Playing You: Players to Lovers, Book 4

by Allison, Ketley

  “Hey …” Rex hovers in my vision, his blond hair tangled around his shoulders. “What’s up, bud?”

  His words, at first coming from within a tunnel, become clear as the clouds disperse.

  “I’m … where am I?” I try to sit up, but Mason, standing on the other side of my—bed? Puts a hand on my shoulder and presses down.

  “Don’t move too much,” he says. “They don’t know all that’s wrong with you yet.”

  “Wrong?” I ask.

  Then it comes. The backlit city, the hot rumble of an engine between my thighs and the calm waters of the river below. The burning smell of rubber, then … silence.

  “How’s my bike?” I ask no one in particular.

  Wyn ambles up to the foot of the bed. He chuckles. “You’re laid out in a gurney and you’re asking about your wheels?”

  “It’s how I get around,” I say. “Plus, I don’t know if …” In a desperate sort of fear, I wiggle my toes. When I see the movement underneath the white sheet, I exhale in relief. “Oh, thank fuck.”

  “You took a major tumble, man,” Rex supplies. He tongues the corner of his mouth like he’s wishing for a cigarette, even though he quit four years ago. “Flipped your bike on the bridge and flew straight across a few stunned tourists hanging out on the walkway before hitting the net.”

  I grimace. “How bad am I?”

  “Not as bad as you could’ve been,” Mason says. His black hair is flat against one side of his head. With their recent hairstyles, I have the sneaking suspicion these guys have spent all night here. “You’ve got a broken collarbone and a few ribs, a fractured left tibia, and a sprained right ankle. Oh, and a fuckload of bruises.”

  “What the hell were you thinking, East?” Wyn says, and despite the warning looks from both Rex and Mason, continues. “You were flying across that bridge. A car behind you clipped your wheel, and you lost control. Both you assholes were way over the speed limit.”

  “How’s the driver of the other car?” I ask.

  “Hit the side rails, but that’s it,” Mason says. “Airbag broke her nose. Her friend in the passenger seat has a broken arm.”

  “They were from the concert,” Rex says. “Followed you from the venue.”

  “You were speeding because you were trying to get away from them, weren’t you?” Wyn asks. “I told you to up your security. Everybody’s been telling you—our publicist, our manager—you’re not fucking invincible—”

  “Enough,” Rex says at the same time I look away from Wyn and to the side. “Now’s not the time.”

  “He could’ve died. You could’ve died, East,” Wyn says.

  My answer is to exhale slowly.

  “Fine. Go back to your usual silent self. That’s the best way you deal with shit, isn’t it? This doesn’t deserve any explanation, anyway.” Wyn curls his lip, punches the side of my bed with an open fist, and stomps out of the room.

  I cover my wince at the jostle.

  Rex watches Wyn depart with a sigh. He says to Mason, “We should go, too.”

  Then he turns to me. “Your next wave of concerned citizens are waiting outside. The nurse wants to throw us all out on our asses, but your buds are determined.”

  “This was an honest accident,” I say before they go. “If I’ve screwed anything up …”

  “Forget it,” Mason says. He reaches up to scratch his buzzed scalp, a nervous tic.

  “Recover, then we’ll talk,” Rex adds.

  No one mentions the tour we’re supposed to go on in four weeks. I’m sick at the thought of fucking it up for these guys. Of fucking it up for myself.

  “I’ll make it,” I say. “We’ll be able to play in Europe.”

  “Yeah. Sure,” Mason says. Rex nods. Neither appear convinced.

  “Rest up, buddy,” Rex says. While he raises his hand in farewell, he adds, “Or maybe not. Your adoptive family is about to come in and ruin any sleep you could’ve had.”

  One side of my mouth ticks up into a smile, and as their broad backs fight for space in the doorway, I try to remember why we got together in the first place. Skinny, acne-ridden high school kids wanting to jam together. We weren’t budding rock stars desperate to maintain a social media following and stay relevant, not back then.

  A month without playing shouldn’t derail us, not logically. But in this world, where attention spans are the sizes of dust mite brains and everybody binges on food and entertainment, I can’t leave our careers to chance.

  I can play through broken ribs and a sprained ankle. Don’t give a shit about that. It’s my collarbone that’s the issue. I can’t raise my sticks when the very thought of lifting my index finger causes shooting pain up my arm.

  What’s it matter? You’re well into fucking it up for them, anyway.

  My frown is well-creased into my face by the time my brothers walk in: Locke, Ben and Ash. No blood relation, but they’re listed under my family tree regardless.

  “Holy shit,” Ash drawls in greeting. All his arm tats are exposed by a sleeveless shirt and ripped jeans. “And here I thought there couldn’t be any more drama within this group.”

  “It was only a matter of time,” Ben pipes in, clad in a plain white tee and jeans. “You know what they say about the quiet ones.”

  Locke draws up to my side first, laying a hand on my good shoulder. He says, with a grim line to his lips, “What the fuck, bro?”

  “I thought I had the bridge to myself,” I say as lame explanation. “I didn’t know there was anyone behind me.”

  “I hear that’s what bikes have mirrors for,” Ash says, ever the pragmatist.

  I swallow against his observation, unable—and unwilling—to explain in further depth why I missed the giant SUV gaining traction behind me.

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s done,” Ben says as he takes position on my other side. “We’re glad you’re okay.”

  “So am I.” I stare at my right arm in a sling. “Of a sort.”

  “You’ll be back with your band soon,” Locke assures. “All this? It’s physical. Thank fuck there’s no brain damage. Or worse. You’ll come back from this, East.”

  I listen to him, since how else am I supposed to communicate with a guy who had his entire career ended in one, swooping injury? But he has his daughter now to get him through it, and Carter, his girlfriend.

  In a moment of weakness I think, Maybe this won’t be so bad. I’ll lose a month, but it could be so much worse. And hell, if it weren’t for what I knew was the true reason behind the accident, I could believe it.

  “And hey,” Ben says. “You know we’re here for you. Ash will cook anything you desire. You feeling caramel soufflé? I hear he loves baking that shit.”

  Ash glares at Ben at the end of my bed.

  “I’ll be fine.” I grunt as I try to shift to a more comfortable position. “Pain killers are better than food, anyway.”

  “You say that now,” Ash says, arching a brow. “But wait until you get a load of my salted dark chocolate mousse.”

  And he means it.

  “Look guys, I know you’re concerned,” I say. “But it is what it is—a stupid accident. Everybody survived, so—”

  “Excuse me.”

  All eyes look to the uniformed man in the doorway.

  Ben is the first to speak. “Yes, officer?”

  “This Easton Mack’s room?” the policeman asks as he peers inside.

  I clear my throat. “That’s me.”

  The officer gestures to a person hovering behind him, a female officer that also steps through the doorway.

  “We’re going to have to ask everyone to leave,” the officer says.

  “Why?” Locke blurts out. “Our friend is injured. I don’t think he’s up for anything you have in mind.”

  “That’s not your call,” the female pipes in. BANCROFT is stenciled onto the nameplate on her uniform. “If you could step outside for a moment, Mister … “

  “Hayes. Locke Hayes. And we’re not going a
nywhere.”

  Ash asks, with an easy air, “You normally wanna talk to someone hopped up on pain meds?”

  “Again, not your call,” the male officer says. His nameplate reads FRAISER. “We’re kindly asking you to step outside the room for a moment while we ask Mr. Mack a few questions.”

  “Have his doctors approved this?” Ben asks. Typical of a man dating a lawyer.

  Both officers nod.

  “It’s all right,” I say, to diffuse the tension in the room. I have no idea why they’re here, and frankly, I’m too much in pain to care. “If they want information about the accident, I’ll give it to them.”

  “East,” Locke warns. Typical of a man related to a lawyer.

  “I’ve got nothing to hide,” I say. “Go. I’m sure you can come back in when they’re done.”

  Reluctantly, the boys depart, but not without a few wary glances at the officers.

  Despite the ridiculousness of our college youth, me and the guys have never had brushes with the law, and none of us quite know how to deal with two very serious looking police-people wandering into a hospital room after what could’ve been a deadly accident.

  Which, as far as I know, I didn’t fucking cause.

  “The driver of the SUV hit my back wheel,” I say as soon as my friends shut the door behind them. “I’m not sure what else you want to know.”

  The woman officer, Bancroft, wastes no words. “True. But what we’re more interested in is your blood alcohol level.”

  “My what?” I respond automatically. Without thinking. Without processing.

  “Bloodwork was done as soon as they brought you in, son,” Bancroft says. “You tested point oh-nine. Over the legal limit.”

  “I … “ Shit.

  I think back to last night and what I did and the way I played in front of the audience. The shots of whiskey kept coming after each set. The environment was addictive, screaming with beats and newfound fans, the aura of a star surrounding our stage as we went full throttle, uncaring of anything but the music. Not hearing anything but the slam of sticks on drumskin, guitar strings against picks, the brush of fingers against keyboard keys, and Rex’s voice amplified into the air.

  Not thinking. I wasn’t thinking at all.

  Oh, hell.

  4

  Taryn

  My heart’s in my throat as I submit the stipulation to the court.

  It was a simple click of the SUBMIT button on my computer, yet that one flick of my index finger contains my future.

  I hope, hopehopehope, the judge approves the delay of papers.

  Otherwise, my position here at CW&C will become very precarious. The years I spent in law school, proving to my family and myself that I could be independent, is a moot point if I can’t support them anymore.

  The pay in this position is amazing. The benefits even more so. And the heavy competition required to secure an associate’s salary at this firm? Met—with a lot of sacrifices in between—but worth it. Same with securing a scholarship at Harvard Law. And working night shifts at a twenty-four hour diner so I could continue bringing in a paycheck while I went to law school.

  I’m too desperate to continue maintaining a comfortable nest egg. If, worse case, I’m fired, I’ll be looking for an immediate position as a barista. New York City is a battlefield of law school grads and newly minted attorneys who’ve just passed the bar. My chances of scoring a similar job at another firm is close to none. Even securing this one was mostly by chance.

  Forget that—seasoned attorneys are desperate for work. The city is cut-throat, clad in the torn and twisted bodies of the lawyers it keeps spitting out all over its gray, concrete streets.

  A missed deadline. That’s all it’ll take. A simple mistake …

  To ruin it all.

  I moan, leaning into my desk and scrunching my eyes shut before pushing away and rising. A few cold splashes of water on my face could help these next few seconds, before I lose the peanut butter toast I had for breakfast.

  Striding out of my office (a recent upgrade from a cubicle I received as a bonus from my boss, Yang, this year), I notice the hush that’s fallen over the grid of cubicles in the main area. I keep my pace, but peek over one of the cubicle walls and notice an intern scrolling through an entertainment site. The headline he’s paused at reads, RISING STAR EASTON MACK SHOOTS STRAIGHT OFF A BRIDGE (ALMOST).

  Nothing like celebrity fodder to distract from the constant dry material heaved their way all day—and most nights.

  The rest of the article is too small a font for me to read, but I assume this is why the interns and first year associates are quiet and digging into their late breakfasts, glued to their screens.

  Then, on a first year’s screen in the next cubicle, I read: LARGEST FENTANYL BUST IN HISTORY TIED TO CHAVEZ DRUG RING.

  There’s a hitch in my step, but I cover it and keep walking when the associate glances up. Frowning, he pulls his laptop closer to his body.

  The one thing more interesting than celebrity mishaps in this office? The fight over who gets to assist Yang in the defense of prolific clients of CW&C’s. Namely, Enrique Chavez, a slippery crime lord who can’t be cuffed, in large thanks to this firm. Manhattan’s Commissioner is the first to sling curses our way.

  As I’m passing the bank of elevators, I notice Astor stepping off one, her face paler than usual. She spots me and on instinct, I slow my step.

  “How’d it go yesterday?” I ask.

  In answer, she gently hooks my elbow and directs us to the restroom. I study the side of her face, the tenseness around her eyes, the tight draw of her lips, as we walk.

  “Is everything okay at the hospital? Is Easton all right?” I try asking, but get no response.

  The article describing Easton’s accident hovers behind my vision. Easton’s potential demise. I’ve never really met him but know his songs like I’ve written them myself. I can recite them verbatim. Oh, it’d be such a loss if he were hurt worse than what’s in the press. I’m aching at the thought, my heart emitting hollow beats at the idea of who I’d have to break the news to.

  “Astor, you’re scaring me,” I say.

  It’s not until we’re in the bathroom and Astor’s checked all the empty stalls before she speaks. “We have a problem.”

  My brain’s already working out the details. “About Easton or Chavez?”

  Indecipherable emotion skitters across Astor’s features. “What do you mean, about Chavez?”

  “The first years are all over it.” I vaguely point behind me, in the direction of the cubicles behind the locked restroom door. “A large amount of Fentanyl has been seized. The press is linking it to Chavez. I’m sure Yang will dole out—”

  “This isn’t about Chavez,” Astor says. She chews on her lower lip like the problem should be about Chavez, but she pushes it aside. “East’s in trouble.”

  “How hurt is he?”

  “Not terrible,” Astor says. “Some broken bones, bruises, a sore ego, but he’ll live.”

  “That’s great news,” I say. I’m physically relieved at the thought that he’ll make music again. “So what’s the trouble?”

  “The idiot was drunk,” Astor says. “He drove his bike drunk.”

  “Shit.” I rest a hip against the nearest sink. I never assumed the future music he’d make would be in a jail cell.

  It’s pointless to ask how much over the legal limit he was, since if you’re over the limit, you’re screwed either way. Judges do not look kindly on drunk drivers, even if they aren’t the direct cause of the accident.

  “I was going to take the case,” Astor says, “As a favor to my brother. I’m pissed enough to punt it, since East is a fucking moron, but I love him too much to do so.”

  I nod. “I’m here to help. Whatever you need.”

  For as long as I’m an employee in this firm, anyway, I think darkly.

  “Actually, I need a lot more than assistance.” Astor scrubs her face, glances at the mirror in a s
igh, then back to me. “This new Chavez thing … I want to be on top of it. I need to know what’s going on. If I’m to get on the case, I have to become Yang’s new bff.”

  Again. Since last year, Astor’s been deeply focused on everything and anything to do with Chavez that circulates this firm. Obsessed is the better term, but she’s so good at the details and assisting Altin Yang that nobody notices just how invested she is, except for me. I’d helped on the initial case regarding the unsolved murder of a family in the nineties and the boy who’d survived, then disappeared into the stratosphere. There was a moment when I’d thought Astor was so committed, it had to be personal. I was certain something Chavez did involved her family or friends … but, there was no proof, and Astor’s considered too much of an asset to this firm to question.

  If I wanted to commit career suicide, then I’d look into it deeper, but as we all know at this point, I’m terrified to lose my job.

  “There won’t be time to work on East’s case,” Astor says. “Since I’m not making it official to this firm. I was going to do it on the side, but—”

  “Say no more.” I straighten from the sink and level my shoulders. “I’ll do it.”

  “You will?” Astor genuinely sags at my declaration. “Thank you, Taryn. Seriously, thank you.”

  I shake off her gratitude, but inside, I’m beaming at the thought that I’ll have Astor in my corner if my current case goes off the rails and I’m sitting in front of Yang.

  “It sounds like a cut-and-dry DUI involving a celebrity,” I say. “I’ll talk to Easton this afternoon, then get on the phone with the prosecutor this evening. We’ll work something out.”

  “But remember, it’s Easton,” Astor reminds. “My friend and also a guy the media continues to gossip about … “

  “I’ll be tactful,” I say. “And do my damndest to keep it out of the courtroom.”

  “I hope so,” Astor says. She steps forward like she’s about to hug me, but second guesses herself before the act.

  That’s the thing with Astor. I think we can be friends, then she quickly ushers me into the co-worker corner.