Forget (Changing Colors Book 1)

by Alcorn, N. A.

  Lips find mine; pressing mind blowing kisses to my mouth, and my body goes limp underneath him. His kisses turn soft and slow, until he mutters, “I’ll be right back.” He slides out of me and moves off the bed.

  My eyes are still closed, but I hear him walk down the steps. I’m assuming he’s handling the condom situation. I’m too relaxed to even lift my head. It’s a kind of sated I’ve never felt before. I could chalk it up to the two orgasms in the span of an hour, but I know it’s more than that. Hell, until a few minutes ago, I’d never had an orgasm with a guy, and honestly, sex had never been something that I enjoyed. It was a means to an end, and since the age of eighteen, one that I made sure I had complete control over. The having control over it meant more to me than any pleasure it could have provided.

  The mattress dips and Dylan climbs back in. “Christ, you’re amazing. I’ve never felt anything that fucking good in my life.”

  I turn my head, looking into his eyes. They’re still a deep green, but hints of gold highlight their emerald hue. His fingers brush a loose strand of hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear. Instead of responding, I just stare at him, taking in the tender expression on his face.

  I’ve witnessed so many of his smiles, and yet the one that takes my breath away is when he’s smiling in reaction to a happy expression on my face. It’s a smile that makes me feel like he truly cares.

  It’s crazy that I let him take control, but I can’t deny how right it felt. I can’t deny the trust I so easily gave him, would still give him. I don’t know how or why, but I know Dylan would never do anything to hurt me.

  Yes, I’ve known him for all of two minutes.

  Yes, I never believed in all the swoony, “it’s fate” sentimental bullshit.

  But I can’t deny how he makes me feel. I can’t ignore the look he’s got in his eyes. I can’t just write this off as a Paris fling. This is something else. Something deeper. Something that I’m not quite ready to admit, but can’t seem to find the strength to walk away from.

  Last night on the terrace, he got pleasure out of making me feel good, and refused to take it further, refused to let other people see me in such an intimate state. He reversed the roles. I wasn’t the protector. I wasn’t the one doing anything and everything in my power to make someone else feel safe or happy or good. He was doing that for me. Those are not the actions of a man who’s just looking to screw, fuck, get a leg over. Those are the actions of a man who cares . . . A man who wants to keep me safe . . . A man who doesn’t want to hurt me.

  It may seem trivial to anyone else, but to me, it’s not. How could it be inconsequential when the first half of my life I was surrounded by people who either didn’t love me or took something from me that I can never get back?

  I feel like a bullet has been dislodged from my chest. The realization heals something deep inside of me, soothing something that’s been clawing for years and before now, I never thought it would go away. He gives me hope.

  “I’ve never come—” I start to blurt out, but stop when I realize what I’m about to confess.

  What in the hell am I saying?

  “I’m sorry, but you’ve never what?” he asks, brow furrowed.

  My eyes have to be the size of saucers. I shut them, shaking my head. If I’d known orgasmic sex would make me so Goddamn contemplative and ready to bare my soul, I might have skipped it altogether. Or at least found some duct tape to cover my mouth.

  His hand caresses my cheek. “Don’t shut me out, love.”

  Tentatively, I open my eyes, taking in his concerned expression. Uncertainty and the need to shield myself grip my throat.

  “You can tell me anything,” he encourages, voice smooth as silk.

  Wrapping the sheet around me, I stand up from the bed, walking around his room without a specific destination in mind. “I’m not sure this is something you want to hear . . .”

  He sits up on his elbows, still gloriously naked. “I’m certain that you’re wrong about that. I want to hear anything and everything you have to say.”

  With my back to him, I stare at the myriad of photos pinned to his wall. How did I miss these? Rows and rows of pictures take up an entire wall of his bedroom. Most of them are Polaroids, taken in various places—some in Paris, some in London, and some places I don’t recognize. “Did you take all of these?”

  “Consider it my second passion.”

  I stare, awestruck, taking in each picture. Dylan’s eye for beauty is unreal. He has a very distinctive style, and each snapshot is its own. I’m mesmerized by one particular photograph. An impeccably dressed couple walks hand-in-hand past an alley. She’s wearing a gorgeous floor-length gown. He’s clad in a suit. I imagine they just left an expensive dinner or party. The photo catches a breathtaking expression on her face as she gazes up at the man beside her. But they’re not the focus of the photo. They merely provide a haunting contrast. In the other half of the frame, a man sits in the alley, back pressed against the wall. He’s homeless. A far-off expression fills his eyes.

  “God, Dylan. I’m speechless.” I rub my finger over the homeless man’s face, wishing I could pluck him out of the photo and wrap him up in my arms. “I’ve never been so overwhelmed by just looking at a photograph. You’re unbelievably talented.” I know next to nothing about photography, but I know the fact that a picture is making me want to cry and smile at the same time proves he’s really gifted. “Like you could quit your day job kind of good, which is absurd because music is your day job, and I’d strangle you if you gave that up.”

  A throaty laugh passes his lips. “Thank you, love, but no strangling necessary. I’m sticking with my number one.”

  “Most of the ones I recognize from Paris are night shots. Any particular reason behind that?”

  “There’s just something about capturing the city at night. Everyone is asleep. The streets are dark, sometimes eerily so, yet there’s always this edge of beauty.”

  “I haven’t really had the chance to see Paris at night.” I glance over my shoulder, grinning. “At least not from a sober perspective.”

  “We need to change that. Next midnight photo session, I’m taking you with me. Just make sure you don’t stop at a bar for half-priced shots before we go.”

  “That was Lindsay’s fault, not mine!”

  He chuckles.

  “I’m noticing a Polaroid theme up here. Care to explain?” I ask, continuing to distract him. The choking unease I felt a few minutes prior is slowly dissipating.

  “I guess I’m an old soul. I prefer vintage to modern. It’s kind of like vinyl records. There’s just something different you can get from a Polaroid. It’s instant, grainy, and there’s no filter. I can’t erase it. Change it. The true emotion in the photo is there. The moment is the exact way it’s supposed to be. Not posed. Not edited. Not photo-shopped.”

  I recall our conversation at the wine bar. “Kind of like your preference to not have a Facebook account?”

  “Or Twitter or Insta-whatever,” he adds. “If you can’t tell, I kind of loathe modern technology. Everywhere I go, restaurants, clubs, bars, the bloody park, people are glued to their devices. It’s ironic how their faces are fixated on a screen, fingers typing away about whatever is going on in their lives, when in reality, they’re missing out on actually living.”

  “Instagram.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s called Instagram.”

  “Brooke,” he sighs dramatically. “Please, don’t tell me you’re one of those people who have an account for every social media app available.”

  I turn around, grinning. “Dylan,” I feign annoyance, even adding an eye roll. “Please, don’t tell me you’re one of those hipsters who judge other people for doing anything mainstream.”

  His brow furrows. “I’m not a hipster.”

  “Surrrre you’re not.”

  “I’m not,” he declares. The outraged expression on his face contrasted by his very naked body is equal parts hilari
ous and hot.

  “Okay, okay, I believe you. No need to get riled.” I bite my cheek to hide my grin.

  “Lindsay was right. You’ve got a horrible poker face.”

  “What? When did she say that?” I hold both hands out in surprise. The sheet tumbles to the floor.

  Dylan gawks, taking an appreciative perusal of my bared form. He starts at my toes and slowly works his way up to my face. “Get over here, and I’ll tell you.”

  I think about his explanation for preferring Polaroids over digital. Immediately, getting an idea, I grab his Polaroid camera from the nightstand and move towards the bed.

  He cocks an eyebrow, curiously watching me as I straddle him. “Well, this has possibilities,” he says, moving his hips suggestively.

  “Is there film in this?”

  “Yes, you’ve got plans of flashing me again?”

  I glance down at my chest and then meet his eyes with a grin. “I think I already am.”

  He licks his lips. “It’s the best damn flash I’ve ever seen.”

  I point the camera towards his face. He stares fixated on my bared breasts. “Do you think I have a horrible poker face, Dylan?” I ask, snapping a picture when he finally looks at my face.

  Instantly, the photo is in my hands. I examine it closely, finding exactly what I’m looking for. Holding it up, I say, “I think that Goddamn smirk on your face speaks for itself.”

  He tugs it out of my hands and tosses it across the room. “Even with that terrible poker face, you’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  I glance at him over the camera, rolling my eyes dramatically. “Blowing smoke up my ass won’t get you out of this one.”

  Strong hands grip my backside. “I guarantee there’re a lot of things I’d love to do with your tight little ass, but that’s not one of them. And . . .” he pauses, smiling softly, “it’s not a line, Little Wing. Your beauty devastates me.”

  His words and the honesty in his eyes are disarming. I could live a lifetime off that compliment. The music switches over, and Montaigne starts singing about freeing the beast from the cage. I’m a Fantastic Wreck, is a song that calls to me on every level. To me, it says, “I’m a good person with good qualities, but I’m also a fucking mess on the inside.”

  When a choice is taken away from you at a pivotal age during your childhood, it’s bound to leave scars. And, believe me, my scars are plentiful. No matter how much I hate it, I can’t change that they’re in every word, every action, every decision I make. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m really just a lost little girl still striving to find herself.

  Personality questions and seemingly innocent mini-quizzes I often see on social media are painful. I’m envious of people who can answer questions like “Name three things to describe yourself” without even having to think about it. It seems so simple, right? Just name three things.

  But for me, it’s not that easy.

  Internally I’m a contradiction. My personality is a pendulum—always swinging back-and-forth from one extreme to the next, never staying still.

  Right brain and left brain.

  Musical and discordant.

  Rational and spontaneous.

  Shy and outgoing.

  Sassy and timid.

  Strong and weak.

  Self-assured and insecure.

  Every facet of my personality contradicts itself. Deep down, I’m just that nine-year-old girl wanting so badly to find her place in life, but uncertain of her self-worth. And now, looking down at Dylan, I wonder if his feelings for me would change if he knew everything.

  “Where’d you go, love?”

  It takes a minute for his voice to penetrate my thoughts. The camera moves away from my face as I meet his gaze. Would he still think I’m beautiful if he knew the secrets that stole my innocence and tainted my youth? I have a hard time believing he’d still want to touch me, taste me, kiss me if he knew. “I’ve never come with a man,” I finish the sentence that tried to leave my lips earlier. “Until you, the only time I’ve ever had an orgasm was with my own hands.”

  Snap.

  At first, his face squints at the odd timing of the picture, but once my words register, he appears taken aback. “Ever?”

  I nod. “Nope. Never. Sex didn’t start off as a good experience for me.”

  Snap.

  He searches my expression, his face falling slightly.

  I hide behind the camera. Without waiting for him to respond, I continue, Montaigne’s voice giving me courage. “My parents weren’t great people. They were irresponsible, careless, selfish. They loved getting high too much to love me or Ember. But that’s the thing about drug addicts, once they get in too deep, people don’t matter to them, not friends, not family, not even their own children. Once the drugs take control, it’s all they think about, all they care about.” My breath trembles slightly, and consciously, I keep using the lens as my shield.

  Hands rub my thighs in a soothing motion. His touch isn’t suggestive. It’s calm, tender even.

  “Are you sure you want to know about all this? I think it might be too soon for me to unload my baggage on you . . .”

  Dylan’s hands go still. “I want to know you, Brooke. Not just the good or the bad or the random little things in between, I want to know everything that makes you the beautiful woman that’s in front of me.” His soothing touch is back on my thighs again. “So to answer your question, yes, I want to know.”

  Without giving myself the time to think of all the reasons I shouldn’t tell him, I continue. “When I was eight and half, my drug-seeking, vagabond hippie parents decided to stay put for a while. We lived with friends of theirs. The couple was nice enough, but they were very similar to my parents. They had a teenage son who was around fifteen at the time. Even that young, one look into Ivan’s cold eyes, I knew he wasn’t a nice kid. He was often put in charge of keeping an eye on Ember and me.

  “We’d only been living there for about a month, when he started doing inappropriate things . . . brushing against me, standing too close to me . . . pushing my buttons. Looking back, I guess it was his way to test me, see how far he could push it. He came into my room one night, slipping under my covers, putting a hand over my mouth before I could scream. He said that if I did what he told me to do, he wouldn’t hurt me or my sister, but if I didn’t listen to him or told our parents, he’d do something really awful to Ember. She was four, practically a baby at the time. So of course, I cooperated. I was almost nine, and Em was my baby sister.”

  Snap.

  This is crazy. Why are you telling him all of this? You’ve never told anyone except Jamie, my rational mind shouts. But my heart is louder because he’s safe too. He’s right too.

  And with a surprisingly steady voice, I confess it all. “I know I’ve probably blocked out a lot of it, but I can still remember the pain and how dirty I felt afterward. I would get yelled at for taking too many baths, using up too much water, but I couldn’t help it. I needed to wash him off of my skin. I needed to feel clean again . . . which I never did. And, of course, I remember the tainted pink polka-dot sheets on my bed. I’d often fixate on them, wishing I could disappear.”

  Snap.

  “Christ, Brooke,” Dylan says, dread hinting at his voice. “How long did you live there? How long did it gone on for?”

  Snap.

  My voice is eerily void of emotion as I tell him the rest. “We stayed in that house for about two months before we were placed in foster care. All of us—Ember, me, and Ivan. The social worker thought she was doing something good by keeping the three of us together. She even made sure my belongings went with me. It was about a year before I could escape Ivan, his nightly routines, and those pink polka-dot sheets. Once Millie found out the state had taken us away from our parents, she fought for us until she got custody.”

  Snap.

  I can’t change my past. I can’t change what happened to me. I can only hope, that, despite the invisible dirt,
I can never seem to wash off my skin, Dylan will still accept me. Deep down, I’m desperate for the possibility that someone like him, so breathtaking, so full of life, could love a wreck like me. I guess that’s a need I’ll always have—to feel loved, be loved by someone. Even though Millie raised me and showed me enough love to last a lifetime, it’ll still never change the past—my parents didn’t love me and my innocence was stolen far too soon. Those facts have forced years of self-hate into my brain.

  He takes the camera from my hands, setting it on the bed. Strong arms pull me down, holding me tightly to his chest as he runs his fingers through my hair. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

  “It’s okay. I’m okay,” I whisper, trying to put him at ease.

  A choking noise fills his throat. “I know you’re strong, love, but I have a hard time believing anyone could be okay after that.” He exhales deeply, his hands tensing around me. “What’s his last name? What city does he live in?

  “Why? You planning on tracking him down?” I ask in a joking voice, but one look at his troubled expression shows the joke fell flat. “Honestly, I don’t know and I don’t care . . . Sorry, I just kill-joyed the mood, but I felt like you should know. It’s obvious you know the walls I’ve built. The difficulty I have in just letting go, not just during sex, but life in general. I know I’ve built an arsenal of coping mechanisms in response to it all. It’s probably why I’ve never had an orgasm with a guy.

  “It’s probably, why sex has never been good for me. I’ve viewed it as a chance to finally have a say. It wasn’t about losing myself in someone else for the pleasure. It had turned into something for me to control, for me to make sure I had the upper hand. It was never about the pleasure of it until . . .”

  He leans back, staring up at me. “Until me.”

  “Until you.” I rest my chin on his chest, quietly gauging his reaction. Curious to look at the pictures, but too scared to follow through. “Look, I know I’m a fucking mess, a constant contradiction of hot and cold. I’ll understand if I just freaked you out or if you’re completely disgusted by me. I’ve told you things that no one wants to hear about the person they’ve just had sex with . . .” I stare down at his bare chest. “God, I didn’t even let you put clothes on before I unloaded my life story on you.” I laugh, it’s harsh and not from humor. “I’ll understand if you never . . .”