Forget (8 page)

Her words hit me like a freight train. Guilt starts creeping up my spine over the idea that I’m sitting here smiling and laughing when I just lost one of the most important people in my life.

“Don’t do that,” she demands, tapping my nose with her index finger. “Don’t start feeling guilty. You deserve happiness more than anyone else. Millie sent you on this trip because she wanted you to be happy.”

“Okay, okay. I’m happy.”

She crinkles her nose, not buying it.

“I’m so fucking hap-hap-happy that I can hardly see straight! See how motherfucking happy I am!” I shout dramatically.

Lindsay raises an eyebrow at me. “Yeah, you keep acting like that and I’ll throw in my horrible French accent. We’ll have a one-way ticket to straightjackets and a padded room in no time.”

I can’t remember the last time Lindsay and I laughed like this. Her cheek is resting on her crossed arms, and her shoulders shake with laughter. My head is thrown back, and I’m sure the sound of my giggles rise well above the chattering around the bar and thumping music coming from the basement level.

I spot Jesse walking towards us, a smile consuming his face. “I had a feeling I’d hear you two before I actually
saw
you,” he says.

We both wipe the tears from our eyes, laughter still occasionally spilling from our lips.

“It’s a constant stream of inside jokes with you ladies, isn’t it?” he questions in good humor.

“Pretty much,” Lindsay responds. Her smile is infectious. She bats her long lashes and slides a loose piece of straight brunette hair out of her face, flashing her famous midnight blue eyes in his direction.

He grins at her, leaning forward and whispering something into her ear.

She nods in response, ignoring the questioning look I’m tossing toward her.

“Shall we make our way downstairs?” he asks.

We follow his lead, pushing past the crowd until we reach a dark, narrow staircase leading to the bottom floor. The music vibrates against the walls the closer we get to the stage. The house band finishes up a cover of
Paint it Black
by The Rolling Stones. By the time we reach the dark basement, the final
Hmm, hmm, hmm
is being sung.
I thought they sounded pretty good when we were upstairs, but I’m pleasantly surprised to find out they’re even better once we’re at stage level.

Parisian twenty-somethings cavort around the dark space, singing and heating up the dance floor near the stage. I turn to find a similar sight playing out near the bar in the back. The entire scene is pretty fantastic.

As my eyes focus on the stage, I notice the lead singer.

Oh. My. God.

My back goes ram-rod straight, freezing me in my spot.

Holy shit.

It’s
him,
man candy from the métro. It’s Dylan.

He’s front-and-center, gripping the mic, and his eyes look out into the crowd. “I’m one lucky bastard tonight because I get to jam with these blokes.” He flashes a grin towards the crowd milling about below him.

“What. The. Fuck,” I mumble to myself. Well, I think I mumble to myself.

Jesse nudges my shoulder. “So, uh, I think you might know my brother.” His smile is blinding. I want to smack it clear off his face.

Lindsay chokes out a laugh beside me.

“You really are an asshole,” I say, but my voice lacks any venom. I’m too fucking stunned. What are the odds? Seriously, what are they? Because I should buy a lottery ticket or find a laboratory where I can attempt to cure cancer.

He wraps a strong around my shoulder. “Once I saw the familiar handwriting and phone number on your hand, I guess I kind of took it upon myself to invite you here.”

I glare at him.

“Don’t worry, he doesn’t know. There hasn’t been a conversation revolving around your little meet-and-greet or the fact that I met you at Au Fait today. No pressure. If you don’t want to chat it up with him after their set, you don’t have to,” Jesse whispers.

I stare at his face, taking in the seriousness of his eyes. It’s a surprising change from the normal playful gleam he tends to sport.

Lindsay pats my back, visibly amused by my deer-in-headlights expression. “No worries, Brookie. Let’s just kick-back, relax at the bar tucked away in the back, and enjoy watching your Dylan rock out with the house band.”

“He’s not my Dylan,” I mutter. My feet stay rooted to their spot near the narrow stairway. I kind of want to run back up the stairs and out of this bar as fast as my legs will take me, but I’m also itching to stay and listen. I haven’t had the chance to really hear him sing. Everything sounded muffled and unclear when we were sitting upstairs.

I think about Millie and her “No Regrets” advice. What could it hurt?

I’m not doing anything wrong by watching him play.

Choosing to scratch the itch, I follow Lindsay and Jesse to the bar. There’s only one seat open, and my best friend forces my ass down. They order more drinks, and I’m lost inside my head, barely registering the conversation she’s having with Jesse and the smitten bartender behind the bar. He must notice that she’s the famous Lindsay Monroe whose face has been on several mainstream magazines. People around the world recognize her infamous Young & Organic lingerie shoot. It was known for being completely risqué and even graced a giant billboard on Times Square when it was first released.

I think the bartender asks for her autograph, but hell if I know—my eyes are controlled by the ethereal being standing on stage. He’s just as gorgeous as I remember, if not more so. Dylan is the kind of handsome that would have Millie saying he got a VIP pass when God was passing out the good genetics. I’m pretty sure he’s the vision Lana Del Rey saw when she wrote
Blue Jeans.

“I’m Dylan, by the way,” he says while adjusting the mic. “I’ll be filling in for Philippe tonight, seeing as he just got married and is enjoying his honeymoon in Fiji.”

The band starts playing the beginning chords of Muse’s
Madness.

I unceremoniously rest my chin in my hands, my elbows rudely claiming their space on the bar, but my face stays turned towards the stage. Entranced. Consumed. I’m downright riveted by him. The stage light casts shadows on his face, giving his features a sharp, piercing edge. He appears broody and intense, and like he rarely smiles. It’s so different from the teasing smirk and playfulness I witnessed on the métro.
God, I want to see him smile again.

His voice belts out the first lyrics of the song, gripping me by the throat. I’m fixated on his mouth, watching his lips move. And fuck, his eyes. I’m too far to make out their gemstone-like-color, but I know they’re green, and can’t deny that even from this distance, they look poetically brilliant.

I continue to stare while he continues to sing one of my favorite Muse songs. His voice hovers in the air, and the crowd appears drunk from his talent. Well, at least
I’m
drunk off his talent. The delicate grit evokes a tingling sensation to shoot through my body, starting at the tips of my fingers until it reaches my toes. His voice is hypnotic, almost soothing in a way.

I want to wrap myself up in that voice and fall asleep to it murmuring a lullaby in my ear.

Normally, I would be thinking about the talent, criticizing and scrutinizing, and trying to picture what they could do in the music industry, but I’m not doing that with him. I’m just listening and absorbing and watching. I love seeing his long fingers run through his hair, and my heart speeds up with each tiny smirk he reveals.

I can’t take my eyes off him. I don’t want to take my eyes off him.

He has this raw talent that few people in this world possess. Dylan is the kind of man that magnetizes, entrancing everyone in his path. He makes you want to know every little detail about him.

And I want to know, I really want to know.

“This is
the guy?
The one you blinded with your phone?” Lindsay whispers into my ear.

I nod.

“Jesus, he’s good-looking.”

I nod again.

“And this is the very same guy that you refuse to call?”

“Yep, that’s him.”

“I love you, but you’re kind of an idiot. I mean, Brooke,
look
at him. Like, he’s really fucking sexy.”

Every single thing she just rambled is true. I’m the world’s biggest idiot for not calling this guy. “It’s painful.” I pull my unwilling eyes away from the stage; taking in Lindsay’s baffled expression.

“Really painful. And it’s like he doesn’t even know it.”

“It’s excruciating. I’m an asshole. I should have called him.”

“Yes and yes and yes.” She doesn’t hold back, even punctuating each yes with a nod.

“You really think I’m an asshole?”

“Yes. Fix it. Call him. Talk to him. Fuck his brains out.”

I have no response to that. I should be refuting the “fuck his brains out” comment, but I’m too drunk, and it’s not from alcohol.

Dylan’s sexy voice and gorgeous face have turned us into bumbling idiots. Normally, our witty banter has more snark and pizazz and quicker comebacks than this, but while Dylan is on stage, we might as well be mutes.

Jesse slides another round in front of us, this one including two shots of tequila with limes and salt. “To beautiful women and second chances,” he says cheekily. His hand holds up his shot glass, encouraging our participation.

“I’ll cheers to that,” Lindsay agrees.

“I guess I have no choice in the matter.” I sprinkle salt on my hand, slam the shot glass on the table, and then down it. I suck the juice from the lime as quick as possible to dilute the tequila sting. “Fuck, no more of those. I beg of you,” I demand. My nose crinkles from the strong aftertaste.

“I’m really glad you came,” Jesse announces, but his eyes are focused on Lindsay.

I tune out their flirtatious banter and continue listening to the music that floats from the stage. A few more songs are played, and I’m even dancing a little in my seat as they cover The Police’s
Roxanne.
The dance floor is filling up by the second as people spill out of the stairway, dancing and singing along.

This is the best day I’ve had in a really long time. Instead of going home to New York, Lindsay flew to Paris, to spend time with me. If it weren’t for her, I’d be holed up in my hotel room—not out-and-about experiencing the night life. A night like this was exactly what I needed.

The alcohol is flowing, the Pop In crowd is lively, and I’m having a kick-ass time with my best friend. We’re busy cutting up and teasing Jesse about his English accent. He’s good-humored about our sarcastic jabs, chuckling and faking annoyed glares. I think he might be one of the funniest guys I’ve ever met.

“Come on, Brooke, let’s go dance!” She shouts over the music.

I shake my head. “Hell no, I’m not leaving this seat.”

“Looks like you don’t have a choice, Jesse.” Lindsay grabs his arm, pulling him onto the dance floor. He laughs at her antics, and finally gives in, pulling her body tightly against his.

She doesn’t put up a fight and proceeds to do what we call, “putting her best ass on.”

I know they’re going to end up screwing like rabbits tonight.

“How’s our song selection so far?” Dylan asks the crowd. They’ve just finished a creative rendition of
Heartbreaker
by Led Zeppelin.

The bar patrons voice their approval.

He stares out into the crowd, drinking in his audience. “Consider me your cover song slave for the evening. Give me your requests beautiful patrons of Pop In.”

In my usual sober state, I have been known to tease musicians. I’ll throw out a random, more than ridiculous request just to see their creativity at work. Even a forty-year-old man clad in aviators and a leather vest can make Steppenwolf’s
Born to Be Wild
sound good at a karaoke bar. It’s repetitive, it doesn’t require a lot of work, and most men associate it with
Easy Rider.

But it’s true talent that’ll sing something completely unexpected and somehow take another musician’s song and make it their own. This is why you don’t often hear bands cover something like
Bohemian Rhapsody.
Freddie Mercury was no doubt one of the most talented singers of all time, and his vocals had a ridiculous amount of range. Who the hell would want to mess with that kind of greatness?

“
Touch My Body!
” I yell towards him, not even realizing how crude the song request sounds. Apparently, tonight is no exception. Maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s the fact that the mysterious and intense Dylan has me drunk with his presence, but for some strange reason, I just shouted a song request loud enough for the entire bar to hear.

So much for staying incognito.

He chuckles into the mic. “Excuse me?” Dylan shields the stage lights from his face as he searches into the crowd for the crazy bitch that just shouted a Mariah Carey song request.

Lindsay laughs, elbowing my side to answer him.

“I think this lady wants to request a song,” Jesse voices loud enough for Dylan to hear.

Dylan tilts his head in confusion while trying to read the expression on his brother’s face.

Ah, fuck it, right? It’s not like I can take it back now.