Page 96 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

I was almost afraid to ask. Things had been going really well lately.

“Oh, yeah. Just Laverne’s birthday. Lila and Nicky are throwing her a party. Michael and Mal are the surprise.”

I was trying to picture the huge drummer singing happy birthday, but stranger things had happened since I’d gotten to know the band touring with us a little better.

It was hard to keep all of the connections straight when it came to Warning Sign. Especially when so much of it overlapped with Oblivion—coincidentally, the band who’d allowed our band to open for them so many years ago now—and the management team we all shared at Ripper Records. But everyone knew Lila’s mother, Laverne. She spoiled all of us when we came into New York. No matter what time of year it was, any and all of us had a free pass to visit Happy Acres Orchard.

I might need a little of that TLC soon.

I’d really enjoyed my little stop in Winchester Falls, and not just because of Nash. There was something about New York—even upstate—that kept me even. Maybe if things went well I could figure out a way to get a hit of both soon.

I knew he lived in the city, but he was damn secretive about his lair, which included the secret studio where he mixed most of the records he worked on. That was part of the package with Nash. He had complete control of the end product. Personally, I’d rather pull out my own molars than release that kind of control to anyone, but there were plenty of people who’d kill for the chance to have him attached to their work.

The fact that every single or album he’d worked on had reached the top twenty on the Billboard charts definitely didn’t hurt.

Even with the ever increasing amount of indie releases, Alexander Nash had some sort of magic mojo when it came to the studio. He was like Mutt Lange in his heyday. Except without the slick result. Nope, everything sounded individual when it came to Nash’s production.

Now that I’d seen firsthand how he worked, I got it. I might not love how little free time that left him, but I understood. I also couldn’t say much considering my own insane schedule.

“You all right?”

“Hmm?”

Elle gave me a sly smile. “You’ve got that look.”

I frowned. “What look?”

“Girl, I get it. It’s all good if you aren’t ready to own up to it yet.”

“There’s nothing to own up to.”

Elle laughed. “Okay.”

I needed to get my head in the game tonight. The stage was its own zone. It was my church in so many ways. I didn’t have to think, I just plugged in. But now that the show was over, Nash was back filling my damn head.

Time to put a stop to it.

We climbed the shuttle bus that would take us all back to the hotel. Jamie passed around a flask full of something I didn’t want any part of. Knowing her, it would be some ungodly proofed whiskey. She, Denver, and Jules were passing it back and forth between them.

Elle wasn’t a drinker so I was happy to sit with her until the real partying started.

There was a crowd of fans waiting outside of the hotel. They scattered as the bus pulled around to a side entrance. Not wanting to deal with our relatively low-key security detail, we all rushed off the bus, through the doors, and up a flight of stairs.

I laughed as Jamie’s long legs took the stairs two at a time. That girl hated to be held up with fans. She was great when she had to be, but doing the signature-and-selfie thing was definitely not her preference.

We were all laughing by the time we made it up two floors. Molly peeked inside, then waved us through. We ran for the elevator.

“Who has a key?” Jules tapped the button as if it would make the doors open faster.

“Oh, shit. We didn’t get to the desk. I think Mal had mine.” Elle stole a glance over her shoulder.

“Fuck, does anyone have a damn key?” Jamie kept glancing down the hall, sneaking sips from her flask.

I dropped my bag and started rummaging. I found the little white envelope tucked in one of my side pockets. “Thank you, Darcy.” I kissed the plastic keycard as the doors opened. We all piled in and I shoved it into the slot and pressed the P.

When it came to the penthouse, you always had to have a damn key. Most of them were attached to apps these days, but I always requested an actual key. I didn’t trust technology, especially when it meant I might be trapped.

The elevator doors opened and I heard the whoop of Teagan’s laughter. A thin line of purple neon light framed a doorway from across the elevator. Guns ’n Roses and my bassist’s baritone voice as an accompaniment floated out to us, inviting us closer.

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