Page 26 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

Even the bugs didn’t want to sing tonight. They had the right idea.

A whiskey and a fire sounded perfect. Too bad I was unable to just have one whiskey. Hot cocoa just didn’t have the same ring now that I was out of nappies.

The clatter of wood against wood and the sweet scent of sawdust greeted me as I finally caught up to Lo

gan. He was standing off to the side, leaning against the opening of the barn. I glanced at the older man with silver hair bent over the cutting bench, then back to Logan.

“Do we say hello?” I whispered out of the side of my mouth. The guy had bright yellow headphones on, but I had a feeling he didn’t miss much.

“Not when the blade’s on. Not unless you’d like your hands fed into the machine next.”

I tucked my hands into my pockets. “I’m good.”

It took about ten minutes for the boards to stop clattering to the hay-strewn floor. “What are you looking for, Logan?”

I gave Logan a side-eye. How did his friend know we were here? He hadn’t turned around once.

“Nice to see you too, Jacob.”

The older man powered down the circular saw and pulled down some sort of guard before locking it in place. He pulled off his ear protectors and plastic glasses before setting them on the bench.

“I can smell your city from here.”

“All I can smell is sawdust,” I muttered.

“You’ve got a shit nose.” Jacob leaned against the sturdy workbench. “Who’s your friend?”

He asked Logan, not me. I glanced at the floor to hide a smile. Ah, small town, where no one knew who the fuck I was. It was refreshing, if a little odd.

“Musician pal from the city.”

“Obviously.”

I looked up with a frown. I had my hair shoved under my hat—yes, it was one of those slouchy hats like the hipsters wore. Only I’d actually owned one far before it was fashionable. Probably didn’t much matter to this guy though.

Otherwise, I was wearing ancient jeans and a flannel over a T-shirt like the both of them.

“Boston Irish or the real deal?”

“Dún Laoghaire.” My usual light accent thickened toward Dubliner the moment I said the name of my hometown.

“Fancy. Looking for a medal?”

My eyebrows shot up and I let out a half-laugh. “No, sir. Just a door evidently.”

“What now?”

Logan rocked back on his heels. “Studio door to be exact.”

“Do I look like a Home Depot?”

“No, Home Depot is actually a few towns over and wouldn’t know what to do with a soundproofed set-up if I gave them schematics.”

“And I do?”

“Shut up, Stacks. You helped me design the damn thing.”

Stacks? Seemed way too familiar for someone who looked like he’d been in the Marines or maybe the Navy. Probably Navy. He seemed to have that bearing. Not that I had any idea about that sort of thing, but growing up in a port town, I’d seen plenty of weathered men just like him. Ireland was full to the brim with boaters and farmers.

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