“I’ve scheduled five locations,” Spinner says, moving his phone closer so I can squint at the tiny spreadsheet. “And—get this—to really drive the we’re a rocker band with morals home, I even got us into a special needs school during their lunch hour.”
“Special needs? For advocating against drunk driving?”
Spinner cackles. “They use cars too, right? Shouldn’t passengers be just as woke as the drivers? And these kids’ brains are fine. It’s a school for the hard of hearing. I had to look it up—do deaf people even drive? Yep, they do.” He points to his temple with his other hand. “Which got my wheels spinning. Think of how good it will look in the press. Easton Mack bolsters his community by treating the hearing impaired the same as the hearing-able or some shit.”
I stiffen. “A deaf school?”
“Can’t exactly put you in an autistic one. No idea how those kids would react.”
My insides curdle at Spinner’s flippant behavior. He may be a genius at his job, but nobody said he was nice. Or decent. I’m finding less and less reason to try and like the guy.
I push his phone out of my face. “I’m not doing it.”
“What? Why?”
“Because your reasons behind booking me at that school are disgusting.” I finish my coffee and slam it down on the cheap laminate table. “I’m not improving my rep by taking advantage of kids. End of conversation.”
“Well, bully for you, since I’ve already sent it to your lawyer, who’ll forward it onto the judge as confirmation that you’re holding up your part of the deal.”
The curdling hardens into cemented lumps. “What did you just say?”
Spinner senses nothing in my tone. “I said I sent it to your lawyer—fuckin’ hot, by the way—and she’ll—”
I grab him by his lapels and pull him up over the table. He balks, which fucking serves him right for putting on a damned pressed suit on a bus before the sun’s even risen.
The growl I emit is simple. And succinct. “You’re fired.”
“You’re not firing me.” Though the asshole’s face has gone red from exertion, he laughs. “I’ve made you over half a million in less than a year, and we’re on budget for double that once this tour’s done and I book you for the U.S. at the end of the year.”
I bare my teeth and pull him so close, we’re nose to nose. “Want me to say it again?”
Spinner doesn’t flinch. “Say it as much as you want, buddy. Facts are the same. You think your crew’ll be happy you wanna fire me over your tarnished reputation that I’m trying to save? You got on your bike. You drove while over the legal limit. And I don’t give two fucks what you were dealing with or how your brooding, conflicted soul copes with whatever problems you have—my job remains the same. Get Nocturne Court into the public eye. Make them appear as decent, flawed human begins who fuck up from time to time, but are willing to pay their dues.”
I release him on an gritted exhale and he flops back into his seat, straightening his tie and blazer with shaking fingers. “Fuck you, Mack.”
“What the hell’s all the clatter?”
Rex pushes through the red velvet curtain that separates the main area from the hallway of bunk beds on either side. His hair’s flying in every direction as he rubs his eyes and attempts a glare through his swollen, sleep-filled eyes.
“Your boy here’s trying to fire me for acting on the deal his lawyer got for him,” Spinner says, appearing exactly as one would picture a scrawny, over-dressed tattle-tale.
Rex glances at me with one eye more awake than the other. “What?”
“I’m not doubting Spinner’s abilities to get us to where we want to go,” I say. “But I’m entitled to be pissed when he goes below the belt to make a fucked-up, unnecessary point.”
“Go on,” Rex drawls.
“He’s got us speaking at a school for the deaf about the perils of drunk driving.”
Rex blinks.
“Look, there’s reason behind my madness,” Spinner interjects. “It looks good on paper, okay? Like, really good, and there won’t be whiff of indecency. These kids love you. There’s a whole music class devoted to rock music and how to interpret it. And the place is maybe twenty percent deaf kids. The rest are able to hear and attend because they have a deaf family member or other. The school is pretty much like any other angsty, pimply, teenage-infested building.” Spinner looks to me. “Unlike what you assume, I do my research and don’t just plop you into places to be publicly embarrassed.”
“The whole thing smells bad,” I say.
“I agree with you that Spin doesn’t exactly mince words very well,” Rex says, stepping between us. “But East, from what I’m hearing, it doesn’t sound ridiculous.”
I unclench my jaw. “I don’t want to do it.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to—”
“Shut it, Spinner,” Rex says, then turns to me. “Here’s how I’m seeing it. We’re including the entire community in our music. By going to this school, and yeah, lecturing on safe driving, we might gain a few more fans. Every fan counts, I know you believe that. Why should we isolate the hearing impaired?”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?” My voice rises. “I’m not against this because these kids can’t hear! Spinner is using this angle for profit—”
Spinner rolls his eyes. “Like every politician, celebrity and crime lord known to man.”
“—neither of you are listening to me—”
“We’re listening, man.” Rex puts a hand on my shoulder. “But we’re also considering what’s good for the band as a whole. Not one individual.”
I shake my head. “That’s not … you weren’t here when Spinner proposed this. He’s not booking us for the right reasons. I promise you that.”
Rex says carefully, “East, you fucked up. We’re helping you pay it back. So, unless you have another reason on why you don’t want to go to this school for an hour, I hate to say it, but I’m behind Spin on this.”
My molars ache so hard, my jaw muscles tremble. I hold Rex’s stare, pleading with him to side with me on this.
He remains stoic. Unmoved.
I push past him on a sharp exhale. “This is a fucking mistake.”
“Then we’ll make it as a group,” Rex says behind me as I shove through the curtain. Then, as his voice fades: “Fuck, I need some coffee.”
Lying on my bottom bunk, with Wyn snoring directly above me, I throw an arm behind my head and glare at the wood-grained slats. I hate this. I hate that I’ve been put in this position.
That maybe I’ve put myself into this goddamned position.
When Taryn gets that email … what’s she going to think? That I’m more of an asshole than she originally thought, that’s what. And that I deserve to go to hell.
From my amateur calculations, Taryn had her kid when she was nineteen. And he’s deaf. I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like, whether or not she had help from the father. When she sees an email from Spinner that we’ve booked a school for the deaf to talk about drunk driving, she’s gonna hit the roof. Without the context that Spinner half-assed attempted to justify and Rex flipped into a calm, efficient, and convincing argument—the whole thing sounds asinine. Worse, it’ll look like I’m trying to hurt her more, since I know about Jamie. Any woman would see this as a blatant attempt to bolster my celebrity status by taking advantage of a vulnerable community, all inspired by her son.
Even though that’s not what happened. That’s not what fucking happened. I tried to get as far away from her and her boy as possible.
The world is such a cruel bitch sometimes.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I think, ah, Hell has arrived early.
Sure enough, the text—one I was long-awaiting for but refusing to acknowledge I was waiting for it—from Taryn shows up.
Just not with the words I’m expecting.
Hi Mr. Mack, it’s Jamie. Mom doesn’t know I’ve checked her phone since she’s still sleeping,
but I saw an email from your manager THAT YOU’RE COMING TO MY SCHOOL. ARE YOU KIDDING? I’m deleting this thread as soon as I hit send so don’t reply (Mom will be so pissed I’m talking to you without her okay) BUT I AM SO EXCITED. I promise not to say anything to my friends but it’ll be really hard. THIS IS FUCKING AWESOME (don’t tell mom I swore either). See you soon, Nocturne Court!
Ah, double-fuck. Fuck me sideways.
I’m in so much fucking trouble.
I roll so my face is buried in my pillow, and I punch the mattress.
More than a few times.
15
Taryn
I push the button outside of Jamie’s room that operates as a light indicator more than a few times, and when that doesn’t work, I stomp my foot on the floorboards so he can sense the vibrations.
He doesn’t have a lock on his door, but he’s approaching double-digits in age, and I want to give him his privacy instead of bursting in and finding … God knows what. He’s a pre-pubescent boy. I could walk into anything or nothing, all at once.
“Jamie!” I say uselessly, before pushing the button again and again.
At last, the door swings open to my freshly scrubbed boy, backpack on his sweater-clad shoulder, ready to roll.
You’re going to be late, I sign to him.
I had to finish some last-minute homework, he replies, then reaches into his baggy jeans’ pocket to pull out—my—phone. I glare at him as I reach for it.
The internet was down again, he says. And since you limit the data on my phone, I had to use yours to look something up.
All frustration leaves my body. As much as I’d like to think being an attorney at a top-level firm with twelve partners and sixty-five associates (of which I’m one) brings in the big bucks, when accounting for my student loans from law school, the tuition for Jamie’s school, and basic city living expenses—I’m tight. And usually jumping on someone else’s wireless when at home.
The coffee shop next door closed down, I say to Jamie. And took their internet with them.
At first, not having wireless at home worked. Jamie was a toddler and had no need for it, and I had full access at work (and when I went back to work after dinner). Now, with his growing demands for streaming devices and his addiction to video games, I’m visualizing a spreadsheet in my head where I’m moving numbers to account for it.
I’ll have someone come in this week, I say as I not-so-subtly usher him to the front door. And we’ll get internet.
Jamie spins to face me and he gestures excitedly, We’re finally getting internet?
Yes, I sign, laughing softly. Work is going well, I’m due to get a bonus at the end of the year, and we’ll put that towards internet. For schoolwork and LIMITED screen time. Understand?
Yes, yes, Jamie replies, then hops from foot to foot. This is turning into the best day ever!
You’re still grounded from riding your bike.
I don’t even care about that anymore, Jamie says.
I narrow my eyes at him before turning the knob to outside. Why? What else has happened today when it’s not even eight in the morning?
Nothing much. Jamie gives me his back and strides out to the curb where his school bus is idling.
I tap his shoulder, hands on my hips, demanding he elaborate.
He beams at me, pulls me into a hug, then kisses my cheek. I love you, Strong.
“Strong” is one of the first ASL words Jamie learned as a baby, and he applied it to me as his mother. As he grew up and I met more people in the deaf community, especially at his school, I learned that individuals are given a personal name sign by a deaf person, and it’s always based on a personal trait. Jamie raises both fists and flexes his arms, then moves them both toward his chest.
Strong. Mom.
It makes me emotional every time, and the little bugger knows it, especially since he uses it less and less often as he grows older.
I collect myself and wave good-bye, blowing him a kiss as he boards his bus.
But I’m no fool. That kid is up to something.
* * *
The office is chaos.
Our latest motion to suppress in the Chavez case is denied, and it appears as though we’re actually going to trial for the first time in the ten years we’ve represented him. Astor is one of the lead chairs beside our boss, Altin Yang, and it’s obvious she’s beside herself as I watch her through the glass-paneled walls of my office run back and forth on the carpeted hallway, going to and from Yang’s office.
Conflict is etched in every one of her features, and I’m pretty sure I know why. But I don’t have time to press, since Yang’s taken to harassing me via email to do a bunch of research related to the case.
Nobody in the Criminal Department is in a good mood, including me.
I’ve just finished reading an email from Spinner Watson, personal manager to Nocturne Court. Stupidly, I opened it thinking it’d be standard. My duties to Easton have officially ended, but it’s protocol to keep me in the loop, especially to ensure the deal we made goes through. I skimmed the list of six schools, noting that the prosecutor will be pleased with the amount, then stop dead at the last school listed.
Jamie’s school.
Jamie’s school for the hearing impaired.
“Why the hell …?” I ask my office, and peer closer, as if Mr. Watson’s sparse email contains the answer.
Does Easton know what school Jamie attends? Was it mentioned at the hospital all those weeks ago? How did he … why did he … he wouldn’t.
I dig for my phone in my purse, my brain doing somersaults while my body completes the basic task. Easton doesn’t seem to be that type of man, to use a son against a person like this.
But there are at least seven other schools for the deaf in New York City. Why this one? Why is Nocturne Court going to Jamie’s school?
My finger hovers over Easton’s number, one I’ve kept despite every instinct telling me to delete it.
Logic stops me from pressing it. Jamie’s almost ten years old and in fifth grade. He’s too young to be at the talk, but I’m sure it’ll be all over school once this is released, and he’ll hear about it.
Which means I’ll hear about it.
Why didn’t you tell me Easton Mack was coming to my school, Mom? Why can’t I see him that day? I’ve told all my friends I know him, why can’t I prove it? They’ll call me a liar and a fake. Why did you keep this from me? Why don’t you like him?
And on and on.
I flip my phone so it’s laying facedown on my desk. Maybe I’ll keep Jamie home from school that day, call him in sick. Tell him we’ll go on an adventure. There’s no way he’s aware Nocturne Court’s coming to them this week—
Wait.
Jamie’s face, alight with excitement, flows into my mind’s eye. And the fact he had my phone this morning.
That boy, inheriting more traits from me than I’m entirely comfortable with, already knows. He must’ve read the email, then re-marked it as unread, like any basic ten-year-old can do these days.
Sighing, I make the call.
The fucker must be expecting it, after all.
Easton’s hoarse voice fills the speaker after the fourth ring. “Hey.”
I don’t waste time. “Do you want to explain this?”
Thankfully, Easton doesn’t play dumb. “It wasn’t my doing. Our manager is an opportunistic son-of-a-bitch, and he booked the school without asking. And I gotta say, even he doesn’t know Jamie’s there or that I’d have any knowledge of whose kids go there.”
“But how do you know?” I hate how my voice cracks. “How did you know that was Jamie’s school? Did you meet him and think—”
“No. No. I did not jump at this. I fought against it as much as I could, Taryn, but without explaining everything, the guys aren’t on my side with this. To them, this is a school that is often ignored by inspirational talks. They don’t care that some of the kids can’t hear, they just want to speak to their fans. And my a
rguing against that—it doesn’t make sense. I have to go, and I’m sorry. I don’t want to be there any more than you want me there.”
Of course you don’t want to be there, I can’t stop myself from thinking, but do stop from saying. You’ve done everything you can to get away from us as soon as you found out I had a son. Including jumping an ocean.
My phone dings with an incoming message, but I ignore it.
“Fine,” I say instead. “I realize you’re doing this because you’ve been court-ordered. But if I get one whiff that you’ve taken an opportunity out on my son, I’ll—”
“I haven’t, Taryn. Jamie is an amazing kid. I wouldn’t hurt you, or him, like that.”
His tone is soothing and honest, and I’m melting into it before I realize, until I straighten my back and remain firm. Then why didn’t you give us a chance?
But I can’t ask him that. I come with baggage, a lot of it. And a single mom isn’t something many guys want to help carry. I can’t resent Easton for that decision, nor can I fall back on fantasies and the what if he just got to know me better wishes. Easton walked away, and I should be okay with that. Wishes and fantasies have no room to blossom in my life.
This phone call is to protect my son. Nothing more.
“I should’ve given you the heads up,” Easton says. “But Spinner sent the email before I knew about it.”
I shake my head and close my eyes. “I’m choosing to believe you, Easton. But please, do everything you can to stay away from Jamie. He’s already confused as to why he only saw you once. I’m not saying that to guilt you, but to remind you he’s just a kid, who doesn’t understand all the intricacies in an adult relationship. And I don’t really want to explain to him …”
Playing You: Players to Lovers, Book 4 Page 10