Forget (9 page)

“
Touch My Body
by Mariah Carey,” I respond, hands cupped around my mouth, so my voice reaches his curious ears. Those addicting eyes lock onto mine, and once recognition sets in, they go wide in shock. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he shakes his head with a surprised laugh.

“We’ve played Zeppelin, Muse, and Nirvana.” He pauses, standing up from his barstool. “Even Bob Dylan . . . and you want to hear
Mariah Carey?
”

I kneel on my barstool, so he can see my face above the rest of the crowd that’s now curiously watching our exchange. “Are you not man enough to play Mariah?”

Seriously, what is in those drinks?

“This girl is busting your balls! She can sing. Like really sing!” Lindsay exclaims.

I turn towards her, still perched on my bar stool, jaw dropped in shock. “What the fuck?” I whisper-yell.

She holds up ten fingers and winks at me.

Open mic night.
Number ten on that stupid bucket list she made back in college. I have been played. The hooker has thrown me to the wolves.

“Come on, Brooke.” Dylan’s voice pulls my eyes towards the stage.

“Yeah, Brooke, get your arse up there.”
Fuck you, Jesse.

Dylan motions for me to move. “I’m not man enough to sing Mariah by myself.”

While bar patrons smile and cheer for me to get on stage, Lindsay pulls on my wrist, forcing my feet to hit the floor. I glare at my best friend, shooting daggers into her chest.

“Go,” she encourages. “Come on, Brookie. I want to hear that pretty voice of yours.”

Somehow, my feet make their way to the stage.

I feel like I’m having an out of body experience as I sit on the stool beside Dylan.

“Hey, we’re going to take five. It’s not often these guys play Mariah,” Dylan addresses the crowd, amusement hinting at his voice. The bassist and guitarist stand near the drummer, chatting about chords and other musical things.

Musical things? Jesus, I sound like an idiot.
This is shit I do on a daily basis, things that I know like the back of my hand, and most definitely could give insight on; but here I sit, nervous and anxious and completely freaked out.

Oh God, I’m going to sing in front of a bunch of people. My eyes scan the crowd, and I swear the whole room is transfixed on this stage.

“I’m shocked that you’re here right now,” he says. “It’s a good shock though.” His eyes shine underneath the stage lights.

Me too, Bright Eyes.
His retinas might as well be fragments of the aurora borealis. They’re that damn luminescent. Are they always that bright? That irrationally beautiful? I follow those eyes as they tilt to the side, taking a questioning shape.

Shit, how long have I been staring at him like this? I blink out of my trance, clearing nervous energy from my throat. “I’m a . . . I’m shocked I’m up here too.”

Dylan grins as his hand grabs mine, inspecting the black ink on my palm. “After a few days went by without a word, I was starting to wonder if I dreamed the whole thing,” he mutters quietly.

Join the Wondering Club, buddy.
I’m definitely wondering how in the hell I got up on this stage. Anxiety clogs my throat, making it impossible to speak.

“Are you nervous?” Dylan’s eyes hone in on the clammy hands clutching at my jean shorts.

“C-crowds kind of make me nervous.” I rub a hand down my face.

Oh hello, stuttering Brooke. Long time, no see.

He places a comforting hand on my thigh.
Touch My Body—
ironic, right?

“Hey,” he whispers, pulling my attention from the long fingers dominating my leg. I look up into emerald eyes. “We’re not at Pop In. We’re not in a room with a bunch of drunken idiots. There’s no band behind us. It’s just you and me. We’re just jamming out in my apartment, messing around with music.” His calm voice blankets my nerves.

“Just jamming out in your apartment?”

He nods.

“I usually have my guitar for jam sessions,” I blurt out, but it’s the truth. My guitar is my shield. I feel protected with it, and right now, I just feel vulnerable. I might as well be sitting on stage naked.

Dylan takes my words and mulls them over, contemplating something in his mind. After a few beats, he stands up and chats with the band members in a hushed tone. The guys seem thrilled with his idea, nodding and patting him on the back. One member shrugs off his guitar, handing it over to Dylan.

“Change of plans.” He sits down beside me as the rest of the band files off stage and heads straight towards the bar.

“We’re playing this one acoustic. Just you and me.” He places the guitar strap over my head. His fingers brush against my collarbone, spurring a shiver to roll through my body.

I ignore the way his touch threatens to ignite every nerve ending like a livewire and focus on the instrument in my lap. A large exhale accompanies the overwhelming relief from having a shield. It’s not my favorite make of guitar, but it’ll work. I strum the chords, adjusting my fingers to the substitute.

“Thanks,” he tells the stagehand who hands him a guitar. He adjusts the strap over his form. His muscles ripple and stretch underneath his shirt. The two times I’ve been in his presence, I’ve noticed that Dylan doesn’t dress to impress, he dresses for comfort. And he rocks that look—white tee, blue jeans, black boots.

Even with the tattoos and messy brown hair, he appears clean-cut, yet somehow, still so easily distinguished from everyone else. Clean-cut, yet distinct. He is the sexiest oxymoron I’ve ever seen.

“Okay, we’re going to switch this up. You ready to get a little creative, Brooke?” he asks as his long fingers run over the cords.

How could one simple movement that I’ve seen a million times look so fucking sexy?

And he won my musical brain over with that one word.
“I like creative.”

He smiles. Not that small smirk I’d already witnessed a few times tonight, but a full smile, showcasing his gorgeous white teeth. The kind of smile he gave me on the métro, the one that had my heart threatening to beat itself out of my chest.

“I had a feeling you threw out the song request just to test me. See what kind of musician I really am.”

I shrug, batting my eyelashes in feigned innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m a huge Mariah fan.
Huge.
”

“I bet you are.” Dylan chuckles, his little smirk making a reappearance. “So the chorus is about the only thing I know. I’ll sing that, you sing the rest, Little Wing.”

I glance down at the guitar, and then stop once the words
Little Wing
register in my head. “
Little Wing?
” My eyes tilt in scrutiny. “You need to tell me the meaning behind that.”

“Only if you tell me why nearly five days have passed without a phone call or text being sent my way.”

“Touché.”

He winks.
“How about this? You sing, and I promise I’ll buy you all the drinks your tiny little body can handle once we’re finished. And maybe, if I’m feeling generous, I’ll let you in on the Little Wing secret.”

You sing,
I repeat his words in my head. Shit, that means I have to sing. I swallow hard. “I will need to get positively hammered once I’m done making an ass of myself up here.”

“Just follow my lead.” His eyes reassure me.

I have a fleeting thought that he hasn’t asked me about my music background, never questioned my talent, and for some reason, he just trusts that I can play. I’m oddly comforted by this fact, but that comfort only lasts a few seconds, flying right out the door once Dylan re-adjusts his mic.

“I have to take back my statement from earlier in the night.
Now,
I’m one lucky bastard because I’ve got this pretty little thing named Brooke sitting next to me, and she’s about to grace me, and all of you, with her beautiful voice. We’re going acoustic with this one. Here it is,
Touch My Body.
”

He starts playing, and I follow suit, mimicking his rhythm. I’m impressed by his chord choices. Let’s face it, I’m already easily impressed by him, but his talent is undeniable. He is a musician through and through. A rare gem. The kind of musician I search for on a daily basis, one that Wallace & Wright Records would be lucky to have under their label.

I discreetly clear my throat, swallow the anxious energy threatening to make my feet run off the stage, and sing the opening lyrics into the mic. I keep my eyes shut, imagining I’m sitting in the recording studio back in L.A., just playing with Dylan.

I feel like we’ve been playing together for years. Our brains are just in tune, jiving perfectly. We’re similar, Dylan and me, cut from the same cloth. Our musical instincts and passions run bone deep and seem to connect on a higher level. And the feeling, the rush I’m getting from it, is
addicting.
I want to play with him every single day of my life. I want to eat, sleep, and breathe jam sessions with Dylan.

The chorus comes, and I finally open my eyes, watching him intently. He raises a devilish eyebrow in my direction before beginning his own rendition of Mariah, changing up the lyrics, and making them his own. He replaces every
me
or
my
in the chorus with
you
or
your,
and it takes my brain to a million dirty places.

We could rename the song
Touch Your Body.

He is singing to me, his eyes never releasing their hold on mine. I might as well be the only one in the room. I can’t stop imagining all of the things he’s singing, my mind fantasizing about him, about us . . . together.

My eyes stay wide open for the rest of the song, determined to watch him, soak him in and savor every detail. And I’m hooked. I think this is the first time in history someone got high as a kite without actually consuming drugs.

Before I know it, the crowd is clapping, Lindsay and Jesse’s cheers rising above everyone else. Dylan runs a hand through his messy hair, grinning at me with a wide, easy smile. He grips the back of my neck, leaning his body close to mine.

“You’re amazing,” he whispers into my ear, his lips brushing against my skin.

I wonder if this is what people mean when they say melt. My body feels tingly inside, and I’m definitely feeling less than solid. If just his smile and words alone have the power to make me feel like this, what else could he make me feel? If just his presence alone has the power to make me forget about Jamie and my life in L.A., what else could he get me to do?

MAYBE IT’S FROM ALL
of the alcohol flowing freely in my blood, but being on stage with her felt like a bloody dream. I’ve never in my life seen or heard something as beautiful as Brooke singing. She is a tiny little thing, but once she opens her mouth, this huge, undeniably breathtaking sound comes out. I think my heart stopped for a good minute from shock. Her voice reminded me of sex.
Mind-blowing
sex.

When I first met her, she was adorable. Blushing every three seconds, and nervously biting on her bottom lip. She appeared restrained, trying to hide the way her body reacted to me.

But I knew better.

I knew it was there. I couldn’t see it or hear it, but I could feel it. I knew, behind those reserved eyes, there was a woman who was spontaneous and full of life. While I saw glimpses of that woman when I first met her, I really got to see her once she let go on stage.

She was wings spread wide, fluttering free.

She was the soft whisper of a breeze across the water.

She was Little Wing. And she was fucking magic.

Brooke isn’t made like other women. Once she really lets go and lives in the moment, she’s the kind of woman who was put on earth to blow a man’s mind. And bloody hell, did she ever. Normally, when I’m on stage, I focus on the crowd, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. Like I said, the woman possesses magic. And the fact that she doesn’t even fucking know it, makes her all the more irresistible.

I wasn’t the only one mesmerized. The bastards in the crowd eyeing her up and down had me feeling irrationally possessive. I changed up the chorus, staking my claim through the words of the song. It didn’t help my “now is not the time to get a hard-on” cause. Singing about throwing her on a bed and tasting her body had my mind running to all kinds of filthy places.