Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  But I can’t. My terms are uncertain.

  I say to the room, “You can look for a temporary replacement.”

  Rex cuts his gaze over to me.

  “Seriously?” Wyn says.

  Mason’s throat bobs. “Think about what you’re saying, East.”

  “As a backup,” I add. “And only that. My arm will be ready in two weeks. This tour is important to me. More than you”—I catch myself—“Just hold off on making a new lead on drums.”

  They don’t respond, so I prompt, “Okay?”

  “Fine,” Rex says. “I’ll talk to Spin, get some auditions going ASAP.”

  Spinner is our manager—a slim, fast-talking car salesmen, but he gets the job done, which is why we keep him on.

  I nod instead of voicing any gratitude, because fuck, this isn’t just my livelihood on the line—it’s my dream.

  And like all dreams, it’ll end when morning breaks. Or, on a restless toss, when I roll over and blink my eyes open, only to realize my dream ended too early, and I’m awake in the silent black.

  10

  Easton

  Two Weeks Later

  “Yowza.” Ben grimaces as he sets down his empty shot glass, pushing it away like it’s a live python. “Who invented that fuckin’ thing?”

  “Some dude who thinks he’s a cool-ass pro athlete,” Ash says as he swipes the glass and drops it in the dishwasher behind the bar. He throws a hand towel over his shoulder and pulls out straight whiskey from the line-up of liquors and pours into three fresh glasses. “But really he’s just a pussy who can’t stand hot sauce in his moonshine.”

  “And an oyster,” Locke adds as he sits on a stool, nursing a Coke.

  “Pickle juice,” I add. “Don’t forget that.”

  Ben glances between all of us. “I invented this?”

  “You were drunk off your ass,” Locke says. “But yeah.”

  “Jesus,” Ben says. “Don’t let Drunk Ben make decisions anymore. Make him go home.”

  “Nope. He’s way too much fun,” Ash says. “Hey—remember when we convinced you to be a male stripper for a night?”

  Ben goes white. “No fuckin’—”

  I lay a hand on Ben’s cotton-clad shoulder, patting lightly. “He’s joking.”

  Ben visibly slumps. “Thank God. I’d never hear the end of it from Astor. Or the press.”

  “This is why I kicked alcohol.” Locke discards the straw in his glass and takes a long sip off the rim. Swallowing, he adds, “So my public selfies could stop being compared to a Justin Bieber-Cyclops hybrid. Swear on my life, some blogger called me that in my hey-day.”

  We all grin and take our requisite shots.

  “Don’t you have a hot chick to get home to?” Ash asks Locke as he cleans up our round of drinks and wipes down the bar. His restaurant isn’t open for dinner yet. It’s just us, hanging out. These days, all of the guys are coupled up, some even with kids. Gone are the college days when we took dares the way we downed shots, screwing women and owning the campus with our requisite talents. Ben and Locke were the football guys. Ash was the budding chef, specializing in the most difficult specialty, pastries, and back then, I was with my guitar and my notebook, strumming long into the night or beating two pencils against my legs during the long professorial lectures.

  I guess we still do all those things. Just with less fervor and more maturity.

  “I do. Carter and I have date night.” Locke stands. “Sorry for stealing your date to babysit, bro,” he says to Ben.

  Ben shrugs. “Seeing Lily always puts Astor in a good mood. Which is great, since she’s been pretty strung out lately.”

  “Oh yeah?” Ash asks. “What’s up with her?”

  “Something to do with work. She won’t really talk about it,” Ben says. He dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin, then stands with Locke. “I should get going, too. See my lady before she goes and plays babysitter in Brooklyn.”

  “Could be hot when she gets back, though.” Ash winks.

  I rise as well, but don’t tell them about my plans, or who I’m meant to see tonight. I love these guys but mentioning to them that I have a date is like asking someone to pour kerosene on my body and light a match.

  Rarely, if ever, do I single out a woman for a date, and my friends would feast on that with their overly eager fangs.

  “I’ll see everyone later,” I say, lifting my hand.

  “That shoulder doing better?” Locke asks before I can turn toward the door.

  “It’s not smarting as much, but if I swing my arm too hard, it sings for mercy.”

  I threw the sling off a few days ago, despite the doctor’s insistence I keep it on for at least six weeks. Fuck that. I may not even have six weeks.

  “Too bad.” Locke pats my back and we wander to the front. We nod our farewells to Ben and Ash. “You think you’re gonna make it on tour in a few days?”

  “I’m not allowing anything less.” I grunt, shadows growing over my vision despite the sunny, late afternoon cresting through the storefront windows.

  The multiple failed practices with my band add to the storm clouds. I cannot miss this tour, not for anything. If I re-injure my shoulder or make it worse, unfixable, so be it. So long as I play the tour.

  “It’s amazing how the mind works,” Locke muses. “Determined use the body the way it always has, despite witnessing the damage our limbs sustained.”

  Locke has no idea how close he is to speaking the truth.

  “This isn’t irreversible.” I clamp my mouth shut the minute I say it.

  I remember Locke’s knee blow-out and how it ended his soaring football career. How he had to do an about-face and completely change his life. I can see where he thinks he can empathize with my situation, and I’m surprised that instead of fighting against his misguided notion that we’re the same, I want to confide in him. Tell him the real story.

  “East? You hear me?”

  Sound soaks back into my ears. “Huh? Sorry bro, I must’ve phased out for a second.”

  Locke frowns as we step outside into the cool spring air. “You’re putting up a really good front. I’ll give you that.”

  “It’s not over until the guys fly to London without me,” I say. “And likely, I’ll be stowing away in the plane’s underbelly if they do.”

  Locke studies me like he wants to push for more, but a car beeps its horn at the curb.

  “That’s my car. I’m here for you, East.” Locke claps me on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you be, but you call me anytime you want to talk.”

  I nod, the moment of pulling Locke aside and confessing long gone. “Later.”

  My apartment is on the other side of Brooklyn to Locke, so I order another car, taking my time, the day still too early for my date with Taryn. She said yes two weeks ago but was patient enough to wait until tonight. I wonder what that means, and if she’s into me, or if the intrigue of dating a drummer is winning out against interest.

  I hope she’s not a groupie.

  Rubbing my jaw as I wait, I’m also hoping I’m not thinking too much about her.

  We spoke once within the past fourteen days, and it isn’t enough. Especially considering how professional she was…

  “Easton? Hi, it’s—”

  “Taryn. I know. Hey.” I walk away from my drums and the rest of the band when I take her call, deliberately ignoring the curious stares trained on my back.

  “Hello. Wait, I already said that.” She lets out a nervous breath—or, what I sense is nervousness. But she recoveres before I can offer any sounds of ease … or solidarity. You make me nervous, too, Miss Maddox.

  “I’m calling to let you know the judge signed off on the papers. We have a private agreement for you to do a few talks at the local high schools and advocate against drunk driving.”

  “I’m happy to do it.” Glancing behind me, where my bandmates are not-so-subtly cleaning their instruments with one ear cocked my way, I say, “How about if I get the who
le band to do it with me?”

  Pause. “That’s not necessary or what we agreed to. You don’t have to do that.”

  “I’m an ass-hat for even being slightly over the limit. I want to do this right, even if it means getting the whole band to help drive home the seriousness.”

  I think I hear soft laughter, but can’t be sure. I press the phone closer to my ear.

  She replies, “I’m not sure how serious teenage girls are going to be once they get a load of you four.”

  “We can be scary when we want to.” I grimace, unsure if I am attempting to flirt or not. If so, I’m very bad at it.

  “They’ll probably ask you to play acoustic,” she says. “Maybe you should change the lyrics of ‘Heartfall’ to the ‘Downfall’ … of driving under the influence.”

  Now I’m not sure if she’s grimacing on the other end. If that’s her attempt, then maybe I am the better flirt. Not to mention …

  “You know one of my songs?” I ask.

  Another hitch in sound. “Doesn’t everybody? You’re all over the streaming services and countdowns.”

  “Yeah, but … ‘Heartfall’ isn’t one of our singles. Not yet, but I want it to be. It’s my favorite song I wrote.”

  “Oh, well—” Taryn clears her throat, that ridiculously, adorably, sexy sound she made upon first meeting her. “I mean, I think one of my interns had it playing on their laptop the other night.”

  She can’t see, so I raise a brow and grin at the same time. “Ah. That must be it.”

  “Anyway, um, I’ll let the other side know about Nocturne Court participating. I’ll talk to you—”

  “Are we still on for that date?”

  “Date?” she echoed.

  “Yeah, that thing my friend Ash pushed us into, but I’m kinda not mad about.”

  Is this me flirting again? As Ben would say, Yowza.

  “Right, right…” She drifts off, and there’s some sort of shift in sound, a clog, scuffle, something brushing against her speaker maybe. Taryn sounds muffled as she continues to speak.

  “Taryn?” I asked. “I can’t really hear you.”

  More muffled sounds. I squint—as if that’ll help—my ear aching from how tightly I’m holding the phone.

  “I’m back, sorry,” she says, much clearer. “There’s something I have to deal with. Can we—hang on.”

  Silence. Did she put me on hold? Mute?

  Taryn comes back on, a hell of a lot more rushed. “I’m dealing with something right now. Could I—could we—”

  I blurt it before I can rethink it. “Text me your address. I’ll pick you up.”

  “What? Oh, sure. I mean no. No, don’t pick me up. I can meet you at the restaurant. Text me the details, and I’ll be there.”

  “So it’s a date.”

  Another scuffle, this time sounding like the phone’s been dropped.

  “Taryn?”

  She comes back on the line, out of breath. “Yes, yes, it’s a date. I have to go, Easton. I’ll see you later.”

  “Great. I’ll—”

  Click.

  I cut myself off before I keep speaking into dead air.

  That.

  That was the entirety of the conversation I got to hold on to for ten more days. Shaking my head in remembrance, it’s hard to believe I got a yes from her in the first place.

  Taryn Maddox is definitely not a groupie.

  But … maybe she’s a fan.

  11

  Taryn

  I am monumentally unprepared for my so-called date tonight.

  I’m so panicked that I’ve resorted to allowing Harper to do my make-up.

  Harper Mei, who prefers black kohl eyeliner and red lips as the “natural look.”

  “Is this a good idea?” I say to her, even though she’s practically smooshed my lips shut. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

  “It’s a great one.” Harper’s eyes literally gleam. “I haven’t seen you go out with any type of man in six years. Six years, T. That’s a type of celibacy that gives me post-traumatic stress disorder just thinking about it.”

  I glare. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “But I am not you,” Harper amends. “You can get by with no sex for years.”

  “Still not sure where the compliment lies in that statement.”

  Harper blows out a breath and switches from my lips to sketch on my eye. “I mean to say, you’ve got a helluva lot more going on in your life than dating apps and part-time jobs. A crazy demanding career, a high-maintenance kid, bills that your parents don’t pay for you…” She leans back, studies her work. “It’s a lot.”

  “On my face, or on my plate?”

  Harper angles her head and squints. “Both.”

  I scramble for a mirror. “You better not have made me into one of those anime characters you and Jamie love watching. Oh…” I say. “Wow.”

  Harper winks. “Anime characters rock, in case you were asking. And yes, I used Lucy Heartfilia as my muse.”

  No idea who that is, but Harper’s lined my eyes, not heavily, and has done something where my lashes are strategically thickened, widening my gaze. My cheeks are flushed, my lips stained, and my long blonde hair textured and wavy.

  And my boobs are out in a low-cut navy dress.

  “Spritz,” Harper says, holding up my perfume. “Then you’ll be finis.”

  “Harp, this is amazing. I haven’t looked like this good since…” Since my husband. “Since I can remember.”

  As I rise from my vanity table in my bedroom, Harper steps close and hugs me tight. “Next time don’t wait so long. It feels good to dress up and look hotter than normal every once in a while.”

  Once in a while … like I’ve ever had the time for once, never mind a while.

  “It’ll be nice,” I say, instead of being a Debbie Downer when Harper took time out of her evening to help Jamie and me. “To go out on the town again.”

  “Uh, hold up.” Harper stops me from stepping out of the bedroom. “You aren’t just going out on the town like a fifties schoolmarm. You have a date with a hot rocker god who has the body of a sexy beach lifeguard and the voice of a raspy jaguar. If you don’t acknowledge the fact that you just might get to see a famous guy’s dick tonight, I’m not letting you leave this property.”

  “Harper,” I admonish.

  “What? J can’t hear us. He’s off in tablet land again—” She catches herself. “I—I didn’t mean it like that. I meant…”

  “I know what you meant,” I say in a gentle voice. “Regardless, I don’t want to get in the habit of talking about inappropriate things when he’s around. Even if he’s in a different room.”

  “Noted. And respected.” But Harper can’t resist adding, “However, my demand that you see Easton Mack’s penis still stands. Hey—you can’t get mad at that. That’s the scientific term for a man’s reproductive organ.”

  “I quit cursing in this house a long time ago, but you’re making me regret it.”

  Harper grins.

  We head out of my bedroom in search of Jamie, so I can say goodbye. I’m not telling him I’m going on a date, since I vowed never to bring a male around Jamie until I was certain it was a long-term thing.

  He’s already lost his father. I am not about to get him attached to another male influence with the prospect he might be torn away again.

  “Remember,” I say to Harper before turning the knob on Jamie’s door. “Don’t mention who I’m going out with. Don’t mention Easton Mack. Do not say Nocturne Court.”

  Harper touches the roof of her mouth with her tongue. “Right. I forgot J’s a big fan. Do you realize how big a hero you’d be if he knew who you were meeting? Even as a friend?”

  “Easton and I are meeting as friends, as far as I’m concerned.”

  If I’m the type who imagines their friends naked and where they might have tattoos.

  I clear my throat, saying instead, “I don’t want to mention it to Ja
mie yet. Easton’s … shy.”

  Harper rolls her eyes. “The rocker god is shy?”

  I’m about to argue that it’s not Easton I’m trying to protect. I have a deep-seated need to shield Jamie from everything and everyone. It takes a lot for me to introduce people to him, save for Harper, who made the choice for me. Other than her, there’s no one in my New York City life who’s met my son. Not even Astor, whom I suppose is the closest thing to a friend I have.

  Our lives and what we’ve run from don’t allow for close company.

  “Like you said,” I say to Harper, then press a button that will flash a red light in Jamie’s room. “This is some much-needed ‘me’ time. Let’s not complicate things by involving Jamie just yet.”

  “You’re the boss,” Harper says, and follows me into Jamie’s room.

  I leave Jamie and Harper huddled together on the couch watching the latest sci-fi fantasy movie. Harper shares Jamie’s love for all things otherworldly, and I’m glad he’s found someone with the same interest, since to him, I’m a hopeless cause of facts and logic, ruining most plot points.

  Easton texted me the restaurant where he’d made us reservations. Part of me wondered if he’d book us at his friend Ash’s place, Apron, that just received a James Beard award for Best New Restaurant.

  As soon as I think it, I grimace. I know way too much about Easton already, and I’m probably a fool to think I can date him.

  I catch a cab to the West Village to a small Mexican restaurant, known for its soft tacos and spicy margaritas. After paying the cabbie, I step up to the awning and push through a heavy, velvet black curtain to get inside.

  The marble bar is decorated with tea light candles and mirrored shelving highlights the multitude of tequila and mezcal to choose from. It’s not crowded yet, since places like these don’t see their clientele until after 9 PM. Yet, I prefer it this way, with a few patrons dawdling in their seats or slung over barstools, the instrumental music a soft background to their conversations.

  Easton is seated at the far corner of the bar, and my heels are the loudest sound as I stride over to him.