Forget (Changing Colors Book 1)

by Alcorn, N. A.

  Dylan did not like that response.

  He rebutted with something along the lines of, “Fuck no. You want French? I’ll bloody show you just how French I can be.”

  Needless to say, I ended up naked, Dylan inside me, and erotic French phrases being said into my ear. All in all, it was a pretty good day.

  Sex with Dylan is . . . indescribable . . . mind-blowing. . . . earth-shattering . . . you get the idea.

  Is now the time to admit that I’m probably using it as a way to avoid talking to him about when I’m due to go back home? It’s hard to have a conversation with someone when you can’t give them the full truth.

  I know this isn’t good, but the finality of my departure date (which is 1 week away) scares me. I think he can tell I’m skirting around the conversation, but I’m thankful he’s a man through-and-through and doesn’t seem capable of resisting me.

  I wish I could merge L.A. Brooke and Paris Brooke. It would make life a lot easier. I’m tired of edging around half-truths about my life back home.

  I’ve had a lot of revelations over the past few weeks.

  #1- Bottling up what Ivan did to me was not the right way to handle things. I have a lot of guilt over the fact that by hiding what he did, I may have put other girls/women at risk. I’m not sure how to cope with it, but I’ve made a promise to myself to find a therapist when I get back to L.A.

  #2- I miss Millie. And I don’t think I’ve even scratched the surface at grieving her loss.

  #3- I still haven’t opened the other envelope that Alexandre gave me. I’m not ready, and that’s okay. There’s a reason Millie sent a verbal message of “Only open it when you’re ready.”

  #4- I think I’m falling for Dylan.

  #5- I need to be honest with Jamie.

  More Later,

  -B

  I’m sitting cross-legged on a bench inside the grounds of Parc des Buttes-Chaumont—number eleven on the bucket list. The park sits on the northeastern side of Paris. It’s one hell of a métro ride, but definitely worth the trek. The grounds are awe-inspiring, an oasis of lush greenery and gorgeous city views.

  Dylan paces through the grass, deep in conversation with Zach and Alex. From what I’ve gotten out of his side, they’re still in London, and something is going on with the band. “I don’t think we should sign anything yet. My dad’s lawyer needs to look at the contract first,” he voices adamantly. “I don’t give a shit, Zach. A lawyer needs to read through it first.”

  Figuring that he’ll be a while, I shut my journal, toss it into my messenger bag and dig around for my favorite book. Once I find it, I put my feet up on the bench, find the last page I dog-eared, and immerse myself in the words of Francesca La Morre.

  Memories of Suffocation is my all-time favorite. It’s the only book I’ve ever read that completely guts me, yet leaves me begging for more. It’s that good, life-changing even. I’ve read it no less than a hundred times, and every single time, I secretly hope the ending will change.

  What can I say? The book makes me a glutton for punishment.

  “You’re always reading this book.” Dylan’s voice pulls my attention. “Seriously, Brooke, I’ve seen you reading it on no less than three occasions over the past two weeks.” I peek over the worn out pages and find Dylan—sans phone pressed to his ear—standing in front of me.

  I shrug, shutting the book. “I love this book.”

  “Memories of Suffocation,” he reads the title aloud. “Sounds utterly depressing, love, but the title does invoke my interest.”

  “Trust me, you won’t be interested in it.”

  His long fingers pick up my ankles, holding them out as he sits beside me. The muscles of his tattooed arms ripple and stretch as he makes himself comfortable, resting my feet in his lap.

  Speaking of glutton for punishment, I can’t stop myself from blatantly ogling Dylan. I think I can add it to my list of current medical conditions. Surely, it’s causing some sort of disability.

  “Enjoying the view, love?” he asks, full on grinning.

  “Meh, it’s okay.” I’m so full of shit, and he knows it.

  “That’s what you said yesterday and the day before that and the day before that.” He pauses, eyes filled with amusement. “Yet I still catch you staring at me like I’m a steak and you’re starving.”

  I shrug. “I guess I just keep hoping one day I’ll be fully satisfied with what I see.” I give him another once over, feigning disinterest. “Don’t worry, I’ll give it another go tomorrow.”

  He tickles my feet. “You’re a little minx, yeah?”

  I fight my grin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  His fingers find their way into my messy blonde curls, sliding one corkscrew out of my eyes. My heart reacts, fluttering inside of my chest, but I ignore it. The damn thing would probably double in size from watching Dylan brush his teeth.

  “I’m demanding you tell me more about this book.”

  “Are you sure?” My nose crinkles. “This is a romance novel, Dylan, and it doesn’t even have an HEA. I highly doubt it’s anything you’d be interested in.”

  “H-E-A?” His brow scrunches into one firm line.

  I laugh lightly, amused by his visible confusion. “Happily ever after.”

  “I love it when you talk book jargon to me.”

  Laughing, I tease, “You wouldn’t know book jargon if it smacked you in the face.”

  “The Great Gatsby . . . Of Mice and Men . . . Oliver Twist . . . Julius Caesar . . . Romeo and Juliet . . . I can go on for days.”

  This guy, I swear . . .

  “Do you have Mr. Roberts for freshman year English this year too?” I give my best performance of a giddy schoolgirl. “Oh my God, Dylan! Please . . . Please . . . Please . . . sit by me in homeroom. I’ll even let you carry my books when you walk me to class.” My eyelashes flutter dramatically.

  He leans forward, plucking me from the bench and setting me in his lap. His arms form a vice grip around my waist, fingers tickling me relentlessly. “You love to bust my balls,” he growls into my ear.

  I’m laughing too hard to respond.

  “Who would have thought Little Wing is a book snob?”

  “Oh, get over yourself, Bissette. So I read . . . a lot . . . And maybe I follow a few book blogs, and even have my own Goodreads page, but I’m by no means a book snob. I just enjoy reading.”

  “Goodreads?” he throws back rhetorically. “I’m not even going to act like I have a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s a social media site for book lovers. Wait . . . Never mind . . . I forgot I’m talking to the king of anti-social-media hipsters.”

  “Hey now!” His hand smacks my leg teasingly. “I’m not a hipster.”

  “Uh huh,” I tease. “You keep telling yourself that.”

  He ignores my insult, grabbing the book from my lap and holding it out in front of us. “I want to know more about this book.” His long fingers run along the worn-out binding, savoring the feel of a well-used novel.

  “Before I tell you about the book, you need to understand the mystery that lies with the woman who wrote it. She is beyond genius. After, devouring this book, I did a little research on her. It’s amazing the shit you can find on the Internet.” I smile despite myself. I mean, I pretty much Google-stalked this author, desperate for any information I could find.

  “The author, Francesca La Morre, was an Italian housewife who came from money. When she was eighteen, she married a wealthy Italian businessman named Marcello. Prior to publishing, Francesca and her very successful husband mingled with some of the world’s most powerful, but once Memories of Suffocation was published, she just disappeared. It was her only book and ended up being an international bestseller, yet she refused to talk about it. She declined interviews, appearances, and pretty much fell off the face of the Earth.”

  I rest my head on his shoulder, fingers tracing along the book cover, following the lines of the title. “And s
he didn’t write under a pen name. Francesca La Morre is her real name. And her husband Marcello stayed in the Italian limelight up until he passed away a few years ago. There are pictures of him all over the Internet with famous American actresses, French models . . . the list is endless.”

  “They didn’t stay married?” Dylan questions.

  “I could never find anything that addressed what happened to their marriage. It’s like once Memories of Suffocation was written, Francesca disappeared, and Marcello started a new life.”

  “When did it publish?”

  “Back in the seventies.” I tilt my head towards his, taking inventory of his eyes. He looks completely invested in what I’m telling him. “Apparently, it was written during one of the darkest times in her life, yet her voice is the complete opposite. It’s so smooth, nearly buttery, and you can’t help but swallow the words in the most uncontrollable manner.”

  Dylan chuckles.

  “Seriously, this novel will make you a heathen.”

  “I’ll get my appetite ready.”

  I toss a questioning look. “Are you really planning on reading this? I haven’t even told you what it’s about . . .”

  “Brooke, any author, book . . . hell, any fucking thing that gets you this excited must be good,” he answers without hesitation.

  I try not to read too much into it.

  I try not to let my heart flutter from his words.

  There’s no way my happiness means that much to him . . . Right?

  “How did you find this book?”

  “A few years back . . . After meeting Millie for lunch, I went to Barnes & Noble to waste some time, and just happened to pick it up. I think some cosmic force stepped in that day and forced my eyes to scroll the words Memories of Suffocation. The deep, mysterious title enticed me, and I was hooked. Without even reading the synopsis, I read the first page, and then, next thing I knew, I was sitting on the floor in the Classics section devouring it.

  “After reading the entire book, I bought my own copy and drove home. I didn’t even bother taking off my coat or shoes. I just lay on my bed, over the covers, and re-read every single page.”

  His eyes assess the features of my face, not in a threatening way, but in a way that says, “Tell me more, and let me soak up your uniqueness while you do it.”

  Because that’s how Dylan makes me feel.

  Unique.

  Like I’m the only girl who’s ever captured his attention.

  “Don’t leave me hanging here. What’s the gist of this buttery and smooth book that will turn me into a despicable heathen?”

  “The book is set in the late nineteen fifties in a small Italian town close to Naples. It starts when Sophia is twenty-three and pregnant with her second child. The beginning of the book will hook you. The secrets, the lies, the deception Sophia reveals to you are so unexpected.”

  He opens to the first page.

  “Go ahead and plan on not making our tattoo appointment today,” I warn. Yesterday, I made the mistake of telling him I wanted a tattoo to commemorate Millie. Bossy as ever, Dylan demanded I go to his tattoo guy, and twenty minutes later, I had a next day appointment with Ari at Bleu Noir.

  Dylan chuckles lightly, glancing at his watch. “We’ve still got another two hours before we have to head out, and besides, you’ve made it impossible for me not to give this romance novel, without an H-E-A, a try.”

  “I love it when you talk book jargon to me.”

  Dylan chuckles lightly, brushes his lips against my forehead, and then immerses himself in the book. After a few quiet moments, he exclaims, “What!”

  I giggle, already knowing the beginning parts he just read.

  Baffled, Dylan reads the first sentences aloud.

  I am but a foolish, sinful woman.

  Twenty-three, ankles swollen from the life growing inside of my womb, and deep down in my heart that’s shaded black along the edges, I know I’ll never betray someone like I’ve betrayed my husband. My temperamental soul aches with sadness, inherently understanding the sins that I’ve committed.

  Yet my darkened heart has fallen for another man.

  I’m a young woman who’s found love, strength, and solace in the arms of my husband’s best friend. And I’m powerless against the force pulling us together. I should have known Philippe and I were doomed from the start.

  “She’s pregnant and in love with her husband’s best friend?” He questions with an amped-up edge to his voice. “I’m on the first fucking page of the book!”

  “See what I mean?”

  “Is Sophia having an affair with Philippe?” Dylan stares at me with a familiar expression on his face. It’s the same baited-and-hooked expression I had the first time I read those words.

  “Once you finish, you’ll view the whole idea of a love triangle in a completely different light. Sometimes there’s more to the story. Sometimes everything isn’t really as it seems.” I clear my throat, stunned by my words and their possible subliminal meaning.

  Am I still talking about the book? Or have I headed towards more personal territory? Maybe Memories of Suffocation hits a little (more like a lot) closer to home than I’m letting myself realize.

  “There’s just so much more to this book than what is going on between Sophia and Philippe. There’s more to it than her betrayal.” I reveal anything else, refusing to spoil his first-time reading experience.

  He continues to stare at me, speechless, and silently begging for more details.

  I nudge his shoulder, stifling a laugh.

  His wordless expression is beyond adorable.

  Shaking my head, I add, “You’re going to have to find out for yourself.”

  Frustrated, he tosses the book off to the side. “Brooke,” he growls into my ear. “I’m going to read it no matter what, just tell me what happens.”

  “No spoilers.” I sit my overused copy back into his hands. “I have faith in you, Bright Eyes.”

  THE SECOND SHE WALKS out of the bathroom, I regret the decision to let her stop at the hotel to change into something more comfortable. It’s the least amount of clothing I’ve ever seen her wear in public. I have the urge to tie her ass to the bed. Caveman instincts kicking in, I grip her shoulders and turn her back towards the bathroom. “I don’t think so, Little Wing. That’s not happenin’.”

  I’m two seconds away from texting Ari and rescheduling. It has nothing to do with the mind-fuck of a book she’s got me reading, and everything to do with the minuscule outfit she’s wearing. Tiny black shorts show off her bloody gorgeous legs and a miniscule half-shirt finishes the attire, showcasing sun-kissed skin. It reads “Love is the drug” across her chest.

  And she calls me the hipster . . .

  “What?” she asks, turning right back around and clearly confused.

  “You’re practically starkers!” I pull the hem of her shirt down, trying to make it longer. It doesn’t work. “This isn’t even a shirt. I can see your sexy little hips.” I trail my fingers up her waist to the underside of her bare breasts. My hands slip underneath the joke of a shirt, rubbing my thumbs across her hardened nipples. “No way in hell am I letting you out of here like this. Every random twat we pass will get a glimpse of the underside of your perfect tits. Find something else.” Brooke doesn’t have huge breasts, but they’re about as perfect as tits can get—soft, perky, and just the right size for my mouth and hands.

  “Dylan,” she sighs, hands on hips, sassiness on full display. “I’m getting my tattoo on my ribs. I can’t wear a bra. Anyway, this will be more comfortable once it’s done.”

  I run a frustrated hand through my hair. Behind that cool and reserved exterior, the woman is really just a tease at heart. “You’re hell-bent on making me crazy, yeah?”

  She stands on her tiptoes, kissing my jaw. “Come on, caveman. Let’s get out of here before you take your dick out and start pissing on my leg.”

  We barely make it out of her hotel room without me fucking her against th
e wall.

  Surprisingly, we’re only fifteen minutes late for our appointment at Bleu Noir. I’ve put Brooke in good hands. A born and raised Londoner like me, Ari has been a close friend since I was a teenager, and has done all of my ink. He’s a good guy and a bloody genius when it comes to designing and creating tattoos. He can take any idea and turn it into something beyond your wildest dreams.

  After she tells him the reason behind her tattoo, he quickly gets to work. She lies down on her right side; shirt pulled up to expose the left side of her rib cage and gorgeous skin on full display. I swallow the urge to cover her up.

  Sliding a chair close to Brooke’s head, I clutch her tiny hands in mine and place comforting kisses to her cheeks, lips, and forehead, to help ease the sting from the needle.

  In less than an hour, Ari wipes the smeared ink from her skin, and encourages Brooke to check out her new tat in the mirror. The look on her face when she sees her reflection has my chest tightening. Visibly in love with it, she stares at the inscription “Je Ne Regrette Rien” for a good five minutes.

  While Brooke walks outside to give Lindsay a play-by-play of her new tattoo, I lie down on the table, stretching out onto my stomach. Ari gathers fresh supplies and readies his table to put a few hours of work in on my right sleeve.

  “Frankie Lancaster,” he says, pressing the needle to my skin.

  “No idea what you’re talking about,” I answer. It’s a lie, I know exactly who he’s talking about. The name alone makes my fists clench.

  “You’re so full of shit, Bissette. I’m not the fucking police, mate. Just tell me what set you off about some wannabe metal head.”

  I rarely lose my temper, hardly ever find myself in situations where I choose fists over words, but that bastard deserved every piece of rage I gave him. “Frankie Lancaster can blow me.”

  “Poetic, mate, really.” Ari laughs, digging the needle into my skin. “This reminds me of the Andre Guillard incident.”

  “Hmmm . . . doesn’t ring a bell.” I feign innocence.

  “You’re an ass,” he says. “I remember when you rearranged Andre’s face because of what he tried to do to your brother. We both know you’re the one who bashed Frankie’s nose in. Apparently, you kneed him in the balls so hard, he stayed MIA for four days, licking his wounds and icing his pecker.”