Forget (26 page)

I rinse a white mug, catching sight of that familiar black ink. I lose myself in my thoughts. Everything revolves around Paris and the few moments I’ve gotten to spend with Dylan. The first time I saw him on the métro. My bumbling hands and his mischievous grin has me cringing and giggling at the same time. The
two
times I’d joined him on stage. It was a record.

I can’t remember a point in my life where I didn’t love music. Millie often joked that I was born with a guitar in my hands. I have always loved the idea of connecting with people through music, especially my music, but that isn’t the difficult part, it never had been. The hard part is baring my heart and soul on stage. I feel too exposed.
That
is the hard part. The one obstacle I can’t seem to get over.

When I was ten, I saw an old video clip of Led Zeppelin playing a show in Denmark, and the minute I heard Jimmy Page playing the riffs for
Babe I’m Gonna Leave You,
I became obsessed with the guitar in his hands. It was a Gibson Hummingbird and quickly became a legend in my book. Literally, the most beautiful instrument I’d ever laid eyes on. And for my sixteenth birthday, instead of getting a car like everyone else, Millie bought me that guitar. It was insanely expensive. I cried when I opened it, I couldn’t stop smiling when I ran my fingers across the gorgeous hummingbird motif etched into its mahogany, and I nearly died when I first heard its velvety sound.

It was the single best gift of my life and Millie’s not so subtle way of encouraging me to pursue my passion, and that’s why the last half of my high school years and early part of college, I gave the whole musician thing a shot. Those years were equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. I’d like to say I did it all for myself, but mostly, I did it because of my grandmother. She believed in me so much.

Every time I got on stage, I couldn’t shake the unease. I never played my own music, always someone else’s. I’d take a deep breath, and lose myself, to songs like
Piece of My Heart
by Janis Joplin. And my eyes stayed closed the entire time. It was the only way that I could get past the choking anxiety. I pretended to be someone else, hiding behind their words, their music.

But with Dylan, something feels different. It’s a good different, an amazing different. The unease only lasts for so long until it’s replaced by something else. With a guitar in my hands and him by my side, everything feels natural; it feels right. My hands don’t shake. My eyes stay open. And I’m not pretending to be someone else. I’m just being me—a girl, standing beside a boy, singing her heart out. It’s unreal how fluent we are together.

I feel like two different people, L.A. Brooke and Paris Brooke.

L.A. Brooke is the one who has a part to play. She’s cautious and calculates everything before making a decision. She’s happy for the most part but tends to worry too much about everyone else.

And Paris Brooke, well, she’s the one who has my lips curving into a huge grin when I realize I get to be her for the next few weeks. She’s spontaneous and wild and a little on the selfish side. And last night, she proved how good she is at living in the moment.

Tiny ticks of last night dance behind my eyes. Images flash like a Polaroid camera, alternating between hazy, black-and-white and blurred color. I was definitely drunk, but I was also wild and carefree. I remember his hooded gaze locked with mine as our hips moved together on the makeshift dance floor in Claire’s apartment. I remember savoring the sweet taste of his lips on my tongue. My body trembled when his warm breath brushed against my neck, his fingers deep inside of me.

I was so desperate for Dylan’s hands on me. Drunk or not, I was utterly consumed by him. Every cell in my body was focused on the feral attraction between us.

I sense that I should be more wary of this situation, but the effect he had on me didn’t diminish when I woke up; it’s only gotten stronger. Every word, every smile, everything I learn about him only intensifies my want.

I can’t deny the way he makes me feel. I want to know him. I want to see him laugh and grin so big that he’ll flash that dimple in his right cheek. I want his hands all over my body. I want him over me, under me . . .

I want . . . I want . . . I want . . .
this is starting to become a theme, isn’t it?

A phone rings in the distance. It echoes throughout the loft, getting closer with each soft step on the hardwood. I glance over my shoulder and see Dylan rounding the corner, his body clad in a simple navy towel wrapped around his toned waist.

I blatantly ogle him from head-to-toe.
Hot damn,
he just gets better and better. If he looks this good with just a towel, what in the hell does he look like without it? My hands tremble, desperate to reach out and rub my soapy fingers all over his skin.

The trembling is replaced by a giggle when I notice the marks I’ve left on his gorgeous skin.

“What?” he asks.

I nod towards his chest and stomach. “You look like a giant ‘Brooke Sawyer was here’ billboard.”

He glances down, smiling once his eyes note his war wound and semi-permanent tattoo. “Yeah, you’re quite good at leaving your mark.” His hand holds up my phone. “I swear I wasn’t trying to be a nosey bastard, but someone named Jamie is calling you.”

My body startles when Jamie’s name crosses his lips. I look down at the sink, unable to make eye contact. Reality descends upon me, silencing my thoughts in a dark blanket. I feel guilty, and uncomfortable, and confused about my reaction.

“I think she tried calling you while I was in the shower, and then it started ringing again once I got out. I was afraid it might be important,” he explains.

She.
My spine goes ram-rod straight. “I . . . uh . . . I’ll call Jamie back once I’m done with these.” My hands hold up a dripping sponge. I stare down at the water, acting like I’m busy with the dishes . . . I swear I’ve been doing these fuckers for an eternity. Obviously, my impromptu trip down memory lane didn’t help speed the process along. I’m praying he doesn’t notice that I’ve been scrubbing at the same dish since he walked into the kitchen.

“Are you okay?” He definitely noticed. How couldn’t he notice when I’m so good at wearing my emotions on my sleeve? Happy . . . sad . . . angry . . . it doesn’t matter what I’m feeling; it’s always visible on my face.

“Of course,” I say. My voice sounds too cheery, too fake. I force a smile on my lips and hate that it feels too tight.

“Brooke?” His finger slips under my chin, pulling my gaze to his.

“Seriously, I’m fantastic.” I clear my throat, striving to find a way to change the subject.

I glance down at his towel, and then slowly rake my eyes up his body, stopping at his gaze. “Besides, you’re the one walking around in your towel. It’s a little bit distracting.”

“Just a little bit?” The corners of his lips crest into a smirk. “There’s nothing little about me, love.”

My fingers flick water at his bared chest. “Oh, go ahead and bag the cocky, Mr. I-Promise-I’ll-Be-A-Perfect-English-Gentleman.”

His laughter makes me grin, relieving some of the anxiety that’s tightening my chest. He leans forward, lips brushing softly against mine. My hands grip the sink in reaction, holding myself up from melting to the floor.

“I’m going to put on some music, and then head upstairs to dress myself in something less distracting,” he says against my mouth, kissing me once more. “And I’ll leave this over here . . .” he sets my phone on the kitchen table, “Far away from a stubborn American woman and her very wet hands . . . it’d be a shame for this to get ruined when it’s so good at taking pictures.” With a wink, he walks his perfect ass out of the kitchen and into the living room.

He messes with an iPod speaker dock, and within minutes, the sound of The Strokes singing about
Last Nite
fills his apartment. I quietly sing along, my hips moving in synch with the catchy beat.

Dylan walks towards the stairs but stops, backing up a few steps. He’s eyeing me with a curious look. “The Strokes . . . shall we go ahead and hash it out real quick?”

“The
is this really fucking it
debate?” I raise an eyebrow, intrigued by what his opinion might be. I also love that I knew exactly what his simple question meant. This band’s credibility is a common debate among hipsters . . . well, hipsters wanting to out hip the other hipsters by acting like they’re too good for music that’s gone mainstream.

He nods, crossing his arms across his deliciously bare chest. “What’s Brooke Sawyer’s take? Are The Strokes all hype or not?”

“Honestly, I’m a fan. I refuse to sit back and criticize musicians because I think they hit success too early. When their debut album released, they achieved something that takes most bands two or three records to figure out,
if
they’re lucky. They had a signature sound. Sample any ten-second snippet from any song on
Is This It
and . . .”

“It’s instantly recognized as The Strokes.”

“Exactly!” I exclaim, getting amped up like I always do when music is involved.

He grins at my excited tone of voice. “The fact that they named the album
Is This It
is bloody brilliant. It’s like they were flipping-off their critics; like they knew they wouldn’t be able to please everyone, and didn’t give a shit about trying. People think they’re cheeky by asking . . .
Is this it?
And I just want to answer, yeah, that’s fucking it. It’s a bloody album. What were you expecting? Not every rock record has to be life-changing in order to be good.”

I couldn’t agree more. “A good rock record can just simply make you feel good. And that’s what The Strokes delivered, a feel-good album that almost everyone digs.”

“I love your musical brain . . . And I’m starting to wonder if you’re hiding a secret mind-reading power inside that head of yours.” He chuckles, running his hand through his damp hair. It sticks out all over the place, and I’m finding the messier it is, the more I love it.

The hint of a mischievous grin touches my lips. “What if I am? Would that make you uncomfortable if I could hear everything you’re thinking?”

He shakes his head in two determined movements, heated eyes pinning me to the floor. “Not in the least. I’d keep my thoughts positively filthy just so that I could witness . . . votre belle chaleur blush que la peau parfaite de la vôtre.”

I caught something about
beautiful
and
blush
and
perfect.
The combination of his words and hearing the curling French spill from his lips has me swallowing back a moan. “I only understood like three words of what you just said . . .” I trail off, shaking my head. “God, you’re trouble with a capital T,” I say a little too breathy.

He moves quickly, pulling me into his arms and pressing his mouth to mine. He sucks at my lips, pulling each one into his mouth, before letting me taste his tongue. His hands brace my hips as he kisses me deeper. His groan vibrates against my lips. “Christ, you make me feel too wild for this tiny little body.”

I moan against his mouth, grinding my body into his, feeling him hard against my belly.

My phone starts vibrating against the counter, obnoxious and loud and ruining this hot moment. I sigh in exasperation.

Dylan chuckles against my mouth. His lips move to my neck. “Answer that or ignore it. Finish the bloody dishes or leave them. I don’t give a fuck, as long as you’re
coming
upstairs in the next ten minutes,” he growls into my ear.

I nod, seemingly mute at the moment.

He walks up the stairs to his bedroom, leaving me wide-eyed and breathless.

I dry my hands with a towel and grab my phone. Three missed calls, and a text from Lindsay.

‘At this rate your lips are going to be destroyed.

Stop blowing him, and call me back.

Jesse and I are in my hotel room.

He banged me so good last night I think my vagina is broken.

And I’m starving. So let’s meet for food NOW.’

I send her a quick response, telling her I’ll call back in a few minutes.

“And for the record, I’m giving you two more minutes before I commandeer you from that kitchen,” Dylan shouts from his bedroom, his sexy voice echoing off the ceiling.

I giggle to myself. My hands soap up the final plate, scrubbing off the remnants of glazed sugar and raspberry crème. The aroma of lemon dish-soap wafts in the air. It’s a pretty scent, but not as delicious as Dylan’s body wash,

He calls my name from the loft. I look up and find him smiling down at me. He’s still shirtless, leaning against the banister in only tight, grey boxer briefs. “Jesse wants to know if we’d like to meet him and Lindsay for lunch.”

“I swear that girl is completely impatient. I’ll need to run by my hotel first and change my clothes.” If I’m going out in public, I’d prefer wearing a bra and a pair of
my
underwear.

He shakes his head. “No way, we haven’t got time for that.”

“Excuse me?” I toss the hand towel on the counter.

“I said no, we haven’t got time for that.” He enunciates each word.

My hands go straight to my hips. “I’m pretty sure you’re not the boss of me—”

His voice cuts me off. “Are you sure about that?” His lips curve upwards. “You seemed to enjoy the way my fingers took control of the situation last night. In fact, it made you quite . . .
wild.
”

My toes curl when that last word rolls off his tongue. “Seriously, Dylan, if you want me to finish these anytime soon, stop talking. I just found my focus.”

Even from downstairs, I witness a cocky brow slowly rise. “So while I was in the shower, stroking myself to thoughts of your dirty little mouth whispering in my ear, you were down here,
acting
like you were doing my dishes, but in reality you were having your own little reminiscing party.”

I get a rush of confidence over the idea that he was touching himself while thinking about me. “I wish you would have told me you needed an extra hand . . . I would have been all too willing.”

“I needed your mouth, love. I need those pretty red lips wrapped around my cock.”

I suck at my bottom lip, staring up at his perfect body leaning against the banister.