Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (6 page)

Word to the wise, they do
not
complement one another.

If my pounding skull, dry throat, and the stench of booze permeating from pores are any explanation, I’d say I finished the entire bottle before I passed out.

Me and LA are off to a bloody great start.

We’re headed to the studio to start working on the album. And I think I’d rather tear my eyeballs out than see Brooke with that giant diamond ring on her hand.

Jesse is driving one of the flashy SUVs the label loaned us. Between the cars and the house we’re currently staying in, there’s no denying that our new label is rolling in dough. And last night, the guys used the house to their advantage, throwing an impromptu shindig with scantily clad women they found in a bar downtown.

The party seemed like a good idea at the time, but I was already half a bottle deep in Jack, so I wasn’t the best judge. The night is a blur of me trying to numb my aching chest with alcohol while I watched the guys stay neck deep in fake cleavage. Upon Jesse’s insistence, I even dabbled in a little Mary Jane. I’m pretty sure that’s what put me over the edge. The last thing I remember is getting bored during a game of strip poker and passing the fuck out in my bed.

Getting bored during a game of strip poker with a group of half-naked and willing women is a new one for me. But those girls were all wrong. Too much makeup. Too plastic.
Too not Brooke.

I should be disappointed over our less than stellar shape this morning, but my head is too fucked up over
her
. Brooke. She ripped my heart out and served it back to me on a silver platter.

Fucking fiancé.
She has a fucking fiancé. Every time I remember that little tidbit of information, I have a strong urge to punch something.

“Jesse, think you can stay on the correct side of the road, mate?” Zach asks from the passenger seat.

“Chill out, I’m still trying to get used to it.”

“Try to learn a little faster. You know, before you fucking kill us. I’d like to make it to the studio in one piece. Considering we’ve yet to produce an album, I’d say it’s a little too soon to die.”

“Fuck you, Zach. Why don’t you fuckin’ drive if you’re so goddamn good at it?” Jesse glances at him. The car follows his movements, jerking us into the other lane.

Cars honk.

Jesse flips them off.

Zach runs his fingers over his buzzed head, irritated and cursing.

Alex and I glance at each other in the back seat, shaking our heads.

“We’re going to sound like shite today,” I mutter.

Alex nods, chuckling a little. He downs an entire Gatorade in three gulps, and then asks, “Hey, are you going to be able to handle this?”

The ‘this’ he’s referring to is Brooke. I shrug. “If you’re worried about me going Hulk-smash on her pretty boy fiancé and fucking up our record deal, I can promise you, I won’t make that cockup. I’m not putting the band in that situation. We’re here to make an album, and I don’t care who the fuck is producing it. We’re making the album.”

Alex claps me on the shoulder. “I wasn’t worried.”

I pull off the ballcap, run my hand through my hair and slide it on backwards. He should be worried. I’m fucking worried. I’ve always considered myself a pretty calm and collected kind of guy—one who could rein in his temper—but Brooke seems to be the exception. She’s always the fucking exception.

If I wasn’t in love with her, I’d fucking hate her for it.

I’m sitting in the studio, hunched over, eyes closed, and head in my hands. Jesse’s horrible driving didn’t help this raging hangover consuming my body. At this point, I think my head and stomach are ready to battle
Braveheart-
style.

“Are you okay?” My entire body cringes at the sound of her voice. I don’t even have to look up to see who it is. And why in the hell is she shouting?

“Yeah, bloody perfect,” I mumble into my hands.

“Busy night?” she asks with a hesitant tone.

“You could say that.”

“Wh-what did you guys do for your first official night in LA?” The uncertainty in her voice urges my eyes upwards. An unnamed emotion muddies her normally golden gaze.

God, just the sound of her voice destroys me, threatening memories of her, of us, of Paris, to fill my brain. I sigh, desperate for the ache in my chest to ease. “The guys decided to throw an impromptu shindig at our temporary residence. And I got real friendly with a bottle of Jack.”

She laughs, but it’s full of nerves. “So a rendezvous with Jack Daniels? Sounds like a recipe for a rough morning.”

“Yeah.” I look away, uncomfortable. She’s too close. Too beautiful.

“Do anything else fun?”

I assess her expression. It’s still off, still so bloody ambiguous. I wish I didn’t know her so well. I wish I didn’t understand her different expressions. Each smile, each frown, and each furrow of her brow—I know them all. Hell, I even know that perfect look she gets in her eyes when she comes—heady, glazed over, her golden gaze turning liquid honey.
Fuck.
The memories are a knife to my throat, simultaneously cutting off my oxygen and ability to breathe.

And why is she trying to make small talk? Is that really what we’ve been reduced to?

This.
This fucking impersonal bullshit. My anger and frustration fuel my lungs’ ability to breathe again. “Who knows?” I shrug. “Once I hit the bottom of the bottle, the night’s a fucking blur.”

Warring emotions pass through her eyes. Relief? Anger? I don’t understand. Why would she have any of those feelings? Maybe it’s the remnants of whiskey still seeping out of my pores that has me seeing things, making something out of nothing.

She steadies her gaze to a nonchalant expression. “Well…can I get you something?” she asks quietly. “Coffee? Water? Hair of the dog?”

Yeah, you can get me some coffee, a bottle of water, and tell your fiancé to go fuck himself because you belong with me.
“Coffee and water will do. Thanks.”

Within a few minutes, she sets the coffee and bottle of water on the table in front of me. “You really must have had quite the night to feel this horrible.” She sits beside me on the leather sofa.

I laugh, but it’s humorless. “Yeah.”

“I’m sure once you rehydrate, you’ll be good to go.”

This small talk is doing nothing but pissing me off. The last fucking time I saw her, she was introduced to me as someone else’s fiancé. The time before that, we were in Paris and I was loving every single inch of her gorgeous body, ready to lay my heart on the line and tell her exactly how I feel about her. But she didn’t let me. Stopping me before I could utter a word, whispering
, “I feel it too.”

And now, I’m just supposed to sit here and play nice with her, making small talk, and ignoring the giant elephant in the room? Ignore this tension that pulses between us?

Fuck. That.

I lean forward, whispering into her ear. “Please, excuse me, but I can’t sit here any longer and act like nothing happened between us. I can’t sit here and act like I don’t know every fucking inch of your body. That I don’t know what you feel like when you come on my cock. Or that I know what your pussy tastes like on my tongue. So, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go sit over there, where I don’t have to act like a fucking liar.”

Ignoring the shocked gasp and hurt expression covering her face, I get up from the couch, moving across the room. I hate that I just lashed out at her. I hate that I just said those words. But I couldn’t stop myself. They just flew out of my mouth, and I had no power to stop them. Maybe I’m a bastard, but anyone who feels the way I do would understand. Anyone who has had to work side-by-side with someone who literally tore their heart out of their chest and then, for good measure, stomped the life out of it, would get it.

Standing beside Jesse and the guys, I keep my back to Brooke. It’s the only way I can maintain a smidgen of sanity. The only way I can prevent myself from losing it in front of everyone. My brother flashes a look of concern, but I just shake my head, letting him know that I’m okay, that I can handle this.

We’re sitting around the soundboard, while Nigel, the other record producer we’re working with, is listening to a few of our tracks. He’s nodding his head to the beat, seemingly enjoying the scratchy, poorly recorded live versions of our songs.

“All right, I’d like to hear you play
Moan
and
Lovely Calamity
first. I think we can do some bloody good things with those two songs,” Nigel instructs. He’s mid-forties, a straight shooter, and born and raised in Manchester. I already like him.

“We’ve got a couple versions of each song,” Zach announces, hands sliding into his pockets. “Do you have a preference?”

Lots of bands first show off their songs on an album, but we’ve already played a lot of our songs live in a variety of settings and formats, especially
Moan
and
Lovely Calamity
. It’s given us the opportunity to refine the feel, nuances, and riffs we like most for each song, and to gauge crowd preferences.

“Don’t say it. I’m demanding a new phrase,” Brooke says, giggling and pointing a finger in Nigel’s direction.

He grins. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, but you’re thinking it.”

“Come on, Brooke, you know it’s good luck.” He winks in her direction. “And I know you want Careless Cockups to kick some chart-topping arse as much as I do.”

Brooke glances around the room, eyeing each of us with a secret smile. She motions towards Nigel in a gesture that says, “Go ahead.”

He points at Zach. “All right, mate. Ask your question again.”

Zach’s head tilts to the side. “
What’s your preference
?” he asks, slightly confused.

Nigel flashes a million dollar smile. “Play whatever is going to blow us the fuck away.”

I laugh, for the first time in what feels like forever. “All right, let’s blow him the fuck away.”

Jesse pats me on the back as we walk into the largest booth, where all of our instruments are set up. “You got this?” he asks, while Zach and Alex get settled.

“Yeah,” I answer, grinning. “We’re here to make a bloody album, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

He nods, smirking, and then gets behind the drums. “
Moan
?”

Zach and Alex give their approval.

“Remember that night in New York City?” I ask, knowing exactly what version of
Moan
I want to play.

“Café Wha?” Alex questions, strumming a few chords.

I nod. “I’m in the mood for something a little more rough.”

“You know I like it rough, Dylana,” Jesse calls from behind me.

I chuckle. “On your count, Jessica.”

Even though my head is all fucked up over Brooke, and even though I’m not one-hundred percent sure I’ll be able to leave LA with my dignity still intact, I’m convinced, that when it comes to being in the studio, working closely with Nigel
and
Brooke, I’ll be able to put the bollocks behind me. When it comes to music, I can focus, and temporarily forget the blur of emotions that rage within. The anger. The pain. The deep-seated heartache.

When it comes to music, I can just lose myself.

And that’s exactly what I do.

Wallace & Wright Party in Careless Cockups honor: Glitz, Glamour and White Flashing Lights at Bar Marmont

CelebrityWatcher.com

Our cameras are live at celebrity hotspot, Chateau Marmont, where music mogul, Alistair Wallace, is throwing a party in newly signed band’s Careless Cockups’ honor. The bash is being held inside swanky Bar Marmont, and we’ve had a few sources confirm that not a single expense was spared.

It seems everyone in Tinseltown was invited for this so-to-speak coming out party for the London-originated band. Our cameras spotted everyone from music video producer, Spike Bay, to actress Hilary Gold—who was escorted by her date, Supernova’s notorious drummer Ryan Mendez. Even Mitch Howard has made an appearance. He is rumored to be close friends with Alistair Wallace, and recently, the former chairman of the California Republican party has been nominated as an official candidate for California’s next Senate race in 2016.

We’re just as curious as you are what someone like Spike Bay—a self-proclaimed liberal and huge LGBT rights activist—would have in common with man as conservative and right-winged as Mitch Howard. If only we could be a fly on the wall during that conversation.

We managed to chat with Careless Cockups front man Dylan Bissette before he headed into the party. He seemed to be enjoying himself, and when asked about what it’s like working with his brother, Jesse, he was all too ready to razz on the band’s drummer.

“Half the time, it’s hard to even know he’s there. He keeps a busy social media schedule,” he teased.

We happened to have a few Instagram photos on hand, posted from the social media savvy drummer himself. Dylan called his brother a “sodding wanker” when he saw a shirtless picture of himself, accompanied by Jesse’s famous commentary.

When asked why he has yet to make an appearance on social media, Dylan laughed, adding, “It’s just not my thing. Maybe one day someone will convince me, but that has yet to happen.”