Page 2 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

I descended the stairs and pushed open the creaky door. I braced myself for a sudden attack, whether it was from crime lords or a burly bouncer who wanted to keep me out. But I had blond hair and blue eyes and an innocent expression that wasn’t altogether fake. When combined, the three usually got me where I wanted to go.

In this case, they weren’t needed. There was no one manning the door, but the questionable little piano bar was busier than I’d expected. It seemed as if it had been carved out of the sewer system. The place was so dark. I couldn’t be surprised at that, for it was underground and piano bars tended to have atmospheric lighting. Blue lights glowed through the bottles behind the long scarred bar and flickered in squat glasses on the square, intimate tables. People were clustered around those tables in groups of twos and threes, talking and laughing quietly.

Everyone had someone, whether a friend or a lover. Or both. I didn’t see anyone else alone. Not even at the bar, where the creepers with white bands on their ring fingers usually went trolling for the vulnerable.

Suddenly, I wished Jamie was beside me with a ferocity that made me tighten my grip on my shopping bags.

A few heads swiveled toward me and I realized just how much I stood out. I was practically a mugger’s wet dream, loaded down with bags and wearing ice pick heels—my favorite kind, but not exactly smart for a woman alone—plus toting a fancy purse that screamed steal me. Not to mention looking wide-eyed at everything around me as if I’d never been to New York before.

For fuck’s sake, I wasn’t a tourist. I lived here. I knew better. But I’d let my good judgment slip in favor of some retail therapy and a bit of risky behavior.

Idiotic move, Lindz.

I’d just get a drink, take a load off by sitting at the bar. Maybe I could have my bags sent back to the hotel with my driver so I didn’t seem so conspicuous.

Oh, yeah, call George and have him tidy up your life so you’re free to be as bad as your good girl conscience allows. Maybe you can even have him wait outside in case your impromptu play date gets a little too real.

I slid onto a stool and tucked my bags against my legs. If someone tried something, I’d use my glass like a hammer and they’d be losing a finger tonight.

Hey, they had nine others, right?

“What’ll it be, darlin’?”

I smiled at the bartender. “Sauvignon blanc, please.”

His mouth tipped into a crooked smile as he slung a towel over his shoulder. It looked soiled. “Coming right up.”

While directly in my line of sight, he took out a box of wine, splashed some into a glass, and pushed the glass my way. It was not even white. “Sorry, must’ve gotten lost on the way from France.”

“Just like your tip,” I muttered as he turned away.

But since beggars had sore toes from being cramped for hours in torture heels, I tossed back that wine as if it was the finest I’d ever tasted.

Maybe the liquid courage was why I shifted on my stool as the music started to play. Only fitting a piano bar would have a pianist. A real one, not canned music through unseen speakers.

I recognized the song immediately. “Dream On” by Aerosmith. But this version was something different. Special. The way the pianist was playing was haunting, and there were no vocals. Just the music coming from behind a half screen in a darkened corner of the bar.

That too was odd. Didn’t most piano players want to create a connection with their audience? This one was hidden away in the shadows, barely visible. I couldn’t see a jar to collect tips either.

Was he or she independently wealthy perhaps? Just played for the love of the music?

What a novel concept.

I picked up my bags and my drink after the smirking bartender refilled it and headed for the corner. Whomever the pianist was, he or she wasn’t going to stay hidden from me.

But as I neared the screen, my footsteps faltered. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the style of playing. Something about it seemed oddly familiar. The song built and built before dropping back again, but not with this guy. I was almost certain it was a male. Even when the song receded, the level of urgency remained constant. And when it climbed toward the pinnacle, the pianist slammed on the keys in a way that bordered on the discordant.

A riot of emotions jangled to life inside me.

I didn’t understand what I was feeling. Why tears pressed hot against the backs of my eyes and my belly quivered with longing. My palms grew sweaty around the handles of my bags as the song filled the bar, the music from the pounding keys swelling inside my head until my temples throbbed with it.

I didn’t want to see who it was. I had to. The frenetic music was like a soundless scream. The lyrics had to go with the wild melody or it was just beautiful noise.

Hauling in a breath, I stepped around the screen as the song reached its end. And felt the world drop out from underneath me as my eyes connected with Alexander Nash’s.

He didn’t smile at me. Just stared while he kept right on playing, drawing the song out beyond its natural conclusion. This was an extended medley, a pot simmering on low, the soundless shout rising again like a trapped breath inside my chest.

I didn’t think. Didn’t wonder what the hell I was doing. The unused microphone sat so close to his mouth, but he ignored it as if it didn’t matter.

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