Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  The woman officer, Bancroft, wastes no words. “True. But what we’re more interested in is your blood alcohol level.”

  “My what?” I respond automatically. Without thinking. Without processing.

  “Bloodwork was done as soon as they brought you in, son,” Bancroft says. “You tested point-oh-nine. Over the legal limit.”

  “I…” Shit.

  I think back to last night and what I did and the way I played in front of the audience. The shots of whiskey kept coming after each set. The environment was addictive, screaming with beats and newfound fans, the aura of a star surrounding our stage as we went full throttle, uncaring of anything but the music. Not hearing anything but the slam of sticks on drumskin, guitar strings against picks, the brush of fingers against keyboard keys, and Rex’s voice amplified into the air.

  Not thinking. I wasn’t thinking at all.

  Oh, hell.

  4

  Taryn

  My heart’s in my throat as I submit the stipulation to the court.

  It was a simple click of the SUBMIT button on my computer, yet that one flick of my index finger contains my future.

  I hope, hopehopehope, the judge approves the delay of papers.

  Otherwise, my position here at CW&C will become very precarious. The years I spent in law school, proving to my family and myself that I could be independent, is a moot point if I can’t support them anymore.

  The pay in this position is amazing. The benefits even more so. And the heavy competition required to secure an associate’s salary at this firm? Met—with a lot of sacrifices in between—but worth it. Same with securing a scholarship at Harvard Law. And working night shifts at a twenty-four-hour diner so I could continue bringing in a paycheck while I went to law school.

  Seasoned attorneys are desperate for work. The city is cut-throat, clad in the torn and twisted bodies of the lawyers it keeps spitting out all over its gray, concrete streets.

  I’m too desperate to continue maintaining a comfortable nest egg. If, worse case, I’m fired, I’ll be looking for an immediate position as a barista. New York City is a battlefield of law school grads and newly minted attorneys who’ve just passed the bar. My chances of scoring a similar job at another firm is close to none. Even securing this was mostly by chance.

  A missed deadline. That’s all it’ll take. A simple mistake …

  To ruin it all.

  I moan, leaning into my desk and scrunching my eyes shut before pushing away and rising. A few cold splashes of water on my face could help these next few seconds, before I lose the peanut butter toast I had for breakfast.

  Striding out of my office (a recent upgrade from a cubicle I received as a bonus from Yang this year), I notice the hush that’s fallen over the grid of cubicles in the main area. I keep my pace, but peek over one of the cubicle walls and notice an intern scrolling through an entertainment site. The headline he’s paused at reads: RISING STAR EASTON MACK SHOOTS STRAIGHT OFF A BRIDGE (ALMOST).

  Nothing like celebrity fodder to distract from the constant dry material heaved their way all day—and most nights.

  The rest of the article is too small a font for me to read, but I assume this is why the interns and first-year associates are quiet and digging into their late breakfasts, glued to their screens.

  Then, on a first year’s screen in the next cubicle, I read: LARGEST FENTANYL BUST IN HISTORY TIED TO CHAVEZ DRUG RING.

  There’s a hitch in my step, but I cover it and keep walking when the associate glances up. Frowning, he pulls his laptop closer to his body.

  The one thing more interesting than celebrity mishaps in this office? The fight over who gets to assist Yang in the defense of prolific clients of CW&C’s. Namely, Enrique Chavez, a slippery crime lord who can’t be cuffed, in large thanks to this firm. Manhattan’s Commissioner is the first to sling curses our way.

  As I’m passing the bank of elevators, I notice Astor stepping off one, her face paler than usual. She spots me and on instinct, I slow my step.

  “How’d it go yesterday?” I ask.

  In answer, she gently hooks my elbow and directs us to the restroom. I study the side of her face, the tenseness around her eyes, the tight draw of her lips, as we walk.

  “Is everything okay at the hospital? Is Easton all right?” I try asking but get no response.

  The article describing Easton’s accident hovers behind my vision. Easton’s potential demise. I’ve never really met him but know his songs like I’ve written them myself. I can recite them verbatim. Oh, it’d be such a loss if he were hurt worse than what’s in the press. I’m aching at the thought, my heart emitting hollow beats at the idea of who I’d have to break the news to.

  “Astor, you’re scaring me,” I say.

  It’s not until we’re in the bathroom and Astor’s checked all the empty stalls before she speaks. “We have a problem.”

  My brain’s already working out the details. “About Easton or Chavez?”

  Indecipherable emotion skitters across Astor’s features. “What do you mean, about Chavez?”

  “The first years are all over it.” I vaguely point behind me, in the direction of the cubicles behind the locked restroom door. “A large amount of Fentanyl has been seized. The press is linking it to Chavez. I’m sure Yang will dole out—”

  “This isn’t about Chavez,” Astor says. She chews on her lower lip like the problem should be about Chavez, but she pushes it aside. “East’s in trouble.”

  “How hurt is he?”

  “Not terrible,” Astor says. “Some broken bones, bruises, a sore ego, but he’ll live.”

  “That’s great news,” I say. I’m physically relieved at the thought that he’ll make music again. “So, what’s the trouble?”

  “The idiot was drunk,” Astor says. “He drove his bike drunk.”

  “Shit.” I rest a hip against the nearest sink. I never assumed the future music he’d make would be in a jail cell.

  It’s pointless to ask how much over the legal limit he was, since if you’re over the limit, you’re screwed either way. Judges do not look kindly on drunk drivers, even if they aren’t the direct cause of the accident.

  “I was going to take the case,” Astor says, “as a favor to my brother. I’m pissed enough to punt it, since East is a fucking moron, but I love him too much to do so.”

  I nod. “I’m here to help. Whatever you need.”

  For as long as I’m an employee in this firm, anyway, I think darkly.

  “Actually, I need a lot more than assistance.” Astor scrubs her face, glances at the mirror in a sigh, then back to me. “This new Chavez thing … I want to be on top of it. I need to know what’s going on. If I’m to get on the case, I have to become Yang’s new bff.”

  Again. Since last year, Astor’s been deeply focused on everything and anything to do with Chavez that circulates this firm. Obsessed is the better term, but she’s so good at the details and assisting Altin Yang that nobody notices just how invested she is, except for me. I’d helped on the initial case regarding the unsolved murder of a family in the nineties and the boy who’d survived, then disappeared into the stratosphere. There was a moment when I’d thought it had to be personal to Astor. I was certain something Chavez did involved her family or friends … but there was no proof, and Astor’s considered too much of an asset to this firm to question.

  If I wanted to commit career suicide, then I’d look into it deeper, but as we all know at this point, I’m terrified to lose my job.

  “There won’t be time to work on East’s case,” Astor says. “Since I’m not making it official to this firm. I was going to do it on the side, but—”

  “Say no more.” I straighten from the sink and level my shoulders. “I’ll do it.”

  “You will?” Astor genuinely sags at my declaration. “Thank you, Taryn. Seriously, thank you.”

  I shake off her gratitude, but inside, I’m beaming at the thought that I’ll have Astor in my corner if my c
urrent case goes off the rails and I’m sitting in front of Yang.

  “It sounds like a cut-and-dry DUI involving a celebrity,” I say. “I’ll talk to Easton this afternoon, then get on the phone with the prosecutor this evening. We’ll work something out.”

  “But remember, it’s Easton,” Astor reminds. “My friend and also a guy the media continues to gossip about…”

  “I’ll be tactful,” I say. “And do my damndest to keep it out of the courtroom.”

  “I hope so,” Astor says. She steps forward like she’s about to hug me, but second guesses herself before the act.

  That’s the thing with Astor. I think we can be friends, then she quickly ushers me into the co-worker corner.

  To lighten the awkwardness, I pat her suited shoulder. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Thanks, Taryn,” Astor repeats. She rests her hand on mine against her shoulder, then draws away. “He’s … something’s going on with East. It’s like he’s given up … or doesn’t care that he was nearly killed. I have no idea what’s in his head. He’s not confiding in anyone.”

  Keeping emotions in a vault is a tactic I’m familiar with, but it strikes me as interesting that the closer to fame and recognition Easton gets, the more he’s clamming up inside. It makes me wonder why he pursued an avenue to stardom in the first place.

  “I’ll do my best to figure it out,” I say to Astor.

  “I wish you luck,” Astor replies. “Maybe he’s better off confessing to a stranger than to his friends.”

  Nocturne Court’s lyrics rush through my head—stranger in the dark, light a candle for me—and I feel uncomfortably less like a stranger to Easton. I wonder if it’s true, and I’m closer to him than Astor believes, simply by understanding his lyrics. More likely, I’m just one of the many fans who’s convinced an idol’s songs lead directly to familiarity with the creator’s soul.

  “And hey,” I say to Astor as we turn to the door to exit. “Keep me updated on Chavez. I’m curious to see if Yang can get him off this time.”

  Astor tenses. “Me, too.”

  She doesn’t elaborate further.

  I check my watch as I part ways with Astor outside the ladies’ room and head back to my office to grab a few things. I’m happy to stay busy rather than sit at my desk constantly refreshing my email, awaiting the judge’s response.

  Might as well go see an injured, handsome, hungover rock star to pass the time.

  My familiarity with hospitals goes back to when I was nineteen. I’d mostly been in and out of the emergency room, but a few of the other floors manage to flesh out some dark memories, too.

  I’d never been to this particular location, though, one of the top hospitals in the country with some of the best doctors in the world, and I can’t help but think that maybe, if I’d been seen here, someone might’ve clued in sooner.

  I run a hand through my loose blonde hair to dispel the reminders and dive back into the present, where all I’m doing is seeing a patient, a friend of a friend, with no relation to me or what I harbor.

  This is just a simple client intake, where I can gauge the case and how much time it’ll cost me, just like I do with a lot of the clients we onboard. This one just happens to be in a hospital, a fact I hadn’t considered when I was all too eager to accept Astor’s request and take Easton on.

  Holy crikey, I’m meeting him. I’m going to be alone with Easton Mack.

  My tongue immediately swells in my mouth, and I haven’t even reached his room yet.

  Omigod. I’m more professional than this. I’m certainly a lot sterner when it comes to meeting clients, since I work on the defense side and a lot of them are budding criminals who claim innocence. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Easton isn’t my usual wayward trust fund baby who’s tagged the wrong building or been caught with a certain amount of heroine with “no intent to sell, ma’am, I swear.”

  He’s a guy who’s largely avoided the public eye, but the public won’t avoid him. As far as I know, he has a clean criminal record, not even a speeding ticket, all of which a background check will confirm. I put in a request for the police report to see what exactly happened on the bridge last night and make a note in my phone as I’m striding through the hallway to follow up as soon as Easton signs a retainer.

  Going through the motions is helping in more ways than one. By the time I reach Easton’s room, I’m in Taryn Maddox, Esquire, mode and ready to meet him with a straight face instead of the one I use when his band’s music is gliding through my apartment, my slippered feet tapping to the rhythm as I cook up macaroni and cheese with a side of frozen fish sticks.

  And ketchup. I’m never allowed to forget the ketchup.

  I bring a firm fist to knock the door that’s cracked open slightly and announce my arrival. The door opens wider with my movement, and I’m pleased to see Easton’s alone in the room.

  “Easton?” Unfortunately, my voice is weaker than my knock, but I clear my throat and provide a clearer, “Easton Mack?”

  He’d been gazing out the window on the right, even though the curtains are closed, but at the sound of his name, he tiredly turns his head.

  Eyes the color of pennies meet mine, surrounded by a chiseled face partially camouflaged by a day’s growth of beard. His origin is hard to pinpoint, with skin that’s not pale, but not dark. More like a yin and yang of the two. Easton’s long-ish hair is ink black, but the softened sunlight through the window’s curtains catches a few glints of auburn.

  Then, I make the mistake of looking down. His torso is partially exposed by an open hospital gown. Easton’s right arm rests in a sling that does nothing to obscure the carved-out pecs and the bumpy valley of his abs. A white sheet drapes over his bottom half in just the right position that my imagination can run away with.

  “Who’re you?” he rasps.

  I jolt out of my stunned fugue, and to my horror, clear my throat again. This cannot be my new nervous tic. “I’m Taryn Maddox. A friend of Astor’s—well, a co-worker. Attorney. I’m a lawyer at her firm.”

  He cocks a brow, somehow remaining sexy despite the purplish bruise rimming one eye and the nasty gash under the other. “Well, Taryn Maddox, a friend of Astor’s, co-worker, attorney, and lawyer. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  I flush that he’s called out my stuttering introduction, but we both know why I’m here. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I fell off a bridge.”

  I drag a chair closer to his bed, the metal legs screeching against the floor. It gives me time to collect myself in front of this very good-looking, famous man. I’m determined to treat him like I would any other client. “You didn’t actually fall off, Mr. Mack. You maybe scraped the edge of the pedestrian walkway.”

  Easton snorts. “I see I got the one who pays attention to detail.”

  I pause as I’m sitting down. “I’m sorry … the one?”

  He shrugs his good shoulder. “I figured my friends would rally—especially Astor—and try to find me the best possible suit to get me out of this predicament. Astor strikes me as the type who would pick a thorough one.”

  My butt hits the chair. “You’re talking like your friends were choosing a horse.”

  “Maybe they were.” Easton shrugs, then pins me with his amber gaze again. “You race well?”

  I cross my legs. His attention takes a deep-dive down my exposed legs, and a shivering thrill courses up to my hips. “Very.”

  “Good. Except I don’t deserve it.”

  I’m about to bend over and search through my tote for a legal pad and pen, but say instead, “Excuse me?”

  “I fucked up. I’m ready to accept whatever book they throw at me.”

  When I find my things, I rest them on my lap and fold my arms. “I don’t think you understand. DWIs aren’t what they once were, when it comes to the court. Even though you’re only point-zero-one over the limit, you’re not going to get a slap on the wrist or even a fine. The current district attorney lov
es making examples out of celebrities, since they flock to this city almost as much as they do to Hollywood. I have my work cut out for me. I can maybe get you a suspension on your license and community service, but that’s only if—”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Easton.” There’s unexpected pleasure in saying his name despite my firmness. Voicing the syllables that belong to him. “You do care. What about your career? Your band?”

  “I love what I do,” he admits. “But I’m starting to hate what I’m becoming.”

  I’m not sure what he means. Astor warned me he isn’t much for words, but I’m finding with everything he does say, there comes heavy, weighted deciphering.

  I say, softer, “From what I can see, this was a preventable accident. You were barely over the limit, and while that didn’t directly cause the crash, it can be construed as proximate cause. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  His brows come together, as much as they can with his injuries. “I’m not sure.”

  “That opens up a lawsuit for the other driver.”

  I have his attention now. “What?”

  “She can bring a civil suit for monetary damages. And you pleading guilty to a DWI … that could help her case.”

  “But she’s a fan,” he says. “She was trying to follow me for a selfie, or an autograph, or something. I don’t think she wanted to hurt me or be hurt.”

  “Okay. Good.” I jot down these facts. “That’s helpful to know. Do you know how old she is?”

  He shakes his head. “No. Why?”

  “If she’s a minor, it doesn’t matter what she thinks. Her parents can bring the lawsuit. You’re a celebrity, Easton, and with that title comes the perception that you have deep pockets. That you’re a rich asshole.”

  “Hell no, I’m not. And she hit me.”

  “Don’t you have your first major international tour coming up?”

  “Yeah.” He says it slowly, like he’s dreading my answer.