Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (8 page)

Teenage Jesse probably got his girlfriends to let loose and actually live. He showed them just how much fun they weren’t having. And they all probably fell in love with him. Or maybe it would be the idea of him? Who wouldn’t fall in love with idea of a bad boy who could make you want bad and dirty things?

Sometimes, bad and dirty is what a girl needs. And sometimes, it’s the only thing that can make a girl feel
good
…
real fucking good
. Fuck, I want bad and dirty. I haven’t experienced bad and dirty since Dylan, since Paris, since I was bent over a tattoo table, and he had me coming around his perfect cock.

Holy moly, I need to get a grip.

I rearrange my scattered thoughts, pushing them back into the recesses of my brain, silently promising myself I’ll entertain those thoughts later. When I’m alone. In my bed.

I wipe the dazed and confused look off my face.

“
Aw.
I love it when you daydream about me, Zach. Anyways, where’s your will to be weird, mate?” Jesse takes a swig from his beer, his eyes shining with sarcasm.

“I figured you two might be ready for another round.” The brunette bartender makes a point to bend forward—showing off her plastic cleavage—as she slides two more beers in front of the guys, completely ignoring the drink I ordered five minutes ago.

I sigh. “Wow. I guess I missed the sign that says dicks before chicks.”

Jesse chuckles, sliding his beer in front of me.

I slide it back. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m going to need something a little stronger, or else I can’t be libel for my actions tonight.”

“It’s li-a-ble,” Zach corrects, taking a drink from his bottleneck.

With one brow raised, my eyes lock onto him. “Is that your thing? You correct people’s grammar?”

He shrugs, unaffected by my sass. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“How's that going for you?” I know I sound like a complete bitch, but I can’t help myself. I mean, on the drive over here, I was contemplating doing a hit-and-run if a fairytale character happened to fall in front of my car. Obviously, my current mood is more piss and vinegar than sugar and sweet.

A barking laugh escapes him. “Well, I'm single. Twenty-six. All of my shite is still in my parent’s attic. And presently, the only real thing going for me is this delicious beer in my hand.”

I smirk, amused by his reaction to my overt display of bitchiness. “You're so full of shit.” I point at him. “But the whole ‘I'm still not over my ex-girlfriend’ thing is actually working for you. There's at least ten chicks in this room eyeing you with sympathy.”

“Here ya go, love.” Jesse sets a vodka and Sprite in front of me. “While you two chat animatedly about Zach’s lack of sex life, I’ll be over there, enjoying the dessert menu.” He glances towards the dance floor, where Alex and three ridiculously attractive women are dancing. After taking a closer look, I realize they’re models who shared a runaway with Lindsay last year in New York. Talk about a small world.

Zach clears his throat. “So, sympathy?
Really?
And where in the hell would that get me?”

I take a sip of the much-needed alcohol. “A sympathetic pussy is usually a generous pussy.”

That comment has a grin cresting his mouth. “How about a shot?”

“Sure, why the hell not?”

And since Zach ordered, in record time, a round of Washington Apples are set in front of us.

I hold up my shot. “What are we toasting?”

He clinks his glass with mine. “Let’s toast to the recording producing duo that Alistair Wallace claims will make our music sell more albums than Justin Bieber.”

We both grin, knocking back the shots. The sugary liquid slides down my throat with ease.

“So, Justin Bieber? Hmmmm…” I eye him up and down. “I'm not sure we can help you get BieberFever status without you changing up that dark and brooding persona you portray, but I'm sure we'll at least get Careless Cockups to Jonas Brothers status.”

He chuckles. “Jonas Brothers? Which brother am I?”

“Who's the old one with the skinny wife?”

“Fuck.” He runs a hand through his hair. The dark and brooding look works for Zach Turner. To be honest, he’s pretty fucking gorgeous—buzzed head, big brown eyes, and a piercing jawline that could cut glass. “I thought I was more the hot one that banged Taylor Swift. The one that grabbed his dick in that Calvin Klein add.”

“Nah, I think Dylan is more on Nick Jonas's level.” The words leave an awful taste in my mouth. I hate the fact that he’s still a top priority for my daydreams and thoughts. I wonder if I’ll ever get to a point in my life where he’s not stealing the spotlight inside my brain.

I keep a straight face until Zach’s eyes fill with humor. “Fucking, Bissette. Always raining on my parade.”

We both burst into laughter. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this.

“Be more specific. Which Bissette?” Dylan asks, setting his beer on the bar and taking a seat beside me.

My body goes stiff, more than uncomfortable by his close proximity. I think this is the first time since Paris that he’s made a point to sit next to me.

Zach smirks, nudging my shoulder with his elbow. “See what I mean?”

I force a tight smile and busy myself with finishing off my drink.

“I could hear you two laughing across the room, figured I’d come over and see what all the fun was about.” Dylan’s eyes stay locked with mine, green gaze scrutinizing.

Clearing my throat, I glance away long enough to gain my composure. “Zach was just impressing me with his knowledge on all things Jonas Brothers,” I say, attempting to bring the conversation to friendlier territory.

“And Brooke here was telling me the inside scoop on sympathetic pussy.”

Dylan's eyebrows rise in curiosity.

“Don’t fucking tell him anything.” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them. I obviously want to play with fire tonight. It’s like seeing how many times you can poke the bear before he wakes.

“My lips are sealed.” Zach grins, ignoring Dylan’s ice-cold expression. “Let's take a shot before I put Brooke's theory to the test.”

Yes. More alcohol. That’s exactly what I need. Maybe I can numb myself enough to
not
feel this tension between Dylan and me.

“You in, Bissette?” Zach motions for the bartender.

He shrugs. “Sure, why the hell not?”

A few minutes later, I’m holding my glass in the air, asking, “What are we drinking to this time?”

“Sympathy, generosity.” Zach winks in my direction.

“I'll drink to that.” Dylan follows suit, lifting up his glass.

I take my shot, slamming the glass down and sliding it towards the edge of the bar.

Zach stands, dropping some money in the tip jar. “Well, on that note, I'm out. I've got work to do. Thanks for the company, Brooke.”

“Likewise. Good luck,” I add, smiling.

He whispers something into Dylan's ear.

Dylan nods in agreement, his eyes raking over me with a hint of something I can’t decipher.

I avoid his stare, turning towards the bar, and meeting my reflection in the mirror behind the rows of liquor bottles.

“I thought you left with your fiancé,” he says, the word fiancé rolling off his tongue like it’s the most repulsive term in the English language.

I shift in my seat, more than uncomfortable. “Uh, no. I wasn't ready to leave.”

“Interesting.”

“
Interesting?
Why is it interesting that Jamie went home because he was tired, and I stayed because I wanted a night out?”

He shrugs, his shoulders turning away from me as he takes a swig from his beer.

Alcohol gives me courage to ask one of the questions that’s filling my head. “Is it always going to be like this?”

It grabs his attention. He stops mid-drink, pulling the bottle away from his lips, and glancing at me out of his periphery. “Like what exactly?”

“Like this.” My hand motions back and forth between us. “You acting like…giving me…” I stutter over my words, too chicken shit to say what I really want to say. “You giving me the cold shoulder whenever we’re in the same room together.”

He turns back towards me. “Cold shoulder?”

I nod.

“You're not exactly Ms. Personality around me. I seem to be getting your best impersonation of the Ice Queen whenever we're remotely close to each other.”

Ice Queen? Really?

That pisses me off. I'd love to show him what Ice Queen really fucking looks like. His balls would freeze by the time I was done giving him my version of Ice Queen. Fuck Dylan Bissette. Fuck him and his sexy voice. Fuck his perfect eyes and his gorgeous smile. Fuck that one dimple that fills his left cheek. Fuck the way he really makes me feel. Fuck the fact that I’m still in love with him. Desperately in love with him.

Yeah, fuck you, Bright Eyes
, I want to shout it at the top of my lungs.

“Say it. Please. Say whatever is rolling around in that beautiful head of yours.”

I shake my head on a humorless laugh. “Believe me, you don't want to know…” I pause, his words repeating in my brain.
Wait, beautiful?

He flashes that goddamn smirk.

I sigh, probably loud enough for the bartender to hear from the other end of the bar. Not that she’d care. She’s too busy plumping her cleavage and nearly flashing her nipples to any customer with a cock. “Do you know how infuriating you are?"

“Brooke, if it's anywhere near how crazy you make me, then
yeah
, I do.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop saying shit that makes me want to smack you.”

He barks out a laugh. “
Smack me?”

I raise an eyebrow, meeting his gaze.

His voice lowers. “Oh, Little Wing, but you know I find more enjoyment out of biting.” He brushes his hand across his chest, the very spot I sunk my teeth into when we were together in Paris.

I press my thighs together, fighting the way the intimacy of his voice and the memories of that night affect me. His gaze turns heated, watching me fidget in my seat. And his knowing smile, it infuriates me. I reach out and pinch the skin of his forearm with my fingers.

“Ow! Jesus, Brooke.”

“I warned you.”

A throaty laugh escapes him. "Bloody hell, I almost forgot how easy you are to rile.”

My jaw drops. Is he doing this on purpose? Baiting me into losing my cool? I turn in my seat, facing the bar, refusing to even glance in his direction like an insolent child.

He finishes his beer, standing up from his barstool.

We make eye contact in the mirror. I watch his reflection lean towards mine. His lips hover near my ear. The skin on my neck rises into tiny goose bumps, chills racing up my spine.

“Don't worry, Little Wing,” he whispers. “No one will find out about us. I promise your dirty Paris secrets are safe with me." His husky voice echoes inside of my ear. “But I can't promise that I'll forget them. Because I don’t fucking want to.”

For a few seconds, I’m frozen in my seat, watching his reflection turn and walk away.

What in the hell just happened?

I turn in my chair, watching him stride for the doors.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I hate the way his words can control my emotions. I hate the way he can affect me with a single glance. And I especially hate, that despite my better judgment, I can’t stop my feet from hitting the ground and following him.

He walks outside towards a secret terrace covered with lush landscapes and low-hanging trees. Empty tables with lit candles fill the space, creating an ambient light that whispers sweet-nothings into the midnight air. Since the record label rented out the entire bar, this normally hopping patio is deserted. All of tonight’s partygoers reside inside, enjoying the constant supply of delicious food and free alcohol.

He leans against the brick of the building, hidden behind the shadows of the trees. Grabbing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He slides one between his lips, lights it, and pulls a deep inhale. Smoke billows around him as it leaves his lungs.

“I’ve only seen you smoke a handful of times,” I announce, walking towards him. “It always seemed like stress or alcohol were the catalysts in those situations.”

Dylan takes another drag, not at all surprised by my presence. “What do you think my reasons are for tonight?”

“Alcohol?”

He shakes his head.

“Stress over the album?”

He shakes his head again. “Tonight,” he says before taking another drag. “I’m hoping this will help numb the clawing feeling inside the pit of my stomach. Or maybe, it will fill the giant hole inside my chest?” A tight smile rests across his lips. “Who knows? A bloke can dream, yeah?”

I pull the cig from his lips, placing it between mine, and let the smoke fill my lungs. He watches me, eyes homing in on my lips. “And pray tell, why is Brooke Sawyer resorting to nicotine on this fine evening?”

Shrugging, I let the smoke slide out of my mouth. “I guess the Ice Queen figured it might help warm her up.”

He flashes a secret smirk, full of devilish intent. His long fingers brush across my lips as they wrap around the filter, staying there a beat too long before removing the cigarette from my grip. “So, what pisses you off more?” he asks, eyeing me with a cold stare. “The fact that you can’t forget how good it feels to come around my cock? Or knowing, that for the rest of your life, you’ll only be able to come when you’re
alone
, using
your
hand?”

My jaw drops, eyes going wide in shock.

He winks, flashing a knowing smirk. “Don’t worry, love. I won’t mind if you think of me when you get yourself off,” he adds, pushing the knife deeper.

Anger burrows deep, pulsing inside of me and filling nerves I didn’t even know I had. My hands clench into fists, attempting to stop the tremors vibrating through my body. I don’t waste time on feeling hurt over him blatantly throwing something so private, so intimate, in my face. No, hurt isn’t even a factor in this scenario. I’m beyond pissed. Enraged.

“Fuck you,” I hiss.

And it’s when a humorless laugh leaves his mouth that my vision blurs. Bright, flaming red—it’s all I see. My hand smacks across his cheek so hard, it knocks the cigarette from his lips.