Page 36 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

“No. I’ve been here for the recording of every fucking song on this record.”

And it was my fault we needed her. My fault that I hadn’t seen the signs with Angel. Fuck. I didn’t know how, but I’d missed every damn flag. The missed calls, texts, even dodging emails. I should have picked up on it. But nope, I’d been too wrapped up in production. Too locked up in my head and sequestered in my own studio in the city.

He shrugged. “We know she’s a professional. She’s already got a brand. This should be cake.”

“Then we should be able to do the song in a day or two, right?” I stood and spun the chair back around.

“We still have to put the door up,” Logan called after me.

I paused, then headed for the stairs. I was going down, not up. “We’ll work in the living room until we get the door fixed.”

“Get the black Taylor. That’s Lindsey’s favorite.”

I curled my fingers into fists on my way down the stairs to the studio. Of course it was. Since Taylors were my guitar of choice. Why not?

One of the Taylors had the heel puncture in it. Christ. Even the remnants of some sort of sparkle had been left in the edges of the jagged hole. The burn of embarrassment and anger threatened to light my admittedly short fuse.

Shorter because she was here?

Probably.

She should be well out of my goddamn system and she was not. If anything, it felt as if it was that night all over again. The festival memories—both good and bad—were making it even worse.

The light inside of her that had lured me from the first time we’d met was followed by the knowledge that others had enjoyed it as well.

Logan had enjoyed it.

Unless he hadn’t and I was being a righteous dick for no reason. Not that I had any call to dictate who Lindsey slept with anyway.

Tell that to your churning gut, boyo.

The strings along the fret dug into my palm as I pulled the black guitar down. The guitar didn’t deserve my ire. If I was at home, maybe I would’ve relished destroying something, but Logan’s studio had been through enough. And Logan’s lovingly restored vintage Taylor twelve-string definitely deserved only respect.

Besides, I was a little too old to relive my trashing hotel rooms phase. Which, thankfully, had been brief.

I pulled down a walnut-colored guitar for myself and left the destroyed room. I’d have to check in with my guy in the city to see if he could fix the one Angel had damaged.

Logan had one of his Martins on his lap when I got back upstairs. The large, L-shaped couch in the living room was now a square with a large hassock in the middle. A tray on top was full of drinks and snacks, including a large bottle of white wine, grapes, and cheese.

“Are we having a fucking party?”

Logan strummed as he tuned his guitar. “She’s been on a damn plane for ten hours. Cut her some slack.”

“I drove three hours and got a water bottle.”

“Are you going to be this snarly the whole time? If so, enjoy your three-hour ride home.”

I settled into the farthest corner of the sofa. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“At this point, yes.” Logan shook his head and took a sip from his wine glass. “Your asshole gene is on fire today, pal.”

I wouldn’t apologize for it. I never did, but the twi

nge in my chest made me bite my damn tongue. Logan was the one who should have my nuts in a vise for the last two days. Angel was my fuck-up.

So, instead of making a big deal about any of it, I shut the hell up and tuned the two Taylors.

I set the walnut twelve-string in a guitar stand and moved on to the standard Taylor. The rich tones of the guitar suited my mood tonight. I needed this well-loved instrument right now. Many a song had been written on it. Not just the holiday kind I’d been working on with Logan for the last year either. This year alone, I’d sold four songs from our sessions.

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