“I see where you’re coming from, and I’ll respect your boundaries.” Easton takes a breath. “Taryn … I’m sorry.”
I feel the sincerity in his words, and it only makes me heartsick. Instead of saying anything more, I click off.
Holding the phone against my chin, I can’t help but rewind that night with him and where it all went wrong. How something could be so perfect and sweet, then crumble to the ground.
I still listen to Easton every night. Not by choice, but through my sweet, innocent son, one of Nocturne Court’s biggest fans, and I have to remember—if they cross paths again, Easton will treat Jamie like he deserves. Like a fan. And it will make Jamie’s day. That’s what matters.
My phone dings with another message, and my head falls back against my chair as I sigh, figuring Yang’s changed his mind for the trillionth time.
With a grimace, I check the texts. But they’re not from my boss.
I’m going to be in New York.
Then:
And I want to see my son.
16
Easton
I gotta be convinced I’m doing some good.
We approach the back entrance of New York City’s School of ASL and Hearing Impaired in lower Manhattan, Battery Park’s greenery glittering from the sun’s cast on the East River beside it.
A river I nearly cracked my spine in half on.
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek as I straighten my leather jacket and shake my hair out of my face, flanked by Wyn and Rex. Mason brings up the rear, since he was the one discussing the G-Rated acoustic show and speeches to be made by us with our tour manager back at the van.
Since becoming legit, there are so many damn managers I have to meet and memorize. Technical, tour, road, business, personal, production … all with different jobs to go with their different names.
And not all of them have ridiculous yet easy-to-remember monikers like Spinner.
This is our last stop on my dubbed Apology Tour. The other schools welcomed us with open arms and screeches, and after my public speech on being an idiot who should never drink and drive, we played a few acoustic songs with each school’s theater equipment, and while the talk was serious, the songs were fuckin’ fun. Teaching lessons and exposing kids to music. What could be better? I was having a great time paying my dues.
Until we hit Jamie’s school.
“You’re still looking like I forced you to chew on a lemon,” Rex says as he side-eyes me. “Which is something my toddler likes to do, by the way.”
“Enough,” I growl, and shove my hands in my pockets as I watch my drum kit be steadily brought in through the side door to the main gymnasium by our crew. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Forget Spinner for a second, okay? This is actually us making kids happy. You’re going to see their smiles, and it’ll be all right. Spin may have ulterior motives, but we don’t. We’re here for the kids, hearing or no hearing. End of story.”
Rex has steadfastly pick-axed my barriers since we arrived back on U.S. soil two weeks ago. While I can’t shake the natural desire to stay away from this school, I’m looking forward to playing for more hormonal teenagers. I was fourteen when I first noticed music sheets, fifteen when I tackled the guitar. It’s an impressionable age, and if I forget Taryn for a sec and stop worrying what she thinks, if I can get out of my head for a minute and ignore my personal demons, maybe …
I’m doing some good here.
Taryn and I haven’t spoken since she called questioning my motives for speaking at Jamie’s school. I’d forgotten how soft her voice could be, yet dart into a rattlesnake the instant she senses weakness. Her body is constantly on my mind and the fleeting moment I was given to touch her. That night, I remember thinking—the clothes needed to stop shielding her beauty. I wanted to stroke her skin until it was thin enough to showcase her soul.
Fuck, I wanted her. I want her still.
Wyn smacks me on the back. “C’mon. Kids are assembled in the Assembly.”
I follow the band through to one of the hallways. Spinner hovers nearby, and a woman with her phone records the action beside him. I’m assuming she’s some sort of press, and there’ll be more inside.
My upper lip lifts in a subtle sneer as I pass him. There was nothing in my agreement that indicated I had to make any of my speeches public, but Spinner has lived up to his name and made these into bonus charity stops with the whole band—since nothing is more appealing to our female fanbase than us teaching impressionable kids.
You’re the one who involved the whole band to impress a chick, my stupid logic reminds me, and I shove it down where it belongs.
As soon as we enter the deserted hallway, the muffled, tunneled sounds of a hundred teens herded into one area and talking at once hits us. There may not be anyone loitering in the halls, and we’re in a school that’s so much more than scholastic education, but I’m immediately surrounded by the ghosts of my past, their spirits blurring past me, shutting their notebooks, sliding on their backpacks, slamming lockers.
I’m back in high school. It even smells like it used to—sulphur mixed with plenty of disinfectant and the rubber of skidding Nike’s on dotted, laminate flooring.
“Hi, there.” A man in a suit comes out of one of the side hallways, hand out for a shake. He’s tall and thin with a beak of a nose and silver-rimmed spectacles. I say “spectacles,” because they’re way too small to be glasses.
My former teen angst tingles at his approach. Has to be the principal.
“I’m Dr. Hans, the principal here at ASL-HI. It’s a pleasure to meet you men.”
Rex takes the lead. “And you as well. You ready for us?”
“Absolutely. I’d just like to reiterate, there will be interpreters throughout the auditorium so our deaf students can understand the lyrics. So, if you don’t mind, please keep swearing and cursing to an absolute zero.”
“Yes, sir,” Mason pipes in, immediately back to his scrawny, respectful ways.
“Our songs don’t contain a lot of cursing,” Rex ads. “Usually it’s during our breaks in the set, when we call out How you doin’ fuckin New Yoooork! or whatever city we’re in.”
Dr. Hans doesn’t flinch at Rex’s shout, echoing down the halls. Nor does he smile. A few throats clear behind us.
“Anyway.” Rex shifts on his feet. “We won’t do that.”
“Do any of you have any experience with the hearing impaired?” Dr. Hans asks.
Everyone shakes their heads. I hesitate.
My old principal could see right through me. I wonder if this one can, too.
“You don’t have to do anything differently,” Dr. Hans says. “They’re just regular kids who maybe would like you to enunciate more.”
We all nod, and I’m feeling the zings from my bandmates. We’re approaching a stage, and our natural reaction is to have adrenaline start coursing and feed off each other’s energy. Doesn’t matter if we’re playing to a crowd of thousands or a handful—we’re itching to go.
I just have to give a serious talk first, with electricity flowing through my veins. The irony isn’t lost on me. This is exactly how I felt before I flipped off a bridge.
“Follow me,” Dr. Hans says.
Our footsteps become less obvious the closer we get to the noise of the auditorium and resultant shushes from adults.
As we approach the double doors to the gym, I notice a few small loiterers nearby, and my gut sinks.
Dr. Hans, who’s leading the front, stiffens.
“Boys!” he says and raises his arms to sign.
One kid flips around first, and the other two follow suit. When they see us, their grins light up the dim hallway more than sunlight ever could. They completely ignore their principal’s determined stride toward them.
“Oh hey, little fans,” Wyn says.
“Hi!” one boy says, jumping on his heels. He gestures to his friends. “I’m Evan, this is Paulie and Jamie.”
“Jamie, hey buddy.”
I plaster a smile on my face, impressed by Jamie’s gumption but knowing full well I’m breaking Taryn’s rules.
His pale green eyes are wide as he signs to his friends.
See … told you … know him … liar.
“Evan, you and your friends better get to class before I give additional detention to the ones you’ve already received by trying to camp out in the gym this morning,” Dr. Hans says.
I blink away my attention from Jamie’s hands.
“It’s okay, sir, we can say a quick hello,” Mason tries.
“You certainly cannot. These boys are breaking the rules.” Dr. Hans signs at the same time he speaks. He pulls out his phone. “I’m texting their TA to escort them away this instant.”
Jamie, sensing he has time before the police come, runs up to me and wraps his arms around my waist. He pushes back at the same time I grunt in surprise and signs rapidly.
Cool … you’re here … wish … live music.
“Uh.” I look away from his hands again, and into his eyes. Those shining, eager eyes, with so much less jade than his mother’s. “I can’t understand you, buddy.”
“He’s saying it’s so cool you’re here and that he can prove to us he knows you. Does he know you?” Evan asks.
This piques the interest of my bandmates, and they’re eerily silent at the exchange. “Kinda. His mom worked for me for a bit.”
“Oh, okay,” Evan replies. I guess it wasn’t nearly as interesting a story as he hoped. “Jamie also says he wishes he could see you play live.”
Jamie’s crestfallen as he peers behind all our bodies crowding the hallway and sees the approach of his teacher.
He signs quickly, his eyes flitting between his keepers and me. Glad … met you … again. Mom’s … weird.
“Ah, bud, I’m glad to see you, too,” I say, and a smile creeps onto my face before I can stop it. I like the guy. I really, really do. “And your mom’s doing her best.”
The first time I met Jamie, he told me, through Taryn, how often he listened to my music, how he knew every song, and that he waited on his tablet the instant our next album or single dropped so he could download it immediately. He was a true fan, and in the span of a brief first meeting, it became clear how Taryn knew my music so well and why she listens to the bones of it instead of the mass absorption of the song as a whole.
Those two listen to me in a way I didn’t foresee.
“I’m not saying this again. Up against the wall and wait for Miss Brady.” Dr. Hans taps Jamie on the shoulder and reiterates his instruction.
Shoulders slumped, Jamie does as he wishes. Jamie looks at me once more, raises and spreads both hands on either side of his head and pushes forward twice.
“That’s his name sign for you,” Evan says.
Great. Wonderful. Or …
“Awesome,” Evan finishes.
Mason laughs. “Kid’s raising the roof for you, East.”
I shake my head humbly. “Thanks, you little biker rebel.”
Jamie grins at his own moniker. Ride yours … one day.
I laugh, ready to tell him not any time in his future, but Rex beats me to it.
“Guys, I realize you’ve sacrificed yourselves and have fallen on the sword of detention in order to meet us. How about we get you tickets to our Barclay’s concert in Brooklyn next week.” At Dr. Hans’s disapproving mutter, Rex adds, “That way, you can get back to class, be … awesome …” Rex does the hand sign “… for the rest of the day, knowing, if your parents are willing to come, too, that you can see us live.”
I gape at him. So much of me wants these kids at our show, yet a part remains that’s determined to separate myself from them. Jamie and Taryn.
“Rex, you sure that’s a good idea?” I say.
“Why not?” Wyn says, talking over Dr. Hans’s ready agreement. “We gotta get our show on the road here, but we can’t leave some sad kids in tears in the hallway.”
I’ve got no argument. Instead, I smile at the three boys who have now acquired incredible manners and stand stoically in a line against the wall.
Spinner starts to make noises that we gotta go, get going, no more time, tickets will be forthcoming … and that’s the last moment I have to second-guess Rex’s invitation. At the last second, I glance back at Jamie, with his mother’s bone structure, her dimples, and her deep, thoughtful intelligence.
L’il Biker Rebel knew this could shape up to be an opportunity, and he won. I have to give him props for that.
I’m just not so sure how his mother will feel.
“Is that why you were so against coming here?” Mason mutters in my ear as we push through the double doors. “Your lawyer’s kid?”
I shake my head. “It’s so much more than that.”
“Forget the hot lawyer,” Rex says. As we enter the auditorium, applause and screams nearly drown out his next question, but I catch it on its end, just before Dr. Hans steps up to the podium.
“How ‘bout you tell us how the fuck you understand sign language?”
17
Taryn
My phone haunts me like the phantom it’s become.
I’ve been avoiding my ex-husband’s texts since he first contacted me two weeks ago. Like I can pretend he doesn’t have my number, doesn’t know where I am … doesn’t deserve to see my son.
The torture he put Jamie through … why does he suddenly want to be in Jamie’s life again? What’s changed since I took Jamie and left six years ago?
I should reply with exactly that. But then I risk opening a conversation and he’ll sic his lawyers on me again, and I’ll be back in that nightmare, the never-ending cycle of fear that my son will be taken away and given to a man that would never, never love and nurture this boy the way I will.
No. No, Jamie will not go back to what we escaped. HE WILL NOT.
“Taryn?”
There’s a soft voice in my office doorway, and I raise my head from my hands enough to see who it is.
“You okay?” Astor asks as she steps in.
“Rough morning,” I reply, and my voice is as hoarse as I feel.
“Same.” Astor sighs and sits in one of my visitor’s chairs. “I’ll tell you about my shitty day if you tell me yours.”
“It’s okay.” I twirl my phone, laying facedown, on my desk. Astor and I are exploring friendship, but we’re friendly co-workers at best. I haven’t told anyone in the office that I have a son, since instinct tells me being a mother will be used against me in this cutthroat environment.
And while I like Astor, I don’t know if I can trust her.
“It’s family stuff,” I finish. “But I’m fixing it.”
More like avoiding it.
“All right.” Astor isn’t going to push it further, but she studies me like she wants to. Instead, she switches tactics. “Then I’ll tell you mine. The Chavez case is really pushing my limits.”
“So I’ve seen.”
I try to remain as blasé as I can, but I’m aware of how much this case hurts her, and I wish she’d tell me the truth.
As soon as I think it, I chastise myself. If I’m not baring my soul, there’s no reason to expect Astor to confide her secrets.
“The guy is up for a contract kill,” Astor says, “And Yang wants me to do everything I can to defend him. Even fucking Mike is on my ass, asking if it’s my womanly weakness of being in love that’s preventing my usual pit bull style. And I hate that he’s using my relationship against me, but I’m also—I also don’t care to defend myself against that ass. And frankly, when it comes to defending Chavez …” Astor works her jaw. “I don’t want to do that, either.”
“I know,” I say quietly, and Astor’s gaze snaps to mine.
Maybe it’s the hulking, brutal, ghost of my past that’s made me unwilling to skirt around Astor’s very obvious issue, or perhaps it’s simpler than that: Sometimes, I get so damn tired of pretending.
“Leaving the obvious pigheadedness of your ex-fiancé asid
e for the moment,” I say, referring to Astor’s infamous ex, Mike Ascott, another associate attorney in high competition with us, “I was with you last year when we were first introduced to a Chavez problem. Your boyfriend was involved, then suddenly, he wasn’t.” I repeat, hoping she can read behind my words, “I was there, Astor.”
“But you … you don’t know the half of it.” Astor breaks eye contact.
I want to reach over my desk and take her hand, but for so many reasons, I don’t. “I do, Astor. I fly under the radar around here pretty well, but I pick up a lot of sensors along the way. Is Ben in danger?”
Astor’s gaze flicks back to me. She says firmly, “No. He has no involvement in this one.”
“But you’re reluctant to get Chavez off charges. Again.”
Slowly, Astor nods.
“I’m not going to say anything to anyone,” I reassure. “Believe me, I’m the last person who wants to ruin someone else’s life. But what I will tell you is, get off this case. Yang is well aware of what went on last year. He’s only using you because you’re good at what you do and he likes to keep up appearances. If you don’t want this—then request to leave. Give your chair to Mike, who will be so pleased he’s besting you, he won’t even be suspicious over the reasons behind your departure.”
Because Astor and I seem to be one level below friends, because we never seem to want to tell each other the truth, I stick to generalized logic rather than say what I’m really thinking. “Our job as defense lawyers is to stand behind our clients, regardless of how immoral and reprehensible they are, because of justice. It doesn’t matter that they’re guilty—it matters that the law is followed, to the letter, in determining their guilt or innocence. And if you don’t think you can do that for Chavez—if what he did is so reprehensible to you, then step down, Astor. No one will think you weaker because of it.”
Astor unclenches her jaw. “Is that why you became a defense lawyer? To represent the law?”
No. “Yes.”
Astor closes her eyes, rubbing her neck. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m so deep into this, I can’t even see how easy it is to get out of it.” She laughs hollowly. “You know, I’m actually scared I’m going to sabotage the case so he goes to jail—for real this time. For a long, long time.”
Playing You: Players to Lovers, Book 4 Page 11