Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (19 page)

“Oh, all right. Another time, then.” He decides, hands slipping into the pockets of his jeans.

I deny my eyes the delicious vision of his long, toned legs in faded jeans. Refuse to let them take a lengthy perusal. I will
not
give into that bittersweet satisfaction.

Green eyes turn warm, watching me in rapt attention. “Your hair is down today,” he whispers softly. Fingers brush across my cheek, sliding a rogue curl behind my ear. I fight the urge to lean into his touch. “This has always been my favorite Brooke look,” he adds, tugging on one of the long, blonde locks resting on my chest.

All I can do is stare. Stare at the affection in his bright eyes. My Bright Eyes.

He’s not your Bright Eyes anymore.

He leans closer, face mere inches from mine. “Well, what do you want to do about this weekend?” He’s smirking at me now. That damned smirk of his, so perfect yet so infuriating at the same time. It’s like he knows what that smirk does to me. He knows I’m powerless against that perfect dimple and the way his green eyes crinkle at the corners. He knows. He
has to
know.

And God, he’s too close. I can smell a hint of his cologne laced with the scent that’s only his, only Dylan. It’s bittersweet bliss to my nose, reminding me of everything I want but shouldn’t have. Everything I’m desperate for, but don’t deserve. Everything I need, but can’t have.

And it sets off a surge of anger inside my chest.

I step back, putting some much needed distance between us. “Can I get back to you on that? I don’t really have time to sit around and chat.” My tone comes out harsh and frigid.

His mouth presses into a firm line.

Out of my periphery, I catch sight of Dean’s lens moving between us. I’m hit with the stark realization that he’s still here—recording every move, every word
, every-fucking-thing.
That camera just caught our intimate exchange and the familiar way Dylan spoke to me.

Son of a bitch.

I glance at Dean behind the lens, stone-faced, and still, all business. I have no idea what he saw or thinks he saw or if he’s even thinking what just happened wasn’t normal, but I have a feeling the reason he’s still standing in this room, and not following the rest of the band, is because he senses
something
.

A whole lot of something that could stir up a whole lot of shit aimed in my direction.

Flight or fight kicking in, my eyes glance down at my phone, making a show at acting shocked at the time lighting up across the screen. “Shit, Teddy will be royally pissed at me if I’m late.” Grabbing my purse and tossing it over my shoulder, I move towards the door. “Can I get back to you on the plans?”

“Sure.” Dylan nods, eyes hardening.

I’m quick and evasive as I dash out the door, hopping in my car and starting the engine within seconds. The last thing I need is for one of the camera guys to make themselves comfortable in my passenger seat. Especially since I’m not really picking up

Teddy.

It’s safe to say I’m a coward.

And an idiot.

God, I
have
to be more aware of these cameras.

Instead of grabbing food, I head towards Millie’s house. My appetite is absent, stomach too tied up in knots to eat anything. Once I’m safely in her driveway, my head falls against the seat, and I sigh in relief. That relief is brief, ending in a flash when my phone chimes with a text message from Dylan.

‘Where do you want to work on the song this weekend?’

Such a simple text and yet it pisses me off. How can he not know what he just did in front of Dean—the all-business camera guy with the telephoto lens? I stamp out a response, fingers slamming against the screen.

‘I can’t believe you did that back there. All of it was ON CAMERA.

Have you forgotten there are cameras following us around now?!’

‘No, I haven’t forgotten. It’s just hard to know how I’m supposed to act when you’re constantly tossing out mixed signals and fucking with my head.’

Damn.
I guess he’s pissed off to. And before I can respond, another message chimes in.

‘So fucking you outside a bar?

That’s okay.

And riding my fingers inside your office?

That’s okay too.

But barely touching you and talking to you for about ten seconds in front of cameras? Not okay.

Sure, Brooke. I think I’ve got it now…It’s clear as fucking mud.’

I want to toss my phone out the window and then run over it with my car. God, I want to call him an asshole and tell him to fuck off.
But he’s right.
He’s so right.

Yeah, but he’s also being a huge prick.

‘How about just don’t fucking touch me?

Not in private. Not in front of cameras. Not ever.

Sound good?’

‘Don’t beg me then.’

Those four words might as well have been lit on fire and shoved down my throat. My eyes burn from the harsh tone I know is insinuated within his message. He just blatantly threw my lack of control—
when it comes to him
—in my face. He might as well have smacked me across the cheek with it.

In this moment, I wish I could hate him. I wish I could tell him to leave me alone and mean it. I’m wishing a lot of things right now, but none of them are reality.

My reality is that I know he’s right.

I know I deserve his ire. Actually, I deserve more than that. I deserve to have my face rubbed in the mess I’ve made. I deserve to have him call me out on all my lies and secrets in front of everyone.

I’m more than thankful he hasn’t done that. Undeniably relieved. If Dylan made it known that he and I were together in Paris—
have been together in LA
—then Jamie would be involved. And if I thought my heart cracked in half the second I saw Dylan’s eyes take in my engagement ring, I know, without a doubt, that Jamie being pulled into the middle of this would finish me off. I’m not sure I’d survive knowing I’ve added more pain to his already too full list.

I’ve earned all of this. No doubt about it.

But it still doesn’t change how I feel. I can’t stop these emotions—
this desperate need
—I have for Dylan. I want to promise myself I won’t yearn for his touch, his kiss, his eyes on me. I want to convince myself I’m not desperately in love with him.

But I can’t. I can’t promise something I don’t mean. And I can’t convince myself of something that isn’t true.

Every day I wait with bated breath, wondering, if this will be the day Dylan decides he’s done with me.

I’ve given him no reason to wait, but every reason to move on. I walked away from him in Paris, without a word, without an inkling of hope. My note couldn’t have been anymore more ambiguous. And when we were reunited in LA, he was hit with the shocking news of my engagement.

What man in his right mind would put up with that?

I’m lucky he didn’t out me to everyone the day we locked eyes in the conference room. I’m lucky he didn’t completely lose his shit and call me a lying whore, pointing out the stark fact that I had given myself to him for weeks before I flew back to LA.

I’m lucky he hasn’t outed me
since
he’s been in LA.

Twice now we’ve crossed the line. And one of those times he fucked me without a condom—luckily, without resulting in a surprised pregnancy. The other time, he got me off in my office, and Lord knows, if he had offered his cock, I wouldn’t have said no. The entire time I rode his hand, I was desperate for something else that only he could give me.

I’ve lied. I’ve avoided.

I’ve done everything
but
tell him one undeniable truth—I’m in love with him. I love him so fiercely that any second my heart threatens to burst into flames and blaze until there’s nothing left but ash.

He’d be better off walking away from this mess,
from me
. But I know without a doubt, having to sit back and watch him move on with someone else will kill me. It will tear my soul straight out of my body.

But isn’t that what he deserves? To move on? To be able to move past what he and I shared in Paris and find someone who is worthy of him?

Someone who doesn’t cause him pain. A girl he can fall in love with and who will actually tell him she loves him too. A girl who isn’t shouldering enough baggage to fill an entire cargo plane.

Obviously, I love him. I love him so deeply, his name has been sewn within my heart since the moment he painted pink polka-dots across my hands and told me I was still beautiful, despite the scars of my past.

But do I love him enough to just let him go? Do I love him enough to make a grand gesture that will give him the closure to move on?

Grabbing my journal off my nightstand, I sit cross-legged on my bed and pour my thoughts onto the paper, the pen hardly keeping up with the quick pace of my hand.

Dear Lilah Belle,

You are a coward.

You are selfish.

You are cruel.

You don’t deserve Dylan.

And he doesn’t deserve this. Jamie doesn’t deserve this.

This terrible fucking mess that you’ve put everyone in.

You made your decision. You said yes to Jamie. You walked away from Dylan.

You made your promise to Jamie, a promise you intend to keep, no matter how hard it may be.

Dylan isn’t your Bright Eyes anymore.

He deserves to be someone else’s.

Give him that.

Let him go.

LET HIM GO.

More later,

B

Standing in front of my bedroom mirror, I stare at my reflection. From my long, blonde curls to the tips of my toes, I just stand there, staring, taking in every facet of my features. I have the strong urge to shed something, to let something go, a symbolization in a way.

My hair has gotten so long it reaches my lower back. Blonde curls twisted in chaos. I think about all of the times Dylan has slipped his hands through these locks, savoring their feel, inhaling their scent. I think about the way his fingers slid a loose curl out of my eyes, tucking it gently behind my ear, and all of the times he did that very same gesture in Paris.

Picking up my phone, I shoot Ember a text.

‘I need your help with something.’

‘Okay…I’m at the shop right now.’

‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Get the scissors ready.’

‘Huh?’

‘I need you to cut my hair.’

‘Like a trim?’

‘No. Something more drastic than that.’

‘Whaaaaaaat?’

‘Just get the scissors. I’ll be there shortly.’

“Are you sure you really want to do this?” Ember asks, wide eyes staring at me through the mirror. The scissors are clutched in her hands like she’s bracing for the zombie apocalypse.

“It’s just hair, Em,” I sigh, sitting down in the salon chair.

My sister is a genius when it comes to hair. Honestly, if we hadn’t opened Wild Spirit, she would have started her own salon. She has a list a mile long of regulars, which explains the makeshift salon in one of the backrooms at the shop. And since she’s my sister and ridiculously talented, it goes without saying she’s the only person I let touch my hair. Which is a very rare occasion. I’ve always preferred to keep my locks their natural blonde color, and their length long and flowing. I can’t tell you how many times Ember has begged to do more than my every three months’ trim.

But now, she’s staring at me like I’m asking her to buzz it.

“Seriously, stop looking at me like that. I just need you to chop it. Give me a cute bob or whatever you think will look good at a much shorter length.”

Ember’s brown eyes crinkle in uncertainty. “Brooke, this feels a little crazy. I mean, what in the hell is going on with you? You barely let me trim your hair, much less chop it. Why do you want something so drastic?”

“I just do, okay?”

“Is this because of the reality show? Are you feeling too much pressure? I mean, I get it, but I don’t think it warrants a radical hair change.”

I groan. “Em, please don’t question this. Just cut my damn hair. It’s just hair, okay? No big deal. And if I don’t like it, it’ll grow back or I’ll get extensions.”

“Extensions?”
She huffs out a laugh. “Coming from the girl who rarely blow dries her hair and gets a trim every three months because I demand she lets me cut off the dead ends. Honey, you wouldn’t be able to manage the up-keep for extensions. And I’m refusing to dye your hair. It’s not happening. You’re, like, the only real blonde left in LA. Women would literally throw themselves off buildings to have your natural color.”

She points the scissors at me. “And don’t even think about buying a box of hair dye. I will end you if you change your color.
End. You.
Slowly and painfully too.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh my god, don’t be such a psycho. I’m not asking for jet black or purple, I just want a nice, warm shade of brown.”

“This. This is what it would look like.” Ember points to her brown locks, which are currently highlighted with hot pink streaks. Anyone else and I’d probably hate it, but my sister can literally pull off any shade. “And I’m not doing it. So get that crazy ass, horrible idea out of your head.”

“So, basically, what you’re telling me is that you won’t dye my hair? And you’re also refusing to chop it?” I raise a pointed eyebrow. “I think I need a new stylist.”

“First of all, you’re wanting me to dye your gorgeous, golden hair a stupid shade of brown and chop off like a million inches!” she yells. “Brooke! This is insane. I’m having flashbacks of Britney Spears buzzing her head.”

A laugh escapes me. “Oh my god! I’m not asking you to buzz it. Just darken the color and shorten up the length a bit.”

“A bit?
You’re asking me to chop off the beautiful hair,
that’s nearly reaching your ass
, and bring it up past your shoulders. That is a lot of hair, Brooke.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” I say, standing up from the chair. “Fine. If you can’t do it, I’ll do it. Give me the scissors.”

She clutches the scissors to her chest. “No way. I’m not letting you butcher your gorgeous hair.”

We stand there, staring at each other for a good minute, before she finally realizes I’m not messing around. I’m one-hundred percent serious.