Page 99 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

Nice, Lindz.

Was this why Nash wasn’t contacting me? Were we front page news? Or back page news, since I’d flipped a damn long time.

But no, when I found the photos in question, I wasn’t even featured in them. Not recognizably anyway. We were standing on my yoga mat, but the two pictures were tightly cropped on Nash’s powerfully muscled back. Scars marred one side, the flesh rough and ruined in spots. Yet right beside it, his smooth tanned skin appeared flawless. More light and dark. A balancing act between safety and destruction.

He was clearly talking to someone. I swallowed hard. The person in front of him—me—was revealed by only the slightest sliver of long blond hair beyond the scope of Nash’s biceps.

“Angel Martin, huh?” Jamie sounded skeptical as she nodded at the magazine. “At least that’s who they think is in that picture with him. Funny, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that precise shade of honey before.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is she banging him too?”

“Too?” The pain in the question sliced through me and came out through my vocal cords. Even though no, she wasn’t fucking him. I knew that. I was the only one who’d gotten that honor, at least at Logan’s.

And yes, we were a secret. Hidden by choice. But dammit, I couldn’t even have this piece of Nash for myself. Some other woman had gotten the credit of being at his side. Well, in front of him. Despite it being patently ridiculous, considering what had gone down with her before I’d arrived.

I couldn’t even share a headline with him.

A uniformed manager-type showed up at the mouth of the bar and Oz crossed to meet him. The man motioned for him to come out where it was quieter. A heated discussion took place with the hotel employee in the hall, although I couldn’t tell what was being said.

Ethan turned down the music from behind the bar.

A moment later, Oz returned, obviously disgusted.

“Guess what? The prick on the seventeenth floor bitched about the noise. I say we send him a calling card. Who’s in?” Oz raised his hands above his head, his massive arms vibrating. “We’ll invite him to a show in a way he’ll never forget.”

Wide-eyed Teagan stopped dancing on the chaise and plopped down on her ass. Poor thing was constantly surrounded by people so much taller than her. “I don’t want to get arrested.”

“You’re too cute to put behind bars.” Cooper sat beside her and slung his arm around her shoulders. “In handcuffs, however…”

Jamie snorted at that one. “Girl, get out your firehose. That dog’s sniffing around.”

Mal detangled himself from his wife and walked over to Oz. He was about the only guy in the room who could go toe to toe with him, size-wise. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

“Just my version of sending flowers. Don’t get your tresses in a tangle, brother.” He patted Mal on the arm.

The very bald Mal, who only arched a brow.

Oz dragged out his double case from where he’d stashed it in the corner. Evidently, he hadn’t even made it to his suite before the partying began. Inside, he had two of his oldest bass guitars, the ones he brought with him to impromptu jam sessions. He tugged out big Bertha, a dark green one he’d had since our first tour and turned to Jamie. “Gimme your Plump Passionfruit or whatever that girl paint is called.”

She did her own Mal impression and arched both her brows. “Excuse me, son? I don’t need any plumping, thanks.” But she fished

a lipstick out of her bustier top and handed it over with a shrug. “Never know when you’ll have an emergency.”

He examined the tube and uncapped it. “Kiss-proof?”

Jamie smacked her lips. “Wanna try it out, big boy?”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“If you change your mind…” Jamie stuck out her tongue and wiggled it.

Oz flipped her a middle finger and started to write on the back of the bass with the lipstick.

Mal crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Whatever you’re planning on, I wouldn’t advise it.”

“Normally, I call him a high school principal disguised as a rockstar,” Elle stepped up beside him, “but in this case, I have to agree. It’s late. Let’s just—”

“Dude, we paid for the penthouse floor. We’re not the first to do a private party. Time for the hotel to upgrade the soundproofing.” Satisfied with his artwork—a crudely drawn middle finger—Oz capped the lipstick and handed it back to Jamie, who tucked it back in her top. “Anyone got a piece of paper?”

At once, five pieces were shoved in Oz’s face. He had to laugh. “Gee, you guys bored?”

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