Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

“God. Easton.” She puts her hands on either side of my face and searches deep. “You have no idea how I wish that could be true.”

  I hold her wrists, loose, but firm enough to let her know I mean it. “I will protect Jamie against this man. You have full custody. You got a divorce. And you’re a lawyer now with lots of lawyer friends, which you did on your own. Christ, you’re amazing. There’s no way, if he wants to maintain his image, Bryan dick-ass O’Neil is gonna—”

  “This is where I need to stop you,” she says, her gaze shooting downward.

  “Why? Taryn, look at me.”

  She does, but it’s not the same. “He can still win, Easton.”

  “No, he absolutely fucking cannot. If I have to camp out in front of Jamie’s room, I will. Have some faith, Taryn. You’re not alone anymore.”

  “You’re right. I’m not.” Her smile, this time, is jaded and thin. “I’m still married.”

  28

  Taryn

  Bryan hovers beside my hospital gurney. He won’t leave.

  And I can’t speak.

  After an excruciating twelve hours, my jaw is wired shut and I’m off the ER floor and parked in an in-patient room, Jamie’s little body molded against my side. He’s refused to leave since I had to shake him awake and out of his toddler bed, my face throbbing, and take him to the hospital.

  In this moment, I’m grateful for sign language. I don’t have to speak to Jamie—because I can’t.

  I also can’t leave Jamie alone with him.

  And so, after picking myself up off the floor, among the glittering, jagged pieces of the glass coffee table and stumble into the nearest powder room, I wipe off all the blood.

  I listen to Bryan’s heavy footsteps, my body bracing when they cross the threshold of the bathroom I locked myself into—a flimsy piece of metal that won’t keep that beast away—before I jolt at the slam of the front door, then calm at the rumble of an engine.

  Bryan is drunk. He’s drunk and he’s driving, and I don’t give a fuck.

  I lay the stained cream towel across the sink and take stock of myself in the mirror. Greasy, tangled hair. Black crescents bordering my nose. A bloom of mottled red across my cheeks, my jaw unhinged and screaming silently.

  I must get Jamie.

  When I lay my hand on his thin shoulder—he’s always been a side sleeper, even in the womb—I don’t hold back the sob, even though it rips the thin tendons holding my jaw in place.

  It’s come to this point. I let us get here, and now I have to get us out.

  I drive us to the hospital, Jamie’s white, shining eyes brighter than the headlights as they study his mother, but he stays quiet, understanding, I think, more than he should.

  We’re ushered into a room, assessed by doctors and nurses, and since I can’t talk well, I write down what happened.

  I fell. It was dark and Jamie left his toys on the floor, and I tripped into a glass table.

  The doctor nods as he picks glass shards out of my elbow, sharing his own experiences with toddler messes. The nurse’s gaze lingers on me far too long, but I remain resolute. Resolved.

  Even then, I can’t bring myself to tell the truth. That Bryan O’Neil, fine man of this city, punched his wife so hard, she spun around on one foot and toppled, breaking both glass and her face.

  I won’t, because as soon as I’m stitched up, I’m putting Jamie back in the car and driving out of this city, this state, this world I’ve shoved us into, and starting anew.

  I’m twenty-three, just graduated, no job, no bank account, no independence.

  But I have a drivers’ license, a quick mind, the willingness to work, and the desperation to make a home for my son.

  Until Bryan walks in, rushed and worried with the stench of burned coffee beans on his breath, spilling his concern all over his wife and son, until we are left alone.

  “This is the end,” he says flatly, and all I can do is nod and hold my son tighter. He won’t hurt me here, he won’t, but I can’t be sure. “And I’m thankful to see you’ve said nothing to the staff here. Smart girl.”

  I swallow. It hurts.

  “You’ve got nothing now, Teddy. Not a single note to your name. But you don’t care, do you? You’re determined to leave.” At my continued silence, he goes on. “Fine. Go. Give it a try out in the real world, but know when you come crawling back, I’ll push my shoe into your forehead and knock you off my porch so hard and fast, your mouth won’t be able to recover this time.”

  I don’t let the tears come.

  “This has gone too far,” Bryan says in a low voice. “I can’t have this—you—in this state, by my side, any longer. So take the boy. Live like a skank pauper. Get your twenty dollar bills by selling your body, I don’t give a fuck. I’ll give you what you want, a fairy-tale escape.”

  He bent down until we’re almost nose-to-nose, and I’d never been so thankful Jamie couldn’t hear his father speak this way.

  “There are no happy endings, Teddy. You’re fucked with or without me. And I’m done with you. I’m going back to Ohio—my family will love that I ditched the whore and found good sense again. You disgust me.”

  When Bryan turns, his broad back is the last thing I see. He doesn’t look back, and therefore, doesn’t see the trail of drool leaking out the corner of my mouth.

  But it’s not drool. It’s spit, and in my head, I shot it at his face with clear and determined accuracy.

  “Bryan didn’t win the way he thought he would,” I say to Easton. “He was right—I’m clever, and I figured out a way to survive with my son while applying to Harvard Law. My husband, well, he unwittingly provided extreme motivation for me to become a lawyer and understand justice. Jamie and I lived in a friends’ garage, a woman I met on campus and will be forever grateful to. I cleared out Bryan and I’s joint bank account before he could close it, and Bryan didn’t come after me for it. That paid for Jamie’s nanny for a few more years, a woman who loved Jamie almost as much as I did. I got a job with night hours. I eventually could afford an apartment of our own. Bryan was long-gone out of the state, left no forwarding address, and I was more than okay with that. It wasn’t easy—justice never is—but somehow, I graduated, scored a summer internship in NYC, and Jamie and I became comfortable and happy in a small Upper East Side apartment we could call our own.”

  That, to me, was justice. I lived, I thrived, and now that I’ve studied criminals as much as I’ve studied my son’s needs, I possess deep, credible knowledge of how Bryan functions.

  Bryan threatens to shake us loose, but a part of me always knew this moment would come.

  What I haven’t predicted is the presence of Easton and how much he threatens to displace us, too.

  Easton’s expression is much too smooth when he repeats, “You’re still married. But earlier you said ex-husband.”

  It’s with great sadness that I nod. “It was part of the agreement. We may be married on paper, but in all the ways that matter, he’s been out of my heart for a long, long time.”

  “Did this—was this so-called agreement ever seen by the courts? Or anyone official?”

  I shake my head. “All I could think of in that moment was the fact I was granted the ability to be free, with my son, and Bryan wouldn’t chase us. If I took it to the courts back then, Jesus. He would’ve crushed me. I had nothing to my name. I was lucky he decided—”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t say you were lucky he made the decision to let you go. Because I know and you know that you were going to leave, whether or not he allowed it. You were gonna take that boy and get the hell out of there, and make something of yourself anyway.”

  A melancholy sweetness toward Easton settles over me. “I’d like to think that, if it weren’t for real life and the very clear fact he would’ve hunted us down, legally or criminally, and dragged me back, if he’d wanted me bad enough. I was no good to him as a broken doll.”

  One who started re
garding him with resentful glass eyes.

  “But he could. He has,” Easton says. “His word is only as good as his boredom.”

  I rise from my seat, and it pains me to push Easton’s arms away. “Bryan’s not going to get to Jamie. I won’t allow it.”

  “But what about you? Taryn, wait.”

  I’ve stepped around Easton, avoiding his eyes, since there’s a yearning that tugs too hard and fast whenever I look his way.

  But I halt at Easton’s door. I have to give him something. “You’re right, I have the law on my side now, and I’ll try to do it officially this time. I’m filing for divorce. For full custody. And I have the clout of CW&C, one of the top firms in New York City, to help.”

  Easton doesn’t believe me. “That’s it? That’s all that’s required? He’s abused you, Taryn.”

  I hate that word. “I’m not eighteen anymore.”

  “Listen, I know enough from talking to Astor that this kinda shit takes time. Months, maybe years. And this dude sounds like he’s on the war path. So, until things settle, I’m staying by your side.”

  I stiffen. “Easton, no. You have enough going on.”

  He strides toward me, but I’m not intimidated. I’m concerned.

  “I’m worried about you, Taryn. Bryan got to you again, right here.” He lifts my bruised hand. “And I will hang out, even when I’m not wanted, to make sure you and Jamie are safe. And also, you promised.”

  I hesitate. “Promised what?”

  “That you’d teach me sign language. That you’d help me relearn music.”

  “Which you’re refusing to do, because you think you’ll become less of a musician.”

  His mouth flattens and twists before he admits, “Well, yes, but I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Don’t change your principles.” I pull my arm from his hold. “Forcing yourself to accept your diagnosis through some misdirected determination to keep us safe isn’t right, Easton. You need to work through this in a positive way, not by being a superhero—”

  “You promised,” he repeats, and I swear his eyes change color. From bright copper to an opaque, tarnished penny.

  “I’m a lawyer. I break promises all the time.”

  “Not this one.”

  Easton reaches around me, the cologne of him enveloping my senses. Leather, clean soap, our sex. His mouth tickles my ear before he draws back, his hand on the doorknob as he opens it. “I’ll be at your place later tonight, whether or not you allow it. You can either start teaching me, or I can sit on your stoop, play my guitar, and annoy all your neighbors. Hey, maybe your ex will stop by, and I can wreak some havoc on his face.”

  “Easton. You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Dare me, then.”

  I hold firm. “Stop this.”

  “I meant it when I said you weren’t alone anymore, sweetheart. Go now, if that’s what you want, but know that I’ll be there for you later.”

  Sighing, I say, “Easton… “

  He kisses my cheek, his full lips lingering on my skin. Ironically, it’s in the place that hurt the most when my jaw was healing.

  “I’ll be there,” he repeats as he lifts away.

  “You should hate me. I lied to you. I kept the fact that I’m still someone’s wife from you. I—”

  “You’re not getting rid of me,” he says succinctly.

  Then shuts the door in my face.

  I stand there for a few frozen seconds, appalled that it’s come to this, when I had it all figured out. It was all settled, damn it! Jamie and I were doing so well. Finally, at last, we were creating a happy, fulfilled future together. The fear had lessened.

  Standing here, I’m utterly heartbroken to realize that Easton’s right.

  I want him with me, even as our future crumbles.

  29

  Easton

  My hearing’s going in and out.

  I worked hard to listen to Taryn. It was the most important conversation we’ve ever had, and her voice siphoned through my head like pasta sticking in the holes of a colander.

  I shut the door on her, since I couldn’t trust myself anymore. I just wanted to hook her against me, bury my nose in her scent, and remember that she ignites every other sense I have, even when the sound of her fails me.

  Taryn’s story, her past, remains in the air. I don’t need full hearing to understand that Taryn’s fought hard and still fights.

  I want to kill that fucking guy.

  Protecting her is more important than impulsive murder, so I use my unspent energy to scrawl a few lyrics, like I’m still a member of Nocturne Court.

  I am, damn it.

  * * *

  The bruises shadow,

  Your face is sunlight,

  I’m torn between,

  Dark and dream.

  * * *

  “Bah,” I grumble, and tear the sheet of paper from my notebook, tossing it somewhere over the kitchen counter.

  It’s hard to pull on creative threads when everything else in my life feels strict and scripted.

  Taryn’s in trouble.

  My band’s convinced I’m on drugs.

  My head is falling apart.

  A few hours pass with me on my stool, my guitar discarded at my feet, crumpled pieces of notebook paper forming a wayward pattern across my floor, and I’m forced to realize I’ve only been playing a waiting game. My mind’s better served at Taryn’s, since she’s all I can think about anyway.

  Her and her kid. A boy born deaf, who’s never heard sound, yet was nurtured and nourished by a mother with full hearing.

  “Can you guide me, too, Taryn?” I murmur into the air. “Or am I asking too much of what you’ve already been through?”

  I’m not gaining answers sitting here frowning into paper.

  My leather jacket’s discarded on another stool. I swipe it as I head to the door, pulling it on with every intention of maintaining control over the things I still can. My acoustic guitar comes next, strapped sideways over my back.

  Once on the street, I stop in front of my bike, frown well-chiseled onto my face.

  As sound swings from one ear to the other with a funneling, siren-like frequency, I don’t trust myself to ride it.

  I went years with no problems in my ears, then came a few moments with unpredictable clogs and blockages, but they were random and rare. Never before has it been so present and forceful as it has today.

  My stomach churns. I’m scared. No—I’m haunted by the near-certainty I’m going to wake up to permanent silence tomorrow.

  I itch for my drumsticks, for the remembrance of the beat, the draw of music, but there’s a larger yearning, and it blooms in my chest, almost banking the fear and luring me with the idea that if I have to wake up deaf, at least I can wake up with Taryn.

  Taryn opens the door, so it swings with a light wind, blowing pieces of her hair back, and I watch as they resettle into the thick blonde waves down her shoulders.

  Seeing.

  She smiles with a closed mouth in greeting, and I have the unrepentful urge to scrape my thumb across her lower lip. So, I do.

  Touching.

  As my fingers cup the side of her jaw, she encloses my hand with hers and squeezes. “Hey.”

  Taryn lowers my hand, and I draw my thumb to my mouth, the sweetness of her dewy gloss etching into the ridges of my fingerprint.

  Tasting.

  I bite my thumb firmly with my teeth, wishing it were her plump mouth against mine. Her eyes flare at the sight, but she otherwise remains composed.

  I drop my hand and ask, “Can I come in? Or were you serious about the stoop?”

  Her mouth moves, and I don’t catch the sound. I want to believe it’s because she’s whispering. “What’d you say?”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come,” Taryn says louder, but she steps aside. “After what I confessed.”

  “Wasn’t any worse than my confession,” I admit. “We both kept traumatic facts in our back pockets.”


  Taryn says something again, but my back is to her once I brush past. I turn to face her. “What?”

  Her stare is strained with worry, but I ignore it.

  “I said, we also both suck at timing.”

  “Oh, you had a fainting spell in front of a concert hall of nineteen thousand people, too?” I smile wryly, and she laughs.

  She laughs, and I hear it, and I sigh in relief.

  Taryn guides me out of the short hallway into her main room, and I catch a drift of her perfume, vanilla and sweet soap, and I breathe deep.

  Scent.

  Taryn gives me her profile. “Jamie’s still up.”

  I see him on the couch, nose buried in his tablet, but I stop Taryn with a light touch to her elbow. “Has your ex come by again?”

  Taryn shakes her head, her attention on her son. But her lips move with emphasis when she adds, “Jamie doesn’t know he’s around. I’d like to keep it that way…”

  “For as long as you can.” I squeeze her shoulder, the cotton of her sweater soft against my callouses. “Got it.”

  “Jamie,” Taryn says for my benefit as she moves forward and lightly smacks Jamie on the knee. “Look who’s here.”

  Jamie glances up and breaks into a grin, his adolescent teeth all askew and spaced out. It’s a feature I always think adds to the beguiling nature of a kid. Nobody should be adorable with scattered shark teeth, yet cute kids everywhere have ‘em.

  He signs, Hello, Awesome.

  I sign back, Hey.

  Jamie shows no sign of surprise, but glances at his mother, who nods. Jamie signs, Mom says you want to learn sign language.

  “I do,” I say, since I’m not exactly sure how to continue the conversation. I can understand it better than communicate with it.

  Taryn steps close to my side and murmurs, “I didn’t tell him why. He … you’re learning … for his benefit.”

  I don’t hear all of it but understand enough to nod. Jamie signs something, adding an eye-roll, and Taryn laughs.