Page 170 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

“Whew.”

Lila’s bluebell eyes zeroed in on me like twin laser beams. “Don’t try it again. Not that you’d be stupid enough to do that, but pass along the message to those who are.”

“Got it.”

She went back to her screen and tapped some more. A moment later, a vaguely familiar voice floated out of the speakers. Lila watched for half a moment and pulled out her cell.

“I can’t believe she’s taking this risk,” she snapped into the phone.

I glanced at the door. “Do you want me to leave? I can come back.”

This time, she didn’t even appear to hear me. She was fixated on the screen and the somehow angelic voice slipping into the room.

Who was it?

Then the words started coming into sharper focus. So sharp that it was as if all sounds in the building ceased but that acoustic guitar and those lyrics meant to wound.

Bad for me is what you are

Dragging me back to my dark

Don’t need a new drug

To crave

When everyone wants you on stage

Gets their piece for the price

Of a ticket

The singer stopped and sniffled, sounding as if she was crying. “I don’t understand why Nash wants to take it back. I thought it was an olive branch. He was so cruel to me. Then he gave me this. But some is mine. I made it even better.” She started to sing again, although I almost missed the words because Nash’s name was on repeat in my head. An endless reverberation.

Selling your soul

But I won’t sell mine

Selling your heart

But I’m not buying

Not this time

The lyrics brought back our earlier conversation in front of Saks. How he didn’t want me on stage. That was for safety reasons, I’d thought. Perhaps not. But why would he write a song about me and give it to Angel of all people?

He has his ways of getting his message across. You got it, didn’t you?

Giving it to Angel was another way. She just happened to be the woman I’d replaced at Lo’s.

Had Nash somehow decided she wasn’t so bad after all? Maybe even better than me. He’d certainly never offered me or my band any of his pieces. Of course he didn’t need to give me any olive branches.

Or he hadn’t before right now.

Angel was crying again as she sang, muddling some of the words. Lila was barking into the phone while she typed in a message box on the screen. In the corner, Angel’s livestream continued. She was curled up on a couch, acoustic in her lap, her long green-tipped white hair hiding her face.

I was looking right at her when she lifted her head, blew her hair out of her face, and delivered a short-armed punch to my chest.

“That was ‘Unlove.’ We all know what it’s like to need to let someone go. Feels good in the moment, but they’re not good for you. Fuck it, I’ve got one more for you. Nash gave me this too. He’ll probably want it back afterward but too late. He gave it to me and I made it mine. This is ‘Never Again.’”

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