Forget (Changing Colors Book 1)

by Alcorn, N. A.

‘That’s a hard order to fill.’

  An order he’s probably already filled, my mind screams. Multiple times, in fact.

  ‘I’m nothing if not determined.’

  And he’s nothing if not prompt, considering it’s only been two weeks since I first met him.

  But the real question that’s racing through my head is how much longer can I play this game with him before I’m in too deep?

  Tonight, I’m learning the real Paris nightlife is not in bars or clubs, but in homes. One of Lindsay’s model friends invited us to a house party inside her chic flat. It lies mere blocks from the Champs-Elysees. Clair is a Paris native whom Lindsay met while doing a runway show together in New York.

  We brought Jesse and Dylan along for the ride, and the second they walked through the door they were bombarded with familiar friendly faces. Apparently the Paris house party scene is quite exclusive, and securing an invite can be a difficult task, but once you’re in, you’re pretty much set for life by networking standards. Hence, the “everyone knows everyone” kind of vibe I’ve getting.

  It reminds me a lot of L.A. If I didn’t have connections through Jamie and the label, my couch, Doritos, and reruns of Friends on Netflix would make up all of my Friday and Saturday nights. Which, don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing better than sitting on my couch, sans pants, while stuffing my face with junk food, but I’m glad it’s not my every Friday and Saturday night routine.

  When my bladder starts screaming for release, I excuse myself from a conversation Dylan and I are having with a famous French director—See what I mean by exclusivity?—and head to the bathroom. Unfortunately for me, my best friend decides it’s a good time for a pow-wow, which explains my current state—skirt pulled up, underwear around my ankles, and Lindsay watching.

  “Are you going to stare at me while I pee? I never pegged you as the voyeur type.” Lindsay is leaning against the wall—arms crossed and eyes on me—while I try to pee in Claire’s master bathroom. “And seriously, it’s creeping me out.” I lean back a little, trying to hide behind the small partition.

  She shrugs, mildly amused. “I’m just curious what kind of wiper you are. Are you the adventurous chick who plants her ass right on the seat, even while she wipes? Or are you a hoverer, too worried about germs and other people’s piss to let your precious ass make contact with the toilet?”

  I stifle a laugh. If I didn’t love her so much, her random weirdness and current inability to understand personal space would be grounds for disownment. “I’m the ‘stop fucking staring at me so I can finish pissing’ kind of wiper. You know, like most people.”

  Lindsay waves an arm in the air. “Oh please, Brookie. We’re not most people. We’re best fucking friends. Hell . . .” she pauses, eyebrows scrunching for a beat and then continues, “I probably know your pussy better than mine at this point in our relationship,” she says, far too loud for this small room. Her mouth may as well be attached to a megaphone.

  “You’ve never seen my pussy, ya freak!” I refute through a half-laugh, half-cough.

  She smirks. “I know . . . I only said that because I thought I heard someone walking into Claire’s bedroom. Figured I’d scare them into leaving. I have zero desire to witness two idiots screwing like drunken bunnies when we exit this bathroom.” She’s still standing there, chatting with me like we’re having afternoon tea. “Speaking of drunk sex, why does it always feel so hot at the time? But the next day, once you’re good and sober, you realize that a guy grunting and calling himself Big Papa isn’t hot? I swear if I had to watch a sober replay of me having drunk sex, it’d be all sorts of horrible dirty talk and uncoordinated thrusting.”

  I ignore the drunken sex ramble, knowing that if I add to it, she’ll go on for days. “I’m pretty sure that comment about ‘knowing my pussy better than yours’ wouldn’t scare anyone off. If there’s a perv outside the door, no doubt their ears are pressed against it, hoping to hear two chicks finger-banging each other.”

  Lindsay cups her hand over her mouth, shouting, “Oh! Oh! Right there, Brooke! You’re so good! So. Fucking. Good!” She bangs the back of her head against the wall to bring it on home.

  I can’t hide my grin or my laughter. “I swear to God, if my underwear wasn’t around my ankles, I’d be smacking you right now.”

  She smirks, catching her breath, post fake climax. “Please, tell me, you’re not dropping a deuce.”

  I roll my eyes. “Now, that would have been a better choice of words to scare people off. And seriously, Lindsay? Even if I had to shit, you can guarantee I’d be holding it or finding a way to make a quick exit. No one wants to be the Party Shitter. I’d risk constipation to avoid that label.”

  “Good point. That’s a label you can’t undo until everyone is blitzed, and even then, it might stick depending what havoc you wreaked inside the bathroom.” She moves towards the sink, rummaging through her clutch. I take the opportunity to finish up, sans creepy eyes trying to decipher which type of wiper I am.

  “Jesus, I swear you just peed for like fifteen minutes.”

  “Thanks for the play by play.” I turn on the faucet, washing my hands with Claire’s designer hand soap.

  Lindsay is fussing with her hair in the mirror. “Why does Dylan call you Little Wing?” she asks, blinking up to my reflection. “Seriously, what exactly is going on with you two? It all seems a little more than . . . how did you put it . . . friendly.” She uses air quotes with one hand, re-applying her lip gloss with the other.

  “Linds, I—I don’t even know where to start . . .” I sigh, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye.

  She shoves everything back into her clutch—it’s Prada by the way—and turns towards me. “Generally, the beginning is a good place to start, darling.” Lindsay’s the picture of impatience—arms crossed, foot tapping, and hip resting against the bay of his-and-her sinks.

  “He’s kind of amazing . . . Gives the best compliments . . . says all the right things . . .” I’m pretty much word vomiting all over the bathroom, giving her the highlight reel of Dylan and me.

  “ . . . The nickname is from a Jimi Hendrix song . . . Musically, I’ve never been so in-tune with someone . . . We’ve kissed a few times . . . God, he has the best lips . . . He’s like this sexy mix of alpha male and sweetest guy on the planet, like Jim Halpert from The Office mixed with the Daniel Craig version of James Bond. . . . Hell, maybe he’s not real, maybe I’ve gone crazy, and Dylan is just some mythical creature I’ve created in my brain.”

  She pinches my forearm hard enough to bruise.

  “Ow!” It smarts like a mother fucker. “What was that for?” I ask, holding my arm.

  “It’s real, darling. He’s not a figment of your imagination. He’s real, unbelievably gorgeous, and for the love of all that’s horny, if his English accent wasn’t enough, I think I came just hearing him speak French tonight. So, just to make sure I have all the details right, you’ve had a handful of make out sessions, felt his forearm-sized cock against your leg, and dry humped him—”

  Holding up a hand, I cut her off. “Slow your roll, Susie. I never said anything about the size of his cock.”

  “I know you didn’t give exact measurements, but the way your cheeks blushed when I asked about the size of his dick was answer enough. Don’t deny it, Brooke. The boy is hung.”

  “You act like you’re talking to someone who actually has enough experience to judge!” In the “how many dicks have I seen in person department,” I could literally count on one hand.

  “When you felt him grinding against you, did you think, Oh, there’s his dick, or did you think, Holy mother fucking shit, what kind of horse cock is this guy packing inside his pants?”

  I laugh because who wouldn’t laugh at that explanation. “I’m not even humoring you with a response.”

  “My advice, bang that half-French, half-English boy’s brains out.”

  “I barely know him, Lindsay. I’m not like you. I don’t bang right of
f the bat.”

  She flashes a questioning look.

  “Look, I’m not judging. Having one-night stands is fine. Honestly, there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just not me.”

  “This has nothing to do with being a one-night stand kind of girl and everything to do with a certain someone who lives in L.A. You need to stop worrying about him, Brooke. He’s not here. You’re here. And Dylan’s here. You need to let go. Do this for you.”

  “I can’t do that that to Jamie. I’ve known him my whole life.” A part of me thinks if I had the chance to talk to Jamie about the way I’m feeling, he would understand, and I wouldn’t feel so fucking guilty.

  “Yeah, he knew you his whole life, too, when we flew to L.A. a day early for spring break and found him in bed with not one, but two women.” Her venomous tone stings.

  My jaw drops in utter shock. I can’t believe she brought that up.

  “Look, I’m not trying to upset you or tell you what to do. But I don’t want you to regret not giving something a chance that deserves a chance. This crazy chemistry between you and Dylan is amazing. The way he looks at you tells me that it wouldn’t be one-night-stand kind of sex. It’d be straight-up, missionary, solid eye contact, and sweet nothings whispered into your ear, Little Wing.” She grins at me, trying to soften that punch to the gut she just threw a minute ago.

  “Do yourself a favor and just forget about the random questions and worries and concerns running through your head. Let go of all the bullshit, and take some advice from Millie, live in the moment.” She pulls me in for a tight hug, whispering into my ear, “And darling, right now, Dylan is your moment. The feeling between you two is very much mutual.”

  Her serious tone takes me by surprise. I let her words soak in, busying myself with taming down my hair. Lindsay shoves everything back into her clutch and moves towards the door. “I’ll give you a minute,” she says, leaving the bathroom.

  I rest my hip against the sink, running my index finger across my bottom lip. The lemon-scented hand soap is still fresh on my skin, reminding me of Millie. She would be so proud of Lindsay’s little pep talk. And my best friend is right. Mille would want me to live in the moment. She’d want me to enjoy all of the little things. She’d want me to give Dylan a chance.

  It’s the little things, Lilah Belle, Millie’s voice whispers into my ear.

  My mind pulls a memory out of storage. I’m ten and sitting on my grandmother’s bed. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I cried over harsh words that were said, by a girl I considered my best friend. My grandmother sat me down in her favorite rocking chair and brushed my hair. She had this innate way about her, always knowing when it was the right time to listen, and when it was the right time to bestow her wisdom.

  “I know it feels like this is the worst pain you’ll ever feel, but I promise, years from now those words that broke your heart, won’t seem as big or powerful as they do right now.” She said, smiling softly at me through her vanity mirror.

  I huffed out an exasperated sigh. “I’m never going to forget what she said to me, Millie. I’m never going to forgive Sara for being so mean.” My ten-year-old brain was convinced that I’d never go through something as terrible as overhearing my best friend talking behind my back.

  Millie didn’t laugh at my overreaction, she just listened, and acknowledged that my feelings were valid, and told me it was okay to cry. Once my tears slowed, and my breaths evened out, my wise grandmother pulled me straight out of my negative mindset. “Remember that time I caught you and Ember holed up in your bedroom with all of my makeup?”

  I nodded. My sister and I were inspired to give each other makeovers after watching a Full House episode where D.J. and Kimmy try their hand at makeup.

  “I found Ember with a face-full of rouge lipstick, and you with enough pink eyeshadow to see you through college.”

  “We ruined your makeup,” I admitted, face mimicking the guilt I felt.

  “Did I yell at you two?”

  I shook my head.

  “Did I get really mad that you destroyed a heck of a lot of really expensive makeup?”

  I thought back on that day, still surprised that Millie didn’t punish us for what we did. “No,” I answer.

  “You want to know why I didn’t ground your cute little asses?” she grinned.

  I nodded again.

  “When you’re an old woman like me, with a lot of life experiences under her belt, you learn that most of our problems aren’t as big as they seem. We need to live in the moment and focus on the little things in our lives that make us happy. The little things, like the fact that you girls couldn’t have been any cuter with makeup smeared all over your tiny faces. I couldn’t help but laugh when I found you . . .” she paused, laughing softly.

  “The cost to replace the makeup wasn’t a big deal because I enjoyed the little things about that day. Because in the end, Lilah Belle, when we look back on our lives, we’ll realize it’s those little things that are actually the big things.”

  I blink back the memories, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

  I’m here, in Paris, and there’s a world of possibilities. I can spend the next three weeks in this city being scared and hesitant, and my typical rational self or I can be spontaneous. I can live in the moment, and not worry about anything, besides enjoying all of the little things that make up the awesome opportunity that is experiencing Paris.

  I don’t have to pretend anything.

  I can just do whatever feels right.

  It’s well past midnight and the party bustles. Drinks flow. Music thumps against the walls. People are all around us, but Dylan and I are in our own little bubble, talking in a quiet corner of the living room.

  His eyes are emerald green tonight. I think he’s talking about a meeting today.

  My gaze makes the circuit from his eyes to his mouth for the umpteenth time.

  Or maybe he’s telling me something about his band?

  I watch his lips move, forming words that I can’t process.

  For all I know, he’s telling me how to solve world peace, but I can’t stop looking at his mouth. His lips are this contradicting combination of firm yet soft, tender yet sinful. I want to know what that mouth feels like again. I want to feel his tongue licking across my heated skin.

  I want . . . I want . . . I want . . .

  He grabs the empty glass from my hand, startling me. “Would you like another?”

  I shake my head. I’m already feeling buzzed, and I don’t think alcohol is to blame.

  “What’s on your mind, love?” he asks, running a thumb along my cheek.

  I grab his hand. “Do you mind if we go somewhere that’s not so loud?” I pull him down a dark hallway without waiting for a response, and through a door that leads to an expansive terrace.

  The Champs-Elysees is right across the street from where we stand. Streetlights brighten the ground below us. The moon is a night-light in the dark sky. It’s an incredible view, but it’s not the reason for the quickening of my pulse. We’re alone, and the only thing filling the silence is the faint sound of cars driving past.

  I walk towards the far end of the terrace, resting my back against the brick wall behind me. Dylan leans against the railing, looking out into the distance. My lungs slowly inhale, breathing in courage to seize the moment. “What do you love most about playing on stage?”

  Dylan’s back straightens. He turns around to face me. “The rush,” he says without even thinking. “It’s the most incredible feeling, being on stage, singing in front of a crowd. What about you? What do you love most about music?” he asks, closing the distance between us.

  “Getting lost in it,” I admit. “Nothing compares to having a guitar in my hands and getting lost in the music. I love writing and playing my own songs, but I also love losing myself to music that someone else has written. I can escape into their words—living in that moment with them, feeling every emotion they felt when they wrote those lyrics, their
lyrics.”

  He rests his hands against the wall behind me. His tall frame looms over mine, caging me inside his arms. “Kind of like pretending to be someone else?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I never really thought of it like that.

  “You know, once you actually find the nerve to get up on stage, you’re fucking amazing up there.”

  My nose crinkles. “How would you know? You‘ve seen it twice, and both times, I had liquid courage backing me.”

  “You’re better at it than you think.” He touches his nose to mine. Pieces of his messy hair tickle my forehead. “Feeling vulnerable is normal, by the way. I’m not sure it’s a feeling you ever get over. Every time I perform, it’s there, but I’ve learned to channel the anxious energy into my guitar, forgetting about the vulnerability and living off the high.”

  He hits the nail right on the head. The vulnerability of performing in front of people is what scares me the most. It’s a little too reminiscent of things I’d much rather forget.

  “It’s okay to be vulnerable, Brooke. It doesn’t have to be a terrifying experience.” His eyes search mine. “You could pretend this is a stage,” he says quietly. One of his hands grips my waist. The other still rests beside my head. “And you could pretend that at this moment, you’re not scared or nervous because you know you’re with the right person. Tonight, you’re the girl who feels liberated by her vulnerability. Tonight, you could be the girl who led me out here because she wants to let go.”

  His words hit so close to home. My first instinct is to shield my eyes from his penetrative gaze, but I refuse to be that girl. “If I’m that girl, then who are you?”

  “I’m the guy who gets what he wants. The lucky bastard who gets to watch Little Wing spread her wings and fly.” His gaze moves from my eyes to my lips to the hint of cleavage peeking out from underneath my tank top.

  I struggle to catch my breath. My lungs move up-and-down in exaggerated movements.

  His hand trails up my abdomen, between my breasts, until two of his fingers brush across my mouth. “I’ve never seen lips like yours. They’re so full, so red. They make it impossible for me to think about anything but kissing you senseless.”