Playing You: Players to Lovers, Book 4

by Allison, Ketley

  I’m pulled away from Taryn.

  I’m dragged out of the building against my will, but my eyes stay locked on her, immobilized, as an officer has to use extra strength to wrestle me into the back of a cruiser.

  Lights swirl and dance. The world stays silent, though everyone moves with such force and flurry that it’s overwhelmingly bright and stimulating.

  So, I focus on her. Center on Taryn.

  And I see nothing but tears clearing tracks through the blood on Taryn’s face as they take me away.

  34

  Taryn

  I hate hospitals.

  I’ve spent a lot of time in them. When Jamie was a baby and a ton of tests were being run on his little body, and, of course, those brief stints when my husband hurt me so harshly, my recovery had to be in a gurney.

  Yet, I met Easton in one, an injured, disgruntled, hungover in-patient whose bruises spoke of so much more than a simple motorcycle accident.

  I’ve lost count of the number of situations I’ve been inside sterile walls, and now, for the countless time, as Jamie’s thin, vulnerable body is curled up against mine and finally sleeping soundly, I realize there’s no hiding the truth from him now.

  I’m not sure where the paramedics put Bryan, but it’s not on my floor, as many nurses have assured. Apparently, I’m asking a lot of the same questions, over and over again, because of a concussion. My memory’s fazed and fuzzy, but I’m catching the drift, because at this point, whenever a nurse enters the room, she says patiently and succinctly, “You’re safe, dear,” before I even think to voice my question on the whereabouts of my ex.

  The thought of Bryan’s fists marking my body after I swore he’d never do it again won’t leave my mind. Maybe my increased heart rate wakes Jamie up, because he raises his head and blearily blinks up at me.

  He sits up enough to sign, Are you feeling better, Mom?

  I must look like an absolute sight to him. With the amount of stiffness in my face I feel, the swelling has to appear ten times worse. My lips move like they’re twice their size. I don’t think my eyelids are working properly, as they only seem to open half-mast. And my body … my bruised, battered torso, houses a few cracked ribs, lots of bruises, and definitely a wounded heart. Harper has just left the room.

  After going berserk in the front lawn of our home, Harper demanded to get into the ambulance with Jamie and me. When she was thwarted, she stormed through the subway until she was at our side, and it was only after multiple rounds of convincing that I got her to get some sleep. In the waiting room outside.

  Now, Jamie and I are alone for the first time.

  I’m feeling a little better, honey, I lie, but my signing is droopy and limp, showcasing my lack of energy.

  I was so scared, he says.

  My heart cracks open even further, and I’m not sure it’ll ever piece together properly again. I’m so sorry you saw that. It’ll never happen again. You’re safe and I’m safe, and I will make sure of it from now on.

  Jamie doesn’t believe me. He says, with a deadened stare, The thumps against my bedroom wall are what woke me up.

  I gulp back any tears threatening to flow over. He was a bad man. But he’s going away to be punished now, and he won’t hurt me again.

  After a second’s hesitation, Jamie signs, He’s my dad, isn’t he?

  My throat’s swollen in ways no beating could create. Pure emotion and devastation threatens to choke my breathing.

  I’m not stupid, Mom. I know he’s been around, lately. Jamie continues, He’s being terrible to you. He doesn’t love us. Dad’s the same as I remember.

  Jamie reluctantly gives the sign for ‘Dad,’ but it’s unsure and unfamiliar.

  I sign back, very carefully, What do you remember about him?

  Jamie and I never spoke of his father after I took Jamie and left. If anything, Jamie seemed to thrive now that he was out from under the shadow of Bryan O’Neil. He smiled again. Grinned more. Engaged in sign language with more enthusiasm, especially when I found a school that specialized in deaf and hard of hearing students and he realized he wasn’t alone.

  There was no need to sit Jamie down and ask him if he missed his dad. Jamie was safe and happy. Bryan had become a terrible version of the Prince Charming I fell in love with. What did it matter that he wasn’t around anymore?

  Studying Jamie now, I’m realizing it might’ve mattered a lot.

  I remember he was angry most of the time, Jamie says. And that he wasn’t very good to me. He yelled more than he said nice things. I remember …

  Go on, I encourage him.

  Jamie sucks in a breath. I remember the night we left him. It was scary, but then it wasn’t anymore. Your friend we stayed with told me it was going to be okay, but I already knew that. As soon as you came into my room and said it was time to go, I knew I wasn’t coming back.

  And you were … okay with that? I venture to ask.

  Wherever we were going, it was going to be better than where we were. He was mean to you, Mom. Really mean.

  My stomach flutters at the thought that my son might’ve known what was going on, despite my continuous efforts to shield him.

  He was mean to me, too, Jamie says.

  I sign frantically, Did he ever hurt you?

  How could I have missed it if he did? What kind of mother was I—

  Jamie fervently shakes his head. No. He didn’t. But there was one time …

  What, Jamie? Tell me.

  He almost did. I went into his office one day because I was curious about his job. I opened a file cabinet and pulled out some papers, and I didn’t know he was behind me until he grabbed me by the shirt and—

  Oh, God. I crush Jamie against me even though it hurts. Even though he’s still trying to sign, and I hold him close. My heartbeats create new fractures to my ribcage as I bury my face in his hair and let my heart crumble. To think Bryan was that close to hitting this child. To think what he could’ve done had we stayed, had I convinced myself this was our lot in life—as the surface wife of a Senator … what would’ve become of Jamie?

  Jamie pushes out of my hold, but not harshly. He wants me to see him when he says, I was scared then, but not as much as I am now. You kept me safe, but there was no one to keep you safe. Now I’m older and stronger. I want to protect you, Mom. And I didn’t tonight. I’m ashamed.

  Oh, dear boy. Lips trembling, I pull him against me again. He nestles against my side, so he can see me sign, That is not your job. You are a fantastic, smart kid who deserves to grow up with video games and bicycles, not worry about his mom.

  I’m ready to fight. Dad was really hurting you, Jamie signs. If it weren’t for Easton.

  Easton. The mention of his name and the way Jamie uses Easton’s name sign, “Awesome,” makes me quake, and I’m so tired of shaking.

  But I’m worried about my son. I’m worried about Easton, and I don’t know if anything concrete enough will happen to Bryan to keep him away from us for long.

  These walls are sterile, but they’re also so confining.

  Is Easton okay? Jamie asks me.

  I think so, I lie.

  He was acting so funny when I woke him up. I don’t think he knew what was happening until I made him open his eyes. Mom, I don’t think he can hear anymore.

  I nod into my kid’s hair, brushing it back to expose his forehead and kissing his warm, child-soft skin. He smells of grass and sugar and laundry, but I can’t contain him within that safe, comforting fragrance much longer. Jamie’s seen too much. Been traumatized by too many, and it would be foolhardy for me to keep him blinded by the feathers of my protective wing.

  It’s never over, no matter how much I try to pretend it is. And my ultimate priority is to make sure Jamie is well taken care of. What he saw tonight cannot be repeated.

  It cannot.

  I don’t think Easton can hear anymore, either, I admit. And as soon as I’m able, I’m going to find him and we’ll make sure he’s all right. />
  Then … I’ll say good-bye. I don’t want to tell Jamie, not right now, since it will upset him, but I think it’s time to go again.

  And I hope, like last time, Jamie will innately understand and come to me without argument, without thought, to the man we’re leaving behind.

  It’s better this way.

  There’s only one man I will never leave, and he’s in my arms.

  Jamie nods into my chest, his small breaths fluttering against my hospital gown. You’ve said that a few times now, Mom. You keep telling the nurses you’re going to find Easton.

  Sighing, I close my eyes and tell my hands to stop betraying me. Damned concussion. Damned pain.

  Damned Bryan.

  I’m so tangled in my worries, I never get a moment to realize that I’ve fallen asleep.

  35

  Easton

  My bail is posted the next day around noon, and as I’m led out of the holding cell and down a hallway to a kiosk where I pick up the stuff that was on my person, I’m fighting against the silence.

  I don’t want to believe it, but nothing sounds beside me, against me, around me, as I walk down hallways where my footsteps should echo, the cop’s belt should rattle, and forlorn voices should shout.

  I’m receiving nothing.

  They’ve dressed me in their best lost-and-found garments, since I was arrested in my boxers, and I’m sporting an XXL hoodie and S sweatpants, both faded from wash, both smelling like mothballs.

  My escort, a burly, portly cop, doesn’t let go of my arm as he walks me out. Probably a liability thing, since I’m likely to run into a wall. Or a person. Or hell, a goddamned gun I’ll never hear go off.

  He yanks me to a stop in the middle of the hallway and moves around to face me. I can smell him, bad breath and stale coffee, but I don’t flinch as he goes nose-to-nose. His saliva hits my mouth and cheeks, and I make a mental note not to lick my lips any time soon.

  It comes as no surprise. He and his partner did this to me on the way to holding, first trying to meet my stare in the rearview mirror of the cruiser as they asked whatever questions they had. Then as they yanked me out of the vehicle and into the building, they shouted into my ear and forced me forward so abruptly I tripped over the stairs, asphalt scraping my bare chest. My balance is completely off, so unused to this new way of thinking, feeling and doing, that when I catch my chin on the concrete and they yank me so hard to a stand, my locked arm muscles scream, I have to force back frustrated tears.

  Still, I say nothing.

  I continue to be the deaf mute I’ve become as this cop sneers and jeers, poking me in the chest, yet I won’t meet his eye.

  When he feigns a threatening dart forward, that’s when I flinch. His mouth curves into a maw and he laughs hard at my instinctive recoil.

  Jamie taught me something about focusing on body language and the amount one can glean simply by watching the curves and lifts to someone’s mouth. I read it clearly.

  Aren’t you supposed to be famous? this cop is saying to me. A rockstar? What fuckin’ guy comes in here pretending to be deaf? You getting off on this? You’re a moron. A fraud. A fake. You’re so fuckin’ washed up, my motha wouldn’t bother to clean your filth.

  Yep. I can still hear a good Brooklyn accent in my head.

  The cop drags me into a walk again, apparently tired of his useless intimidation tactics.

  As I’m treading forward, head down, you’d think it couldn’t get any worse, with my stiff, cracked face covered in dried blood, my bruised knuckles and ego, and the fact I’m in lock-up and humiliated, but oh, it does.

  As I enter what can only be described as the Waiting Room for bailed-out degenerates, I’m led straight to the person who fronted the money.

  Rex’s lips stretch wide and he looks like he’s raging with a lecture, but I don’t hear a damned thing.

  Maybe, I think wryly as we come to a stop in front of him, this is the satin lining to my dark cloud.

  Frowning, with brows drawn in so deeply it shadows his eyes, Rex says something to the cop. The cop shrugs, lets go of my arm, and departs.

  Rex drags his look of booming thunder over to me. Lips thinned tight, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone. After a few unnecessarily enunciated thumb taps, my phone vibrates in my newly gifted ziplock bag.

  On a huff I only know I’ve made from the movement of my mouth and chest, I dig into the bag and pull out my phone.

  Rex: WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T YOU TELL ME.

  My fingers shake, but I’m hoping Rex doesn’t catch the subtle hints of hysteria in my hands. I text back:

  Me: I didn’t think it’d happen so quick.

  Rex: So making me think you’re a crackhead was the better solution?

  Me: I didn’t know how to tell you.

  Rex: USE YOUR WORDS. THAT’S HOW YOU TELL ME.

  Me: Stop with the shouty-caps.

  Rex: NO! YOU CAN’T HEAR ME ON THE OUTSIDE BUT YOU SURE AS HELL ARE GETTING MY PISSED OFF VOICE IN YOUR HEAD.

  Me: Rex—

  I pause. Both of us are pounding into our phones, having a text fight while facing each other in a room full of the wayward and annoyed. All of whom are regarding us with deep, confused interest.

  Can we leave? I text Rex. I need to find Taryn.

  Rex: You should’ve been honest with me, man. I could’ve helped you.

  I can’t raise my stare to his when I type, No, you couldn’t have. You don’t know what it’s like to be told you’ll never hear music again. Never play the same, never be the same. As soon as I admitted my problem to you, you would’ve kicked me out, replaced me with Limpdick Pete. I wanted all the time I could have while I had it. My life is music.

  Rex: Dude.

  I keep my focus on my phone, waiting for Rex to finish what he’s typing. But no ellipsis pops up after he sends that one word. I’m forced to look up, but I do it slowly. Reluctantly.

  Rex’s anger has melted away. All that’s left is a lingering, gray-green stare, housed between lengthening worry lines. His shoulder-length blonde hair is halfway out of his ponytail, and I finally realize he’s in a white T-shirt and plaid pajama pants, capped off with Adidas slides on his feet.

  I text, Did you just roll out of bed?

  Rex: Spinner called me. TMZ got an alert to a fight involving you. Didn’t take long to look up the precinct where you were being held, and I said I’d go get you.

  Good. I’d rather sell a testicle than have it be Spinner facing me right now. But … How did you know? About my

  I hesitate. But, it’s too late to go back now.

  About my hearing?

  Rex: The cops. I went to the front and asked about your bail and they told me they were happy I was here to take the deaf celebrity retard off their hands. Said you were faking it as some kind of pathetic defense to beating up a woman. But they were impressed by your creativity. Criminals pretend to lose their hearing all the time, but you went to a whole new level, according to them. I’m pretty sure one of these assholes leaked the story to the press.

  I think of the burly cop who left me here. Pretty sure I know who.

  Rex stops, glances at me, then continues to text. It all fell into place once they said that. I mean, I didn’t really want to believe it until I saw you. You can’t hear a thing I’m saying, can you?

  To prove his point, Rex speaks, but I’m not nearly at lip-reading capacity, so I shake my head.

  Rex’s chest deflates. He texts, Even you, our lyrical guru, can’t make up something so asinine. You weren’t into drugs, you were losing your hearing. And you would rather your buddies think you a fuck-up than a man who needed help.

  I shake my head again, clenching my phone. Rex mouths something akin to, Come on, let’s go, and grabs my elbow to lead me out. I throw him off, refusing to meet his eye as we walk. He allows the reprieve and puts his phone away as we step out of the precinct and get to his car, parked on the opposite side of the avenue.

  Once I’
m in the passenger seat, I resolve myself for another text war.

  I type, Take me to the hospital. I need to see Taryn.

  Rex slides into the driver’s side, giving me the side-eye when he pulls his phone back out of his pocket. After he reads what I’ve sent, he’s set to deny me.

  I text furiously, TAKE ME TO HER.

  At first, Rex tries to reason with me by speaking, but when I snarl at him, he sneers in frustration, punches the steering wheel, then types with vigor. He takes his sweet-ass time, and I’m about ready to hijack the steering wheel, start the engine, and push my friend out of a moving car.

  The last I saw of Taryn … sweet Jesus. My heart rocks dangerously at the thought. I have to get to her.

  Rex: You need to go home. We need to call Spin, the other guys, and fucking figure out what our next moves are. I’m not kicking you out of the band, man. It’s insulting you think our friendship would come to that. There are press statements to release, lots of explaining to do, but I’m not giving up—

  I stop reading the fucking essay. TAKE ME TO TARYN OR I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL DRIVE THIS CAR WHILE SITTING ON TOP OF YOU.

  Rex’s sideways glance tells me he thinks, Now who’s the shouty-capser, but he does what I want and turns on the engine. His lips move, and I know what he’s asking.

  “New York Presbyterian, Downtown,” I say.

  There’s nothing but a mild rumble in my throat, but Rex cringes and points to my phone, still in my hand.

  I guess I’m still shouting, and while it makes me sick to my stomach I’m no longer what I’m used to, I push the anxiety aside. Taryn’s more important. Jamie’s well-being. The two of them have to be okay, and if Bryan is anywhere near them when I arrive, I’ll burst his fucking eardrums with my thumbs.