Page 88 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

I smiled. “I have a good feeling about tonight.” I slid out of the car and shot through the door being held open for me. I murmured a quick thanks to one of our usual roadies and prayed for a little clemency. Just a shower to get me back to rights—that was all I needed.

Maybe I could get by our stylist on staff. She’d kill me, but I had to wash my hair. I was beyond wrecked thanks to the flight and the frenetic quickie between me and Nash on the way to the airport. I was struggling to remain optimistic about this situation, but it had felt way too intense for just a see-you-soon bang.

More like goodbye.

I was trying really hard not to freak about it. Not with how he’d held me after.

I’d thought I was too old for a backseat bang, but evidently, I was wrong. Especially since his Jeep was very roomy and actually had enough headroom for the two of us. Mostly. And actually getting to enjoy some afterglow with him was unusual.

Ugh. I didn’t know what to think, but I had to put that away for the damn show.

“Finally.”

Crap.

I hunched my shoulders at the voice. That grating tone followed me into nightmares far too often. Unfortunately, she was fairly brilliant at stage makeup and costumes. “Genie, I just need a super quick—”

“You need to get into this dressing room and start getting ready. I do not have time to dry that mop on top of your head.”

I winced. “Mop?”

She rolled her eyes and sn

apped her gum. Her eyes were heavily made-up and flawless, but honestly, who needed that much makeup if you weren’t on stage?

I sighed. Dreams of my shower faded to dust as I followed the wave of her scarlet tipped acrylic nails. Personally, I wasn’t sure how she did anything with nails that long.

I walked in to find Oz in the chair. His hair was wet.

“How come he gets to wash his hair?”

“Because his hair is straight and people like it to look like he just fell out of the damn shower. The beast doesn’t even wear clothes on stage.”

Oz’s slashing dark brow arched. “I wear pants.” His smile was devilish. “That’s about it though. I like maximum movement.”

I rolled my eyes. “I haven’t had enough coffee yet.”

“There’s not enough coffee on this planet for you to handle me, girl.” His smirk was playful and harmless. Lethal to others, but to me? Not even a quiver.

I punched him in the shoulder as I hopped in the salon chair next to him. “Keep your stories about your legendary junk to yourself.”

“See, you’ve heard the tales.”

“Only out of you. It’s kinda like when you give yourself your own nickname.”

He tipped back his head and his rolling laugh filled the room. It was rare for him to let out a belly laugh. I laughed too. I was exhausted and would prefer to crawl into bed—without Nash, dammit—but this was the best part of my non-stage life.

My band.

My friends who had been with me from the jump.

“How was New York?”

I shrugged. Again, the urge to share was nonexistent. What had happened with Nash was tucked into a little hollowed out space only for me. We were singing a song that was a departure for me. Being part of a duet wasn’t something I did. I liked the spotlight.

I was comfortable there.

I didn’t have to share my vocals with anyone. The stage, yes, but not the words. The harmonies were honed to perfection after years together. The band and I were a unit.

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