Play Dirty: Brooklyn Dawn Book 1

by Quinn, Cari

  “Better think up some good spin.” I set my cup on a table without taking the last few sips. Clearly, I’d had enough.

  Oz’s antics had been a distraction, but only for a couple of minutes. Reality was slamming down on the back of my neck, heavier than ever.

  I could be weepy when I was sober. I didn’t need to add a fading buzz to make it worse.

  “Lindz.” Jamie took the magazine out of my hand. Here I’d thought she wasn’t paying attention to me. “Who cares what they write in that shitty mag? They don’t get anything right. Besides, they couldn’t see enough of her hair to make sure.” She tugged on a strand of mine. “But I’ve been blinded by this mop for years.”

  It made me laugh hard enough that tears popped into my eyes. Ugh. I wasn’t drinking again anytime soon. My belly was sloshing uncomfortably, and I wasn’t sure it was just from the alcohol.

  Or what media nightmare might await me in the morning when Darcy got wind of Oz’s behavior.

  “Can we talk? Alone?” I asked softly, waiting for Jamie to say something rude, crude, or to shut the door on me entirely. Any option was possible right now.

  She stared at me for a long moment before pursing her lips and nodding. “Yeah. Let’s blow this penthouse stand.”

  I laughed too loudly. “Have you been watching those seventies’ cop shows again?”

  “Again? When did I ever stop? Pfft.”

  “Hang on, hang on. This’ll just take a sec, and we gotta be united as a group,” Oz glanced around at the assembled members of Warning Sign and their significant others, “as our groups,” he amended. “Joint front and all that.”

  “Oz—” I began.

  “Oh, Christ, Lindz, live a little, would you? Maybe remember now and then that we’re motherfucking rockstars, not some sanitized group that’s bound for weekend shows in Vegas.”

  While I stared, Oz marched over to open the French doors and strolled onto our patio, which overlooked a larger lower level of the hotel. He hoisted the bass high over his head as he peered down. “Perfect. The hot tub on their balcony is nice and bubbly.”

  Mal joined him. “How do you know that belongs to the person who complained?”

  “Because the scarf-wearing asshole confronted me in the lobby an hour ago when I went down to grab me some prophylactics.” Oz scratched his chest through his leather vest. “He advised me we were being far too loud, which brassed him off while he and his chick soaked in their hot tub. Because the swanky long-term stay suites one floor beneath us weren’t good enough for him since we’d had the audacity to take the penthouse. Poor baby.” Oz pumped the bass guitar as if he was lifting weights. “Guess they finished their hot water groping. Must be napping now. This should wake them up.”

  Teagan gripped her elbows. “I’m not sure this is the best idea.”

  I wasn’t either. Then again, we were motherfucking rockstars. Oz was a grown man. Very grown, and nearly busting out of his skintight jeans.

  Jamie retrieved her bag and hauled me to my feet. “C’mon. Let the idiots have their fun. Doesn’t mean we have to see it.”

  I was still buzzing, but just barely. No alcohol was strong enough to kill my relentless thoughts for long. Watching Oz act like a jackass would be sure to send me the rest of the way from floaty to pissy.

  “Right.” I blew out a breath and grabbed my purse near the door.

  We made it to the hall just as Oz let out a war whoop over the sound of a distant splash.

  Jamie sighed. “Why wasn’t I born a lesbian? Is it too late to develop a taste for kitten?”

  “The kind without fur, I hope.”

  “Of course.” She sashayed down the hall to our suite at the far end.

  I wasn’t moving quite as fast. In fact, saying I was wobbly wouldn’t have been inaccurate.

  Plus, the wall kept moving. Weird.

  Jamie motioned for me to give her my room card and I handed it over. “Who wants that between their teeth?”

  I shook my head. “What?”

  “Fur. Between their teeth. You know, when you’re eating—”

  I held up a hand. “Got it. Pervert.”

  She opened the door to our suite, holding the door for me. “After you.”

  I gave her what I hoped was a normal, non-drunken smile and sailed through the doorway. Jamie immediately moved to the mini bar and poured herself some champagne. At my surprised look, she kicked off her killer boots and padded barefoot across the marble floor to offer me some. “Hello, we need an afterparty from that party.”

  I took the glass from her and sipped. Because basically, I was an idiot.

  “Besides, I figure you need just a little bit more lubrication to tell me all about your bangfest.”

  I kept drinking, although my sips were far smaller this time. And my buzz had changed into a warm, sleepy feeling I wanted to cling to for all I was worth.

  “Let me change first.”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever.” Jamie was already camped out in a chair in the living room area of the suite, her long legs flung over the arm as she scanned her phone. She held her other hand out for her champagne glass.

  I winced as I returned the nearly empty glass. Guess I was still thirsty after all.

  “Seriously?” Jamie tossed back what was left and went back to her phone.

  After a quick trip to the ladies, I attacked my nest of curls with my comb before declaring it hopeless. That would be tomorrow’s problem. I’d just pulled on a silky camisole that doubled as my nightwear and tied up my hair when my phone rang.

  Heart foolishly racing, I ran to the purse I’d dropped on my bed and checked the readout. Same as earlier. Unknown number.

  Not Alex.

  Sighing heavily, I threw back the covers of my neatly made bed and crawled inside. God, cushy mattresses were wonderful things. Then I clicked to accept the call right before it went to voicemail.

  “Hello?”

  Just like earlier, the sounds on the other end of the line were muffled. Scratchy. Nearly unintelligible. Until one thick growl came through, and a faint moan that could’ve been mine.

  Was it mine?

  Before I could figure it out, the caller clicked off.

  What the fuck?

  I tossed my phone and it bounced off the edge of my bed.

  Something else to deal with tomorrow too.

  “Uh oh. Pissy princess.”

  Jamie’s teasing nickname made me burrow deeper into my pillows. I wasn’t a princess.

  I closed my eyes. Or Alex’s duchess. Obviously.

  “So, are you hiding your face over there because your lover sucked so bad? If so, don’t be ashamed. Not all tricycles are worth driving off the lot. That’s why they have training wheels.”

  It was the last thing I heard before sleep claimed me.

  Twenty-Two

  “Thanks for coming out here, man. It’s been an honor and a privilege.”

  I grunted and shook Matthias’s hand. He was new on the scene and spoke to me with reverence and none of the cynicism I’d had at his age.

  Oh, to be that young. That wide-eyed and in love with the business.

  To see only the gloss and the glitter and not the seedy underbelly.

  “Don’t thank me. Just keep putting in the work as you’ve been doing. Because then it isn’t work. It’s play that makes you money.”

  “I know that’s right.” He grinned and shook back his blond hair. It was cut in jagged spikes that toppled every which way and caused him to curse a fair amount. “But I know this isn’t your usual bag. You don’t normally work with hip-hop hybrid artists.”

  “I absolutely have.” I named three such projects I’d been part of in the past year. “There’s also a collaboration coming up between Ian Kagan and Orion that I’ve been approached about. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “Seriously? How amazing is that? Orion is a freaking God. And Ian’s got all the lineage, man.” Matthias tucked his hands under his arms. “He’s my
age. Gives a guy some hope he can break in. Of course my older brother isn’t Simon Kagan.”

  “No? Who is he?”

  He laughed at my unexpected joke. “Terry works for a soda company, delivering diabetes in a bottle to grocery stores. So, I won’t be getting any help there.”

  Feeling surprisingly charitable, I clapped his shoulder. “You don’t need anyone’s help. You’re doing just fine on your own.”

  “You mean that? Really?” He pulled out his phone from his jeans pocket and held it out to me. “Don’t suppose I can record that for the hard days when I think I’m fucking crap?”

  I grinned. “Instead, give me a call and we’ll set up some studio time. I think with just a few more sessions these songs for your EP will be just what you were hoping for. Assuming you get your collaborator in here.”

  He scrubbed the back of his neck, a classic evasive maneuver I recognized all too well. “Yeah, she’s kind of not taking my calls right now.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We slept together and I fucked it all up.”

  Christ, did I ever understand that one. As I’d gotten a text from Lindsey some time ago that I still hadn’t responded to. I hadn’t even looked at it. We’d been deep into a song, and my mistake had been in not turning off my phone in the first place.

  But I’d wanted to know if she contacted me. Right away. Craved the warmth spreading in my chest from knowing she was thinking of me even if I couldn’t respond.

  For so many reasons.

  “So, get a new collaborator.” As flippant as my tone was, my head—and my heart—was not. For some of us, it just wasn’t that simple.

  Sometimes doing the best thing for someone fucking sucked.

  Matthias slumped down in the chair he’d just vacated. He grabbed his guitar and strummed a few chords before letting out a long breath. His music was a cross between hip-hop and rock with a few other genres thrown in for good measure, and he was definitely keeping me on my toes.

  He sighed. “I just want her.”

  “But she doesn’t want you anymore?”

  “She’s having my kid and when she told me, I asked her if it was mine.”

  The back of my neck itched. Hell, my entire spinal column and torso did too. This was not my area of expertise. I was not Jerry Springer, nor was I gunning for a similar position. As soon as people started discussing baby drama, or ex drama, or drama period, I usually tuned out and reminded myself that I could walk away at any time.

  That was a hit or miss strategy, but it worked more often than not.

  But if Matthias’s chin dropped any lower, he’d be shining his boots with it. And coldhearted bastard or not, I couldn’t just hear something like that and say see ya.

  Well, I could, and I had before, but not tonight.

  Jesus, who was I becoming?

  I took the chair beside him and locked my hands behind my neck. Exhaustion cloaked me, so heavy that I almost couldn’t think through it. I wasn’t sleeping right. I rarely did, but especially since I’d gone to Logan’s. Only training and routine had allowed me to even get through this session.

  Plus, a healthy dollop of desperation for a distraction.

  “So, I don’t know anything about that shit.”

  “Which part?”

  “Making babies. How to soothe a pregnant woman.”

  “Oh, whew. I mean, I know you’re a recluse and all, but for a minute, I thought I might have to draw you a sketch or something.” He’d no sooner said it that he dropped his guitar. Literally. He rolled back on his wheeled chair, his eyes wide. “Jesus, my fucking mouth. You’re not a recluse. Nothing wrong with being alone. Or liking to be alone. Or valuing your privacy—fuck me running, I need to shut up now. It’s my biggest problem.”

  My lips twitched around a smile. “No, your biggest problem is she might not let you be a father to your kid unless you man up and make it right.”

  He shut his eyes. “Yeah. Not that I know how.”

  “Which part?” I echoed him.

  “All of it. The manning. The fathering. I’m just twenty-fucking-three. I can barely pull up my own boxers.” He dug the heel of his hand into his eye. “I need a drink. Want one? Or no, you’re hitting the road—”

  “You know I’m a recluse, yet you don’t know I’m also an addict.”

  He dropped his hand. “I heard something…” He trailed off.

  I cracked my knuckles behind my neck. My head was starting to ache like a bitch. “I want a drink really goddamn bad. But I won’t. Because I want to be able to look at myself tomorrow and not hate myself more. Go ahead though.”

  His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Never mind.” He shook his water bottle. “This’ll do.”

  Before I could reply, he rubbed his fingers over the corner of his mouth. “I know you were taking off, but maybe you could hang for a bit? Help me work on ‘Remember Me’?”

  “You said that song needed Aryn’s input.”

  “Yeah, it does. But I may not be getting it. And maybe that’s part of manning up. I don’t know.”

  “Me either.” The pleading look in the kid’s all too earnest brown eyes worked its magic on me though, and I let out a breath. “Yeah. I have some time.” He wasn’t the only one wanting to put off the inevitable. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  I didn’t leave until long after midnight. A cold rain pelted me as I turned up my collar and stepped off the stoop of Matthias’s Brooklyn walk-up. I preferred to meet new clients on their turf rather than in a studio setting, but those meetings usually didn’t last as long as tonight’s. Nor did my typical client ask me to stay just for the sheer escapism of playing.

  And I’d never needed it just as much.

  It had been a long fucking time since I’d let my own music out of its trap door vault inside me. I was a conduit. Not a participator in the creation in a tangible way. Oh, it seemed as if I was. I enhanced. I improved. But I wasn’t the heart and soul of the piece. That belonged to the musician.

  I didn’t have a soul left. A heart? Unlikely. And the rest of the cage holding me together was in tatters.

  I got behind the wheel and just drove. No destination. I didn’t hook in my phone although I hadn’t charged it in hours. I knew it had to be running low since I’d recorded a good bit in Matthias’s makeshift home studio. Listening to the artist when I was alone made a big difference. Space sometimes showed the cracks that closeness did not.

  Other times it just emphasized the utter perfection.

  I uncapped the bottle of soda I’d had in the cup holder and drank half. Maybe more. I was freaking parched. Then I punched the gas. I didn’t check my cell, didn’t bother selecting a station. The first one that came up on a random scan worked just fine.

  When I cranked it, the screaming guitars and thumping bass were enough to drown out my thoughts. The slash of the wipers when it started to sprinkle—then pour—also added to the chaos living inside my brain.

  Drown it out. Faster. Louder. Make it all go away.

  But the music and the oddly rhythmic sound of the wipers wasn’t enough to silence the demons in the form of Matthias’s lyrics.

  I’m overthinking again tonight

  Slower torture than grabbing a bottle

  To end it all

  He hadn’t been referring to suicide, but the endless dousing of pain with alcohol. And what he’d been overthinking hadn’t been set to a soundtrack of shouts and tears and the wrench of metal. Sirens coming closer, closer.

  Coming for me.

  I didn’t know where I was driving to. Where did I have to go?

  Lindsey.

  Her name was like a neon sign in my head, the only thing strong enough to combat the flames and agony. My body was aching as if I was back there in that car. As if what I held in my hands wasn’t the steering wheel but the twisted metal that had trapped me in my self-created prison.

  My mouth was so dry. I wanted a drink. Needed it. Better yet, something stronger. I c
ould find a hit without trying too hard. I was in the city, after all, one that didn’t sleep and offered dreams for the asking price of an ounce of today’s drug du jour.

  I had money. What else did I fucking have?

  Lindsey.

  Again, her name. It had become some kind of talisman for me. A way to ward off all the shit I couldn’t fight back or forget.

  Most of the time, I could find distractions. I chased them. It would’ve been just as easy to find a woman to sink into as it would have to get some black tar or coke or E. Didn’t really matter what. Or who. I hadn’t relapsed, not even at the beginning. But pussy had been a safe substitute, even if I hadn’t always been kind afterward.

  Just as I hadn’t been kind to Lindsey.

  Since that first time with her, there had been no one else. Couldn’t be. What had once been easy was now empty. I’d compare every face, every voice, to hers and they would all be lacking.

  Yet I couldn’t have her either. Not if it meant she’d be in a tabloid picture that could tangle her name with mine. I could take it, even if knowing my scars had been on display made me want to disappear and not come back. She couldn’t. Her reputation was above reproach. I wasn’t going to be what sent her into emotional rehab.

  And Kyle…

  I wouldn’t think about it. Couldn’t. But I touched the destroyed tape I carried in my jacket pocket as a reminder. Lo hadn’t asked why I’d taken it, despite the spool being almost fully unwound, and I hadn’t explained.

  When I weakened, this would help me remember.

  I stepped on the gas. The Jeep shimmied and swerved. Trees blurred past the windows, soaked and bending in the wind. It whipped against the vehicle, battering me from one side of the road to the other.

  Then, now.

  Still, I pressed for more speed. This was my distraction. I’d drive through hell itself and see where I ended up.

  Whole, if not intact.

  Shouts in my head, screams blaring from the radio. They mixed and mingled as I stared through the windshield into what could’ve been another too dark, rainy night.

  While a pair of headlights tracked me like prey.

  I’d barely been aware of them at first. I’d been driving without destination, but I knew where the car was pointed. I was headed to Lo’s, although I couldn’t say why. He wasn’t equipped to deal with me in a state like this. Sweet Bella certainly was not. I wouldn’t dump my problems on their doorstep.