Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  “He says you need to start with the alphabet, which is the legit the most boring part ever,” she translates. “But it’s necessary. And this little expert over here wants to teach you.”

  My brows shoot up. “Really? You do, dude?”

  Taryn puts a hand to my lower back and rubs. No leather can keep back the heat of her touch. “Let him. It’ll make his night.”

  “Oh—that’s not it,” I say to her. “I was, well, I knew you were gonna teach me, but I didn’t think Jamie would be interested. I don’t want to put him out.”

  “Are you kidding?” Taryn signs as she talks to me. “You’re his idol. The fact that he gets to teach you something is a factoid he’s going to smack his friends over the head with, over and over again, before the week is even out.”

  I have to say, I’m fucking delighted at the humor and light in Taryn’s eyes, and I’m thinking maybe this night can be salvaged somehow, despite the thundercloud of her ex hovering nearby. And hey, if I can help by learning the alphabet with my hands, so be it.

  “That is the highest compliment, little buddy, that you’re willing to dump your game for me.”

  Jamie tosses his tablet aside and bounces up.

  “He says to come into his room with him,” Taryn says.

  I start to follow Jamie, who’s already creaking the floorboards to get there, but ask Taryn, “You coming, too?”

  “In a bit. I have to make some phone calls, first.”

  My brows furrow.

  “Astor,” Taryn clarifies. “I’ve filled her in somewhat, and she’s going to help me where she can.”

  “Yeah? Good.”

  “Yeah,” Taryn echoes. An anxious cloud drifts over her features, but she waves me forward. “Go. I’ll be fine. There’s some leftover dinner, too, if you’re hungry.”

  Oh, yeah. Food. With all the craziness, I’d forgotten to eat. And after Taryn’s and my fuck session earlier, yeah, I’m ravenous. “Sure. Thanks.”

  She smiles. “I can hear your belly rumbling from here. Almost like I have another kid to feed.”

  “I fully admit I have the stomach of a preteen boy.” I offer a smile in return, and there are a few quiet seconds where we enjoy each other’s faces.

  Then, the reasons hit—why I’m here, what we’ve discussed, the threats we fight—and both our smiles flounder as we turn and give each other our backs.

  I don’t want to think on it too hard, so I set my guitar down and focus on finding Jamie’s room.

  “Hey, bud—ah. Shit.” Before I step over Jamie’s threshold, I hang back and press his doorbell button that emits a light in his room a few times to let him know I’m coming.

  I push the door open farther and find Jamie cross-legged on the floor with a ton of flashbacks to my youth—in the form of flashcards. These are of different hand signals.

  Behind him is a small desk with a simple chair and laptop surrounded by laundry, action figures, and books, a visual of any ten-year-old’s room, except for the mirrors that have been outfitted on either side of his computer like side mirrors on a car. I’m guessing it’s to see who’s coming up behind him when he’s at his desk, since he can’t hear footsteps.

  The interesting anomaly sends my study to the rest of his room in an attempt to pinpoint any other do-hickeys he possesses to help him navigate a hearing world. He has an alarm clock on his nightstand, but if I have any guesses, it either vibrates or flashes bright lights to wake him up.

  And—of all things—I notice the fire alarm on his ceiling. It has a large lightbulb attached to it, acting, I assume, as a strobe light if it ever goes off.

  You are in no way prepared, Taryn had said to me.

  Jamie taps the floor, bringing my attention back to him. He motions for me to sit on the ground beside him, and I do, feeling old and creaky as my joints crack and pop as I cross my legs.

  Jamie reaches behind him and pulls down his laptop to settle on his thighs. He pulls up a blank document and types, in rapid succession:

  * * *

  We can use this to talk while we work on the cards.

  * * *

  I nod, and Jamie smiles at me, puts the laptop between us, and starts on the flash cards.

  A, he mouths, then mimics the hand sign by making a fist, palm toward me. I do the same and say, “A.”

  He tilts his head, frowning as he studies my hand.

  “What? My form’s not good enough for you?” I ask.

  Jamie huffs out a soundless laugh, pulling my thumb out of my fingers and placing it outside. He pats it approvingly, then goes to his computer.

  * * *

  I have my work cut out for me.

  * * *

  I elbow him playfully and type, I was never any good at school. Pausing, I ponder him briefly, think of Taryn, and add, Stay in school.

  Jamie huffs in laughter again. I’m a smart kid, I like school, and you don’t have to worry about impressing my mom while you’re in here.

  “Ah…” My lips pull back from my teeth, and Mr. Body Language Reader over here catches every muscle twitch. His eyes go skyward, and I write back before he can say anything further, Let’s get back to the alphabet. I only know A. Teach me B, homie.

  Jamie’s eyes narrow, but he does as asked, and we go through the alphabet, with Jamie correcting more than approving, effectively showcasing with strobe-lights my utter deficiency when it comes to the linguistics of sign language. I only learned a little, years ago, when I was first diagnosed, and even then it was mainly curse words. But I’m determined, and I ask him to go through it with me again. And again.

  The third time we reach M, he halts me with a hand and types, You’re getting better. Stop frowning so much.

  I reply, in all honesty, This shit is hard. Grimacing at the curse, I type, (Sorry, Mom)

  Jamie nods sagely. I’m lucky I learned it as a baby. I don’t even remember Mom teaching me.

  I’d like to picture Taryn, bent over a baby in a bassinet, entertaining with hand gestures and goofy expressions as she teaches her child the mechanics of communication without hearing. But with the past she painted with me today, it’s hard to imagine sunlight streaking over their forms from some side window, when I know there’s a shadow standing in the doorway.

  How did you learn drums?

  Jamie’s question brings me back to the present. I had an affinity for it, right about when I was your age. Just picked up some sticks and started banging away at a desk. Then, I did it while listening to music and found I could pick up the drum keys after one listen.

  Jamie makes an indecipherable sound in his throat, but he’s deeply focused on what I’ve written. Then that’s how you should see sign language. Just pick up your fingers and start banging away.

  I chuckle. Approach it as naturally as possible, huh?

  Exactly. Jamie’s fingers hover over the keyboard, but he comes to a decision and keeps typing. I have to tell you something.

  Shoot.

  There’s another reason why I want to help you with ASL, even though I like that you want to learn it. And I like teaching you, because I don’t think it’s just because you’re trying to impress my mom.

  I look at him a little closer. You don’t?

  He shakes his head no, then replies, There’s something going on with you—he shakes his head, deletes the line, then types, I want you to teach me drums.

  My back shoots straight. “Huh? Drums?”

  Jamie nods. With the speed of a ten-year-old possessing full familiarity of a search engine, he pulls up an image of a practice pad kit, which are basically padded circles on a drum stand instead of a full kit—something to use in a home studio or a bedroom, without sending the rest of your family members into a conniption over the noise.

  I drag the computer from his lap over to mine. You want to learn drums?

  He nods.

  I drag my tongue along the backs of my lower teeth, wondering if it’s decent to ask, but decide to anyway. But how can you? How are you
able to?

  Jamie’s stare lingers on my expression. He reaches over to type while I still possess the computer. It’s very possible. Deaf people can listen to music through vibrations. The vibrations provide music cues, like what instrument is playing. We can’t pinpoint a piano so good, or brass instruments in an orchestra. But you know what we can understand the best? What’s the clearest vibration?

  I’m filled with so much clarity, my fingers go stiff. I type, Drums.

  Yes. If a song contains lots of drum tones, like Nocturne Court’s music, I can find the beat.

  My hands drift away from the computer, but my attention centers on Jamie. I say, “You’re saying you can learn the drums. Play to music … and stay on the beat. Even though you’re completely deaf.”

  Possessing more perceptiveness than any boy his age should, Jamie slowly nods his head as he continues to regard me.

  “Goddamn really,” I mutter, almost breathless.

  I stare at this kid in a whole new light.

  30

  Taryn

  “You made it out,” I say as Easton quietly treads out of Jamie’s room and shuts the door. I lower my mug of tea and my case notes, unfurling and stretching my legs on the couch.

  “Kid’s down for the count,” Easton says. He rubs a hand down his face, then sits beside me on a sigh.

  “Did you learn anything useful?” I ask, “Or did Jamie manipulate you into helping destroy his friends in one of his online games?”

  Easton chuckles, tilting his head back against the cushions. “He’s a wicked teacher. I think I’ve got A to L down anyway.”

  I lean forward. “Show me.”

  He does, and it brings pleasure to know my son is bringing forth this kind of effort from Easton. When Easton falters at M, I cup his hand, and on impulse kiss his fingers. “Does it scare you?”

  Easton hesitates, his focus on our interconnected hands. “This whole time, I’ve been focusing on how a cochlear implant would be my downfall.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Anything the docs told me were about the problems with pitch. I’d no longer hear guitar the same way, for instance. Even though multiple guitar strings would play, patients with CIs only hear one note, sounding out again and again. And that scared the ever-loving shit out of me.”

  I unfurl his fingers against my cheek and nestle in. “Notes are your life. Of course that kind of news would shake you to the core.”

  “Yeah, and it took a ten-year-old who’s savvy with the internet to show me that while I may lose music keys, I won’t lose beats.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  His gaze cuts to me, and he presses against my cheek. “I may not have to lose my drums, Taryn.”

  I stiffen in surprise. “What? Really?”

  Easton sits up. “It’s like I said. I’ve been so focused on what a CI can’t do for me, what deafness will do to me, that I didn’t stop to ask what could stay mine. And it’ll take time. It’ll take a whole lot of effort and sweat and yeah, tears, but I might be able to do it. I might still be able to play the drums.”

  I ask, in awe, “Jamie told you this?”

  “In his trickster way, yeah.” Easton laughs, and it’s the first time I hear it, bright and true, without the poisonous notes of his downfall. “He wants to learn the drums. I asked how in the hell he could do that when he’s deaf.”

  My brows jump.

  Easton frowns. “Sorry. Should I have been that blunt with him?”

  “This is New York City,” I say gently, “Jamie’s well-versed in outright bluntness.”

  “You did such a good job with that kid, Taryn.”

  The sincerity of his words and depth of his stare hit hard. “Thank you.”

  “Anything from Astor? From your ex?”

  “A bit of information from Astor,” I admit, but I don’t want to talk about it. “But I want to go back to your revelation. Are you saying you’re considering getting a cochlear implant?”

  Easton’s mouth screws tight, and my stomach sinks at the negative implication. I don’t think Easton has any true idea just how hard it’ll be—

  “Yeah,” he says at last. “If it doesn’t fuck up my ability to be a drummer, I’ll do it.”

  I play devil’s advocate. “But you may lose the ability to play the guitar. To sing. A CI doesn’t make you fully hear again.”

  “Babe, I was in your son’s room and saw all of the things he uses, stuff he’s had all his life, even to set an alarm in the morning, and I thought, fuck, I’m not prepared. I’m twenty-eight and I’ve done nothing to function as a deaf man in society. You should’ve seen me trying to learn the alphabet. I wasn’t even a preschooler in there. I was a newborn.”

  I venture to admit, “I did see you. And yeah, you were…”

  “Say it.”

  “I don’t want to be—”

  “Say I was a fucking fetus, Taryn. You know it’s true.”

  “You were learning,” I say kindly, and he scoffs. “And I only saw a bit of it. I came in to tell you that the leftovers were ready, but you and Jamie were so into the tutoring, I didn’t want to interrupt. I must’ve reheated your food four times.” I grimace. “I think it’s pretty dry and crispy by now.”

  “I’ll eat rat scraps at this point. I’m starved.”

  I slide closer to him, putting an arm around his torso and resting my chin on his shoulder as he bends down, head lowered. “I can’t sit here and try to understand just how one copes when a life sentence is doled out the way yours was. Like, hey, you’ve got a few more years to hear and that’s it. And we can’t tell you when you’ll lose it, exactly. Just know that it will happen, and when it does, your world will turn upside-down. You kept it at bay as long as you could, but I’m glad to see you considering your options.”

  He turns his head and kisses my temple absent-mindedly. “You understand exactly. You were told Jamie was deaf only a few months into his life.”

  “It was a very different process,” I say, “But I’m here for you, for whatever you want to learn. Or ask. Even the stupid stuff.”

  Easton pulls away to face me. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a lot of stupid stuff to ask. Seeing the fire alarm in Jamie’s room nearly made me pass out in a panic again. I’ve got none of that shit in my house. Nothing.”

  I squeeze his arm. “You will get through this, Easton.”

  He searches my face, and I think he’s going to hold me, taste me, catch my scent, but instead he breaks eye contact on an exhale. And I’m conflicted again.

  “You’re hungry,” I say, and stand. “I’ll get you your plate. And you can stay over, if you like. It’s pretty late.”

  Easton rubs the back of his neck, but the instant his stare hits mine again, the air between us bubbles molten. “Do you want me to stay?”

  I say on a thick breath, “Yes.”

  His lids lower, the dark crescents of his lashes a promising curtain to what glimmers underneath.

  “But. Um.” I clear my throat. Collect myself. Dispel these goddamned flames that keep igniting between us. “I know that earlier today we, uh…”

  “Banged.”

  I flush. “Yes. Banged. But, for propriety’s sake—”

  “No need to explain.” Easton pats the couch. “I’ll sleep here.”

  “Right. Okay. Food.”

  He’s still staring at me. Precisely in the way he did when I opened the door for him a few hours ago, smoldering with intent as he bit the pad of his thumb after he touched my lips.

  My panties go damp at the thought.

  “Okay, well—” I spin to get his food. Anything to get out of this hot, sexy vortex.

  “Come here.”

  I freeze mid-step. “You said you were starved. I was going to—”

  “I’m starving for something else, now. Come here, Taryn.”

  “I, uh… “

  I really want to. Really, really want to.

  He crooks his finger a
t me, a devil’s smile playing across his lips.

  For something to do, I glance over at Jamie’s door.

  “Don’t even think about that excuse,” Easton says. “He’s fast asleep. And any vibrations I make will be solely on your body, so there’s no risk of waking him.”

  My tummy trembles at his meaning. My core blooms like a flower at the thought. My feet move forward of their own volition.

  Toward him.

  When I’m close enough, he encircles my waist, guiding me into straddling him, my head bent as his rises and our lips meet.

  No, not meet exactly. More like, our lips find each other as their perfect mate, his covering mine so completely, he could breathe for me and I’d be totally fine.

  Easton’s hands glide up my back, taking my shirt with them. We break apart long enough for me to hold my arms over my head as he peels the cotton all the way off, leaving me in my bra and jeans. He cups my lace-covered breasts and buries his face in the crease before licking and kissing his way out, up my chest, collarbone, neck, and there he stays as I tilt my head to the side and murmur for more of his mouth.

  Easton groans against my skin, nuzzling with his nose before taking such a caring, delicate touch and steering it toward sin, his tongue velvet fire.

  His hand slides down my back, past the waistline of my pants and into my underwear, finding my ass and—

  My eyes shoot open.

  But … my bits down south are all for it.

  Easton’s positioned me so my back arches and I’m grinding against his hardness, made all the more firm because of his jean’s zipper. When he slips a finger into that—back place—holy crap am I really letting this happen but ohGoditfeelssogood—and I moan, my head falling forward onto his neck, I rub harder against him, gripping his shoulders, my wetness seeping through my pants. I find his earlobe and bite down. Easton growls in response.

  The scent of our sex fills the room, the sighs of our voices seemingly the only sound in the city of endless noise.

  Easton raises his head to nip at my chin before going after the remaining button on my body. I stand enough for him to slide my pants down, step out of them, hooking the bottom hem of each leg to slide my feet through.