Page 14 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

She was clawing at her skin, reacting to a mix of synthetic drugs. I knew the look. She was coming down. The designer drugs were passed around at parties with booze. Heroin. A cocktail of something even worse that would flood her system on its endlessly seductive trip to bliss.

Only the bliss was shorter and shorter. It required more for each trip.

And the sharp teeth that dragged through flesh and bone afterward burned like battery acid.

I backed into the studio and slammed the door shut. I couldn’t look at her.

My hands shook as Logan entered the lounge and discovered the chaos waiting there. His startled eyes met mine through the soundproof glass panels along each side of the studio door.

I slammed the side of my hand into the unforgiving oak of the door.

One.

Two.

Three times.

The screaming outside the door couldn’t reach me right now.

It couldn’t follow me to the darkness and rage bubbling in my chest. The splinters in the door sliced at the rage and pushed it back.

I swung the door open again.

“The only thing I ever asked—ever. And you do this?”

“Nash.” Logan’s voice was even and resolute.

“Get out of my sight.”

Angel scrambled off the couch, one heel on, one heel off as she stumbled up the stairs.

Logan slammed his hand into the middle of my chest. “No.”

My chest heaved as the wild beast in my chest shrunk down again. As it slid back under its shell in the corner of my brain where the rage always lived. Where the hate and fear and addiction grasped inky black tentacles.

Where they lay in wait to go on that one last ride that would surely end me.

“Let me handle it.” The determination in Logan’s gaze set me back another step.

I nodded.

I had no choice. My words had been stripped away. Of all the things I’d lost that night so long ago, my voice was what I missed most.

My voice. Me. They were both shredded on the floor of the past.

Coming to Logan’s had been a mistake. A favor owed or not, I should have stayed away.

Logan would see that soon enough.

Six

As far as I was concerned, all destination weddings should begin and end with Hawaii. Especially when the sun was just about to set in the distance.

Rain had soaked the area not an hour ago, but you wouldn’t know it from the sky. It was crystal clear with wisps of clouds. Some sort of traditional canoe with a sail was the only thing marring the line of the horizon.

The wedding party slowly made our way down the beach to a circle of plumeria flowers in the same bright magenta and white ombré as our dresses. In between the clusters of bright pink were butter yellow blooms, creating a soft effect that matched the skyline in the distance.

The wind had kicked up and the spray of the ocean teased my thighs. The sand was cool between my toes. The kickass heels I’d found to wear with my dress had been declared obsolete the moment I spotted the beach. In the end, I’d embraced the island vibe—as well as the copious amounts of rum offered to those in the wedding—and hung out on the fringes of the party.

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