Forget (7 page)

“That’s fucking delicious,” Lindsay exclaims with wide eyes after taking her first sip.

“I know, right?”

“And you’re not getting off the hook that easy. Spill it, sister. I need to hear all the details about this guy named Dylan.” She turns her body towards mine, giving me her undivided attention.

Scrubbing a hand down my face, I whine, “I don’t want to tell you.”

“Nope, you’re sad little puppy face is not going to get you out of this. Spill. It. Now.”

I give in, knowing she won’t let it go. I tell her all of the details, including Dylan’s gorgeous good looks, my ridiculous lie about my phone malfunctioning, and the fact that I blinded the entire métro with my camera’s erratic flashes. She’s crying tears of laughter by the end of it.

“You’re not helping my mortification!” I shout, smacking her on the arm.

“I’m sorry . . . it’s just that . . .” She’s unable to get a word past her giggles.

“I take it back, I’m not happy you’re here,” I say, but my face betrays me. A smile creeps at the corners of my mouth.

She holds an insistent hand out towards my phone. “Show me the pictures.”

“I deleted them.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying!”

She grabs my phone, typing in the correct passcode like she owns the damn thing. I try to pull the phone from her hand, but her long ass arm holds it above my head. Lindsay hops off the bar stool and quickly scrolls to my pictures before I can stop her. We’re making a scene in front of everyone in the bar. Good thing it’s mostly older men who seem more amused than annoyed.

“Ah ha!” Lindsay exclaims. “Found him!”

I give up, sitting back down on my bar stool and proceed to down my Bloody Mary in record time. Lindsay sits beside me, her eyes still fixated on the screen. “Hot damn, he’s one fine mother . . .” Her last word is muffled, by the hand I’ve put over her mouth. I keep it there until she licks my palm.

“You’re such a whore,” I mutter, before sliding my wet palm down the side of her face.

She squeals in disgust, and now it’s my turn to laugh.

“Please tell me you’ve called this guy.”

“Are you kidding me? First of all, I made an ass out of myself. And secondly, I can’t do that. I
can’t
call him.” It’s the truth, well the partial truth. I also haven’t called him because I’m afraid of what might happen if I see him again. I’ve never had the urge to climb up someone’s body like a spider monkey, but the very sexy and mysterious Dylan—I wanted to climb him, kiss him, and ride . . . you get the idea. Bottom line, these are not thoughts I should be having.

Lindsay rolls her eyes, setting my phone back on the bar. “Are you fucking kidding me, Brooke? You’re in Paris. Don’t worry about what’s going on back home. This is your get-out-of-jail-free, ‘I can do whatever the fuck I want,’ month.”

She sure has a way of sliding things under the rug.

“This guy wrote his number on your hand
in Sharpie.
He wants you to call him. For the love of God . . .
Call. Him.
” She takes one last look at his picture and lets out a low wolf whistle. “Hot damn, he really is one fine specimen. French?” she asks as she slides my phone back in front of me.

I shake my head. “No, he’s English. Just like your soon-to-be fuck buddy at the end of the bar.”

She laughs. “What’s with all the hot English men in Paris?”

“You’re preaching to the choir, sister.”

Jesse is standing in front of us, eyes smiling. “You two need to settle down. I think you just woke up Au Fait’s very best patron . . .
again.
” He nods towards the older gentleman in the corner who’s currently looking around in confusion.

I start to laugh and mutter a half-ass apology, but Lindsay cuts me off.

“If a guy writes his number in fucking Sharpie on your hand, it means he wants you to call him, right?” She has now included the bartender in our little dispute.

“Excuse me?” He tilts his head in confusion.

My best friend takes it upon herself to hold my palm up for his curious perusal. He stares down at the black ink, studying it closely with wide eyes. “You met this guy in Paris?” he asks.

“On the métro, my first day here.”

A smile consumes his face. “Sharpie? Fucking permanent ink? What a wanker.” He chuckles. “He
really
wanted you to call him.”

“See? I fucking told you!” My best friend is more than pleased with herself, and the F bombs seem to fly more frequently when she’s pleased or happy or mad or angry . . . yeah, never mind.

“I’m not calling him, Linds. End of discussion.” I set my hand on my lap and take a drink from the fresh Bloody Mary that Jesse set in front of me. How many of these things have I had? I want to say two, but the slight buzz I’m feeling, probably means more than that.

“Well, if you’re not going to call that guy, I think you two should come out with me tonight. We’re headed to a shabby little joint, but the drinks are cheap, and the house band is pretty good. My brother is filling in for their lead singer.”

Jesse’s offer is tempting, especially the part about getting to see what his brother looks like. I look over at Lindsay to see she’s already on board with this plan. The fact that she’s programming her number into his phone kind of tipped me off. They finish exchanging numbers and fuck-me looks, and Jesse tells us to meet him at Pop In around nine.

Apparently, it’s an alternative little bar located on Rue Amelot in Le Marais. It sounds like the dive bars I generally flock to in L.A.

Even though Lindsay is a huge pain in my ass
most of the time, I’m excited she’s here and ready to enjoy my first real night out with her in Paris.

WE’RE BOTH A LITTLE
drunk by the time we make it to Pop In. It’s after nine Paris time, and Lindsay and I have already snagged a few seats by the first floor bar, ordered drinks, and are making ourselves at home. It’s an eclectic joint, a bit of a hipster-infused circus, so to speak, housed on three levels, separated by narrow staircases. The second floor is a lounge, and from what the bartender told us, the basement is a dark and intense dance cave where the house band is currently playing. I’m digging the fun and energetic vibe of the crowd milling about the first level. It reminds me of an old British salon. There are worn second-hand sofas and a vintage piano lining the walls of the cramped space.

The minute we sit down, a well-coiffed bartender clad in a leather jacket takes our drink order. Lindsay orders a vodka tonic and two boilermakers while I order my typical vodka and Sprite. The bartender gives me a strange look, which isn’t anything new; people generally crinkle their noses at the odd combination, but I love it. It’s always been my go-to drink.

“Boilermakers? Really?” I question her sanity. Dropping a shot of whiskey into my beer isn’t exactly my favorite alcoholic past time.

“Oh, get some balls, Brooke. We’re in Paris. We have no schedule, no place to be, and we’re going to enjoy every single second of it.”

I roll my eyes. “I’d say the fact that our entire afternoon revolved around a spa day
and
getting tipsy off mimosas, proves that I’m fully aware of the no schedule and letting loose agenda.”

The bartender slides our drinks in front of us. He eyes us both curiously while his mouth sucks on the silver piercing on his lip. It’s probably the most unattractive thing I’ve seen today.

“Can I help you with something?” Lindsay asks.

“Americans, right?” he questions in a haughty tone.

“A-mer-i-can?” I pronounce each syllable in my best French accent. “What are A-mer-i-cans?” I have a tendency to become a smartass when alcohol is involved.

He laughs, and I’m thankful for his sense of humor. He proceeds to recommend we drink a few beers here, before making our way downstairs. “Be prepared to dance, sweat a lot, and lose your inhibitions,” he says. “You won’t be disappointed.”

Once the bartender moves to the other end of the crowded bar, Lindsay mumbles something about wishing we’d had fries before dropping her shot into her beer. She downs it like a frat boy, swipes a hand across her face, and then looks over at me. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head.

“Are you thinking I should be classier?”

“You? Classier? That’s absurd,” I tease. Lindsay could make walking out of her apartment in a towel look classy. She’s the quintessential model, all legs in her little black shorts with ridiculously tall heels. The girl is already a head taller than me, but the stilettos she’s rocking make her seem like a giant. Her miniscule white bandeau top showcases a nice amount of cleavage and is paired perfectly with a three-quarter-length sleeve blazer.

Sometimes, I find her fashion sense and ability to leave little to the imagination kind of intimidating. Hell, wearing a bikini tends to be a bit of an obstacle for me. I know I’m not fat—my curves are more slim than voluptuous—but I prefer to keep most things covered up. It’s not that I lack confidence; I just hate feeling exposed, physically or emotionally.

My sister Ember often jokes that it stems from how
very
wide-open our mother generally let herself be when we were kids. She’s partially right. Hell, a therapist could have a field day with the deep-rooted issues that revolve around Cassidy Sawyer’s lack of maternal instincts, but it’s not the only thing that’s created my anxiety when it comes to feeling vulnerable.

Lindsay takes a sip from her vodka tonic. “I’m always classy, baby. Even slugging back shots and beers, I’m as fucking classy as they come.” Awful doesn’t even begin to describe the French accent she just attempted. It sounded more Aussie swallowing a screeching cat than soft and curling Parisian flare.

I giggle into my drink. “Please, never do that again.”

She tilts her head to the side. “That bad?”

“Bad doesn’t begin to describe it.
Wait,
on second thought, please use that wherever we go this week. I beg of you. It’ll make my year.” I grin at her.

“You’re just jealous of how hot my ass looks in these shorts.”

I shrug, drawing the straw through the ice in my glass. “It’s like you’re a mind reader. I’m secretly jealous of how hot my model best friend looks.”

“I’ve missed your sarcastic ass, you know that?”

“Linds, we just saw each other . . .” I stop when my words are muffled against the hand that’s covering my face.

She grins at me, placing that annoying hand of hers back on the bar. “I know we talk every day, and I know I just saw you a little over a week ago, but it’s been a long ass time since you’ve been yourself. Sarcastic, feisty, and carefree looks good on you, sweetheart.”

“I’ve missed you too.” I pull her in for a quick hug.

“All right, now that we got another round of cutesy best friend shit out of the way, time to put on your big girl panties.” Lindsay winks, sliding a shot of whiskey and pint of beer in front of me.

I humor her, dropping the shot into the beer. I shut my eyes, prepare for the bitter mixture and lift the glass to my lips. My senses are pleasantly surprised when the sweet taste of apples hits my taste buds. She must have slyly substituted hard cider instead of beer when she ordered these.

“Damn, I’ll drink boilermakers for the rest of this trip if you continue to order them like that,” I say, slamming the empty glass on the bar.

Lindsay is staring at me with an odd expression on her face.

“What?” I asked. “Do I have something on my face?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “No, Brookie. You just look more gorgeous than ever. I swear if you weren’t so damn short, you’d be rocking the runway with me.”

I snort. “Lindsay! You’re crazy. And I’m not
that
short. I’m five foot two.”

She stares at me deadpanned.

“Oh, shut up, crazy. You’re the giant wearing stilettos tonight.”

“I could literally put you in my pocket.”

“Why does everyone say that?”

Lindsay laughs. “And, you’re the crazy one. You’re one of the prettiest girls I know. And I know a lot of pretty girls.” She pauses, eyeing me with a pointed look. “I’m not sure if you remember, but I’m a model. I’m surrounded by pretty boys and girls all day long. And you, my beautiful best friend, you’re one of the pretties.” She tugs on one of my blonde locks. “This sexy, hippie-bohemian look you rock, it suits you. And you should sport these messy waves more often.”

I glance down, taking in my normal style. I always go with free and flowing, and I guess in Lindsay’s words, bohemian. My makeup is almost always minimal—only mascara and lip gloss. Although, sometimes, I’ll walk on the wild side and throw on a little red lipstick just to change things up.

Tonight, I’m wearing high-waisted denim shorts with my favorite white, eyelet top. I paired the outfit with my brown, slouchy knee-high boots because they are the most comfortable things that have graced my feet.

I wave her off. “I always dress like this.”

“Yeah, but it’s been a while since your face has been void of that stressed out look. I feel like the second you moved back to L.A., you just kind of lost yourself.”

I scrutinize her words, preparing for her to bring up Jamie.

She holds up her hands, waving the white flag. “Look, I’m not saying a word. I just want you to know that I’m happy to see you happy.”