Play Dirty: Brooklyn Dawn Book 1 Read online

  Play Dirty

  Brooklyn Dawn Book 1

  Cari Quinn

  Taryn Elliott

  eBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Play Dirty

  © 2019 Cari Quinn & Taryn Elliott

  Rainbow Rage Publishing

  Cover by LateNite Designs

  Photo by Sara Eirew

  All Rights Are Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First ebook edition: August 2019

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  Run, he whispered in my ear. While you still can.

  I walked into a club called Ruin and found it—and him—when he bent me over the piano he was playing.

  I did as he said, but not until after he’d decimated me in the filthiest way possible.

  I loved every second.

  That one, and the ones that came years later. When he sang with me against his will, although the words burned and the scar tissue left him raw.

  Nash has secrets, deadly ones, and he won’t let me in. He just gives me dirty little tastes of him that make me desperate for more.

  To the world, I’m on top. The lead singer of a famous rock band.

  With Nash, I don’t mind getting on my knees.

  But someone is watching us. And our stalker isn’t content to stay on the sidelines any longer.

  The curtain is about to rise. Win, lose...or die.

  Author’s note: Play Dirty is a standalone enemies to lovers rock star romance. It ends in a happily ever after.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Oblivion World Character Chart

  Quinn and Elliott

  Taryn Quinn

  Follow Us

  About the Authors

  Acknowledgments

  Sometimes we make up fictional places that end up having the same names as actual places. These are our fictional interpretations only. Please grant us leeway if our creative vision isn't true to reality.

  For Carrie.

  In a time long ago we created these girls. We thought they’d only live in our dreams.

  They might be a little different now, but no less special.

  Thanks.

  One

  Almost three years ago

  They were going to catch me.

  I jogged up the street, the paper and plastic handles of the bags I carried biting into my palms. Damn Louboutins. I couldn’t run fast enough in them.

  Holy shit. I couldn’t believe this was truly happening.

  To me.

  I was only running because it was fun to feel the wind slapping my cheeks and blowing back my hair, ripping it out of the hastily thrown together ponytail I’d shoved under a cap. It wasn’t as if I minded being chased by fans.

  Fans, for God’s sake. Real, legitimate ones I hadn’t had to try to encourage to applaud for us like I was used to doing as the lead singer of the opening act for countless bands over the past few years.

  C’mon, you can sing along, right? This is an easy one.

  We’re Brooklyn Dawn, and we want to make sure your asses don’t touch your seat all night long.

  And then when the responses I received ranged from complete disinterest to lukewarm at best, I’d motion to Jamie and Oz, bringing them in for a quick conference about which audible to pull. Something so we wouldn’t lose the crowd so irrevocably we couldn’t get them back.

  All right, what about this one? You guys know “American Pie”? Sing along if you know the words.

  No matter their ages, enough of the audience would know the words to get the rest of the crowd to join in. Then we’d ride that enthusiasm and ninja-style sneak in a few of the songs we were working on for our EP.

  Still, more of our sets had ended with a whimper than a bang. Until we’d finally had a single break through a couple of months ago. It had enough buzz and decent enough airplay that holy Christ on a cracker, we had actual fans who recognized me. Not as some Victoria’s Secret lookalike model but as Lindz from Brooklyn-Fucking-Dawn.

  I ducked into an alley next to a row of seedy establishments a girl with fine York breeding didn’t dare enter, my breath coming a bit too fast for my liking. I needed to up my cardio game again. I pressed my back against the graffiti-covered brick wall, my heart thumping wildly, as the trio of excited girls ran past the mouth of the alley.

  Right past me.

  I gripped my bags and hiked my mini purse higher on my shoulder, then decided to press my luck. Why not? I’d had an absolutely amazing night so far, shopping on my own without my bodyguard-slash-driver—courtesy of my parents, not my record label—or even my best friend, Jamie, who I normally never ditched for an evening. But she’d been in a mood and hadn’t wanted to shop, and I was desperately tired of the four walls of our hotel room.

  Tomorrow night, we had a show at MSG, our biggest yet. We were still opening, but not for long.

  Brooklyn Dawn was destined for big things, and so was I.

  But tonight? I wanted to drink and dance to some music that wasn’t my own. I wanted the anonymity of a club. Maybe I’d even make out with some pretty boy under the stars.

  Because I could. Because finally, finally, everything was happening for us. We’d begun to lose hope and patience and heart. Jamie had been the one to keep us striving for more.

  “Listen, bitch, if you think we’ve come this far to only come this far, you’re a waste of a good bottle of Tanqueray.”

  Gin was disgusting, but I got Jamie’s point. We all wanted to break through, and finally, we were on the verge. On the cusp of something huge.

  I stepped out on the sidewalk and scanned the immediate area, making sure the coast was clear. No one was paying attention to me. They were streaming in and out of the bars. Laughing, playfully shoving each other, talking loudly. Everyone was having a fine time.

  To hell with it, I was going into the club next to the alley.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, I stepped back out with a wrinkled nose and a dent in my little bubble of happiness. I
’d known even before I made it all the way inside that the place wasn’t for me. Sticky floors, some kind of soulless trance music, and grabby males with chains heavy enough to snap their necks like twigs weren’t what I had in mind.

  There was stretching my wings and then there was abandoning all my standards and sense too.

  Pass.

  I looked back and forth, for a second feeling utterly lost in the hustle and bustle around me. What just half an hour ago had seemed fun and exciting now seemed chaotic and…empty.

  Lonely if I let myself think that way.

  But I wasn’t going to. This was what I wanted. A night alone, unencumbered, with no one to answer to but myself.

  So what if that first club had been a dud? This street was full of them. I was in freaking New York City, the place that never slept. If I wanted to stay out all night, I’d need a lot of black coffee tomorrow—who was I kidding, I liked my cream—and some serious eye drops, but I’d rock out tomorrow night regardless.

  This night held endless possibilities. If I didn’t run home like a sheltered rich girl rockstar-in-training.

  I sucked in a breath and crossed the alley, frowning at the stairs going down into yet another building. Club or bar or illicit drug den, I had no idea. Above the door, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it blue neon sign said only Ruin.

  Ruin was a hell of a name for a club, if it was that. Just in case, I snapped a quick picture with my phone. If I went missing, there would be proof of my last known location.

  Assuming my phone survived intact as evidence. At least it would be uploaded to the cloud too.

  God, I had to stop watching Criminal Minds when I couldn’t sleep.

  I descended the stairs and pushed open the creaky door. I braced myself for a sudden attack, whether it was from crime lords or a burly bouncer who wanted to keep me out. But I had blond hair and blue eyes and an innocent expression that wasn’t altogether fake. When combined, the three usually got me where I wanted to go.

  In this case, they weren’t needed. There was no one manning the door, but the questionable little piano bar was busier than I’d expected. It seemed as if it had been carved out of the sewer system. The place was so dark. I couldn’t be surprised at that, for it was underground and piano bars tended to have atmospheric lighting. Blue lights glowed through the bottles behind the long scarred bar and flickered in squat glasses on the square, intimate tables. People were clustered around those tables in groups of twos and threes, talking and laughing quietly.

  Everyone had someone, whether a friend or a lover. Or both. I didn’t see anyone else alone. Not even at the bar, where the creepers with white bands on their ring fingers usually went trolling for the vulnerable.

  Suddenly, I wished Jamie was beside me with a ferocity that made me tighten my grip on my shopping bags.

  A few heads swiveled toward me and I realized just how much I stood out. I was practically a mugger’s wet dream, loaded down with bags and wearing ice pick heels—my favorite kind, but not exactly smart for a woman alone—plus toting a fancy purse that screamed steal me. Not to mention looking wide-eyed at everything around me as if I’d never been to New York before.

  For fuck’s sake, I wasn’t a tourist. I lived here. I knew better. But I’d let my good judgment slip in favor of some retail therapy and a bit of risky behavior.

  Idiotic move, Lindz.

  I’d just get a drink, take a load off by sitting at the bar. Maybe I could have my bags sent back to the hotel with my driver so I didn’t seem so conspicuous.

  Oh, yeah, call George and have him tidy up your life so you’re free to be as bad as your good girl conscience allows. Maybe you can even have him wait outside in case your impromptu play date gets a little too real.

  I slid onto a stool and tucked my bags against my legs. If someone tried something, I’d use my glass like a hammer and they’d be losing a finger tonight.

  Hey, they had nine others, right?

  “What’ll it be, darlin’?”

  I smiled at the bartender. “Sauvignon blanc, please.”

  His mouth tipped into a crooked smile as he slung a towel over his shoulder. It looked soiled. “Coming right up.”

  While directly in my line of sight, he took out a box of wine, splashed some into a glass, and pushed the glass my way. It was not even white. “Sorry, must’ve gotten lost on the way from France.”

  “Just like your tip,” I muttered as he turned away.

  But since beggars had sore toes from being cramped for hours in torture heels, I tossed back that wine as if it was the finest I’d ever tasted.

  Maybe the liquid courage was why I shifted on my stool as the music started to play. Only fitting a piano bar would have a pianist. A real one, not canned music through unseen speakers.

  I recognized the song immediately. “Dream On” by Aerosmith. But this version was something different. Special. The way the pianist was playing was haunting, and there were no vocals. Just the music coming from behind a half screen in a darkened corner of the bar.

  That too was odd. Didn’t most piano players want to create a connection with their audience? This one was hidden away in the shadows, barely visible. I couldn’t see a jar to collect tips either.

  Was he or she independently wealthy perhaps? Just played for the love of the music?

  What a novel concept.

  I picked up my bags and my drink after the smirking bartender refilled it and headed for the corner. Whomever the pianist was, he or she wasn’t going to stay hidden from me.

  But as I neared the screen, my footsteps faltered. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the style of playing. Something about it seemed oddly familiar. The song built and built before dropping back again, but not with this guy. I was almost certain it was a male. Even when the song receded, the level of urgency remained constant. And when it climbed toward the pinnacle, the pianist slammed on the keys in a way that bordered on the discordant.

  A riot of emotions jangled to life inside me.

  I didn’t understand what I was feeling. Why tears pressed hot against the backs of my eyes and my belly quivered with longing. My palms grew sweaty around the handles of my bags as the song filled the bar, the music from the pounding keys swelling inside my head until my temples throbbed with it.

  I didn’t want to see who it was. I had to. The frenetic music was like a soundless scream. The lyrics had to go with the wild melody or it was just beautiful noise.

  Hauling in a breath, I stepped around the screen as the song reached its end. And felt the world drop out from underneath me as my eyes connected with Alexander Nash’s.

  He didn’t smile at me. Just stared while he kept right on playing, drawing the song out beyond its natural conclusion. This was an extended medley, a pot simmering on low, the soundless shout rising again like a trapped breath inside my chest.

  I didn’t think. Didn’t wonder what the hell I was doing. The unused microphone sat so close to his mouth, but he ignored it as if it didn’t matter.

  If he wouldn’t sing the words, I would.

  Eyes locked on his, I dropped my bags beside his bench and grabbed the mic, tilting it toward me.

  This dream was going to be for two.

  Two

  She had no fucking right.

  Staring at me, she opened her pale pink lips—glossy even in the near dark, as if she’d shined them recently—and started to sing the lyrics I hadn’t needed. Everyone knew them. At this point, they were practically redundant. I wasn’t a singer besides.

  Not any longer.

  Not ever again.

  Nor was I her accompanist. But she used me that way just the same, gripping her glass as she sang the lyrics effortlessly. She knew every line. Let her class drip over every word and made them into the pleas of an angel.

  Blond hair, blue eyes, porcelain skin. A sweet voice that could rock out with the best of them like Ann Wilson or even Janis when she was in a mood. She sang the lyrics as I slammed on the keys, the oppositio
n in our styles somehow working. I was anger and jagged lines and rudeness, and she battled me back with crisp clarity and a resilience that only filled me with more rage.

  It was just a song. Just a combination of words and notes that became whatever the listener needed. Until she’d stepped into the corner of my world, I’d played with half disinterest, because I was fucking bored and I didn’t know why I’d even come to this shithole tonight.

  Staring into those crystal blue eyes that bored into mine, I knew all too well.

  I hadn’t seen her in a couple of months, not since the benefit concert in Winchester Falls. Hell of a thing that had been. After the horrific disaster at the hands of a madwoman, the scars had run deep.

  Scars were another thing I knew about. And there were no pretty bandages in my world. No bright-eyed songbirds to sing away the cobwebs and let in the light.

  Especially one who turned it on and off like a flashlight for anyone who was in her midst.