Now I’m not sure if she was grimacing on the other end. If that was her attempt, then maybe I was the better flirt. Not to mention …
“You know one of my songs?” I asked.
Another hitch in sound. “Doesn’t everybody? You’re all over the streaming services and countdowns.”
“Yeah, but … Heartfall isn’t one of our singles. Not yet, but I want it to be. It’s my favorite song I wrote.”
“Oh, well—” Taryn cleared her throat, that ridiculously, adorably, sexy sound she made upon first meeting her. “I mean, I think one of my interns had it playing on their laptop the other night.”
She couldn’t see, so I raised a brow and grinned at the same time. “Ah. That must be it.”
“Anyway, um, I’ll let the other side know about Nocturne Court participating. I’ll talk to you—”
“Are we still on for that date?”
“Date?” she echoed.
“Yeah, that thing my friend Ash pushed us into, but I’m kinda not mad about.”
Was that me flirting again? As Ben would say, Yowza.
“Right, right…” She drifted off, and there was some sort of shift in sound, a clog, scuffle, something brushing against her speaker maybe. Taryn sounded muffled as she continued to speak.
“Taryn?” I asked. “I can’t really hear you.”
More muffled sounds. I squinted—as if that could help—my ear aching from how tightly I was holding the phone to it.
“I’m back, sorry,” she said, much clearer. “There’s something I have to deal with. Can we—hang on.”
Silence. Did she put me on hold? Mute?
Taryn came back on, a hell of a lot more rushed. “I’m dealing with something right now. Could I—could we—”
I blurted it before I could rethink it. “Text me your address. I’ll pick you up.”
“What? Oh, sure. I mean no. No, don’t pick me up. I can meet you at the restaurant. Text me the details and I’ll be there.”
“So it’s a date.”
Another scuffle, this time sounding like the phone was dropped.
“Taryn?”
She came back on the line, out of breath. “Yes, yes, it’s a date. I have to go, Easton. I’ll see you later.”
“Great. I’ll—”
Click.
I cut myself off before I continued to speak into dead air.
That.
That was the entirety of the conversation I got to hold onto for ten more days. Shaking my head in remembrance, it’s hard to believe I got a yes from her in the first place.
Taryn Maddox is definitely not a groupie.
But … maybe she’s a fan.
11
Taryn
I am monumentally unprepared for my so-called date tonight.
I’m so panicked that I’ve resorted to allowing Harper to do my make-up.
Harper Mei, who prefers black kohl eyeliner and red lips as the “natural look.”
“Is this a good idea?” I say to her, even though she’s practically smooshed my lips shut. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”
“It’s a great one.” Harper’s eyes literally gleam. “I haven’t seen you go out with any type of man in six years. Six years, T. That’s a type of celibacy that gives me post-traumatic stress disorder just thinking about it.”
I glare. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“But I am not you,” Harper amends. “You can get by with no sex for years.”
“Still not sure where the compliment lies in that statement.”
Harper blows out a breath and switches from my lips to sketch on my eye. “I mean to say, you’ve got a helluva lot more going on in your life than dating apps and part-time jobs. A crazy demanding career, a high-maintenance kid, bills that your parents don’t pay for you…” She leans back, studies her work. “It’s a lot.”
“On my face, or on my plate?”
Harper angles her head and squints. “Both.”
I scramble for a mirror. “You better not have made me into one of those anime characters you and Jamie love watching. Oh …” I say. “Wow.”
Harper winks. “Anime characters rock, in case you were asking. And yes, I used Lucy Heartfilia as my muse.”
No idea who that is, but Harper’s lined my eyes, not heavily, and has done something where my lashes are strategically thickened, widening my gaze. My cheeks are flushed, my lips stained, and my long blonde hair textured and wavy.
And my boobs are out in a low-cut navy dress.
“Spritz,” Harper says, holding up my perfume. “Then you’ll be finis.”
“Harp, this is amazing. I haven’t looked like this good since …” Since my husband. “Since I can remember.”
As I rise from my vanity table in my bedroom, Harper steps close and hugs me tight. “Next time, don’t wait so long. It feels good to dress up and look hotter than normal every once and a while.”
Once and a while … like I’ve ever had the time for once, never mind a while.
“It’ll be nice,” I say, instead of being a Debbie Downer when Harper took time out of her evening to help me and Jamie. “To go out on the town again.”
“Uh, hold up.” Harper stops me from stepping out of the bedroom. “You aren’t just going out on the town like a fifties schoolmarm. You have a date with a hot rocker god who has the body of a sexy beach lifeguard and the voice of a raspy jaguar. If you don’t acknowledge the fact that you just might get to see a famous guy’s dick tonight, I’m not letting you leave this property.”
“Harper,” I admonish.
“What? J can’t hear us. He’s off in tablet land again—” She catches herself. “I—I didn’t mean it like that. I meant …”
“I know what you meant,” I say in a gentle voice. “Regardless, I don’t want to get in the habit of talking about inappropriate things when he’s around. Even if he’s in a different room.”
“Noted. And respected.” But Harper can’t resist adding, “However, my demand that you see Easton Mack’s penis still stands. Hey—you can’t get mad at that. That’s the scientific term for a man’s reproductive organ.”
“I quit cursing in this house a long time ago, but you’re making me regret it.”
Harper grins.
We head out of my bedroom in search of Jamie, so I can say goodbye. I’m not telling him I’m going on a date, since I vowed never to bring a male around Jamie until I was certain it was a long-term thing.
He’d already lost his father. I wasn’t about to get him attached to another male influence with the prospect he might be torn away again.
“Remember,” I say to Harper before turning the knob on Jamie’s door. “Don’t mention who I’m going out with. Don’t mention Easton Mack. Do not say Nocturne Court.”
Harper touches the roof of her mouth with her tongue. “Right. I forgot J’s a big fan. Do you realize how big a hero you’d be if he knew who you were meeting? Even as a friend?”
“Easton and I are meeting as friends, as far as I’m concerned.”
If I’m the type who imagines their friends naked and where they might have tattoos.
I clear my throat, saying instead, “I don’t want to mention it to Jamie yet. Easton’s … shy.”
Harper rolls her eyes. “The rocker god is shy?”
I’m about to argue that it’s not Easton I’m trying to protect. I have a deep-seated need to shield Jamie from everything and everyone. It takes a lot for me to introduce people to him, save for Harper, who made the choice for me by running into both me and Jamie while the movers were hauling in boxes. But other than her, there’s no one in my New York City life who’s met my son. Not even Astor, whom I suppose is the closest thing to a friend I have.
Our lives and what we’ve run from don’t allow for close company.
“Like you said,” I say to Harper, then press a button that will flash a red light in Jamie’s room. “This is some much-needed ‘me’ time. Let’s not complicate thi
ngs by involving Jamie just yet.”
“You’re the boss,” Harper says, and follows me into Jamie’s room.
* * *
I leave Jamie and Harper huddled together on the couch watching the latest sci-fi fantasy movie. Harper shares Jamie’s love for all things otherworldly, and I’m glad he’s found someone with the same interest, since to him, I’m a hopeless cause of facts and logic, ruining most plot points.
Easton texted me the restaurant he’d made us reservations at. Part of me wondered if he’d book us at his friend Ash’s place, Apron, that just received a James Beard award for Best New Restaurant.
As soon as I think it, I grimace. I know way too much about Easton already, and I’m probably a fool to think I can date him.
I catch a cab to the West Village to a small Mexican restaurant, known for its soft tacos and spicy margaritas. After paying the cabbie, I step up to the awning and push through a heavy, velvet black curtain to get inside.
The marble bar is decorated with tea light candles and mirrored shelving highlights the multitude of tequila and mezcal to choose from. It’s not crowded yet, since places like these don’t see their clientele until after 9 PM. Yet, I prefer it this way, with a few patrons dawdling in their seats or slung over barstools, the instrumental music a soft background to their conversations.
Easton is seated at the far corner of the bar, and my heels are the loudest sound as I stride over to him.
He glances up from the menu, and the hand he was using to idly spin his water glass comes to a halt.
Maybe I over-dressed. Harper’s anime character inspiration was probably too much, because Easton’s staring at me like he’s never met me before.
I fidget, pulling down the hem of my dress, then realizing that probably pushes my boobs way too forward. So I stop. Rest a stupid hand on my hip. Frozen. Awkward.
His sculpted lips bloom into a smile. “Hey there.”
Forcing my arms to relax at my sides, I reply, “Uh … hi. It looks like your arm and shoulder healed up great.”
Easton’s straddling the barstool like he’s a laidback cowboy on a horse. Or, since we’re in the city, the way he probably straddles his bike. I’m envisioning him this way on his motorcycle, idling curbside, black denim stretched tight over his—
He says, “Wanna sit?”
Harper’s right. It’s been waaaay too long since I’ve sucked on the taste of man-candy.
I scuttle over to his side. “Sure. Yes.”
“I’m not sure how casual you wanted this to be, so I chose the bar. But we could get a table if you want a proper conversation over dinner.”
“Actually, this is fine,” I say while scooting onto a stool, and as I glance around, it is. There’s less pressure at a bar, like one could depart at any time without the same kind of excuses that would have to be made if you were seated table-side, a napkin draped over your legs, facing your date over wine and water glasses.
Lord knew what Jamie and Harper would get up to these next few hours, so I rest my phone on the bar, face up.
Easton notices. “Expecting some work calls?”
“Oh—ah, it’s habit. I’m sorry.”
He nods. “I know how it is. Ben’s always saying Astor’s phantom limb is her phone.” He scrunches his brows. “I don’t mean that as an insult.”
Warming to our mutual discomfort, I smile. “So, you must be happy to have the DWI threat off the table. Have you heard anything from the SUV driver’s family?”
Easton doesn’t respond immediately, instead signaling the bartender to come over and take our drink orders. It gives me time to realize that in the span of two minutes, we’ve both referenced my work. I doubt he’s asked me out for legal advice over tequila and tacos, and I’m inwardly cringing at my complete inability to let go of professionalism and get to know a cute guy.
Deep breaths. My chest rises with a big inhale. “So, tell me how Nocturne Court got started.”
Oh GOD. Am I on a speed date now? Might was well ask him what his favorite color is. I want to facepalm myself.
The bartender waves that he’ll be over in a minute, so Easton faces me, seemingly unfazed by my completely amateur question. “Rex and I got together when we were fourteen. I just played the acoustic guitar then, and he was getting into electric. He caught me during math class writing down lyrics instead of equations. And instead of laying me out for it, he asked if he could try to match my song lyrics to some guitar strings after school. Wyn and Mason came a few years later—”
The bartender comes over, and we both order margaritas on the rocks, mine guava, his with extra jalapeños.
“Anyway,” Easton continues, “We completed our band in senior year. When we realized we had four kinds of guitar players but nothing else, I switched to drums and Wyn agreed to learn keyboard, to sort of complete the instrumentals.”
“You just …switched to drums?” I take a sip of my water then set it down. “Isn’t that one of the hardest instruments to play?”
“Yeah.”
In fact, Jamie was desperate to learn it, especially after hearing one of Easton’s solos. I put the kibosh on that as soon as the thought marinated in his soon-to-be preteen head.
Easton waits for our margaritas to be set down in front of us. “But music has always been easy for me. I guess I have an affinity for it.”
My lips pull to each side. “Not many people can say they ‘just kinda learned’ drums. When did you start doing gigs?”
“Maybe a few months out of high school.”
“See? That’s amazing. A frickin’ amazing feat. You’re really talented, Easton.”
Easton shifts, raising his drink and almost downing half of it in one sip. “Tell me about you. You’re not a NYC native. Where’d you come from?”
I try to appear relaxed as I reach for my margarita, giving myself something to do other than clam up. “Ohio.”
Easton studies me more carefully, doing nothing to relieve the tension. “Whereabouts?”
“Cleveland.”
“And … when did you come to the city?”
I will my throat to be less swollen as Easton asks these completely innocuous questions. He must be thinking our date has turned into an interrogation, the way I’m gritting out one-word answers.
But he’s just a man. One who’s interested in me. He has no ulterior motives regarding my past. I remind myself that the conversation is completely G-Rated and I can reply with vanilla-flavored cupcake information, no decadent sins in sight.
I say, “I came here when I was twenty-six, when I finished law school at Harvard. I scored a job at one of the best law firms in the country, and couldn’t say no. It took some finagling, lots of student loans, and living in a closet for an apartment, but w—I made it through.”
“A Harvard grad, huh?” Easton lifts his drink in mock cheers. “You’re a lawyer, so I knew you were smart. But didn’t know you’d approached genius territory.”
I laugh. “The way you get music? That’s me with academics. It comes naturally.” I lift my own drink. “I’m a nerd who loves to study.”
He says jokingly, “So instead of being an engineering astronaut, you chose the law.”
I swallow. “Sometimes being a lawyer is one big study session. Constantly learning, memorizing case law and good arguments. I scored my dream job, and three years into it, it might just be paying off.”
Easton angles his head. “You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”
“I …” Waving off my sudden downturn, I recover by saying, “It’s an insane amount of work. There’s a lot more verbal abuse and I’m in the type of firm that favors men, but I’m surviving. I’m great at what I do. I’ll thrive.”
Easton smiles. “I’ve no doubt.”
My margarita’s empty. How’d that happen? Chewing on my lower lip, I signal for more liquid courage.
Easton takes one last sip of his own drink, leaving only ice behind. “Tell me how you really know Heartfall.”
/> The change in subject causes me to shift my attention from the bartop to him. “What do you mean?”
There’s a shade of mischievousness behind his eyes. “I don’t think you heard it from an intern.”
I understand what he’s doing. But what Easton doesn’t know is that this lighter topic actually makes me more uncomfortable. I’m not ready to tell him about Jamie. “It must have been at a party, or playing at a friend’s house, I don’t know. But the drum beats stopped me short.”
His brows rise. “Really?”
How can I explain this? I lick my lips. “I have a … different way of listening to music. I like to feel it in the walls. On the floorboards. Sometimes I’ll lay my hand against the wall like this.” I splay my fingers out on the varnished bar. “And get the vibrations that way.”
I think I’ve rendered him speechless, the way he’s staring at me.
He blinks himself out of it.
“So you’re saying …” Easton lays his fingertips on the top of my hand, barely touching my skin, yet electrifying the air around it. “You feel it in your palm first, and it travels up to your wrist.” He trails a finger, tickling my tiny arm hairs, standing them up on end. I give an inaudible hitch of breath. “And you wait for my music to carry down your arm, up to your shoulders.” His fingers follow his words to my collarbone. “And once I reach here, where do I end up? In your head, or your heart?”
My lips part, but I swear I’m not getting enough air. His touch—we never hit skin while he was my client, except for one handshake. A seal that shook my core, despite the lack of erotic undertones.
But here … here, at a bar in a restaurant, surrounded by patrons and servers and—who cares? Who cares, because Easton’s touch makes my vision go black.
I haven’t been traced like this in so long.
“Both places,” I whisper, staring blindly at the line of bottles across from us. “You end up in both places.”
In my periphery, Easton gives a half-smile. Cool air tunnels around us when he moves away. “That’s amazing, the way you listen to music. I thought it was only me, as a drummer, who needed to sense the beat in a song.”
Playing You: Players to Lovers, Book 4 Page 7