Page 51 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

“Back off.”

She tipped her head. “Or what? You won’t work with me? That’s fine. I’ve got six more days to enjoy my vacation that I fucking earned. I came here for a friend. That friend is not you.”

“I just bet you did. A little one-on-one time while his wife is with their children.”

That pushed her back a few steps. Gave me the breathing room I needed. The air was charged with her perfume, her anger, the lust I couldn’t put back in a box no matter how much I wanted to.

“You really think so little of me?” Her voice cracked into a whisper. “I’d never. Ever.”

“Would just be a repeat performance, right? No big deal for old friends.”

The slap cracked the air like a sonic boom. I could tell the sound shocked her as much as the fact I’d allowed it to happen.

I’d seen it coming. I could have held up my hand to block her. Yet I hadn’t.

The fact that she’d resorted to her version of violence a second time in as many days was probably a record for me. I pissed off people like others created laughter and fun. It was such a part of me now.

Push people back.

Push everyone away.

But especially her.

She was stuck in my brain, in my lungs, and was tangled up in so many memories I couldn’t shuffle them into that box fast enough. The phantom feel of her skin under my mouth and my ruined hands was a curse.

She could never be mine.

Her face went expressionless. The summer sky blue of her eyes went to winter. “You’re just like all the rest.”

Before she could pull back, I grabbed her hand in a reflex.

Not what I’d meant to do. But that flash of hurt in her eyes had hit its mark before the iceberg she’d become pierced something inside me I wasn’t aware still had a heartbeat.

“Tell me why.”

“I don’t need to tell you anything. Your judgment will keep you warm at night, I’m sure.”

I chased her across the stage to the upright piano. Blocking her in again. My skin was on fire, and the old scars sizzled as if it was that night in the rain all over again.

Don’t let her walk.

I didn’t think that voice was still alive inside of me. The one from home. Back in Ireland, where things were simple. The piece of me that wasn’t scarred and charred, thanks to nearly twenty years in the music industry and demons of my own making.

Her hating me would make everything easier. I could go back to the city and mark her down as a fevered dream. The kind that twists and rips like a nightmare wrapped in the trappings of pleasure.

“Tell me.”

“No. I owe you nothing.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Why does it matter? You’ve already concocted a scenario in your mind. It doesn’t matter what I say. You believe your own truth.”

“Mine is easier.”

The pain receded in her gaze.

Walk away.

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