Playing You: Players to Lovers, Book 4

by Allison, Ketley

  Now my gaze smacks against hers. “Astor … did you … have you done something? To get the recent motion to suppress the evidence denied?”

  Her lips thin, and I think I see I trace of color leave her cheeks, a stiffening of her shoulders, and the mildest, briefest pupil flare in her eyes, indicating a jolt of adrenaline.

  “You’ve really helped me, Taryn.” Astor rises. “Thanks.”

  Oh God, I really don’t want to know what I think I now know. “Astor—“

  “I also never thanked you for representing Easton so well.”

  The mention of his name unmoors my thoughts, and I blink. “Uh—no worries. It was easy.”

  Astor zeroes in on the weakness I thought I kept so carefully well-hidden. “We’re all meeting for drinks tonight, me and the usual peeps. Easton will be there. You should come.”

  “God—no.” I blurt it before I can put my thoughts back in order.

  She looks at me sideways. “No?”

  This bitch is turning the tables, spinning the interrogation around, and I hate that it’s working. “We, uh, Easton’s a great guy, but we said our thank you’s and good-bye’s. It was nothing but a professional working relationship.”

  The skin under Astor’s eyes crease with amusement. “I wasn’t questioning your relationship with him.”

  “No, I know. I just wanted to reiterate that we’re professionals. I don’t expect any special treatment or attention from him. I—” Jesus Christ, I’m digging the biggest hole this building’s ever seen. “Just, no. No, thank you, to coming tonight.”

  Chuckling under her breath, Astor replies, “All right, then. Maybe some time you and I can catch a drink together after work.”

  “Sure. That’d be great.” I’m gripping my desk with both hands. Please leave.

  She does. Astor spins on her designer heels and goes to the door, but with a hand on the frame, she looks back. “I guess you’ll see him at his concert tomorrow night, then.”

  I squint a glare at her before replying through my teeth. “Yes. I guess so.”

  She smiles softly. “Don’t be ashamed you like him, Taryn. You’re right, he’s a great guy. But you’re pretty great, too.”

  And with that eloquent parting shot, she shuts my office door behind her.

  I fall back against my chair, staring at the ceiling, feeling like I’d just come out of water torture. Astor’s last words hit home.

  Jamie bounded home a few weeks ago, bursting at the seams with tales of Nocturne Court’s visit to his school. I was prepared for that, had even highlighted it in my calendar that this was the day Easton would likely see Jamie again. What I wasn’t prepared for was Jamie’s exuberance over free tickets to their concert in Brooklyn, happening two weeks Friday, and if I let him go, he’d do everyone’s chores for a week and not even glance at his tablet or make one mention of his online gaming community and he’d personally chain his bike to a pole in our backyard and let it grow rust and never ask to ride it again.

  If the boy spoke in words and sentences, he would’ve passed out from lack of breath after that speech.

  Instead, Jamie caught me at a vulnerable moment. His father had just texted me, and, with fear that a shark started circling our waters, I couldn’t ignore the earnestness Jamie emitted, the sheer joy and enthusiasm for his favorite band and the rare opportunity to not only see them live, but meet and greet them.

  Could I rip that away from Jamie, who already has it harder than most?

  No. No, I can’t. So, the next thing I knew, I was agreeing to going to Nocturne Court’s concert and seeing Easton again.

  Easton, who I only had one date with.

  Easton, who I can’t get off my mind.

  I stare at the wood of my office door, thinking maybe there’s another shark I have to watch out for.

  * * *

  Tomorrow night arrived insultingly early.

  I thought I’d have more time to chew on the thought of seeing Easton and to figure out what I’d say if we spoke, how I’d act.

  Uncaring, professional, super mature, and sexy.

  Okay—so maybe I’ve thought about that part a lot.

  But, with Astor’s potential dirty deeds casting doubts and the anchoring weight of my phone against my side, I wasn’t thinking about much else.

  Standing in front of my bathroom mirror at home, I pull out one of Harper’s lipsticks and carefully trace the scarlet hue across my lips, finding solace in the normalcy of the action, like I’m any other mom taking her son to a function of some sort, spraying perfume and combing through her hair with her fingers, ready to meet and greet and mingle.

  So what if the function is a rock concert and the meet and greets consisted mainly of long hair, ripped jeans, and leather? With sculpted torsos. Tattooes. And sex-fueled voices.

  I brace both hands on the countertop.

  That certainly isn’t how my son sees it.

  The interior of my purse, the contents of which are splayed across the fake marble counter, lights up. It’s my phone, and as soon as I see that blue cast, my stomach turns the same shade.

  I’ve given you plenty of time, and still you ignore me. If you don’t reply ASAP, my next communication will be through my lawyers, and you don’t want that, Teddy.

  It was a double whammy. The use of my pet name, exclusive to him, and the threat of being better, quicker, more hard-hitting than me.

  Well, I went to law school, fucker. I AM a lawyer.

  The phone clatters into the sink and I clench my shaking fingers into fists.

  A knock at the bathroom door pulls me out of the rage tunnel I was freakishly drawn into. Opening it, Jamie stands on the other side.

  He asks, Are you okay? Something sounds like it broke.

  I think, Just my heart, sweetie, but sign instead, Dropped my phone. Everything’s a-ok. You ready?

  He nods eagerly, then pauses. You look funny. Are you sure everything’s okay?

  Just fine. Let’s go.

  Jamie doesn’t waste any more time. He thuds over to our front door the way all young boys are prone to do—with dragging, heavy footfalls even when they’re in a rush—and I gather the rest of my things into my purse and follow suit.

  As I’m locking up with Jamie impatiently waiting on the curb, my phone vibrates again. I figure I’ll get it over with and read what else he has to say, rather than spending the rest of the night dreading his words, and glance fast at my screen—like the quicker I do it, the less it will hurt.

  My ex-husband’s words are succinct.

  Just landed in New York City. See you fucking soon.

  18

  Easton

  I’m standing in a basketball court underground.

  Since I’m not claustrophobic, the whole experience is fucking awesome. The Barclays Center has an entire floor below street level, part of it housing the Brooklyn Nets’ training court, and right now, it’s empty except for me.

  On the other side of the doors and padded walls is a flurry of activity, from our roadies to the Barclay’s Center’s own crew finishing the final touches of converting the arena above my head into a concert hall.

  I’m enjoying the resilient silence for a few moments before I step above-ground, into windows and people and demands. Those sensory-overload seconds before I hit the stage and forget everything but the music.

  This is my me time. The calm before the craze.

  I’m wondering what it would be like in a world always this quiet and muted, sound becoming a faraway dreamscape where you know it’s happening, but you just can’t hear it.

  Jamie’s world is utterly this, and I close my eyes, curious as to whether the silence in Jamie’s head is clogged and thick, or echoing and vast.

  “East?”

  Footfalls reverberate throughout the large room, and I look up from the floor. Rex strides toward me, his dark blonde hair pulled back with a leather strap. It won’t stay contained for long. “We were looking for you.”

  “I�
��m catching my zen before we start.”

  “I hear that.” Rex looks around the room, at the basketball nets on either side and me standing at center-court. “You find it in here?”

  I massage the back of my neck. “Almost.”

  Rex comes to a stand beside me, breathing in the mix of bleach, sweat and floor wax. I can almost hear the bouncing of basketballs, the skids of sneakers against the floor.

  “Our special guests have arrived,” Rex says. “Thought you might want to say hello before we start.”

  Taryn’s here. At least, I hope she is. I don’t know what adult Jamie brought with him to the show, I’m just aware there is one. With my luck, it’s his dad, a person I didn’t ask Taryn about and have no right to question. Yet, I do.

  I wonder why he isn’t around.

  Why Taryn calls herself a single mom.

  If he’s the deadbeat I see in my head.

  With an enterprising, motivated and intelligent kid like that, it’s hard to believe the guy wouldn’t stand at Jamie’s side, proudly calling himself the father.

  But what do I know? I only have my friends’ kids as examples, and they’re all under the age of three. Also, it ain’t my damn business.

  Nodding to cover the unyielding unease, I clap Rex on the back. “Thanks.”

  He says before I turn to the exit, “Spinner made sure the arena provided a sign language interpreter for the group. That is, unless you want to do the interpreting on stage?”

  I shake my head on a scoff. “Nah, I’m good.”

  “All right, but if I had a woman that hot coming to my show, I’d make damn sure to see her,” Rex says, but moves on. “Care to elaborate on how you know it? Sign language?”

  Taryn’s here. I shrug off the zing of gladness.

  “You’ve always been the most mysterious of our crew,” Rex says. “Hell, Spinner’s made that your shtick in all of our promo. But that little factoid has even floored me, your supposed buddy since high school. When the fuck did you learn it?”

  I ignore the question. “If Taryn’s here, an interpreter won’t be needed. She and Jamie listen to the music through their feet.”

  Rex slants a brow. “I’m not sure where to be more focused now. Foot listening, or getting more info from you on the sign language thing.”

  As we both walk to the exit, I put a hand on his shoulder and say, “I use a lot of our down time to learn new things.”

  “Oh yeah? Is knitting next?”

  I meet his eye as we push through the double doors. “We don’t have much down time anymore, so probably not.”

  His mouth splits into a grin. “Motherfucking right.”

  Energy pumps into Rex’s steps and the addictive wave hits my soles, too. We stride pass pictures framed in the hallway of musicians, ballers, hockey players, boxers, wrestlers … the list of who’s who at this arena hosts goes on. And at the very last blank spot on the painted white cinderblocks I think, We’ll take up that real estate.

  We meet up with the rest of our band backstage, where the white noise of the crowd rattles our bones. Rex picks up his guitar and strums a few notes, Wyn following suit. Mason rolls on the balls of his feet, eyes closed to the ceiling.

  I grab my sticks out of my back pocket, energy sifting from quiet calm to sizzling anticipation. Spinner brings us a round of lukewarm shots, and we down the whiskey in unison.

  Our opening band ends their last song to cheers and calls. They’re a local rock crew from Brooklyn, much like we were, and this is their first moment playing to an audience of nineteen thousand.

  Immediately after the singer’s last note, the crowd starts chanting, each syllable sounding out with a slamming of their foot, the clapping of their hands.

  “Noc-turne Court. Noc-turne Court! NOC-TURNE COURT!”

  “Remember when we were the openers having to listen to the audience’s demands for the headliner?” Wyn asks.

  “Hell, yeah,” Mason says, opening his eyes and lowering this chin. “We fuckin’ hated it.”

  Rex grabs two of the shoulders closest to him—mine and Wyn’s—and gives them a shake. “I think this is the moment we can say, We made it.”

  “Not yet, assholes,” Spinner pipes in. “Do a flawless set, catch a few of your Courtesans’ bras, and we’ll call it a success.”

  Rex emits a warrior’s cry to a ceiling as high as the sky. “Let’s do this!”

  We roar in response, and when Rex hits the stage first, the crowd goes psycho.

  We. Fucking. Made it.

  19

  Taryn

  “Do you see him?”

  Evan balances on his toes, trying to see through the row in front of us. The arena’s seats are stacked, but barely, and when I sit down, my knees crash against the chair directly in front.

  But, no one’s sitting, and there are some big brutes in baseball caps in front of us, obstructing the kids’ views.

  Our complimentary interpreter signs that the band’s coming out, which we’ve already clued into, with the shouts, screeches, claps and stomps combing into endless vibration through the floors and chairs. Even the air thrums with cannonball soundwaves.

  Mom? Do you see him?

  I use the minor height advantage I have over my son to stand on my tippy-toes and peer through the large heads and waving hands holding cell phones. Easton hits the stage last, his slim, muscled form taking up residence behind his drum kit.

  It’s such a shame he’s so hidden. The man is insanely hot, with his bone structure and jagged edges of muscle on a lean frame …

  Stop it, horndog.

  I massage my cheeks, as if that can stop the blush from creeping in. But seriously, I’m in deep commiseration with the teenage girls holding up signs saying EASTON, HAVE MY BABY.

  Jamie pokes my arm. Mom? Is he there? Is the band starting?

  Used to be, I could lift Jamie onto my shoulders and hold him up, but no longer. He’s almost as big as I am, all skeleton and lankiness, and he hasn’t even hit puberty yet.

  He certainly didn’t get his height gene from me. He must’ve gotten it from—

  Stop it, scaredy-cat. You’re a lawyer now. You can take him on.

  My phone lays ignored at the bottom of my purse at my feet.

  I need the music, and soon. Anything to drown out these voices and thoughts in my head.

  Easton stands from his stool, scanning over his symbols into the crowd, and I’m reminded of what’s important.

  Easton’s on stage, I say to Jamie.

  Why aren’t they starting yet?

  I don’t know.

  The interpreter sees me signing with Jamie, and nods in approval, as if a hearing mother communicating with her deaf son is a sight to behold.

  Easton steps away from his drums and off his platform, jogging to Rex at the center. Rex holds the mic stand at an angle as East says something in his ear.

  Something’s going on, I say to Jamie. They’re talking about some sort of issue.

  What kind of issue?

  Rex takes the microphone. “Gentlemen.” He says in a drawn out, sexy tone, “Ladies.”

  The audience screams their acknowledgement in a blast of sound.

  “We have a brief problem,” Rex says once the crowd quiets down. “Our special guests aren’t in the front row like they should be. Spinner, fine man, make it right.”

  There’s a scuffle as heads in the crowd come together and hands and arms lower, wondering if they’re the special guests being talked about. A few of them hop on their toes and raise their hand in a Me! Me! Me! gesture.

  We’re near the aisle, so when four men in black t-shirts and slacks come to our row and start motioning us out of our seats, there’s a second of confusion.

  What’s going on? Jamie asks. Unsatisfied with the interpreter, he looks to me.

  We’re being moved. I scoot him along by lightly pushing the backs of his shoulders. His friends, Paulie and Evan, come out first, along with Paulie’s dad and Evan’s mom.


  “Come with us, folks,” one of the big men says, and we take the wide staircase down to the front.

  Jamie keeps glancing over his shoulder at me, but no interpretation is needed. His smile says he understands quite well what’s going on.

  Astor, her boyfriend Ben, and Easton’s other friends are nearby. Astor lifts her hand in a wave and I wave back.

  See? Jamie signs to Evan beside him. I told you Easton’s my friend.

  Astor lifts a brow of curiosity once she sees Jamie sign, but for all she knows I’m his sister, or a volunteer for my community, or any number of things. Yet, a small worry creeps in anyway.

  We take position close to the stage—near enough for Rex to bend down on one knee and give the kids a salute. They wave enthusiastically in return, jumping up and down.

  Over the screams, Rex says into the mic, “What the hell, come up on stage for a second, boys.”

  Evan screams and grabs Jamie’s arms first, then includes Paulie. No parents are needed to interpret that they’ve been invited on stage and they scramble forward.

  A few more big-sized men open the barricade at the front enough for the boys to slip through. With their help, they step on stage. Evan clings to Rex, but Jamie makes a beeline for Easton behind the drums. Paulie, nervous, hangs close to Evan.

  Jamie signs almost erratically to Easton, but Easton nods kindly, throwing Jamie on his lap and letting him see the venue from his perspective. Jamie’s mouth parts with awe.

  “East!” Rex calls. “What’s the hand signal for Welcome?”

  East’s attention cuts to Rex and he shakes his head.

  I frown at the true unhappiness on East’s expression. Easton may not understand sign language, but Rex doesn’t know that. All Rex sees is Easton’s familiarity with these kids.