Free Forget by N.A. Alcorn

accent. He’s good-humored about our sarcastic jabs, chuckling and faking annoyed glares. I think he might be one of the funniest guys I’ve ever met.
    “Come on, Brooke, let’s go dance!” She shouts over the music.
    I shake my head. “Hell no, I’m not leaving this seat.”
    “Looks like you don’t have a choice, Jesse.” Lindsay grabs his arm, pulling him onto the dance floor. He laughs at her antics, and finally gives in, pulling her body tightly against his.
    She doesn’t put up a fight and proceeds to do what we call, “putting her best ass on.”
    I know they’re going to end up screwing like rabbits tonight.

    “How’s our song selection so far?” Dylan asks the crowd. They’ve just finished a creative rendition of Heartbreaker by Led Zeppelin.
    The bar patrons voice their approval.
    He stares out into the crowd, drinking in his audience. “Consider me your cover song slave for the evening. Give me your requests beautiful patrons of Pop In.”
    In my usual sober state, I have been known to tease musicians. I’ll throw out a random, more than ridiculous request just to see their creativity at work. Even a forty-year-old man clad in aviators and a leather vest can make Steppenwolf’s Born to Be Wild sound good at a karaoke bar. It’s repetitive, it doesn’t require a lot of work, and most men associate it with Easy Rider.
    But it’s true talent that’ll sing something completely unexpected and somehow take another musician’s song and make it their own. This is why you don’t often hear bands cover something like Bohemian Rhapsody. Freddie Mercury was no doubt one of the most talented singers of all time, and his vocals had a ridiculous amount of range. Who the hell would want to mess with that kind of greatness?
    “ Touch My Body! ” I yell towards him, not even realizing how crude the song request sounds. Apparently, tonight is no exception. Maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s the fact that the mysterious and intense Dylan has me drunk with his presence, but for some strange reason, I just shouted a song request loud enough for the entire bar to hear.
    So much for staying incognito.
    He chuckles into the mic. “Excuse me?” Dylan shields the stage lights from his face as he searches into the crowd for the crazy bitch that just shouted a Mariah Carey song request.
    Lindsay laughs, elbowing my side to answer him.
    “I think this lady wants to request a song,” Jesse voices loud enough for Dylan to hear.
    Dylan tilts his head in confusion while trying to read the expression on his brother’s face.
    Ah, fuck it, right? It’s not like I can take it back now.
    “ 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