Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  “Is something wrong?” he asks.

  I decide to get to the point so I can get off the call as soon as possible. What am I thinking? Mooning over a client, ugh. I’m better than this. “The prosecutor who’s handling your case has been going back and forth with me these past couple of days. After explaining to him the evidence and that your blood alcohol level was barely above the limit, he’s going to agree to drop the charges if you publicly apologize and do some kind of unofficial community service. Namely, go to schools and advocate against drunk driving.”

  I don’t tell him that my investigative digging unearthed the prosecutor’s teenage son who was recently pulled over …drunk. With Easton’s star on the rise, I made the argument that the influence he holds on kids could be exponential. Eventually, ADA Erikkson saw the logic in turning Easton into a mascot, and Erikkson’s misdirected anger was somewhat simmered down.

  There’s silence on the other end of the line, and I’m not sure what Easton could be mulling over. The deal is basically perfect. “Easton? You still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  He sounds gritty, like he’s pissed about something.

  I say, “You’re lucky as sin, and I’m not about to do you any better.”

  “I—it’s not that. Thank you. Thank you for what you’ve done for me. I’m not sure I deserve it.”

  My hackles smooth. “It’s not a problem. I’ll write it up and so long as the judge approves, it looks like the driver of the SUV will have a very small case, if any, against you.”

  “Taryn, your help is—” Easton cuts off, but I still hear him, his tone muffled, but the annoyance is clear. Actually no, it’s confusing.

  “Easton? Is something wrong? Did I say something to upset you?”

  Easton’s voice becomes clear and loud. “Hell, no. My friend is being a royal dick and it’s distracting.”

  I hear another voice cackling with laughter before it says, “Ask her.”

  “Ash. Fuck. Off.”

  I straighten at my office desk. “Ask me what?”

  “Oh—shit. You heard that.”

  “I did.” A small smile escapes. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the nerves I sense in his voice, something that tells me, finally, that maybe Easton feels just as frazzled as I do sometimes. “Ask me what, Easton?”

  A sigh comes through on the other end. “Ash—I don’t know if you’ve met him, pray you haven’t—Ash is convinced I need to ask you out.”

  The blatant question strikes me dumb. “Uh. What?”

  “Exactly. Did I tell you he’s an idiot? I appreciate your services, Miss Maddox. Let me know—”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes?” he echoes.

  What. Am. I. Doing. There’s too much complication in my life. Why add a sexy drummer to it? “Yes, to going out with you.”

  My mouth is a traitor.

  “Are you…?” Easton takes a moment to breathe. “Are you sure? I’m your client …”

  His utter confusion elicits laughter from me. “Are you trying to argue yourself out of asking me?”

  “No, no I—”

  Gone is the man with the perfect lyrics and beats of confidence. I decide I’m enjoying it. “I assure you, as soon as I submit the papers and a judge signs off, you’re no longer my client. There’s no impropriety.”

  More sounds I can’t decipher. All I can really hear is the new voice, Ash’s, and the rough, demanding pitch.

  “How long will that take?” East asks at last. “For you to not be my lawyer anymore?”

  “To be safe, a couple weeks, maybe?”

  Which would give me enough time to rethink the impulsive urge to say yes to him and remember where I’ve come from. What I’m responsible for. There’s no way I can—

  “Let’s go out once my shoulder’s better,” Easton says.

  Ash shouts, “Fucking moron!”

  “We need to wait,” Easton clarifies, “because by then, I’ll be in a better position to take you out. I’m currently doing origami with my bandages in Ash’s car.”

  I give another smile. “Makes sense. You must still be hurting.”

  “More than you’ll ever know,” he says, and if there was a joke in there, I can’t find it. “I’ll call you soon, okay?”

  “Okay. Take care, Easton.”

  We click off, and as I hold my phone in front of me, staring at a black screen, I think, I’m no dating pro, but that has to be the weirdest way I’ve ever been asked out … ever … in my life.

  Then again, I’ve just been asked on a date by a moody, broken-boned musician who was almost scraped off a roadway and barely escaped a DWI charge. And I said yes.

  Who’s the weird one now?

  After a long-winded day, I trod up the subway stairs, my tote heavy with case files that I can hopefully skim over in between bites at dinner before heading back to the office. After finishing up the papers on Easton’s file, I was summoned by Yang’s paralegal and asked to assist in the Chavez case, the unproven crime lord who’s currently being looked at for drug-smuggling charges. Our firm has worked hard to ensure he’s nothing but a successful entrepreneur and family man, exporting timber from Canada to the U.S. Unfortunately, the DA never agrees with us and it’s a constant battle to keep Chavez out of the State trying to nail him on local crimes, since the Drug Enforcement Agency has such trouble proving there’s any drug trafficking. Astor thought the current case would be thrown out, but the technicality found by our firm was denied by the judge a few hours ago.

  What Astor failed to mention was that Chavez was also being charged with murder-for-hire, a complete one-eighty from the DA’s usual claims of embezzlement or drug violations.

  Now that Easton is taken care of, I want nothing more than to dig my teeth into the facts and understand what the hell’s going on with Chavez, but I have one thing to do first. A top priority.

  Dinner at exactly six o’clock.

  My boss, Altin Yang’s, dark mood has followed me home, but I try not to let it show as I cross the street onto my block and take the steps up to my brownstone apartment.

  The building is eighteenth-century, gorgeous with its layers of brick and stone, the outside staircase illuminated by wrought-iron lanterns usually seen in Charles Dickens’s novels. Every step from the subway stop to my home, especially in winter, reminds me of A Christmas Carol, and further enhances the reason I moved here.

  I throw open the front-entry doors, a mix of wood, glass and iron and head behind the carpeted staircase to the first-floor apartment. This building, like many old brownstones, was converted to units in the early nineties by a thrifty landlord, and now houses five apartments instead of one wealthy family home.

  The noise hits me first, before the scent of marinara fills the air.

  A few bangs, a curse, and then a swaying sigh as the winner of the argument is clearly established.

  “Hello!” I say as my keys rattle in the lock and I swing the door open. I also pound my foot a few times on the floor as I enter—one of the reasons I searched out a bottom-floor apartment.

  “Hey, T.” My neighbor, Harper, pokes her head out of the small kitchenette.

  “Everything ok?” I ask as I kick off my shoes.

  “Peachy.” Harper goes back to stirring the pasta sauce at the stove, blowing a few pieces of her short, black hair out of her eyes. “I’ve been trying to get him off that thing, but he refuses to listen. Says I’m ‘too old to grasp the merits of the skill-building’ the game provides him.”

  Harper leaves the wooden spoon in the pot in order to air-quote my son’s argument.

  “Jeez,” I say in solidarity with her before tossing my brick of a tote bag on the couch and heading to the small table behind Harper.

  There my ten-year-old sits, his attention glued to his tablet, his lower lip going white from the way he’s biting it with his buckteeth, an adorable trait that I know he’ll have to grow out of, but until then, it reminds me he’s still the cute little
baby that I’m actively avoiding picturing growing into a man.

  I rub the top of his head but get no reaction.

  “I assume James Patrick gets his argument skills from you,” Harper says, using his full name with annoyed emphasis. She lays the spoon on a cloth beside the stove. “Dinner’s about ready. Let it bubble for a few more minutes, then it will be mwah.” She kisses two of her fingers.

  “You’re not staying?” I ask her.

  “Not this time. I have a date.” Harper waggles her brows.

  “Not from one of those apps again,” I say.

  “You bet your bottom dollar it is. I swiped right, he swiped right, it’s destiny. We’re a match.”

  “Oy. Be careful this time,” I say as I take a seat next to Jamie. “The last time you went out with your perfect match, he smelled like cat.”

  “No, not cat,” Harper corrects. “Cat shit.”

  I shush her bad language and Harper rolls her eyes. “As if he hasn’t been swearing like a pre-teen the minute you drop him off at school.”

  I look to Jamie. “He better not.”

  “He’s a boy. He does.”

  Jamie doesn’t add to the conversation, and I don’t expect him to, not when he’s so engrossed in his game.

  “Thank you for watching him after school,” I say.

  “And I’ll be back in time for you to get back to the office,” Harper replies.

  “Are you sure?”

  I love that Harper watches Jamie when I need her to. A few years younger than me, Harper is the quintessential twenty-something millennial who dabbles in temporary office jobs, spends most of her time in the arts, and therefore is always looking for a quick paycheck. She became our go-to babysitter soon after I moved in six years ago. It was a big move where we left behind a lot of baggage—most especially Jamie’s father—and I was bereft and wary of putting my child in a stranger’s hands. Getting the job at CW&C was no small feat, and I was certain it would pay off for Jamie and me in the long-term, but until that term ends, our lives are one big question mark. With a child relying on me, I’m haunted by the constant fear that I’ve made a mistake. I should’ve stayed with his father. I shouldn’t have moved us from Ohio. So many questions, not enough answers.

  Then, Harper introduced herself as our neighbor above, took one look at Jamie and threw a tennis ball at his chest, asking, “Wanna play catch in the backyard with my dog so I can gossip with your mom?”

  I communicated that to Jamie in simpler terms, and his face split wide open with a grin. If Harper was surprised that Jamie couldn’t really understand her, she didn’t show it, and soon enough, I was sitting with Harper next to the window overlooking the shared common area behind our building, watching my son play with a mutt named Treebark and learning that Harper was CPR-certified, a former daycare teacher, and was currently looking for a part-time nanny position. Oh, and that she was horrible with maintaining positive relationships with anyone above the age of ten.

  I liked her immediately. Notably, Jamie liked her, too.

  So here we are, with Harper continuing to be Jamie’s nanny (with much shorter hours) six years later, and Harper’s added bonus of maintaining a positive relationship with her first full-grown adult.

  “It should only be for tonight,” I say to Harper. “There’s an emergency regarding this big case…”

  Harper waves me off. “Say no more. You know I find Jamie’s company way more stimulating than cat shit.”

  I laugh. “I’ll pass along your compliment.”

  Harper kisses the top of Jamie’s head and he wrinkles his nose. “Hey.” Harper jostles him until he looks up. She gives him an over-dramatic wave with the slump and sigh of an annoyed teenager. “‘Bye, squirt.”

  He smiles at her imitation of him then flutters his fingers in a lazy wave.

  Harper moves to me and bops my head. “Don’t work too hard, T. That place has you doing slave labor.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “True. I guess slave labor doesn’t come with a six-figure paycheck.”

  I shake my head. “You’re misinformed.”

  “Sure I am, Miss Hot-Shot-Lawyer. See you later.” Harper pulls open the door, her laces untied since she just shoved her feet in for a walk up one floor.

  “Good luck!” I call before she shuts it. “I’ll pray for some cologne!”

  Smiling, I turn to my son. He’s back to his game, some sword-fighting thing in a field with a lot of explosions. I brush the side of his cheek.

  “Jamie,” I say. “Hey. Look at me.”

  I squeeze his shoulder until he turns to see my face.

  “I missed you,” I say, enunciating my words.

  His eyes crinkle as he softens and leans into my body. I kiss the top of his head, bringing my arm around him and squeezing him closer. I say into his hair, “I’m glad you missed me, too.”

  9

  Easton

  This rehearsal is so fucked.

  I’m one-arming the drums, and while the feat isn’t impossible—see: Rick Allen from Def Leppard, who only has one arm and is one of the best on sticks in this era or any others—it’s not my skill.

  When I play my kit, I go all in. It’s the one place I have to jump out of reality and into a world of Music Only. I am the backbone. I lead with beats. I conduct with my sticks and keep the rest of the band in line, but more importantly, I set the rhythm. The tension builds because of my drums. The audience screams as soon as my drumbeats reveal the next song.

  I’m sweaty. My heart pounds tangibly in my chest. I tear off my shirt less than mid-way through a set because of the exertion. It gets caught on my fucking sling but I continue to pound. Play. Conduct.

  I’m reminded of what matters, and it isn’t the people around me.

  The music takes my soul, but there’s no possession, since that implies an unwanted visitor.

  Even in practice. Usually.

  This afternoon while the band gets ready for the European tour in two weeks, I’m missing my time signatures, flubbing my sixteenth note, and generally causing chaos in the songs we created and covet like they are our children.

  I’m covered in sweat, like normal. Breathing heavily, which is standard after a grueling set. The only thing that’s different is the way I stare down at my left arm, remaining useless in a sling.

  “You’re getting better, East,” Mason says, his bass guitar hanging from a strap on his shoulders. Easy for him to say, since his ten digits are working in perfect order.

  I shake my head as I sit in front of my kit, still holding a drumstick, but feeling more like a toddler banging on his cymbals than a professional band member.

  “Mase is right,” Wyn says. He takes off his electric guitar and leans it against the wall in our practice studio before ambling over to give what I’m sure is his latest pep talk.

  “I’m messing up each and every note and rest. I can’t even get “Nightbird” right, and that’s the simplest percussion in our song arsenal,” I say.

  “That don’t mean it’s easy,” Wyn says. He throws his hands on his hips, studying NOCTURNE COURT blazing in our signature font across my bass drum. “You’re a determined fucker, I’ll give you that. But you gotta give yourself time to heal.”

  “I’m not waiting for six to eight goddamn weeks,” I say.

  “Why not?” Mase asks. He grins, trying for a joke. “The nurse who told you that was pretty hot.”

  “East’s right.” Rex, our lead singer, steps in from his not-so-secret cigarette break and scratches the back of his neck as he strides toward our cluster. “You’re trying hard, East, but even you agree you’re not at the level we need you to be.”

  “There’s two more weeks before the tour starts,” I say. “I’ll get to the right level.”

  “East…” Rex shakes his head. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

  “What’re you gonna do otherwise?” I ask, and I make sure I’m looking Rex dead in the eye when I ask it. “Find
a replacement?”

  Rex meets my stare, unblinking.

  I stand, the stool falling behind me with a clatter. “You’re not kicking me out of the fucking band.”

  “Dude,” Wyn says to Rex. “What the hell?”

  “We’ve been together since high school,” I say. “I fell off my bike. I fractured my collarbone. That doesn’t mean my career’s over.”

  Wyn raises his hands. “He’s joking. Rex has to be joking. You write most of our songs, East. You have talent unlike any other on the drums and can step in with a guitar whenever we need it. We’re not kicking you out.”

  “Guys.” Rex lowers his voice to a soothing tone. “I’m not saying for good. For this tour, maybe we can find someone to take over until the minute—down to the fucking minute, East—you’re able to play. I don’t care if it’s halfway through our tour. Or midway through a set. We’ll toss that guy out on his ass and put you in on your say-so.”

  I grit my teeth. Feel the stares of my bandmates like they’re pairs of anvils weighing on strings against my shoulders.

  “We can’t afford to screw up this tour.” Rex continues, “This is our shot. Our climb to legitimacy. If we go out there on our first night with you playing the way you are…”

  Neither Wyn nor Mason have any defenses to that argument, and I don’t blame them. Yet, the swell of betrayal lingers.

  Mason rubs at his jaw. “Playing live the same way we sound on records is crucial.”

  “I know all that,” I say. “This isn’t me trying to sabotage the band.”

  “Then why were you so reckless?”

  Wyn’s question silences the room. I’m no idiot … they expect me to fill it. I simply don’t know what to say.

  Mason breaks it first. “Give East a few more days to figure his shit out and see what he wants to do.”

  He’s talking to Rex but leaving it up to me on whether I want to jump into the fire.

  I want to demand the time to get my arm back in gear. Explain to these guys in no uncertain terms that I am Nocturne Court’s drummer and there’s not one fuck any one of them can do about it.