Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  “You deleted it,” I say dumbly. The time she spent tapping on Marcia’s phone before tossing it could only be because she’s quick enough to do something like that.

  “It’s called the cloud for a reason, asshole,” she spits, the tears doing nothing to snuff out the fire building beneath her cheeks. “You did it. Congratulations. You humiliated Acne Hayes. You can ascend to whatever throne you fuckers give yourselves. You’re nothing but college assholes, you know that? None of this shit flies in real life, so get your rocks off now before you’re seen as the pathetic, former boy wonders who couldn’t grow up and treat women with respect if we cut your balls off.”

  For once, I’m at a loss for words, at the exact point I need them the most. “Please, Astor. If we could sit down, I can explain.”

  “What does he have on you?” She looks me dead in the eye when she asks it.

  My mouth works, but fuck that fucker Dodge, I can’t tell her the truth.

  She slumps, and I hear the crack of her heart as if it had sound. “You won’t even tell me that much.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to,” I try saying. “It’s a lot more complicated than you think.”

  “Let me simplify it for you then,” Astor says. She clutches the sheet tighter around her chest. “I’m not going to tell Locke about this, because he’d kill you if he knew. And if anyone’s going to murder you, it’ll be me. So get the hell out and don’t come back.”

  “Astor—”

  “Get out!” she screams, so loud and sharply, her voice breaks under the pressure.

  Staying here hurts her more. Filling up the space in the room with useless excuses only steals the little oxygen we have left. But what would help? What could stop this from becoming so much worse? My leaving her alone. For good.

  Astor has it all wrong, but she’s come to the right conclusion.

  I nod, turning away from her as I do it. I can’t stand looking into those shattered eyes of hers anymore.

  “I’m sorry, Astor.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Her breaths are the last sound I hear, increasing in speed and sound as I open the door, and unleashed as a sob as soon as I shut it.

  4

  Astor

  Present Day

  When I find a neon green woman’s thong hidden in the toilet tank, I decide to call it a day.

  I squeeze the wet underwear in a fit of contained rage, droplets splattering to the bathroom floor. Then, when I realize what I’m holding and where it’s been, I storm out of the bathroom, into our walk-in closet, and fling it at my fiancé’s coveted Tom Ford, or Gucci, or whatever-the-fuck male designer’s row of freshly laundered suits he’d just had delivered.

  Then I wash my hands.

  Crumple against the kitchen cabinets under the sink.

  And weep.

  My skirt’s hiked up past my thighs, my ankles are lopsided in my three-inch stilettos, and I’m all too aware of how pathetic I look, how askew I’ve made myself, all in the name of keeping up appearances.

  Mike doesn’t love me.

  I’m not sure when I figured it out, but it wasn’t when I discovered another woman’s lingerie in my plumbing. It was long before, maybe when I first noticed the red-tinted smudges on his shirt collars, and then the hot pink ones. These women with perfect pouts and sexy stains who were touching my fiancé in all the ways I did. They ran their fingers through the same hair. Traced the same lines of muscle on his stomach. Licked his skin and moaned, spread their legs for him, just like me.

  Maybe even on the same night.

  It makes me wonder why I’ve stayed so long, well after the excuses dried up. Mike is my law school sweetheart. We connect in all the right ways. Mentally, financially, physically. We’re terrific as co-counselors, amazing as opponents, and awesome in bed. He challenges my arguments and craves my legs. He eats my terrible cooking and edits my appeal briefs with a salient eye. He cares about my career, wants me to succeed, and supports all my late nights and pre-dawn mornings, all while I do the same for him. We’re a team. We’re partners.

  We’re perfect where it counts.

  So why does he cheat on me? Why aren’t I enough?

  These thoughts. These errant, driven, asshole insecurities won’t get out of my head as I’m curled up in our kitchen, wondering why it took me so long to realize Mike and I don’t work in the most essential way.

  I don’t need love. I gave that up a long time ago. What I need is loyalty, and Mike burying evidence all throughout our apartment while this underwear-free woman scampers out of our home before I jangle keys into our lock is … is…

  He thinks I’m stupid.

  Mike Ascott believes I’m dumb enough to let him to get away with this shit long after we’re married.

  I look up when I hear the elevator doors open in the hallway. Steel myself when I recognize the footsteps headed toward our front door.

  Mike can’t see me like this.

  Sniffing hard through my nose, I fix my heels, run my hands down my hair, and stand, shimmying all the wrinkles out of my skirt.

  Mike opens the door. “Hi, babe.”

  He smiles in that sleight-of-hand way he has, quick and deadly and completely missing my swollen eyes, the wetness on my cheeks. “Missed you at the meeting.”

  “What meeting?” I spin toward the sink, needing a few more deep, private breaths to collect myself.

  There’s the barest catch to his step as he sets down his briefcase, then loosens his tie. “The partners called us into the conference room. I thought you were on the email.”

  The steel I’m looking for travels to my stare, and I face him. “I should’ve been.”

  “Maybe you were, and the email is buried in your inbox. You should check.”

  “What did the partners have to say?” I ask instead.

  Mike clears his throat. “Well, they’re looking at their top junior associates.”

  I angle my head, all innocence. “Then I definitely should’ve been there. We’re the top two earners this year. I’ve billed the most hours.”

  Mike doesn’t like the insinuation, but it’s true. I’m number one. He’s number two. Bastards can lie, but numbers don’t.

  “Like I said, check your phone. I was surprised you left early.”

  “Yet you didn’t try to stop me.” I push off the counter and cover any trembling by cocking a hip.

  “We have dinner reservations in an hour,” he says. “We can talk about it there.”

  I know Mike inside and out and can spot his bait-and-switch a mile away. But I’m off my game this evening and unwilling to stay strong, when this is the time I need it most. “What was it about, Mike?”

  Mike pretends hesitation, like it pains him to admit anything to me. “They’re looking at me, Astor.”

  I tip my chin up, covering my gulp. “Care to elaborate?”

  Goddamned lawyers. I love a good, wicked argument. I loathe hedging and leaving enough unsaid, unless I’m the one doing it.

  The muscles in his jaw move. Finally, I’m sensing some nervousness.

  “For managing associate. They’re gonna put me on the track to making partner.”

  This time, I choke on my swallow. “Partner? You?”

  His nerves shrivel into disdain. “Yeah, Astor. Me. Why are you acting so surprised? You know the hours I’ve been pulling, the clients I’ve brought in, that huge case I just settled—”

  “We settled, Mike. We.”

  “Well, what do you want me to do?” He throws his hands up. “I’m not in their heads, their private meetings. I don’t control their decisions.”

  “No,” I scoff. “You simply orchestrate them.”

  Stalking past him, Mike has to shimmy out of the way before I clip his shoulder. “Astor, don’t be like this. I thought you’d be happy for me.”

  I whirl in the hallway. “Happy? Happy? First, I find cheap women’s underwear that’s not mine in our toilet, and now you’re telling me you’ve been o
ffered the partner track in a meeting I was conveniently left out of?”

  Mike actually has the gall to look surprised. “Wait—slow down, Astor. What underwear? What are you talking about?”

  I let out a hollow laugh. “You know what’s stupid? I’ve been willing to overlook it for a while. I figured it was your way of getting it out of your system before we’re married.” I flick out a hand. “That ridiculous bachelor affliction that gives you a ton of testosterone and not enough good sense. I figured while you jerked all your boyhood dreams out on other girls’ sheets, you’d at least use discretion. You wouldn’t bring these women into our home and among my things, rubbing it in my face.”

  I’m seething. My lips are peeled back, and I might as well be a bull, shoulders heaving before a charge, but I can’t contain it. Mike’s unleashed something in me, a fury I thought I long ago buried.

  Mike doesn’t bother to deny it. He wouldn’t, knowing the evidence he’s up against. The furious fiancée he now has to soothe. “Astor, I’m sorry. It was one time, and it was a mistake.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” I spit. “It’s almost as bad as you saying nothing happened.”

  “She … it wasn’t … while you were in the hospital with Locke and Lily, you were gone for so long that I—”

  “Don’t you dare go into the specifics. Just pack your shit and get out.”

  Mike balks. “What?”

  “You heard me. Explanations are for those willing to hear it. Pack your stuff. And leave.”

  “No, you do not get to stand here and kick me out of our apartment that we both pay for equally.”

  “I sure as hell can. You lost equal status when you brought other women home and into our bed.”

  He shakes his head. “I never brought them to our bedroom. It was—”

  “God, Mike, just leave!”

  I’m screeching at this point, but I can’t stand the idea that he wants to tell me the details, like where he screwed other women, how he had them, if they were wet in the shower or dry on the floor. I don’t want to know any of it. My imagination is enough.

  Mike’s frozen in place, his arms dangling limply, and for a moment of pure agony, he truly appears vulnerable, shocked, and upset. “Astor, you can’t kick me out. Where will I go?”

  “To your parents’ in the Upper West. To your friends’. To one of the many girls you’ve screwed. I don’t give a damn.”

  “No.” He paces toward me, arms out and landing on mine, squeezing. “We’re not over. We can’t be.”

  Mike’s almost a head taller than me, but I make sure I’m gazing at him levelly. “We are. I’m not doing this anymore, Mike. I’m not playing the pretend game while you get away with whatever you want.”

  “I didn’t—it was a mistake, Astor! Give me another chance. Please. I’ll stop with this, with all of it. It’s only you I love. You’re the one—”

  “Oh, please,” I sneer.

  I twist out of his hold, but he grapples to contain me again. And when he spins me to face him, it’s like I’m gazing at a different man.

  Mike’s features twist, lines and creases forming into a grotesque version of the suave, good-looking guy in a suit that women—and men—would look twice at on the streets. His veneer has vanished, and in its place is nothing but despicable malice.

  “You, of all people, don’t get to act all high and mighty,” he snaps. “You’re just as bad as I am. We’ve been using each other, so don’t stand here acting like a victim.”

  Victim.

  That word, coupled with the sneer to his lips and the naked fury in his stare, has me buckling, but only for a second—one I hope he doesn’t notice.

  “Let me go, Mike.” And I hope I sound stronger than I feel.

  “No.”

  “Let. Go.”

  I try to tug out of his hold, but he keeps me firm. “Not until you tell me we can fix this.”

  “There’s nothing to repair. We’re finished. We’ve been done a long time … it’s just taken me a while to notice.”

  “I won’t allow it.”

  The statement gives me enough strength to laugh. “I’m not your stable horse, Mike. I can make my own decisions. And I’m choosing to kick you out. Go. Now.”

  He opens his mouth to argue at the same time his fingers dig into the muscles in my arms. I fight off a wince. I’m about to yell at him again, to threaten to call the police—or worse, my brother, who comes with a lot of jacked-up friends—when he abruptly lets go.

  I stumble before I catch myself, my upper arms throbbing.

  “Look at you,” he spits, gesturing up and down my body. “So buttoned-up, so classy, so fucking librarian chic. It’s no wonder I can’t fuck you on the regular.”

  It hurts. Oh, the jibes hurt, just like he means them to. “Leave, Mike, before you really say something you’ll regret.”

  “I regret you,” he says, but he’s moving, stalking away, and I’m breathing easier because of it. “I regret wasting all this time on a cold, dried-up, skinny bitch.”

  “True colors, Mike,” I say to his back. “You’re showing them.”

  He spins, storms over to me, and I have mere seconds to wonder at my decision and why I feel the need to bait him when he was doing what I wanted—leaving. Except now, he’s coming back, all because I can’t keep my damn mouth shut.

  “You know what’s fucked up?” he says, when he’s close enough to point a finger in my face. I stiffen. “It’s not the cheating that makes you want to end this. It’s that I’m going to make partner before you.”

  I thin my lips into a tight line, but don’t break his stare.

  “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re pissed I orchestrated a meeting where I could get the offer instead of you, and this is your revenge. Kicking me when I’m on top.”

  I fist my hands.

  “Well, you don’t win, princess. I’m still better than you. I’m still going to make more money than you. I’m going to be the boss of you. And yeah, I’m still gonna fuck a helluva lot more than you, and make sure you know exactly when I do it.”

  The last part contains spit, and it lands on my cheeks. But I don’t flinch. I don’t cower in terror. I remain stone-faced until he turns on his heel, swipes his suitcase from the kitchen floor, and barrels out of the apartment, slamming the door so hard, he rattles the frame.

  When I catch my breath, when the held-back tears stream down my face, I rip the engagement ring off my finger and fling it at the closed door with a silent scream.

  5

  Ben

  Something blonde fell onto my cock, and while I don’t hate it, I don’t exactly remember it, either.

  She’s no longer in my bed, and the salty smell of bacon reaching my nostrils has me believing she’s cooking us breakfast in my kitchen.

  That makes it tough. I can’t kick a girl out who makes me bacon.

  I sit up, rubbing my face, scratching my scalp, and grimacing at the achy sway of my brain when I move. There was a lot of drinking last night, thanks to Ash. He found me after my team lost the playoffs, knowing full well I was in freakout mode, since it was also the moment my contract was up, and I became a free agent this spring.

  In true Ash fashion, he figured finding the answers in a bottle of brown liquor was better than any talk session, and he was right. My mind ain’t talking right now. It’s screaming.

  I groan as I throw my legs over the side of the bed, fresh bruises mottling my hips. Last game of our season, and I’m tackled like nobody’s business, rolling around on the field, losing my helmet somewhere along the way, and bucking against the grass like someone’s trying to perform an exorcism on Giants number 9—me.

  What a way to go. Benched in the second quarter of our playoff game because of the NFL’s new, touchy stance about the risk of concussions and removing players who’ve hit their head one too many times during a particularly enraging tackle.

  Maybe I should be thankful I’m even around to smack my noggin on other dud
es’ padded chests. There was a time it was questionable I could even go on as Ben Donahue, MVP of the Gators and third draft pick of the Giants. I would’ve had to leave all the thumps, grunts, and jockstraps behind and figure out a new career, and fuck knows what that could’ve been. Since I was five years old, I’ve been obsessed with football. Playing it, watching it, studying it. When it became clear to my dad I possessed actual talent—in that while other kids smacked into each other because it was fun, I did it because they were in my way as I charged to the Gatorade stand—he hired me a personal coach that showed me where the real end zone was, and that was the start of my predestined future.

  What was it, six years ago? Less than a decade since everything I strived for, the past I worked to forget, was nearly toppled by a scrawny, drug addicted idiot named Dodge Hennessy.

  I got lucky, then. A few days after the morning that shall not be named, Dodge was found dead of a drug overdose. A bad packet of meth, or maybe meth so good and pure, he took way too much. I didn’t concern myself with the details.

  All I cared about was that my secret died with him.

  The memorial plaque the team placed for him, the moments of silence we gave him on the field, gave enough thanks for the life he threw away.

  Did it make me a dick to think that? When, hand over my heart, music playing, the announcer asked for three minutes of silence in memoriam of Daniel “Dodge” Hennessy before the national anthem? Possibly. But Dodge held my destiny in his hands, and he was willing to scrunch it up and rip it to pieces because he felt left out. And out of some psychopathic, horny mission, he ruined any relationship I could’ve had with—

  Nope. Not doing it. Not thinking about her.

  “Ben? That you?” a light, musical voice asks down the hall.

  “Yep,” I call back, and stand and do a few stretches. I hop a few times, too, in an attempt to dislodge my brain from glueing to one side of my skull.