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

some dates. I’d let friends set me up a couple times. Right before I’d gotten the Brooklyn Dawn gig, I’d even tried Tinder.
But I hadn’t slept with anyone since Pat. Maybe I was destined to be alone forever. God knows my fruitless crush on Noah hadn’t gone anywhere. I’d channeled halfhearted energy into getting him to notice me. He had not. So, I’d moved on.
Clearly, I didn’t know how to do relationships right. I definitely didn’t trust my choices. And somehow, even though it had been a couple of years since my ex, I still felt…stuck.
At least my adult toy collection was currently at its peak, both in quantity and quality. If I kept it up, I’d probably achieve that All-Star membership with my online shop of choice like my high school friend Elle, though to me she would always be Ricki.
Hey, a girl had to have goals.
I bumped into a trash receptacle and had to slap a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. Guess I was more spooked than I’d realized. Then again, it was freaking late.
Quickly, I used my laminated access pass at the side entrance. The door was almost indistinguishable from the wall surrounding it. When the security light glowed green, I slipped inside and leaned back against the door, my heart beating way too hard.
I shuddered and wiped my sweaty palm on my night creeper-style black pants. For heaven’s sake, I hadn’t done anything illegal. I had a pass, and I was one of the performers tonight. I’d done this before at venues we’d played at, although it had been a while. But I was starting to remodel my place, and I’d temporarily put most of my instruments in storage. My stage piano was here, unused. So, why not?
This whole adventure was just proof that I was not cut out to be a bad girl. How had I managed to join one of the most successful rock bands in the entire world?
A question for the ages.
If I’d been smart, I would’ve been home in bed, pretending to sleep. Toy time optional.
Maybe I should try melatonin again, weird dreams and all. That had to be better than burning off excess energy by playing alone in shadowy clubs.
The security lights near the ceiling provided the only illumination. A hush had fallen over the place that didn’t entirely seem natural, as if all the loud music and sounds of talking and laughter had been cut off like a cord pulled from an amp.
I gripped my throat and forced myself to keep moving. This was not the ideal environment for a chick who jumped at spotlight switches and startled every time someone dropped a guitar pick.
After hurrying up the hallway, I moved into the main area of the club, which contained a mix of booths and overturned chairs on tables. The long bar gleamed even in the low light off to one side, and in front, the wide expanse of stage beckoned.
I crept toward it and then climbed the short flight of stairs on the side. The floor was reflective black tiles, perfect for magnifying the lights. Normally, the stage would be empty, but we’d arranged to have some of our equipment brought in around closing time so we would be ready to go for an early-ish band meeting and then rehearsal. At least two was early for me.
Once upon a time, I’d been a morning person, back when I’d temped as a legal assistant from nine to five while Pat went to his shared office space and worked on his art in a safe, non-judgmental space. I’d never understood how our empty townhouse had been unsafe or judging him, but in retrospect, I hadn’t understood a lot about him.
I took a steadying breath and moved toward the curved bench placed in front of my keyboard. In the arenas, I used my designer pink Steinway Grand piano, a gift from my far too sweet parents for joining the band. At smaller venues like this one, I made do with a portable piano rig.
But my special riveted padded bench came with me everywhere.
I slid a loving hand across the leather, molded precisely to my own shape after many hours of rehearsal and shows, then sat down and ran through a quick set of scales. Limbering up my fingers as an athlete would, warming them so that I could do the tricks I saved for my own personal concerts. Hand over hand, occasionally even behind my back. Fun stuff that amused me and had no place in Brooklyn Dawn shows.
In a band full of big personalities, I was happy to just play a support role, quietly and competently. Well, mostly quietly, except when I’d had a little too much tequila.
I rolled my achy, tense shoulders and forced myself not to look out into the empty audience. Already I was going to that place in my mind where I imagined a crowd listening to me as I played. The sound of the notes rang out so clear and true, luring me to play one of my favorites. “Moonlight Sonata” was a moody, desolate piece, at least to me. But instead of helping me relax as it usually did, the nerves buzzing along my spine only grew.
It’s just thoughts of Pat crowding in. And hello, middle of the night, weirdo.
My hands moved without me telling them to, which was a good thing since my mind was racing in concert with my heart. But the music eased me even as I glanced around, half expecting to catch a movement out of the corner of my eye.
Maybe Coop had followed me. He was my closest friend in the band and we hung out often. At least we had before the latest Ripper Records chaos had opened up a rift between us.
He didn’t make a habit of lurking around my place when I hadn’t invited him over, but lately, he was fairly obsessed with keeping an eye on me. That was a less worrisome thought