Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  Jamie’s crestfallen as he peers behind all our bodies crowding the hallway and sees the approach of his teacher.

  He signs quickly, his eyes flitting between his keepers and me. Glad … met you … again. Mom’s … weird.

  “Ah, bud, I’m glad to see you, too,” I say, and a smile creeps onto my face before I can stop it. I like the guy. I really, really do. “And your mom’s doing her best.”

  The first time I met Jamie, he told me, through Taryn, how often he listened to my music, how he knew every song, and that he waited on his tablet the instant our next album or single dropped so he could download it immediately. He was a true fan, and in the span of a brief first meeting, it became clear how Taryn knew my music so well and why she listens to the bones of it instead of the mass absorption of the song as a whole.

  Those two listen to me in a way I didn’t foresee.

  “I’m not saying this again. Up against the wall and wait for Miss Brady.” Dr. Hans taps Jamie on the shoulder and reiterates his instruction.

  Shoulders slumped, Jamie does as he’s told. Jamie looks at me once more, raises and spreads both hands on either side of his head and pushes forward twice.

  “That’s his name sign for you,” Evan says.

  Great. Wonderful. Or…

  “Awesome,” Evan finishes.

  Mason laughs. “Kid’s raising the roof for you, East.”

  I shake my head humbly. “Thanks, you little biker rebel.”

  Jamie grins at his own moniker. Ride yours … one day.

  I laugh, ready to tell him not any time in his future, but Rex beats me to it.

  “Guys, I realize you’ve sacrificed yourselves and have fallen on the sword of detention in order to meet us. How about we get you tickets to our Barclays concert in Brooklyn next week.” At Dr. Hans’s disapproving mutter, Rex adds, “That way, you can get back to class, be … awesome…” Rex does the hand sign “…for the rest of the day, knowing, if your parents are willing to come, too, that you can see us live.”

  I gape at him. So much of me wants these kids at our show, yet a part remains that’s determined to separate myself from them. Jamie and Taryn.

  “Rex, you sure that’s a good idea?” I say.

  “Why not?” Wyn says, talking over Dr. Hans’s ready agreement. “We gotta get our show on the road here, but we can’t leave some sad kids in tears in the hallway.”

  I’ve got no argument. Instead, I smile at the three boys who have now acquired incredible manners and stand stoically in a line against the wall.

  Spinner starts to make noises that we gotta go, get going, no more time, tickets will be forthcoming … and that’s the last moment I have to second-guess Rex’s invitation. At the last second, I glance back at Jamie, with his mother’s bone structure, her dimples, and her deep, thoughtful intelligence.

  L’il Biker Rebel knew this could shape up to be an opportunity, and he won. I have to give him props for that.

  I’m just not so sure how his mother will feel.

  “Is that why you were so against coming here?” Mason mutters in my ear as we push through the double doors. “Your lawyer’s kid?”

  I shake my head. “It’s so much more than that.”

  “Forget the hot lawyer,” Rex says. As we enter the auditorium, applause and screams nearly drown out his next question, but I catch it on its end, just before Dr. Hans steps up to the podium.

  “How ‘bout you tell us how the fuck you understand sign language?”

  17

  Taryn

  My phone haunts me like the phantom it’s become.

  I’ve been avoiding my ex-husband’s texts since he first contacted me two weeks ago. Like I can pretend he doesn’t have my number, doesn’t know where I am … doesn’t deserve to see my son.

  The torture he put Jamie through … why does he suddenly want to be in Jamie’s life again? What’s changed since I took Jamie and left six years ago?

  I should reply with exactly that. But then I risk opening a conversation and he’ll sic his lawyers on me again, and I’ll be back in that nightmare, the never-ending cycle of fear that my son will be taken away and given to a man who would never, never love and nurture this boy the way I will.

  No. No, Jamie will not go back to what we escaped. HE WILL NOT.

  “Taryn?”

  There’s a soft voice in my office doorway, and I raise my head from my hands enough to see who it is.

  “You okay?” Astor asks as she steps in.

  “Rough morning,” I reply, and my voice is as hoarse as I feel.

  “Same.” Astor sighs and sits in one of my visitor’s chairs. “I’ll tell you about my shitty day if you tell me yours.”

  “It’s okay.” I twirl my phone, laying facedown, on my desk. Astor and I are exploring friendship, but we’re friendly co-workers at best. I haven’t told anyone in the office that I have a son, since instinct tells me being a mother will be used against me in this cutthroat environment.

  And while I like Astor, I don’t know if I can trust her.

  “It’s family stuff,” I finish. “But I’m fixing it.”

  More like avoiding it.

  “All right.” Astor isn’t going to push it further, but she studies me like she wants to. Instead, she switches tactics. “Then I’ll tell you mine. The Chavez case is really pushing my limits.”

  “So I’ve seen.”

  I try to remain as blasé as I can, but I’m aware of how much this case hurts her, and I wish she’d tell me the truth.

  As soon as I think it, I chastise myself. If I’m not baring my soul, there’s no reason to expect Astor to confide her secrets.

  “The guy is up for a contract kill,” Astor says, “and Yang wants me to do everything I can to defend him. Even fucking Mike is on my ass, asking if it’s my womanly weakness of being in love that’s preventing my usual pit bull style. And I hate that he’s using my relationship against me, but I’m also—I also don’t care to defend myself against that ass. And frankly, when it comes to defending Chavez…” Astor works her jaw. “I don’t want to do that, either.”

  “I know,” I say quietly, and Astor’s gaze snaps to mine.

  Maybe it’s the hulking, brutal ghost of my past that’s made me unwilling to skirt around Astor’s very obvious issue, or perhaps it’s simpler than that: Sometimes, I get so damn tired of pretending.

  “Leaving the obvious pigheadedness of your ex-fiancé aside for the moment,” I say, referring to Astor’s infamous ex, Mike Ascott, another associate attorney in high competition with us, “I was with you last year when we were first introduced to a Chavez problem. Your boyfriend was involved, then suddenly, he wasn’t.” I repeat, and hopefully she can read behind my words, “I was there, Astor.”

  “But you … you don’t know the half of it.” Astor breaks eye contact.

  I want to reach over my desk and take her hand, but for so many reasons, I don’t. “I do, Astor. I fly under the radar around here pretty well, but I pick up a lot of sensors along the way. Is Ben in danger?”

  Astor’s gaze flicks back to me. She says firmly, “No. He has no involvement in this one.”

  “But you’re reluctant to get Chavez off charges. Again.”

  Slowly, Astor nods.

  “I’m not going to say anything to anyone,” I reassure. “Believe me, I’m the last person who wants to ruin someone else’s life. But get off this case. Yang is well aware of what went on last year. He’s only using you because you’re good at what you do, and he likes to keep up appearances. If you don’t want this—then request to leave. Give your chair to Mike, who will be so pleased he’s besting you, he won’t even be suspicious over the reasons behind your departure.”

  Because Astor and I seem to be one level below friends, because we never seem to want to tell each other the truth, I stick to generalized logic rather than say what I’m really thinking. “Our job as defense lawyers is to stand behind our clients, regardless of how immoral and reprehe
nsible they are, because of justice. It doesn’t matter that they’re guilty—it matters that the law is followed, to the letter, in determining their guilt or innocence. And if you don’t think you can do that for Chavez—if what he did is so reprehensible to you, then step down, Astor. No one will think you weaker because of it.”

  Astor unclenches her jaw. “Is that why you became a defense lawyer? To represent the law?”

  No. “Yes.”

  Astor closes her eyes, rubbing her neck. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m so deep into this, I can’t even see how easy it is to get out of it.” She laughs hollowly. “You know, I’m actually scared I’m going to sabotage the case, so he goes to jail—for real this time. For a long, long time.”

  Now my gaze smacks against hers. “Astor … did you … have you done something? To get the recent motion to suppress the evidence denied?”

  Her lips thin, and I think I see a trace of color leave her cheeks, a stiffening of her shoulders, and the mildest, briefest pupil flare in her eyes, indicating a jolt of adrenaline.

  “You’ve really helped me, Taryn.” Astor rises. “Thanks.”

  Oh God, I really don’t want to know what I think I now know. “Astor—”

  “I also never thanked you for representing Easton so well.”

  The mention of his name unmoors my thoughts, and I blink. “Uh—no worries. It was easy.”

  Astor zeroes in on the weakness I thought I kept so carefully well-hidden. “We’re all meeting for drinks tonight, me and the usual peeps. Easton will be there. You should come.”

  “God—no.” I blurt it before I can put my thoughts back in order.

  She looks at me sideways. “No?”

  This bitch is turning the tables, spinning the interrogation around, and I hate that it’s working. “We, uh, Easton’s a great guy, but we said our thank yous and goodbyes. It was nothing but a professional working relationship.”

  The skin under Astor’s eyes crease with amusement. “I wasn’t questioning your relationship with him.”

  “No, I know. I just wanted to reiterate that we’re professionals. I don’t expect any special treatment or attention from him. I—” Jesus Christ, I’m digging the biggest hole this building’s ever seen. “Just, no. No, thank you, to coming tonight.”

  Chuckling under her breath, Astor replies, “All right, then. Maybe some time you and I can catch a drink together after work.”

  “Sure. That’d be great.” I’m gripping my desk with both hands. Please leave.

  She does. Astor spins on her designer heels and goes to the door, but with a hand on the frame, she looks back. “I guess you’ll see him at his concert tomorrow night, then.”

  I squint a glare at her before replying through my teeth. “Yes. I guess so.”

  She smiles softly. “Don’t be ashamed you like him, Taryn. You’re right, he’s a great guy. But you’re pretty great, too.”

  And with that eloquent parting shot, she shuts my office door behind her.

  I fall back against my chair, staring at the ceiling, feeling like I’d just come out of water torture. Astor’s last words hit home.

  Jamie bounded home a few weeks ago, bursting at the seams with tales of Nocturne Court’s visit to his school. I was prepared for that, had even highlighted it in my calendar that this was the day Easton would likely see Jamie again. What I wasn’t prepared for was Jamie’s exuberance over free tickets to their concert in Brooklyn, and if I let him go, he’d do everyone’s chores for a week and not even glance at his tablet or make one mention of his online gaming community, and he’d personally chain his bike to a pole in our backyard and let it grow rust and never ask to ride it again.

  If the boy spoke in words and sentences, he would’ve passed out from lack of breath after that speech.

  Instead, Jamie caught me at a vulnerable moment. His father had just texted me, and, with fear that a shark had started circling our waters, I couldn’t ignore the earnestness Jamie emitted, the sheer joy and enthusiasm for his favorite band and the rare opportunity to not only see them live, but meet and greet them.

  Could I rip that away from Jamie, who already has it harder than most?

  No. No, I can’t. So, the next thing I knew, I was agreeing to going to Nocturne Court’s concert and seeing Easton again.

  Easton, who I only had one date with.

  Easton, who I can’t get off my mind.

  I stare at the wood of my office door, thinking maybe there’s another shark I have to watch out for.

  Tomorrow night arrived insultingly early.

  I thought I’d have more time to chew on the thought of seeing Easton and to figure out what I’d say if we spoke, how I’d act.

  Uncaring, professional, super mature, and sexy.

  Okay—so maybe I’ve thought about that part a lot.

  But with Astor’s potential dirty deeds casting doubts and the anchoring weight of my phone against my side, I wasn’t thinking about much else.

  Standing in front of my bathroom mirror at home, I pull out one of Harper’s lipsticks and carefully trace the scarlet hue across my lips, finding solace in the normalcy of the action, like I’m any other mom taking her son to a function of some sort, spraying perfume and combing through her hair with her fingers, ready to meet and greet and mingle.

  So what if the function is a rock concert and the meet and greet consisted mainly of long hair, ripped jeans, and leather? With sculpted torsos. Tattooes. And sex-fueled voices.

  I brace both hands on the countertop.

  That certainly isn’t how my son sees it.

  The interior of my purse, the contents of which are splayed across the fake marble counter, lights up. It’s my phone, and as soon as I see that blue cast, my stomach turns the same shade.

  * * *

  I’ve given you plenty of time, and still you ignore me. If you don’t reply ASAP, my next communication will be through my lawyers, and you don’t want that, Teddy.

  * * *

  It was a double whammy. The use of my pet name, exclusive to him, and the threat of being better, quicker, more hard-hitting than me.

  Well, I went to law school, fucker. I AM a lawyer.

  The phone clatters into the sink, and I clench my shaking fingers into fists.

  A knock at the bathroom door pulls me out of the rage tunnel I was freakishly drawn into. Opening it, Jamie stands on the other side.

  He asks, Are you okay? Something sounds like it broke.

  I think, Just my heart, sweetie, but sign instead, Dropped my phone. Everything’s a-ok. You ready?

  He nods eagerly, then pauses. You look funny. Are you sure everything’s okay?

  Just fine. Let’s go.

  Jamie doesn’t waste any more time. He thuds over to our front door the way all young boys are prone to do—with dragging, heavy footfalls, even when they’re in a rush—and I gather the rest of my things into my purse and follow suit.

  As I’m locking up, with Jamie impatiently waiting on the curb, my phone vibrates again. I figure I’ll get it over with and read what else he has to say, rather than spending the rest of the night dreading his words, and glance fast at my screen—like the quicker I do it, the less it will hurt.

  My ex-husband’s words are succinct.

  * * *

  Just landed in New York City. See you fucking soon.

  18

  Easton

  I’m standing in a basketball court underground.

  Since I’m not claustrophobic, the whole experience is fucking awesome. The Barclays Center has an entire floor below street level, part of it housing the Brooklyn Nets’ training court, and right now, it’s empty except for me.

  On the other side of the doors and padded walls is a flurry of activity, from our roadies to the Barclays Center’s own crew finishing the final touches of converting the arena above my head into a concert hall.

  I’m enjoying the resilient silence for a few moments before I step above-ground, into windows and peopl
e and demands. Those sensory-overload seconds before I hit the stage and forget everything but the music.

  This is my me time. The calm before the craze.

  I’m wondering what it would be like in a world always this quiet and muted, sound becoming a faraway dreamscape where you know it’s happening, but you just can’t hear it.

  Jamie’s world is utterly this, and I close my eyes, curious as to whether the silence in Jamie’s head is clogged and thick, or echoing and vast.

  “East?”

  Footfalls reverberate throughout the large room, and I look up from the floor. Rex strides toward me, his dark blonde hair pulled back with a leather strap. It won’t stay contained for long. “We were looking for you.”

  “I’m catching my zen before we start.”

  “I hear that.” Rex looks around the room, at the basketball nets on either side and me standing at center-court. “You find it in here?”

  I massage the back of my neck. “Almost.”

  Rex comes to stand beside me, breathing in the mix of bleach, sweat and floor wax. I can almost hear the bouncing of basketballs, the skids of sneakers against the floor.

  “Our special guests have arrived,” Rex says. “Thought you might want to say hello before we start.”

  Taryn’s here. At least, I hope she is. I don’t know what adult Jamie brought with him to the show—I’m just aware there is one. With my luck, it’s his dad, a person I didn’t ask Taryn about and have no right to question. Yet, I do.

  I wonder why he isn’t around.

  Why Taryn calls herself a single mom.

  If he’s the deadbeat I see in my head.

  With an enterprising, motivated, and intelligent kid like that, it’s hard to believe the guy wouldn’t stand at Jamie’s side, proudly calling himself the father.

  But what do I know? I only have my friends’ kids as examples, and they’re all under the age of three. Also, it ain’t my damn business.