Page 89 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

Nash and I were…

New.

Precious.

Mine.

There was so little that was actually mine these days.

“Logan was in a bind. The woman who was supposed to be the centerpiece of his Christmas album flaked. Hard.”

Oz slouched down in his chair. “Yeah, she was on the vids. Sucks. Angel Martin has a lot of freaking talent. So stupid.” His brow furrowed and the laughter drifted out of his dark eyes.

Oz had strong feelings about drug use after losing his little sister to an overdose in his teens.

I reached over and covered his hand. He held on for a second before slipping away and standing.

“I’ll see you on stage.” His voice was gruff.

I nodded. “See you in a bit.”

His massive shoulders hunched as he strode through the doorway and disappeared around the corner.

I sighed.

“What’s with him?”

I glanced at Genie. It wasn’t worth explaining to her. Especially since she’d been touring with us for two albums and was still stunningly oblivious to most of the goings-on in the band.

“He’ll be fine.”

She shrugged. “Whatever. Do you want your hair up or down?” She removed Nash’s hat from my head and held it up between two fingers.

Before she could toss it in the garbage can she was eyeing, I snatched it out of her hand. “Surprise me.”

“I always do.”

That was definitely a true statement.

I zoned out as she attacked my hair with more product than I wanted to think about. One nice thing about being on vacation for a week was the lack of makeup and hair junk.

Thirty minutes later, Genie was sewing me into my catsuit for tonight’s show. It was flesh-colored with panels of glitter and crystal that made me look like I was part flame in certain lighting. This was my favorite outfit of the new wardrobe for this album. It felt and looked as if I was wearing nothing.

A wolf whistle came from the doorway. I lifted my hand with a middle finger.

“Is that any way to greet your bestie?”

“If only I had one.”

“Watch it, sister.” Jamie came in and dropped on the couch across from the mirrors. She was wearing a barely there swatch of crimson over her breasts and threadbare ripped black jeans and lethal boots. Her jet-black hair held a fresh dip of ultraviolet and scarlet on her ends.

She flopped onto her back and swung her boots onto the arm of the couch. She arched her entire five-feet-ten form in a feline stretch. “Nice of you to join us plebs.”

“Shut up.”

She lifted her head and shot me a look. “What the hell kept you?”

“Studio.”

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