Page 72 of Never Forget

Once I’m back around to the side of the building where I left Naz, I stop short when I make it just a few paces past where he was supposed to be.

A white umbrella with a red “I Heart NYC” logo on the side rolls on the ground, spurred on by a gentle wind and the rain that is still falling. Picking up speed, I sprint in the direction Cory mentioned, hoping against hope that Naz is just stupid and not hurt. Or worse.

NINETEEN

NAZ

I’m not sure what it is about him that catches my attention. A feeling, I suppose. Maybe it’s the cloying floral smell of his cologne as he passes by me. Whatever it is, it’s enough to pull my eyes away from the locker facility, where I just lost sight of Scott behind a row of lockers.

The curious man has already passed me by the time I swing around to look in his direction. He’s walking away from me, one hand tucked into the pocket of his coat while the other holds a phone to his ear. I can’t see his face, but his outfit is strange enough to stand out. It’s raining, but the long charcoal trench-style raincoat and matching fedora seem out of place in the July heat.

There’s something about him that tickles at the back of my brain. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. Something familiar about his posture or the way he walks.

Then I catch part of his phone conversation, the words drowned out by the pattering of rain on my umbrella. I hear him clearly when he says, “A dumb meathead security guard,” and my pulse skips a beat, then begins to pound.

That voice…

No. It couldn’t be.

I don’t see Scott when I glance through the window again. He pleaded with me and demanded that I don’t leave this spot, but…

My eyes trail back to the man, who is getting farther and farther away with every passing second. Before I think it through, I find myself following him, dropping my umbrella just before the throng of people gets thicker.

I don’t follow close enough to make it obvious, weaving naturally through the people between us while I wait for him to turn his head just once. Just enough for me to see his face. But he never does.

He keeps walking, laughing into his phone as he rounds the corner to the plaza. I’m almost close enough to call his name. I almost do it, too, just to see if he stops and turns around. To see if I’m right.

A burst of laughter erupts directly in front of me. I wasn’t paying attention to anyone but the man who is getting away, damn it! Before I can duck and run for cover, seven teenage girls spill into my path carrying umbrellas, shopping bags, and iced coffees, stopping so abruptly to laugh at one of their phones that I nearly walk right into them.

“Oh, sorry,” I say absently, looking over their heads as the man disappears around the side of a building. I step to the side to bypass them, but one of them gasps.

I look down at two pairs of wide eyes staring back at me, then at each other. One of them opens her phone and swipes a few times before holding up her phone next to my face. Then all of them, at the same time and similar pitch, scream right in my face.

Giving them a quick smile, I glance over their heads again, looking in every direction to catch a glimpse of the stranger. Gently pushing my way between the group, mumbling another apology, I hurry to the opposite side of the plaza.

Nothing. The man is gone, out of sight. Replaced by dozens of people moving through the small city plaza as though he never existed in the first place.

Shit.

I freeze when I hear the click-clack of heels behind me. Turning slowly, I find the same group of girls beaming at me. Even in their heels, they’re all at least a head shorter than me, and they look very young.

I look back over my shoulder and let out a quiet breath. Whoever that was is gone, and it probably wasn’t who I thought it was anyway.

Giving the girls my nicest, least stressed out smile I can, I put on my public persona once again. Only this isn’t like playing where I can be myself. This is the mask I put on for fans, especially young ones, because they deserve recognition. After the last few months, the last thing the band needs is a negative encounter used to prove the rumors spread about us.

“Sorry about that, ladies. I thought I saw someone I know.”

“Was it Jesse?!” they shriek, jumping up and down and giggling the way only Jesse Moore can make someone do.

I laugh. “No, unfortunately it’s just me today.”

“That’s okay,” one of the girls says, looking up at me with wide, almost sad eyes. “I love you. You’re my favorite in the whole band.”

“It’s true,” the friend closest to her says excitedly. “She has a poster of you on her wall and everything.”

“Yeah,” another says. “Right above her bed.”

There’s more giggling, blushing from the girl with the poster, and someone even pulls out their phone to show me that she does, in fact, have a rather large poster of me on her wall. A shirtless one, from our Rolling Stone shoot, where I’m wearing nothing but a leather harness across my chest and my pants are unbuttoned so low it’s positively indecent.