Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  “Mistake,” he whispers into my mouth, though his voice is clogged and unsure. “Mistake for you to leave.”

  When I draw back, he adds, Don’t run. I can help. Stay.

  I comb back his hair from his forehead, regarding him sadly. You have so much more to live for than me. You need to get better.

  And I. Easton pauses. Thinks for a moment. Have you. To help better me. We better each other. We awful people alone.

  I laugh, despite my determination to do the opposite. Jamie.

  Easton’s attention lingers over Jamie’s small, vulnerable form in the queen-sized bed. He then asks me, Will Jamie be better somewhere else? Or danger everywhere? Better here. Better with friends. Family. Protect you.

  “Ah,” I say, and nod sagely. “So that’s how you found me. Astor.”

  Easton smiles.

  I’ve done this alone for so long, I say.

  And I’ve traveled five thousand fucking steps of foot, Easton signs slowly, to keep tell you, you don’t have to be alone anymore.

  I can’t help grinning. It seems Easton became fluent at cursing in sign language as soon as he could.

  But I sober. I didn’t ask—

  Easton catches my wrists but softens the harshness by turning them over to expose my palms and kisses the heel of each hand. He folds them into my lap, squeezes them, then signs, Let me be with you. Let us be together.

  I nearly waver then. At the earnestness in his stare and the glowing afternoon sun behind us, softening my edges and making me believe that I could start fresh here. With Easton, with Jamie, with all the people who’d be willing to raise their defenses. Astor. My boss. Easton’s bandmates and friends.

  Sensing the vulnerability, Easton latches on. Bryan will not have you. WILL NOT. I will protect. Jamie will protect.

  At my arched brow, Easton adds, He growing into man. Can’t keep him baby. You know that.

  I do. I hate it, but I do. Yet, the last memory I have of Jamie is him clutching his tattered teddy bear as his father beat me to the ground.

  He’s so young still, I say. I will keep him sheltered as long as I can.

  Then so will I, Easton says. I am here.

  On a sigh, I cuddle close to him, resting my forehead in the nook of his neck, unwilling to keep arguing, but also unwilling to commit.

  Besides, Easton signs. Who will help me with plant?

  I furrow my forehead. Plant?

  Easton lets out a frustrated sound, then tries again. Mid. Mid-plant.

  I straighten from the nook of his body. Do you mean implant?

  He gives a curt nod.

  “Easton,” I whisper. “Are you sure? But you said…”

  Your boy changed my mind. Then, with a small smile, Easton uses a name sign for Jamie and curves his dominant hand slightly over his head. Sunshine.

  That does it. I’m blubbering. With shaking fingers, I say, You asshole. You know exactly what you’re doing.

  Easton nods and grips my waist, bringing me as close as possible to his body, as if to tell me his drummer’s body, the solid muscle, is not and will not go anywhere anytime soon.

  I sign, knowing the enormity of what I’m doing, but deciding he deserves it anyway, I love you, too.

  Easton’s mouth parts, his stare goes dark, and the air thickens with such promise that I have to physically hold my hands back from stripping off my shirt. Exposing my bruises and flaws, yes. Angering him at the reminder of the beating, for certain. But it tells him I’m his. Flaw and beauty, stretch marks and vulnerability. Woman and mother.

  I hope my kiss shows this to Easton. The way I hold his shoulders, my fingers drawing in, the moment I clutch him and explain, without words, through only body, that I will.

  I have to stay.

  I can’t leave him. Running from danger can never be as sweet as finding home.

  We pull back from the kiss with our foreheads touching. Easton strokes my cheek, tenderly healing the cuts and bruises, and that’s all the answer I need.

  He knows.

  A brushing of sheets, of skin on skin, catches my attention and I turn to see Jamie sitting up, his wiry, skinny chest exposed and his hair more haystack than human.

  He asks, with bleary eyes, Did he just call me Sunshine?

  I can’t hold back the laughter this time, even though this probably means Jamie witnessed the whole conversation. And the kissing.

  I knew he was going to hate it, I sign to Easton, who subtly gives my ass a squeeze.

  This time when Easton grins, he shows his teeth.

  38

  Easton

  Three Months Later

  You suck, Limpdick Pete.

  The dude can’t understand sign language, so I add a few more expletives as he blasts away on drumskin, and I sit in the corner of the studio, watching the horror play out.

  “Subtle, homie. Real subtle,” Rex says dryly beside me.

  Unlike Limpdick Pete, both my bandmates and my college crew have decided to take up American Sign Language at their local community centers, so I can no longer insult them to their faces without their knowing.

  It was a fun few months, though.

  “For the millionth time,” Rex continues, “this is just for now. As soon as you have your confidence back, you’ll be in the recording room, not Pete.” Rex mutters the last part. “Still gotta pay him, though.”

  I fidget with my cochlear implant, a giant plastic thing behind my ear and attached to my scalp, and I’m still not used to the thing. Every single person sounds the same, very robotic.

  It fucked so hard with my musical capabilities, but at least I was prepared for that. With Jamie’s help and my past experience, I got the sound of drumbeats back. I was able to play our tracks, not expertly, but adequately, and I’m confident it will come back with practice, and I’ll join Nocturne Court on stage again.

  I was also willing to give up the guitar, and the keyboard, and all the other instruments I could no longer register. Since the alternative was not getting the CI and hearing nothing for the rest of my life, it seemed a viable option. Especially since I spent two brutal months completely deaf and nearly killing myself in various situations, almost all involving a traffic violation of some sort.

  What I was not prepared for, was how I’d never hear Taryn the same away again.

  I roared with frustration when the procedure was done, nearly bursting my deaf eardrums, because as soon as Taryn spoke to me in the recovery room, she became nothing but an electric current within the tunnels of my ears.

  Her cries, listening to her sounds during sex, all gone. But, as Taryn pointed out, I could at least note that she was talking.

  She also made sure (once I calmed down enough and didn’t have to be restrained) to remind me that I could still understand her pleasure. The night I came home, and Jamie was strategically upstairs at Harper’s, she held my hand to her throat like before, and pulled my other deep into her pussy, forcing me to experience my other senses as a reminder that, no matter how electric she sounded, we could still knock out a breaker switch with our voltage.

  About a month after her hotel stay, Taryn and Jamie moved into my apartment. It took some convincing and ensuring that Jamie could stay at his school, but Taryn wasn’t too keen on remaining where she was with Jamie anyway. There was a tearful good-bye with the neighbor, Harper, but those tears didn’t last long. She’s been at my place at least six hundred and twenty times since Taryn moved out, but I gotta admit, I like her. She’s funny, kind, and throws punches when it comes to teaching my friends proper sign language.

  When they’re all gathered together, it’s especially hard to pick out voices from a crowd, and sign language is still needed. I’m also determined to communicate fluently and perfectly with Jamie, who puts us all to shame with his seamless, graceful hand movements, not to mention how quickly he’s catching onto drums.

  “Hey there,” Taryn says as she pads into the studio. “Coffee, as requested.”

  She ha
nds me the paper cup, and I mutter, “Is there booze in it?”

  “Of course not.” She perkily sits down beside me. “You’re just gonna have to suck it up and watch Limpdick Pete ruin your songs while completely and utterly sober.”

  “Tyrant,” I grumble.

  Taryn chuckles, and I can’t resist her sexy mischief and hook her in for a kiss. “How’d it go this morning?”

  “Oh. You know.” Taryn shrugs and sips her coffee.

  My eyes go skyward. “You gotta give me more than that, babe.”

  Taryn shifts to get more comfortable, and I note that she draws closer to me, like she’s aiming for comfort. “Astor was there, thankfully, and Bryan was not. The restraining order Astor got us is still in full effect. Just his team of lawyers were there. They started off tough, saying they were going for full custody, I wasn’t getting anything from Bryan’s finances, I was a basically the legal definition of a slut and a whore and blah blah blah.”

  My thoughts go lethal. “Whose ass is gonna house my drumstick later?”

  “It’s standard form, really, when there’s a divorce. The first attempt is to turn the woman into a hussy, but come on, do you really think Astor—or I—was going to tolerate that?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “So.” Taryn settles her shoulders primly. “We told them where they could suck it.”

  “In those exact terms, I hope.”

  “Sadly, no, we were more official about it. That man scared me to death, beat me senseless, and made me feel like I had no home to go to, that Jamie would never be safe unless I went on the run.”

  I wrap my arm around her shoulder, bringing her near. I kiss her temple and murmur, “I know, sweetheart. I almost lost you to it.”

  “Therefore, we made it clear that if Bryan wanted any of those things, we’d send all the pictures we had of my cuts and bruises, including hospital records, to every media outlet we could find. With Astor’s sports connections through her brother, and my connections through you, we had a few key members of the press in mind. And it wouldn’t matter if Bryan said they were fake, if his people called me a liar. Once that information is out there, his run for Senate is done. And it wouldn’t be my scheming that lost him the seat, it would be his uncontrollable temper, his narcissistic ego, and his limp fucking dick that cost him.”

  I proudly kiss her temple and draw her back so I can look her in the eye and say, “‘Atta girl. We hate limpdicks.”

  “It took every ounce of restraint I had not to leap over the table, tangle all their ties together, and watch them bang their heads trying to get out of the stranglehold.”

  I grow serious, pulling her onto my lap and cupping her chin. “You, my strong-ass woman, handled it wonderfully. I’m proud of you.” I venture to ask, “Is it finally over?”

  Taryn searches my eyes. “I don’t know. I hope so. I’ve certainly kept him at bay, and he won’t be asking for custody, nor will he be contesting the divorce. Astor and I will make sure of that. So, it’s as over as it can be, until … well, if and when Jamie starts asking about his dad. I can’t deny him that.”

  I look over Taryn’s shoulder, to where Jamie’s happily pointing and asking about the sound equipment, the sound mixers and producers doing the best they can to explain the controls to him without using their voices.

  “Jamie’s seen more than he ever should,” I say. “But I think he’s okay with his mom and her rocker boyfriend for now, don’t you?”

  Taryn squeezes my cheeks with one hand, pursing my lips, and lays on her own with a smack. “You couldn’t have said it better.”

  And she couldn’t be more right. As I lean my head back and scan my surroundings, I think there’s no way I could have it better.

  Wyn and Mason are arguing about something in the corner.

  Rex is standing with his arms crossed, watching Pete lay down the drum keys … for now.

  Jamie can’t restrain himself from pushing one button, just one, and sending the whole board into a black out. Sorry, Pete.

  Ben, Astor, Locke, and Carter, Ash and Sophie, and all their rugrats are waiting for us at Ben’s place, readying for a Sunday family barbecue after we’re done here.

  And I get to listen to all of it.

  I have some semblance of hearing back.

  I have my career an arm’s length away.

  I have Jamie. I have her.

  And I have us.

  Thank you for reading the PTL series! The players may be off the market, but what about the rockers? Keep reading for an exclusive sneak peek into Rex’s story, Sing to Me! Available for preorder now!

  Sneak Peek of Sing to Me

  REX

  She’s late.

  I file that flaw under my Not Good Enough mental checklist, a list that’s taking up major real estate in my brain, and I haven’t even met Harper Mei yet.

  But if this girl can’t hack the simple concept of time, it’s better I cause her to run for the city skyscrapers than waste even one second meeting her—never mind coming within feet of my daughter.

  “Time check?” I growl to Patrice, who doesn’t flinch in the face of Cranky Rex. Nor has she ever made a T-Rex joke, and I respect her for it.

  “Miss Mei is about twenty minutes behind her interview time, but there’s some kind of problem in the subway due to the rain. Could be why.”

  “I don’t care.” I relax into a white leather sofa chair in the middle of my expansive living room, with floor-to-ceiling windows spanning a Hudson river view. All three bridges, as well as the Brooklyn skyline, sit with us on this summer evening, the river misting underneath from the splattering rain.

  A knock on the door draws me out of my storm-fueled grumble, and I lift out of my chair to answer it, gesturing at Patrice to sit tight.

  Another, more furtive knock sounds as I stride into the foyer.

  “Oh, now your time is valuable?” I say, loud enough for the person on the other side to hear. “Hang on a damn second.”

  I swing the door open, and a child greets me.

  Her earthy brown eyes rise to meet mine.

  “This isn’t the season for Girl Scout cookies,” I say.

  Those same eyes narrow. “Wow, a short joke. I never get those.”

  “You look old enough to be someone’s prom date.”

  “And you look like you should’ve been an extra on the set of the Aquaman movie.” She blinks. “So I guess we both missed our calling.”

  I frown. My hair’s down and I’m considered a large, tall man, but…

  “I’d argue I’m more Tarzan-ish than ocean man-fish,” I say.

  “And I’d argue that my height makes me spry and able to corner toddlers under tables,” she quips.

  I say with an unintentional smile, “I’m guessing you’re Harper.”

  “That’s me.”

  I angle my head. “You’re wet.”

  Harper licks her dampened lips, and the movement causes the water droplets to sparkle against her cheeks. Her short black hair is as sleek and shiny as a seal pup, and her basic leather jacket shimmers and squeaks as she breathes. But I notice the open V of her lavender t-shirt underneath, and the alluring peak of her hardened nipples.

  “I forgot my umbrella,” she says, her words drawing my gaze back to hers.

  I clear my throat and step aside.

  Harper doesn’t move. Despite resembling a barnacle that’s washed up on the East River’s shore, her posture shouts confidence and a complete lack of embarrassment. Even as a stray teardrop falls from her hairline and slides down to the tip of her nose, she doesn’t blink or brush it away. Her chin remains stubbornly jutted out.

  She’s caught my notice, and not entirely because she was personally recommended by Easton and Taryn. Of the five girls I’ve interviewed today alone, Harper Mei is the only one who hasn’t tittered at the door in damp, see-through sundresses, asking to use my bathroom to “freshen up.”

  And then go through all my stuff to see if there’s any s
ouvenirs.

  “Come on in,” I say.

  Her shoes slurp with sound as she steps over the threshold.

  “Rex.” Patrice’s voice comes from the living area, where she’s still sitting. “Grab her a towel, maybe?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” I give a curt nod, turn to the half-bath I have somewhere in this hallway, and grab a hand towel.

  Harper takes it without complaint the moment my mind thinks that maybe a hand towel after a storm is about as good as a washcloth after a jump in the pool.

  “Uh … can I get you something bigger?” I ask as Harper wipes her face and scrunches her hair in the small towel.

  She shakes her head. “Not if you don’t mind a giant wet spot on your couch.”

  Is she joking? I can’t tell if she’s joking.

  I motion her into the main room and remind myself that she’s in my territory and there’s no explicable reason for the weird vibrations hanging out between us.

  “This is Patrice,” I say as we hit the open area and Patrice comes into view. “Stella’s current nanny. She’ll be leaving us in a few weeks.”

  “So I heard.” Harper shakes off her jacket and hangs it delicately on the arm of my couch, making me wonder if I should’ve taken it from her at the entrance and hung it up, like a true gentleman would. Unfortunately, I’m no chivalrous gent.

  “Ah…” Patrice blinks hard, then pays particular attention to the floor. I glance at Harper, wondering what—

  Oh.

  Harper’s breasts are in full, damp, molded effect. I blink too, but a lot more slowly.

  Patrice jumps up, considering I’ve lost what little powers of communication I had. “You must be chilly, Harper. Let me get you a blanket to wrap yourself up in.”

  “It’s okay,” Harper says, brushing her hair back from her face, a succulent, small breast lifting with the movement. “I’m—”

  Harper’s eyes stray to mine, and the tendons in my neck go hard once she’s figured out where I’m looking.