Page 26 of Play Fast (Brooklyn Dawn 2)

“I’m the bassist,” I said simply. “We have a singer far better than I’ll ever be.”

“So, you do harmonies and that’s it.”

“Playing the bass isn’t exactly delivering the mail. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

She snatched my pad, paging through it as if she had the right to anything on those pages. Even odder, I didn’t yank it back. My yearning for approval from her surprised and humbled me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d put myself in that position.

Asshole, you put yourself in that position every night on the road.

But not with her. Although she could judge me every damn show if she wanted to. She probably had. God knows she’d never told me she was proud of where I’d ended up. I’d made good yet her only commentary so far had been to inquire about my mansion and to compare my hair negatively to Coverdale.

“You used to sing more,” she said instead of mentioning the song. Words that revealed so much of what was in my head about her. She might as well have just read a grocery list.

Did she really not get I was writing about her? Trying to anyway?

She probably didn’t care.

Brother, remember?

One she’d let get her off in the front seat of a truck older than she was.

Man, we were both fucked up.

“Again, in a band with a quite capable singer. Are you hungry?”

“Why, you offering to make breakfast?”

I set aside Annette. I was eager to get out of Daisy’s sphere for a few minutes for more reasons than one. “You can call it that.”

In the kitchen, I turned on the microwave and picked off the pickles on her sandwich before depositing it on a paper plate. After some microwave magic, I cut it in half and put the pickles back on. Then I made some more coffee and dumped in three pink packets left on the counter probably from the last owners. They definitely weren’t mine.

I carried the makeshift meal back into the living room, only to find her with Annette on her lap and my pen between her teeth. She strummed a couple times before setting the guitar aside and removing the pen. “This song isn’t working,” she announced.

Rather than offending me, it made me laugh. “No shit, Sherlock. Though what do you know about it?”

“I have a pair of ears and a working brain. It’s not coming together yet. Probably because it’s so woe kitten.”

“Excuse me?” I bristled. No part of me was like a kitten. Maybe a lion. That was manly.

I shook my head and remembered I had my hair in a bun. At least I had the mane of one.

Daisy spotted the plate in my hand and forgot all about her criticism. She snatched the sandwich and offered me a quick, fervent, “thank you” before digging in. When she’d finished half, she must have noticed it was cut in half because she held it out to me. “You can have this half. I’m stuffed.”

Somehow I laughed again. She didn’t put on airs, that was for sure. She was authentically Daisy, just as confusing as fuck as she’d been when we were kids.

Difference was, she still wasn’t much more than one and I felt ancient.

I traded the plate for the mug of coffee. She eyed it with trepidation, smiling at the deer wearing a moose hat on the side. “Am I going to spit this out?”

“Dunno. You seem pretty good at spitting.” Speaking of that, I needed to dump out my mug and get a fresh cup.

It was impossible to miss the twinkle in her eyes. “I’m good at swallowing too.”

I picked up my mug and went back into the kitchen.

She called after me, “Wuss.”

She wasn’t wrong.

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