Page 207 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

“Fuck you.” I lifted my chin. I wouldn’t be cowed by him. How the fuck did he know about any of that? “That’s not your business.”

He rushed forward, the knife an extension of his forefinger. “Everything about him is my business. I saved his life. It’s mine.”

I shrunk back, but didn’t break eye contact. “That’s not how it works.”

“I crawled out of that wreck and saved us. He would have died if I didn’t get him free. Dragged him out, I did.” He spun away, the knife flipping in and around his hand in a blur. “Did he tell you that part?”

“Yes.” Not exactly, but he’d told me what mattered.

“Oh, is that right?”

I swallowed thickly, my mouth so incredibly dry. “He told me how you both got in the car that night. That both of you shouldn’t have. That he convinced you to anyway.”

“No. It wasn’t like that. I thought he was good. I thought he was fine. I watched him all night. Not drinking. He was too busy playing. Too busy with the bar full of people dying for him and his piano. So many people. So many women. He was the ultimate lure to all those women fawning over him.”

And Kyle watched.

God, even then he was watching.

“You were with him, right?”

“What?” He stopped. “Yes, yes, of course. I was always with him. We were mates. We are mates. The best of mates.”

“Were you up there with him. Singing?”

He laughed. “I don’t sing. But I played sometimes. When I felt like it.” He shrugged, his knife swaying back and forth rhythmically between his forefinger and thumb. “Sometimes.”

“Why did you leave?”

“It’s Ireland, love. The bars actually close unlike this place. Where you can party for hours, even days, and never stop. But we were laughing that night. High on the night.”

“Were you both laughing?”

“Yes. Of course we were. Why are you trying to mix me up? You weren’t there. You wish you were. Wish you were with him always.” He shook his head. “But you’re not. I am. Just me. I look out for him.”

He was unraveling and I didn’t know what to do.

Was I making it worse?

I pressed my lips together.

He stopped pacing and advanced on me, placed one knee between my legs as he traced the edge of the knife along my cheek. His eyes watched the track before meeting mine again. “Did you have a point?”

“No.” My voice was barely a whisper. “I’m just listening to you.”

He tipped his head. “Right.” He stood and returned to pacing as he toyed with his knife. “I was telling you the truth of that night.”

“You were having fun together,” I said, urging him on. Keep him talking and maybe I had a prayer

of getting out of here.

“Yes. All night.”

“You were on stage with him.”

“No. I told you I wasn’t.” He whirled on me. “I watched from the bar. With a Guinness. He was a sight to behold, you know. The piano was his greatest love. Maybe even more than you. We’d go to London and make some scratch with the band. Drink until we were poor and catch the cheap ferry back. We knew people. His da was a fisherman and his friends didn’t mind us hitching a ride some days.”

“Alex doesn’t talk about his music too much.”

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