Page 82 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

“Lindsey.”

The urgency in his tone made me stop.

“What I said about you and Logan—what I insinuated—I had no right.”

“You surely didn’t.”

“But that you didn’t—that you haven’t—shit, I don’t know how to do this.” I glanced back as he raked a hand through his shaggy black hair. The sun wove hints of gold through it, little bits of light peeking through so much dark.

So much like the man himself.

I stepped back to him, and he rested his head against my thigh. I gave into the urge to touch his hair. So soft. So wild and untamed. “It’s like building a song. Start with a lyric, a piece of music. Then you layer. You take the time. And you build.”

He didn’t say anything. But he nodded. His fingers clamped around mine.

Holding tighter than any doubts I had left.

Eighteen

To the world, I was a hotshot, reclusive wizard in the studio.

In reality? I was the guy who left detailed notes on what to feed his cat. And his dog. And what precise amount of water to provide the succulents.

“So, no issues? What about the plants? Sarge likes the Christmas cactus in the corner.”

I should just get rid of the stupid thing. It had been a gift from Kyle’s ma a million years ago. A housewarming present when I moved to New York.

Foolish sentiment had no place in my life. Yet it kept popping up.

I’d vacillated between notions like that and my usual bitterness on the pad of paper I’d misplaced while fucking Lindsey. My sweatshirt and undershirt had met the same fate.

Lo’s property was large, but we’d headed back the same way we had walked to the waterfall. At least I thought we had. Leave it to my buddy to have such a huge place that you could never find the same exact spot twice.

I hoped the gardener or whomever had happened upon my scribblings bothered to return them to Lo. I’d come up with some good stuff even in my sleep-deprived state.

Besides, now they held a kind of sentimental value.

See? Foolish.

“Sarge hasn’t touched the plants. He has, however, decided he likes to sleep in the master bathroom sink.”

“Oh, that’s not new. He always does. If you could turn on the water a little now and then, he’ll come for a drink.” I rubbed my forehead. “Didn’t I leave that on your list of instructions? Fuck, I’m slipping.”

“I may have overlooked it. If you’ll just hold—”

“No, no, that’s fine. He can wait until I’m home. He’s so damn fussy. You’d think by the age of six, he’d be less cranky. What about B?”

“He’s doing well. Ignoring Sarge and staying in his own lane.”

“He’s eating? If you don’t watch him, he’ll take his sweet time and Sarge will steal it.”

“I’m watching him, sir. Watching both of them closely. As I’m paid handsomely by you to do.”

I exhaled a long, slow breath. Recording had been going well. Too well. Ever since Lindsey and I had so creatively broken the tension between us, we’d been working together as if we’d been doing it for years. Not without snarls, of course. We both had very definite, sometimes divergent ideas about the work. But the snark was mostly gone.

I’d caught Lo smirking at me a time or sixteen before I’d finally escaped to make a call to check on my boys.

Again.

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