Page 7 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

He didn’t deserve light.

We were built for the shadows.

He’d made sure of that years ago.

My fingers dug into the brick I’d melted into.

Suddenly, she pulled away from him and ran. Ribbons of ethereal blond hair flying in her wake.

The sting of blood seeped around my nailbeds before I relaxed.

Ah, she was a fuck and chuck.

That I understood.

It wasn’t like him to indulge, but we all had our needs.

I usually had to pay to indulge my own. Then again, no woman wanted to touch a monster.

The monster he’d made me.

Four

Present Day

The crowd pulsed under me as I stepped onto the wide white disk. As a precaution, I was hooked to a nearly invisible post behind me. Insurance and a nervy team of managers, agents, and money men required it. I was their asset, their jewel in an LED-laced box sewn together with enough crystals to pave a New York City block.

Normally, I could shove those realities into the back of my mind.

The people screaming for me—for my band—always made it worth it. I lived for the show. It was the oxygen in my blood and the fuel to get me through the less enchanting side of being in a rock band.

Murmurs flooded into chants for me.

For Brooklyn Dawn.

For part one of the stage opening below me.

Cooper Dallas, our drummer, pounded out the heartbeat that lured people out of their seats. The well-oiled glide of his massive drum riser parted the glittery curtain behind me. I couldn’t see him right now, but I knew this opening sequence by heart. I’d helped create it with the band and an obscene number of engineers. I couldn’t even count how many videos I’d watched in an endless loop to make sure this sequence stole my breath.

After five years in this industry, I’d seen it all. On our off days and during the brief hiatuses between albums, I went to as many concerts as possible to see what else was out there. Because my band

needed to be bigger and better. Brooklyn Dawn needed to be the best.

I refused to allow us to be anything other than legendary.

We’d clawed our way up and I would keep us there, even if it meant sacrificing sleep and relationships.

We were the third highest grossing tour right now. We could have been number two without a blink, but I didn’t allow the ticket prices to alienate our fans. I’d had to fight Donovan Lewis, the head of our record label, Ripper Records, and his marketing team on that, but in the end, the good press we’d generated had swayed the vote until it was firmly in my favor. That and an intense meeting between myself, Donovan, and Sabrina Price, our manager, had gotten us the rest of the way there.

My band hated dealing with the business side of things. They were more than happy for me to go ahead and play nice with the suits.

Of course I’d been bred to play with those types. The sole daughter of Michael and Christine York of the Park Slope Yorks, I’d been expected to act with a certain level of decorum. It helped me keep my cool when it came to contracts and negotiations. Because my bestie, Jamison DuCaine, was far too volatile for such things.

But tonight wasn’t for boardrooms and video rooms. No, tonight was for a sold-out crowd of people who had come to be entertained.

As Cooper’s drum beats rose to a fevered pitch, the massive mechanical arms of Jamie’s and Zane’s platforms slowly inched in from the left and right, crisscrossing the stage to meet in the middle for one brief moment. I smiled at the miles of Jamie’s red and black hair whipping up thanks to the fan on her triangular miniature stage.

Jagged and sharp as the woman herself.

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