Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  “When would that have been?” Astor sniffs, rubs against her nose.

  “What do you mean?”

  Too late, I realize her saltwater tears were only turning her into an ocean predator.

  “In college?” she asks. “When you fucked me then? Or this morning, before you fucked me at lunch?”

  She’s not giving me time to think. There’s a right thing to say, but there’s also a complete wrong turn I could take at any moment. “Astor, what are you getting at?”

  “Because I can totally see why you’d sleep with me now. Break down my barriers, so to speak. Turn me into the girl I was with you a few years ago, because that girl, that Astor, would’ve told you anything.”

  Oh … shit. My entire face goes numb. “You think I’ve just been using you to find out what you know?”

  Astor barrels on. “What I can’t figure out is, why then? Why did you sleep with me back in college? I wasn’t anywhere close to exposing you. I simply knew you as Ben, my brother’s best friend, my giant, huge crush who I would’ve done anything for—”

  “Astor, no—”

  “It’s okay, really.” Astor waves me off. She’s not looking at me anymore. “I’m the idiot here. I’m the one who can’t seem to get a goddamned clue. It might not have been my fault for sleeping with you back then, but it certainly is now.”

  “You’ve got to let me explain.”

  I so terrifically want to kick my own ass right now. Astor needs more—she deserves more—but all I can come up with is the cliched let me explain that only sends people into skyrocketing rage.

  “Don’t bother.” When she meets my eyes this time, her cheeks are dry. “These are high stakes. You’re the sole survivor of the violent murder of your parents. I understand why you did what you did. I can’t deny you any desperate act, because I would’ve done the same thing.”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t go all logical on me.”

  “But you told me who you were before you could get any real information out of me,” she continues. “I can’t figure that one out.”

  “Because I don’t want to be with you just to solve the murder of my mom and dad.”

  But Astor keeps talking, as if she never heard me. “I followed the inheritance trail. The last will and testament of Tim and Rose Delaney. The money was put into a trust, and the trustee—the person in charge of it until you turned twenty-one—was a bank in Staten Island. But it was when you became of age that a mistake was made. Where the money was transferred. Now, it wasn’t easy. There were a lot of holdings. A few LLCs disguising where the funds originated from. Not many people would’ve been able to follow the small dumps of cash in various shell companies. But I’m good at what I do, and I traced the majority to a Connecticut bank. Taryn was in the middle of finding out who signed over the checks this morning. Who would’ve signed the checks, Ben?”

  I sigh, thinking that Aiden, who as proud and cockatoo as he says he is, couldn’t pull one over on a very dogged, extremely dedicated woman. “My dad. Ronnie Donahue.”

  “So, I would’ve found out anyway, you’re saying.” Astor’s expression goes flat. “Which is why you intervened this morning, to try to appeal to me before I connected the dots and brought your identity to my boss.”

  “You’ve got this all wrong. Can we go somewhere? Sit down? I want to tell you everything, Astor. I do.”

  She shakes her head, and it might as well be the world shaking beneath my feet. “Your secret’s safe with me. We haven’t brought the endorser of the checks to Altin Yang yet. I won’t tell my boss, or anyone, not even my brother, who you are. It’s clear you want to be left alone.”

  “Don’t walk away. Please.”

  Astor turns to face the stairs. “I can’t stand here—” her voice cracks, but I know, if I touch her now, I’ll truly break her. “I can’t continue this conversation anymore, B—Ryan.”

  “Ben. I’m Ben Donahue, Astor. I’m me.”

  But I’m speaking to a straight back in a very expensive suit. “I know who you are.”

  I don’t understand what she means, but the weight of her words are heavy on my chest. I try one more time. “Don’t go. Talk to me.”

  “It’s better that we’re not seen talking. You shouldn’t even be here.” Astor continues down the last flight of stairs, until she reaches the door to the outside. “I need time to collect myself before I go back to work, and you know better than anyone that the vultures out there will peck at any weakness they see.”

  Astor gives her eyes a last rub and pinches her cheeks. Then she tips her chin up.

  I race down the steps to halt her, to keep her—to salvage any part of her that remains, because I can’t be the one who sieved away the last of her soul. I’ve already taken too much.

  But my palm slams against the metal door Astor shuts as she walks out.

  20

  Astor

  It’s easy to avoid the reporters.

  They’re looking for Altin Yang, the lead attorney for the joint defense of Angel Lopez and José Garcia, not any of his minions.

  I round the corner to the front of the courthouse and see the man himself, speaking somberly into the multiple mics shoved in his face. At his right hand is Mike.

  I’d seen Mike in the courtroom, along with Taryn. Altin had made his Hunger Games duo into a triple threat, and the three of us stood by his side as he argued the arraignments of both Lopez and Garcia. Mike kept it professional and so did I. Even he was smart enough not to hiss insults at me in front of Altin, and I wasn’t dumb enough to stoop to his level.

  Unsurprisingly, the defendants weren’t granted bail. There was no way the judge was going to allow either of the two to be released on their own recognizance when they have expedited access to Mexico whenever they choose to invoke it.

  None of us assumed we’d win. Altin simply wanted to stage a show in front of Spencer Rolfe, to let the state know we wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  For once, I’m thankful for Mike wanting to take the spotlight. I have no green feelings about him standing next to Altin and being on national news, broadcasting his grim, serious-lawyer face to all the United States. All I want to do is find a car, disappear behind the tinted windows, and leave.

  Ben Donahue is Ryan Delaney.

  It’s fact. One, I’m angry at myself for not seeing sooner, and pissed at hearing from his lips. I’m upset, because I don’t know what to do with it. Him. The man who broke my heart and hid the remnants behind an assumed identity.

  I spot a cab idling at the corner, and sprint toward it—an excellent runner in heels. The driver, leaning against the passenger side, flicks his cigarette to the ground and nods that he’ll take my fare.

  “Thank God,” I mutter, and slip into the back.

  I look up as I’m sliding on my seatbelt, and notice Mike’s attention on me.

  His brows furrow, he makes a move to break away from the throng, but I say to the driver, “Drive.”

  He turns the engine, and we merge into traffic. I pretend deep interest in my phone, refusing to glance anywhere but at the screen … but I feel him, anyway.

  As we motor away, I glance back through the rear window. Ben appears from the side of the courthouse, his sports duffel like a blue beacon of light among so much gray brick and black outfits. We lock eyes, but I flip around before he fades into the distance.

  I tell myself that my clenched jaw, the hot rise in temperature behind my eyes, are nothing but an expression of stressful overload.

  A heart, once broken, can’t break into the same pieces a second time.

  I distract myself by reading through Taryn’s texts about an hour ago:

  * * *

  Taryn: At the courthouse. Meet us there, dammit, because Mike is here too. Yang doesn’t need the info yet, but will expect a full briefing after the hearing.

  * * *

  I text Taryn back: Don’t give Yang anything. I made a mistake tracing the funds. I’ll explain when I see you, but
whatever you do, do NOT give it to Yang!

  * * *

  Taryn: Ok, but this is why Yang let us come to the arraignment today. An excuse is better than giving him wrong info. I’ll think of something, but you owe me.

  * * *

  Hopefully, this is enough of a delay that I’m gifted the time to figure out my next steps. More people are involved here, not simply Ben and me. There’s Taryn, too.

  I glance at my phone when there’s another ding.

  * * *

  Ben: You have to talk to me. I’ll give you time, but don’t give up on me.

  * * *

  Ryan.

  I black the screen on my phone and shove it into my tote. Tilt my head back and close my eyes.

  Pretend the sounds of the outside city traffic and screaming sirens isn’t my world crashing down on my shoulders.

  I make it back to my apartment in record time. Midday traffic, surprisingly, wasn’t too bad.

  There’s no way I’m going back to the office, so I send an email to Altin, cc Taryn and Mike, and tell them I’m not feeling well and have to take the afternoon off.

  As I kick off my shoes and dump my tote on the floor in my entranceway, I don’t think I’ve ever, in my entire career, taken a day.

  Sighing, I peel off my blazer and throw it over one of the kitchen stools as I pass and raid the fridge for wine.

  That’s right. I’m day drinking on a Tuesday. Fuck it.

  There’s a satisfying pop as I uncork a crisp bottle of Chardonnay—Mom’s favorite—and as it sloshes into my wine glass, it’s a soothing sound in such a quiet room.

  If Mike were here, music would be playing somewhere in our hidden speakers, the Red Zone would be displaying talking heads at top volume on the TV, and I’d be in the bedroom, on my laptop, going over caselaw and yelling at him to at least choose one over the other.

  I stand in the center of my kitchen and take in the empty surroundings as I hold the full wine glass near my chest.

  The chime of the doorbell jolts me out of the fugue I fell into, and I frown. Don’t move.

  “Who is it? Mike, I swear, if that’s you…”

  “It’s me!”

  The familiar female trill has me more curious than annoyed. “Carter?”

  “Yes! Can we come in?”

  We?

  On another sigh, I set my glass down on the marble top and pad to the door, figuring I should have the decency to explain that I want to be left alone to their faces instead of through metal.

  “Seriously, Carter,” I say as I swing open the door. “If you and Locke are here to—oh. Not Locke.”

  “Definitely not,” says a perky, small blonde in giant black-framed glasses standing behind Carter.

  She’s in black, ripped denim with a puffy navy jacket, and beside her, I can barely see Carter’s eerie, golden eyes under her maroon knit cap with a huge fluffy pom-pom on top.

  “Hi,” Carter says again.

  “Hey,” I say, with much less perkiness. “What are you guys doing here?”

  “Locke said you were home,” Carter says.

  “How’d he know I was here?”

  “Twin sense?” the girl in the back chimes in.

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” I ask.

  “Whoops,” Carter says apologetically. “This is—”

  “Sophie.” The girl shoves out her hand, and I shake it.

  “How’d Locke know I was taking the day off?”

  “—I thought I’d take the opportunity to come over. And you know, hang out a while. I heard about the hearing thing at court. You probably weren’t going to make it to lunch.”

  What’s left unsaid is, I’m not gonna give you the chance to cancel, Astor.

  Ugh, friends. I forget how much they care and want to make things better.

  “Come on in,” I say, and back away from the door with reluctance and shame. Carter was willing to wait for me around my office for a few hours today. The least I can do is let her in.

  “Pretty sure your brother has put a GPS tracker in your phone,” Sophie says as she passes me.

  I raise my eyes to the ceiling and follow behind them after shutting the door.

  Sophie thunks her boots near my hallway closet, but quickly becomes distracted. “Oh! Wine! My kind of girl. Can I pour us some glasses?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Doesn’t look like I’m getting rid of you any time soon.”

  “Not if I like you.” Sophie grins, then makes herself at home in my kitchen.

  Carter sits on my wide gray-suede couch and pats the seat next to her. “Come take a load off.”

  I can spot a trap when I see one, but I’m too tired to put up a fight. Plus, Mike and I bought top-of-the-line furniture. That couch is really comfy, and my feet are aching to be raised.

  Sophie clatters around my cupboards, and I swipe my wine glass on the way and sit next to Carter.

  She smiles, rests her arm on the back of the couch, and curls up her legs to face me, her body language practically screaming, LET ME BE YOUR THERAPIST.

  I take a long, quenching, sip of wine.

  “Seriously, how did you know I was here?” I ask her.

  “Ben texted Locke. Locke texted me.”

  I pretend not to feel hurt over the idea that Ben summoned his best friend and my brother to do any emotional clean-up I may require. “What the hell do they want? Did Locke think sending a female in his place would somehow get me to regurgitate my feelings?”

  “No, it’s because I’m the least annoying of the three,” Carter says. “And we’re all worried about you.”

  “The case is almost over,” I say on a sigh. “By the time trial starts, if there is a trial—”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  I delay any response by taking another sip.

  “Something else is going on with you, Astor. Something personal. And I want you to know—”

  “Mike and I broke up.”

  Carter sits ramrod straight. “What?”

  I stare at my glass of wine, now one-third full, blaming it for the sudden confession.

  Yet … it feels rather freeing, blurting it out like that, no longer containing it in the cold, steel vault within my heart. Not to mention, it’s a hell of a lot better than saying, Ben’s in the witness protection program, and I might’ve screwed it all up for him.

  Sophie swoops in at that moment, laying down three very full glasses of wine on my marble coffee table. She gently pries my mostly-empty one from my hand. “You need a refill, new friend.”

  “What happened?” Carter asks, scooting closer.

  “He cheated.”

  Another wondrous thrill courses through me, almost like exorcising a demon.

  “That rat bastard,” Carter mutters. “I fucking knew it.”

  Sophie cups the bottom of a fresh wine glass and tips it to my mouth. “There, there.”

  “Multiple times,” I say after a gulp of wine.

  “Whiskey. We need hard brown stuff,” Sophie says, and goes on a new search.

  “In the bottom cupboard,” I say.

  “Do you mind that Soph’s here?” Carter asks once Sophie’s out of earshot. “I can ask her to…”

  “No, no, it’s fine.” I wave it off. “I have a difficult time opening up to people I know. Strangers, I have no problem dumping on.”

  Carter pats my leg. “Eventually, you’re going to see this as a good thing. Mike wasn’t the right man for you.”

  “And you all knew it.”

  Carter pauses. “I think everyone was letting you make your own decision on that.”

  “Classic attorney answer. You missed your calling.”

  “Astor…” Carter approaches her next words carefully. “I’m not sure you’re handling it okay.”

  At that, I let out a loud guffaw. Mike, in all his inadequacies, is the last thing on my mind. But Carter can’t know that. “I’m coping as best I can.”

  She frowns. “And Ben? Has he
been helping you through it?”

  My shoulders go stiff. “What does Ben have to do with this?”

  “Well, I’ve noticed … I mean, it’s hard not to. The two of you in a room together, it’s like nothing else can exist. You two take up all the oxygen. I had to wonder—”

  “If we’ve hooked up?” Yes. “No.”

  “Okay, well, have you thought about trying?”

  I stare at Carter like she just proposed that she, Sophie and I engage in a lesbian orgy. “Did you just say what I think you said?”

  “Well, yeah.” Carter shrugs. “Nothing like letting off a little steam, and you and Ben would explode the roof off this apartment complex.”

  She’s not wrong.

  “There’s no sexual tension between us,” I say.

  “Now you’re being a shit lawyer. You can lie better than that.” Carter smirks behind her wine glass.

  “I’m not a believer in healing heartbreak by jumping into bed with another man,” I say a little too primly. Mostly because that’s exactly what I’ve done.

  “Not what I’m getting at,” Carter says. She thinks a while, rubbing her lips together and staring off in the direction Sophie went, before continuing, “I was really difficult on Locke.”

  “Huh?”

  “When I first met him. When I had to give Lily up to him. I was brutal.”

  “I remember,” I say, then squint at her, wondering where she’s going with this.

  “My best friend had just passed away, and the only piece of her that remained—that I loved—was going to someone who, I believed, had no idea how much of a precious person he was getting. I was broken and saw Locke only through jagged edges. I didn’t give him a chance.”

  “Carter, I know all of this. We’ve forgiven you. He’s forgiven you, if there’s even something to forgive. You were protecting a child who couldn’t speak for herself—”

  “I often wonder if I could’ve healed my heart a lot faster by opening up to him sooner.” Carter shrugs. “Would’ve saved both of us a lot of suffering.”