Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (7 page)

In the spirit of “getting back at his younger brother,” we encouraged him to at least start his own Instagram. He laughed off our efforts, but told us he’d keep it in mind.

Ladies, we can’t say we didn’t give it our best effort to get the swoon-worthy lead singer to join the world of social media, even offering to setup an Instagram for him. Don’t worry. We’ll keep trying in hopes that his kind of payback will be shirtless pictures of Careless Cockups’ sexy drummer.

Our cameras will continue to stay live outside Bar Marmont to bring more celebrity spottings your way.

4 weeks later

Brooke

Screw the gorgeous California sun, slowly setting in the distance. This beautiful weather—crystal clear, aquamarine skies for days—can suck it. And don’t even get me started on the perfect, seventy-degree temps.

LA and all its beauty can go fuck itself for all I care.

People are smiling, enjoying a nice evening stroll, run, or bike ride. My neighbors wave as I pass them in the stupid convertible I’m starting to regret purchasing. And it takes every ounce of willpower not to flip them off.

I’m driving through the hills of Laurel Canyon and birds are chirping like I’m in a goddamn Disney movie. Any minute, Cinderella is going to run in front of my car, and I swear on platinum albums, I’m not slowing down. Glass slipper and fairy godmother be damned, I’ll run right over the bitch.

It’s safe to say, I’m in a black mood.

The last four weeks have been hell working closely with Dylan in the studio. Normally, I’m blessed with a two-day break from recording, but the pace Alistair wants to get Careless Cockups’ album released has us riding a grueling schedule. We’re doing six, sometimes seven days a week. Nearly every day, twelve hours a day, I’m cooped up in the studio with the band, with
him
.

It’s emotionally exhausting playing this part, pretending that nothing has ever happened between us. I have to act unaffected by his close proximity. Every time I find myself watching him, I have to focus my eyes on something else. I can’t let my true feelings show. And sometimes, just being this close to him is so intense, I have to walk out of the room and catch my breath. If this constant unease sitting inside my belly wasn’t there, letting me know just how alive I am, I’d be convinced I’m in hell.

And I can’t even begin to explain the way he acts towards me. He looks at me like I’m the hair in his food at an expensive restaurant. Disgust. Apparently, we’ve moved past the anger stage, and now I just disgust him. He goes out of his way to sit across the room from me rather than beside me. He makes a point to ask Nigel for advice rather than me. And he’ll walk right out of the studio before he lets himself be left alone with me.

Each disgusted look, blank stare, and purposefully turned back cut deep. His overall attitude towards me is the knife in this scenario—slicing erratically and without restraint into my already wounded heart. It’s a shock I haven’t bled out by now.

And don’t even get me started on the fact that he doesn’t remember a thing about that night at the band’s house. The night I kissed him and almost let things go further. If it wasn’t for him pulling away, and then me realizing just how fucked up he was, I know I wouldn’t have stopped him. I would have given him everything. Well, everything besides my lips. His kiss means…it just means
more
. And it’s the one thing that has the power to truly break me and ruin everything.

I pull up to Bar Marmont, handing the keys off to the valet. Stepping through the doors, I’m instantly overwhelmed by the time and money that went into planning this affair. Wallace & Wright Records reserved one of the most talked about celebrity hot spots nestled inside the Hollywood Hills. And the executives have thrown together quite the shindig in celebration of signing Careless Cockups to their label. Well, their assistants did the actual hard work in planning and setting up the party, but the money, the money came directly from the big-shot executives’ wallets. But in true Hollywood fashion, no one is talking about the team of assistants that worked their asses off to organize this kickass party. They’re too busy schmoozing and ego-stroking Alistair Wallace.

I’ve never understood why the people who actually deserve the credit, the people who do the real work in putting something together, never get the credit. Accolades are prejudiced little bitches, always choosing money and fame over anything else. I hate that I’m bitter when it comes to the politics of the music industry, but the view I have behind the scenes isn’t exactly roses and daisies. I’ve seen it all—the greed, the materialism, and the selfish priorities that desecrate the soul. I’ve witnessed a lot of bullshit, and sometimes I wonder if staying in the music industry is really worth it.

It’s times like these, watching the politics play out—the ass kissing, the fake smiles, the smug handshakes—that make me want to grab Jamie and say fuck it, let’s get the hell out of here and start our own label,
now
.

But I can’t deny that the party is spectacular, and this band deserves the giant gesture, no matter the intentions behind it.

My eyes seek out Jamie. He’s standing beside his father, mingling with a famous Hollywood director. I slide my arm inside his, kissing him softly on the cheek.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he whispers into my ear.

“How’s it going?”

He hands me a glass of champagne from a server’s tray. “Oh, you know, the usual, baby girl.”

“You okay?” I scrutinize his face, noting the tiredness in his eyes. Of course, Jamie looks handsome. He’s gorgeous in that all-American, boy-next-door kind of way. Between his chestnut hair and warm blue eyes, he’s basically a walking magazine ad. But tonight, his skin is too pale, eyes more gray than blue.

Wrapping an arm around my shoulder, he pulls me into his side. “Don’t worry about me. I’m good, sweetheart. A little tired, but good. I hope you’ll understand when I sneak out of here a little early.”

“Of course. Leave whenever you need to. I can handle your father.”

Kissing my temple, he whispers, “Love you, Brooke.”

I grin up at him. “Love you, too.”

“Dylan,” Jamie greets, holding his hand out in a welcoming gesture.

Every muscle in my body straightens in response. Dylan shakes his hand, gaze latching onto mine. His mouth morphs from tight smile to firm line as his eyes assess the affectionate way Jamie tucks me into his side. I have the sudden urge to flee, to remove Jamie’s arm from my waist and head straight for the door.

“Brooke,
darling,
I didn’t see you come in.” Alistair’s booming voice makes me jump. “Jamie, Dylan,” he greets, shaking both of the guys’ hands.

Alistair pulls me in for a hug, offering a kiss on my cheek. Grabbing my left hand, he assesses the diamond ring with a smug smile. “Wow. Just look at this ring. You know what this looks like?” he asks, smug smile cresting his lips. “This looks like a multimillion dollar trust fund just waiting to happen.”

My jaw drops. I snatch my hand away, not caring how rude I probably look.

Did he really just say that?

Jamie looks disgusted.

Dylan looks confused and a little shocked. Eventually, his eyes meet mine. They’re burning with anger, but I can’t pinpoint why. Is it because of what Alistair said? Or just Jamie in general?

And in true Alistair fashion, he’s still smiling that smug grin. Too self-involved to care about how his words came across.

“Dad, Mitch Howard was looking for you,” Jamie updates, tucking me into his side again. “You should go find him.”

“Fantastic idea, son.” Alistair pats him on the shoulder, and then strides across the room.

Jamie clears his throat. “So, how’s the big night going, Dylan? Enjoying yourself?”

“I was,” Dylan responds, eyes peering down at the hand on my hip.

God, what’s his problem? If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was jealous, but considering he can’t go one minute without looking at me like I’m gum on his shoe, I know that’s not the case. Because to him, I’m a nuisance—algae in a pool, ants at a picnic, the horrible buzzing noise of an alarm clock. I’m someone he’d probably rather forget. He’s made a point to avoid anything and everything to do with me outside of the studio. Sure, he’s nice enough when we’re working, keeping any conversation we have focused on music, but it’s safe to say he’d rather drop dead than be stuck in a room alone with me.

“Well, I hope you’re able to sneak in a little downtime to enjoy yourself. I know my father can be a bit of a pretentious dick when it comes to parties like these. He’s probably already forced you into meeting and greeting everyone here.”

Dylan just nods in response, green eyes growing darker by the second.

Jesus Christ, this is uncomfortable.

“If Alistair heard you say that, he’d die of a coronary.” I force a laugh, stepping away from Jamie. He glances at me, curiosity in his blue eyes. “I’m just going to grab a quick drink. Need anything?”

Jamie smiles, shaking his head. “No thanks, baby girl.”

“Dylan?”

“No thanks,
baby girl
,” he says, accented tone revealing his sarcasm.

Internally, I cringe, but Jamie just laughs, still oblivious of Dylan’s intent. “You’ll have to excuse the nicknames,” he adds, “I’ve known Brooke since we were kids. Sometimes old habits die hard.”

Like a goddamn superhero, Nigel walks over to save the day. He asks Dylan if he’s had the chance to meet Spike Bay, one of my favorite music video producers, whom I’m sure Alistair has already contacted to discuss working on a few Careless Cockups projects. Nigel leads Dylan towards the other end of the room, and my lungs release a much-needed breath of relief.

“Brooke?” Jamie grabs my attention. “Grab me a glass of champagne, okay?”

Huh? Champagne? Oh, right. That was my original excuse for fleeing the scene like a criminal.
You are a criminal,
my mind taunts.
You’re lying to everyone
,
even Jamie.

“Sure thing, Jame.” I head towards the bar, but think better of it, and give myself a few moments inside the ladies restroom to pull myself together.

An hour later, I make a point to keep Alistair distracted, giving Jamie the freedom to sneak out whenever he wants. I stick by Alistair’s side as he makes his way around the room. He introduces me to a few people, and I play the part, keeping a smile glued to my face, feigning interest in otherwise boring small talk.

Eventually, when I’m able to grab a few quiet moments to myself, I find Jesse and Zach at the bar, drinking beers and taking in the crowd.

“Congrats on the big night, guys,” I offer, before waving down the bartender and ordering a vodka and Sprite.

“Thanks, Tinkerbell,” Jesse says quietly into my ear. Considering what I’ve done to his brother, I’m surprised he can even look at me without cursing my name.

I can’t even begin to explain how thankful I am that neither Jesse nor Alex give off any signs that I’ve already met them. Inside the studio, we’ve managed to fall into a comfortable partnership. I guess there’s one thing to be grateful for—the fact that I can still work side-by-side with the rest of the band without awkwardness or tension.

“So, Brooke, I don’t think you’ve really gotten to know Zach yet.”

I shake my head. “I guess I haven’t. It’s crazy how even though we’ve been cooped up in the studio for the past month, I don’t know anything about you besides the fact that you rock the bass and drink a minimum of six cups of coffee a day.”

“So true,” Zach agrees with a smile. “Coffee is my lifeline. It’s my body’s version of water.”

I nod towards his beer. “Unless you’re drinking beer, right?”

He chuckles. “Exactly.”

“And I can relate to your caffeine sentiment. If I’m breathing, I’m drinking coffee.”

“A girl after my own heart,” he teases.

Jesse starts rubbing his hand over Zach’s cheek. “This adorable, little bear cub has been hibernating for the past eight months, mending his broken heart.” He leans towards my ear again, and adds, “It’s one of the reasons you didn’t get to meet him in Paris. Well, that, and the fact that he was busy getting us signed while he was in London.”

“Please don't tell her that while you're stroking my face.” Zach retorts, pulling away from Jesse’s hand.

He grins in response. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I forgot how much PDA embarrasses you.”

Zach sighs, shaking his head. “I’m sorry I forgot how sodding weird you are. Seriously, I did for about two minutes, but now the weird memories are just pouring in, mate.”

I can only imagine the kind of memories that Jesse Bissette creates. He’s one-of-kind. Although, the jury is still out on which
kind
describes him. Good one-of-a-kind or bad one-of-a-kind?

He has to be equal parts devil and angel.

My mind wanders towards what teenage Jesse would have been like back in the day. I can picture a sixteen-year-old version of him picking a girl up for their first date. He probably came to the door and chatted it up with her dad for a little while. Maybe even brought her flowers to make a good impression. He promised the girl’s dad that she’d be home by curfew, and they walked out to his car. He might have even taken her to a nice dinner, sweet and mannerly throughout their entire meal. But after they finished their meal, he probably got that pretty, wholesome, girl-next-door to bong beers in his backseat.