Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  I resume squinting at her. “You’re drawing a parallel to me and Ben. I don’t appreciate it.”

  “I’m not telling you this to gather sympathy,” Carter says. “I’m telling you this because sometimes we can’t see past our own wounds, and that only makes us bleed longer. Locke’s a good, terrific man. And so is Ben.”

  “I agree,” I say. “But Ben and I…” I stifle another forlorn laugh into my wine. How does one explain about the college dare-night-stand, the years of not speaking because of it, only to be trumped by him throwing me over a judge’s couch and fucking me from behind just before he admitted to having a secret identity involving a family massacre?

  “He’s Locke’s best friend,” I mumble instead.

  “Is that what’s holding you back? I’m sure if you talked to Locke…”

  I shake my head. “Locke’s set in a lot of things. And screwing up his friendship with Ben would be up there.”

  Locke knowing about the dare would definitely tear them apart.

  Locke finding out about this afternoon would drive a deeper wedge.

  Locke understanding that his friend is really Ryan Delaney would throw him so far for a loop, I don’t know if he’d ever forgive me.

  I don’t want to talk about this anymore, especially considering how good Carter is at spotting any mistakes. I can’t, for Ben’s sake, let anyone know the truth.

  “Besides, I just broke up with my fiancé. I don’t want to jump into something so very, incredibly complicated.”

  Carter nods, but adds, “You were there for me during my darkest hours, so I’m going to be here for you. And I’m going to say that since I’ve met you, there’s been something between you and Ben. I wouldn’t have been surprised if you told me you broke up with Mike because of Ben.”

  I whip toward her—

  But she holds up a finger. “I don’t think you’re going to get to the root of your problem until you understand that aspect of yourself. Why you’re drawn to Ben. But, whatever you do, I’m here for you. Ignore Ben, yell at him, pretend to be friends, whatever you want. All I can say is, Mike is a very poor substitute to what you could allow yourself to have in your life.”

  My jaw clenches and my traitor eyes go hot again, but I bat down any tears.

  Sophie, God bless her, comes back into the room. “What’d I miss?”

  I open my mouth to come up with something off the cuff, but Sophie preempts by saying, “Just kidding. Mike’s an abscessed turd and Ben’s the love of your life. I’m all caught up.” She holds up Mike’s thirty-year-old bottle of bourbon, meant only to be opened when he or I make partner. “Who wants?”

  I throw my hand up. Hard. “Me.”

  21

  Ben

  For the second time this week, I’m in front of a building that might as well deny me any entry.

  But I don’t know what else to do.

  After the courthouse, I tried going to Locke first and pretending to fall into my old life—I mean, new life—I mean, I don’t know what the fuck I mean anymore—

  All I want is to be Ben Donahue, record-breaking wide receiver on his off-season, hanging with his best bud and honorary niece.

  Lily almost worked. How could she not, with that pixie face and slobbery lips that pucker up every time she sees me?

  I held her, felt her warmth, and thought of innocence.

  This baby is solely dependent on other people to keep her safe. She needs help to understand the concept of love in order to become a strong, independent, kind woman I know she’ll be.

  All those things that were so callously taken away from me before I was old enough to store anything but the cold murder of my biological parents.

  In seeing Lily, I witnessed my old self, what I was deprived of, and Locke could tell.

  “Buddy, cheer up,” he said as he rounded the cushioned ottoman in his apartment, spackled and stained with various toddler substances these days.

  “I’m cheered,” I said off-hand.

  “Bullshit.”

  “Whatever. I didn’t come here to talk to you. I came here to get some chubby baby-ness in my life and maybe steal some of Ash’s muffins I see in your kitchen.”

  “Help yourself,” Locke said, leaning back with a Coke. “To both.”

  That’s what I love about the guy. He doesn’t press.

  Though, I kinda wished he would’ve at that point. Lily was chatting with her dolls in between bashing their heads on the floor, Carter was hanging out with Astor, doing the work I should be doing, and I had the sudden urge to expel everything polluting my insides.

  I’m not who I say I am.

  I slept with your sister in college.

  I slept with her again this afternoon.

  She’s representing my parents’ killers.

  She hates me, and I should hate her.

  You’re definitely going to hate me.

  But Locke isn’t my anti-venom. If anything, I’d only manage to transfer my disease onto him, killing our friendship with my lies about Astor, severing ties with Lily—my one true love—and roping him in on a murder whose network of killers are still very active.

  Ah, fuck. I am so, so, goddamned tired.

  “Eat a muffin, dude,” Locke said through the fog. “You’re not yourself.”

  “Yeah,” I replied, and left it at that.

  I ate my muffin. Kissed Lily who picked the crumbs out of my scruff, and left my friend as clueless as he was when I arrived.

  Except, I didn’t go home.

  I went to Astor’s.

  The sun has dipped low at this point, casting the city street in a vague golden glow seconds before it surrenders to the artificial lights of a New York night.

  It’s so cold that anyone on the sidewalk has their heads down as they walk, buried in scarves or phone screens. I’m the only noob standing at attention directly in front of revolving doors.

  Not again.

  I push through with zero hesitation this time, thumbing into my phone as I stride to the elevators. I text Locke:

  * * *

  Carter home yet?

  * * *

  Locke replies, Yeah, 20 mins ago. Why?

  * * *

  Excellent. I don’t bother with a response, since he’s given me the info I need.

  The security is distracted by a few deliverymen, as it’s prime time for takeout, and I scoot past as fast as my big body will carry me, and slide into the elevator right when the doors begin to shut.

  I nod to a delivery man carrying Chinese—the smell of egg rolls hits my nostrils and my stomach roars—and he tips his head up at me, studying.

  Astor’s floor hits as soon as awareness flows into the man’s face, and I leave on a salute.

  I’m smarter this time, and as soon as I reach Astor’s door, I knock firmly, hoping to preempt any phone calls from security downstairs.

  The door opens immediately. Astor didn’t even check the peephole.

  Her face, her gorgeous, stunning, heartbroken features greet me, and I don’t let her get a word in.

  “I don’t remember much about that night,” I say.

  Her brows, ever so slightly, lift in surprise. “What?”

  “When my parents died. I only get snippets sometimes.”

  Astor leans against the doorjamb, as if she’s too exhausted to put weight on her feet.

  “Can I come in?” I ask.

  She rubs a hand across her forehead, pushing her short hair back before it falls back into place. “I guess.”

  Astor steps back, and at the little trip and jig she does, I finally notice that maybe it’s more than exhaustion weighing down her limbs.

  “You get some drink on?” I ask as I kick off my boots and shed my jacket.

  She points to me as my jacket is halfway off. “Don’t act like you’re staying long.”

  Hint received. I shoulder the coat back on.

  Astor weaves into her kitchen, picking up a half-empty highball glass of brown stuff. I
close the space between us in way less time and palm the drink. “Mind?”

  She furrows into a glare as she watches me down the rest of the liquor.

  “Wow,” I say and hold the glass out for inspection. “That’s some good stuff.”

  “Delicious,” she drawls, then beelines to her couch. “Why are you here again?”

  “Because we didn’t finish our conversation from lunch.”

  She peers around her shoulder. “Was that conversing?”

  “After,” I say on a growl. “I meant after.”

  “Lots of people wanting to conversate with me today,” I think I hear her mutter as she plops down on her cushions. “But at least you’re man enough to come do it yourself.”

  “What’d you say?”

  She looks down her nose at me while sitting. If anyone can achieve this, it’s Astor. “You sent Carter to butter me up, so you could come in while I’m all weakened and emotional.”

  “First off,” I say as I come meet her, “You’re not either of those things. You’re fuckin’ drunk.”

  “Better than choosing door number one or two,” she sings.

  “Second,” I enunciate, “I didn’t send Carter to you. Locke did. But I figured you’d want family around you instead of me, and I see I was right. You and Carter had some fun, looks like.”

  “She helped me forget a few things,” Astor admits. “Her and that spunky blonde friend of hers.”

  “Then I guess I’m here to help you remember.”

  I sit a careful amount of space away, lest Astor swipe at me.

  “I don’t want to think about any of it,” she says. “You told me, and now I have this secret. And in order to keep it, we have to stop talking about it.”

  “You deserve a better explanation than what I gave you.”

  Unexpectedly, her eyes go misty. “I don’t want to put you in danger, Ben. And I’m so afraid I’m going to.”

  “You’re not,” I say on an exhale, and shift closer. I lay a hand on her arm. “I never wanted to put this kind of burden on you. Please believe that.”

  “I don’t know…” Astor trails off, looks away. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to act now. You went through something horrific, and I’m part of a team that’s representing who’s responsible. You broke my heart in college, and I hate you for it. But now I feel guilty for hating you, because of what you went through—”

  “Don’t,” I say sharply. “Don’t you dare pity me.”

  “But—”

  “No. I’m Ben. I’m the guy who humiliated you as a sophomore, who ditched you for years after that yet stayed in your life by becoming buddies with your brother. I’m that guy. Not a little boy who experienced trauma over twenty years ago.”

  The facts taste like vinegar, but I need to get Astor back to who she used to be. The woman who would as soon spit at me as throw me off a building—the passionate, argumentative, confident chick who doesn’t let the victims of her cases get to her.

  I don’t want to get to her. Not like this.

  “But you’re both,” she says. “And I can’t reconcile the two.”

  I let out a frustrated rumble. “That boy—Ryan, me, who the fuck ever—I can’t come up with anything. Memories. Killers’ identities. None of it. All I have are … are shades of what went on. My mom’s face … I can’t even fully remember what she looks like. My dad is nothing but a talking shadow. And I had to go into WITSEC for this—for knowing nothing, because these guys would kill me anyway. Do you know how much that pisses me off? Truly?”

  Astor nods sagely.

  “Except if I didn’t, if some … distant relative adopted me or something, I wouldn’t have my parents now. I would’ve never met Locke and the rest of my crew. I would’ve … fuck, I don’t know what life I’d be leading, but it can’t be as good as this. I love who I am. My career. My people.”

  “If you’re worried I’m going to take that away, I won’t,” Astor says, and she gains strength as she talks. “I may not like you, but I’d never go so low as to disrupt your life.”

  “Astor, what happened in college…”

  “We’re not talking about that,” she says, then steers the topic back. “Your parents, your real ones, did you ever look them up? Want to remember them?”

  I shake my head and look to my hands, fisted and curled between my thighs. “No. I wasn’t allowed to. No internet history allowed. And after a while, I guess I stopped wanting to.”

  Astor rises from her curl on the couch, and pads over to a small table near the window, opening up her laptop. “Do you want to see them?”

  “I…” My posture straightens as I take this in. “I don’t know.”

  Astor cuts to me, her laptop screen carefully turned away from me. “This is how I fix things. I can’t really—I’m not the best at talking through my emotions. But I’m aware of the turmoil you’re going through, of what strength it must take to know your parents’ killers are making the news and yet, you can’t read about it. Discuss it. Do anything to compromise your identity. So, I have a picture of them. A portrait. It’s what I can give you—it’s all I have to give in this situation. And I…”

  Her fingers curl on the top of her laptop as she looks to the floor, and I’ve never, in all my years of knowing her, have seen her so vulnerable, so willing to expose any part of her that might help me.

  It can’t just be the booze.

  “I … sure,” I say, and start to lift off the couch. “Show me.”

  She spins the laptop, and I freeze mid-rise, as my own eyes on another person’s face look back at me. My nose on another’s. My slightly elfish, pointy ears.

  My parents.

  Rose—Mom—stands a head lower than my dad, in front of that cloud-blue background everyone who’s taken photos at a department store booth is familiar with. Her hair is in that classic nineties style of more gel than natural, but it’s my shade. A brown color when indoors, but blond when it hits the sun. My dad stands stoic beside her, an arm around her waist, but there’s a tic of a grin, like my mother just muttered a joke to him and he’s trying not to laugh.

  I see a lot of myself in my dad—the broad shoulders, the height, the square jaw. But my expressions, my eyes, my one dimple, they’re all Mom.

  That’s the thing about being adopted. Although the Donahues love me, treat me as their own, I feel different. I don’t look like them, so how can I be a part of them?

  It took me a long time to come to terms with the idea that one didn’t need to share blood to have parents.

  Instead of summoning up the courage to say all this to Astor, I find words, more emotion than English, and say, “I wish I could’ve loved them.”

  Her fingers slide from the computer. “Oh, Ben…”

  I shrug off her sadness. “I don’t know them, so how am I supposed to care about them? But everyone looks to me—you, Aiden, my parents now—everyone looks like they’re waiting for me to cry. About what, I don’t know. My mom—Callie Donahue—she’s constantly bracing for when I ask to find my real parents. She doesn’t know I’m already aware who they are. Don’t get me wrong, I’m devastated over the murders, I’m fucking furious my original family was taken from me, but why the hell do I feel guilty for loving this new life of mine?”

  “I don’t think that’s it,” Astor says. “Or what anybody expects from you.”

  “Oh, no? Then why do I see this photo and feel nothing?” My voice is rising. “They’re strangers, you know that? That woman is a stranger who, I’m told, did everything she could to protect me. Sacrificed her body for me. Crouched over me while they beat my father, so I couldn’t see. Screamed for me to run when they tore her away and threw her to the ground—”

  I stop.

  Because Astor’s regarding me with a heavy-lidded stare, like she already knows.

  Of course she knows.

  She has my fucking case file laid out for her to search through, whenever she damn well wants.

  “Do you have
the photos?” I ask.

  I can practically see the shutters to her emotions crash down. “I’m not letting you take a look at them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not going to do that to you.”

  “I would think that should be my choice.”

  “You may not know it now,” she says carefully, “but there is more love behind these faces than you can grasp. If you see them the way they ended … you’ll never recall how they were with you—whatever snippets that remain—ever again.”

  I bite my molars together, hating that she’s right. “You don’t get to make that decision.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Show me.”

  “No, Ben.”

  I step forward. “Show. Me.”

  She doesn’t flinch. Tilts her head up in rebellion. “No.”

  “I’m not testifying,” I grit out.

  “I know that.”

  “If you think you’re tainting any testimony or evidence, you won’t be. So you can stop trying to protect these murderers like they’re your babies.”

  A swirl of indiscernible passion floats behind her eyes, but she staunches it before it can drift to the obvious. “I’m not trying to protect my firm, as much as you’d like to believe that’s the reason.”

  “Then ask me,” I say.

  “Ask you what?”

  “If I were on the stand. If you had complete access to my memories—which you do, right now—what would you ask? What would you do to protect your client?”

  “Fuck you, Ben.” She slams the laptop shut.

  When I bend to grab it, she swipes it out of the way. Fuckin’ woman has better reflexes than I do.

  “You don’t look this kind of gift horse in the mouth. I’m right here, ready and willing to answer any of your questions.” I know I’m goading her, but I don’t damn well care.

  Her teeth grind together, a sure sign she’s putting that sharp mind of hers to use. Then, as if she’s coming to terms with something, she glances back at me. “You said it yourself, you don’t have any memories that are worth a courtroom’s ears.”