Page 69 of Never Forget

The moment he jumps next to one of the guys beating on a huge metal drum, it’s like each hit of the sticks in his hand sheds a pound of weight from his shoulders. He falls into rhythm as though he’d been rehearsing with them all day. He jumps from makeshift instrument to makeshift instrument, the excitement of the crowd reaching a fever pitch when the performers roll out what looks like a standard drum kit, except it’s made of pots and pans, trash can lids, and a huge barrel with canvas stretched tight over the opening. They present it to Naz like he’s royalty, and a huge grin lights up his face. The moment his ass touches the overturned bucket, he goes to town, his hands and arms fast at work in what might be one of the more impressive drum solos of his career.

He flows from his wild solo moment into something more like what the performers were playing before, all of them getting in on the rhythm. It’s messy the way all live music is. Nobody’s trying to be perfect. They’re just listening to one another, trading the beat back and forth until it becomes bigger than any one person.

The crowd loves it. The performers are loving it.

Naz loves it.

I wonder if he knows how hard he’s smiling. Or has it simply been too long since he’s had this much fun doing what he loves the most. His last few performances were overshadowed by protestors and violence, riot police, and bullshit charges.

For these precious few moments, he isn’t carrying the weight of all that pressure, his grandparent’s health, the investigation, or even me.

He’s just playing.

Watching him like this makes it painfully easy to remember why I fell in love with him. Not because he’s famous. Not even because he’s talented, but because when Naz Lester allows himself to be exactly who he is, the whole world brightens.

My phone vibrates, reality crashing back all at once.

I pull it from my pocket and check the message. It’s my next instruction, and hopefully another step closer to being done with this whole thing.

Catching Naz’s eye, I lift my phone. He nods, understanding immediately. Seamlessly, he transitions from playing with both hands to one, spinning a drumstick through his fingers with his free hand. Then, with one last hit, he tosses them both up in the air. The performers on either side of him catch the sticks like it was planned, and Naz stands to take a bow. He mouths thank you to the performers who are still playing, bows again to the audience, gives a little wave, then turns on his heel to run the other way.

I make my way around the outside of the crowd. “Duty calls,” I say. “Thanks for a good time. We have to be going now!”

Shockingly, only a handful of people follow, holding their phones up to catch our retreat, but they don’t follow for long.

I catch up with Naz, grasping the back of his arm and steering him to a quiet, shadowy corner. Naz is breathing hard, looking over my shoulder to make sure no one is on our tail, absolutely beaming.

“That was fun,” he says breathlessly.

“You’re incredible.”

I can’t help myself. I press him against the wall for a brief but deep, dirty kiss.

“Alright, alright, get off me,” I say, pushing myself off him. “We’ve got serious shit to attend to first.”

Naz laughs for perhaps the first time today, then follows me back into the river of people to once again lose ourselves in the crowd.

By the time we reach our final location, I’m wet, tired, and irritated because I know now that this whole thing has been nothing more than an elaborate excuse to waste my time.

Instead of a ten-minute drive, we have endured a grand adventure across the city, zig-zagging all over the streets of Manhattan, taking multiple redundant subway rides, and getting caught in another downpour between the last two stops.

All to end up at the exact address I was sent to when this all began.

Was this all to fuck with me? Or did they do this on purpose to throw me off my game and make sure I wasn’t being followed?

Naz has trudged along this entire time, never once complaining. If anything, after the street performance, he’s been a lot lighter. Meanwhile, I’ve felt heavier every step of the way, wondering what will happen at the end of this journey.

We’re about to find out.

Rain beats steadily against the umbrella we bought at a bodega as I look up at the address on the storefront of a souvenir shop and the self-service luggage locker facility next to it. Tourists weave in and out of the automatic doors, chattering excitedly in various languages, complaining about the rain, pulling crying children behind them. They come and go like this is a normal day. Like there isn’t the possibility of something dangerous lurking around every corner.

I glance at Naz, then at a small alcove near the window at the front of the building. Leading him over, I press the handle of the umbrella into his hand and push him into the corner a bit more, where he won’t be as conspicuous.

“I need you to stay right here.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were going to be the dog.”

“I’m serious.”