Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (23 page)

“All right,” I sigh. “But the second it’s too much, say the word. We’ve got all weekend, and besides, I think we could send Nigel a pic of your war bandages, and I’m sure he’d understand if we didn’t get it done.”

“Jimi Hendrix himself would have to come back from the dead before I’d let you get photographic proof of my current mummy-like state.”

“I’d say it’s more pirate imitating a mummy.”

She laughs. “Shut it, Bissette, and hand me the lyrics.”

Grabbing my guitar and backpack from the hallway, I sit back down beside her. “Okay, but I need to warn you,” I add, hesitantly setting the notebook on the coffee table. This is going to be the hardest part of working on
this song
with her.
Blur
was written with Brooke in mind, and I have no doubt she’s going to realize that the second she reads the lyrics.

“
Okaaaay,”
she says, eyebrows rising in curiosity.

“This song, well…” I pause, scrubbing a hand down my face and glancing at her with hesitancy in my eyes.

Her head tilts to the side, confusion etched on her bandaged face.

“I wrote this song after…” I pause again, trying to find the balls to just tell her, or more appropriately,
warn her.

“You wrote this song after what? Just spit it out, Dylan,” she says with an unaware smile.

Is she really this oblivious?
She has to know I’m a little freaked out for her to read these lyrics because the song has everything to do with her. Honestly, I’m baffled she hasn’t figured that part out yet.

“Brooke,” I say, guilty smile consuming my face. “C’mon, love, you have to know why I’m trying to give you a heads up about the lyrics before you read them.”

Her eyes scrunch up in confusion for a brief second before popping wide open.
“Oh,”
she says, mouth mimicking her words and morphing into a tiny ‘O’ of surprise.

A nervous laugh escapes me. “Yeah, I kind of wrote the lyrics after that night at Bar Marmont.”

“Wow,” she mutters. “I don’t even know what to say…Are they…Are they bad? The lyrics I mean, are they…
hurtful?”

“No, Brooke. I would never do something like that.” Eyes downcast, I run my fingers through my hair. My chest aches over the fact she’d think I’d write a cruel song about her. Even after she’s subjected me to a blur of horrible, heart-wrenching emotions, I still can’t fathom purposefully hurting her because I love her. I really fucking love her.

I know I’ve said rude things to her, and I know I’ve lashed out, but those were in the heat of the moment. I’d never rationally spew spiteful words in the form of a song. That is far too cold and calculated. And something I would never do to her.

Eventually, my eyes look up, noting the uncomfortable expression on Brooke’s face. She averts her gaze, teeth worrying her bottom lip.

My hand reaches out, gripping her chin and returning her gaze to mine. “I would never do something like that, love. Okay?”

She nods, teeth releasing her lip.

Staring at her forlorn expression, I mull over my options. I can be a pushy bastard and ask her all of the questions I’m dying to know.
Why did you do this? Why didn’t you tell me about Jamie? Why did you string me along in Paris? How could you still be engaged to someone else after you’ve experienced how perfect we are together?

Or, I could take my brother’s advice.

I take a deep breath and find the balls to choose the latter. “I can promise you I would never do something to intentionally hurt you. I’d say it’s obvious between both of us that you hurt me real fucking bad. And I’d say it’s also apparent when I saw you again in LA and found out you were engaged, I wasn’t all too happy about that news. But I can see that your intentions are to marry Jamie.

“I’m not going to ask the why and how and what really happened. It’s not my business anymore. That part of your life isn’t my business. I don’t want any of that to interfere with our friendship, okay? I really want us to be able to move past this, Brooke. I really want us to be able to work together and be friends while we do it.”

Her visible eye blinks several times, focusing on the fingers fidgeting with the guitar in her lap. She inhales and exhales a breath, and then nods, softly agreeing, “I want that too.”

Ignoring her saddened expression, I push forward, forcing a smile on my face. “All right, well, now I feel a lot better about you reading these lyrics,” I add, opening my notebook and handing it to her.

She reads through them. I’m not sure if the tension in her face is from physical or emotional pain, but it’s definitely there, visible in the furrow of her brow and tight, firm line of her mouth.

Once she’s finished, she sets the notebook beside me on the couch. “Those are good, Dylan. They’re really good. Would you mind running through a few riffs you think match the words?”

“You want me to play the whole song?”

She nods. “That’d be great, actually. It’ll give me a better idea of where your head is at in terms of style and sound.”

“Okay, but it’s real rough, so no mocking me, Sawyer,” I joke, adjusting my guitar in my lap.

She just smirks and gestures for me to play.

So I do.

In a calculated way, I’m trying to use this song, and these lyrics, to convey a cryptic message for her. Obviously, I don’t want to just be friends.
Fuck that nonsense
. I want to be everything with her. Friends. Lovers. Together. I want it all.

And I’ll play the friendship card if it means getting close enough to Brooke to get her to let her guard down and open herself up to me. I’ll do it for as long as I bloody have to, if it means getting her to realize she’s about to make a big fucking mistake by marrying Jamie.

I’m going to do whatever it takes to get Brooke to open her pretty little eyes.

And I might be a bastard, and it might be completely evil to feel this way, but I can’t deny the satisfaction I’m getting from the guarded look in her eyes as I sing these lyrics. I know she’s trying to hide the fact that the words are getting to her. The feelings, the emotions, the sentiments I conveyed in these lyrics are doing exactly what they’re supposed to.

They’re making Brooke think about things, about us, about all the reasons why we belong together.

Blur

Baby, don’t ignore our melody

I know what your eyes are tellin’ me

I still feel you

I still need you

I’m trying to live through this mess

My heart’s convinced it’s worth the stress

I still feel you

I still need you

I taste your love, my pain

Don’t let us be a shame

I’ll even take my time

I’ll show you that your mine

Baby, that golden gaze

Transports me to our Paris haze

Let it be me

Let it be me

I’m not going to waste one line

Because I know you’re not fine

Give me that perfect kiss

I’ll erase that regret off your lips

It should be me

It should be me

We’re not a tragic story

I know what your silence is tellin’ me

I still feel you

I still need you

Baby, our colors are still a blur

But I’ll always be sure

I still need you

I still love you

We managed to work on the song for a good three hours before Brooke threw in the towel. She was getting too uncomfortable. Which brings us to why we’re currently lying on her bed—
after
indulging in some of
Millie’s Mary Jane—
and
watching reruns of
The Office
.

It’s the British version, mind you, and Brooke is giggling like a lunatic.

“I told you this is the best version. The UK version of
The Office
kicks the US version’s arse.”

“Oh, go fuck your face, Bright Eyes,” she says, encouraging another giggling fit to consume her. Brooke is now turned over on her back laughing her little arse off.

I didn’t miss the Bright Eyes sentiment.

She hasn’t called me that since Paris. Christ, this girl has a one-way ticket to my pathetic heart. All it takes is two measly words out of her mouth and I want to fall to my knees like a twat, begging her to call off the engagement and run off to Vegas and marry me.

But I don’t. For one, that’s not the plan, but mostly because I’m too blazed to remember how to work my legs. Brooke’s grandmum had quite the weed hookup. To say it’s some potent shite is an understatement. One bloody hit and my face went numb.

Brooke’s hair is strewn across her face. I lean on my side, sliding the curls out of the way, and staring at her endearing expression. “Fuck my face?”

She nods, grinning.

“My you’ve got a way with words. I think we should scratch the lyrics I wrote for
Blur
, and let you rewrite the whole song,” I tease, grinning at her, and caressing her cheek with my thumb.

Her eyes turn soft. Well,
her good eye turns soft.
She inhales an uneven breath, never releasing her hold on my gaze.

And we just stare at each. Not saying any words. Just taking each other in.

I’m sure the weed isn’t helping our cause. Being high has a way of releasing your inhibitions, sometimes more so than alcohol ever could. I feel weightless, yet an invisible string ties my soul to hers, constantly tugging me forward and pulling me into her orbit.

My eyes glance at her lips. Her full, soft lips that are a vibrant pink hue. I want those lips. I want them so fucking bad, but I remember how Brooke has refused me those perfect lips.

But she’s staring at my lips too.

I watch her tongue slip out from her mouth and softly swipe across her bottom lip.

She’s begging me with her gaze, begging for me to kiss her.

Shutting my eyes, I try to gain some perspective. I know I’m not in my right mind. I know she’s not in her right mind. I know both of us, together not in our right minds equals a recipe for disaster—or perfection, depending how I look at it.

But I don’t want this.

I want Brooke when she’s clear-headed.

I want Brooke, rational and without any type of influence, to choose me because she understands we belong together.

Now is not that time.

Somehow, someway, I dig deep within myself and grab ahold of reason. I lean forward, softly pressing my lips to her forehead.

Her fingers grab ahold of my shirt, urging me closer, but I resist.

“I think I better go,” I say, quietly.

She releases my shirt, looking at me confused.

I sit up on the edge of her bed, staring down at her with a warm smile. “It’s getting late, and I was hoping we could both get back to work on the song tomorrow morning.”

“Oh,” she mutters, adjusting her robe and sitting up beside me. “You could stay here if you want?”

Christ, she’s making this hard.
Literally and figuratively.
“I appreciate the offer, but I think it’s best if I go back to the house tonight.”

“I guess that’s probably a good idea,” she agrees, voice small. “Do you want me to drive you?”

I flash a knowing look.

“Oh, right,” she says, shaking her head. “Probably not the best time to get behind the wheel.”

“No, probably not,” I agree, laughing lightly. “Plus, it’s only a five minute walk.” I stand up from her bed, and despite every cell in my body trying to gravitate back to Brooke, I find the strength to walk towards the door. “Call me when you wake up tomorrow?”

She nods, but doesn’t meet my eyes. Her fingers fidget with the material of her robe. The lamp from the bedside table casts shadows over her face, hiding the expression I’m so desperate to see.

I want her to be disappointed.

I want her to be upset.

I want her to be wishing I were staying right here with her.

But I can’t see the look on her face, and I know, if I don’t walk out of her bedroom door in the next two seconds, I’ll never leave.

“Sleep well, Brooke. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I find the strength to leave her sitting on the bed, head still down and hands still clutching the material of her robe.

Before walking out the front door, I stop in the kitchen and pull a book from my backpack. It’s a copy of
Memories of Suffocation
. The book Brooke urged me to read while she was in Paris. She actually left her copy in my flat, which has now been mailed to Florence, Italy, on a top-secret mission. One that I’m praying will work out.

And since I remember her saying how often she reads this book, I wanted to make sure she still had a copy on hand while hers is otherwise occupied.

Setting the novel on the counter, I write out a quick note.

Brooke,

I wanted to make sure you had a copy to read. (Since you left yours in Paris.)

I still can’t fathom how you have the strength to read this book over and over again.

It literally tore my heart out.

But I can’t deny I loved it.

Thanks for sharing this with me,

Dylan