Page 2 of Play Fast (Brooklyn Dawn 2)

Like right now.

Lindsey let out the piercing war cry that led into the second verse, and my eyes flew open. They caught on the cage, still circling as silver starlight sparkled over the women and men inside. Most wore jeans and a Brooklyn Dawn T-shirt. Some of the guys had ripped off theirs. Lots of glistening abs and tiny stomachs revealed by crop tops were on display.

Only one of the people truly caught my eye. She was stunning.

Her hair shimmered like a shaft of sunshine, reflecting light with every one of her sinuous movements as she stretched her arms far above her head. The man she was dancing with gripped her glittery hip, guiding her against him. Tiny virulent purple boy shorts cleaved to her ass, a match to the half shirt she wore. She glittered everywhere from some kind of body paint or a trick of the lights.

Something was making her fucking glow.

My fingers fumbled. I forgot the notes. Fuck, I might’ve forgotten who I was entirely the instant I realized who she was.

It was fucking Daisy dancing in that cage.

How? Why? She wasn’t a goddamn fan. She was one of Ripper Records’ hair and makeup artists. Not that I ever let her mess with me.

She’d done plenty of that years before.

She’d gone for me again earlier tonight when she’d set up that damn charity thing for teens against narcotics. A good charity, I was sure, but Kerry wasn’t a soundbite meant to sell tickets.

Our tragedy wasn’t for public consumption. Yeah, I wanted to help people. I knew my sister would too. But it was still too raw. I didn’t want to use her death for my profit. Surely Daisy could understand that.

Then again, she’d done it without even asking me. Now she was shimmying in a cage, rubbing up against some dude, some chick, yet another dude. Laughing. Tossing her fistable hair as if she’d never had a care in the world.

Sparkles dripped off her ass. Her half shirt clung to her breasts like a pair of hands. Barely any fabric, just those mirrored bits of glitter that shook every time she gyrated.

“Hey. You okay?” Zane sidestepped to me, still playing, and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Did a little too much pre-show partying, did ya?”

The question wasn’t from left field. I’d had my nights of getting loaded before a show, although I was careful to put some time between them. Dependency wasn’t in my future. Not after all I’d seen.

But it wasn’t a few extra drinks that had set me off tonight. I hadn’t touched a drop. No, my issues had started with that fundraiser, continued with the little intervention from Ricki from Warning Sign—if you need anything, I understand, I can offer an ear—and now had been topped off by Daisy’s Hustlers routine in the corner of the stage. All she needed was a pole.

Even as I thought it, I wanted to kick my own ass. I had no right to get annoyed. She could do whatever she wanted. Big deal she was dancing. She looked amazing. She was definitely keeping the beat better than I was right now.

When I didn’t reply, Zane just shrugged and gave up. He went back to his side of the stage, exchanging a look with Jamie I didn’t miss. She’d propped her booted foot on Cooper’s drum riser and was making the rest of us look like posers. Lindsey was hitting those notes that made the audience lose their freaking minds, and Jamie was rocking right with her even as she and Zane quietly worried about me.

Screwed up Oz. He can usually play through his misery. Hand him a bottle or give him some equipment to destroy and he’ll be fine tomorrow. Room trashing is his antidote. It’s all good.

Except it wasn’t.

And Daisy was still dancing. Still rocking her ass and shaking her hair and giving the fans a show to go with Lindsey and Jamie’s—and hell, Cooper’s and Zane’s and Teagan’s—theatrics.

Everyone was doing their job but me.

Could be I was looking at this all wrong. Kerry had been Daisy’s best friend, so maybe she could do whatever she wanted there too. Could be she was just trying to do a nice thing to honor someone she loved.

Take some notes there, asshole.

But what the fuck had she been thinking to not even mention it to me? To not fucking ask me how I felt?

You don’t matter to her. Why should she care what you think when you haven’t said more than a few words to her in the six months she’s been on this tour?

We hadn’t been touring the whole time, of course. There had been holiday breaks and days off between legs of the tour, but we’d definitely been more on than off. Brooklyn Dawn’s tour bus accommodations were swanky enough to be on one of those fancy ass cable shows about rockstar digs, but that didn’t mean we never saw each other. Daisy had made friends with my bandmates, because that was who she was.

Friendly. Sweet. Too sweet. She’d never quite realized the world wasn’t a fucking lollipop land you could just hop your way through, unscathed.

Kerry had gotten hurt enough for all three of us.

The crowd roared, and the cage rotated to a stop with a loud shriek that jarred me out of my head. My hands were clammy, for God’s sake. The song was over. The show was too, all but the encore. Lindsey was blowing kisses to the crowd, and Jamie had her arm slung around Zane’s neck as she let out a war whoop. Cooper spun his sticks through the air to show off his sick juggling routine before he jumped down.

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