Page 8 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

The blood red light emphasized the long, lean lines of her legs encased in jet black leather. A scrap of leather covered her breasts. James—as she preferred to be called by anyone other than me—was as at ease in her skin as anyone I’d ever known. If she’d been allowed to play shirtless, she would. She never wanted anything to hamper her range of motion when it came to playing her guitar.

The extension of her in every way.

Her head dropped back as the powerful chords from her red Gibson echoed through the darkness.

Her platform started moving again as she headed to her side of the stage. Always to my right.

Zane Landry, our co-lead guitarist, was the blue to her red. The cool to her heat. He was the steady and the true, the horizon line to Jamie’s rocky cliffs. His wide shoulders and surfer-lean body had been honed by the water he lived for. Fluid grace where Jamie was raw talent.

His glowing blue octagon sailed to the left side of the stage.

The stage rumbled a little as gears shifted and a panel opened up beneath me. The acrid scent of smoke teased its way up to me. Screens dotted the arena from every corner, showing different angles of each member of the band. Everything went black save for a moving white light on the stage.

I wasn’t a fan of the smoke machine, but it did the job when it came to opening up the show. The high definition screens picked up even the faintest rolling wisps of smoke that coated the floor and billowed out of every crack in the stage.

Our newest addition, Teagan Daly, rose out of the floor on her new glittery pink and lavender-encrusted baby grand piano. The keys had always held my heart, but when it came to running around the stage and singing, it was easier for me to be untethered.

Teagan was just as masterful behind the ivories as she was behind her saxophone. She had been just what we needed to round out our sound and let me play to the crowd.

Her notes were sweet and light at first, then pounded like thunder as the spotlight found her in the dark.

“Sixty seconds, Lindz.”

The voice of our stage manager drew me out of the rare moment of awe. After awhile, the opening sequence became routine, but tonight felt special. Maybe because it was the last night before we took a mini-break to celebrate new friends.

Maybe it was the low hum to the room as the crowd stomped and screamed.

My fingers tightened on my glittery microphone as Oz Taylor, our bassist, rose from the underbelly of the stage. His hulking frame always drew screams. Inky black hair slid over his shirtless chest. He didn’t even bother wearing a tank to start the shows anymore.

Oz was nearly as growly as Jamie. Two sides of the same coin. Silent and intense one moment, then as changeable as the wind, he was a hurricane.

It was easy for me to stand back and catalog my bandmates. Just how would they categorize me?

Focused.

Talented.

Relentless.

Together, we made magic.

Updates came through my inner ear monitors as everything ran as smooth as glass. Jamie and Zane scattered across the stage once they were untethered from their gliders. The only static song on our ever-changing setlist was “Judgment”. It was full of epic guitars and bone-jarring bass lines.

The song showcased every piece of our band.

Jamie’s discordant, in-your-face playing style.

Zane’s technical prowess.

Oz’s fury.

Cooper’s thunder.

Teagan’s light touch and murderous followthrough.

And as the opalescent LED lights came to life at my feet, I was the flash. The glitter and the voice. My oval stage started its descent as my purring notes brought the song together.

I sang with the driving need to prove myself.

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