Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (16 page)

If my grandmother was right, I wasn’t convinced Cash had a soul. His deceitful smile warned, and his dark eyes should have been the color of cinders, raising red flags of his true intentions.
Bad news. He was definitely bad news
.

I watched the taillights of her Honda Civic disappear in a hurry down the long private drive. She was pissed at me, but I didn’t care. I needed to check on my best friend, considering he skipped school and hadn’t been answering his phone all day.

I went in through the five-car garage using the key code I memorized years ago. The house was empty, which was typical for Jamie’s family. This was the unfortunate norm for my best friend. Honestly, I would have been more shocked to see his parents home.

The Wallace’s house was exactly what you would expect. Ornate furniture filled the vast rooms, and large marble pillars reaching vaulted ceilings. Beautiful, expensive paintings hung on the walls, more for show than anything else.

If that house could talk, it would shout money.

I never understood the need for wealthy people to decorate their homes in the most lavish of ways. The Wallace’s home was more like a museum than a house filled with a loving family. It was cold and empty—completely void of smiling faces, loving words, and chatting around the dinner table.

My feet move past one of the dining rooms, eyes catching site of the mahogany table fit for a king and fifteen guests. The place settings were perfectly arranged and accessorized with expensive china. Crystal glasses shined underneath the luminescent light of the chandelier hanging above it.

That dining room was a liar.

The place settings, the china, the ridiculous crystal glasses, they weren’t there in preparation of a family dinner. They were there for illustration. Over the five years that I had known Jamie, his family never once had a meal with just the three of them. Even holidays were spent somewhere else. Last year, Christmas was in Europe. Thanksgiving was in Australia.

Those family vacations were a sham. Alistair Wallace used them for business. Instead of spending time with his wife and son, he filled his schedule with last minute dinners and luncheons schmoozing musicians he deemed “the next big thing.”

I kind of despised my best friend’s parents. Actually, I loathed them. If I allowed the word hate into my vocabulary, I would use it to describe my feelings for Alistair and Camille Wallace. Sure, my parents weren’t winning mother and father of the year awards, and their parenting choices were questionable at best, but Ember and I got Millie.

Out of Jamie and me, I was the lucky one.

He might have come from money and had been carrying his own Black Card since he was thirteen years old, and I might have had a horrible first ten years, but I was far richer than he was. My wealth couldn’t be measured in monetary amounts; it could only be measured in love. I had someone who was always there in the morning, making me breakfast before I left for school. And when I got home in the afternoon, I had someone who wanted to hear about my day. I had Millie, someone who cared about me and always had my best interest at heart.

Making my way up the spiral staircase, I faintly heard music coming from his room. “Jaaaaaaaamie!” I shouted.

He didn’t respond. I wasn’t surprised. His music was crazy loud.

“Jamie!”

Still…nothing.

My feet padded across the upstairs hallway, imprints in the lush maroon carpet left in the their wake. “One of these days, I swear, he’s going to go deaf,” I mumbled to myself, passing several bedrooms.

Finally, I made my way to the end of the hall, standing in front of his bedroom. The door was closed, which I found odd. Jamie never shut his door. It was pointless, considering he was usually the only one here. Plus, he had a best friend who made a point to stop by unannounced.

My hand reached for the knob, opening the door. Within seconds I was smacked with Nine Inch Nails pounding against my eardrums and the vision of Jamie’s tall frame filling the bed. Blankets and pillows were scattered across the floor in dismay.

Sleeping
, I thought to myself,
Jamie didn’t respond today because the jerk was fast asleep.

But then, my brain started to calculate, adding up the details.

In his normal preppy style, Jamie was fully dressed—khaki shorts, blue polo, and even loafers covered his feet. Every light in his room was on. Music bounced off the walls, rattling the window frames.
How could anyone sleep like this?

Walking closer, I attempted to scare him. “Jamie! Wake! Up!” My eyes locked onto his face, waiting for a reaction. He looked peaceful, angelic even, with his hair mussed up in a gentle way. His dark lashes rested softly on his cheeks.

But he didn’t react. Nothing. No sound. No movement. Not even a tiny hitch in his breath.

His breathing seemed shallow, taking what felt like hours from one inhale to the next.

And
that
was the moment
, the instant
, I knew something was terribly wrong.

My hands lunged forward, grabbing his shoulders. Pounding heartbeats filled my ears. I shook my best friend’s limp body in erratic movements. I think I was shouting his name, I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t be sure of anything in that moment. I just wanted him to open his eyes.
Needed
him to open his eyes.

I yelled his name. Or maybe I tried to yell, but no words came out? I didn’t know.

My movements, his breathing, everything felt slow. Too. Fucking. Slow.

Then I saw it.

His hand. The bottle. White pills strewn across navy blue sheets.

Fear peaked inside of me, reaching a sharp point, and piercing me from within. My fingers fumbled against his neck, trying to find his pulse. I didn’t know what I was doing, or what I was looking for, I just searched for the feel of his life underneath my fingertips.

Anxiety. Fear. Terror. Every horrible emotion consumed me, visible in my trembling hands grasping at his collared shirt. I needed him to wake up. I needed to see his quirky smile and his blue eyes filled with life. I needed to hear him obnoxiously sing along to the music like he often did while driving me to school. I just needed my best friend.

He was going to wake up.

I refused to accept anything else.

New Reality Show In The Works: Adoring fans of Careless Cockups will be tickled pink.

PopSensation.com

The contracts are written.

The cable network C&E is ready.

Careless Cockups just needs to sign on the dotted line.

The undeniably gorgeous boys of Careless Cockups have been offered a sugary sweet deal to give C&E’s cameras a sneak peek at their lives as they produce their debut album. This is rumored to be a short series that will give us insight into not only the process musicians go through while producing an album, but also showcase the personalities and inner-workings of this British band.

Careless Cockups recently signed with Wallace & Wright for a two-record deal and are due to release their first album by February.

An insider close to the label gave us the scoop. “The band will be in meetings all week to discuss this further, but Alistair Wallace is already onboard with the series. He’s confident they’ll find a middle ground that everyone will be comfortable with, the band included. And not only will the world get to see Careless Cockups on their televisions, but there will also be a pre-release tour that will hit several cities in the US and few stops in Europe.”

If you haven’t been following this band as they start their music career, you need to change that. We here at Pop Sensation are avid fans of following the Band’s social media. Jesse Bissette’s Instagram and Twitter accounts (@itsjessejessejesse) are often filled with hilarious quips and sexy photos of the London quartet in the studio.

Dylan

“This says that your production company, along with Wallace & Wright Records, will have sole ownership over
anything
Careless Cockups films on network television,” Jamie states, scanning the stack of contract papers. “Am I missing something here?”

Jesse and I make eye contact.
What?

Is this a sodding joke?

My eyes take in the reactions of everyone in the room. My mates are just as blown away as I am. Nigel looks pissed. Brooke appears equal parts enraged and shocked. And Jamie is glaring at his father. Yet, the six suited executives, Gene Mellows—our fucking lawyer—along with Ari Richards and Alistair, appear unfazed. Not the least bit surprised.

We’ve sat through two meetings regarding this reality show,
bloody lengthy as hell meetings
, and no one bothered to mention anything about giving all of our future television rights away.

Not that I’m planning on basing my career off reality shows, but why didn’t our lawyer catch this? Isn’t that what we pay him to do? Protect us from rubbish like this?

“That’s just a minor clause to ensure I stay on this project as sole producer and the band stays within the guidelines of their contract to the label,” Ari responds. He’s sitting back in the leather chair, right leg crossed and ankle resting on his knee.

“That seems like a pretty fucking huge clause if you ask me,” Jamie retorts, eyebrow raised. “Why wasn’t this discussed yesterday? You know, when everything was supposed to be explained to the six people whose lives will be affected by this?”

I’m shocked by his response. Have I entered an alternate universe? Is Jamie really going head-to-head with his father and Ari Richards on this?

The irrational side of me wants to say he’s got his own motives, and to never trust a man who’s stolen what’s mine, but the rational side of me realizes he’s not gaining anything by questioning this. Wallace & Wright is his dad’s label, one he’s rumored to take over if Alistair ever decides to retire. Why would he question a clause that has zilch to do with him or
his fiancé
, and everything to do with his label ensuring royalties from our band?

“The clause has nothing to do with Brooke or Nigel. It’s there because it needs to be,” Alistair retorts. “Stop questioning shit you know nothing about.”

Jamie’s eyes flare with anger. “Isn’t that what this meeting is for? To discuss this contract?”

Alistair doesn’t let up. “Yeah,
the band’s
questions.
Nigel and Brooke’s
questions.”

“Well,” Jamie answers, glancing around the table. “Do you guys have any concerns about that
minor
clause?”

Jesse speaks up. “I do.”

“Yeah, me too,” Alex adds, raising an eyebrow.

“And me,” Zach chimes in; skeptical eyes meeting the bland stare of our lawyer. “This sounds like something you should have picked up on when you sat down with their lawyers and reviewed this contract.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “I could understand Ari’s production company and the label would own sole rights to anything television-related during the two-record contract that we’ve already agree to, but our lawyer shouldn’t have let them slide in fine print giving away television rights for the rest of our lives. This is outrageous. We pay you to represent us. And you’re not doing your fucking job,” I respond through gritted teeth.

Now, I’m wondering what other nonsense they’ve managed to slip by us.

“We can fix this,” Gene responds, unaffected by my outburst. “If Ari and Alistair will agree to your terms, it’s a quick and easy solution.”

Yeah, fucking fix this, and then we’ll work on finding new representation.

The scary thing about Hollywood and the music industry is that even when you try to surround yourself with the right people, greedy bastards still slip past your radar. If our own lawyer is making underhanded deals that undoubtedly pad his pockets, ones that blatantly screw us over, how in the hell can we trust anyone in this industry?

I glance around the room, taking in Alistair and the various suited executives of our label. They are visibly seething over what Jamie, their Vice President, brought to light. If he hadn’t said anything, we would have signed the contract. We would have signed the contract without a clue we were being treated like a bunch of mindless twats.

The way he just went to bat for us is messing with my head. This is a man I’ve wanted to punch countless times. This is a man who is engaged to the woman I love, one who took what should be mine. And now, he’s a man who just saved us from a huge cockup.