Page 140 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

“Feeding me first, right?”

“Yes, duchess. I’m going to feed you.” He started the rumbling engine and pulled onto the nearly deserted street.

The trip into the city was quiet. He seemed to know streets I’d never heard of in my life, and I’d lived in New York for twenty-seven years.

Finally, we pulled into a side alley that looked as if it was the setting for an episode of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. But then a bright neon light buzzed out of the night. Sid’s was all it said.

He parked, jumped out, and came around to open my door. I could get used to this Alex. He tugged me in for a quick kiss, then smiled against my lips. “Hope you like breakfast.”

“I love it.”

“Then you’ll love this place.” He slid his hand down my arm to link our fingers.

Yeah, I was in so much trouble with this version of Alex.

Twenty-Seven

Of course he brought her here.

A billionaire who loves to eat at a dive is charming and makes women toss their panties at him.

Even this pedigreed woman. The way she watched him. The way she leaned into him to try his food.

My fingers clenched and ached at my sides. Pain was my constant. Tight, scarred skin stretched over frayed nerves reminded me daily.

As if I could ever forget.

Flinches from people on the street reminded me even when I avoided the mirrors.

I clung to the shadows. The stench of old oil and rotting meat hung in the air and now my skin as I peered around the rusty metal Dumpster. The ancient window with the hairline crack framed them like a fucking movie.

The long, perfect line of her throat as she laughed, a glance from under her long lashes as she reached for his hand.

Weren’t they precious?

Until they fucked.

More for me to record and use later.

My cock twitched. Her choked screams played in my ears as I watched them. The original wasn’t much to work with, but I had a gift in the studio. Everyone lauded Alexander Nash, but I was an artist too.

Until he’d taken that away from me too.

The bulk of her breathy moans had been lost in my original recording. It was delicate work, but I’d snatched them back and brought them into sharper definition. Knocked back the rushing water, amplified her moans, and finally, those screams after he cut off her air for those precious seconds.

The memory became sharp with the auditory reminder.

I often wondered what it would be like if he didn’t stop squeezing her throat. If the screams went on and on...

The jangle of the bell over the door dragged me back to the piss-soaked alley where I hid.

Her laughter floated out into the night as they stepped outside.

I scrabbled back like a rat. The roughness of the wet brick against my shoulder burned. My back and arm were always alive with pain. Nerve damage, the doctors had said. The agony would become more tolerable, they’d said.

Lies.

Always lies.

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