Read Online Forget by N.A. Alcorn - Free Book Online Page A

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