Blur (Changing Colors Book 2)

by Alcorn, N. A.

  Blur (Changing Colors, Part Two)

  Copyright © 2015, N.A. Alcorn

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notice

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wish to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of adult fiction. The author does not endorse or condone any of the behavior enclosed within. The subject matter is not appropriate for minors. Please note this novel contains profanity and explicit sexual situations.

  Cover Design: Hang Le By Hang Le

  Editor: Candice Royer-Love

  Formatting: Stacey Blake: Champagne Formats

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Blur (Changing Colors, Part Two)

  Dedication

  Blur

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  Bonus Track

  About the Author

  N.A.’s Social Media

  To anyone who doesn’t believe they’re good enough,

  You. Are.

  You are worthy of love, acceptance, affection, and friendship.

  You are worth it all.

  Blur

  The secrets weren’t mine, so I hid them.

  My heart wasn’t supposed to fall, but it did.

  The lies weren’t meant to hurt, so I told them.

  Two men own my heart, but not all love is the same.

  This isn’t a love triangle, it’s something different.

  How could it be a love triangle when it started out with so much pain?

  -Brooke

  Revenge of the Record Labels: Trio green with envy, while Wallace & Wright show the world they’re still the best in the industry

  MusicStone.com

  Alistair Wallace is back at it, folks. He continues to prove time and time again why Wallace & Wright is the best in the industry. After a last-minute trip to London, with the original intent of buying out Trio—one of UK’s highest-selling labels—he ended up coming back with something even better.

  After they refused his proposal, Alistair snatched up the band Trio was hell-bent on signing. A source close to the music mogul says, “Alistair doesn’t like taking no for an answer. It’s why he’s gotten as far as he has. It’s why Wallace & Wright are still at the top of their game, despite the numerous indie labels that continue to pop up. Even though Trio refused his buyout, he found something better, something that will come back to bite Trio in the proverbial ass.”

  The label is being discreet, refusing to let the world know what new band they signed, but a rep from Wallace & Wright put out their statement yesterday morning. “The world will find out soon enough, but prepare yourselves. This band will be the next big thing. They will change the face of music. They will raise the bar on what true talent really looks like in this industry.”

  If that doesn’t get you curious, we don’t know what will.

  Although this appears like a good old-fashion pissing match between two labels, we’re all left wondering the same thing; Will Wallace & Wright’s new band live up to these expectations? Who knows? But we can’t deny that we’re on the edge of our seats in anticipation.

  One Month After Paris

  Brooke

  Discovering new talent is sometimes more of a challenge than you’d think. Since the day I got back from Paris, I’ve been on a mission to find my own band to sign, work with, and help produce an album. This is extremely ironic, considering the label has its own scouts, and I’m not one of those scouts. Compartmentalizing, Party of One!

  Needless to say, I’ve immersed myself in work. If I’m not in the studio, I’m catching live shows or open mic nights at local bars and clubs. I even flew to New York last week to catch up with Lindsay and check out an indie band that had sent a demo a few months prior. Eternal Refuge was good—not great, but good. I think with another year or so under their belt, they’ll probably be ready, but right now is not the time for them to sign a contract. If it was up to Alistair Wallace, he would have pressured them into a contract, but luckily, I was on my own for that trip.

  After the show, I sat down with the band and gave them their options, along with some of my own advice. They could sign a contract now, before they’ve really formed their own sound and let a record label mold them into what they want them to be, or they could wait, keep playing shows, keep tweaking their sound and finding their voice, and sign when they know without a doubt that they’re ready, know what kind of records they want to make, and have no problem telling a record label to fuck off if they’re not given the right amount of creative freedom.

  They went with the latter. I gave them my contact info and told them to keep in touch. I know one day they’ll be great, and hopefully, when that time comes, Jamie and I will sign them to our label.

  “I’ll take one latte and one coffee black, no sugar, no cream,” I tell the barista behind the counter at The Grind. Her nametag reads ‘Fiona.’ She gives me an odd look from behind the counter, but proceeds to write my name on both cups and take my credit card to swipe. Once Fiona hands me the receipt, I stand off to the side, eavesdropping on other customers’ orders while I wait for mine.

  When I was at NYU, I worked as a barista at a mom and pop coffee shop not far from my apartment. Four years of watching hundreds of different faces order their coffee every morning made me realize a person’s coffee order can say a lot about their personality.

  Black coffee drinkers (Jamie) tend to be straightforward, no-nonsense, and can be very resistant to change. Whereas double decaf, almond milk, soy, and extra-foamy folks tend to be more obsessive and controlling. The latte drinkers (that’s me) swing more towards the neurotic and people pleaser side, while the instant coffee drinkers are usually the most laid-back people you’ll ever meet. They could make a career out of procrastination.

  And, finally, the men and women who order the sweet drinks topped with caramel and whipped cream are generally overgrown kids who’ve kept the taste buds and sensibilities of a ten-year-old.

  Obviously, these are all assumptions on my part, and we are no more defined by our drink choices than we are our astrological signs. It’s quite possible someone could be a controlling black coffee drinker or a neurotic decaf drinker. I know better than anyone else that we can’t be pigeonholed into one specific set of personality traits. I’m the queen of the pendulum personality.

  “I’ll take a café au lait,” a thirty-something woman orders. She smiles at the man beside h
er, his arm wrapped around her shoulder. “We just got back from our honeymoon in Paris.”

  “Oh wow, I bet it was amazing!” Fiona exclaims.

  The couple starts gushing about all of the gorgeous things they saw, and I do my daily routine of losing myself to thoughts of Dylan.

  I miss him. I miss him dreadfully.

  Four weeks, and the man had ingrained himself into my mind, my heart, my soul. It seems every little thing brings him to mind—a song on the radio, a photograph inside a shop, a couple walking hand-in-hand along the street. In an instant, we’d had too much together, felt too much, and every one of those feelings has a memory. At first, I started locking away any song or show or movie that would bring him to mind, but it was a fruitless effort—memories of him were unavoidable. He had become such a huge part of me in such a short amount of time. Nearly everything brought him to mind—my favorite bands, my favorite songs, my favorite TV shows.

  You name it, and it reminds me of Dylan.

  That’s probably why I’ve fallen back on survival mode. My mind going to that blank, robotic-like place it did when pink polka-dots meant a different kind of pain. I’ve kept so busy with my job that I’ve given my mind little time to dwell or pine or second-guess on what I did. I’m convincing myself that I’m strong enough to move past this terrible place. Strong enough to move on, even when huge chunks of myself are missing.

  “One latte extra foam and one black coffee!” Fiona startles me. She slides my cups across the counter, eyeing me with a questioning edge. I’ve seen that look. I’ve given lots of customers that look. She’s trying to figure out which coffee is mine.

  “Thanks,” I say. What I really want to say is ‘Yeah, sweetheart, the black coffee isn’t for me, but it should be.’ Black—just like my soul—would suit me better right now than my usual lightly sweetened latte. At least, I’m sure Dylan would agree.

  I grab the cups, head to my car, and start the engine. My phone pings with a notification.

  ‘You headed our way? Meeting is at 10.’

  ‘I’ll be there. What’s this meeting for again?’

  ‘I swear you’ve been lost in the clouds since you got back from Paris, baby girl.

  New band my dad and Nigel are signing.

  It’s going to be a big opportunity for you, so put your happy face on.’

  ‘Like I get to produce kind of opportunity?’

  ‘Something like that…’

  ‘I haven’t even heard these guys (or girls). What if they suck ass?’

  ‘What if they’re really fucking brilliant?’

  ‘What’s this band’s name again?’

  ‘Nope, you don’t have time to search for their music on YouTube.

  Leave your sister’s shop, grab me a coffee on your way, and get your ass here.’

  ‘Their band name is Nope? This doesn’t sound promising…’

  ‘Don’t be a smartass.’

  ‘I’m already in my car with your coffee in tow. Be there in 10.’

  Before heading towards the label, I browse through my other text conversations.

  Ember telling me that she’s taking Teddy to the museum today.

  Lindsay’s picture message of the hot shoes she’s wearing at a photo shoot.

  And then Dylan. It’s been two weeks since I’ve heard from him. The minute I got back to LA and turned my phone on, I had several missed calls and messages from him.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Tell me you didn’t leave Paris without saying goodbye.’

  ‘Tell me you didn’t just walk out of my life without any inkling of when I’ll see you again.’

  ‘Why did you do this, Brooke?’

  ‘Not right now? What the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘There are so many things I want to say to you right now, but I refuse to say them in a bloody text conversation.’

  ‘I hate that you did this. Hate it. But it still doesn’t change how I feel about you.’

  ‘I know you’re ignoring me. At least just let me know you made it back to L.A. safe.’

  It was painful to say the least. My heart broke with each message. And to think, after the way I handled things, he was still worried about whether or not I made it home okay.

  Now do you get the whole black soul sentiment?

  I eventually texted him back and let him know I was okay. I told him I was sorry for hurting him the way I did, and that if I had a choice in the matter, I wouldn’t have done it. I asked him to trust me. It’s a long shot asking someone to trust you when you can’t even tell them the circumstances that require their trust. I told him that it was okay if he was done with me and wanted to move on, that I would understand.

  It was a lengthy text. I cried the entire time I typed it out.

  The only response I got back… Until I see you again, and you’re completely honest with me, you and I will always be unfinished business.

  It’s been radio silence ever since. Not a phone call, a text, an email, a goddamn pigeon carrier. Nothing. And I can’t deny the fact that’s what’s killing me the most.

  Dylan

  “Welcome to LA, boys!” Alistair greets us as we step through the glass doors of a conference room. He’s the President and CEO of Wallace & Wright Records, our soon-to-be label. That’s why we’re here, to sign our lives away on the dotted line and officially start our music careers.

  I should be excited, damn near ecstatic, over the fact that my band has signed with one of the biggest labels in the music industry, but all I can think about is Brooke. It still stings like a motherfucker when I think of how she left me.

  Two days early and only a note served as her goodbye.

  This isn't goodbye. It's just, not right now, it said, but it sure as hell felt final to me.

  I'm sorry. I know you deserve better than this, it said, but I wanted to refute that claim and tell her I deserve her. She’s the only thing I want.

  I’ll always feel it too, it said, but I wanted to tear that goddamn note into a thousand pieces. If she felt it too, then why the fuck did she run? Because the way I feel for her, nothing could get me to walk away. Nothing.

  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she’s the biggest motivating factor in my agreeance to sign with a label that’s conveniently located in LA. Before Brooke, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of signing with a record company and risking our creative freedom as a band, but that all changed the moment I met her. Sure this is a fantastic opportunity, but the biggest draw moving to LA has is that it gets me one step closer to being with her.

  It’s been one month. Seven hundred and twenty hours without Brooke, but who’s counting, right? Yeah, who am I kidding? I’m bloody counting. Every minute passes slower than the last. Every minute without her is one more minute of agony, another minute where I’m left with a thousand questions and no answers.

  I knew she was going to be a challenge. Hell, I knew she was a bloody flight risk. Her horrible poker face showed the girl had running tendencies, but I thought I’d gotten past that giant wall she’d built. I thought I’d shown her how much she meant to me, how far I’d go for her. I thought what we had in Paris meant more than her running away without a goodbye.

  Obviously, I was wrong. The girl is stubborn and thoughtless, and it pisses me the fuck off. I kind of hate the change she’s forced within me. I’m not the guy who pines over a woman. Well, I wasn’t that guy—until her. She changed me in a way that I won’t come back from.

  Let’s take the inventory, yeah?

  She left me alone without a fucking goodbye.

  I’ve cursed her name a thousand times, punched three holes into walls inside my flat. (My knuckles are still swollen and bruised from those moments of rage.)

  Hypothetically, most people in situations like this might find themselves wanting to curl up into the fetal position and have a good cry. (Not that I’m that person, but I’m just saying, that’s how most people would feel.)

  And bottom line, Brooke hurt
me.

  But here I sit, wondering how she’s doing and hoping she’s okay because I love her. When you’re in love with someone, even when they hurt you, you still find yourself wanting the best for them.

  Pathetic? Yes.

  Avoidable? No.

  I refuse to walk away…move on…get over her. Christ, even if I did want to, it’s not an option. It reminds me of a quote from Memories of Suffocation, Brooke’s favorite book.

  “Love isn’t temperamental. There is no time limit or fine print at the bottom of the contract. There is no breaking even, no getting out while you’re ahead. Love is holding your end of the deal, even when you know it’s your heart that’ll be shattered in the end.”

  I’m holding my end of the deal.

  I’m in this for the long haul.

  Call me a stalker or a crazy-person, I don’t care, but Brooke and I will always be unfinished business until she’s back with me.

  “We’re heading to Venice Beach after this, yeah?” Jesse asks, sitting down in one of the plush leather chairs around the conference table.

  I nod. He thinks we’re going there to check out the Cali scene. I’m going there to visit Wild Spirit, the shop that Brooke owns with her sister. I’ve already gotten the address.

  He grins. My brother is all-too-ready to see what California has to offer, and it has zero to do with tourist attractions, and everything to do with women in bikinis.

  “You guys going with?” he asks Zach and Alex.

  They nod enthusiastically, offering a hell yeah and definitely.

  A few men in suits file into the room, taking their seats around the table. Alistair greets one guy in particular. He’s young, late twenties, and about as tall as me. The relation between the two men can’t be ignored, and I’d guess they’re father and son.

  “Brooke coming?” Alistair asks him.

  “Yeah, she’s on her way. Should be here any minute.”

  Brooke. That name is following me everywhere.

  We’re introduced to everyone around the table. Lawyers, agent, manager, blah, blah, blah. And I’m right on the father-son thing. The guy’s name is Jamie, he’s the vice president at the label, and is, in fact, Alistair’s son.