Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  I want to say all of this, but I don’t. Because I am a grown woman who can take rejection. Even if it’s from the first man I’ve felt this kind of spark with in … ever.

  “I see,” I manage to reply.

  Easton raises his arm, so soon out of a cast, but lowers it before reaching me. “I’m sorry, Taryn. You’re a great girl, it’s just—”

  “I get it. It’s fine.” I straighten my dress, though it doesn’t need it. “I need to get back to Jamie.”

  “Please don’t be mad.”

  I sigh. “I’m not mad. Disappointed, yes, but as you saw up there, I have my hands full. It’s probably not the best time for me, either.”

  Easton takes a step back. “Oh. Okay.”

  I notice the disappointment in his tone and say, “I know—this isn’t the first date you envisioned. It freaked you out. Understandable. But when you say you want to go our separate ways, and I agree with you, don’t look so surprised. Okay? I don’t know that I can handle any more mixed messages.”

  I huff with the effort of forcing out the words. I’m frickin’ preparing for a podium lecture over here, and when it’s his time to speak, this guy barely grits out a sentence. It’s not frustrating—it’s infuriating.

  Easton’s mouth opens and closes. “I’m sorry.”

  After a long, tired exhale, I reply, “Good luck with everything, Easton.”

  “I…”

  Easton’s eyes fill with a shining earnestness that sends my instincts into high alert.

  “What is it you want to tell me, Easton? You don’t seem …” I press my lips together, then finish. “It’s as if you want to say something but can’t. And as good as I am reading body language, I’m not a mind reader.”

  Rather than prompting him to say more, the question shuts him down. “Nothing. This is for the best. I truly am sorry.”

  Easton turns on his heel, his leather jacket stretched over his broad back, and ambles to his bike, still where he left it.

  “Please, Easton, if there’s something you want to say…”

  He doesn’t look back as he hits the seat and spins the throttle, the throaty growl echoing under the hospital’s concrete awning. Easton acts like he hasn’t even heard me.

  As he turns the corner, his brake lights are the last of him I see, but the sound of him lingers long after he leaves the block.

  The sense that he didn’t want to end things remains thick in the air, but I have to disperse it. If Easton’s confused over my son, then it is not my job to convince him otherwise. Jamie comes first, always, even if it means I stay single for the rest of my life.

  I push my hair back from my forehead, take another deep breath of fresh air, and walk back inside.

  But my resolve, no matter how steel it is, doesn’t prevent the hurt from creeping in.

  14

  Easton

  One Month Later

  “Yes. Yes, East! Go, motherfucker!”

  Rex’s encouragement is heard, but not acknowledged by me. I’m too deep in the pit, pounding my drums, my timing on point, cymbals sounding, the music surrounding, entering, becoming…

  I’m back, assholes.

  The crowd roars during my solo, and I fly on the high. Wyn enters the song with his electric keyboard, tagging onto my rhythm and we fall in line together. I meet his eyes over my sticks, sweat drenching our brows, and we grin.

  Rex takes up the mike.

  “Willowy soul / you seem so fragile / but you know in your heart / it’s gonna be me that falls apart / heartfall/ heartfall / take my heart and make it yours.”

  This is it. The finale. My arms turn to blurs—both arms, thank you very fucking much—and while there’s the very real risk of snapping my sticks in half with my efforts, I’m in the zone, and I’m taking my band home.

  “Thank you, Amsterdam!” Rex cries, and the crowd of ten thousand people answer in furor.

  I stand with the masses, striding to the front and throwing my drumsticks into the crowd. Hands flail to snatch them.

  After bowing, my hair sending droplets of sweat across the stage, I blow a kiss to each and every one of them out there who’ve come to hear us play.

  Man, this doesn’t get old.

  This is my dream on crack.

  We leave the stage, despite the boos and demands for another encore, but hell, we’ve played four additional songs after the concert was supposed to be finished, and we’re beat. There’s only so much adrenaline to take us through, and my biceps are visibly weak with trembles.

  “That rocked. That seriously fucking rocked. Woo!” Still riding the wave, Mason jumps into the air and pumps his arm. He gives high-fives all around as we enter our dressing room.

  “It was unbelievable,” Rex agrees. “How many venues have we played now?”

  “Ten? Thirty? A hundred? Who the fuck cares?” Wyn says. “We’re on top of the world right now. Each time we’ve been sold out.”

  “And you.” Rex turns to me after grabbing a frosted beer bottle from the mini fridge, cracking it open and chugging long and hard. He wipes his mouth with his forearm. “You nailed it tonight. Your best yet.”

  I grin, gesturing for a beer. He tosses me one, and my numb hand catches it as if I haven’t played sixteen songs in a row. “I fuckin’ know it.”

  “You’ve been good the whole time,” Wyn says. “But tonight, it was different. It was like you came back from the dead, bro. Your arm finally workin’ the way it’s supposed to?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I flex my fingers for effect. “It’s like tonight was the night.”

  Mason nods, his shaved head sparkling with sweat. “Nice.”

  “We got one more venue before we go home.” Rex chucks his empty bottle in the open trash can to the side, underneath the hanging records of those who came before us. “Fuckin’ London.” He flashes his teeth, pounds his chest, and roars, “Fuckin’ London!”

  The effect on our bodies after an epic set is unexplainable. It’s like we’ve all taken Molly, or LSD, or a concoction of the two. We woop! with Rex, our drenched arms coming across each other’s shoulders as we huddle together.

  We don’t pray. We commiserate like gorillas.

  Breaking apart, Wyn throws us all towels. “Time to get back on the bus, buddy-boys.”

  “Sure thing.” I wipe my face with the fragrant cotton, then lay it around the back of my neck as I search for my phone somewhere in the couch cushions. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Once I find it, I spread out on the couch, scrolling through my messages. My head is clogged, the protective ear pieces doing little to protect my ear canals when on stage. I shake my head a few times to get the noise back, but it’s not working as well as it usually does.

  As I read the group texts from Ash, Locke, and Ben, I use the towel to dig into my ears, as if the blockage is tangible.

  I give a brief update to the boys about the madness of the tour, and when I exit out of the group chat, I notice the message thread I’ve saved right underneath.

  Who am I kidding? I always notice. And linger. My thumb hovers over the name, wanting to text her, but ultimately, I don’t. There’s no point. Taryn has probably long forgotten about me, and if she ever found out I kept her texts, however professional she made them, she’d probably be more turned off than she was when I abruptly ended our … whatever it was. Budding relationship? Single date. Unclear, because I’m the moron who spun on his heel and didn’t explore her further.

  For reasons she might one day ultimately understand all too well.

  Ah, fuck. Shake yourself out of it. I pocket my phone and stand.

  I still don’t delete her texts.

  A shower on the bus might help the tunnel of sound in my head. I’ll blame thoughts of Taryn on that instead of the obvious.

  Pulling on a fresh black tee, I follow the path my bandmates took to the back entrance, preparing to sign a few body parts and take a few pics before boarding our tour bus to London.

  “I got y
our apology tour right here.”

  The bus rumbles beneath my ass as I hang out in the booth, nursing a coffee. Spinner Watson slides in across from me and flips his phone so I can see the screen.

  As our manager, Spinner (formally known as George, before he gained the nickname of spinning record deals into gold), was made responsible for the speeches I and the band will be making to New York high schools when we get back. His black hair is slicked back so carefully that each individual comb-mark can be seen. His eyes, ice blue and bloodshot, communicate that he’s had too much coffee this morning, and it’s only 5 AM. The other guys have yet to rouse their asses from their bunks, but I can’t sleep.

  “I’ve scheduled five locations,” Spinner says, moving his phone closer so I can squint at the tiny spreadsheet. “And—get this—to really drive the we’re a rocker band with morals home, I even got us into a special needs school during their lunch hour.”

  “Special needs? For advocating against drunk driving?”

  Spinner cackles. “They use cars too, right? Shouldn’t passengers be just as woke as the drivers? And these kids’ brains are fine. It’s a school for the hard of hearing. I had to look it up—do deaf people even drive? Yep, they do.” He points to his temple with his other hand. “Which got my wheels spinning. Think of how good it will look in the press. Easton Mack bolsters his community by treating the hearing-impaired the same as the hearing-able or some shit.”

  I stiffen. “A deaf school?”

  “Can’t exactly put you in an autistic one. No idea how those kids would react.”

  My insides curdle at Spinner’s flippant behavior. He may be a genius at his job, but nobody said he was nice. Or decent. I’m finding less and less reason to try and like the guy.

  I push his phone out of my face. “I’m not doing it.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because your reasons behind booking me at that school are disgusting.” I finish my coffee and slam it down on the cheap laminate table. “I’m not improving my rep by taking advantage of kids. End of conversation.”

  “Well, bully for you, since I’ve already sent it to your lawyer, who’ll forward it onto the judge as confirmation that you’re holding up your part of the deal.”

  The curdling hardens into cemented lumps. “What did you just say?”

  Spinner senses nothing in my tone. “I said I sent it to your lawyer—fuckin’ hot, by the way—and she’ll—”

  I grab him by his lapels and pull him up over the table. He balks, which fucking serves him right for putting on a damned pressed suit on a bus before the sun’s even risen.

  The growl I emit is simple. And succinct. “You’re fired.”

  “You’re not firing me.” Though the asshole’s face has gone red from exertion, he laughs. “I’ve made you over half a million in less than a year, and we’re on budget for double that once this tour’s done and I book you for the U.S. at the end of the year.”

  I bare my teeth and pull him so close, we’re nose to nose. “Want me to say it again?”

  Spinner doesn’t flinch. “Say it as much as you want, buddy. Facts are the same. You think your crew’ll be happy you wanna fire me over your tarnished reputation that I’m trying to save? You got on your bike. You drove while over the legal limit. And I don’t give two fucks what you were dealing with or how your brooding, conflicted soul copes with whatever problems you have—my job remains the same. Get Nocturne Court into the public eye. Make them appear as decent, flawed human beings who fuck up from time to time, but are willing to pay their dues.”

  I release him on a gritted exhale, and he flops back into his seat, straightening his tie and blazer with shaking fingers. “Fuck you, Mack.”

  “What the hell’s all the clatter?”

  Rex pushes through the red velvet curtain that separates the main area from the hallway of bunk beds on either side. His hair’s flying in every direction as he rubs his eyes and attempts a glare through his swollen, sleep-filled gaze.

  “Your boy here’s trying to fire me for acting on the deal his lawyer got for him,” Spinner says, appearing exactly as one would picture a scrawny, over-dressed tattle-tale.

  Rex glances at me with one eye more awake than the other. “What?”

  “I’m not doubting Spinner’s abilities to get us to where we want to go,” I say. “But I’m entitled to be pissed when he goes below the belt to make a fucked-up, unnecessary point.”

  “Go on,” Rex drawls.

  “He’s got us speaking at a school for the deaf about the perils of drunk driving.”

  Rex blinks.

  “Look, there’s reason behind my madness,” Spinner interjects. “It looks good on paper, okay? Like, really good, and there won’t be a whiff of indecency. These kids love you. There’s a whole music class devoted to rock music and how to interpret it. And the place is maybe twenty-percent deaf kids. The rest are able to hear and attend because they have a deaf family member or other. The school is pretty much like any other angsty, pimply, teenage-infested building.” Spinner looks to me. “Unlike what you assume, I do my research and don’t just plop you into places to be publicly embarrassed.”

  “The whole thing smells bad,” I say.

  “I agree with you that Spin doesn’t exactly mince words very well,” Rex says, stepping between us. “But East, from what I’m hearing, it doesn’t sound ridiculous.”

  I unclench my jaw. “I don’t want to do it.”

  “Well, you’re gonna have to—”

  “Shut it, Spinner,” Rex says, then turns to me. “Here’s how I’m seeing it. We’re including the entire community in our music. By going to this school, and yeah, lecturing on safe driving, we might gain a few more fans. Every fan counts … I know you believe that. Why should we isolate the hearing impaired?”

  “Is that what you think I’m doing?” My voice rises. “I’m not against this because these kids can’t hear! Spinner is using this angle for profit—”

  Spinner rolls his eyes. “Like every politician, celebrity, and crime lord known to man.”

  “—neither of you are listening to me—”

  “We’re listening, man.” Rex puts a hand on my shoulder. “But we’re also considering what’s good for the band as a whole. Not one individual.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not … you weren’t here when Spinner proposed this. He’s not booking us for the right reasons. I promise you that.”

  Rex says carefully, “East, you fucked up. We’re helping you pay it back. So, unless you have another reason on why you don’t want to go to this school for an hour, I hate to say it, but I’m behind Spin on this.”

  My molars ache so hard, my jaw muscles tremble. I hold Rex’s stare, pleading with him to side with me on this.

  He remains stoic. Unmoved.

  I push past him on a sharp exhale. “This is a fucking mistake.”

  “Then we’ll make it as a group,” Rex says behind me as I shove through the curtain. Then, as his voice fades: “Fuck, I need some coffee.”

  Lying on my bottom bunk, with Wyn snoring directly above me, I throw an arm behind my head and glare at the wood-grained slats. I hate this. I hate that I’ve been put in this position.

  That maybe I’ve put myself into this goddamned position.

  When Taryn gets that email … what’s she going to think? That I’m more of an asshole than she originally thought, that’s what. And that I deserve to go to hell.

  From my amateur calculations, Taryn had her kid when she was nineteen. And he’s deaf. I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like, whether or not she had help from the father. When she sees an email from Spinner that we’ve booked a school for the deaf to talk about drunk driving, she’s gonna hit the roof. Without the context that Spinner half-ass attempted to justify, and Rex flipped into a calm, efficient, and convincing argument—the whole thing sounds asinine. Worse, it’ll look like I’m trying to hurt her more, since I know about Jamie. Any woman would see this as a bla
tant attempt to bolster my celebrity status by taking advantage of a vulnerable community, all inspired by her son.

  Even though that’s not what happened. That’s not what fucking happened. I tried to get as far away from her and her boy as possible.

  The world is such a cruel bitch sometimes.

  My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I think, ah, hell’s arrived early.

  Sure enough, the text—one I was long-awaiting for but refusing to acknowledge I was waiting for it—from Taryn shows up.

  Just not with the words I’m expecting.

  * * *

  Hi Mr. Mack, it’s Jamie. Mom doesn’t know I’ve checked her phone since she’s still sleeping, but I saw an email from your manager THAT YOU’RE COMING TO MY SCHOOL. ARE YOU KIDDING? I’m deleting this thread as soon as I hit send so don’t reply (Mom will be so pissed I’m talking to you without her okay) BUT I AM SO EXCITED. I promise not to say anything to my friends but it’ll be really hard. THIS IS FUCKING AWESOME (don’t tell mom I swore either). See you soon, Nocturne Court!

  * * *

  Ah, double-fuck. Fuck me sideways.

  I’m in so much fucking trouble.

  I roll so my face is buried in my pillow, and I punch the mattress.

  More than a few times.

  15

  Taryn

  I push the button outside of Jamie’s room that operates as a light indicator more than a few times, and when that doesn’t work, I stomp my foot on the floorboards so he can sense the vibrations.

  He doesn’t have a lock on his door, but he’s approaching double-digits in age, and I want to give him his privacy instead of bursting in and finding … God knows what. He’s a pre-pubescent boy. I could walk into anything or nothing, all at once.

  “Jamie!” I say uselessly, before pushing the button again and again.

  At last, the door swings open to my freshly scrubbed boy, backpack on his sweater-clad shoulder, ready to roll.