“If they’d known where you lived, they could’ve caught up with you wherever you decided to reappear. They were ready for you.”
Taryn lifted her attention away from her notes. There was a newfound paleness to her cheeks.
As the guy who only speaks when needed and contributes to conversation when it’s warranted, I’m primed to notice a lot of things my friends and bandmates don’t. Certain twitches people care to hide, or facial tics that go unnoticed when they’re not under an observant microscope.
Here and now, I’m seeing Taryn, for all her blinks and every tongue-lick of her lower lip. It’s not simply due to attraction. I have a habit of studying every person in my path, understanding without them having to speak first, and I’m sensing an undertow to this conversation, and the dangerous tugs to uncover her secrets.
“Familiar with stalking, are you?” I venture to ask.
Taryn shifts and crosses her other leg and says dismissively, “A lot of my clients deal with obsessed perps. This isn’t my first case.”
“Uh-huh.”
Her eyes train to mine. “You’re not finished, yet.”
Because my eyelids are getting heavy, I get back on topic. “Once I make it to the on-ramp to the bridge, I notice them again. Like—well, like what you were saying. They were lying in wait, knowing I’d take the bridge. Damn, I should’ve gone to the Manhattan Bridge, instead.”
“You’re new to stardom and thought you’d lost them. And you wanted to get home. Of course you’d go the familiar route.”
I lift my stare from the sheets covering my torso. “You’re right. Thanks.”
She clears her throat. “Go on.”
“Honestly, I didn’t feel drunk. Wasn’t experiencing blurriness or vertigo. I just wanted my bed. So, I sped up, hoping to beat them there and be able to sprint into my home before the girl could park.”
Taryn’s phone dings, and she pulls it out and studies the screen, but continues to chat as if she’s not reading at the same time. “Tell me exactly what happened on the bridge.”
“I was going straight. I know I was.”
Her thumb scrolls as her forehead puckers. “You weren’t weaving in and out of lanes?”
“No. Absolutely not. It’s narrow enough up there. I was going for a straight shot.”
Taryn flips her phone around so I can see what’s on it, but it’s all gibberish to me.
“This is the police report, sent by Astor,” she clarifies. “And what’s on it is the girl—the driver—saying you were weaving too close to the center line, steering your bike erratically, and she was honking at you to warn you.”
My brows come down. “She was?”
“That’s what she’s alleging. You didn’t hear her?”
“No.” I shake my head for emphasis, steadfastly ignoring the sinking sensation in my gut. “Absolutely not.”
“Did you hear the skidding of her brakes when she got too close? Notice anything going on behind you?”
“I’ve already said this. I was riding straight, trying to get away from her. I was not erratic. I had my eye on the ball, and next thing I know, I’m ass over teapot, flying into the side of one of the most famous bridges in American history.”
“Tea kettle.”
“What?”
“Ass over tea kettle,” she says. Her eyes widen with the realization that maybe she’s being an unnecessary wiseass, and she shifts in her seat again. “The phrase, I mean. That’s the proper… you know what? Please go on.”
“Anyway,” I say wryly, enjoying her nervousness. “To answer your question directly, no. I didn’t hear anything behind me.”
Any uncertainty dissolves as Taryn leans forward. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yeah.” I try not to let on I’m getting pissed over the constant question.
Taryn shakes her head, goes back to her notes. “But the large model of the SUV, the speed at which the girl was driving… she insists she slams on the brakes and during her skid into the guardrail, caught your back wheel. You didn’t hear that?”
“Look, Miss Maddox.” As much as I can, I rise up against the pillows. “I don’t know how many times I have to say it. I didn’t hear—didn’t see—anything behind me until it was too late. Okay? Asking me the same thing with different words won’t change my answer.”
Taryn pulls the curled papers on her legal pad forward and smooths them down. “No, you look, Mr. Mack. You’re in a serious situation and you better get used to being asked the same thing, over and over again, until you’re blue in the face. Because next time, it won’t be me asking. It’ll be the judge. Or the girl’s lawyer. Or the goddamned jury. So, if my repetitiveness irks you, give yourself a big old swallow and digest my presence, because me and my questions aren’t going anywhere any time soon.”
The back of my head hits the hospital pillow. Expecting her to rise to my level of pissiness, I was not. “Fine. But remember, I’m the client. You’re my lawyer. I can fire you at any point.”
She replies drolly, “I’ll keep the fact that you’re an impulsive, unpredictable musician in mind.”
I guess I’m not her first. “I also don’t talk much.”
Taryn stands. “We’ll add only uses words when he needs to to the list.”
“I’ve given you a lot this afternoon,” I say, unable to prevent the honesty from leaking out. “More than I usually do.”
If some small part of me expects her to soften, she doesn’t.
“I’ll do everything in my power to get this DWI off the table before a civil suit complaint is typed up on paper.” Taryn holds out her hand. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Mack.”
“East,” I say, raising my left arm to clasp her thin, warm fingers within my own. Noting the lack of a ring on her ring finger. “Call me East.”
The lick of heat between our skin, a molten curl within the calloused center of my palm, shocks with its intensity. I stare at her, wondering if she feels it, but the blank slate of her expression gives nothing away.
“I’ll be in touch,” she says. “I’ll leave my retainer on the side table for you to sign.”
“Sure thing, ma’am.”
The formality doesn’t sway her. One side of her mouth lifts politely and she departs in a soft wave of sweet, vanilla fragrance.
After the door to my hospital suite shuts, I study it like Taryn is still standing within its frame.
She may not realize it, but I really have given her everything. More information than I’ve ever offered to anyone. Being forced to talk to her and relay the facts of last night has exposed a part of myself I’ve worked years to keep hidden.
Hell, last night exposed me.
I keep going back—why did I drink? Why didn’t I fucking pose for a picture with the girl and be done with it? Why did I sway into backroads, thinking I knew this city’s curves as well as a lover? Why did I speed over a bridge I’d crossed a thousand times over? Was it worth a crack in my secrets?
Was signing Taryn on as my lawyer worth the risk of being seen by her? By the public?
Grumbling, I tilt my head back and close my eyes, submitting to the dark.
I wonder if Taryn Maddox is the kind of woman who will see past the curtain and discover my poison seeping underneath, eating through the wooden floorboards of my stage.
6
Taryn
As soon as I’m around the corner, I slam my back against the wall and exhale heavily. The sounds of the hospital staff, nurses and doctors and shoes, seep into my ear canals, beeps and clicks and muffled, mingling voices grounding me back to Earth.
The bright, halogen lights aren’t nearly as blinding as the way being caught under Easton Mack’s stare is.
Jesus. I’m a professional. An attorney. I’ve had plenty of interactions with good looking people before, and most of those were with a Y-chromosome. I’m not a high school kid crushing on a pop star, for chrissakes. It’s unbelievable that one guy, prone in a hospital bed with glittering coppe
r eyes, could fell me as quick as lightning.
But he did.
And I hope to God I didn’t show it.
On a contained growl, I shake myself out of it and use my heels the way they’re supposed to be deployed—with long, confident strides down the rest of the hospital’s hallway, until I reach the elevator and have collected myself enough to greet the departing staff with a nod before stepping into the elevator and watching the doors shut tight on Easton’s floor.
It took all that was in me not to blubber over the beauty of his songs, how his lyrics seem to speak about my life with the magic of forming music out of damage and torment. How he breaks my heart, then puts it back together only so it beats in time with his drums.
I didn’t, though. I spoke to him like I would any other client, parsed through the facts the way years in law school taught me, and I’m ready to submit Easton Mack to the court in the same vein as I’ve done a hundred others.
I’m not Taryn Maddox, woman whose soul was stitched through the songs of Nocturne Court. I’m Taryn Maddox, Esq., retained by Easton Mack to save his ass from a million-dollar lawsuit.
My phone buzzes with a text as I reach the lobby, and I pull it out of my tote, sighing softly as I read and walk.
I respond, Hi Honey. I’m so sorry, I’ve been held up at work. Be home in time for dinner. Xoxo.
I black out the screen, tilt the corner of the phone against my chin, and think that my day is far, far from done.
When my phone emits a different kind of buzz—the one of an incoming email—I jolt out of my musings and hit the lobby doors running.
My stipulation. I haven’t checked its status once since entering the hospital.
Shit, shit, shit-fucker.
* * *
Getting back to my office shouldn’t have been so quick, but that’s NYC. Sometimes backlogged, sometimes breezy, always cranky.
The subway had me barely breaking a sweat, since I’d scored a seat, and by the time I reach my firm’s floor, I’m reinvigorated—both by the email from the court’s law clerk stating my stipulation was accepted, and the fact that Easton signed and texted a picture of our retainer agreement.
I’m clutching my notes in my fist as I reach my office door, anticipating a quick summary to type up on my computer before shutting down for the day and getting home in time for dinner.
I can’t miss dinner.
If I do, I’ll never hear the end of it. My household thrives on routine, to the point that if anything goes off the rails, it will require days of recovery.
“So, how was it?”
I stop in my tracks. Astor’s standing in the middle of my office.
She laughs. “Caught you in a pensive moment, did I?”
“Sorry.” I comb my hair out of my eyes with my free hand. “I always get Resting Bitch Face when I walk. Have a seat.”
“I won’t be long. I know you have to be home soon,” Astor says as she follows me to the desk. It’s no secret that even on all-nighter cases, I leave for two hours at dinnertime, then make up the lost productivity when I get back. It’s a lot like I did during my stint at Harvard Law, since there are no part-time programs for students who have to work.
“How did it go with East?” she asks.
“Okay,” I respond as I plop onto my chair and wheel over to my computer. It flickers to life when I wiggle the mouse. “You’re right. He’s hard to get a read on.”
Astor sighs and rests a hand on one of the visitor’s chairs. “Leave it to East to be in the thick of trouble and still not be willing to use his voice.”
“He speaks through his music,” I say, then shrug. “I can see why stating facts of a scary accident might be hard for him.”
Astor gives me a funny look. After a few seconds, she says, “You listen to his stuff?”
The only sign that I’ve caught the suspicion in Astor’s tone is the tensing of my shoulders. Otherwise, I clack away on my keyboard, feigning distraction. “Sure, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah.” Astor’s brows furrow, but then she smooths them down. “I keep forgetting he’s big-time now. That even my co-workers have heard of him and listen to him.”
“They’re really good,” I say with sincerity. “Nocturne Court. I have them on my Spotify.”
“I’m proud of him,” Astor says. “Except for the whole DWI part. You think you can get him some kind of deal?”
I nail her with a look.
“Right. Sorry. Attorney-client privilege,” she says.
“You saw the police report. Easton wasn’t that much over the limit,” I allow. “There’s a case, and I’m about to call the prosecutor before I pack it in. How’s the Chavez thing going, by the way?”
Astor straightens. “We’ll get the case tossed out of court. We found a fatal flaw in police procedure when they searched Chavez’s house.”
My fingers pause in their typing. Astor, usually stoic, always matter-of-fact, has a heaviness to her posture I’ve witnessed only once before. “That’s a win, right? Aren’t you going to celebrate with your team? Drinks on Yang, that sort of thing?”
“Sure. Yeah.” Astor blinks a few times and looks away. “This firm is stellar at protecting Chavez.”
“Astor,” I say. “I’ve never known you to take up a white hat when it comes to the dealings of our clients.”
“Hell, no. I mean, look at us, getting mob bosses off on procedure, protecting friends from DWIs. We’re she-devils in black suits.”
I smile at Astor’s attempt to cover up whatever it is that’s bothering her. As a person who usually does the same, I’m not about to invade her privacy. “At least there aren’t any murderers this week.”
“Well. That’s all relative. I’m sure Chavez is chucking a few bodies in the Hudson river as we speak.”
I chuckle. One thing that gets the Criminal Department through their rough days is dark humor. “Go relax with your boyfriend, Astor. Give him some cuddles. That’ll add some pink to your day.”
She doesn’t know it, but Astor’s cheeks flush with the warm color and she smiles. “Don’t work too hard on Easton, okay? Maybe he deserves a tiny slap on the wrist.”
I swivel in my chair to grab my notes. “I’ll give him a good sting, don’t worry.”
When Astor leaves, I flip to the page on my legal pad where I circled, in big, bold, black pen, the most inconsistent part of Easton’s recollections earlier this afternoon. Frowning, I lean back and study the writing, tapping my pen against the words.
It can’t be because of my past that I’ve zeroed in on this one sentence. Or maybe it is, and it’s a flaw in my way of thinking. I’ve had to learn, through tough experience, that while every person disguises their fuck-ups, not every soul is permanently blackened by the struggle. Some shed their anguish the way feathers fall off wings, leaving a trail to the past that scatters under a breeze. Others, like me, harbor their pain under a coat of armor, where only those with similar metal can spot the flaw.
I chew on the inside of my cheek before discarding my notes beside my computer.
I’m sure it’s my bias that has me zeroing in on Easton’s statement. There’s nothing further to dig for. No other lawyer would’ve underlined—never mind circled—the minor discrepancy. Astor wouldn’t give a thought to it. She would have already spoken to the prosecutor and hashed out a deal. Yang wouldn’t even glance at the case, the facts too simple to be worth any elite effort. And the other associate attorneys would just laugh in my face at spending so much time over a cut-and-dry problem.
The faster I get Easton’s charge thrown out, the less chance it has of making it into the press.
“Move on, Maddox,” I mumble to myself, and click through my email contacts until I find the New York County Prosecutor’s office. “There’s nothing to see here but your own screwed-up home life.”
Glancing at the number, I make the call, Easton’s mention of not being able to hear the noises behind him nothing but a feather in the wind.
> 7
Easton
At last, I’m free.
My friend Ash has come to help with the hospital discharge. As he pushes a wheelchair into my room with a shit-eating grin on his face, I’m second guessing my decision to let him, out of all my buddies, be responsible for my home care.
A heavily inked hand pats the faux leather seat and he says, “Come rest your tush, poor baby.”
I grumble as I drape my legs off the gurney and limp over. “Don’t treat me like your nine-month-old.”
“Caleb would at least gurgle in happiness upon seeing me and possibly let out a little fart.” Ash wheels the chair closer. “And fuck knows, I can’t compare your sorry self to that.”
“My ass will never gurgle in happiness upon seeing you.” Groaning, I flop into wheelchair, my collarbone letting out a shout at the movement.
“I don’t want to talk about your ass anymore.” Ash pivots the chair to the door. “When are you seeing that lawyer again?”
I don’t have to turn my head to know there’s a smirk lingering behind me. “Are you picturing my lawyer’s ass right now?”
“Nope. I’m a taken man.”
“Stop picturing her ass,” I mumble.
“I’ll stop when you stop.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not—” The memory of Taryn’s round, plump, peach of an ass shoots into my trajectory, tightly encased by a knee-length, pin-striped skirt, strutting out of my hospital room.
Ash laughs as we navigate the hallway. If I had a usable torso I’d whip around and gut-punch him.
“Don’t be a grumpy old man over a chick you should’ve been fantasizing about a long time ago,” he says.
My ride squeaks across the heavily bleached laminate floor, and I can’t get to the exit fast enough. “You’d think, as my friend, you’d be more concerned with my DWI charge than my lawyer’s ass. Hurry up, would you?”
Playing You: Players to Lovers, Book 4 Page 4
