Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  It hurts, the feeling of my heart cracking open. I am him. I am everything I don’t want my baby to be.

  “If you soften in front of this woman,” my mom whispers harshly. “It’s the greatest mistake you’ll ever make, my son.”

  I cut a glance to her. “I stopped being your son a long time ago.”

  Eleanor continues, undaunted, “You know nothing about her. How her family is broken. Why they’re broken.”

  “I want to go home,” Sophie says, and the shattered nature with which she says it—I wonder why I chose to do this to her.

  Was proof that I’m a shit father that important?

  “I’ll take you,” I say, as kind as I can, all too aware of my father nearby and the everlasting need to take out my anger, my screw-ups, my fucked-up childhood, on him. “I’ll get you out of here, Soph.”

  “You’re pathetic,” my father seethes. “Just as you were at fourteen. You haven’t changed. Your tattoos cover nothing. You’re no rebel without a cause. You’re weak.”

  I ignore him, but my mother persists. “Ask her. Ask this girl what happened in her past, and that’ll give you a reason as to why she chose you. Why you’re meant to be the father of her child.”

  Replying to my mom, but staring at Sophie, I say, “I don’t deserve anything from her, Mother. Least of all her past.”

  Sophie sobs out a breath.

  “She’s related to filth,” my mother spits.

  Tears stream down Sophie’s cheeks.

  “Take her right now,” Marcela demands and pushes Sophie gently into my arms. “Enough of this. You shouldn’t have come here, my boy.”

  “I know,” I say, and stare down at the top of Sophie’s head sadly. “But I had to.”

  “You always feel like you have to show people your proof. That your word is not enough.” Marcela cups my cheek briefly. “I was hoping you’d think better of yourself by now.”

  “Marcela, step away from him this instant,” my father says.

  Marcela hesitates, but backs away. I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to work here anymore. That I’m no longer hiding behind her apron, needing protection. Asking for love.

  “Go,” she whispers to me. “Before you do something you regret.”

  Clutching Sophie, I take the side exit, far away from my parents, but not far enough that we can’t hear my father’s parting words.

  “You are signing that contract, Sophie Royle. If I have to come and find you myself, you will relinquish any rights that bastard has to my fortune. To my son.”

  I usher Sophie out, so she doesn’t have to answer.

  When we’re nearing the entrance, Sophie stutters, “Why? Why did you bring me here?”

  A piece of my heart falls to the pit of my stomach when I reply. “Because that man in there, the one in the fine suit with the affable charm. The one who turns from saint to monster in a flash … that man is me.”

  Sophie trips over a stair as we descend when she looks at me in horror.

  I steady her. “And that will never be my baby.”

  21

  Sophie

  Asher leads me to a row of cars in the driveway. I’m too shocked and rattled to speak.

  He chooses the McLaren I drove here in, demanding the keys from Charlie, who’s appeared from somewhere on this cavernous estate.

  Charlie’s brows come together when he notices me.

  “Get the car. Now, Charlie,” Ash says, using a growling, demanding tone I’ve never heard before. Not even when he yells at staff members in his restaurant.

  “I’m fine,” I say, to soothe Charlie’s concern. He doesn’t appear convinced. “I don’t feel very well. Ash is taking me home.”

  Nodding, but clenching his jaw, Charlie goes to find the keys.

  “I’ll never forgive you for this,” I say to Ash as soon as Charlie is out of hearing distance.

  “I don’t expect you to.”

  “Right. Of course. A cold response from the man who measures everything in advance. Even proving to his baby mama that he’ll be a shit father. Why should I expect anything less? Tell me, was this the exact amount of ingredients you needed?”

  “Sophie, stop.”

  I dismiss the pain behind his stare, wanting to hurt. Needing Ash to acquire the same amount of turmoil that’s been invading my soul for months. “Have you made your perfect dessert? Huh? A pinch of an unfeeling mother, a cup of fatherly abuse, a shitload of terrible parenting skills, and there you have it, a perfectly terrible legacy for our baby to inherit.”

  “This baby will never come across my parents. Ever.”

  Ash spits his statement, as if the very words carry the taste of poison.

  “You could’ve talked to me,” I say, softer. “You didn’t have to put us into a situation where you could get hurt. Or me. Or this baby.”

  For the first time since telling him I was pregnant, Ash blanches as he stares at my abdomen. “I didn’t think about that. Jesus Christ, it never entered my mind that you or the baby could get hurt in there.”

  “You acted as a pretty good buffer.” But I don’t say it as a joke. “God, Ash, the way he came at you. He could have killed you.”

  “He’s tried plenty of times before. He’s never succeeded.”

  The dead weight with which he says it freezes me in place. We weren’t moving, but every bone I have fuses with the terrible realization that Ash truly believes he’ll become his father and resort to using his fists on this baby before anything else.

  “I’ve only known Patrick Whittaker for an hour, but I can tell you right now, Ash, you are nothing like that man in there.”

  He nods, but he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.

  I grab him by the arm, forcing his eyes to click with mine. “I can’t begin to understand your childhood and the amount of times you were forced to submit to his beatings. But what I did understand in the brief time I was in that house, was Marcela.”

  Ash blinks at her name.

  “You had her. She gave you solace. I knew it the instant I saw you together. She protected you in ways your mother will never understand, and she raised you to be the man you are. Not your parents. Her. And she is who this baby is going to emulate. Do you hear me?”

  Ash stares at me with such blind shock that I swear I see tears in his eyes before a sharp shake dislodges any vulnerable emotion he could’ve had.

  “I fought back,” he mutters. “Every time my dad came at me, I hit him just as hard. Harder. He has scars on his body, because of me.”

  “So, every time he taught you anger, Marcela showed you how to soothe.”

  Ash’s shoulders slump, but he straightens. Turns away. “Your heart is in the right place. But mine’s never known where that is.”

  For the first time, I regard Ash as a kindred spirit. And I fill with a foreign emotion I can finally decipher. A will to protect. A determination to bring this child into this world healthy, whole, and loved.

  Charlie arrives at that exact moment, tossing Ash the keys. We head to the car, and when Ash opens the passenger door for me, I risk everything I’ve built, all I’ve tried to hide, when I say, “What you haven’t considered is I’m just as fucked-up as you. But I’m willing to change this child’s life for the better. He or she will not become my family.”

  Ash’s throat bobs. His jaw clenches, and he squints in a way that he’s trying to hide any hint of solidarity at my revelation.

  I’m losing him, I think.

  Throughout this pregnancy, I’ve believed Ash to shy away from fatherhood because he’s scared. He loves the single-life so much, enjoys being known as a player and a feared, exalted chef, that having a kid would severely cramp his style.

  Being an uncle to Lily is one thing. Showing brief weakness and claiming her innocent love isn’t a risk, because she’s not his. He’s not raising her.

  I never once considered the true fear behind his exit and Ash’s solid belief that if he comes near this child, he’ll screw t
hem up so whole-heartedly they’ll never forgive him.

  I’m losing Ash for good.

  I get in the passenger side, and when Ash starts the engine, I add, “I really wish you wanted the same.”

  Ash says nothing when he pulls out of the driveway and leaves his parents’ estate behind. Twenty minutes go by when I finally give voice to my conviction that if he’s walking away for good, then I better fight like hell to keep him. If not for me, then for the little heartbeat we’ve made together.

  “Take me to your place. Not Astor’s,” I say. “We’re gonna have a talk, you and me. And it’s well overdue.”

  When I enter Ash’s apartment, memories of the lonely few weeks I spent here assail my senses as I set down my purse.

  His stainless-steel kitchen, updated with the latest, greatest appliances, including a double oven that Ash is too busy to use. The wide sectional taking up the middle of the room on the buffed concrete floors, and the bed—the bed—in the far corner, shoved up against frosted checkerboard window panes with iron detail.

  It’s an overly large, no-walls bachelor pad, and it’s almost as sterile as Astor’s.

  These people, I think, with so much wealth, a ton of success, never come home and share it with anyone.

  “Can I get you something to eat?” Ash asks behind me.

  I turn as he’s kicking off his shoes and unbuttoning his collared shirt, showcasing the cascading colors etched against his neck. Flames lick near his earlobes.

  My stomach rumbles at the question, so loud that my baby kicks and Ash’s ears prick.

  One side of his mouth ticks up. “I take that as a yes?”

  Nodding, I round the kitchen island and start opening cupboards. Ash chuckles behind me, and I straighten.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I guess I’m still used to rooting around your pantry.”

  He comes closer, peering into the open cupboard. “What are you looking for?”

  I resume digging through his shelves. “I have a craving for macaroni and cheese. Last time I was here, I asked Charlie to pick me up some of my favorite and I’m pretty sure … hang on … yep!” I pull out a noodle cup. “It’s still here.”

  Ash can only stare at what’s in my hands.

  “What?” I say.

  He points at it like it’s a foreign object, then at me. “What is that?”

  I spin it so I can read the logo. “It’s mac and cheese.”

  “How are you supposed to eat it?”

  “Well, see, you peel off the top here, and fill it up with water to the line inside, then stir and put it in the microwave for—”

  “Stop. Stop right there.”

  I stare at him like he’s dumb. “It is the most economical, delicious way to eat mac and cheese and satisfy late night cravings.”

  “I’m afraid to look inside.”

  “You don’t have to,” I say, and pertly step around him.

  He cups my arm, the surprising heat of his palm sinking into my skin. “You’re not eating that shit.”

  I squint at him. “Are you seriously about to take food away from a pregnant woman?”

  Ash doesn’t let go of my arm. “What’s in that thing?” He gestures with his chin. “Dried, processed macaroni? Corn starch? Nuclear orange powder?”

  “So, you do know what’s in it.”

  “Give it over.”

  Ash snatches it from my hand before I can protest. “Hey!”

  “You are not eating this.” He points to my stomach. “That is not eating this.”

  “Cantaloupe does just fine with it, thank you.”

  “Canta-who?”

  “Cantaloupe. The fruit. That’s what I’m calling it.”

  Ash takes a step back. “Not permanently.”

  I resist an eye roll. “Why does everybody—no, I’m not going to name them after a fruit they won’t be able to spell until they’re thirty. For your information, I don’t have one picked out yet.”

  Ash regards me carefully. A part of me is saddened the instant I sense all humor is lost. “You keep saying it or them. You don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl?” he asks.

  “I want it to be a surprise.”

  He gives a closed-mouth nod. If Ash has any conflict or guilt over not being a part of this decision, or the chosen name, he remains silent.

  There’s an instant desire to bring back the light in his eyes. “So, what do you propose I eat then?” I say. “Air?”

  “This pantry is better stocked than most restaurants. I’ll find you something healthier.”

  “Your kitchen is full of plant life I’ve never seen before. Like … like mustard greens. And coriander. And some weird purple leafy thing that I—”

  “Purple kale.”

  “Yeah, that. Gross.” I scrunch my nose. “I want mac and cheese.”

  Ash steps on the foot pedal of his trash can and dumps my perfectly good, non-expired, noodle cup right in. The lid closes with an audible clang.

  “That’s very rude,” I say.

  Ash pulls out a stool near the granite kitchen island. “Sit.”

  “Since when do I cow to your demands?”

  “Since you’ve asked a renowned chef to reduce himself and make you a kid’s meal.”

  I brighten. “So, you’ll do it?”

  Ash levels me with dead-eyed regard. But I’m relieved to see it has a shimmer of life within, completely opposite to what he’d become at his parents, and the resulting cold silence as we drove away. “I’ll do it.”

  I don’t have to applaud—my stomach does it for me.

  When I’m seated, I watch Ash go through the rigors of his daily routine. Sifting through the fridge, stacking ingredients on the countertops, fiddling with the gas stove. He does it so smoothly and with effortless grace that I’m mesmerized and heavy-lidded, my elbows sliding against the granite as I try to hold up my head.

  Ash pauses in chopping chives. “I’m going as quick as I can, but after you eat, you should turn in. We can always talk tomorrow.”

  My lids lose the weight, and I perk up on the stool. “No. Too much has happened tonight. I don’t want sleep, or rest, to dull down what went on.”

  Ash focuses on his knife skills and tossing macaroni into a steaming, boiling pot, and I have the sense it’s more to give himself something to do. “You seem to think there’s a lot to talk about, but I don’t know what more there is to say. I want you to be safe. The baby to be safe. And in order to do that, you need to be as far away—”

  “I went to Crawford Heights High School.”

  The knife stills on the cutting board.

  I barrel on before I lose my remaining nerve. “In Georgia. Did you ever hear about it?”

  “On the news?” Ash shakes his head no. “Is this what my mother was talking about?”

  Bracing myself, I say, “Eight years ago, when I was sixteen. There was a deadly school shooting.”

  Ash loses all hold on the knife and it drops against the wooden board with a hollow clang. “You were there?”

  I grip the counter, the skin across my knuckles going translucent. “I was. In a way.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I wasn’t feeling well that day. Food poisoning from a restaurant we’d eaten at the night before. I’ve never been that sick … I doubt I’ll ever be again.”

  “God, Sophie, forgive me for saying this, but I’m so glad you were puking your guts out at home.”

  I nod. “Some friends of mine died. People I knew. Teachers. A really nice security guard who always greeted students by their name.”

  Ash leaves the kitchen and comes over, sitting next to me. Not touching, because we’re on such unsure ground, but becoming close enough to emit comfort. “I’m so sorry.”

  I lick my lips, the smell of the cheese, the onions, the lulling sound of boiling water, offering their own calm. “I lost my brother, too.”

  “Jesus.” Ash rubs my back, the span of his hand reaching both shoulder blades as he goes ba
ck and forth. “He was shot?”

  I look up at Ash then, and without a single blink, tears fall onto my cheeks. “No. He was the shooter.”

  22

  Ash

  The lines of grief on Sophie’s face, the hidden ones I’ve never thought to look for, are now revealing themselves—around her lips, crescent moons under her eyes. And they’re what hit me the hardest.

  “Sophie…”

  A pitiful response to her confession, but repeating I’m so sorry would be a shit a move. Asking her if she’s okay is just stupid. I have no words, so instead, I pull her in and fit her to the curve of my neck and shoulder, where she molds seamlessly, her soft hair a pillow for my chin.

  Her shoulders shake, and I’m undone. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

  “But I do,” she says, her tone shaken, but determined. “I need you to understand that we all have skeletons—really, really bad ones. The undead kind. And my brother, Michael, is mine.”

  I venture to say, “Michael Royle?”

  Sophie lifts up slightly. “Yes. That used to be our last name. We had to change it after he killed fourteen people and gave himself the title of mass murderer.”

  Her bluntness doesn’t scare me away. I sift through memories in an attempt to locate the news coverage around that time. Michael Royle sounds vaguely familiar. I can’t remember if he shot himself dead, the police killed him, or if he’s still alive.

  Sophie pushes away, cold air seeping between our bodies, and she wipes her cheeks. “He’s on Death Row now.”

  Jesus fuck. The punches keep on coming.

  “Soph, I had no idea.”

  “That was deliberate. Not even Carter knows. No one except for my parents. We buried it a long time ago and have tried to move on. As far as I’m concerned, my brother’s already dead.”

  It’s not my place to ask her if she’s had any closure. If she’s ever tried to reach out to him and understand. Complicated family tragedies, even those experienced by people you think you know, are better left without an outsider’s opinion.

  I can’t help but ask, “Why did he do it?”