Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  Sophie shrugs, but it’s not cavalier. It carries the weight of almost a decade of suffering. “I wish I had an answer. Was he bullied? Sure. So was I. So are a lot of people. He was eighteen—a senior. He was going to graduate and be out of there in two months. There was no earthly reason for him to buy two AK-47s from the dark web and decide to execute.”

  “Has he ever given you an answer?”

  “I don’t talk to him.” Sophie sniffs. Her attention goes to the boiling pot, and I shoot up and get over there before it boils over. “He calls me, though. From prison. Every day.”

  My back is to her as I stir the bubbling rue. She can’t see the brief crumble of my expression and the internal curse. All this time, I’ve focused on my demons and never considered she harbored her own.

  “The worst part…” Sophie says softly behind me. “Is that he waited for a day when I’d be out of school. He must’ve been so patient, because I don’t get sick often. I have appreciation for education. I liked going and learning, being with my friends. And so, I can’t help but think. Can’t help but wonder…”

  I turn. “If he poisoned your food.”

  Sophie wipes under her nose. Her focus is on the counter, her shoulders are slumped, and there’s nothing I want more than to fold her into my arms, carry her to bed, and stay next to her for as long as it takes.

  “You can’t think this is your fault,” I say.

  Sophie remains silent.

  “Soph.” I round the island, and without sitting, draw her near. I want to absorb this horror for her. I’m good at it—have been limping through breaks and hiding bruises for most of my life. The thought that Sophie’s been cultivating similar endurance, the absorption of all things bad, makes me sick.

  She’s so much better at it than you.

  Had she not admitted this to me, had Sophie continued keeping this secret, I’d never have believed she’d experienced such pain. We accidentally got pregnant, and she was going to bear through it, no question. Her best friend Carter lost someone closest to her, and Sophie was there to help her through the raising of a baby, no hesitation.

  Sophie admits her brother is a school shooter for the first time, to anyone, and she only has me for comfort.

  And I’m a piss-poor substitution.

  “We were at the restaurant because of me,” Sophie says. “I’d just won an award. I was a mathlete and we won our state-wide competition.”

  The broken smile she gives when she looks up is crushing.

  “Michael was just informed he didn’t get into his top three colleges. But I didn’t care. I was tired of hearing about his stress levels and his moaning about never getting anything he wants. We come from a stable family. Middle-class. We never lacked for anything. I thought he was being a selfish prick, making it all about him again. The whole year was about him—his prospects, his grades, his extra-curriculars. I was so tired of coming in second. So, I forced everyone out of the house, even him, to celebrate me. Just me. Fuck him. Those were my exact thoughts when we left the house and drove to my favorite Italian place.”

  “That sounds exactly like a sixteen-year-old girl who’s in competition with her sibling,” I say. “You know how many of those there are in the world?”

  “Yeah? And how many choose to shoot up a school the next day?”

  I shut my mouth.

  “I think that’s what pushed him over the edge. If I hadn’t demanded my stupid first place celebration, if I’d just let my mom and dad sit Michael down and really talk to him … if I’d tried to understand where he was coming from, maybe none of this would have happened.”

  “It sounds like Michael had this planned for a long time,” I say. “I don’t think this is something you could’ve ever wrapped your head around and talked him out of. You said it yourself, how many kids choose to shoot up a school when they’re pissed they didn’t ace their college applications? It’s not a normal reaction. This was a complicated, heavy, tragic situation that no sixteen-year-old should be a part of, never mind try to solve in hindsight.”

  “Thank you for saying that, but this regret will follow me always.”

  I hear what she’s saying. I look back a lot on my home life and wonder, if I hadn’t mouthed off so much, if I’d just kept my head down and been the perfect son, maybe my father wouldn’t have picked up a knife that first time. Perhaps my outlook on having my own kid would’ve been entirely different.

  “I’ll never know the true reasons behind his attack—if it really was because of losing out on college—because I don’t want to ask,” Sophie continues. “I haven’t said a word to him since that morning, when he threw a pillow at me, told me to stop faking, and dropped off a cup of tea on my nightstand. We were close. Used to be. Only eighteen months apart.”

  I crumble in some cheese, stirring it into the pan with melted butter, flour, and milk. “What that kind of thing does to a person … Soph, you don’t deserve it.”

  “For some reason, he didn’t want me to die, but he wanted a bunch of other people to.” Sophie grips the countertop and pushes off. “Do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  Sophie disappears around the corner, and I finish putting together her meal, wishing it were more meaningful than basic cheese and milk. I soothe with food. It’s my specialty and talent, but it’s not enough tonight.

  She comes back and resumes her seat, and I carry over two, steaming bowls, setting one in front of her.

  Sophie lifts a brow. “You’re eating this, too?”

  “I’m hungry enough to try.”

  She dips her fork into the creaminess and then into her mouth. After a moan, she licks the tines with such erotic flair that my dick twitches.

  Now is not the time, buddy.

  “This is … oh my God, Ash, this is dreamy. It’s exactly what I need.” With ferocious concentration, Sophie attacks the bowl.

  I fumble for my own fork when I realize I’m watching her with a doting, dopey smile.

  “What kind of cheese is this?” she asks.

  “Fontina, brie, and some blue for flavor. And white cheddar.” I try a bite and am satisfied to note I did a great fucking job. “You want some hot sauce?”

  “Do I,” she breathes.

  I have a metal caddy in the middle of my island housing various oils, vinegars, and sauces. I pick out the hot sauce bottle and slide it over to Sophie. She tips it and dumps it on to the point where I’m mildly insulted.

  “I can’t help it,” she says as an apology. “It’s this weird pregnancy habit that’s going on. I want hot sauce on everything. You know I put it on peanut butter one time?”

  “You fucking didn’t.”

  “And it was good.”

  Laughter bursts from my throat, and I cover it with a cough. First her brother, and now her pregnancy. Both are hot topics where neither she nor I know where we stand. It’s not the time for laughter, even though it feels … oddly right.

  We both go back to our meal, conscious of the other but too hungry to say much else. I take this as a sign that our conversation, Sophie’s confession, is over. Just as the confrontation with my parents is behind us.

  “He left me a voicemail,” Sophie mumbles as she scrapes the last of the cheese sauce out of her bowl. “The last time he called. He never does.”

  I don’t give any outward tell that I’m jarred by her resumption in topic. “Did you delete it?”

  “No. I don’t know why not.” She pushes the empty bowl away. Takes a deep breath. “Tonight, you showed me your truth. And in return, I wanted to give you mine. We’re both ruined human beings, in a way, yet we’re two people who were given the gift of creating a new life. One that, hopefully, doesn’t have to learn from ours.”

  “Ah, Sophie…” I lean back on my stool, staring down. “I’m glad you felt comfortable enough with me to tell me about your past. And I don’t regret revealing my home life to you. But as for this baby, I—”

  “I’m telling
you because I need you to understand, I’m just as terrified as you. About this baby. About what I’m giving it. But I can’t chance this new, little life on fear. I have to believe they won’t inherit my skeletons. I have to. I want to listen to the voicemail with you.”

  The change in subject shakes me. “You what?”

  “I haven’t heard Michael’s voice in eight years. It feels right to listen to it tonight, when we’ve both stripped ourselves bare.”

  “Or a mistake.” I stand and stack our dirty bowls. “Soph, you’re vulnerable. So am I.”

  “And tomorrow we’re going back to our respective fake selves. Stronger selves, yeah, but you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine. I’m not holding out hope, Ash. I’m simply trying to find…”

  Closure. With us.

  I don’t say what I’m thinking. “Okay. I’ll listen with you.”

  The dirty bowls are forgotten as I resume my seat and Sophie takes out her phone. She lays it between us, tapping until she gets to her voicemails. The top number has a blue, unread notification. Her finger hovers over it.

  “You ready?” I ask her.

  Sophie doesn’t move. “I think so.”

  “You want me to do it?”

  “No. I just need you by my side. Okay. I can do this. One, two…” Sophie hits the number without saying three.

  “Sophie, hi,” A deep, resonate voice fills the room. I’m not focusing on the phone anymore. I’m watching Sophie. “It’s been a long time, huh? I’ve been listening to your voicemail greeting for years, yet I’ve never said anything after it, so this is weird. It’s so fucking—shit. I don’t know how much time is left on this thing, so I’m gonna get right to it. My final appeal was denied. I, um, I’m set to be executed in a couple of months. So, even though you’ve never picked up, and I’ve never talked to you, I wanted to leave something of myself. You know? Mom tells me you’re pregnant. Guess that means I’m not gonna be an uncle. But, well, as my last words, how ‘bout they be, ‘congrats.’ I’m happy you’re happy. I hope the kid has a good life. I love you, sis, and, well … goodbye.”

  Click.

  Sophie’s face has slowly leeched its color the longer her brother drones on. I grow anxious. First, my father, then her confession, now this. It can’t be good for either her or the baby.

  I don’t ask her if she’s okay. Again, stupid question. “Soph? Come here.”

  She’s unmoving, barely blinking, and I gather her in my arms, hoping some of my warmth can seep into her worryingly cool body. She’s lighter than she should be, considering she’s housing another person, and I carry her to my bed.

  Laying her down, I tuck in beside her. My nose is in her hair, and her rose-like scent envelopes our forms. “I’m staying right in this spot. I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

  Sophie gives a barely perceptible nod, and I hold her tighter. In a sudden swing, she rolls over, burying her face in my neck.

  The lights are on, the kitchen is a mess, but neither of us move. I don’t plan on moving in a long while.

  “He knows I’m pregnant,” Sophie whispers into my chest.

  I smooth back her hair. Kiss her temple.

  “He’s going to die,” she says.

  My finger drifts down her shoulder, traces patterns against her arm, hoping for the moment she falls asleep and her dreams aren’t filled with nightmares.

  “I want this baby to be better,” Sophie says. Her breaths hit directly where my heart is.

  “So do I,” I murmur softly into her hair. “So do I, bombshell.”

  23

  Sophie

  The next day burns bright.

  Literally.

  It sears through my eyelids and into my eyeballs like actual star-rays harnessed to kill.

  “Holy…” Blinking, holding my hand up to shade my eyes, I pull into a seated position in an effort to figure out where I’ve landed.

  It takes me a second, but I register checkerboard windows to my left bursting with sunshine onto my—our—bodies.

  Ash lays next to me, conked out, his mouth wide open as he snoozes on his side, his arm still draped around my waist.

  Where are your damned curtains, dude? I ask him silently, but I’m too softened by the sight of him to be annoyed for long.

  All suffering, all angst, is erased from his expression as he dreams, his lashes dark crescents against his skin. His features are flawless, with rough spikes of scruff coating his cheeks, traveling along his jawline and chin.

  I move to his arm, coated with ink and so dark compared to his complexion. It gives me the chance to really study the images, to trace the lines and patterns of talons, reptile scales, and pitchfork tails.

  It’s better to focus on the ink beneath my fingers than the ghostly voice of my brother.

  My final appeal was denied. I, um, I’m set to be executed in a couple of months.

  No lie crossed my lips when I admitted to Ash I considered Michael long dead. But, because of that belief, hearing the voicemail was like the undead speaking through a conduit. In considering him gone, Michael wasn’t supposed to have sound. There was no reason for him to refill my veins, to get inside my mind. Yet, here he is, entering my thoughts first thing in the morning. Causing conflict in my soul.

  And here I am, lying against the man I’m ashamed to want to have save me.

  But I’m oddly freed by our mutual confessions last night, the weight on our shoulders a little less, our standing ground a little more balanced.

  Except you haven’t told him everything.

  Cantaloupe does a roll, and I look down. Then it kicks—directly into my bladder.

  “Oh—Jesus.” I wince, then carefully extricate myself from Ash without waking him.

  After my bathroom break, I head to the kitchen as quietly as I can. Ash doesn’t move a limb as I clean up the kitchen and stack the dishwasher, pleased to see that it runs on silent.

  Afterward, I’m not sure what to do. Now would be the perfect time to make an exit, an unobtrusive departure leaving minimal ripples behind. I’ve done it so much that it seems every time Ash and I get closer, either he or I tiptoe out of the room before the other notices. Like we can’t handle the added intimacy.

  I’m pulling on my shoes when Ash rumbles. He says something under his breath then turns to his other side, facing the room. And me.

  His eyelids crack open.

  “You’re leaving?” he asks, and I’m not sure if there’s sadness or acceptance behind the question. Maybe both.

  “I thought it would be a good time. I have a flight to catch later today.”

  Ash sits up, combing hair out of his eyes. “I didn’t know you were flying back so soon.”

  “This was a short trip. For Lily.”

  “Is it your last?”

  I fumble slipping on my pump and find deep interest in righting my foot instead of looking at him. “I think so. I won’t be able to fly for much longer, anyway.”

  “Makes sense.”

  God. We’re talking like we’re polite acquaintances. Not like we’re responsible for making a baby.

  “Last night…” Ash begins, seemingly as unwilling to end the conversation as I am to leave. “I’m glad you told me what you did.”

  “I’m not sure I should be glad you took me to your parents’, but I understand a lot better now, where you’re coming from.”

  “That was the only goal. It wasn’t to hurt you.”

  “I know that, Ash.”

  Ash pulls the covers off and stands. Like me, he’s still clad in last night’s clothes. “I’m happy you met Marcela, at least.”

  I weaken, just a little. “Me, too.”

  “Back in Florida, you’ll be taken care of?” Ash walks closer as he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, too brightly. “Carter and Astor are going to come down for a visit, and Carter’s assured me she’ll be there for the birth.”

  Ash nods, adept at hiding any emotion in his acknowledgements. “If you need anything�
�”

  “Yes. I will.”

  “Here. Let me.”

  Ash realizes I’m still messing around with my shoes, unable to stand and slide them on, and not wanting to sit on the floor in my dress and ram them in place, like I would if I were in private. He bends down, his fingers sliding around my bare calf, and I swallow back any expression at the burst of shivers coursing from that center point.

  Ash is a Prince Charming I wish was mine. He fits a shoe on one foot, then moves on to the next. His touch lingers, spiking my heart-rate, but all I can see is the top of his head. I have no idea what he’s thinking.

  “Ash,” I say, and it comes out more forcefully than I aimed for.

  He looks up.

  “I have something else to tell you. That you deserve to know.”

  Brows drawing in, he stands, but we’re still so close together. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

  “But I do,” I say. “Because it wouldn’t be right, not after last night, to leave without letting you know … without clueing you in to what else went on, especially after we’ve been so honest with each other.”

  His head tilts. “You’re looking pale again. What could possibly be worse than what we told each other last night?”

  “I…”

  I’ve never been more nauseous. I can’t blame Cantaloupe, because the baby has chosen this exact moment to get comfortable and fall asleep.

  “If this is the last time I’m seeing you, before—well, before this baby, I want to leave with everything out on the table,” I say. “Because from the start, you’ve been straight with me.”

  “That’s nothing I deserve,” Ash says. He leads me into the kitchen, settling me onto a stool. Without request, Ash goes and pours two glasses of ice water. Damn it. Now I have to wait until he’s finished and standing in front of me again.

  “I’ve been open about not wanting to be a father,” Ash continues as he sets a full glass on the counter in front of me. “But it’s not exactly deserving of your honesty, never mind kindness.”

  I rub my lips together, then say, “What we had, it was a one-night stand.”