Page 67 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

No one can turn a heart cold

With that glow inside

A gift to me and mine

Better than any presents under the tree

That belief I’m with you

And you?

?re with me

I didn’t look up for so long that I didn’t know if he was still working on the song or brooding or who knows what. The piano had gone silent.

When I finally lifted my head, my back aching from my bent position, he was watching me. Unabashedly. He held out his hand and lifted an eyebrow when I didn’t hand over my pad.

Rather than waiting for him to take it apart when it was still so nebulous and fresh inside me, I yanked out a piece of the staff paper from the back and hurriedly scrolled out a series of notes, trusting he would roll with what I gave him and keep it going.

Unless he deemed it worthless, and in that case, fuck him. I’d take it to Logan.

Or I’d call Jamie and figure it out with her over the phone. I could definitely use some of my best friend’s sarcasm right now.

Especially when it came to Nash. She’d say, girl, he’s not good enough for you. Drop his ass.

But that was the problem. He was a musical genius. He was also one of Lo’s best friends, and Logan was an incredible judge of character.

So, maybe it was me. Nash wanted to get me naked, but that was all.

Except that didn’t ring true either. I was used to living by rhythm. Everything in life had a cadence. And absolutely nothing about the one between us made sense.

On top of that, I couldn’t ask for Jamie’s opinion on Nash. She didn’t know we were a thing. Because we weren’t. I was his secret, and he was mine.

One more layer of insanity to this whole thing. Secrets didn’t last long in our business. Even one-time events were blown up and replayed for the benefit of a hungry media.

Twice was just begging for trouble.

Nash played the notes I’d written, making adjustments as he went. Adding another layer, switching chords. Making it better. Hearing the song begin to come to life was enough to draw me out, the moth to his flame. The tap of my fingers against the side of my thigh equivalent to the frantic flap of wings as I tried to resist.

Futilely.

Again.

I didn’t close my eyes as I started to sing. Instead, I focused on his hands. The scar tissue and rough lines stretched over their breadth. Power encased in experience. He’d seen so much more than I had. Than I wanted to. Not when it came to the music business, although his years offered a wisdom I hadn’t yet earned. But the rest. The cycle of addiction and trying to fight back from that precipice. I’d done and seen plenty and I’d experimented a bit when I was younger. Nothing like he’d gone through.

Was still going through if what happened a little while ago was any indication.

If I had to guess, he was fighting a war every day. Of course, there would be injuries. Casualties. I’d known he had a difficult background, and I’d still toyed with his darkness.

This was simply the price I’d agreed to pay by not walking away.

He could hear my thoughts. I didn’t know how, but something in my voice must’ve given them away. He turned his head and met me note for note, singing the words with me though he hadn’t even read them through. All he had were the notes I’d given him and my first run through, but it was enough. His effortless knowledge of my song, paired with his gravelly voice, spurred me to open up my cords and spill out even more.

Hell, why not give him everything? I’d already offered him my body.

This time, at least. The first time, he’d taken it. I’d given him permission, but I’d had no clue what he would do with the privilege.

Or how I’d crave more.

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