Play Mine: Rockstar Romantic Suspense (Brooklyn Dawn Book 3)

a few good action flicks. One of the reasons I loved Teagan was she never begged for rom coms. Nah, she went straight for explosions, just like I did.
Even when they haunted me in my dreams.
I closed my eyes and tried to push down the annoyance building. Lila’s admonitions about staying safe cycled through my brain, pushing the music aside. It was my solace. Always had been. But lately, the walls and the noise and now the concern for Teagan were crowding everything else out.
So many rules. More boxes to be trapped in. Security standing like sentry at nearly every access point to the venues. For fuck’s sake, I was trained to find the weak points in a room. It never truly faded to the back of my mind—not even with over five years out of the Rangers.
Now with Teagan potentially at risk? If that fire had been intentionally set, if she had been home…
Fuck.
I tipped my head back and thumbed up the volume on my phone until my ears begged for mercy.
Cool fingers brushed over the back of my hand and I jumped. The heady, dick punch scent of peaches hit me first, followed by soft skin and curls flying everywhere as she stared up at me.
Teagan was decked out in her stage wear, which meant not much at all. A barely there skirt rode up her curvy thigh and her ridiculously distracting breasts were nicely showcased by her low-cut top.
Not that I was looking.
“Hey.” I tucked my headphones back into their case and shoved my hands into my pockets. It was either that or grab her. And that wasn’t on the menu right now. Her bluebell eyes were back to their usual hoodoo shadow for the stage with little extra sparkles that made me want to rub my own eyes in empathy. Her full mouth was slick with warpaint. The raspberry color made me want to lean in and hope it tasted like fruit instead of makeup.
“We gotta go in.” She shifted back a few paces until there was a gulf of tension between us.
Instantly, I bunched my hands inside my pockets, mostly so I wouldn’t grab her, but also, to give myself a little room. The cargo shorts I wore on stage didn’t hide jack shit. I had little to no immunity against her on a good day, let alone now when every instinct told me to tuck her under my arm and haul her back to my place. And it was going to get a lot worse while she was staying with me this week. Never mind while we were sequestered on the bus in our new setup.
Too bad she was so damn oblivious to my plight.
“Do they really need me?”
She gave me a hint of the crooked little smirk that made me nuts. “Yes. It’s time to go talk to Mr. Decker. Need pictures and all that.” She waved her hands. Neon pink polish coated her short nails.
“Who’s Decker again?”
She wrapped her cool fingers around my wrist and I let her lead me back toward Purgatory. Talk about an apt description. “Owner guy who’s donating to the Brooklyn Music School.”
“Right.”
Crap. I couldn’t blow him off. I might want to bail on VIPs, but kids? Yeah, that was another matter entirely. “Needed a little downtime after that meeting. Besides, I thought we were done with the ass-kissing.”
I opened the door, ignoring our looming security guy. I braced my arm over her to let her go by and she quickly scrambled past me.
“Do I smell or something?” I sniffed under my arm.
“What?” Her light laugh bubbled up and out of her. I’d literally kill to hear that every day of my damn life. “You’re silly.”
Once we were back in the hallway, I set my hands on her shoulders and wondered if it was my imagination that I could practically feel her nerves dancing under her skin. “Are you certain you want to do this?”
“The show? Uh, yeah, it’s my job.” Easing away from me, she flipped back her hair and gave me a determined smile. “I can do my job.”
“Of course you can. It’s just been a fucking difficult day.” I frowned. “Did he call again?”
“No.” Almost immediately, her face closed off. She headed toward the increasingly noisy backstage. Jamie’s voice rose above the steady hum of them.
“Did you call him back?”
“God, no. Why would I?”
“Some part of you has to be curious. Maybe enough to want to make sure he wasn’t involved with last night.”
“Right, and a quick text or call is going to prove that?”
I snagged her hand. “I don’t know. You knew him. Lived with him. Loved him.”
Her head whipped back toward me. “It was a while ago. People make mistakes.”
I swore. “Don’t tell me you’re still making excuses for him.”
“Hardly. I mean me, Coop. I made a mistake with him. Sometimes you fall for the wrong person. You think you get them and you just…don’t.”
“Yet you still don’t believe he was involved in the fire, coincidental phone call and all.”
“I just said it seemed unlikely, okay? But I didn’t say it was impossible.”
“I know you.” I rocked back on the balls of my feet and struggled to keep my tone level. Even after the better part of two years, she still didn’t grasp how well I understood her and her reactions. At least most of the time. Sure, sometimes she threw me for a loop, but I’d made a damn good study of her since she’d been with the band.
Chump.
“Yeah, and you’re assuming I’m reluctant to accuse him because I’m, what, still carrying a torch for the guy?”
“You tell me.”
She shook my hand free and crossed her arms. “Hardly. I wanted to jump Noah a few months ago, so obviously, I’m not still hung up on Pat.”
A couple of parts of that sentence struck me at once.
Wanted—past tense.
Not still hung up on Pat.
And most of all, that she’d finally admitted she had a thing for Noah. Which scorched a path through my chest