Playing You: Players to Lovers, Book 4

by Allison, Ketley

  To lighten the awkwardness, I pat her suited shoulder. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Thanks, Taryn,” Astor repeats. She rests her hand on mine against her shoulder, then draws away. “He’s … something’s going on with East. It’s like he’s given up, or doesn’t care that he was nearly killed. I have no idea what’s in his head. He’s not confiding in anyone.”

  Keeping emotions closed up in a vault is a tactic I’m familiar with, but it strikes me as interesting that the closer to fame and recognition Easton gets, the more he’s clamming up inside. It makes me wonder why he pursued an avenue to stardom in the first place.

  “I’ll do my best to figure it out,” I say to Astor.

  “I wish you luck,” Astor replies. “Maybe he’s better off confessing to a stranger than to his friends.”

  Nocturne Court’s lyrics rush through my head—stranger in the dark, light a candle for me—and I feel uncomfortably less like a stranger to Easton. I wonder if it’s true, and I’m closer to him than Astor believes, simply by understanding his lyrics. More likely, I’m just one of the many fans that’s convinced an idol’s songs lead directly to familiarity with the creator’s soul.

  “And hey,” I say to Astor as we turn to the door to exit. “Keep me updated on Chavez. I’m curious to see if Yang can get him off this time.”

  Astor tenses. “Me, too.”

  She doesn’t elaborate further.

  I check my watch as I part ways with Astor outside the ladies’ and head back to my office to grab a few things. I’m happy to stay busy rather than sit at my desk constantly refreshing my email, awaiting the judge’s response.

  Might as well go see an injured, handsome, hungover rock star to pass the time.

  * * *

  My familiarity with hospitals goes back to when I was nineteen. I’d mostly been in and out of the emergency room, but a few of the other floors manage to flesh out some dark memories, too.

  I’d never been to this particular location, though, one of the top hospitals in the country with some of the best doctors in the world, and I can’t help but think that maybe, if I’d been seen here, someone might’ve clued in sooner.

  I run a hand through my loose blonde hair to dispel the reminders and dive back into the present, where all I’m doing is seeing a patient, a friend of a friend, with no relation to me or what I harbor.

  This is a simple client intake, where I can gauge the case and how much time it’ll cost me, just like I do with a lot of the clients we onboard. This one just happens to be in a hospital, a fact I hadn’t considered when I was all too eager to accept Astor’s request and take Easton on.

  Holy crikey, I’m meeting him. I’m going to be alone with Easton Mack.

  My tongue immediately swells in my mouth, and I haven’t even reached his room yet.

  Omigod. I’m more professional than this. I’m certainly a lot sterner when it comes to meeting clients, since I work on the defense side and a lot of them are budding criminals who claim innocence. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Easton isn’t my usual wayward trust fund baby who’s tagged the wrong building or been caught with a certain amount of heroine with “no intent to sell, ma’am, I swear.”

  He’s a guy who’s largely avoided the public eye, but the public won’t avoid him. As far as I know, he has a clean criminal record, not even a speeding ticket, all of which a background check will confirm. I put in a request for the police report to see what exactly happened on the bridge last night and make a note in my phone as I’m striding through the hallway to follow up as soon as Easton signs a retainer.

  Going through the motions is helping in more ways than one. By the time I reach Easton’s room, I’m in Taryn Maddox, Esquire, mode and ready to meet him with a straight face instead of the one I use when his band’s music is gliding through my apartment, my slippered feet tapping to the rhythm as I cook up macaroni and cheese with a side of frozen fish sticks.

  And ketchup. I’m never allowed to forget the ketchup.

  I bring a firm fist to knock the door that’s cracked open slightly and announce my arrival. The door opens further with my movement, and I’m pleased to see Easton’s alone in the room.

  “Easton?” Unfortunately, my voice is weaker than my knock, but I clear my throat and provide a clearer, “Easton Mack?”

  He’d been gazing out the window on the right, even though the curtains are closed, but at the sound of his name, he tiredly turns his head.

  Eyes the color of copper pennies meet mine, surrounded by a chiseled face partially camouflaged by a day’s growth of beard. His origin is hard to pinpoint, with skin that’s not pale, but not dark. More like a yin and yang of the two. Easton’s long-ish hair is ink black, but the softened sunlight through the window’s curtains catches a few glints of auburn.

  Then, I make the mistake of looking down. His torso is partially exposed by an open hospital gown. Easton’s right arm rests in a sling that does nothing to obscure the carved-out pecs and the bumpy valley of his abs. A white sheet drapes over his bottom half in just the right position that my imagination can run away with.

  “Who’re you?” he rasps.

  I jolt out of my stunned fugue, and to my horror, clear my throat again. This cannot be my new nervous tic. “I’m Taryn Maddox. A friend of Astor’s—well, a co-worker. Attorney. I’m a lawyer at her firm.”

  He cocks a brow, somehow remaining sexy despite the purplish bruise rimming one eye and the nasty gash under the other. “Well, Taryn Maddox, a friend of Astor’s, co-worker, attorney, and lawyer. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  I flush that he’s called out my stuttering introduction, but we both know why I’m here. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I fell off a bridge.”

  I drag a chair closer to his bed, the metal legs screeching against the floor. It gives me time to collect myself in front of this very good-looking, famous man. I’m determined to treat him like I would any other client. “You didn’t actually fall off, Mr. Mack. You maybe scraped the edge of the pedestrian walkway.”

  Easton snorts. “I see I got the one who pays attention to detail.”

  I pause as I’m sitting down. “I’m sorry, the one?”

  He shrugs his good shoulder. “I figured my friends would rally—especially Astor—and try to find me the best possible suit to get me out of this predicament. Astor strikes me as the type who would pick a thorough one.”

  My butt hits the chair. “You’re talking like your friends were choosing a horse.”

  “Maybe they were.” Easton shrugs, then pins me with his amber gaze again. “You race well?”

  I cross my legs. His attention takes a deep-dive down my exposed legs, and a shivering thrill courses up to my hips. “Very.”

  “Good. Except I don’t deserve it.”

  I’m about to bend over and search through my tote for a legal pad and pen, but say instead, “Excuse me?”

  “I fucked up. I’m ready to accept whatever book they throw at me.”

  When I find my things, I rest them on my lap and fold my arms. “I don’t think you understand. DWI’s aren’t what they once were, when it comes to the court. Even though you’re only point-zero-one over the limit, you’re not going to get a slap on the wrist or even a fine. The current district attorney loves making examples out of celebrities, since they flock to this city almost as much as they do to Hollywood. I have my work cut out for me. I can maybe get you a suspension on your license and community service, but that’s only if—”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Easton.” There’s unexpected pleasure in saying his name despite my firmness. Voicing the syllables that belong to him. “You do care. What about your career? Your band?”

  “I love what I do,” he admits. “But I’m starting to hate what I’m becoming.”

  I’m not sure what he means. Astor warned me he isn’t much for words, but I’m finding with everything he does say, there comes heavy, weighted deciphering.r />
  I say, softer, “From what I can see, this was a preventable accident. You were barely over the limit, and while that didn’t directly cause the crash, it can be construed as proximate cause. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  His brows come together, as much as they can with his injuries. “I’m not sure.”

  “That opens up a lawsuit for the other driver.”

  I have his attention now. “What?”

  “She can bring a civil suit for monetary damages. And you pleading guilty to a DWI… that could help her case.”

  “But she’s a fan,” he says. “She was trying to follow me for a selfie, or an autograph, or something. I don’t think she wanted to hurt me or be hurt.”

  “Okay. Good.” I jot these facts down. “That’s helpful to know. Do you know how old she is?”

  He shakes his head. “No. Why?”

  “If she’s a minor, it doesn’t matter what she thinks. Her parents can bring the lawsuit. You’re a celebrity, Easton, and with that title comes the perception that you have deep pockets. That you’re a rich asshole.”

  “Hell no, I’m not. And she hit me.”

  “Don’t you have your first major international tour coming up?”

  “Yeah.” He says it slowly, like he’s dreading my answer.

  I lean forward on my elbows, tangling the pen in my fingers. “How much is that pay out?”

  His answer is to hiss out a breath.

  “Thought so. You’re a celebrity with a possible DWI. The potential for public blowback is huge. The possibility of the driver of the SUV bringing a civil suit is astronomical. And even though you didn’t cause the accident, how do you think a jury will perceive a drunk celebrity involved in a crash? Doesn’t matter that you were barely over limit. Regular people are tired of young celebrities getting away with any kind of shit they get involved in. Social media will be after you in droves. The most we can do is settle with that family and have them not bring it to court. We have to protect you, and we have to start now by trying to beat any criminal charges brought against you. Without a DWI, the driver has a lot less to sue you on. Now.” I lean back in my seat, crossing my legs the other way. “What was that you were saying about not caring about being booked?”

  5

  Easton

  Taryn Maddox is insanely, epically gorgeous.

  I can’t help gawking at her when she walks in, dressed in a tight-fitting gray skirt-suit and white blouse unbuttoned into a V. A simple thin, gold chain adorns her neck, but it directs me to her chest, her ample cleavage, and how those mounds move closer to me when she inhales.

  When I finally force my gaze up, I’m met with large, almond colored eyes, flawless, curving cheekbones and an unpainted, lush mouth.

  Her blonde hair is past her shoulders, thick and begging me to tangle it.

  It’s fucking insanity, the way I’m picturing her naked while I’m lying in a gurney, having narrowly escaped sudden death, my bones creaking with every breath. I’m in deep shit and I should be thinking about consequences, not sex.

  I shift in my bed, hoping she doesn’t see my Johnson greeting her the way I wish I could.

  Her words, however, quickly suck out any wind beneath my dick.

  “Maybe it’s good that you’re here,” I amend after she throws dreadful facts at me like I’m a human dartboard. “If what you’re saying can come true.”

  “We have to treat it like it’s a possibility,” Taryn says, all business. Yet, it’s impossible to see her as my lawyer when every time she forms a sentence, those full lips of hers move.

  It’s mesmerizing, watching her speak, and I don’t think it’s solely due to the Oxy.

  She fidgets and clears her throat, a low, lioness tone. A sound I’m starting to enjoy.

  “I’ll start with procedure,” she says. “And try to get the charge thrown out that way. There’s a gap in time between your accident and when they took your blood test. That can skew results. Many a case has been thrown out from that.”

  I frown at her matter-of-fact tone. “You’re okay with doing that? Fighting a DUI?”

  She goes back to her notes. “DWI. And yes.”

  “Taryn.” Her name moves against my lips and tongue like a sonnet. I ache for her pen and paper, to write her the way I perceive her. “How do you feel about getting a drunk driver off on charges? Doesn’t it piss you off?”

  “I don’t feel any type of way.” Her expression is blank as she leans back and looks at me. “I’m a defense lawyer. This is what I do.”

  “And what in your life has made you want to defend criminals?”

  Those warm, almond-coffee eyes of hers go sharp. “We’re not talking about me. We’re discussing your future, which is a lot more important, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’m sorry,” I catch the ripple of pain in her features as soon as I ask the question and instantly feel bad at laying my own guilt at her feet.

  But, my curiosity wins out, as it always does. “Doesn’t helping rich dicks get away with whatever they want piss you off? I know Astor’s firm specializes in deep pockets.”

  “How about we start with the facts from last night,” she says, and her change of topic gives me all the answers I need. “As you recollect them. Then I can strategize a plan of attack. I have a retainer for you to sign, too, if you’d like to take me on as your counsel after we talk.”

  I’d like to take you on, all right.

  But that’s my dick talking, not my common sense, and I kindly and silently tell the horny bastard to shut the fuck up.

  “We finished our set,” I say. “At the Beacon Theatre. Our largest crowd yet.”

  I wait for her to voice the predictable congratulations response, but she gives none.

  “It went well,” I continue. “Really insane. Our skill was flawless, the crowd fucking addictive. Time passed like nothing.”

  “How much would you say you had during that time?”

  “To drink? Ah …” I close my eyes, try to think back to the hands coming out from the shadows, holding frosted pints or shot glasses brimming with warm, stinging liquid. Sweat pouring down my temples as I fling my head back and send the droplets back into my hair. “Maybe four? Five? Over the course of like, six hours, though.”

  She scribbles something down on her paper. I tilt my head forward as much as I can. “What are you writing?”

  “The facts as you’re stating them.” Taryn doesn’t glance up.

  “And how am I stating them?”

  She peers at me through her lashes. “I’m not your therapist. You don’t have to be concerned over what I’m noting down.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t be the first client who’s wondered, is she writing this dick is a drunkard, or is it more like, I can’t believe I’m stuck with another fucking celebrity fuck-up?”

  “Neither.” Taryn weaves her pen through her fingers. “These are my personal notes to refer back to.”

  “Even more concerning.”

  “You should be focusing most of your attention on your recovery, not how I put together letters in the alphabet.”

  I settle back against the pillow, hiding a flinch as my shoulder sings, and say with an arched brow, “As my lawyer, I have a right to be concerned over whether or not you’re on my side.”

  “You’re paying me. I’m naturally going to fight for my paycheck.”

  I scrunch the least scratched-up side of my face. “Ouch, lady.”

  Taryn taps the top of her pen against her lower lip and I immediately get a bead on the movement. My jaw clenches at the unintentional seduction.

  She says, “Maybe you’re so focused on what I’m writing down because you’re hypersensitive over what happened yesterday. You’re ashamed that you were drinking and driving, a dumb decision which is usually an attempt at covering up a deeper flaw.”

  I frown as she hits her mark. “I thought you said you weren’t my therapist.”

  “I’m not. So stop playing games, Easton. Let m
e do my job.”

  After swallowing, I nod and get back to business. “It was a particularly long set, since we did a few encores. We played some of our first songs, when we were just starting out, and the crowd went nuts. By the time we finished, I was beat. Usually, we hang back and meet some fans backstage, take a few selfies, but I wasn’t feelin’ it. So, I bailed early, tried taking the back exit reserved for VIPs, but a few groupies found me anyway.”

  “Was one of them the driver of the SUV?”

  “Sure was. She and her friend caught up to me, asked for a picture. As nice as I could, I said not tonight. I’d screwed up a few times while on stage, missed a few notes. I was beating myself up about it.”

  “Didn’t you say you guys played awesome?”

  “Yeah. We did. My screw-ups weren’t noticed by anyone but me.” I clamp my mouth shut grimly, unable to look directly at Taryn.

  “Okay. You were beating yourself up, didn’t feel like rubbing up against the fans, and politely declined a photo op. Do I have that right?”

  I nod. “And they’ve been around us before. I’ve taken plenty of selfies with those two.”

  Taryn inclines her head. “Really?”

  “Sure. We have a few hardcore followers that take note of our tour dates and come to each gig. She’s one of them.”

  “Hm.” She goes back to scrawling on her page. “Does the driver know where you live?”

  “Uh. Probably. I have good security and don’t advertise my address, but the determined ones find out, anyway.”

  “They’re persistent fuckers, aren’t they,” Taryn mumbles, and any other time, I would’ve narrowed in on the strangeness of her tone, not to mention the use of a curse word coming out of such succulent lips, but I’m tired. Drained. A fucker, myself.

  “The girls followed me,” I say. “I got on my bike, noticed the tail, and took the windiest roads I could, all the way down from the Upper West. Added to my commute substantially, but I really wanted to shake them before I got to my place. There’s too much of a gap between the walkway to my door and the curb. I didn’t want to be exposed to them any more than I already was. A few times, I thought I’d lost them. Had no one behind me for a while.”