Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  I don’t want to believe it, but nothing sounds beside me, against me, around me, as I walk down hallways where my footsteps should echo, the cop’s belt should rattle, and forlorn voices should shout.

  I’m receiving nothing.

  They’ve dressed me in their best lost-and-found garments, since I was arrested in my boxers, and I’m sporting an XXL hoodie and size small sweatpants, both faded from wash, both smelling like mothballs.

  My escort, a burly, portly cop, doesn’t let go of my arm as he walks me out. Probably a liability thing, since I’m likely to run into a wall. Or a person. Or hell, a goddamned gun I’ll never hear go off.

  He yanks me to a stop in the middle of the hallway and moves around to face me. I can smell him, bad breath and stale coffee, but I don’t flinch as he goes nose-to-nose. His saliva hits my mouth and cheeks, and I make a mental note not to lick my lips any time soon.

  It comes as no surprise. He and his partner did this to me on the way to holding, first trying to meet my stare in the rearview mirror of the cruiser as they asked whatever questions they had. Then as they yanked me out of the vehicle and into the building, they shouted into my ear and forced me forward so abruptly I tripped over the stairs, asphalt scraping my bare chest. My balance is completely off, so unused to this new way of thinking, feeling, and doing, that when I catch my chin on the concrete and they yank me so hard to a stand, my locked arm muscles scream, I have to force back frustrated tears.

  Still, I say nothing.

  I continue to be the deaf mute I’ve become as this cop sneers and jeers, poking me in the chest, yet I won’t meet his eye.

  When he feigns a threatening dart forward, that’s when I flinch. His mouth curves into a maw, and he laughs hard at my instinctive recoil.

  Jamie taught me something about focusing on body language and the amount one can glean simply by watching the curves and lifts to someone’s mouth. I read it clearly.

  Aren’t you supposed to be famous? this cop is saying to me. A rockstar? What fuckin’ guy comes in here pretending to be deaf? You getting off on this? You’re a moron. A fraud. A fake. You’re so fuckin’ washed up, my motha wouldn’t bother to clean your filth.

  Yep. I can still hear a good Brooklyn accent in my head.

  The cop drags me into a walk again, apparently tired of his useless intimidation tactics.

  As I’m treading forward, head down, you’d think it couldn’t get any worse, with my stiff, cracked face covered in dried blood, my bruised knuckles and ego, and the fact I’m in lock-up and humiliated, but oh, it does.

  As I enter what can only be described as the Waiting Room for bailed-out degenerates, I’m led straight to the person who fronted the money.

  Rex’s lips stretch wide, and he looks like he’s raging with a lecture, but I don’t hear a damn thing.

  Maybe, I think wryly, as we come to a stop in front of him, this is the satin lining to my dark cloud.

  Frowning, with brows drawn in so deeply it shadows his eyes, Rex says something to the cop. The cop shrugs, lets go of my arm, and departs.

  Rex drags his look of booming thunder over to me. Lips thinned tight, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone. After a few unnecessarily enunciated thumb taps, my phone vibrates in my newly gifted ziplock bag.

  On a huff I only know I’ve made from the movement of my mouth and chest, I dig into the bag and pull out my phone.

  Rex: WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T YOU TELL ME.

  My fingers shake, but I’m hoping Rex doesn’t catch the subtle hints of hysteria in my hands. I text back:

  Me: I didn’t think it’d happen so quick.

  * * *

  Rex: So making me think you’re a crackhead was the better solution?

  * * *

  Me: I didn’t know how to tell you.

  * * *

  Rex: USE YOUR WORDS. THAT’S HOW YOU TELL ME.

  * * *

  Me: Stop with the shouty-caps.

  * * *

  Rex: NO! YOU CAN’T HEAR ME ON THE OUTSIDE BUT YOU SURE AS HELL ARE GETTING MY PISSED OFF VOICE IN YOUR HEAD.

  * * *

  Me: Rex—

  * * *

  I pause. Both of us are pounding into our phones, having a text fight while facing each other in a room full of the wayward and annoyed. All of whom are regarding us with deep, confused interest.

  * * *

  Can we leave? I text Rex. I need to find Taryn.

  * * *

  Rex: You should’ve been honest with me, man. I could’ve helped you.

  * * *

  I can’t raise my stare to his when I type, No, you couldn’t have. You don’t know what it’s like to be told you’ll never hear music again. Never play the same, never be the same. As soon as I admitted my problem to you, you would’ve kicked me out, replaced me with Limpdick Pete. I wanted all the time I could have while I had it. My life is music.

  * * *

  Rex: Dude.

  * * *

  I keep my focus on my phone, waiting for Rex to finish what he’s typing. But no ellipsis pops up after he sends that one word. I’m forced to look up, but I do it slowly. Reluctantly.

  Rex’s anger has melted away. All that’s left is a lingering, gray-green stare, housed between lengthening worry lines. His shoulder-length blonde hair is halfway out of his ponytail, and I finally realize he’s in a white T-shirt and plaid pajama pants, capped off with Adidas slides on his feet.

  I text, Did you just roll out of bed?

  * * *

  Rex: Spinner called me. TMZ got an alert to a fight involving you. Didn’t take long to look up the precinct where you were being held, and I said I’d go get you.

  * * *

  Good. I’d rather sell a testicle than have it be Spinner facing me right now. But … How did you know? About my

  * * *

  I hesitate. But, it’s too late to go back now.

  * * *

  About my hearing?

  * * *

  Rex: The cops. I went to the front and asked about your bail and they told me they were happy I was here to take the deaf celebrity retard off their hands. Said you were faking it as some kind of pathetic defense to beating up a woman. But they were impressed by your creativity. Criminals pretend to lose their hearing all the time, but you went to a whole new level, according to them. I’m pretty sure one of these assholes leaked the story to the press.

  * * *

  I think of the burly cop who left me here. Pretty sure I know who.

  * * *

  Rex stops, glances at me, then continues to text. It all fell into place once they said that. I mean, I didn’t really want to believe it until I saw you. You can’t hear a thing I’m saying, can you?

  * * *

  To prove his point, Rex speaks, but I’m not nearly at lip-reading capacity, so I shake my head.

  * * *

  Rex’s chest deflates. He texts, Even you, our lyrical guru, can’t make up something so asinine. You weren’t into drugs, you were losing your hearing. And you would rather your buddies think you a fuck-up than a man who needed help.

  * * *

  I shake my head again, clenching my phone. Rex mouths something akin to, Come on, let’s go, and grabs my elbow to lead me out. I throw him off, refusing to meet his eye as we walk. He allows the reprieve and puts his phone away as we step out of the precinct and get to his car, parked on the opposite side of the avenue.

  Once I’m in the passenger seat, I resolve myself for another text war.

  * * *

  I type, Take me to the hospital. I need to see Taryn.

  * * *

  Rex slides into the driver’s side, giving me the side-eye when he pulls his phone back out of his pocket. After he reads what I’ve sent, he’s set to deny me.

  * * *

  I text furiously, TAKE ME TO HER.

  * * *

  At first, Rex tries to reason with me by speaking, but when I snarl at him, he sneers in frustration, punches the ste
ering wheel, then types with vigor. He takes his sweet-ass time, and I’m about ready to hijack the steering wheel, start the engine, and push my friend out of a moving car.

  The last I saw of Taryn … sweet Jesus. My heart rocks dangerously at the thought. I have to get to her.

  * * *

  Rex: You need to go home. We need to call Spin, the other guys, and fucking figure out what our next moves are. I’m not kicking you out of the band, man. It’s insulting you think our friendship would come to that. There’re press statements to release, lots of explaining to do, but I’m not giving up—

  * * *

  I stop reading the fucking essay. TAKE ME TO TARYN OR I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL DRIVE THIS CAR WHILE SITTING ON TOP OF YOU.

  * * *

  Rex’s sideways glance tells me he thinks, Now who’s the shouty-capser, but he does what I want and turns on the engine. His lips move, and I know what he’s asking.

  “New York Presbyterian … Downtown,” I say.

  There’s nothing but a mild rumble in my throat, but Rex cringes and points to my phone, still in my hand.

  I guess I’m still shouting, and while it makes me sick to my stomach I’m no longer what I’m used to, I push the anxiety aside. Taryn’s more important. Jamie’s well-being. The two of them have to be okay, and if Bryan is anywhere near them when I arrive, I’ll burst his fucking eardrums with my thumbs.

  We arrive at the hospital in less than fifteen minutes, only through sheer luck of passing through green lights, since Rex is driving painfully, agonizingly slow.

  Sensing my annoyance, Rex points to the empty car seat installed in the back, mouthing carefully, “I’m a new man, asshole.”

  Grumbling, I face the front again, arms crossed.

  When Rex pulls up to the entrance, I throw open the car door and stumble inside, falling against the reception desk, using my palms for balance.

  “TARYN MADDOX,” I say, and the nurse skitters back at my voice.

  A hand comes down on my arm, and it’s Rex. He utters something at the same time I throw off his grip—again—and anxiously wait for this fucking nurse to fucking understand what I fucking want.

  She replies to Rex, and it’s like they’re having a private goddamned conversation. I’m so furious, I’m seeing red, but Rex makes a hand motion at me to simmer down, tips his chin as a thank you to the nurse, and points me to the elevators.

  I want to scream at the top of my lungs. I can’t perform the simplest tasks, like ask where my woman is recovering from being assaulted.

  And that’s what she is. My woman, even though I’m so much less of a man.

  Rex leads me to the correct floor, and I’m forced to have him as some sort of guide dog, since I have no capacity to figure out the world of able-hearing people around me.

  I took such advantage of maintaining my hearing. Thinking I was invincible. And now look at me. I can’t even find Taryn without holding someone’s hand.

  We stop at another nurse’s station, and I remain stone-faced, but heavily breathing, beside Rex, waiting for him to translate for me where she is.

  When his brows pull down in consternation, I step forward. Grab his arm. Demand an answer.

  This time, he shakes me off and tells me with a finger to wait.

  I’m gonna bite that finger to pieces.

  Just as my jaw unhinges, Rex turns, pressing his hands firmly down on my shoulders, and says, “She’s not here.”

  “WHAT?”

  My exclamation makes the busy hospital staff nearby stop and stare.

  “She’s not here,” Rex repeats, and it is only past familiarity with his tone that I can hear his voice in my head. “She was discharged.”

  “WHERE DID SHE GO?”

  Rex’s expression wrenches as he shrugs. He doesn’t know.

  When I peer over his shoulder to see the nurse, she also shrugs. She doesn’t know.

  “WHERE IS SHE?” I try again, gripping my friend’s arms and digging hard into the skin. “WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?”

  In a slow, agonizing arc, Rex shakes his head.

  No one knows.

  36

  Easton

  I need my music.

  I need my notepad, my sticks and my drum kit in order to translate my frustration into beats and keys and bangs, the harrowing notes and clash of cymbals combining into an orchestral anger I can transmit through air, through walls, across the world.

  Anger in silence is like being trapped in a concrete box at the bottom of the ocean.

  And I’m screaming to be let out.

  * * *

  Rex: We need to get you home.

  * * *

  We’re sitting in his car, still in the hospital parking lot, because I’m refusing to tell Rex where I want to go. Molars clenched so hard, my cheeks ache, I text back, I have to find her.

  * * *

  Rex: Buddy, we don’t know where she is. And you’re going through something seriously traumatic. I think we should go back inside and check you in. You need to be looked at. You know you do.

  * * *

  Me: This is more important.

  * * *

  Rex: WOULD YOU STOP PUTTING YOUR HEALTH AT THE BOTTOM OF THE LIST?

  * * *

  I automatically flinch at the shouted words. In an attempt to calm down, I type, You didn’t see her after the fucker was done with her. You think I look bad? You think I’m going through something? Taryn was beat up, Rex. Beat up bad, and before I do anything else, I need to see that she’s safe. I need to SEE her.

  * * *

  I’m not paying attention to Rex as he forms his response. I’m staring so hard at Taryn’s name, I’m sure my phone’s screen will crack from impact. She can’t be reduced to writing. Taryn is so much more than that, and there’s a small, brutal part of me that thinks she’s left for good. Bryan’s confrontation was too much, my involvement too soon, and she’s taken her boy and run.

  No, baby, please don’t let this be the last I’ve seen of you. Please don’t leave.

  * * *

  Rex: You went deaf tonight. Is that not a crisis enough for you?

  * * *

  I close my eyes for the briefest of seconds, my lids giving the slightest relief of moisture and darkness before I form my inevitable reply.

  * * *

  I’m gone, Rex. It’s a genetic condition. It can’t be undone. And no doctor tonight or next week or next month will fix it. After I send the text, I meet his eyes, knowing my stare is dull and lifeless. This is me now.

  * * *

  Rex’s expression crumbles. He reaches over and squeezes my shoulder, hard. Clutches and shakes my body, his lips pulled in and his stare downcast. Then, after a breath, he lets go and types, Where do you want to go. I’ll take you anywhere.

  * * *

  I’d been thinking about it while reading Taryn’s name, letter by letter. And I know what I have to do, and all the hoops I’ll have to jump through in order to do it.

  I say, Take me to Astor.

  I swear to fucking Christ on a cracker.

  As I’m thinking it, my hands instinctively sign the sentence (courtesy of Jamie), and Rex takes his eyes off the road long enough to notice the sign language.

  He nods, as if his confusion has been dispersed a little more, and I glower at him. It’s because of his insanely slow-ass driving that I’m cursing with my fingers, but eventually, at last, ten years later, he pulls up to Astor’s apartment.

  Rex stops me from storming out by grasping my forearm. He lifts his phone in a wait gesture.

  * * *

  Rex: want me to come in with you?

  * * *

  No.

  Unfortunately, rational thought takes over and I realize I may need him to communicate to Astor and Ben what the hell’s going on.

  Ah, shit. Ben.

  During these months of seclusion, I’ve let a lot of my friendships fall to the wayside, including my college buddies. Especially Ben.

  The guil
t doesn’t linger enough to curdle, since my mind is on another priority.

  I nod curtly to Rex and step out of his car. He follows suit, his headlights flashing as he locks his vehicle. I don’t hear the confirmation beep.

  Lights. Mirrors. Vibrations. Taryn. Those four things are my new senses, now.

  For some inane reason, Astor and Ben don’t live together yet, but as we ascend to her floor, I’m fairly certain we’ll see him there at this ungodly hour, since he’s there practically every night, anyway.

  As we approach her apartment door, it’s cracked open for our arrival. Rex let the front desk know we were here, and as the poor, disenchanted man in a suit much too fancy for three AM rang up to let Astor know, a tiny shred of me was happy not to do the dirty work of waking them up. Astor swears worse than I do.

  I stop at the threshold. Rex glances over in confusion, and I usher him in first. I’m not sure how I want them to see me, or why I care at this point, but shame swirls deep in my gut, and I’m worried.