Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  He glances up from the menu, and the hand he was using to idly spin his water glass comes to a halt.

  Maybe I over-dressed. Harper’s anime character inspiration was probably too much, because Easton’s staring at me like he’s never met me before.

  I fidget, pulling down the hem of my dress, then realize that probably pushes my boobs way too forward. So I stop. Rest a stupid hand on my hip. Frozen. Awkward.

  His sculpted lips bloom into a smile. “Hey there.”

  Forcing my arms to relax at my sides, I reply, “Uh … hi. It looks like your arm and shoulder healed up great.”

  Easton’s straddling the barstool like he’s a laidback cowboy on a horse. Or, since we’re in the city, the way he probably straddles his bike. I’m envisioning him this way on his motorcycle, idling curbside, black denim stretched tight over his—

  He says, “Wanna sit?”

  Harper’s right. It’s been waaaay too long since I’ve sucked on the taste of man-candy.

  I scuttle over to his side. “Sure. Yes.”

  “I’m not sure how casual you wanted this to be, so I chose the bar. But we could get a table if you want a proper conversation over dinner.”

  “Actually, this is fine,” I say while scooting onto a stool, and as I glance around, it is. There’s less pressure at a bar, like one could depart at any time without the same kind of excuses that would have to be made if you were seated table-side, a napkin draped over your legs, facing your date over wine and water glasses.

  Lord knew what Jamie and Harper would get up to these next few hours, so I rest my phone on the bar, face up.

  Easton notices. “Expecting some work calls?”

  “Oh—ah, it’s habit. I’m sorry.”

  He nods. “I know how it is. Ben’s always saying Astor’s phantom limb is her phone.” He scrunches his brows. “I don’t mean that as an insult.”

  Warming to our mutual discomfort, I smile. “So, you must be happy to have the DWI threat off the table. Have you heard anything from the SUV driver’s family?”

  Easton doesn’t respond immediately, instead signaling the bartender to come over and take our drink orders. It gives me time to realize that in the span of two minutes, we’ve both referenced my work. I doubt he’s asked me out for legal advice over tequila and tacos, and I’m inwardly cringing at my complete inability to let go of professionalism and get to know a cute guy.

  Deep breaths. My chest rises with a big inhale. “So, tell me how Nocturne Court got started.”

  Oh GOD. Am I on a speed date now? Might was well ask him what his favorite color is. I want to facepalm myself.

  The bartender waves that he’ll be over in a minute, so Easton faces me, seemingly unfazed by my completely amateur question. “Rex and I got together when we were fourteen. I just played the acoustic guitar then, and he was getting into electric. He caught me during math class writing down lyrics instead of equations. And instead of laying me out for it, he asked if he could try to match my song lyrics to some guitar strings after school. Wyn and Mason came a few years later—”

  The bartender comes over, and we both order margaritas on the rocks, mine guava, his with extra jalapeños.

  “Anyway,” Easton continues, “we completed our band in senior year. When we realized we had four kinds of guitar players but nothing else, I switched to drums and Wyn agreed to learn keyboard, to sort of complete the instrumentals.”

  “You just …switched to drums?” I take a sip of my water then set it down. “Isn’t that one of the hardest instruments to play?”

  “Yeah.”

  In fact, Jamie was desperate to learn it, especially after hearing one of Easton’s solos. I put the kibosh on that as soon as the thought marinated in his soon-to-be preteen head.

  Easton waits for our margaritas to be set down in front of us. “But music has always been easy for me. I guess I have an affinity for it.”

  My lips pull to each side. “Not many people can say they ‘just kinda learned’ drums. When did you start doing gigs?”

  “Maybe a few months out of high school.”

  “See? That’s amazing. A frickin’ amazing feat. You’re really talented, Easton.”

  Easton shifts, raising his drink and almost downing half of it in one sip. “Tell me about you. You’re not an NYC native. Where’d you come from?”

  I try to appear relaxed as I reach for my margarita, giving myself something to do other than clam up. “Ohio.”

  Easton studies me more carefully, doing nothing to relieve the tension. “Whereabouts?”

  “Cleveland.”

  “And … when did you come to the city?”

  I will my throat to be less swollen as Easton asks these completely innocuous questions. He must be thinking our date has turned into an interrogation, the way I’m gritting out one-word answers.

  But he’s just a man. One who’s interested in me. He has no ulterior motives regarding my past. I remind myself that the conversation is completely G-Rated and I can reply with vanilla-flavored cupcake information, no decadent sins in sight.

  “I came here when I was twenty-six, when I finished law school at Harvard. I scored a job at one of the best law firms in the country, and couldn’t say no. It took some finagling, lots of student loans, and living in a closet for an apartment, but w—I made it through.”

  “A Harvard grad, huh?” Easton lifts his drink in mock cheers. “You’re a lawyer, so I knew you were smart. But didn’t know you’d approached genius territory.”

  I laugh. “The way you get music? That’s me with academics. It comes naturally.” I lift my own drink. “I’m a nerd who loves to study.”

  He says jokingly, “So instead of being an engineering astronaut, you chose the law.”

  I swallow. “Sometimes being a lawyer is one big study session. Constantly learning, memorizing case law and good arguments. I scored my dream job, and three years into it, it might just be paying off.”

  Easton angles his head. “You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

  “I…” Waving off my sudden downturn, I recover by saying, “It’s an insane amount of work. There’s a lot more verbal abuse and I’m in the type of firm that favors men, but I’m surviving. I’m great at what I do. I’ll thrive.”

  Easton smiles. “I’ve no doubt.”

  My margarita’s empty. How’d that happen? Chewing on my lower lip, I signal for more liquid courage.

  Easton takes one last sip of his own drink, leaving only ice behind. “Tell me how you really know ‘Heartfall.’”

  The change in subject causes me to shift my attention from the bartop to him. “What do you mean?”

  There’s a shade of mischievousness behind his eyes. “I don’t think you heard it from an intern.”

  I understand what he’s doing. But what Easton doesn’t know is that this lighter topic actually makes me more uncomfortable. I’m not ready to tell him about Jamie. “It must have been at a party, or playing at a friend’s house, I don’t know. But the drum beats stopped me short.”

  His brows rise. “Really?”

  How can I explain this? I lick my lips. “I have a … different way of listening to music. I like to feel it in the walls. On the floorboards. Sometimes I’ll lay my hand against the wall like this.” I splay my fingers out on the varnished bar. “And get the vibrations that way.”

  I think I’ve rendered him speechless, the way he’s staring at me.

  He blinks himself out of it.

  “So, you’re saying …” Easton lays his fingertips on the top of my hand, barely touching my skin, yet electrifying the air around it. “You feel it in your palm first, and it travels up to your wrist.” He trails a finger, tickling my tiny arm hairs, standing them up on end. I give an inaudible hitch of breath. “And you wait for my music to carry down your arm, up to your shoulders.” His fingers follow his words to my collarbone. “And once I reach here, where do I end up? In your head, or your heart?”

  My lips part,
but I swear I’m not getting enough air. His touch—we never hit skin while he was my client, except for one handshake. A seal that shook my core, despite the lack of erotic undertones.

  But here … here, at a bar in a restaurant, surrounded by patrons and servers and—who cares? Who cares, because Easton’s touch makes my vision go black.

  I haven’t been traced like this in so long.

  “Both places,” I whisper, staring blindly at the line of bottles across from us. “You end up in both places.”

  In my periphery, Easton gives a half-smile. Cool air tunnels around us when he moves away. “That’s amazing, the way you listen to music. I thought it was only me, as a drummer, who needed to sense the beat in a song.”

  I take a long, quenching sip of the sweetened tequila. “Ever since I’ve learned to do it, there’s no other way I want to listen.”

  “I’m going to try that next time,” he says. “When I get home tonight. I’m going to turn on a song and hear it purely through vibration.”

  “You should,” I say. “It’s ever-changing.”

  And wonderful, the way my son’s face lights up as he lays his palms on the floor, his body beginning to weave, as if the instruments are taking up their position in his body, sounding their notes in his head. His eyes close with serenity, but I don’t close mine. I watch him, because there is no sight more beautiful.

  “Taryn? Are you all right?”

  Oh, jeez. I’ve teared up. I search for a paper napkin and dab my face. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t know I’d get so emotional.” I attempt a laugh. “This is so embarrassing.”

  His gaze, glinting bronze in this light, softens. He reaches for my free hand, laying it flat again on the bar, and starts tapping the wood, his warm, calloused palm leading the rhythm over mine. “With my words so empty / my soul so full / my body can’t stop feeling magical / you reached for my heart, when I slipped through your wall / you’re the one who caused my heart to fall.”

  I’m frozen with the napkin still pressed to my face. I don’t speak, because I don’t want him to stop singing softly.

  He breaks my heart when he lets go and leans back. “Those are the lyrics. You said you felt the beat, but I wanted you to feel the lyrics, too, at the same time.”

  “That’s…” I have to clear my throat. It’s all I do when it comes to this man. “It’s wonderful.” I look to him now. He catches my gaze and holds it between the candlelight. “Special. That’s all I can say. If it’s possible, you made that song more precious than it already was.”

  Easton lowers his lids. Lifts his hand like he wants to touch me again. I want to feel him again. “Taryn, I—”

  “Are you Easton Mack?”

  The voice shoots us both into clarity, our private world dislodged. It’s like we’ve been put back into reality, but we’ve landed at a tilt.

  “From Nocturne Court?”

  The voice is female, eager, and young. I use the time to straighten, remove the damn napkin from my cheek and collect myself.

  “I am,” Easton says kindly.

  “Oh. My. Gawd. Wait until my best friend gets a load of this. Can I have a picture with you? To prove—” The girl, a brunette with glasses, maybe college, maybe a senior year of high school, notices me. “Omigod, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to be a bother. I know you’re probably trying to eat and want privacy and—”

  “It’s fine,” Easton says, then looks to me. “So long as my lovely date is okay with it.”

  I’m flattered he’s thought to include me, though this isn’t my world. “Of course.”

  She doesn’t ask me to take the picture. No, she knows all her angles as she raises her phone up, up, up, to catch both Easton and her in the lens. A few chin tilts and cheek angles later, she taps the screen a few times with her thumb, and drops her arm. She takes her time stepping away from him.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much, Easton.” She bobs a few times on her feet, then blurts out, “You’re my favorite.”

  “I’m incredibly flattered, sweetheart.”

  The girl melts at the endearment. “It was so nice meeting you. Thank you for the picture. And thank you, ma’am, for giving me the time with him.”

  My brows jump, but I nod and smile. The girl may be over-eager, but someone raised her right. I’ll ignore the whole ma’am part.

  As soon as she departs, I slide my gaze back to Easton and say with a wide smile, “She squeezed your ass, didn’t she?”

  “Oh, yeah. Got both cheeks.”

  I laugh and get a self-deprecating smile in return, and as I reach for the dregs of my margarita, I’m glad I took a leap of faith and went on this date.

  I’m glad to be meeting Easton Mack.

  12

  Easton

  I have to write a song about her.

  Taryn is a silhouette on my horizon, seated with no one beside her, backlit by the small flames of candles, highball and cocktail glasses shimmering with alchemy at her fingertips.

  I can put all of it—all of her—into music.

  And call it “Elixer.”

  I can’t take my eyes off her.

  We talk for another hour, sharing tacos and commenting on marinated brisket versus breaded fish. We don’t go back to our connection, the emotional spark when I sang to her, under my breath, but through my soul. I’ve never done that for any woman, and I’m not sure I want to do it with any others.

  The way Taryn’s face bloomed with the color of roses, eyes glistening as I held her hand and moved it to the beat of my voice…

  It was a waste, I thought, to have my hand on top of hers. It needed to be under, stroking her sensitive skin, awakening the ridges of her fingerprints to leave their tattoo on my palm.

  Shit, man.

  I shake my head, bringing myself back to the restaurant. I’m with this woman for two hours and she has me thinking in sonnets.

  “There’s live jazz playing at a place down the block,” I say.

  Taryn dabs the corners of her mouth with her napkin as she finishes chewing. “You’re into jazz?”

  “I’m into all music.”

  She smiles. “Doesn’t surprise me. I’d love to—” Her phone vibrates noisily on the bartop and she glances down. “I have to get this.”

  I nod for her to answer.

  Taryn lifts the phone and says into it, “Harper? What’s up?”

  A blast of female tone follows, so loud and frantic I can hear it, but not enough to understand the words.

  Taryn slides off her stool and stands. “What? Slow down. Tell me exactly what you’re trying to say, Harp. I’m not understanding …his arm? His head? What are you—oh my God. Oh, fuck. Okay. Which hospital? I’ll meet you there.”

  When Taryn lowers her phone from her ear, her face has lost all color.

  I stand with her, lay a hand on her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  “I—there’s been an accident. I have to go. I have to leave right now—”

  “Okay, all right. We’ll go. I have a tab at the bar … let’s just get the fuck out of here.”

  Taryn doesn’t dawdle. She grabs her purse and beelines for the door. I’m struggling to keep up with her.

  “I need a car,” she says to no one. “I need to hail a cab or pull up my app—”

  She flies through the black curtain, almost tangling a heel in the heavy hem before I steady her. When I grasp her arm and hips to right her, she’s trembling.

  “Taryn? Tell me what’s going on.” As calmly as I can, I ask, “Who’s hurt?”

  “My…” She turns on the sidewalk frantically, until she lands on the flashing lights at the end of the block.

  The line-up of cars idling.

  The emergency vehicles blocking the road.

  “No,” she says. “No, no, no. I have to get to the Upper East Side! How am I—?”

  The West Village is encompassed by tentacles of side-streets, but there is one main avenue, 7th Ave, that cuts through and transitions into the oth
er surrounding neighborhoods.

  The exact road that’s being closed off because a car has decided to drive into a popular ice cream shop at the corner.

  News vans have already shown up, and sirens are sounding from all over the place, additional cop cars and ambulances headed our way.

  “I can’t get out of here. Cars aren’t able to leave.” Taryn throws her hands up into her hair. “I have to get to Jamie!”

  “Hey. Hey.” I lay both hands on her shoulders this time, holding on. “Look at me, Taryn. Meet my eyes.”

  Frantic, blinking rapidly, she does.

  I say in a low, soothing tone. “I have a bike. I can take you wherever you wanna go.”

  Her shoulders visibly slump. “Yes. Oh, God, yes please. Thank you, East.”

  I love that she’s finally used my nickname, and the familiarity, the fact that she’s comfortable enough to use it, but there’s no time to bask. I cup her elbow and assist her into a side alleyway where I’ve parked my ride.

  I always have an extra helmet handy and pull it out to put it in her hands. She holds it uncertainly, the first time she’s hesitated in these last few minutes.

  “I’ve never been on a motorcycle before…”

  “You don’t have to do much at all.” I take the helmet from her, unclip it, then settle it onto her head, obscuring her beauty behind a black visor. Strands of her golden blonde hair glide out past her shoulders. I clip her chin strap, and say, “Hold on to my waist, really tight. You’re not going to hurt me, so grip as hard as you can. I’ll do the rest.”

  I can’t see her expression anymore, but her throat bobs. “The only other time I’ve known you to drive this thing—”

  “I’m not about to drive off a bridge with such precious cargo. Here.” I swing my leg over first and settle in, gesturing behind me for her to get on.

  She does, her dress hiking way up her thighs, toned and golden. I put on my gloves and help her get comfortable by gripping both her thighs and pulling her closer.

  This is an emergency, someone close to her has been hurt, but it is a mindfuck to have such gorgeous legs wrapped around me, her arms weaving across my chest soon after.