“Why? You’re damaged and fragile. I don’t want to rattle those delicate bones of yours. So I’m gonna go slow and steady.”
“Fuckin’ liar.”
“Why don’t you ask her out?”
“Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“Dude, the last time I saw you so angry about a woman was our freshman year in college. This has to mean something.”
“I’m not angry at Taryn.”
Ash creaks around a corner, an elderly man walking with an IV bag on rollers going faster than us.
“You only get like this with chicks you’re interested in. All brooding, broken Romeo. Can you blame me for prying?”
“Considering my history with information, most people would back off.”
“I’m not—”
“Most people. Yeah, yeah.”
Ash pulls over to the side, stepping on the brakes of the chair.
“Ash, man, don’t start in on me,” I say.
“I’m serious.” Ash steps around so I can see him, though he doesn’t bend to my level. “These last few years, you’ve been quieter than usual. Heavily in demand by the public, yes, but it’s kind of had the reverse effect. Instead of coming out of your shell, you’re …”
“Going inward?” I squeeze the arm of my chair with my good hand. “I’m aware of what’s happening.”
“And in walks a woman who gets you all gnarly and prickly immediately upon my mild questioning about her. I ain’t no shrink, but this is obvious even to a student majoring in fashion design.”
“Your first question was about her ass, man.”
Ash raises a brow. “On the contrary. My first question was whether you were thinking about her goods.”
“Only because you keep beating me over the head with it.” I motion with my working arm. “Onward.”
“Fine.” Ash maneuvers so we’re back in hospital traffic. Thankfully, I see the glass doors leading to the outside come into view. “But while you’re ‘inward’ you should really reflect on how many times a woman has done this to you, and when and if you’ll ever get the chance again.”
My lips thin as the hospital doors slide open for our exit. He’s not wrong, but no way in hell am I telling him that. Since our first meeting, Taryn has occupied my thoughts. Not just through her looks, though it’s true, she’s beautiful in every place I laid my eyes on, but also due to the carefully tinted windows to her soul.
She’s not an average woman, but one who, like me, prefers to hide within her exterior. Taryn may be a tough-ass defense lawyer making a name for herself in New York City, but despite my only meeting her once, I know, down in the instinctual center of my body, she’s more than that.
What’s worrisome is that I want to look deeper and understand the why of her.
Ash is right, no woman, save for a brief few months in freshman year, has made me want to use my words in an effort to navigate her deeper self.
One would think this is poetic fate—a woman coming into my life at just the right time…
In the form of a lawyer assigned to my DWI criminal case.
Yeah, there’s the reality face-smack.
“We’re here, kind sir,” Ash says.
I freeze in my wheelchair. “You’re driving me home in that?”
I’m staring at a ’75 Pontiac GTO with at least a hundred and fifty grand in customization, right down to the color-changing paint on the exterior. To the naked eye, it’s black, until it hits the sunlight and changes hues like an opal jewel.
“The hell, Ash?” I ask.
“What? It’s my favorite ride.”
He opens the passenger door and I struggle to a stand before I have to fold over again and fit inside an expensive tin can. “I’m going to feel every single damn pothole.”
“Good. Maybe it’ll knock some sense back into your head that you lost on the bridge.”
My annoyance piques. “If you mention her name one more time, I don’t give a fuck how injured I am, every additional bone break will be worth it if I can right hook your—”
“I’m not talking about that.” Ash assists in getting me into the car. He doesn’t say anything further until he gets into the drivers’ side, roars the engine until it settles to a purr, then uses the stick-shift to get us out of the parking lot. Nor does he glance in my direction when he continues.
“You have us worried, East. We’re used to your quirks—the privacy you require, the alone time you need to make your music, and we respect you for it. And I’d continue to do so, if it weren’t for you flying into the side of a bridge while you were drunk.”
I stare out the side window. “I wasn’t drunk.”
“Legally, you were over—”
“Don’t lecture me, Ash. We’ve all been guilty of stupid shit. Locke, Ben, you, me…”
Ash slows at a red light. “What’s going on with you, East? I mean it. What has you so careless?”
The seed of doubt growing in my gut sprouts another leaf. “Nothing.”
“You’re too smart for this. The rest of the guys—including me—sure, we’ve done some epic shit, submitted to stupid dares in college and finally got in trouble for it. But not you. Never you. No one suspected the quiet musician with soulful eyes and a weighted smile.”
I scoff. “You’re no poet, buddy.”
“Stop. I ain’t joking. Something’s eating at you, and you’re not gonna be able to hide the holes for much longer.”
Staring at my friend, it becomes harder to deny the truth. “I wish you’d stayed on the Taryn track instead of trying to make sense of me.”
“Chicks dig mystery, I get that. Have used it to my advantage on many occasions before meeting the love my life.” The light goes green, and Ash roars into the intersection. “But you’re my best friend, and I don’t care how much of a pussy I sound like by saying that. I’m worried about you. There. It’s out in the open now.”
“What I did a few nights ago was pure stupidity. I’ll own up to it. It won’t happen again.”
“Yeah, but what else will?”
I study Ash’s profile, the drawing down of his brows, the frown lines in his cheeks. “I’m not in danger, Ash.”
Not in the way you think, I want to add, but don’t.
“You’re reaching new heights in your career,” Ash says. “Growing in popularity. Your band is in constant demand for venues and records and whatever else it is rockstars have to do. If there’s a time for you to talk to someone, it’s now. Because I can only predict it’s going to get crazier. And more hellish. I want to be sure you can handle it, East. I want to be confident as hell that you’re a-fuckin’-okay.”
“You have my word,” I say carefully, “that if it ever gets to be too much, I’ll come to you for help.”
I say this because I’m forced to admit that at some point, I won’t have a choice.
Ash gives a single nod as he focuses on the road ahead. “Good.”
Wincing, I attempt to find a new position in the ridiculous scoop-seat that is in this car, giving up when the cushioning feels more like a bed of swords.
“You gonna get that?” Ash asks.
“Get what?”
“Your phone, dude. I can hear it vibrating from here.”
I’m so contorted I don’t even feel my phone buzzing, but I shove my hand into my hoodie’s pocket and sure enough, it pulses in my hand.
“It’s Taryn,” I say, more to myself than to Ash as I read the screen.
“Well, gee whiz!”
Ash’s grin lights up his interior more than my dark, warning frown at him ever could.
8
Taryn
I’m fairly certain an email would’ve sufficed.
It’s what I do with my other clients. Either that or summon them into my office when shit really hits the fan, but I never call. Ever. It’s unheard of in this day and age.
I can’t control myself when I look up Easton’s number and dial. I want to hear his voice, and I can ad
mit that to myself when I’m alone in my office and no one’s watching for tell-tale clues.
Nocturne Court released a bonus single a few days ago, timed relatively close to Easton’s accident that it can’t be a coincidence (points for the publicist), and I’ve had it on replay ever since. In the car, at home, in the mornings, in the evenings. At first, it wasn’t by choice, but now it’s in my head—he’s in my head—and this is my last chance to hear Easton Mack’s voice, talking directly to me and not his hoards of fans.
It’s an irresistible call, to claim the man’s tone for my own just a little while longer, before I melt into the background of the public again.
“Hey.”
Even with the tinned sound that all cell phone speakers bring, the sound of him is velvet, splashed with whiskey.
“Easton?” I respond. Dumbly, since it could be no other person other than him.
“Yeah.”
There’s some shuffling on the other end I can’t decipher. “Am I catching you at a bad time?”
“No.” I think I hear a muffled curse before he continues, “Just got discharged and my friend’s giving me a ride home.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s great.”
This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have called him, because now I don’t know what to say, and Easton Mack isn’t exactly a conversationalist.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
I decide to get to the point so I can get off the call as soon as possible. What am I thinking? Mooning over a client, ugh. I’m better than this. “Me and the prosecutor who’s handling your case have been going back and forth these past couple of days. After explaining to him the evidence and that your blood alcohol level was barely above the limit, he’s going to agree to drop the charges if you publicly apologize and agree to a kind of unofficial community service. Namely, go to schools and advocate against drunk driving.”
I don’t tell him that my investigative digging unearthed the prosecutor’s teenage son who was recently pulled over, drunk. With Easton’s star on the rise, I made the argument that the influence he holds on kids could be exponential. Eventually, ADA Erikkson saw the logic in turning Easton into a mascot, and Erikkson’s misdirected anger was somewhat simmered down.
There’s silence on the other end of the line, and I’m not sure what Easton could be mulling over. The deal is basically perfect. “Easton? You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
He sounds gritty, like he’s pissed about something.
I say, “You’re lucky as sin, and I’m not about to do you any better.”
“I—it’s not that. Thank you. Thank you for what you’ve done for me. I’m not sure I deserve it.”
My hackles smooth. “It’s not a problem. I’ll write it up and so long as the judge approves, it looks like the driver of the SUV will have a very small case, if any, against you.”
“Taryn, your help is—” Easton cuts off, but I still hear him, is tone muffled, but the annoyance is clear. Actually no, it’s confusing.
“Easton? Is something wrong? Did I say something to upset you?”
Easton’s voice becomes clear and loud. “Hell, no. My friend is being a royal dick and it’s distracting.”
I hear another voice cackling with laughter before it says, “Ask her.”
“Ash. Fuck. Off.”
I straighten at my office desk. “Ask me what?”
“Oh—shit. You heard that.”
“I did.” A small smile escapes. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the nerves I sense in his voice, something that tells me, finally, that maybe Easton feels just as frazzled as I do sometimes. “Ask me what, Easton?”
A sigh comes through on the other end. “Ash—I don’t know if you’ve ever met him, pray you haven’t—Ash is convinced I need to ask you out.”
The blatant question strikes me dumb. “Uh. What?”
“Exactly. Did I tell you he’s an idiot? I appreciate your services, Miss Maddox. Let me know—”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” he echoes.
What. Am. I. Doing. There’s too much complication in my life. Why add a sexy drummer to it? “Yes to going out with you.”
My mouth is a traitor.
“Are you…?” Easton takes a moment to breathe. “Are you sure? I’m your client …”
His utter confusion elicits laughter from me. “Are you trying to argue yourself out of asking me?”
“No, no I—”
Gone is the man with the perfect lyrics and beats of confidence. I decide I’m enjoying it. “I assure you, as soon as I submit the papers and a judge signs off, you’re no longer my client. There’s no impropriety.”
More sounds I can’t decipher. All I can really hear is the new voice, Ash’s, and the rough, demanding pitch.
“How long will that take?” East asks at last. “For you to not be my lawyer anymore?”
“To be safe, a couple weeks, maybe?”
Which would give me enough time to rethink the impulsive urge to say yes to him and remember where I’ve come from. What I’m responsible for. There’s no way I can—
“Let’s go out once my shoulder’s better,” Easton says.
Ash shouts, “Fucking moron!”
“We need to wait,” Easton clarifies, “Because by then, I’ll be in a better position to take you out. I’m currently doing origami with my bandages in Ash’s car.”
I give another smile. “Makes sense. You must still be hurting.”
“More than you’ll ever know,” he says, and if there was a joke in there, I can’t find it. “I’ll call you soon, okay?”
“Okay. Take care, Easton.”
We click off, and as I hold my phone in front of me, staring at a black screen, I think, I’m no dating pro, but that has to be the weirdest way I’ve ever been asked out, ever in my life.
Then again, I’ve just been asked on a date by a moody, broken-boned musician who was almost scraped off a roadway and barely escaped a DWI charge. And I said yes.
Who’s the weird one now?
* * *
After a long-winded day, I trod up the subway stairs, my tote heavy with case files that I can hopefully skim over in between bites at dinner before heading back to the office. After finishing up the papers on Easton’s file, I was summoned by Yang’s paralegal and asked to assist in the Chavez case, the unproven crime lord who’s currently being looked at for drug-smuggling charges. Our firm has worked hard to ensure he’s nothing but a successful entrepreneur and family man, exporting timber from Canada to the U.S. Unfortunately, the DA never agrees with us and it’s a constant battle to keep Chavez out of the State trying to nail him on local crimes, since the federal Drug Enforcement Agency has such trouble proving there’s any drug trafficking. Astor thought the current case would be thrown out, but the technicality found by our firm was denied by the judge a few hours ago.
What Astor failed to mention was that Chavez was also being charged with murder-for-hire, a complete one-eighty from the DA’s usual claims of embezzlement or drug violations.
Now that Easton is taken care of, I want nothing more than to dig my teeth into the facts and understand what the hell’s going on with Chavez, but I have one thing to do first. A top priority.
Dinner at exactly six o’clock.
My boss, Altin Yang’s, dark mood has followed me home, but I try not to let it show as I cross the street onto my block and take the steps up to my brownstone apartment.
The building is eighteenth-century, gorgeous with its layers of brick and stone, the outside staircase illuminated by wrought-iron lanterns usually seen in Charles Dickens’s novels. Every step from the subway stop to my home, especially in winter, reminds me of A Christmas Carol, and further enhances the reason I moved here.
I throw open the front-entry doors, a mix of wood, glass and iron and head behind the carpeted staircase to the first-floor apartment. This building, like many old brownstones, was converted to units in the early nineties by a
thrifty landlord, and now houses five apartments instead of one wealthy family home.
The noise hits me first before the scent of marinara fills the air.
A few bangs, a curse, and then a swaying sigh as the winner of the argument is clearly established.
“Hello!” I say as my keys rattle in the lock and I swing the door open. I also pound my foot a few times on the floor as I enter—one of the reasons I searched out a bottom-floor apartment.
“Hey, T.” My neighbor, Harper, pokes her head out of the small kitchenette.
“Everything ok?” I ask as I kick off my shoes.
“Peachy.” Harper goes back to stirring the pasta sauce at the stove, blowing a few pieces of her short, black hair out of her eyes. “I’ve been trying to get him off that thing, but he refuses to listen. Says I’m ‘too old to grasp the merits of the skill-building’ the game provides him.”
Harper leaves the wooden spoon in the pot in order to air-quote my son’s argument.
“Jeez,” I say in solidarity with her before tossing my brick of a tote bag on the couch and heading to the small table behind Harper.
There my ten-year-old sits, his attention glued to his tablet, his lower lip going white from the way he’s biting it with his buckteeth, an adorable trait that I know he’ll have to grow out of, but until then, it reminds me he’s still the cute little baby that I’m actively avoiding picturing growing into a man.
I rub the top of his head but get no reaction.
“I assume James Patrick gets his argument skills from you,” Harper says, using his full name with annoyed emphasis. She lays the spoon on a cloth beside the stove. “Dinner’s about ready. Let it bubble for a few more minutes, then it will be mwah.” She kisses two of her fingers.
“You’re not staying?” I ask her.
“Not this time. I have a date.” Harper waggles her brows.
“Not from one of those apps again,” I say.
“You bet your bottom dollar it is. I swiped right, he swiped right, it’s destiny. We’re a match.”
“Oy. Be careful this time,” I say as I take a seat next to Jamie. “The last time you went out with your perfect match, he smelled like cat.”
Playing You: Players to Lovers, Book 4 Page 5
