Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  I lean forward on my elbows, tangling the pen in my fingers. “How much is that pay out?”

  His answer is to hiss out a breath.

  “Thought so. You’re a celebrity with a possible DWI. The potential for public blowback is huge. The possibility of the driver of the SUV bringing a civil suit is astronomical. And even though you didn’t cause the accident, how do you think a jury will perceive a drunk celebrity involved in a crash? Doesn’t matter that you were barely over limit. Regular people are tired of young celebrities getting away with any kind of shit they get involved in. Social media will be after you in droves. The most we can do is settle with that family and have them not bring it to court. We have to protect you, and we have to start now by trying to beat any criminal charges brought against you. Without a DWI, the driver has a lot less to sue you on. Now…” I lean back in my seat, crossing my legs the other way. “What was that you were saying about not caring about being booked?”

  5

  Easton

  Taryn Maddox is insanely, epically gorgeous.

  I can’t help but gawk at her when she walks in, dressed in a tight gray skirt-suit and white blouse unbuttoned into a V. A simple, thin gold chain adorns her neck, but it directs me to her chest, her ample cleavage, and how those mounds move closer to me when she inhales.

  When I finally force my gaze up, I’m met with large, almond-colored eyes, flawless, curving cheekbones and an unpainted, lush mouth.

  Her blonde hair is past her shoulders, thick and begging me to tangle it.

  It’s fucking insanity, the way I’m picturing her naked while I’m lying on a gurney, having narrowly escaped sudden death, my bones creaking with every breath. I’m in deep shit and I should be thinking about consequences, not sex.

  I shift in my bed, hoping she doesn’t see my Johnson greeting her the way I wish I could.

  Her words, however, quickly suck out any wind beneath my dick.

  “Maybe it’s good that you’re here,” I amend after she throws dreadful facts at me like I’m a human dartboard. “If what you’re saying can come true.”

  “We have to treat it like it’s a possibility,” Taryn says, all business. Yet, it’s impossible to see her as my lawyer when every time she forms a sentence, those full lips of hers move.

  It’s mesmerizing, watching her speak, and I don’t think it’s solely due to the Oxy.

  She fidgets and clears her throat, a low, lioness tone. A sound I’m starting to enjoy.

  “I’ll start with procedure,” she says. “And try to get the charge thrown out that way. There’s a gap in time between your accident and when they took your blood test. That can skew results. Many a case has been thrown out from that.”

  I frown at her matter-of-fact tone. “You’re okay with doing that? Fighting a DUI?”

  She goes back to her notes. “DWI. And yes.”

  “Taryn.” Her name moves against my lips and tongue like a sonnet. I ache for her pen and paper, to write her the way I perceive her. “How do you feel about getting a drunk driver off on charges? Doesn’t it piss you off?”

  “I don’t feel any type of way.” Her expression is blank as she leans back and looks at me. “I’m a defense lawyer. This is what I do.”

  “And what in your life has made you want to defend criminals?”

  Those warm, almond-coffee eyes of hers go sharp. “We’re not talking about me. We’re discussing your future, which is a lot more important, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’m sorry.” I catch the ripple of pain in her features as soon as I ask the question and instantly feel bad at laying my own guilt at her feet.

  But my curiosity wins out, as it always does. “Doesn’t helping rich dicks get away with whatever they want piss you off? I know Astor’s firm specializes in deep pockets.”

  “How about we start with the facts from last night,” she says, and her change of topic gives me all the answers I need. “As you recollect them. Then I can strategize a plan of attack. I have a retainer for you to sign, too, if you’d like to take me on as your counsel after we talk.”

  I’d like to take you on, all right.

  But that’s my dick talking, not my common sense, and I kindly and silently tell the horny bastard to shut the fuck up.

  “We finished our set,” I say. “At Beacon Theatre. Our largest crowd yet.”

  I wait for her to voice the predictable congratulations response, but she gives none.

  “It went well,” I continue. “Really insane. Our skill was flawless, the crowd fucking addictive. Time passed like nothing.”

  “How much would you say you had during that time?”

  “To drink? Ah…” I close my eyes, try to think back to the hands coming out from the shadows, holding frosted pints or shot glasses brimming with warm, stinging liquid. Sweat pouring down my temples as I fling my head back and send the droplets back into my hair. “Maybe four? Five? Over the course of like, six hours, though.”

  She scribbles something down on her paper. I tilt my head forward as much as I can. “What are you writing?”

  “The facts as you’re stating them.” Taryn doesn’t glance up.

  “And how am I stating them?”

  She peers at me through her lashes. “I’m not your therapist. You don’t have to be concerned over what I’m jotting down.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t be the first client who’s wondered, is she writing this dick is a drunkard, or is it more like, I can’t believe I’m stuck with another fucking celebrity fuck-up?”

  “Neither.” Taryn weaves her pen through her fingers. “These are my personal notes to refer back to.”

  “Even more concerning.”

  “You should be focusing most of your attention on your recovery, not how I put together letters in the alphabet.”

  I settle back against the pillow, hiding a flinch as my shoulder sings, and say with an arched brow, “As my lawyer, I have a right to be concerned over whether or not you’re on my side.”

  “You’re paying me. I’m naturally going to fight for my paycheck.”

  I scrunch the least scratched-up side of my face. “Ouch, lady.”

  Taryn taps the top of her pen against her lower lip, and I immediately get a bead on the movement. My jaw clenches at the unintentional seduction.

  She says, “Maybe you’re so focused on what I’m writing down because you’re hypersensitive over what happened yesterday. You’re ashamed that you were drinking and driving, a dumb decision which is usually an attempt at covering a deeper flaw.”

  I frown as she hits her mark. “I thought you said you weren’t my therapist.”

  “I’m not. So stop playing games, Easton. Let me do my job.”

  After swallowing, I nod and get back to business. “It was a particularly long set, since we did a few encores. We played some of our first songs, from when we were just starting out, and the crowd went nuts. By the time we finished, I was beat. Usually, we hang back and meet some fans backstage, take a few selfies, but I wasn’t feelin’ it. So, I bailed early, tried taking the back exit reserved for VIPs, but a few groupies found me anyway.”

  “Was one of them the driver of the SUV?”

  “Sure was. She and her friend caught up to me, asked for a picture. As nice as I could, I said not tonight. I’d screwed up a few times while on stage, missed a few notes. I was beating myself up about it.”

  “Didn’t you say you guys played awesome?”

  “Yeah. We did. My screw-ups weren’t noticed by anyone but me.” I clamp my mouth shut grimly, unable to look directly at Taryn.

  “Okay. You were beating yourself up, didn’t feel like rubbing up against the fans, and politely declined a photo op. Do I have that right?”

  I nod. “And they’ve been around us before. I’ve taken plenty of selfies with those two.”

  Taryn inclines her head. “Really?”

  “Sure. We have a few hardcore followers who take note of our tour dates and come to each gig. She’s one
of them.”

  “Hm.” She goes back to scrawling on her page. “Does the driver know where you live?”

  “Uh. Probably. I have good security and don’t advertise my address, but the determined ones find out anyway.”

  “They’re persistent fuckers, aren’t they,” Taryn mumbles, and any other time, I would’ve narrowed in on the strangeness of her tone, not to mention the use of a curse word coming out of such succulent lips, but I’m tired. Drained. A fucker, myself.

  “The girls followed me,” I say. “I got on my bike, noticed the tail, and took the windiest roads I could, all the way down from the Upper West. Added to my commute substantially, but I really wanted to shake them before I got to my place. There’s too much of a gap between the walkway to my door and the curb. I didn’t want to be exposed to them any more than I already was. A few times, I’d thought I’d lost them. Had no one behind me for a while.”

  “If they’d known where you lived, they could’ve caught up with you wherever you decided to reappear. They were ready for you.”

  Taryn lifted her attention away from her notes. There was a newfound paleness to her cheeks.

  As the guy who only speaks when needed and contributes to conversation when it’s warranted, I’m primed to notice a lot of things my friends and bandmates don’t. Certain twitches people care to hide, or facial tics that go unnoticed when they’re not under an observant microscope.

  Here and now, I’m seeing Taryn, for all her blinks and every tongue-lick of her lower lip. It’s not simply due to attraction. I have a habit of studying every person in my path, understanding without them having to speak first, and I’m sensing an undertow to this conversation, and the dangerous tugs to uncover her secrets.

  “Familiar with stalking, are you?” I venture to ask.

  Taryn shifts, crosses her other leg, and says dismissively, “A lot of my clients deal with obsessed perps. This isn’t my first case.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Her eyes train to mine. “You’re not finished yet.”

  Because my eyelids are getting heavy, I get back on topic. “Once I make it to the on-ramp to the bridge, I notice them again. Like—well, like what you were saying. They were lying in wait, knowing I’d take the bridge. Damn, I should’ve gone to the Manhattan Bridge, instead.”

  “You’re new to stardom and thought you’d lost them. And you wanted to get home. Of course you’d go the familiar route.”

  I lift my stare from the sheets covering my torso. “You’re right. Thanks.”

  She clears her throat. “Go on.”

  “Honestly, I didn’t feel drunk. Wasn’t experiencing blurriness or vertigo. I just wanted my bed. So, I sped up, hoping to beat them there and be able to sprint into my home before the girl could park.”

  Taryn’s phone dings, and she pulls it out and studies the screen, but continues to chat as if she’s not reading at the same time. “Tell me exactly what happened on the bridge.”

  “I was going straight. I know I was.”

  Her thumb scrolls as her forehead puckers. “You weren’t weaving in and out of lanes?”

  “No. Absolutely not. It’s narrow enough up there. I was going for a straight shot.”

  Taryn flips her phone around so I can see what’s on it, but it’s all gibberish to me.

  “This is the police report, sent by Astor,” she clarifies. “And what’s on it is the girl—the driver—saying you were weaving too close to the center line, steering your bike erratically, and she was honking at you to warn you.”

  My brows come down. “She was?”

  “That’s what she’s alleging. You didn’t hear her?”

  “No.” I shake my head for emphasis, steadfastly ignoring the sinking sensation in my gut. “Absolutely not.”

  “Did you hear the skidding of her brakes when she got too close? Notice anything going on behind you?”

  “I’ve already said this. I was riding straight, trying to get away from her. I was not erratic. I had my eye on the ball, and next thing I know, I’m ass over teapot, flying into the side of one of the most famous bridges in American history.”

  “Tea kettle.”

  “What?”

  “Ass over tea kettle,” she says. Her eyes widen with the realization that maybe she’s being an unnecessary wiseass, and she shifts in her seat again. “The phrase, I mean. That’s the proper… you know what? Please go on.”

  “Anyway,” I say wryly, enjoying her nervousness. “To answer your question directly, no. I didn’t hear anything behind me.”

  Any uncertainty dissolves as Taryn leans forward. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yeah.” I try not to let on I’m getting pissed over the constant question.

  Taryn shakes her head, goes back to her notes. “But the large model of the SUV, the speed at which the girl was driving… she insists she slams on the brakes and during her skid into the guardrail, caught your back wheel. You didn’t hear that?”

  “Look, Miss Maddox.” As much as I can, I rise up against the pillows. “I don’t know how many times I have to say it. I didn’t hear—didn’t see—anything behind me until it was too late. Okay? Asking me the same thing with different words won’t change my answer.”

  Taryn pulls the curled papers on her legal pad forward and smooths them down. “No, you look, Mr. Mack. You’re in a serious situation, and you better get used to being asked the same thing, over and over again, until you’re blue in the face. Because next time, it won’t be me asking. It’ll be the judge. Or the girl’s lawyer. Or the goddamned jury. So, if my repetitiveness irks you, give yourself a big old swallow and digest my presence, because me and my questions aren’t going anywhere any time soon.”

  The back of my head hits the hospital pillow. Expecting her to rise to my level of pissiness, I was not. “Fine. But remember, I’m the client. You’re my lawyer. I can fire you at any point.”

  She replies drolly, “I’ll keep the fact that you’re an impulsive, unpredictable musician in mind.”

  I guess I’m not her first. “I also don’t talk much.”

  Taryn stands. “We’ll add only uses words when he needs to to the list.”

  “I’ve given you a lot this afternoon,” I say, unable to prevent the honesty from leaking out. “More than I usually do.”

  If some small part of me expects her to soften, she doesn’t.

  “I’ll do everything in my power to get this DWI off the table before a civil suit complaint is typed up on paper.” Taryn holds out her hand. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Mack.”

  “East,” I say, raising my left arm to clasp her thin, warm fingers within my own. Noting the lack of a ring on her ring finger. “Call me East.”

  The lick of heat between our skin, a molten curl within the calloused center of my palm, shocks with its intensity. I stare at her, wondering if she feels it, but the blank slate of her expression gives nothing away.

  “I’ll be in touch,” she says. “I’ll leave my retainer on the side table for you to sign.”

  “Sure thing, ma’am.”

  The formality doesn’t sway her. One side of her mouth lifts politely and she departs in a soft wave of sweet, vanilla fragrance.

  After the door to my hospital suite shuts, I study it like Taryn is still standing within its frame.

  She may not realize it, but I really have given her everything. More information than I’ve ever offered to anyone. Being forced to talk to her and relay the facts of last night has exposed a part of myself I’ve worked years to keep hidden.

  Hell, last night exposed me.

  I keep going back—why did I drink? Why didn’t I fucking pose for a picture with the girl and be done with it? Why did I sway into backroads, thinking I knew this city’s curves as well as a lover? Why did I speed over a bridge I’d crossed a thousand times over? Was it worth a crack in my secrets?

  Was signing Taryn on as my lawyer worth the risk of being seen by her? By the public?

  Grumbl
ing, I tilt my head back and close my eyes, submitting to the dark.

  I wonder if Taryn Maddox is the kind of woman who will see past the curtain and discover my poison seeping underneath, eating through the wooden floorboards of my stage.

  6

  Taryn

  As soon as I’m around the corner, I slam my back against the wall and exhale heavily. The sounds of the hospital staff, nurses and doctors and shoes, seep into my ear canals, beeps and clicks and muffled, mingling voices grounding me back to Earth.

  The bright, halogen lights aren’t nearly as blinding as being caught under Easton Mack’s stare is.

  Jesus. I’m a professional. An attorney. I’ve had plenty of interactions with good looking people before, and most of those were with a Y-chromosome. I’m not a high school kid crushing on a pop star, for chrissakes. It’s unbelievable that one guy, prone in a hospital bed with glittering copper eyes, could fell me as quick as lightning.

  But he did.

  And I hope to God I didn’t show it.

  On a contained growl, I shake myself out of it and use my heels the way they’re supposed to be deployed—with long, confident strides down the rest of the hospital’s hallway, until I reach the elevator and have collected myself enough to greet the departing staff with a nod before stepping into the elevator and watching the doors shut tight on Easton’s floor.

  It took all that was in me not to blubber over the beauty of his songs, how his lyrics seem to speak about my life with the magic of forming music out of damage and torment. How he breaks my heart, then puts it back together only so it beats in time with his drums.

  I didn’t, though. I spoke to him like I would any other client, parsed through the facts the way years in law school taught me, and I’m ready to submit Easton Mack to the court in the same vein as I’ve done a hundred others.

  I’m not Taryn Maddox, woman whose soul was stitched through the songs of Nocturne Court. I’m Taryn Maddox, Esq., retained by Easton Mack to save his ass from a million-dollar lawsuit.