Playing You: Players to Lovers, Book 4

by Allison, Ketley

  I take a long, quenching sip of the sweetened tequila. “Ever since I’ve learned to do it, there’s no other way I want to listen.”

  “I’m going to try that next time,” he says. “When I get home tonight. I’m going to turn on a song and hear it purely through vibration.”

  “You should,” I say. “It’s ever-changing.”

  And wonderful, the way my son’s face lights up as he lays his palms on the floor, his body beginning to weave, as if the instruments are taking up their position in his body, sounding their notes in his head. His eyes close with serenity, but I don’t close mine. I watch him, because there is no sight more beautiful.

  “Taryn? Are you all right?”

  Oh, jeez. I’ve teared up. I search for a paper napkin and dab my face. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t know I’d get so emotional.” I attempt a laugh. “This is so embarrassing.”

  His gaze, glinting bronze in this light, softens. He reaches for my free hand, laying it flat again on the bar, and starts tapping the wood, his warm, calloused palm leading the rhythm over mine. “With my words so empty / my soul so full / my body can’t stop feeling magical / you reached for my heart, when I slipped through your wall / you’re the one who caused my heart to fall.”

  I’m frozen with the napkin still pressed to my face. I don’t speak, because I don’t want him to stop singing softly.

  He breaks my heart when he lets go and leans back. “Those are the lyrics. You said you felt the beat, but I wanted you to feel the lyrics, too, at the same time.”

  “That’s …” I have to clear my throat. It’s all I do when it comes to this man. “It’s wonderful.” I look to him now. He catches my gaze and holds it between the candlelight. “Special. That’s all I can say. If it’s possible, you made that song more precious than it already was.”

  Easton lowers his lids. Lifts his hand like he wants to touch me again. I want to feel him again. “Taryn, I—”

  “Are you Easton Mack?”

  The voice shoots us both into clarity, our private world dislodged. It’s like we’ve been put back into reality, but we’ve landed at a tilt.

  “From Nocturne Court?”

  The voice is female, eager, and young. I use the time to straighten, remove the damn napkin from my cheek and collect myself.

  “I am,” Easton says kindly.

  “Oh. My. Gawd. Wait until my best friend gets a load of this. Can I have a picture with you? To prove—” The girl, a brunette with glasses, maybe college, maybe a senior year of high school, notices me. “Omigod, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to be a bother. I know you’re probably trying to eat and want privacy and—”

  “It’s fine,” Easton says, then looks to me. “So long as my lovely date is okay with it.”

  I’m flattered he’s thought to include me, though this isn’t my world. “Of course.”

  She doesn’t ask me to take the picture. No, she knows all her angles as she raises her phone up, up, up, to catch both Easton and herself in the lens. A few chin tilts and cheek angles later, she taps the screen a few times with her thumb, and drops her arm. She takes her time stepping away from him.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much, Easton.” She bobs a few times on her feet, then blurts out, “You’re my favorite.”

  “I’m incredibly flattered, sweetheart.”

  The girl melts at the endearment. “It was so nice meeting you. Thank you for the picture. And thank you, ma’am, for giving me the time with him.”

  My brows jump, but I nod and smile. The girl may be over-eager, but someone raised her right. I’ll ignore the whole ma’am part.

  As soon as she departs, I slide my gaze back to Easton and say with a wide smile, “She squeezed your ass, didn’t she?”

  “Oh, yeah. Got both cheeks.”

  I laugh and get a self-deprecating smile in return, and as I reach for the dregs of my margarita, I’m glad I took a leap of faith and went on this date.

  I’m glad to be meeting Easton Mack.

  12

  Easton

  I have to write a song about her.

  Taryn is a silhouette on my horizon, seated with no one beside her, backlit by the small flames of candles, highball and cocktail glasses shimmering with alchemy at her fingertips.

  I can put all of it—all of her—into music.

  And call it Elixer.

  I can’t take my eyes off her.

  We talk for another hour, sharing tacos and commenting on marinated brisket versus breaded fish. We don’t go back to our connection, the emotional spark when I sang to her, under my breath, but through my soul. I’ve never done that for any woman, and I’m not sure I want to do it with any others.

  The way Taryn’s face bloomed with the color of roses, eyes glistening as I held her hand and moved it to the beat of my voice …

  It was a waste, I thought, to have my hand on top of hers. It needed to be under, stroking her sensitive skin, awakening the ridges of her fingerprints to leave their tattoo on my palm.

  Shit, man.

  I shake my head, bringing myself back to the restaurant. I’m with this woman for two hours and she has me thinking in sonnets.

  “There’s live jazz playing at a place down the block,” I say.

  Taryn dabs the corners of her mouth with her napkin as she finishes chewing. “You’re into jazz?”

  “I’m into all music.”

  She smiles. “Doesn’t surprise me. I’d love to—” Her phone vibrates noisily on the bartop and she glances down. “I have to get this.”

  I nod for her to answer.

  Taryn lifts the phone and says into it, “Harper? What’s up?”

  A blast of female tone follows, so loud and frantic I can hear it, but not enough to understand the words.

  Taryn slides off her stool and stands. “What? Slow down. Tell me exactly what you’re trying to say, Harp. I’m not understanding …his arm? His head? What are you—oh, my God. Oh, fuck. Okay. Which hospital? I’ll meet you there.”

  When Taryn lowers her phone from her ear, her face has lost all color.

  I stand with her, lay a hand on her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  “I—there’s been an accident. I have to go. I have to leave right now—”

  “Okay, all right. We’ll go. I have a tab at the bar, let’s just get the fuck out of here.”

  Taryn doesn’t dawdle. She grabs her purse and beelines for the door. I’m struggling to keep up with her.

  “I need a car,” she says to no one. “I need to hail a cab or pull up my app—”

  She flies through the black curtain, almost tangling a heel in the heavy hem before I steady her. When I grasp her arm and hips to right her, she’s trembling.

  “Taryn? Tell me what’s going on.” As calmly as I can, I ask, “Who’s hurt?”

  “My …” She turns on the sidewalk frantically, until she lands on the flashing lights at the end of the block.

  The line-up of cars idling.

  The emergency vehicles blocking the road.

  “No,” she says. “No, no, no. I have to get to the Upper East Side! How am I—?”

  The West Village is encompassed by tentacles of side-streets, but there is one main avenue, 7th Ave, that cuts through and transitions into the other surrounding neighborhoods.

  The exact road that’s being closed off because a car has decided to drive into a popular ice cream shop at the corner.

  News vans have already shown up, and sirens are sounding from all over the place, additional cop cars and ambulances headed our way.

  “I can’t get out of here. Cars aren’t able to leave.” Taryn throws her hands up into her hair. “I have to get to Jamie!”

  “Hey. Hey.” I lay both hands on her shoulders this time, holding on. “Look at me, Taryn. Meet my eyes.”

  Frantic, blinking rapidly, she does.

  I say in a low, soothing tone. “I have a bike. I can take you wherever you wanna go.”

  Her shoulders visibly
slump. “Yes. Oh, God, yes please. Thank you, East.”

  I love that she’s finally used my nickname and the familiarity, the fact that she’s comfortable enough to use it, but there’s no time to bask. I cup her elbow and assist her into a side alleyway where I’ve parked my ride.

  I always have an extra helmet handy and pull it out to put it in her hands. She holds it uncertainly, the first time she’s hesitated in these last few minutes.

  “I’ve never been on a motorcycle before …”

  “You don’t have to do much at all.” I take the helmet from her, unclip it, then settle it onto her head, obscuring her beauty behind a black visor. Strands of her golden blonde hair glide out past her shoulders. I clip her chin strap, and say, “Hold on to my waist, really tight. You’re not going to hurt me, so grip as hard as you can. I’ll do the rest.”

  I can’t see her expression anymore, but her throat bobs. “The only other time I’ve known you to drive this thing—”

  “I’m not about to drive off a bridge with such precious cargo. Here.” I swing my leg over first and settle in, gesturing behind me for her to get on.

  She does, her dress hiking way up her thighs, toned and golden. I put on my gloves and help her get comfortable by gripping both her thighs and pulling her closer.

  This is an emergency, someone close to her has been hurt, but it is a mindfuck to have such gorgeous legs wrapped around me, her arms weaving across my chest soon after.

  Even through my leather jacket, I can sense the softness of her, the suppleness of her skin.

  I throw on my helmet so Taryn can have no sense of how I’m feeling and hope her hands don’t travel far enough down to feel that I’m rock hard.

  Revving the engine, her tightening grip on my waist tells me she’s ready to move. I pull out from the alleyway, swing around the curb, and use one leg for balance on the asphalt as I navigate around the emergency vehicles and lookie-loos wandering onto the road and gaping at the accident.

  * * *

  At a stoplight, I ask Taryn which hospital.

  She shouts the answer, and I rocket onto the FDR highway and motor up the island of Manhattan to the 72nd Street exit, curve into York Ave, and rumble to a stop in front of the emergency entrance of New York Presbyterian Hospital.

  Taryn shifts behind me, letting go and leaving behind visible coolness as the warmth of her departs.

  Once she’s on solid ground, she pulls off the helmet, her hair all over the place. “Thank you.”

  “Hang on.” I swing off the bike and use my boot to toe out the kickstand. “I’m coming with.”

  “You don’t have to. Please—”

  “Taryn,” I say once my helmet’s off and resting on a handlebar. “You’re about to pass out from fear. A level head might be good in there, someone to get to the bottom of things while you go see who’s hurt.”

  She purses her lips, her brows furrowing, but doesn’t argue. “I just want to get in there.”

  “Go, honey. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Taryn swings around and sprints to the glass sliding doors.

  The complimentary hospital valets are striding toward me, but I ignore any shouts of moving my bike and follow Taryn.

  I’ve only ever known her to have a cool head. To make her arguments succinctly enough that losing will not be an option. In these days of celebrity obsession and everything they do making it to social media, she managed to keep my situation under wraps enough that I wasn’t scathed by the public.

  Curiosity as much as concern has me following Taryn to the Emergency’s reception area. I want to know who could be causing her such strife.

  Taryn lays her hands on the counter, saying to the nurse on duty, “James O’Neil. He was brought in here about forty-five minutes ago.”

  “One moment.” The nurse clicks on her keyboard, her expression the type that’s seen many frantic friends and family members worrying over the latest guests of this establishment. “He’s on the pediatric floor. Take the elevators over there …”

  As the nurse relays the instructions, Taryn is already a few feet ahead, listening and walking all at once.

  Pediatrics? A kid is hurt?

  We head to the elevators, but I’m not sure Taryn realizes I’m beside her anymore. She’s on that single track I’ve come to recognize in her, with a sole goal in mind.

  Nothing is said as we take the elevators up a few floors, and by the time they slide open, Taryn’s sprinting to the next reception desk, getting a room number, and sprinting down the hallway.

  Her frantic energy is addicting, and I’m following fast. It’s when we reach the correct room that I fall back and hang by the doorframe, propriety telling me to take it easy.

  “Taryn!”

  A petite woman with a short, black bob greets Taryn by taking her hands. “I’m so sorry. I had an eye on him, I swear, and I put him to bed. I fell asleep on the couch, and he must’ve snuck past me and gone outside. I can’t—he’s never done this before—”

  “I know,” Taryn says, adopting the same soothing tone I used with her. “It’s not your fault, Harper. You’ve watched him for years without anything happening. I don’t blame you. Tell me how he is.”

  I catch the shift before Taryn even realizes. She’s taking the time to calm down a person when we’ve spent the past twenty minutes with her gripping my leather and crying out, “Faster! Please! Just get me there!”

  Her instant calmness pulses its waves into the room, flowing over the woman with the short hair, over me, and having the immediate effect of getting to the bottom of the situation.

  Because someone’s watching her. A boy in the hospital bed.

  My mouth opens at the same time it hits me.

  She’s a …

  Taryn’s acting like a …

  Taryn looks behind her, noticing me, and my heart cracks a little at the crestfallen expression on her face. “Easton … this is my son.”

  She’s a mom.

  Taryn doesn’t wait for my answer, which is good, since I don’t know if there’s a correct reaction to give. Instead, she shows me her back, faces her son, then lifts her hands.

  And starts signing.

  13

  Taryn

  Tell me exactly what happened.

  I bump both fists together close to my heart, extending my thumbs, then forming them into an apex, then extending again. Sweetheart.

  I wanted to ride my bike, Jamie signs, and I sigh in exasperation.

  At night? With no helmet? Are you kidding me?

  You won’t let me do it any other way. I want to ride like a normal kid. He places a thumb under his chin with an open hand. Mom.

  Complete silence when talking to my son is standard in our household. Subtle hand-claps and the brush of skin-on-skin are the only breaks of sound, but in a hospital room, I’m acutely aware of Harper beside me. Easton behind me. The beeps of machines and hush of voices creeping in from the hallway.

  God. Easton. What could he be thinking?

  The moment I remember the man, Jamie’s wide, grass-green eyes shift past my shoulder and notice the hulking shadow in the door frame.

  Jamie lets out an audible gasp and lifts from the pillows. His fingers fly as he asks, Is that who I think it is?

  I’m in no way ashamed of my son, but this has to come as a shock to Easton. Especially on a first date.

  I gulp. Here we go.

  “Easton, meet Jamie,” I say, stepping aside so they can see each other.

  Easton takes a tentative step into the room. His attention doesn’t leave my son. “Uh …”

  “Jamie’s a huge fan of yours,” I say softly, signing as I talk for Jamie’s benefit.

  “I’m going to grab some coffee,” Harper says. She’s almost as fluent in American Sign Language as I am, taking up the task of learning the moment she learned Jamie was deaf, determined to communicate properly with him. For six years, she perfected the language, and it is part of why I love her with my kid
so, so much.

  Harper, bless her, also knows when to bow out of sticky situations.

  “If you can stop at the nurses’ station and let the doctor know I’m here,” I say to her before she leaves.

  “Sure thing.”

  Once Harper departs, Jamie takes over the conversation, his eyes peeled wide as he signs, silently pleading with me to get the translation right. It’s not often he meets one of his idols.

  This isn’t a reward, I warn him. You’re in big trouble, James Patrick O’Neal.

  “It looks like you two are casting a particularly epic spell,” Easton says as he watches Jamie and me.

  I let out a laugh.

  “Shit, I didn’t mean for that to sound disrespectful,” he says.

  “It’s not.” I sign what Easton said to Jamie, without the cursing, and in response, Jamie lets out sharp exhales filled with tiny honks of sound. His version of a laugh.

  Jamie signs, Just call me Jamie O’Neal, the latest wizard at Deafwarts.

  I shake my head in exasperation but communicate what he said to Easton.

  “And he’s funny, too,” Easton says. “How are you buddy? What the hell happened?”

  Jamie raises a brow at me, preparing for his defense. I wait, with hands on my hips, for what he has to say. I won’t let it show, but I am so utterly relieved that he’s not so injured he’s unable to be a smartass.

  Mom thinks I’m too fragile to ride a bike. She’s so strict, I have to sneak out in order to do it—

  I cut him off, signing and saying, “You’ve done this more than once?”

  You leave me no choice, Mom! My bike already looks like it belongs in Back to the Future. There are so many mirrors on my handlebars, I could fry all the ants I ride by.

  “And yet, you hurt yourself tonight. You fell of your bike, on a busy street, without a helmet, and hit your head. This is serious, Jamie,” I say, with both my hands and voice.