Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) by N.A. Alcorn Read Free Book Online Page B

commentary.
    When asked why he has yet to make an appearance on social media, Dylan laughed, adding, “It’s just not my thing. Maybe one day someone will convince me, but that has yet to happen.”
    In the spirit of “getting back at his younger brother,” we encouraged him to at least start his own Instagram. He laughed off our efforts, but told us he’d keep it in mind.
    Ladies, we can’t say we didn’t give it our best effort to get the swoon-worthy lead singer to join the world of social media, even offering to setup an Instagram for him. Don’t worry. We’ll keep trying in hopes that his kind of payback will be shirtless pictures of Careless Cockups’ sexy drummer.
    Our cameras will continue to stay live outside Bar Marmont to bring more celebrity spottings your way.

    4 weeks later
    Brooke
    Screw the gorgeous California sun, slowly setting in the distance. This beautiful weather—crystal clear, aquamarine skies for days—can suck it. And don’t even get me started on the perfect, seventy-degree temps.
    LA and all its beauty can go fuck itself for all I care.
    People are smiling, enjoying a nice evening stroll, run, or bike ride. My neighbors wave as I pass them in the stupid convertible I’m starting to regret purchasing. And it takes every ounce of willpower not to flip them off.
    I’m driving through the hills of Laurel Canyon and birds are chirping like I’m in a goddamn Disney movie. Any minute, Cinderella is going to run in front of my car, and I swear on platinum albums, I’m not slowing down. Glass slipper and fairy godmother be damned, I’ll run right over the bitch.
    It’s safe to say, I’m in a black mood.
    The last four weeks have been hell working closely with Dylan in the studio. Normally, I’m blessed with a two-day break from recording, but the pace Alistair wants to get Careless Cockups’ album released has us riding a grueling schedule. We’re doing six, sometimes seven days a week. Nearly every day, twelve hours a day, I’m cooped up in the studio with the band, with him .
    It’s emotionally exhausting playing this part, pretending that nothing has ever happened between us. I have to act unaffected by his close proximity. Every time I find myself watching him, I have to focus my eyes on something else. I can’t let my true feelings show. And sometimes, just being this close to him is so intense, I have to walk out of the room and catch my breath. If this constant unease sitting inside my belly wasn’t there, letting me know just how alive I am, I’d be convinced I’m in hell.
    And I can’t even begin to explain the way he acts towards me. He looks at me like I’m the hair in his food at an expensive restaurant. Disgust. Apparently, we’ve moved past the anger stage, and now I just disgust him. He goes out of his way to sit across the room from me rather than beside me. He makes a point to ask Nigel for advice rather than me. And he’ll walk right out of the studio before he lets himself be left alone with me.
    Each disgusted look, blank stare, and purposefully turned back cut deep. His overall attitude towards me is the knife in this scenario—slicing erratically and without restraint into my already wounded heart. It’s a shock I haven’t bled out by now.
    And don’t even get me started on the fact that he doesn’t remember a thing about that night at the band’s house. The night I kissed him and almost let things go further. If it wasn’t for him pulling away, and then me realizing just how fucked up he was, I know I wouldn’t have stopped him. I would have given him everything. Well, everything besides my lips. His kiss means…it just means more . And it’s the one thing that has the power to truly break me and ruin everything.
    I pull up to Bar Marmont, handing the keys off to the valet. Stepping through the doors, I’m instantly overwhelmed by the time and money that went into planning this affair. Wallace & Wright Records reserved one of the most talked