Page 25 of Play Fast (Brooklyn Dawn 2)

You’re not the angel to my devil

I’m not the Satan of your nightmares

Wish I was

Wish I could be the dark you’d never want

Because then I wouldn’t ache

Wouldn’t want to take the pieces

To twist and turn

Into something you could use

Save yourself instead of me

Can’t do both

No favor to be had

I had my chance

Earned my spot

In the inferno of my mind

I pushed aside the pad and rose to start the small gas fireplace in the corner. It was midway through spring, and the warm evening had given way to the crispness of night in the woods. I didn’t want Daisy to wake up cold. Or afraid. I’d left a light on for her in the hall so she wouldn’t be in the dark.

Like I was.

After tying my hair back again, I went back to my guitar and laid it across my lap. If Daisy wasn’t here, I’d go out back and start a fire in the woods where I could hear the lap of the water and the rustling of animals scurrying between the trees. But I didn’t want to leave her alone, so the fire here would be enough.

That and the work of making the chaos in my brain into something worthwhile.

I messed with the words for hours,

adding them to the melody that wouldn’t come together. I drank coffee and debated going back to the whisky. Every time I reached for it, I heard Daisy’s shock that I’d consumed part of the bottle and gotten behind the wheel.

The alcohol had barely touched me. Sometimes when I drank, it was as if I bypassed the buzz for the hangover. The part where everything hurt and I hated everyone and everything.

Her misfortune had been intercepting that.

Eventually, daylight began bleeding into the room, creeping in at the edges like a savior no one wanted. My safety was the night.

Gone now.

When the shadow crossed the floor, I was bent over the guitar, my hair falling in my face, my fingers cramping from playing the same notes over and over to match them to the words I wasn’t happy with. I glanced up and swiftly remembered the other reason I’d been so edgy—extreme sexual frustration. One look at Daisy, all sleepy and morning soft with her watchful bluebird eyes, and I went as hard as stone.

She didn’t speak, just came to sit on the coffee table. Her bare legs touched mine as she cupped her hands around my mug. I’d kept a steady stream of brew coming, so I was probably on my fifth cup by now. She drank the coffee greedily before spitting it back into my mug and dropping it on the table as if it was toxic.

“No sugar? What kind of heathen are you?”

Oh, there was a question. Judging from the direction of my thoughts as I followed the long line of her legs right up to the hem of her tiny shorts, I’d say I was a pretty depraved one.

I ignored the question. “Sleep well?”

“No. Weird dreams. I heard you singing sometimes. Why don’t you do it more?”

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