nights in Paris. I was a different kind of girl then.
Paris Brooke.
The one who let loose and lived by no rules.
God, I want to be that girl with him again.
I’m blaming these thoughts on the obnoxious bitch named alcohol. She’s flooded my brain and stolen my mind’s inhibitions.

“Then we'd get married, and you'd have six of my babies.”

My eyes go wide. “Holy hell! Fictional Dylan and Brooke don't waste time.”

He smiles, entertained by my surprise. “Nope. They do whatever the bloody hell they want. And they'd live the rest of their lives in a shitty three-bedroom house on just my mechanic’s salary. But we'd be fucking rich in happiness. Fictional Brooke would make me dinner every night, and after the kids went to bed, she'd let me make sweet, sweet love to her gorgeous body.”

I giggle. Who wouldn't giggle when Dylan Bissette talks about making sweet, sweet love to their fictional persona? Not me. I’m definitely giggling. Like a goddamn schoolgirl.

“Then, after all the wild sex, she'd make me a turkey sandwich and kiss me goodnight."

“I had no idea fictional Dylan loved lunch meat after sex.”

He laughs, nodding his head. "What can I say? The man craves turkey with mayo after he shags his wife.”

“But where’s the music?” A hand goes to my hip, one brow raised. “I highly doubt the fictional Bissettes would be happy without music in their lives.”

“Well, once our oldest, little Led, turns sixteen, we'd find out that our kids are music geniuses like us. We'd take their talent on the road, and the Bissette Six would become musical sensations, taking the world by storm. We'd write their music, and occasionally join them onstage. You playing the guitar and me playing something eccentrically brilliant, like the didgeridoo.”

“Big Jackson Five fan?” I tease.

“Anyone that says they don't enjoy a funky earworm with Michael and the gang is a liar.”

He has a point. The Jackson Five are classic. I was guilty of jamming out to them growing up. Hell, not too long ago, I was driving through Laurel Canyon and singing
I Want You Back
at the top of my lungs.

“So,
Led?
” I ask, grinning. In my opinion, Led Zeppelin will always be one of the best rock bands to ever grace the stage.

“Of course, Led…” He trails off, wheels turning behind his eyes. “Led, Joni, Sid, Nancy, Hendrix, and Tito.”

“Let me get this straight…You named our fictional kids after Led Zeppelin, Joni Mitchell, Sid Vicious from the Sex Pistols and his drug addicted girlfriend Nancy, Jimi Hendrix, and
Tito Jackson
?” I raise a skeptical brow.

"Tito was the most underrated Jackson brother. The man deserves some recognition.”

I laugh. I swear on everything that is holy, Dylan is the most intriguing, charming man I’ve ever met.

My mind basks in the pretend life he created for us. We were two people without two nickels to rub together, but what we didn’t have in cash, we made up for in happiness. He painted a picture void of money or fame, one where our love was enough.

I never wanted to be a housewife with zero money living in a crappy house filled with six kids—until now. Because who am I kidding? Dylan would make beautiful babies. And I'd gladly be a part of our fictional band, with little Tito and the gang, if it meant I’d get to make music with Dylan every day for the rest of my life.

But that’s just a dream. It’s not my reality.

“Brooke!” Alex shouts, waltzing towards me. Waltz is the only way to describe it. Careless Cockups’ lead guitarist just has this swagger about him. He wraps me up in bear hug, lifting my feet clear off the ground.

I squeak out his name in response.

It doesn’t faze him. He proceeds to nuzzle his face into my neck, sniffing my skin. “You smell so good. Like cinnamon apples and…” He sniffs again. “Rainbows with a pot of gold, and a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels at the end.”

I giggle. I probably do smell like whiskey. That amber liquor always has a way of seeping into my pores after just a shot or two. “Rainbows and Johnnie Walker,” I correct.

Alex sets me down, grinning at Dylan. “I see you’re drinking the good shit tonight.”

He holds up the bottle. “I was coerced into drinking it.”

“Brilliant.” Alex nods his approval. “You sharing, or do you need all of it to get out of that emo funk you’ve been sporting since we left the Bowery?”

Dylan scowls. “Emo funk, my arse. Just because I’m not on the pull like the rest of ya doesn’t mean I’m being a downer.”

Alex grins. “Could have fooled me, mate. I thought maybe you’d gone off and grown a pussy.”

“Piss off,” Dylan retorts, chuckling.

A tall brunette sashays into the kitchen, interrupting the guys’ jesting war. I size her up, because as much as we might deny it, all women do this to one another. It’s absurd, I know, but for some reason, it’s ingrained in us. I’m blaming society and its constant scrutiny of women’s bodies. There’s always this unspoken pressure to be a size zero with soft, flawless skin and curves in all the right places. The media’s photoshopped images only add to the problem. They make a point to erase every wrinkle and dimple from anyone, especially females gracing the front cover.

It’s a goddamn travesty, to be honest, but it’s our unfortunate reality.

This chick’s tits are huge, by the way. Huge,
and real
, which is pretty rare these days. And her scantily clad attire proves she knows their curvaceous draw. “Hey, do you guys know Sarah? She's kind of short, brown hair, probably talked your ear off about her new bisexual lifestyle?”

Dylan glances at me, brow raised in amusement.

Alex eyes her with a wicked gleam. “I'm Sarah. It's been a long time," he responds, straight-faced and full of shit.

Confusion takes over her features, until she realizes the flirtatious web he’s spinning. “Oh, hello,” she giggles. “I guess it’s been a long time, Sarah. You look so different.”

Hook, line, and sinker, she’s done for.

“I changed my hair up a little.” Alex adds, smirking.

“Wow. That's just what she sounds like.” More girlish giggles escape her red and pouty lips. “Wait…” she trails off, recognition setting in. Her expression changes from flirty to mesmerized. “
Omigod!
You’re on that show!
Mad Sounds
!” She looks at Dylan. “You’re the lead singer of Careless Cockups.” And then, her gaze moves back to Alex. “And you’re—”

“And I’m the genius working the guitar,” Alex chimes in.

She twirls her hair around her finger. “I’ve never met a guitarist.”

He wraps his arm around her shoulder, tucking her close. Pervy eyes stare at her cleavage. “There’s a lot of
fan-fucking-tastic
things about guitarists, love. For one, we’re very talented with our hands. Finger faster than anyone you’ve ever met.”

She lets out a breathy sigh, mouth forming a tiny ‘O’.

Dylan chokes on a laugh, feigning a coughing fit. And I’m fighting the urge to roll my eyes.

“Cheesy pick-up line and all, I’ve got twenty on her falling for it,” Dylan says for my ears only.

“No way,” I whisper back. “Her eyes are all dreamy and glazed over. She might melt into the hardwood any second.”

Alex gestures towards the door. “Would you like a tour of the apartment? You know, Andre’s casa sue casa and all that other good host shite.”

She giggles…
again,
following him like a lost puppy. “You’re such a gentleman. I’m Lena, by the way.” Her voice trails off, down the hallway, towards God only knows where.

Being on tour with the band, I’m starting to understand that every girl has the same reaction to Alex…they follow. They
always
fucking follow. The same can be said for rest of the band. With their increasing notoriety and undeniably gorgeous faces, panties disintegrate and women become giggling clichés when they walk into a room.

“I can’t take you guys anywhere,” I tease.

“Why am I included in this? Pretty sure I was the one having the one-man word magnet party, which you crashed without permission.”

“Because lately you guys pull one of four reactions from women: screaming, giggling, falling to their knees, or contemplating throwing their panties.”

He makes a show of looking around the room. “Who’s throwing their knickers?”

I shove his shoulder, rolling my eyes. “Shut it, Bissette.”

Dylan grins. “I’m just saying, if women are throwing around their undergarments, I should know about this sort of thing. Seems a waste if there’s no one there to witness it.”

“Pervert,” I mouth.

He laughs. “Coming from the girl whose brain immediately went to pornos about ten minutes ago.”

“Shut up.” I nudge him in the ribs. “So, Alex takes the cheesy ‘guitarist’s finger faster’ route when hitting on women. What route do you take?”

“You know what route I take.” He offers a wry smile. “I’m more of a branding kind of guy.”

“Hold up.” A hand goes to my hips. “I remember you saying I was the only woman you’ve branded.”

“Exactly my point.”

My cheeks flush bright red.
Fuckin’ hell, why’d I steer the conversation towards this direction.
I need a muzzle. Especially for times like these, when my brain doesn’t filter the words leaving my mouth.

Even though my glass is half-full, I distract myself with making another drink. “Need a refill?” I offer, pointedly keeping my back in his direction.

“That’s quite sweet of you, Sawyer, but I’m good. Probably heading back to the hotel soon.”

I turn around, fresh drink clutched in my hand. “Really? Why are—” And before I can finish, Lindsay is striding into the kitchen, yelling my name like a lunatic.

“Brooooookie! Where did you go? We’re getting ready to play beer pong. I need my partner!”

“Beer pong?” Not to sound judgmental, but this doesn’t seem like a drinking games kind of party.

She nods her head. “Oh yes, beer pong. And we’re going to show these models who the boss bitches are.” Lindsay grabs my wrist and attempts to drag me out of the room. Dylan watches on with amusement.

I dig my heels into the floor, stopping her momentum. “You want to join us?” Considering we suck hard at beer pong, a back-up plan (aka Dylan) would be good. In college, we generally missed every throw and became too shitfaced to play by game three.

Lindsay chimes in, “Oh hell to the nah, he’s not joining us. We are a two-woman team.” She glares at me, and then moves her focus to Dylan. “Your brother and Zach are out on the terrace. We’ll come find you guys when we’re done kicking ass.”