Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  Easton takes advantage of my vulnerability and demands more, imploring with his mouth and tongue, a flash-fire of heat.

  The smell of him—a hint of cologne, the sharp tang of leather, the base sweat of man, has me reeling, and I clutch his jacket, rising on my toes, not only meeting, but destroying him with the same kind of passion he’s gutting me with.

  In this, I can claim ownership. Every other piece of my world can be on the edge of disaster, but not this moment. Easton is open and crucial and real.

  We break apart in a rush, right when his hands are about to raise my skirt. My door’s open, and this is way more than office impropriety.

  With animalistic breaths, he unhooks my hands from the nape of his neck and brings them down.

  “Jesus, Taryn, I—”

  Easton stops.

  My heart crashes to my stomach the second I realize where his attention’s gone. Those disastrous pieces of my world fitting themselves back into the open.

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  I pull my right hand close to my stomach. “Nothing.”

  “Is that a bruise?”

  On instinct, I rub the red-purple ring around my wrist. “Just Jamie and I rough-housing. Nothing to worry about.”

  A brow lifts. “Jamie and you … rough house?”

  “Sure.” I add a shrug, calling upon every lawyer talent I have to be as nonchalant and blank as possible. “He’s a boy, after all.”

  A part of me feels so disgusting, blaming a bruise on my body on my son, but the reason has to be believable. Easton can’t know the truth, that it came from my ex, that Bryan is in town attempting to derail the careful, delicate life I’ve made here in New York City.

  Yet, the deception feels so wrong and awful.

  As expected, Easton doesn’t question it, the ancestral notion that boys will be boys still as entrenched as it was at the dawn of time.

  “I guess so, yeah,” he says, but it’s skeptical. “Tell him to ease up a bit. I don’t like seeing you bruised, playing or no.” Then, his voice turns into a low murmur, the tenor of it sending vibrations of promise to my core. “Taryn, I have to see you tonight.”

  Against every instinct, I reply, “We shouldn’t.”

  “Which means we should.”

  He trails fingers down the bare skin of my arm, and I sigh against the shivers. “We can’t.”

  I see his smile in the corner of my eye. “Which means we will.”

  “We’re both going through so much,” I say honestly. “What happened a moment ago—that kiss, it was…”

  “Sexy as hell.”

  “Easton—” God. I’ve never seen him like this before. It’s electrifying and so magnetic that I’m having trouble finding good sense and resisting it.

  It’s like his truth has given him the brashness he’d lost in his lies. But I can’t fall for it. Not before, not now, not ever. I’m way too complicated for such a catastrophic man.

  “I can’t help heal you,” I say.

  “I’m doing just fine being broken. Let me hear you, Taryn.”

  The falter starts in my heart. My brain can’t stop it. Logic can’t handle it. Easton Mack, with his copper stare, golden skin and leather-clad armor is just that. Irresistible.

  I want to hold on to him while my world falls apart around me, and that kind of need scares the shit out of me.

  Easton senses the weakness, and his lips lift with feral promise.

  “Hey, Taryn! I—oh. Easton.”

  Astor stops short at my doorway, a file folder in her hands and suspicion in her stare. “You’re out of the hospital.”

  “Uh, yeah.” Easton lifts a hand and combs fingers through his hair. “Discharged this morning.”

  “Glad you let us know,” she says dryly.

  “It just happened,” Easton replies, then turns back to me. “So, Miss Maddox, thanks for the advice. I guess I’ll see you around.”

  I want to guffaw at his pathetic attempt to cover us up, seeming how disheveled we both are and the clear fire banking in our eyes. I give him a B- for effort.

  He gets the B for doing more than I did, just standing here like a dumbfounded mute.

  “No problem, Mr. Mack,” I reply as professionally as possible.

  “Get back to me on the—uh—the proposal. You have my number,” Easton says, and with a small, satisfied smile, he starts toward the door.

  “Hold on, big boy.” Astor lifts up a hand. “Now that I’ve unintentionally yet beneficially cornered you, what was the official word from the doctor?”

  “Dehydration.” Easton recites it like he’s reading from a dictionary.

  Ever so slightly, my brows lift, but I give no other indication of my confusion over the fact Easton isn’t telling his friends what’s going on.

  “Really,” Astor says. It’s more an accusation than a question.

  “Yeah. Really.” Easton’s hackles go up. “Look, it’s done, okay? I have to get to the studio, so if you’ll excuse me.”

  “East, I’m not your enemy,” Astor says.

  Easton’s shoulders slope. “I’m not trying to approach you like one. I’ve gotten a lot of questions this morning, and I’m about to deal with more before we go to the press, so if I’m short with you, I apologize. I’m pretty sick of all this shit.”

  Astor puts a hand on his arm and rubs up and down. “I understand. Which is why I’m here, and Ben’s here, and everyone else is around, to help you. If you want it.”

  Easton nods, and as if he can’t resist, flicks his gaze over to me before saying to Astor, “Thank you. I’ll text you and Ben later.”

  “Sure.” But Astor watches Easton depart with the knowingness that he won’t.

  “What can I do for you?” I ask Astor once Easton shuts my office door behind him.

  Astor’s still focused on the door. “I was going to get your opinion on something to do with Chavez, but now I want to ask, what’s going on with you and East?’

  My lips form into a nonchalant frown. “Nothing. He was following up—”

  “On his case. The one that was over two months ago. Uh-huh.”

  “He’s a thorough guy.”

  “Who, out of all his friends and bandmates, asks to see you first last night after his collapse.”

  “In fairness, I got to the hospital before you guys.”

  “Which begs the question, why did you get there so fast?”

  A sudden wave of fatigue washes over me. Tiredness from fighting. Pure exhaustion from the tense cover-up of all my flaws and fuck-ups, not only in my professional life, but now my dating life, too. “Would you be satisfied if I told you he’s going through something, and I’m trying to help him through it?”

  Astor’s lips lose their interrogatory stance. She steps forward. “Thank you for that honesty. We’ve been worried about him, so as long as he’s talking to someone, I can be satisfied. And, if anything, I’m glad it’s you.”

  There’s the instant need to sob, which I swallow like acid. “I’m not sure you’re going to think that once I tell you what I need to tell you.”

  Concerned, Astor lays her files down on my desk and steps within my comfort zone. “What’s going on? Is Easton okay?”

  I rub my lips, swollen and chapped from being ravished only minutes ago. “That’s up to Easton to tell you, but I’m mainly referring to me.”

  Astor angles her head. “You?”

  I nod.

  She lets out a light laugh. “What could possibly be wrong with you? You have the perfect persona. An awesome career, a sharp mind, a gorgeous figure and face. I’m pretty sure you’ve been crafted as the perfect woman.”

  “It’s a facade,” I whisper.

  Astor’s humor falls away. She reaches for my hand and grasps it gently, a response very unlike her, and therefore, all the more moving. “I’m here.”

  “We should sit down for this.”

  “Okay.”

  Once we’re seated in each of the visitors’ cha
irs, facing each other, I hold on to Astor’s hand like it’s an anchor to my swaying, tarnished ship. “I need to talk to you about my ex-husband.”

  25

  Easton

  Holy shit.

  Either I’ve just made the suavest move of my life, or I’ve fucked up my chances with Taryn for good.

  At this point, as I’m pushing through the lobby doors of her building, I think I probably fall in the middle. But hell, it came over me. The need. Desire. The ability to rip her blouse open and throw her across her desk, knowing without looking that there’s white lace under that tight skirt.

  I’m picturing delicately stitched flowers covering her pussy as I walk, and I’m growing hard.

  It takes every ounce of decency I have left not to spin on my heel and storm back into her office and take her in front of everyone. Put my mark on that luscious body of hers.

  I’ve never treated a woman like a savage or had the mammalian instinct to pounce and claim my territory, but with minutes ticking down in my ears like the counter to a bomb, I can’t waste time being a gentleman. Not if I want her perfectly.

  It was a drowning wave, the surge of wanting, but the air outside acts like a low tide, pulling the intense emotions back and leaving me on the concrete, breathing deep and low.

  I throw a leg over my bike and rev the engine, bursting into mid-afternoon traffic and head to the studio, my balls throbbing.

  I’m wondering if she’ll call.

  I hope she does.

  The recording studio comes up on my right, and I curve into a self-made parking spot between two cars. I stroll through the doors, greeting the receptionist, and head to our rented studio room where all the guys are already seated.

  “East! Buddy.” Mason rises first, and we clasp hands and bro-hug.

  “Nice to see you with some swagger back,” Rex says, but he doesn’t rise from the red vinyl couch, nor does he look me in the eye. He’s too busy scribbling in his notebook.

  “I’m good to—” I stop short. Seated beside one of the sound mixers is the lanky, skeletal back-up drummer. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Uh, I was invited?” he responds.

  “Don’t go after Pete,” Rex warns. “He’s here because I asked him to be.”

  My stare clashes with his. “Why?”

  “You’re really asking that?” Setting his notebook aside, Rex stands to my level.

  “I’m fine. Got the a-ok from the doc. You don’t need a second string,” I say, but there’s a weird bubbling in my chest. Anticipation. Prediction that things are about to go south. “I figured I proved that during our European tour when he just sat around eating chips.”

  “Hey,” Pete says. Then adds with a mumble, “They were fucking Cheetos.”

  “Yeah, you did great, East,” Rex admits. “Fucking fantastic, actually. But last night scared the shit out of us, dude. You’re not yourself. Worse, you’re not being honest with us.”

  “Honesty?” My voice reaches new, higher decibels. “Since when does this group throw fucking morality in a person’s face?”

  Wyn and Mason remain ominously silent in their respective swivel chairs.

  “You gonna tell us what’s really going on?” Rex asks as he angles his head. “Or are we gonna continue this bullshit dance?”

  “It was dehydration, man.”

  Rex snorts, his eyes remaining on mine. “Try again.”

  Jaw locked, I’m realizing the excuse isn’t going to pass Rex’s bullshit meter this time. I release my cheek muscles long enough to say, “It’s my business.”

  “If it affects the band, it’s our business.”

  “I’m fine to play,” I persist. Maybe, if I say it enough, it’ll be true. But under Rex’s glare, I allow the tiniest morsel of fact to fall through my teeth. “Today, I can play.”

  Rex pounces. “And what about tomorrow? Next week?”

  “I’ll be fine then, too.”

  “C’mon, East,” Wyn says from the wings. “Don’t toy with us.”

  I whirl on him. “What the fuck are you trying to say? You’re just sitting there, being silent, letting Daddy Rex do all the talking for you.”

  “You want me to speak? Fine, partner, I’ll talk,” Wyn says, pushing off his chair. “It doesn’t take a scientist to start sorting the pieces. Taryn, your lawyer, was at the concert last night. A chick you’re obviously into.”

  The mere mention of her name, and the possibility that whatever he has to say next will be negative, has my muscles bunching. I growl, “And?”

  “She brought her son.” Wyn says.

  I jerk my chin in Rex’s direction. “He’s got a kid, too. What’s the problem?”

  “None whatsoever,” Wyn says in a much-too-friendly voice. “But I’m thinking you shouldn’t be around children right now.”

  I balk. Honest to God, I’m thrown for a loop. “You—huh?”

  “East.” Disgust—at me—crosses Wyn’s face. “Don’t even, man. You should be ashamed of yourself, getting involved with a woman and her child in the current state you’re in.”

  “My current state?” I can only echo what they’re saying, since I have no fucking clue what they’re meaning. Do they know? Could they have found out about my condition? What does that have to do with kids, though?

  “No, don’t bash him,” Mason says. “Or shame him. That doesn’t help anyone.”

  Mason, who is almost as quiet as me and a helluva lot more pensive. Mase, with the shaved head and hollow cheeks. The guy who listens to music in his head when the rest of the room is silent.

  The person who observes as much as I do.

  I’m terrified how close to accurate he’s gonna get.

  “It’s not only notes you’re missing,” Mason says. “It’s words. You’re missing things we say, asking us to repeat ourselves. And last night? I came over to you to see what was wrong. You flung an elbow in my face—like you couldn’t even see it was me.”

  I can’t lose this battle. I can’t. “We were in the middle of a concert. How was I supposed to fucking—”

  “East,” Rex says softly. Then, to the room, “Everybody who’s not in the band—out.”

  Bodies in the shadows rise and move and shuffle to the exit. Pete remains seated.

  “You too, Pete,” Rex says.

  “But—”

  “You’re not part of the core four. You gotta go out for a sec,” Rex says, and the bubbling in my gut recedes slightly. He’s not part of the band yet.

  Pete mutters but does as Rex asks. While staring at Pete’s back, Rex says to me, “He may look like a wuss, but he plays almost as well as you. Almost, but not quite.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t do this, Rex.”

  Rex levels his gaze at me. “Easton, something’s happening to you. And we’re witnessing your fall. You’re not letting us in.”

  “I—” I grit my teeth. “I can’t.”

  “That’s okay, because we’ve come to our own conclusions,” Wyn says. “And we think you’re using.”

  Silence. Ten full seconds of fucking silence. Then, my upper lip curls in shock. “That is so damn far from—”

  But what’s the alternative? Tell them the truth? Never. So, I do the only thing that comes to mind. I laugh. Laugh and laugh at the idea I’m on drugs.

  “Stop fucking around, East!” Wyn shouts, and it takes a lot out of him. He hates conflict—never raises his voice unless it’s to bait an audience. “You’re being a scary motherfucker right now.”

  “We’re worried about you,” Mason says. He dares to lay a hand on my shoulder.

  I throw it off. “What is it you think I’m doing, huh? What’s my high of choice? Heroine? Coke? Meth?”

  “Show us your arms, and I’ll tell you what I think,” Mason replies. Stone-faced.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” I breathe out. “I’m not shooting up!”

  “Until you talk to us … ah, man.” Rex scrunches his face like the words physically pain him. �
��We gotta ask you to leave, East. We can’t put the band in jeopardy.”

  I cut my gaze to him. “Not even for a brother?”

  “Don’t do that,” Rex says. “It’s not me that’s put you in this position. Until you figure your shit out, we have to replace you.”

  “Maybe that’s what you think,” I seethe. “But what about the rest of you? Mase?” I look to the other side of the small room. “Wyn? You gonna do this to the guy who’s been with you since we were eighteen?”

  Rex speaks for them. “We voted. We’re all in agreement.”

  My guffaw is deep, brutal, and thick. “I assume Spinner gave the passing vote.”

  “Actually yeah, I did.”

  Spinner stands in the doorway, leaning against a door I didn’t hear open. And he’s holding pamphlets.

  “Ah, no, man.” I dig my fingers into my hair and pace in a small circle. This can’t be happening.

  “These are reputable rehab centers, East. Choose the one that appeals to you the most, and we can put you in there privately under an assumed name. No one has to know.”

  “I’m not a fucking addict!” I yell at the ceiling.

  “Don’t you dare lose your cool,” Rex says. “We’re a team. And you haven’t been acting like a team player. You’ve been withdrawn, angry, unreliable, distracted, dangerous—

  “Because I’m going through shit I can’t control!” I roar.

  “Buddy.” Rex lays his palms on my shoulders, but I shove him off. “If you don’t get yourself clean, consider yourself out of this band for good.”

  “Or, get your shit together,” Mason says softly, acting like a buffer. “And come back when you’re ready.”

  “I may never be—” I’m so close to a sob, I’m horrified. “Don’t take this away from me. Please.”

  Wyn steps forward, conflict etched into every line around his mouth. “Fuck, East, don’t cry. Don’t fucking bawl because then I’ll start bawling, too.”

  I look to them, all of them, my bandmates, my colleagues, my friends. Don’t make me beg. Don’t force me to tell you the truth. If I do, you’ll really kick me out. No one wants a deaf drummer who can’t hear a bee buzzing near his ear, never mind the riffs of a guitar.