Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  Nodding to cover the unyielding unease, I clap Rex on the back. “Thanks.”

  He says before I turn to the exit, “Spinner made sure the arena provided a sign language interpreter for the group. That is, unless you want to do the interpreting on stage?”

  I shake my head on a scoff. “Nah, I’m good.”

  “All right, but if I had a woman that hot coming to my show, I’d make damn sure to see her,” Rex says, but moves on. “Care to elaborate on how you know it? Sign language?”

  Taryn’s here. I shrug off the zing of gladness.

  “You’ve always been the most mysterious of our crew,” Rex says. “Hell, Spinner’s made that your shtick in all of our promo. But that little factoid has even floored me, your supposed buddy since high school. When the fuck did you learn it?”

  I ignore the question. “If Taryn’s here, an interpreter won’t be needed. She and Jamie listen to the music through their feet.”

  Rex slants a brow. “I’m not sure where to be more focused now. Foot listening or getting more info from you on the sign language thing.”

  As we both walk to the exit, I put a hand on his shoulder and say, “I use a lot of our down time to learn new things.”

  “Oh yeah? Is knitting next?”

  I meet his eyes as we push through the double doors. “We don’t have much down time anymore, so probably not.”

  His mouth splits into a grin. “Motherfucking right.”

  Energy pumps into Rex’s steps, and the addictive wave hits my soles, too. We stride past pictures framed in the hallway of musicians, ballers, hockey players, boxers, wrestlers … the list of who’s who at this arena hosts goes on. And at the very last blank spot on the painted white cinderblocks, I think, We’ll take up that real estate.

  We meet up with the rest of our band backstage, where the white noise of the crowd rattles our bones. Rex picks up his guitar and strums a few notes, Wyn following suit. Mason rolls on the balls of his feet, eyes closed to the ceiling.

  I grab my sticks out of my back pocket, energy sifting from quiet calm to sizzling anticipation. Spinner brings us a round of lukewarm shots, and we down the whiskey in unison.

  Our opening band ends their last song to cheers and calls. They’re a local rock crew from Brooklyn, much like we were, and this is their first moment playing to an audience of nineteen thousand.

  Immediately after the singer’s last note, the crowd starts chanting, each syllable sounding out with a slamming of their foot, the clapping of their hands.

  “Noc-turne Court. Noc-turne Court! NOC-TURNE COURT!”

  “Remember when we were the openers having to listen to the audience’s demands for the headliner?” Wyn asks.

  “Hell, yeah,” Mason says, opening his eyes and lowering this chin. “We fuckin’ hated it.”

  Rex grabs two of the shoulders closest to him—mine and Wyn’s—and gives them a shake. “I think this is the moment we can say, We made it.”

  “Not yet, assholes,” Spinner pipes in. “Do a flawless set, catch a few of your Courtesans’ bras, and we’ll call it a success.”

  Rex emits a warrior’s cry to a ceiling as high as the sky. “Let’s do this!”

  We roar in response, and when Rex hits the stage first, the crowd goes psycho.

  We. Fucking. Made it.

  19

  Taryn

  “Do you see him?”

  Evan balances on his toes, trying to see through the row in front of us. The arena’s seats are stacked, but barely, and when I sit down, my knees crash against the chair directly in front.

  But, no one’s sitting, and there are some big brutes in baseball caps in front of us, obstructing the kids’ views.

  Our complimentary interpreter signs that the band’s coming out, which we’ve already clued into, with the shouts, screeches, claps, and stomps combing into endless vibration through the floors and chairs. Even the air thrums with cannonball soundwaves.

  Mom? Do you see him?

  I use the minor height advantage I have over my son to stand on my tippy-toes and peer through the large heads and waving hands holding cell phones. Easton hits the stage last, his slim, muscled form taking up residence behind his drum kit.

  It’s such a shame he’s so hidden. The man is insanely hot, with his bone structure and jagged edges of muscle on a lean frame…

  Stop it, horndog.

  I massage my cheeks, as if that can stop the blush from creeping in. But seriously, I’m in deep commiseration with the teenage girls holding up signs saying EASTON, HAVE MY BABY.

  Jamie pokes my arm. Mom? Is he there? Is the band starting?

  Used to be, I could lift Jamie onto my shoulders and hold him up, but no longer. He’s almost as big as I am, all skeleton and lankiness, and he hasn’t even hit puberty yet.

  He certainly didn’t get his height from me. He must’ve gotten it from—

  Stop it, scaredy-cat. You’re a lawyer now. You can take him on.

  My phone lays ignored at the bottom of my purse at my feet.

  I need the music, and soon. Anything to drown out these voices and thoughts in my head.

  Easton stands from his stool, scanning over his cymbals into the crowd, and I’m reminded of what’s important.

  Easton’s on stage, I say to Jamie.

  Why aren’t they starting yet?

  I don’t know.

  The interpreter sees me signing with Jamie, and nods in approval, as if a hearing mother communicating with her deaf son is a sight to behold.

  Easton steps away from his drums and off his platform, jogging to Rex at the center. Rex holds the mike stand at an angle as East says something in his ear.

  Something’s going on, I say to Jamie. They’re talking about some sort of issue.

  What kind of issue?

  Rex takes the microphone. “Gentlemen.” He says in a drawn out, sexy tone, “Ladies.”

  The audience screams their acknowledgement in a blast of sound.

  “We have a brief problem,” Rex says once the crowd quiets down. “Our special guests aren’t in the front row like they should be. Spinner, fine man, make it right.”

  There’s a scuffle as heads in the crowd come together and hands and arms lower, wondering if they’re the special guests being talked about. A few of them hop on their toes and raise their hand in a Me! Me! Me! gesture.

  We’re near the aisle, so when four men in black T-shirts and slacks come to our row and start motioning us out of our seats, there’s a second of confusion.

  What’s going on? Jamie asks. Unsatisfied with the interpreter, he looks to me.

  We’re being moved. I scoot him along by lightly pushing the backs of his shoulders. His friends, Paulie and Evan, come out first, along with Paulie’s dad and Evan’s mom.

  “Come with us, folks,” one of the big men says, and we take the wide staircase down to the front.

  Jamie keeps glancing over his shoulder at me, but no interpretation is needed. His smile says he understands quite well what’s going on.

  Astor, her boyfriend Ben, and Easton’s other friends are nearby. Astor lifts her hand in a wave, and I wave back.

  See? Jamie signs to Evan beside him. I told you Easton’s my friend.

  Astor lifts a brow of curiosity once she sees Jamie sign, but for all she knows I’m his sister, or a volunteer for my community, or any number of things. Yet, a small worry creeps in anyway.

  We take position close to the stage—near enough for Rex to bend down on one knee and give the kids a salute. They wave enthusiastically in return, jumping up and down.

  Over the screams, Rex says into the mic, “What the hell, come up on stage for a second, boys.”

  Evan screams and grabs Jamie’s arms first, then includes Paulie. No parents are needed to interpret that they’ve been invited on stage, and they scramble forward.

  A few more big-sized men open the barricade at the front, for the boys to slip through. With their help, they step on stage. Evan clings to
Rex, but Jamie makes a beeline for Easton behind the drums. Paulie, nervous, hangs close to Evan.

  Jamie signs almost erratically to Easton, but Easton nods kindly, throwing Jamie on his lap and letting him see the venue from his perspective. Jamie’s mouth parts with awe.

  “East!” Rex calls. “What’s the hand signal for Welcome?”

  East’s attention cuts to Rex, and he shakes his head.

  I frown at the true unhappiness in East’s expression. Easton may not understand sign language, but Rex doesn’t know that. All Rex sees is Easton’s familiarity with these kids.

  Evan helps. He holds a flat hand away from his body, then brings it into his torso.

  “See that, Courtesans? Tell these awesome-sauce kids how happy we are to have them!” Rex shouts to the crowd.

  The arena’s bursting with excitement, and I feel like the only one standing still as stone, bodies writhing around me. When everyone in the crowd made the ASL sign for “Welcome,” I continue to watch Easton and my son. Jamie signs something I can’t altogether see, and Easton shakes his head, patting Jamie on the shoulder before scooting him off his lap.

  My brows pull together at the exchange. Did Easton understand what Jamie said?

  But … Easton was so confused in Jamie’s hospital room. He likened us to wizards when he saw us communicating.

  Wyn plays a few notes on his guitar. Mason joins in with his keyboard. The crowd roars.

  “All right, let’s get started!” Rex screams. “Get ready for the show, little dudes!”

  Jamie and the boys climb off stage as the notes of Nocturne Court’s latest, greatest single cuts through the stadium. When Jamie hits my side, I pull him close, squeezing his shoulders. I’ve never seen him so happy and immersed, surrounded by people. His attention is glued to the stage in the same honorific way he approaches his online games.

  The first song, “Hurt Me, Jerk Me” plays, and I side-eye Jamie a few times, hoping he doesn’t grasp the full meaning of the song, but it’s catchy, despite the pseudo-lewd lyrics, and—if I’m going to be honest—it’s nothing like the insults I read when he’s on his tablet and he and his friends message each other during their gaming sessions.

  My tiny, underweight baby is growing up into a healthy, hormonal teenager. The unadulterated joy in his expression builds a dam against my anxiety over Astor, or anyone else, knowing about my private life. Over his father trying to ram his way back in.

  How can I be mad when Jamie’s getting the night of his life?

  My purse sits tight at my hip, but I fall into Nocturne Court’s music the same way Jamie has, swaying with the audience, helping Jamie hold up his phone for pictures. When “Heartfall” plays, I kiss the top of his head, feeling as close to him as when he was a newborn, protective of this soft, fragrant head.

  I move my lips against Jamie’s hair. I won’t let him have you again. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll keep you safe.

  A clash of sound raises my head.

  One of Easton’s cymbals has fallen off its stand and the bass guitarist jumps out of the way.

  Easton’s arms still fly with beats, but at the chorus, the notes are off. A few seconds behind. Then … more than a few seconds.

  I focus on Easton’s face, seen in spaces through the metal, brass, and canvas of his instrument. Forehead coated in sweat, Easton’s expression is creased, pained.

  Panicked.

  He’s panicked.

  Easton sees me.

  Through the crowd, the screams, the thrashing of sound that’s no longer his music, he meets my eyes.

  Easton? I mouth, my arm tightening around Jamie.

  Hair falls into Easton’s face. His arms shake and tremble, but still they pound against his drums.

  “He needs help!” I shout, trying to catch someone’s attention on stage. “Stop! He needs help!”

  Jamie looks up at me, confused and scared. My stiffness has alerted him.

  No one up there’s looking my way—they’re all trying to get back into the song. Rex seems annoyed, but determined.

  I try for one of the bodyguards below the stage, standing near me. I shake one’s arm. “The drummer! Easton! Something’s wrong!”

  “Wha?” The bodyguard leans closer.

  “I said, Eas—”

  But my attention’s jerked back to the stage.

  Easton works his jaw, his mouth open and closing, color leeching from his face. The whites of his eyes are so prominent, he resembles more of a wild, caged animal than a member of a rock band.

  Rex abruptly stops singing, and the audience boos and throws whatever they have on hand onto the stage. Trash, shirts, bras.

  Rex turns, hands cupping his mike and asks, “East? What the f—”

  A ricochet of ringing, clashing metal against wood against drums is Easton’s last signal for help.

  He collapses behind the stage.

  20

  Taryn

  “I’m his lawyer. You’re letting me in.”

  The nurse on the other side of the reception desk stares at me like she would a dead plant. “I don’t care who you are. If you’re not family, you’re not getting in.”

  “I’m better than family.” I lay both palms on the desk and lean forward. “If Easton Mack injured himself on stage with about nineteen thousand phones pointed at him, he’s primed for a civil lawsuit, and if I don’t talk to him immediately about his injuries, his case could be seriously affected.”

  I’m not a personal injury lawyer, but Nurse Hatchett doesn’t know that. Nor do I need to speak to someone immediately after their injury to file a lawsuit, but I doubt she knows that, either.

  Stretching the truth is part of my J.D. degree, and I need to understand what’s wrong with Easton. He scared the shit out of me up on that stage, and more importantly, he scared the shit out of my son. After a rapid text session with Harper, Jamie took a ride home with Paulie’s family, Harper waiting for him in our apartment. Jamie, of course, 100% supported my wanting to know what happened to Easton and practically pushed me into an Uber to investigate.

  Nocturne Court’s show stopped abruptly after Easton collapsed, and during the flurry of panic, we squeezed through a nearby emergency exit before the full mob erupted.

  As a result, we were some of the first out. I didn’t see Astor anywhere, and don’t see her now, in the hospital. I might’ve beaten them, but to what avail, I’m not sure.

  Easton may not want to see me. I have no right to be here, legal or otherwise. There was an irresistible pull to try to get to him after he collapsed. I was desperate to see if he was all right. And it’s the same magnet feeling that brought me to his hospital and begged to get in his room, and if anyone tries to question—if Astor sees me and questions—I’d like to think it’s basic common decency that brought me to this place. It happens when someone you know collapses for unknown reasons, and you want to find out why.

  At least, that’s what I tell myself to argue.

  But I’m worried about him.

  The nurse sighs, and I know I’ve got her, until she sees a doctor come around the desk and into the waiting room. Her gaze fortifies as she turns back to me. “Talk to his doctor. If he gives you permission, then you can go right ahead.”

  I sigh in return. “I assume that’s the doctor?”

  She replies flatly, “Yep.”

  I push off the desk and cut off the doctor as he’s heading to the elevator, his attention focused on his clipboard.

  “Dr., uh, Benson?” I read his name tag as I stop him.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you currently treating Easton Mack?”

  His expression hardens. “Young lady, I don’t know who you bribed to get up here, but you better go right back down to the parking lot before I call security. Have more tact before you decide to stalk an injured celebrity—”

  “I’m his lawyer.”

  Not quite, but I was Easton’s lawyer not too long ago.

  Dr. Benson’s eyes b
ecome tired. “I assume you provided the on-duty nurse with identification?”

  I nod. He looks to the nurse at reception, who also acknowledges my truth, then says, “Room 808. ‘Round the corner. He’s alert, but quite confused. I don’t want you in there too long.”

  “Thank you.”

  That was easy but not surprising. Doctors generally want nothing to do with lawyers, unless they’re on their side. Which … applies to most people, I guess.

  “And Miss?”

  I turn back to the doctor.

  “I’m going to have Nurse Hatchett ask the patient if he wants to see you, first.”

  I slump into the wall. Not so easy.

  When the nurse returns, I mostly expect her to see me off, since Easton’s refused my company. Instead, she surprises me by saying, “Mr. Mack will see you now.”

  When I reach his hospital room, I tentatively knock on the open door.

  Easton’s attention was on the sheet draping over his body, but at the sound, he looks up.

  “We gotta stop meeting like this,” I say with a small smile. “Unless picking up ladies in hospital rooms is your usual come-on.”

  Easton offers a weak smile in return. “You didn’t have to check on me.”

  “Oh, but I did.” I wander in, stopping on the right side of his bed. “My son thought you were dead.”

  Easton lets out a breath. “How bad did I scare him?”

  “Pretty badly,” I say quietly, laying a gentle hand on his bare arm. “But he’s a trooper. Once I get home and tell him you’re fine, he’ll be back to creating more night-ops plans to ride his bike without my knowing, and we’ll be back to normal.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I angle my head at him. “Why are you apologizing? You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  Easton works his lips back and forth, avoiding my gaze. “I haven’t been completely honest. With you. With anyone.”

  I ask carefully, “Are you all right?”

  Slowly, achingly, he shakes his head.

  “Easton, look at me.”