Page 12 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

I patted his arm. “You haven’t done it yet.”

He shrugged his massive shoulders. “I know, but it seems like it might be cool if I found the right chick.”

“Woman,” I corrected.

“My woman won’t mind being called a chick.”

“She probably won’t.” And I was looking forward to finding out just what kind of woman felled my favorite redwood.

Lauren nearly vibrate

d in front of me. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing.”

I waved her off. “No hardship here. Especially since you picked a gown that’s one of my favorite colors.”

“You like all colors.”

“Handy, right?” One of Lauren’s bridesmaids was evidently even more insane than she was. She’d decided rock climbing was a great idea right before she had to fly to a destination wedding.

Her dislocated shoulder and broken leg put her out of the running and I’d been asked to fill in.

It helped that I had a seamstress on call due to all the costumes I wore. I didn’t mind. Lauren and her crazy crew of bridesmaids made things entertaining at the very least. And I couldn’t deny my love for a good wedding. Especially when the two people were so obviously made for each other.

Lauren had her hand curled around West’s like a lifeline. There was no panic in West’s eyes. Just pure adoration for the bundle of nerves beside him.

“Well, let’s go get you two married.”

Lauren squeaked and threw herself into my arms. “Oh my God, yes!”

Five

Some days I rued ever allowing myself to be dragged from my place in the city. The dragging hadn’t been literal, although right now, it felt like it.

Having bloody friends was almost as bad as having no one.

At least being alone meant some peace with your thoughts. The freedom to just be.

I wasn’t about to find that here, at my buddy Logan King’s home in Winchester Falls. The guy was a superstar, so naturally, the place had all the amenities, including a professional grade studio.

It also contained any number of pains in my ass.

Right now, the biggest one was the supremely talented woman I’d suggested should be the centerpiece of Logan’s Christmas album charity project.

Clearly, not my brightest idea. Dammit to hell.

“Fly, baby. Fly to those angels. Fly.”

I rose from the studio chair, smashing my knee on the storage shelf at the clang of guitars tumbling outside. “Cock munger.”

“Fly, baby, fly.”

The singsong quality of the voice was instantly at odds with the sultry voice I was used to working with.

I opened the door to find Angel Martin slumped in the middle of the studio’s lounge. It was separate from the recording area. Couches in every size and comfort level framed the room. Logan’s guitar collection was on display all over the house, but his favorites were down here for him and his guests to use.

She’d tripped over his favorite Gibson. Her ridiculously high heel pierced the body as she draped her long, lean body over two others that she’d taken down with her. Her cheek was pressed to the fret of another as she idly plucked at the strings.

“Fly, baby, fly.”

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