Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

New York, I love you.

  I don’t hear the screech behind me.

  The smell clues me in—the burning strain of rubber against asphalt.

  Too late.

  The front hood of a car kisses my back wheel and that’s all it takes to throw my bike sideways, smack my body against the metal side rails, and toss me over the side.

  2

  Taryn

  Motherf—

  “Taryn!”

  The voice at my office doorway chastises my thoughts and I look up, relieved to see my fellow associate attorney, Astor Hayes, and not my supervising one as I fumble with my stack of files and pray I didn’t miss the motion deadline that my computer says I did.

  “What’s with the yelling of my namesake?” I ask, pushing the files aside so I can place my head on the desk instead. “I hear just fine, thank you.”

  “I’m screaming at you with urgency because you’re about to miss the huge croissant breakfast a client just sent to our department.”

  Astor steps in to my office, her brunette bob smooth and sleek against her angular face, and her navy suit falling in line with the same mandatory requirements.

  “I’m not hungry,” I mumble into the wood.

  “Sure you are.” Astor rounds the desk so she’s standing beside me. “You’ve been in here since five in the morning and I haven’t seen you eat a thing.”

  “There’s been no time.” I moan, then lift enough to peer at her. “You know that feeling you get sometimes right before you fall asleep? That heart-palpitating image of clarity that makes you believe you’ve screwed up your life forever?”

  Astor tilts her head. “Sure. Happened to me for a month after I took the bar. All the answers I missed suddenly appeared in my dreams. But let’s go back to why you’re just starting to fall asleep at dawn.”

  I don’t go into the details of what kept me up or why. Astor, while my closest co-worker in the firm, is still a co-worker. We’ve yet to cross into the friend zone, if we ever will, and she doesn’t seem the type to willingly suffer through my family issues. Plus, the last thing I want is to be part of office gossip. Astor doesn’t seem the type to blast my business across the 45th floor, either, but everyone knows, walls have ears. Especially bored ones sitting in front of their computer all day reading block paragraphs of case law.

  I sit up enough to slump against my chair. “Well, it happened to me in the early hours. I suddenly realized I’d completely neglected a deadline on a case.”

  “Shit,” Astor says, then at my panicked mewl, amends, “It can’t be that bad, can it? I thought the paralegals were always on top of the mandatory filings.”

  “You forget, Yang fired Susan last week.”

  Altin Yang, partner of Costello, Wine, & Cottone, and self-proclaimed supervising attorney, had a habit of letting go of our support staff without asking—or notifying—the attorneys. With Susan gone, so was her calendar, and while it was supposed to be synced with ours, for some reason this deadline wasn’t recorded on the office schedule.

  “Guess that’s why she was fired,” Astor surmises.

  “I’m screwed. You know Yang doesn’t care who does what or why, never mind any legitimate excuses. If I can’t beg, borrow, steal, or sell my body to opposing counsel to get them to stipulate, I’m a dead woman walking. No croissant can save me.”

  “This happens all the time. You get on the phone with opposing counsel, and I’ll draw up the stip. We’ll have this done in fifteen minutes max, and maybe there will be a few grapes left over for us to pick at in the conference room.”

  Through my open door, the billowing scent of fresh-baked goods hits us at the same time. Suits pop out of cubicles and offices and sprint in the direction of the conference room.

  Lawyers. The way to their hearts can be through billable hours or fresh bread.

  “Damn it. Word’s gotten round. Come on, Maddox. Move.” Astor ushers me out of my chair, her famous Hayes blue eyes fired up with determination. “Get on your cell. I’ll pull up the file.”

  Her fingers clack way on my keyboard as I find my phone underneath another tower of paper. I look up the last email I received from my opposition, find his number in the signature line, and make the call, my stomach sinking the longer the ring tone continues.

  I hate screwing up. Really, freaking hate it, and in those rare times I do, all I want to do is throw up.

  He picks up on the sixth ring with an unhurried, “Randall speaking.”

  “Hi, Mr. Perkins. This is Taryn Maddox from C,W, and C. I’m defense on the Caruso case, and I was hoping…”

  I continue my monologue, but my attention is drawn to Astor as her phone rings and she pulls it out of her blazer pocket. She glances at her phone’s screen offhand, with a telling don’t bother me look that can only mean it’s either her boyfriend or her brother.

  When she answers, Astor’s cut off at, “Locke, I don’t have time to—” and whatever’s being communicated to her on the other end has the color in her cheeks depleting.

  “Oh … Oh my God,” she says. Astor huddles over the phone like the slim metal case needs comfort. “Are you sure?”

  “Miss Maddox? Are you amenable?”

  I tear my attention off Astor to say into my phone, “Yes. Yes, sure. Tomorrow will be great. Thank you so much.”

  When I disconnect, my phone is loose in my grip. I know the expression on Astor’s face. I recognize it, because I’ve worn it too many times to count. “Astor? Everything okay?”

  She glances over but continues to mumble into her phone. “Right. Okay. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “What’s happened?” I ask as Astor stands on shaky legs.

  “Uh…” Blinking, she brings herself out of whatever shocked fugue she’s fallen into. “My friend. Easton Mack.”

  “I remember him,” I say, mostly to keep her talking. It’s all too easy to fall silent and let shock overtake the body. Astor, known for her sharp skills, won’t be any good to anybody if that happens. “He’s part of that band, right? Nocturne Court?”

  I don’t tell her that the band plays on a consistent loop in my apartment, the thin walls thriving with the beats, usually ending with the neighbors pounding the ends of their broomsticks against our ceiling, plaster raining down as they implore us to shut the hell up.

  Astor nods, then massages her throat, staring blankly at the opposite wall. “He got into an accident. On the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  “Oh no…” I breathe.

  “He fell off it.”

  “He what?” Immediately, I lower my tone. “Are you saying he fell off the bridge?”

  “Well. Not exactly.” Astor shakes her head. “I mean, he did, but the netting against the pedestrian walkway caught him.”

  “Jesus Christ.” I’m wishing Astor wasn’t taking up prime real estate in front of my chair, since I really want to fall into it right now. “You gave me a heart attack. I thought he was dead.”

  “He’s alive, but badly hurt. I have to go to the hospital.”

  The words seem to give Astor the push she needs. She steps away from my desk and passes me, her stride determined. “I have to figure out what the hell happened.”

  “Do you want company?” I ask.

  Astor pauses, a hand on the doorframe as she peers over her shoulder. “It’s all right. All of his friends will be there. We’re like a little family. I’ll be okay.”

  “If you’re sure,” I respond.

  I wonder what it would be like to have such a containment of love, so many bodies to protect and surround and help rehabilitate at your worst moment. I can count on one finger how many of those I have in my life.

  “I’ll text you with an update,” Astor says. “If you could tell Yang—”

  “I’ll cover for you,” I say.

  “Thanks. I mean it. And—oh, shit. Your stip. I’m supposed to help you draft it.”

  “This is a helluva lot more important, wouldn’t you say?” I try on a smile. “It’ll be
fine. I’ll have it completed in a few minutes. Randall said he’ll give me until tomorrow to write the opp papers. It’ll be an all-nighter, but I’ll get it done.”

  “Good. Though try to get some sleep, will you?” Astor says before she leaves.

  I nod, not really committing to it but Astor doesn’t see it, anyway. She’s torn around the corner and yanked her things from her office, giving proof to her reputation as she storms toward the elevator and attempts to figure out why a rising rockstar fell off a damn bridge.

  3

  Easton

  Voices are nothing but clouds floating above. A clogged sort of mumble, circling my head like those birds that always pop up around a cartoon character after they do something stupid.

  “Ungh,” I think I say, but I don’t hear it. Only a vibration in my throat as I blink heavy eyelids and attempt to focus on my surroundings.

  “Hey…” Rex hovers in my vision, his blond hair tangled around his shoulders. “What’s up, bud?”

  His words, at first coming from within a tunnel, become clear as the clouds disperse.

  “I’m … where am I?” I try to sit up, but Mason—standing on the other side of my bed?—puts a hand on my shoulder and presses down.

  “Don’t move too much,” he says. “They don’t know all that’s wrong with you yet.”

  “Wrong?” I ask.

  Then it comes. The backlit city, the hot rumble of an engine between my thighs and the calm waters of the river below. The burning smell of rubber, then … silence.

  “How’s my bike?” I ask no one in particular.

  Wyn ambles up to the foot of the bed. He chuckles. “You’re laid out on a gurney and you’re asking about your wheels?”

  “It’s how I get around,” I say. “Plus, I don’t know if …” In a desperate sort of fear, I wiggle my toes. When I see the movement beneath the white sheet, I exhale in relief. “Oh, thank fuck.”

  “You took a major tumble, man,” Rex supplies. He tongues the corner of his mouth like he’s wishing for a cigarette, even though he quit four years ago. “Flipped your bike on the bridge and flew straight across a few stunned tourists hanging out on the walkway before hitting the net.”

  I grimace. “How bad am I?”

  “Not as bad as you could’ve been,” Mason says. His black hair is flat against one side of his head. Given these hairstyles, I have the sneaking suspicion these guys have spent all night here. “You’ve got a broken collarbone and a few ribs, a fractured left tibia, and a sprained right ankle. Oh, and a fuckload of bruises.”

  “What the hell were you thinking, East?” Wyn says, and despite the warning looks from both Rex and Mason, he continues, “You were flying across that bridge. A car behind you clipped your wheel, and you lost control. Both you assholes were way over the speed limit.”

  “How’s the driver of the other car?” I ask.

  “Hit the side rails, but that’s it,” Mason says. “Airbag broke her nose. Her friend in the passenger seat has a broken arm.”

  “They were from the concert,” Rex says. “Followed you from the venue.”

  “You were speeding because you were trying to get away from them, weren’t you?” Wyn asks. “I told you to up your security. Everybody’s been telling you—our publicist, our manager—you’re not fucking invincible—”

  “Enough,” Rex says at the same time I look away from Wyn and to the side. “Now’s not the time.”

  “He could’ve died. You could’ve died, East,” Wyn says.

  My answer is to exhale slowly.

  “Fine. Go back to your usual silent self. That’s the only way you deal with shit, isn’t it? This doesn’t deserve any explanation anyway.” Wyn curls his lip, punches the side of my bed with an open fist, and stomps out of the room.

  I cover my wince at the jostle.

  Rex watches Wyn depart with a sigh. He says to Mason, “We should go, too.”

  Then he turns to me. “Your next wave of concerned citizens is waiting outside. The nurse wants to throw us all out on our asses, but your buds are determined.”

  “This was an honest accident,” I say before they go. “If I’ve screwed anything up …”

  “Forget it,” Mason says. He reaches up to scratch his buzzed scalp, a nervous tic.

  “Recover, then we’ll talk,” Rex adds.

  No one mentions the tour we’re supposed to go on in four weeks. I’m sick at the thought of fucking it up for these guys. Of fucking it up for myself.

  “I’ll make it,” I say. “We’ll be able to play in Europe.”

  “Yeah. Sure,” Mason says. Rex nods. Neither appear convinced.

  “Rest up, buddy,” Rex says. While he raises his hand in farewell, he adds, “Or maybe not. Your adoptive family is about to come in and ruin any sleep you could’ve had.”

  One side of my mouth ticks up into a smile, and as their broad backs fight for space in the doorway, I try to remember why we got together in the first place. Skinny, acne-ridden high school kids wanting to jam together. We weren’t budding rock stars desperate to maintain a social media following and stay relevant … not back then.

  A month without playing shouldn’t derail us, not logically. But in this world, where attention spans are the sizes of dust mite brains and everybody binges on food and entertainment, I can’t leave our careers to chance.

  I can play through broken ribs and a sprained ankle. Don’t give a shit about that. It’s my collarbone that’s the issue. I can’t raise my sticks when the very thought of lifting my index finger causes shooting pain up my arm.

  What’s it matter? You’re well into fucking it up for them anyway.

  My frown is well-creased into my face by the time my brothers walk in: Locke, Ben, and Ash. No blood relation, but they’re listed under my family tree regardless.

  “Holy shit,” Ash drawls in greeting. All his arm tats are exposed by a sleeveless shirt and ripped jeans. “And here I thought there couldn’t be any more drama within this group.”

  “It was only a matter of time,” Ben pipes in, clad in a plain white tee and jeans. “You know what they say about the quiet ones.”

  Locke draws up to my side first, laying a hand on my good shoulder. He says, with a grim line to his lips, “What the fuck, bro?”

  “I thought I had the bridge to myself,” I say as lame explanation. “I didn’t know there was anyone behind me.”

  “I hear that’s why bikes have mirrors,” Ash says, ever the pragmatist.

  I swallow against his observation, unable—and unwilling—to explain in further depth why I missed the giant SUV gaining traction behind me.

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s done,” Ben says as he takes position on my other side. “We’re glad you’re okay.”

  “So am I.” I stare at my right arm in a sling. “Of a sort.”

  “You’ll be back with your band soon,” Locke assures. “All this? It’s physical. Thank fuck there’s no brain damage. Or worse. You’ll come back from this, East.”

  I listen to him, since how else am I supposed to communicate with a guy who had his entire career ended in one swooping injury? But he has his daughter now to get him through it, and Carter, his girlfriend.

  In a moment of weakness, I think, Maybe this won’t be so bad. I’ll lose a month, but it could be so much worse. And hell, if it weren’t for what I knew was the true reason behind the accident, I could believe it.

  “And hey,” Ben says. “You know we’re here for you. Ash will cook anything you desire. You feeling caramel soufflé? I hear he loves baking that shit.”

  Ash glares at Ben at the end of my bed.

  “I’ll be fine,” I grunt as I try to shift to a more comfortable position. “Pain killers are better than food.”

  “You say that now,” Ash says, arching a brow. “But wait until you get a load of my salted dark chocolate mousse.”

  And he means it.

  “Look, guys, I know you’re concerned,” I say, “but it is what it is—a
stupid accident. Everybody survived, so—”

  “Excuse me.”

  All eyes look to the uniformed man in the doorway.

  Ben is the first to speak. “Yes, officer?”

  “This Easton Mack’s room?” the policeman asks as he peers inside.

  I clear my throat. “That’s me.”

  The officer gestures to a person hovering behind him, a female officer who also steps through the doorway.

  “We’re going to have to ask everyone to leave,” the officer says.

  “Why?” Locke blurts out. “Our friend is injured. I don’t think he’s up for anything you have in mind.”

  “That’s not your call,” the female pipes in. BANCROFT is stenciled onto the nameplate on her uniform. “If you could step outside for a moment, Mister…”

  “Hayes. Locke Hayes. And we’re not going anywhere.”

  Ash asks, with an easy air, “You normally wanna talk to someone hopped up on pain meds?”

  “Again, not your call,” the male officer says. His nameplate reads FRAISER. “We’re kindly asking you to step outside the room for a moment while we ask Mr. Mack a few questions.”

  “Have his doctors approved this?” Ben asks, typical of a man dating a lawyer.

  Both officers nod.

  “It’s all right,” I say, to diffuse the tension in the room. I have no idea why they’re here, and frankly, I’m in too much pain to care. “If they want information about the accident, I’ll give it to them.”

  “East,” Locke warns, typical of a man related to a lawyer.

  “I’ve got nothing to hide,” I say. “Go. I’m sure you can come back in when they’re done.”

  Reluctantly, the boys depart, but not without a few wary glances at the officers.

  Despite the ridiculousness of our college youth, me and the guys have never had brushes with the law, and none of us quite know how to deal with two very serious-looking police-people wandering into a hospital room after what could’ve been a deadly accident.

  Which, as far as I know, I didn’t fucking cause.

  “The driver of the SUV hit my back wheel,” I say as soon as my friends shut the door behind them. “I’m not sure what else you want to know.”