Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  My phone buzzes with a text as I reach the lobby, and I pull it out of my tote, sighing softly as I read and walk.

  I respond: Hi Honey. I’m so sorry, I’ve been held up at work. Be home in time for dinner. Xoxo.

  I black out the screen, tilt the corner of the phone against my chin, and think that my day is far, far from done.

  When my phone emits a different kind of buzz—the one of an incoming email—I jolt out of my musings and hit the lobby doors running.

  My stipulation. I haven’t checked its status once since entering the hospital.

  Shit, shit, shit-fucker.

  Getting back to my office shouldn’t have been so quick, but that’s NYC. Sometimes backlogged, sometimes breezy, always cranky.

  The subway had me barely breaking a sweat, since I’d scored a seat, and by the time I reach my firm’s floor, I’m reinvigorated—both by the email from the court’s law clerk stating my stipulation was accepted, and the fact that Easton signed and texted a picture of our retainer agreement.

  I’m clutching my notes in my fist as I reach my office door, anticipating a quick summary to type up on my computer before shutting down for the day and getting home in time for dinner.

  I can’t miss dinner.

  If I do, I’ll never hear the end of it. My household thrives on routine, to the point that if anything goes off the rails, it will require days of recovery.

  “So, how was it?”

  I stop in my tracks. Astor’s standing in the middle of my office.

  She laughs. “Caught you in a pensive moment, did I?”

  “Sorry.” I comb my hair out of my eyes with my free hand. “I always get Resting Bitch Face when I walk. Have a seat.”

  “I won’t be long. I know you have to be home soon,” Astor says as she follows me to the desk. It’s no secret that even on all-nighter cases, I leave for two hours at dinnertime, then make up the lost productivity when I get back. It’s a lot like I did during my stint at Harvard Law, since there are no part-time programs for students who have to work.

  “How did it go with East?” she asks.

  “Okay,” I respond as I plop onto my chair and wheel over to my computer. It flickers to life when I wiggle the mouse. “You’re right. He’s hard to get a read on.”

  Astor sighs and rests a hand on one of the visitor’s chairs. “Leave it to East to be in the thick of trouble and still not be willing to use his voice.”

  “He speaks through his music,” I say, then shrug. “I can see why stating facts of a scary accident might be hard for him.”

  Astor gives me a funny look. After a few seconds, she says, “You listen to his stuff?”

  The only sign that I’ve caught the suspicion in Astor’s tone is the tensing of my shoulders. Otherwise, I clack away on my keyboard, feigning distraction. “Sure, don’t you?”

  “Well, yeah.” Astor’s brows furrow, but then she smooths them down. “I keep forgetting he’s big-time now. That even my co-workers have heard of him and listen to him.”

  “They’re really good,” I say with sincerity. “Nocturne Court. I have them on my Spotify.”

  “I’m proud of him,” Astor says. “Except for the whole DWI part. You think you can get him some kind of deal?”

  I nail her with a look.

  “Right. Sorry. Attorney-client privilege,” she says.

  “You saw the police report. Easton wasn’t that much over the limit,” I allow. “There’s a case, and I’m about to call the prosecutor before I pack it in. How’s the Chavez thing going, by the way?”

  Astor straightens. “We’ll get the case tossed out of court. We found a fatal flaw in police procedure when they searched Chavez’s house.”

  My fingers pause in their typing. Astor, usually stoic, always matter-of-fact, has a heaviness to her posture I’ve witnessed only once before. “That’s a win, right? Aren’t you going to celebrate with your team? Drinks on Yang, that sort of thing?”

  “Sure. Yeah.” Astor blinks a few times and looks away. “This firm is stellar at protecting Chavez.”

  “Astor,” I say. “I’ve never known you to take up a white hat when it comes to the dealings of our clients.”

  “Hell, no. I mean, look at us, getting mob bosses off on procedure, protecting friends from DWIs. We’re she-devils in black suits.”

  I smile at Astor’s attempt to cover up whatever it is that’s bothering her. As a person who usually does the same, I’m not about to invade her privacy. “At least there aren’t any murderers this week.”

  “Well. That’s all relative. I’m sure Chavez is chucking a few bodies in the Hudson as we speak.”

  I chuckle. One thing that gets the Criminal Department through their rough days is dark humor. “Go relax with your boyfriend, Astor. Give him some cuddles. That’ll add some pink to your day.”

  She doesn’t know it, but Astor’s cheeks flush with the warm color and she smiles. “Don’t work too hard on Easton, okay? Maybe he deserves a tiny slap on the wrist.”

  I swivel in my chair to grab my notes. “I’ll give him a good sting, don’t worry.”

  When Astor leaves, I flip to the page on my legal pad where I circled, in big, bold, black pen, the most inconsistent part of Easton’s recollections earlier this afternoon. Frowning, I lean back and study the writing, tapping my pen against the words.

  It can’t be because of my past that I’ve zeroed in on this one sentence. Or maybe it is, and it’s a flaw in my way of thinking. I’ve had to learn, through tough experience, that while every person disguises their fuck-ups, not every soul is permanently blackened by the struggle. Some shed their anguish the way feathers fall off wings, leaving a trail to the past that scatters under a breeze. Others, like me, harbor their pain under a coat of armor, where only those with similar metal can spot the flaw.

  I chew on the inside of my cheek before discarding my notes beside my computer.

  I’m sure it’s my bias that has me zeroing in on Easton’s statement. There’s nothing further to dig for. No other lawyer would’ve underlined—never mind circled—the minor discrepancy. Astor wouldn’t give a thought to it. She would have already spoken to the prosecutor and hashed out a deal. Yang wouldn’t even glance at the case, the facts too simple to be worth any elite effort. And the other associate attorneys would just laugh in my face at spending so much time over a cut-and-dry problem.

  The faster I get Easton’s charge thrown out, the less chance it has of making it into the press.

  “Move on, Maddox,” I mumble to myself, and click through my email contacts until I find the New York County Prosecutor’s office. “There’s nothing to see here but your own screwed-up home life.”

  Glancing at the number, I make the call, Easton’s mention of not being able to hear the noises behind him nothing but a feather in the wind.

  7

  Easton

  At last, I’m free.

  My friend, Ash, has come to help with the hospital discharge. As he pushes a wheelchair into my room with a shit-eating grin on his face, I’m second guessing my decision to let him, out of all my buddies, be responsible for my home care.

  A heavily inked hand pats the faux leather seat and he says, “Come rest your tush, poor baby.”

  I grumble as I drape my legs off the gurney and limp over. “Don’t treat me like your nine-month-old.”

  “Caleb would at least gurgle in happiness upon seeing me and possibly let out a little fart.” Ash wheels the chair closer. “And fuck knows, I can’t compare your sorry self to that.”

  “My ass will never gurgle in happiness upon seeing you.” Groaning, I flop into the wheelchair, my collarbone letting out a shout at the movement.

  “I don’t want to talk about your ass anymore.” Ash pivots the chair toward the door. “When are you seeing that lawyer again?”

  I don’t have to turn my head to know there’s a smirk lingering behind me. “Are you picturing my lawyer’s ass right now?”

  “Nope.
I’m a taken man.”

  “Stop picturing her ass,” I mumble.

  “I’ll stop when you stop.”

  I grit my teeth. “I’m not—” The memory of Taryn’s round, plump, peach of an ass shoots into my trajectory, tightly encased by a knee-length, pin-striped skirt, strutting out of my hospital room.

  Ash laughs as we navigate the hallway. If I had a usable torso I’d whip around and gut-punch him.

  “Don’t be a grumpy old man over a chick you should’ve been fantasizing about a long time ago,” he says.

  My ride squeaks across the heavily bleached laminate floor, and I can’t get to the exit fast enough. “You’d think, as my friend, you’d be more concerned with my DWI charge than my lawyer’s ass. Hurry up, would you?”

  “Why? You’re damaged and fragile. I don’t want to rattle those delicate bones of yours. So, I’m gonna go slow and steady.”

  “Fuckin’ liar.”

  “Why don’t you ask her out?”

  “Why don’t you mind your own business?”

  “Dude, the last time I saw you so angry about a woman was our freshman year in college. This has to mean something.”

  “I’m not angry at Taryn.”

  Ash creaks around a corner, an elderly man walking with an IV bag on rollers going faster than us.

  “You only get like this with chicks you’re interested in. All brooding, broken Romeo. Can you blame me for prying?”

  “Considering my history with information, most people would back off.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Most people. Yeah, yeah.”

  Ash pulls over to the side, stepping on the brakes of the chair.

  “Ash, man, don’t start in on me,” I say.

  “I’m serious.” Ash steps around so I can see him, though he doesn’t bend to my level. “These last few years, you’ve been quieter than usual. Heavily in demand by the public, yes, but it’s kind of had the reverse effect. Instead of coming out of your shell, you’re…”

  “Going inward?” I squeeze the arm of my chair with my good hand. “I’m aware of what’s happening.”

  “And in walks a woman who gets you all gnarly and prickly immediately upon my mild questioning about her. I ain’t no shrink, but this is obvious even to a student majoring in fashion design.”

  “Your first question was about her ass, man.”

  Ash raises a brow. “On the contrary. My first question was whether you were thinking about her goods.”

  “Only because you keep beating me over the head with it.” I motion with my working arm. “Onward.”

  “Fine.” Ash maneuvers so we’re back in hospital traffic. Thankfully, I see the glass doors leading to the outside come into view. “But while you’re ‘inward’ you should really reflect on how many times a woman has done this to you, and when and if you’ll ever get the chance again.”

  My lips thin as the hospital doors slide open for our exit. He’s not wrong, but no way in hell am I telling him that. Since our first meeting, Taryn has occupied my thoughts. Not just through her looks, though it’s true, she’s beautiful in every place I laid my eyes on, but also due to the carefully tinted windows to her soul.

  She’s not an average woman, but one who, like me, prefers to hide within her exterior. Taryn may be a tough-ass defense lawyer making a name for herself in New York City, but despite my only meeting her once, I know, down in the instinctual center of my body, she’s more than that.

  What’s worrisome is that I want to look deeper and understand the why of her.

  Ash is right, no woman, save for a brief few months during freshman year, has made me want to use my words in an effort to navigate her deeper self.

  One would think this is poetic fate—a woman coming into my life at just the right time…

  In the form of a lawyer assigned to my DWI criminal case.

  Yeah, there’s the reality face-smack.

  “We’re here, kind sir,” Ash says.

  I freeze in my wheelchair. “You’re driving me home in that?”

  I’m staring at a ’75 Pontiac GTO with at least a hundred-and-fifty grand in customization, right down to the color-changing paint on the exterior. To the naked eye, it’s black, until it hits the sunlight and changes hues like an opal jewel.

  “The hell, Ash?” I ask.

  “What? It’s my favorite ride.”

  He opens the passenger door, and I struggle into a stand before I have to fold over again and fit inside an expensive tin can. “I’m going to feel every single damn pothole.”

  “Good. Maybe it’ll knock some sense back into your head that you lost on the bridge.”

  My annoyance piques. “If you mention her name one more time, I don’t give a fuck how injured I am, every additional bone break will be worth it if I can right hook your—”

  “I’m not talking about that.” Ash assists in getting me into the car. He doesn’t say anything further until he gets into the driver’s side, roars the engine until it settles to a purr, then uses the stick-shift to get us out of the parking lot. Nor does he glance in my direction when he continues.

  “You have us worried, East. We’re used to your quirks—the privacy you require, the alone time you need to make your music, and we respect you for it. And I’d continue to do so, if it weren’t for you flying into the side of a bridge while you were drunk.”

  I stare out the side window. “I wasn’t drunk.”

  “Legally, you were over—”

  “Don’t lecture me, Ash. We’ve all been guilty of stupid shit. Locke, Ben, you, me…”

  Ash slows at a red light. “What’s going on with you, East? I mean it. What has you so careless?”

  The seed of doubt growing in my gut sprouts another leaf. “Nothing.”

  “You’re too smart for this. The rest of the guys—including me—sure, we’ve done some epic shit, submitted to stupid dares in college and finally got in trouble for it. But not you. Never you. No one suspected the quiet musician with soulful eyes and a weighted smile.”

  I scoff. “You’re no poet, buddy.”

  “Stop. I ain’t joking. Something’s eating at you, and you’re not gonna be able to hide the holes for much longer.”

  Staring at my friend, it becomes harder to deny the truth. “I wish you’d stayed on the Taryn track instead of trying to make sense of me.”

  “Chicks dig mystery, I get that. Have used it to my advantage on many occasions before meeting the love my life.” The light goes green, and Ash roars into the intersection. “But you’re my best friend, and I don’t care how much of a pussy I sound like by saying that. I’m worried about you. There. It’s out in the open now.”

  “What I did a few nights ago was pure stupidity. I’ll own up to it. It won’t happen again.”

  “Yeah, but what else will?”

  I study Ash’s profile, the drawing down of his brows, the frown lines in his cheeks. “I’m not in danger, Ash.”

  Not in the way you think, I want to add, but don’t.

  “You’re reaching new heights in your career,” Ash says. “Growing in popularity. Your band is in constant demand for venues and records and whatever else it is rockstars have to do. If there’s a time for you to talk to someone, it’s now. Because I can only predict it’s going to get crazier. And more hellish. I want to be sure you can handle it, East. I want to be confident as hell that you’re a-fuckin’-okay.”

  “You have my word,” I say carefully, “that if it ever gets to be too much, I’ll come to you for help.”

  I say this because I’m forced to admit that at some point, I won’t have a choice.

  Ash gives a single nod as he focuses on the road ahead. “Good.”

  Wincing, I attempt to find a new position in the ridiculous scoop-seat that is in this car, giving up when the cushioning feels more like a bed of swords.

  “You gonna get that?” Ash asks.

  “Get what?”

  “Your phone, dude. I can hear it vib
rating from here.”

  I’m so contorted I don’t even feel my phone buzzing, but I shove my hand into my hoodie’s pocket and sure enough, it pulses in my hand.

  “It’s Taryn,” I say, more to myself than to Ash as I read the screen.

  “Well, gee whiz!”

  Ash’s grin lights up his interior more than my dark, warning frown at him ever could.

  8

  Taryn

  I’m fairly certain an email would’ve sufficed.

  It’s what I do with my other clients. Either that or summon them into my office when shit really hits the fan, but I never call. Ever. It’s unheard of in this day and age.

  I can’t control myself when I look up Easton’s number and dial. I want to hear his voice, and I can admit that to myself when I’m alone in my office and no one’s watching for tell-tale clues.

  Nocturne Court released a bonus single a few days ago, timed relatively close to Easton’s accident that it can’t be a coincidence (points for the publicist), and I’ve had it on replay ever since. In the car, at home, in the mornings, in the evenings. At first, it wasn’t by choice, but now it’s in my head—he’s in my head—and this is my last chance to hear Easton Mack’s voice, talking directly to me and not his hordes of fans.

  It’s an irresistible call, to claim the man’s tone for my own just a little while longer, before I melt into the background of the public again.

  “Hey.”

  Even with the tinned sound that all cell phone speakers bring, the sound of him is velvet, splashed with whiskey.

  “Easton?” I respond. Dumb, since it could be no other person other than him.

  “Yeah.”

  There’s some shuffling on the other end I can’t decipher. “Am I catching you at a bad time?”

  “No.” I think I hear a muffled curse before he continues, “Just got discharged and my friend’s giving me a ride home.”

  “Oh. Okay. That’s great.”

  This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have called him, because now I don’t know what to say, and Easton Mack isn’t exactly a conversationalist.