Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  He blinks but doesn’t glance up.

  Fine. I bend forward, placing two soft fingers against his jaw and turn his head. “We may not be destined to be together, but I’m still a very good listener.”

  He exhales into my hand, and I’m shocked to feel his weight as he nestles in. “I’m fucking up a lot of things. Including pushing you away.”

  “So tell me why.”

  Dr. Benson picks that time to stroll in, and like I’m caught red-handed, I jerk back, clearing my throat.

  The doctor gives a wry smile. “Lawyer, huh?”

  I don’t answer. Instead, I let Easton take the lead.

  “So, what’s the latest, doc?” Easton asks tiredly.

  “Are you okay with her being here while I discuss this with you?” Dr. Benson asks.

  Easton’s throat bobs while he hesitates, but he’s so drawn, so beaten down. “Nineteen thousand people saw my collapse. She’s one of them. Taryn can hear whatever you have to say.”

  I brace myself, wondering if I’m about to hear the worst.

  “Well, son, this shouldn’t be news to you.” Dr. Benson lifts a thick, metal clipboard hooked at the foot of Easton’s bed and flicks through the pages. I wonder if he’s actually reading it, or if, like me, he does it as a successful, intimidating prop that forces patients and clients to listen in fearful anticipation. “Your sensorineural hearing loss is progressing. Considering you were first diagnosed at fifteen years old and you’re now twenty-eight, you’ve been quite lucky…”

  I don’t catch much after Dr. Benson shoots sensorineural hearing loss out of his mouth like he’s reciting the latest statistics of a football game, the diagnosis going ‘round and ‘round my head, each lap becoming harder, faster, louder.

  Easton’s going deaf?

  “… And frankly,” the doctor continues. I force myself to listen. “Your history indicates you’ve previously had episodes where your hearing disappeared entirely, though rare. This current episode—you said you couldn’t hear anything for about an hour, correct?”

  Easton nods.

  “And it came back within the last twenty minutes?” Dr. Benson asks. Easton nods again, head hanging low. “We’ll have to run a few tests tonight and consult with our audiologist in the morning to get a sense of how much hearing you have remaining. You haven’t been going to your appointments.” He flips a page. “The last diagnosis we have is from when you were eighteen and at seventy-five percent hearing.”

  My heart hurts for Easton as Dr. Benson continues his unintended onslaught. Each word the doctor utters must feel like a brick cast against Easton’s shoulders.

  But I don’t want to stop the information from flowing or ask for Easton to get a break. It’s like a car accident—I have to keep looking as I’m passing by.

  “Your CT scan, however, is clear,” Dr. Benson says. “You fainted from dehydration, nothing more. Your collapse has nothing to do with your genetic condition, other than, maybe, assisting in the loss of balance when you lost all hearing suddenly and unexpectedly.”

  It’s not my business. It’s not my business. Even as I repeatedly remind myself of that fact, my voice has other ideas. “Doctor, the concert … it was incredibly loud. Could that have contributed…?”

  “Yes, I see here that your career is as a drummer in a rather popular band,” Dr. Benson says. “Have you been wearing earplugs while on stage?”

  Easton’s stare slides to the wall. “What’s the point?”

  “Easton,” I say, laying a hand on his shoulder. I don’t know what else to follow up with. What can I say? You should really wear your earplugs like a good boy. Protect the hearing you’re going to lose, anyway.

  “Well, despite concert halls and venues being statistically linked to hearing trauma, I doubt it’s the problem in this case. Could it cause your hearing to fail more rapidly? No, because these are two different things. As I said before, your condition is genetic, not traumatic. And, ultimately, you will lose your hearing, Mr. Mack. At this point, it’s only a matter of time. I suggest you continue looking into a cochlear implant.”

  “A—” Eyes wide, I look to Easton. “You’re a candidate for the implant?”

  Easton shakes his head. “I don’t want it.”

  “What?” I’m fully facing Easton now, facts from my own life and experiences muffling Easton’s reasons. “But … you grew up with hearing. Why wouldn’t you—why wouldn’t you want to keep it?”

  “A cochlear implant doesn’t simply amplify sounds, Miss Maddox. It’s not a hearing aid,” the doctor says, and I find myself narrowing my eyes at him. “An implant delivers electrical impulses directly to the auditory nerve by bypassing the damaged part of the ear.”

  I’m well aware of how a cochlear implant works.

  “Yes,” I say stiffly but remain polite. “But you can hear words. Speech. You can understand the sounds of language coming out of people’s mouths, something deaf individuals without a cochlear implant can’t do.”

  “Speech, yes,” the doctor replies, then looks to Easton.

  I glance between both of them, the soundless questions in my head shouting the loudest. I finally say, “What am I missing here?”

  “Pitch,” Easton mutters, so quietly I almost don’t catch it.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Pitch,” he repeats. “Timbre. I won’t be able to understand it.”

  The implications fall into place with the smack of stones against my forehead. “Oh…”

  At last, he lifts his chin.

  “I won’t be able to play anymore,” Easton says. “I won’t hear music the same way, ever again.”

  “But…” I lick my lips. “If you don’t get the implant, you won’t be able to hear ever again.”

  Easton regards me flatly. “Jamie’s doing just fine.”

  “Jamie was born deaf,” I say softly.

  “I’m going to leave you two to talk this out,” Dr. Benson says. “Any questions, Easton, let the nurses know and I’ll come back during my next rounds.”

  Once the doctor leaves, Easton says, “I’d rather stay a musician as long as I can. This is my dream, Taryn. It’s actually being realized. If I do that procedure, if I lose all capability of playing music … I won’t be able to live with myself.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s all I have.” In an instant, his expression turns desperate. “I let you in here because I thought, of all people, you’d understand.”

  I screw up my brows. Hurt swells, but I tamp it down. I shouldn’t have expected he’d want me by his side because he likes me. Cares for me and misses my presence. Yet, it was a thought that refused to escape all the way to the hospital.

  “Because I have a deaf son?” I ask, starting off soft. “A boy who had no choice but to come into a silent world, who’s not a candidate for a cochlear implant, and who is forced to fight society’s version of normal every single fucking day?” Unexpected tears well up. “A boy who would rather ride his bike dangerously at night so no one will stare at him? Because of all the mirrors we have to install so his eyesight can make up for his lack of ears?”

  Easton reaches for my hand. “Taryn, I didn’t mean—”

  I pull away. “I see now why you’ve been so secretive. Why you might’ve walked away when you first met Jamie. Why you nearly fell off a bridge because you couldn’t hear the warning signs behind you.”

  I wait for my words to sink in, then continue.

  “You’re going through a terrible thing, and I’m so sorry for that. To be robbed of something crucial and have it be completely out of your control, I am sorry for that, Easton. But to answer your question, no. I don’t understand why being a musician is more important to you than the ability to hear.”

  Easton doesn’t have a response.

  He doesn’t have to say anything, because the flat line of his mouth says it all.

  21

  Easton

  I’ve never been so fucking terrified.
/>
  My grip digs into the white sheet of my hospital bed—another fucking hospital bed—when Taryn leaves.

  She doesn’t know, not in the way I thought she would. There was no way I could foresee the anger and betrayal in Taryn’s face when I announced there’d be no implant in my skull.

  A procedure I’ve researched extensively, since my mom shoved pamphlets in my hands the day I was diagnosed as a kid. Since the evenings my pops sat me down and tried to convince me it was the right way to go.

  Unfortunately for them, it was right about the time I discovered acoustic guitar.

  Was language more important than music?

  The implant helps to understand the world better, sure, but it can’t help you listen to the notes of a piano, the strums of a guitar. It doesn’t let you understand all the frequencies and intricacies of a great song.

  It would all be gone.

  As I rub my face, the scruff of my beard scrapes against my palms. My eyes are closed, and I dive into the sense of touch, focusing on the feel of my whiskers against my skin, and hear the beeps, squeaks, and static of the hospital while blind.

  Is this how it’s gonna be? Losing one sense, demanding more focus from the remaining ones, feeling less and less like a person the more the normal world revolves around you?

  And—fuck, could I play deaf? If I completely lost my hearing, which hasn’t happened yet and won’t, goddammit, would I still grasp music? Am I gonna lose it either way?

  God. Hell.

  I want Taryn back.

  “Holy fucking shit, East.”

  Ash bursts into the room with Ben and Locke quickly following behind.

  “What the hell happened?” Ash asks.

  “I…” Now is the time to tell them the truth. I don’t know how much longer my hearing will hold out. “I collapsed from dehydration. Doc said I’ll be fine.”

  “Well, thank fuck for that,” Ash says, visibly relieved.

  “Is that all?” Locke asks skeptically. “Why are they keeping you overnight, then?”

  “You talking to my doctor now, Dad?” I say to him.

  “Nurse,” Locke corrects. “She couldn’t resist imparting information.”

  “I’m sure Carter’ll appreciate that,” I say.

  “Hey.” Locke points at me. “I did not flirt back. Can’t help it if a lady old enough to be my mother falls for my innocent, non-sexy smile and wants to tell me everything, including that she’s single.”

  I shake my head, enjoying the moment of normalcy. Of listening. “I believe you. You’re too gross and happy with your fiancé and daughter to do anything to jeopardize it.”

  “Hear that,” Ben says. He reaches out his scarred forearm from an old burn and pats my leg. “Glad you’re okay, dude. You need a good publicist? Gonna be hard to explain your damsel moment to the press.”

  I chuckle and push his hand away. “Fuck off.”

  “Dehydration, huh? You sure that’s it?” Ash asks.

  He, out of all of them, seems the most serious and studies me more carefully than the others. I’m wishing he’d go back to bro-speak and not read me so closely.

  “That’s it,” I say, and cap it off with a shrug.

  “You’ve been off lately, bro,” Ash says. “First the bridge thing, then this. Not to mention how quiet you’ve been lately, and all the cancellations for our family events.”

  “I guess both my mom and dad are here,” I say more tightly than intended. “My tour’s been insane. We’re pulled in a ton of directions. I’m sorry I missed your kid’s birthday, but—”

  “I’m not trying to lecture you. Only trying to figure this shit out,” Ash says. Both tatted hands rest on his hips. “You have me worried, bro. And I don’t worry about nuthin’ but my girl and my baby.”

  “I can’t help that you have an easier time interrogating a one-year-old than you do me,” I say, then immediately regret it. Fighting Ash only makes him more suspicious.

  “Give me time,” Ash says. He won’t even blink as he stares me down.

  Ben taps my IV bag, jostling me out of the stare-match. “Drink up, buddy. We’ll let you rest. Right, Ash?”

  Ash unlocks his jaw. “Fine. But I’m not done with you yet.”

  “Give it a rest.” Ben claps a hand on Ash’s shoulder, directing him to the door. “Sometimes, people enjoy their privacy.”

  “And those people don’t have me in their life … sucks for them,” Ash retorts.

  “Your band is waiting outside,” Locke says before he follows. “Again. Try not to make hospital stays such a habit.”

  “You’re one to talk.”

  Locke winks. “I’ve turned over a new leaf. So should you.”

  “Tell Rex and everyone I’ll talk to them later.”

  Locke pauses on the threshold. “You sure? They’re worried about you. And they were right there on stage—”

  “I’m sure.” I make a show of yawning and rubbing my jaw. “I’m tanked, Locke. I’ll call them first thing.”

  Locke shrugs. “All right, but…”

  “Thanks.”

  He gets the hint and leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  Rex storming in here would be almost as bad as going blank in the middle of a concert.

  Piercing sound to piercing silence in an instant. Going from hitting notes and riding the wave of music with my band to feeling the sticks in my hand, the hollow vibrations when they hit drumskin, yet gaining nothing. Nothing. No beats hitting my ears. My vision goes into hyper-focus, and I’m suddenly dropped into my own horror movie with neon sights and blurred hands reaching, thousands of black mouths opening into a maw of demand I can’t understand.

  The lights. The audience. Wyn dancing around to my right. Rex’s torso curving back as he screams out the chorus—

  … that I can’t hear.

  In throat-clenching panic, I tip over one of my cymbals when trying to retain stability. Wyn stumbles back, his annoyance and confusion evident in his expression and probably his words, but I have no idea what he’s saying.

  I search for Taryn before I comprehend what I’m doing, and there she is. Standing out from the crowd like a blonde, angelic beacon, calling me home, centering me.

  She mouths, Easton?

  And I’m crashing out of center, where I have no noise, no clue, and I’ve forgotten to breathe.

  Shit. This whole time, I forgot to fuckin’ breathe.

  So, I tip over with another cymbal.

  I blink myself out of the memory, not ready to fall into it again, and if Rex gets into my hospital room, that’s exactly where I’ll go. It’s tough to keep lying to him, but the alternative is unthinkable.

  He’ll replace me with that back-up drummer he hired. A malnourished, early-twenties asshole I could topple over with a drumstick, who’s waiting in the wings for me to falter and fail.

  I almost did tonight.

  There’s no telling how much time I have left. And no point to reconsider the pros and cons of a cochlear implant.

  We’re just reaching the pinnacle of success. I can’t be shut down now.

  22

  Taryn

  My heart hit my stomach on the way home.

  It wasn’t from Easton’s revelation, though that weighed heavily on my mind. It was because of a text from Harper. An innocuous notification at first. I thought it might be about Jamie and getting him to bed, or maybe she was wondering if she could use my GrubHub account to order a midnight snack.

  It was none of those things.

  I was so immersed in the new knowledge of Easton and that maybe I overreacted. I wasn’t thinking, or understanding, that my home situation was vastly approaching dangerous.

  * * *

  Harper: T, some strange man is here. He’s demanding to see J. I don’t know what to do and he’s scaring me.

  * * *

  Oh, God.

  My fault. It’s all my fault. I didn’t answer his texts and now he’s figured out where I live and is
using brute force to see Jamie.

  I lean forward in the backseat, the seatbelt tightening against my neck. “Driver? Can you move faster, please?”

  “Doin’ all I can, doll. FDR’s backed up.”

  I flatten against the leather seat, shoulder blades pressing deep as I read the text again and decide how to respond.

  * * *

  Call the police.

  * * *

  Gripping my cell phone, I envision all the scenarios I could’ve created to prevent this moment. I could’ve been honest with my peers, for one, and asked Astor for assistance in drafting a scary, official, fuck off letter that my ex’s lawyers could read. Or, I could’ve sent a simple text reply, telling him to never contact me again, our agreement is in full force, and if he wanted it changed, he had to take it to court, not to me.

  I did none of those things.

  Not because I’m an idiot. No, it’s because I know deep down, the instant I give him what he wants—a response—he’d manipulate and twist it, and make it so I’m trapped again, suffocating with no way out, and that’s what he’s good at. The only way to deal with him is to not respond, because then, the venomous snake won’t catch the field mouse.

  I’m not a mouse. Not anymore.

  I check my phone again, noting the trembling in my fingers and demanding they stop. Harper’s written back.

  * * *

  It’s all good now. He left.

  * * *

  Me: What did he say? Did he do anything? Get in the house?

  * * *

  Did he take Jamie? I want to ask, but I control the urge. Better to wait to find out what actually happened first, before I tear through the roof of this car.

  * * *

  Harper: He was mean and obnoxious. Said he had every right to see HIS SON. But I held firm. Didn’t let him in. Said to contact J’s mom if he wanted entry. T, you have so much to tell me when you get home.