Page 28 of Play Fast (Brooklyn Dawn 2)

The forming bruise on her delicate skin made my stomach twist and heave. It was a miracle I didn’t lose the half of sandwich I’d gotten down earlier.

I’d done that to her. Hurt her in my agony, as I surely would again if I didn’t put some distance between us. Fast.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out, backing up without touching her.

I couldn’t touch her again.

The kindest thing I could do for her would be to stay the fuck away.

Six

I didn’t know how long I stayed crumpled on the floor. Like a broken doll.

Physically, I wasn’t. The shock of Oz striking out had sent me tumbling backward, and my cheek ached like a bitch. I imagined it looked worse than it felt, but I was good with makeup. I didn’t have much with me, because I’d forgotte

n my stuff at the venue in my hurry to steal Oz’s truck.

And look how that had turned out. But I didn’t regret doing it.

My only regret was that I’d let him suffer for all these years alone.

Hearing his cracked voice saying Kerry’s name over and over in his sleep had torn something open in me. I’d stitched over so many parts of myself to make a facsimile of a whole. Good enough to pass, strong enough to fake. But he’d opened me up as surely as he’d bled in front of me. Just because the wounds weren’t physical didn’t make them any less real.

When I was almost certain my legs wouldn’t buckle like they’d done the night before, I crawled over to the bed and pulled myself up. I didn’t have my purse in here. I had no clue if Oz had remembered to bring it in. I needed to call my sister, something I should have done the night before.

Ever knew that show nights tended to run late, but it was now the following afternoon. Even if she’d been out last night—which I didn’t want to think about overmuch—by now, she’d be stumbling home and wondering where the hell her sister “who didn’t know how to have fun anymore” could be.

Pretty sure she’d never guess where I was. I still couldn’t believe it myself.

I also needed to call Lila to see if they could get my stuff back for me. I hadn’t brought many personal belongings to the venue, and I could count on my cart to be collected by the crew and stowed with the rest of our gear. But I had some of my own makeup I didn’t want to replace, along with my favorite denim jacket with the patches I’d collected over the years. Including the side-eye daisy on the pocket that I’d bought on a night out with him and Kerry a million years ago. He would never remember that.

Then again, maybe he remembered far more than I gave him credit for.

I sat on the bed for a minute to gather my wits. It had already been a while since I’d awakened Oz—note to self, think twice about doing that next time—and I’d heard the door slam a bit ago. He might’ve taken off with his truck and my purse. For all I knew, he wouldn’t even come back. He might just send up an Uber for me and consider his duty done.

My stomach growled, and I let out a long breath. Even with all the sleep I’d gotten, I was just so tired. My grief for Kerry still felt fresh, especially at this time of year.

Especially since Oz and I were epically bad at acknowledging our emotions.

I looked down at myself and suddenly couldn’t stand to look at these fucking rainbows any longer. Oz’s clothes wouldn’t fit me, as I’d seen last night with the hoodie.

Hell, was that still on the floor of his front seat?

I buried my face in my hands and forced myself back in line. Not important right now. Surely he had something I could wear around here. It didn’t have to look good. It just had to cover me in some fashion.

Before that, I’d take a shower. I felt beyond grimy and disgusting, and besides that, now I had a headache, probably due to hunger and stress. I’d given up hoping this shower would be much larger than the one in my sister’s apartment, but I didn’t care anymore as long as it had hot water.

I rose and glanced around for a closet. I didn’t see one. What kind of bedroom didn’t have a closet? No one would guess Oz was even a moderately successful musician, never mind an internationally famous rockstar with homes featured in architectural magazines.

A torn-out four-color spread that may or may not have been tucked into the pocket of my suitcase, shoved under the couch in Ever’s apartment.

Spying the trunk at the foot of the bed, I opened it and let out a long sigh of relief at the neat stacks of clothes. Not that there were many of them. How often did he come here? Or did he just parade around naked all day? Considering how the man looked naked—and how close to naked he liked to get onstage—I would not have been surprised.

I shivered, remembering how he’d looked rolling out of bed. Even after he’d clocked me in the face and I was dizzy and heartsick, I’d still had to swallow hard at the full sight of him.

He was a living wet dream, especially nude. I’d never had one before, but now I probably could just from the memory.

That was for later, assuming I ever managed to sleep again without hearing his tormented sounds as he thrashed on the bed.

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