Forget (11 page)

“Hair of the dog
and
some caffeine to work through the remnants of last night’s alcohol?” Lindsay questions in amusement as she peruses the menu.

“Count me in if you’re ordering coffee and mimosas. I refuse to drink anything with tequila or vodka at the moment.”

“Hell, yes!” she exclaims, slamming her hand on the table. “Mimosas it is.”

I raise my eyebrow at her.

“Don’t worry, darling, we’re classy enough to be here.”

I swear that girl can hear every thought that rolls through my head. I resume looking at the menu, my mind tripping over each of the prices. I’m not a cheapskate, I swear, but I tend to be a little more frugal than most people.

It’s probably the only good thing I learned from my parents. They could make a dollar go far when it came to food, clothing, and shelter. But that’s probably because they didn’t consider those things vital necessities. Drugs and alcohol, on the other hand, were an entirely different story. Mind-numbing substances were more of a priority than making sure their daughters had a stable home to live in.

“Stop looking at prices, Brookie. We’re in Paris.”

I smack at her menu. “Get out of my head.”

Once we place our orders, our drinks and food are brought out in record time. Freshly squeezed orange juice, a bottle of sparkling champagne, and the strongest cup of coffee I’ve ever had help ease the lingering headache.

I gorge myself on divine pastries and croissants that melt in my mouth. I’m pretty sure when people talk about French croissants they are referring to the baked goods at Le Bristol. Soft and sweet, my taste buds have never been drenched in such buttery goodness. Lindsay might need a crane to wheel my ass out of here once I’m done.

“I’m shocked you ended up in my bed last night. What’s up with that? Are you feeling okay?” I lean across the table, touching her forehead with feigned concern.

She rolls her eyes, tossing her napkin on the table. “No way in hell was I going to leave you to go bang it out with some guy I barely know. I came to Paris to spend time with my best friend, not add notches to my bed post.”

“Notches to your bed post? What are you, seventy?” I snort in laughter. “Seriously, that was really sweet of you, Linds, but I wouldn’t have been upset.”

“Plus, I know you, and I knew there was no way in hell you’d throw caution to the wind for once in your perfectly calculated life, and spend the night riding that sexy-as-fuck musician. Even though I wish you would have.”

I raise a questioning eyebrow.

She shakes her head. “Not so I could bump uglies with his brother. I just wanted to see you letting your hair down for once, shaking things up . . .” she stops, catching my nose-crinkling expression. “Oh, you know what I mean.”

“Never say bump uglies again.”

“Ride the flag pole? Go to the boneyard? Get a good dicking? Fuck for Ol’ Glory’s sake? Take ol’ one eye to the optometrist . . .”

“Take ol’ one eye to the optometrist?” I question on a laugh. “That’s a new one.”

“I’ve got plenty more where those came from. Drive the . . .”

I place my hand over her mouth. “And I think I’ve had my fill for the day. Let’s postpone our next sex slang session for another time. Say five hundred years from now?”

She pushes me away. “Oh, don’t get all Virgin Mary on me. I know you’ve got a dirty little mind buried underneath that stubborn-as-hell exterior. I’d bet my favorite Prada dress that you’ve mentally banged Dylan half way through Paris by now.”

“Which dress?”

“Lace knit, sweetheart neckline, open back. I paired it with the alpaca suede ankle strap pumps when I wore it to that fashion show in New York last month.”

Oh, say it isn’t so.
“The heels with the sexy silver studs across the strap?”

She nods. “Yep.”

“Damn. I love that dress
and
those shoes.”

“The shoes and the dress are yours if you say that your dirty little mind hasn’t had any filthy fantasies about your Dylan. Ones that include getting a fantastic dicking.” She attempts to bait me with her words.

Son of a bitch.
I had mentally fucked Dylan pretty much every place I’d been, since seeing him on the métro. I could probably write a Dr. Seuss book with all of the places I imagined us screwing.
I would like to fuck him on the métro . . . in my hotel . . . on a bar stool . . . Hell, I’d even fuck him while eating green eggs and ham.

For the love of all that’s horny, it’s frightening how many places fantasy Dylan and Brooke had managed to christen in such a short amount of time.

“He’s not my Dylan. I barely know the guy.” I sigh, more annoyed with myself than with her. “How long are you staying in Paris again? Twenty-four hours? Should I call a cab now for the airport?” I tease, wiping my lips with a napkin.

Lindsay laughs, knowing full well I’m throwing up the white flag by changing the subject. “I booked my hotel room for the week.”

“Wait a minute. You have your own hotel room? Why’d you insist on sleeping in my bed last night?”

“Because I wanted to spoon my best friend,” she says with a smile. “My room is literally right across the hall from yours.”

I pluck my napkin from my lap and throw it at her.

“Don’t act like you didn’t love having me back as your cuddle buddy, roomie. And I wish I could stay longer. I miss this gorgeous city, and I miss spending time with you. L.A. is too fucking far away from New York.”

“I’m starting to hate how far apart we are.” I really do miss having her close. Lindsay might as well be my other sister. She’s my rock. She’s seen me through a lot of bullshit. No matter the time or place, and even if she has to take the red-eye from New York to L.A. on a moment’s notice just to hold my hand, this girl is always there for me. She’s the kind of friend you hold onto forever.

“Should I just drop everything and move to New York?” I question playfully. “I’ll quit my job, move in with you, and be your assistant or something. I’ll do everything except your laundry, cook, and kick out your one-night stands in the morning.”

“After living with you in college, I’d never even consider putting you in charge of kicking out my fuck buddies. Pancake breakfast, ring any bells?”

I hold up one finger. “That was one time, and you broke that guy’s heart!” I exclaim. “He had tears in his eyes, Lindsay.
Tears!
I felt horrible!”

She’s giggling at my expense. “Yeah, it was pretty damn obvious how horrible you felt. You sent the guy home with a full belly and a leftover container.”

“It was the least I could do. The man was in love with you.”

“Oh, please, he was in love with my blow job skills, and for the life of me, I can’t remember his real name.”

“Oh my God!” I point at her. “You’re the worst!”

She shushes me. “Give me a minute. It’s been a while since I’ve thought about
Pancake.
”

The moment she found out I fed the guy breakfast
before
his emotional ass left our apartment, the nickname Pancake just kind of stuck.

After a minute passes, I chime in again. “This is why nicknaming your bang buddies is a bad habit.”

She releases an exasperated sigh. “All right, out with it. What’s Pancake’s real name?”

“Toby.”

“
Toby?
” she questions, but it’s more of a whine. “You let me date a guy named Toby?”

“Two dinners and three booty calls doesn’t equal dating, but yeah, his name was Toby and he was super sweet. You crushed his heart, you evil devil-woman.” He
was
super sweet, but a bit of a drip. During our pancake breakfast, he went on and on about his profound love for her. He even recited a few poems he’d written. The dude was super-emotional. I swear he was minutes away from getting his period.

“I’m sure Panca—Toby is doing just fine,” Lindsay says, taking a sip from her coffee.

I’m shaking my head at her ridiculousness when I hear my phone ping from my messenger bag. It’s a French number, but I don’t even need to ask who it is. The digits have been tattooed on my palm for the past six days.

‘I had a feeling I would still have to be the first one to call.’

I type out a response, not able to hide the grin on my face.

‘I’m pretty sure most people would consider this a text, not a call.’

Lindsay clears her throat, dramatically attempting to grab my attention. I ignore her impatient ass and read his speedy response.

‘Touché. Spend the day with me.’

‘You’re bossy.’

“
Hellooooo?”
she sing-songs loudly.

I glance up and find her grinning like a loon.

“Is that Dylan?”

“Maybe.”

His next message steals my focus.

‘I promise you’ll have fun. I want to take you somewhere.’

‘“I want to take you somewhere.” Isn’t that what devious strangers say when they’re luring their victims to the infamous secondary location? I’m pretty sure I watched a Dateline about this.’

‘There’s always candy involved in something like that, love. No candy. Just an inside scoop on where to find the best vinyl in Paris. I’ll even buy you lunch.’

Damn, he’s making it hard to say no. My love for old vinyl had been cultivated by my grandmother since I was ten years old. Searching old school record shops is one of my favorite pastimes.

I glance up at Lindsay when a thought pops into my head. “Did you give him my number?”

She shakes her head, but a slow, easy grin spreads across her lips.

“Then how did?” I stop when a few memories of last night filter through my brain.

I remember the bartender called a cab for Lindsay and me, and then Dylan refused to let me leave until I gave him my number. I remember whispering something into the bartender’s ear. The man immediately started laughing and nodding his head with enthusiasm as he grabbed something from underneath the bar. And then I was holding a black permanent marker in my hand.

Wide-eyed, I question, “Did I Sharpie him?”

“Tit-for-tat, darling,” Lindsay nods, but there’s a little twinkle in her eye that I can’t quite discern. “Although, I think your placement choice was quite creative.”

And that’s when the final memory flows into my mind. “Oh my God!” I cry in embarrassment, my head falling onto the table.

Barely two seconds pass before my phone starts ringing. His number flashes on the screen. I answer despite my better judgment. “Hello?” My voice is muffled against my arm.

“Brooke?”

I adjust my face, so I don’t continue sounding like one of the adults in the Charlie Brown movies. “Did I really write my number on your
abs?
” I swear that is the most ridiculous question that’s ever passed my lips. My cheeks heat from the sheer embarrassment of it.

And yes, he has abs—washboard, I-could-grate-cheese-on-his-stomach, kind of abs. Holy hell, even that small description doesn’t do them justice. They’re that good, a “you need to see them to believe them” kind of good.

“Yes.” His deep chuckle reverberates through the phone.

I groan.

“I thought the song lyrics were a nice addition,” he adds, humor still present in his voice.

My head pops up. “Song lyrics?”

“You don’t remember?” he asks, but in reality, he is daring me to remember.

I mull over the night in my head. I remember talking with him, for what seemed like hours, about music, our favorite bands, and everything in between.

“It’s a song that we laughed about for a while before you decided you needed to dance to it. And then you did. Good thing you’re so bloody adorable. I think the bartender would have kicked you out had he not enjoyed watching you shake your little hips all over the bar.”

Dylan softly sings the chorus. My hand covers my mouth, giggles spilling from my lips. The song is
Come On Eileen.
Everyone knows the English pop song by Dexys Midnight Runners. It’s a cliché of a song, but no one can stop themselves from dancing around like a fool once the counter-melody gets faster and faster during the bridge.

“Brooke?”

“Yeah?”

“Check your messages again.”

I put him on speaker and check my inbox. There’s a picture message. It’s Dylan grinning, and holding up his shirt. The lower half of his stomach is covered in my sloppy, drunken handwriting.

Toora loora toora loo rye ay . . .

you’re gonna hum this tune forever . . .

323–333–4111 -Brooke :)

Fuck me, I even added a smiley face.

“Remind me never to drink again.”

“I thought the smiley face was a nice touch.” His light chuckle echoes from the speaker.

“I’m in full agreement with you,” Lindsay adds.

“How does an hour sound, Brooke? I’ll swing by your hotel. You’re at Le Bristol, yes?” He’s ignoring the fact that I haven’t even agreed.

“Uh . . .” I start to tell him no, but I’m cut off by Lindsay.

“That works perfect, Dylan. I’m meeting up with a friend, so I’m glad you’ll be able to keep Brooke company while I’m gone.”

“WHAT?” I mouth towards her.

She grins like a moron. If I didn’t love her so much, I might have given in to my urge to bitch-slap her.

“Shall we meet in the lobby?” Dylan asks.

“Uh . . .” I’m still speechless.

“She’ll be there!” Lindsay shouts, her voice damn near deafening in our close proximity.

Soft chuckles come from his end of the line. “Lindsay?”

“Yeah?” she answers, and thankfully for my ears; it’s much quieter this time.

“Thank you.”

“As long as you show my Brookie a good time, no thanks necessary.”

“Consider it done. See you in a few,
Brookie.
” I hear the smile in his voice as he ends the call.

“I guess I should have just handed you the phone, seeing as you took it upon yourself to make plans for me.” I glare at Lindsay, ignoring the fact that the idea of spending an afternoon with Dylan has my heart picking up speed inside my chest.

Her loon-like grin is back, and I know she’s mentally high-fiving herself.

I scratch the side of my face with my middle finger, because let’s face it, my best friend is one nosey hooker.