Playing You: Players to Lovers, Book 4

by Allison, Ketley

  “I, uh, I should leave you two to it,” Easton says. He swallows. “I don’t want to intrude any more than I—”

  Jamie gestures for us to look at him. He’s adept at reading lips, even more so at body language. Don’t let him leave, Mom. Please. I have so many questions for him! Do you think he can take a picture with me? Paul will be so jealous …

  I shake my head and sign. You don’t deserve it, problem child. I’ve got some serious lecturing to do. And then I’m going to take away your tablet.

  I’m stuck dumb when Jamie doesn’t blink at the prospect of being grounded from his tablet. It’s that important to him that Easton stays.

  Please, Mom! When am I going to get a chance like this again? I’m already so isolated. You barely let me go anywhere, I’m always holed up at home.

  I drop my chin and level my gaze at him. “You make it sound like I have you under lock and key.”

  You might as well.

  I sign and say, “This city is busy, and crowded, and cars don’t stop for pedestrians. Accidents are all over the place. I had difficulty getting to you tonight because of one. I worry about you, Jamie, and when you do stuff like this, you don’t make me worry any less about you going out on your own.”

  I’m almost a teenager! What else do you expect?

  I tsk, but Easton is shuffling his feet, hands shoved in his pockets. Manners are probably preventing him from just up and running out of here and not looking back.

  “Jamie has a few questions for you, before you go, if that’s okay,” I say to Easton. “I’ll translate anything he can’t read on your lips.”

  Easton meets my eyes. “He reads lips?”

  “Very well. Body language, too. He’s essentially the best lie detector there is, save for his own lying.”

  Nice one, Mom. Jamie rolls his eyes.

  I hold back a smile, since I’m still pissed at him.

  Jamie signs, When is your next single? Can I watch you play some time? Can I meet the rest of the band? Can I have a picture—

  “Slow down, sweetheart,” I say, though my heart is light. I love how eager Jamie is, how alive he is outside of his fantasy video games.

  And thank God he’s alive, after tonight.

  “Well.” Easton clears his throat and stands at the foot of the bed. “I think, first and foremost, I should shake your hand. Greet you properly.”

  Jamie thrusts out his hand, so small in Easton’s grip.

  “Nice to meet you, kind sir,” Easton says. “Now, I’ll answer anything you want to know, if you promise to listen to your mom for the rest of the night.”

  Jamie slides his gaze over to me, preparing for another eye-roll, I’m sure.

  “I mean it, bud.”

  Sensing that Easton’s speaking again, Jamie goes back to him. Easton says, “Your mom means well, you know that. You really scared her tonight.”

  Jamie shrugs it off, but I can tell he’s feeling a little shame in front of his idol. He isn’t the only one who’s learned body cues throughout the years.

  Easton moves so he’s sitting at the foot of Jamie’s bed, just past his toes. “As for our next single, I’m thinking it should be,” Easton glances up at me, “Heartfall.”

  My lips pull up into a smile before I know it’s happening.

  That’s the most cootie-filled song you guys have, Jamie signs.

  Easton laughs after I interpret. “Guess you’re not into the ladies just yet.”

  Jamie scrunches his face.

  The two of them continue to talk, and I stand at the sidelines, jumping in to translate Jamie’s side of the conversation, but Easton never looks to me when I do it. He continues to regard Jamie, as if it’s him speaking, giving my son the respect of conversing with him as if Jamie’s doing all the talking.

  “Mrs. O’Neil?”

  The doctor knocks lightly on the open door and wanders in.

  “Oh, it’s Maddox, actually. Taryn Maddox. I’m Jamie’s mom.”

  If Easton is thrown by the use of a different last time—clearly Jamie’s father’s last time—he shows no curiosity and continues to focus on Jamie.

  When Jamie sees the doctor, he quickly grabs his notepad and pen beside him so he can keep the conversation going with Easton without me.

  “I’m Dr. Janis. James is a very lucky boy,” the doctor says. I’m noticing a nurse coming in to sit at computer screen beside Jamie’s bed and start typing the doctor’s words in large font, so Jamie can read and be included if he wants to. But he’s so engrossed in Easton, he barely pays attention to it.

  The doctor doesn’t seem to mind. He says to me, “His head hit the curb, so I’d like to keep him overnight to monitor any concussion sustained. X-rays have come back, and it looks like his wrist is only sprained—no fractures.”

  “That’s such a relief,” I reply.

  “I have to say.” Dr. Janis glances over at Jamie, then at the nurse to stop typing. “That is one very precocious ten-year-old. He must keep you on his toes, despite his handicap.”

  I bristle at the use of the word, but know, through much experience, that ignorance does not always mean maliciousness.

  “You’d never know he’s anything but a normal ten-year-old kid,” I reply.

  Dr. Janis misses the shot. He nods, taps his clipboard, and says, “I don’t recommend he gets on his bicycle again until he’s fully healed. And only in daylight.”

  I bite my tongue at stating the obvious. Jamie will be lucky if he gets to ride his bike again this year, if I have anything to do with it. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Another nurse will check on him in a few minutes. At that point, it’ll be family only. You’re welcome to stay overnight in the chair beside his bed.”

  I nod.

  When he leaves, and Harper waltzes back in with two cups of coffee, I speak to her, through a glance, that everything the doctor said was positive. She and I have communicated many times through single glances, and she sags in relief that Jamie’s going to be fine.

  “I’d better get going.” Easton rises from Jamie’s bed. He pats the empty spot, saying, “It was nice to finally meet my number one fan.”

  Jamie splits into an ear-to-ear grin. He signs, I hope you’ll come back to visit, since you seem to know my mom. He cuts his stare over to me. Who never mentioned she knew you.

  Easton laughs. “We just met through work. If we ever cross paths again, I’ll be sure to ask to see you.”

  It’s unclear how I should react to that statement, but I appreciate that Easton’s lessoned our meeting in front of my son. Even Easton can agree it’s much, much too early to include a little boy in our dating, well—single date.

  And, I come to realize, it’s time to discuss my son with Easton in private, now that the excitement’s ended and the adrenaline’s ebbed.

  I say to Easton, even though my heart is beating with a strange mix of fear and anticipation, “I’ll walk you out.”

  Easton high-fives Jamie, then shakes Harper’s hand as he exits. She whispers to me as I pass, “That man has a fine grip. Just fine.”

  I bat her away as I pass.

  We head down the hallway much slower than when we came in, and I tentatively fall into step beside him.

  I’m not about to apologize for failing to mention Jamie, but I feel the need to acknowledge it. “So, that’s a part of my life I usually keep private.”

  “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “You didn’t. Haven’t. It was kind of an unavoidable situation.”

  Easton holds the elevator doors open for me, and as I step in, I lick my lips. “The fact that it happened on our first date …”

  “You’re finally calling it a date?” he asks.

  Easton’s smile is half-cocked, what I’m coming to know as his usual punctuation to a joke, but something’s off about the effort. I peer at him closer.

  “I had a really good time with you, Easton,” I say. “And I could see this becoming … more.” More of your presenc
e. More of your touch. More than your music. “But, I have a son. And I completely understand if dating a single mother isn’t on your radar.”

  As the floors descend, Easton remains silent. I can’t stop myself from studying him, searching for cues as to what he’s thinking, but he’s giving me nothing but stone.

  When the doors slide open to the lobby, he lets me out first, but I pause on the non-slip mats, waiting for him to catch up to me. No, waiting for him to look at me.

  Once he’s at my side, I say, “Um, so if you want to call me …”

  I hate this moment so much right now. An uncomfortable concoction of fear, shame, rebellion and need. Fear Easton’s going to reject me, despite my reservations against dating him in the first place. The feeling that Easton thinks I’m ashamed of my son, which is why I kept it from him. Rebellion against such a thought, since I love my son and would lay down my life and kill anyone who speaks against him.

  A need for Easton to want to see me again.

  At last, Easton meets my eyes. “You’re right.”

  Hope licks its tiny flame against my heart. “I am?”

  “You being a mom … it wasn’t what I was expecting.”

  The words, spoken so carefully, snuff out the burgeoning fire. I loosen my jaw, my internal lecture already in place: he’s right, this could never work, we were idiots in the first place. He’s a star. You’re a lawyer with too much in her briefcase.

  “I’ve got the tour coming up in a few days. I’ll be gone for a month. It’s probably not the best time to start dating a woman.”

  Then why did you ask me out in the first place? Why did you trace my skin the way you did, sing to me and me only in a crowded restaurant, drop your jaw at the sight of me tonight?

  I want to say all of this, but I don’t. Because I am a grown woman who can take rejection. Even if it’s from the first man I’ve felt this kind of spark with in … ever.

  “I see,” I manage to reply.

  Easton raises his arm, so soon out of a cast, but lowers it before reaching me. “I’m sorry, Taryn. You’re a great girl, it’s just—”

  “I get it. It’s fine.” I straighten my dress, though it doesn’t need it. “I need to get back to Jamie.”

  “Please don’t be mad.”

  I sigh. “I’m not mad. Disappointed, yes, but as you saw up there, I have my hands full. It’s probably not the best time for me, either.”

  Easton takes a step back. “Oh. Okay.”

  I notice the disappointment in his tone and say, “I know—this is not the first date you envisioned. It freaked you out. Understandable. But when you say you want to go our separate ways, and I agree with you, don’t look so surprised. Okay? I don’t know that I can handle any more mixed messages.”

  I huff with the effort of forcing out the words. I’m frickin’ preparing for a podium lecture over here, and when it’s his time to speak, this guy barely grits out a sentence. It’s not frustrating—it’s infuriating.

  Easton’s mouth opens and closes. “I’m sorry.”

  After a long, tired exhale, I reply, “Good luck with everything, Easton.”

  “I …”

  Easton’s eyes fill with a shining earnestness that sends my instincts into high alert.

  “What is it you want to tell me, Easton? You don’t seem …” I press my lips together, then finish. “It’s as if you want to say something but can’t. And as good as I am reading body language, I’m not a mind reader.”

  Rather than prompting him to say more, the question shuts him down. “Nothing. This is for the best. I truly am sorry.”

  Easton turns on his heel, his leather jacket stretched over his broad back, and ambles to his bike, still where he left it.

  “Please, Easton, if there’s something you want to say …”

  He doesn’t look back as he hits the seat and spins the throttle, the throaty growl echoing under the hospital’s concrete awning. Easton acts like he hasn’t even heard me.

  As he turns the corner, his brake lights are the last of him I see, but the sound of him lingers long after he leaves the block.

  The sense that he didn’t want to end things remains thick in the air, but I have to disperse it. If Easton’s confused over my son, then it is not my job to convince him otherwise. Jamie comes first, always, even if it means I stay single for the rest of my life.

  I push my hair back from my forehead, take another deep breath of fresh air, and walk back inside.

  But my resolve, no matter how steel it is, doesn’t prevent the hurt from creeping in.

  14

  Easton

  One Month Later

  “Yes. Yes, East! Go, motherfucker!”

  Rex’s encouragement is heard, but not acknowledged by me. I’m too deep in the pit, pounding my drums, my timing on point, symbols sounding, the music surrounding, entering, becoming …

  I’m back, assholes.

  The crowd roars during my solo and I fly on the high. Wyn enters the song with his electric keyboard, tagging onto my rhythm and we fall in line together. I meet his eyes over my sticks, sweat drenching our brows, and we grin.

  Rex takes up the mike.

  “Willowy soul / you seem so fragile / but you know in your heart / it’s gonna be me that falls apart / heartfall/ heartfall / take my heart and make it yours.”

  This is it. The finale. My arms turn to blurs—both arms, thank you very fucking much—and while there’s the very real risk of snapping my sticks in half with my efforts, I’m in the zone, and I’m taking my band home.

  “Thank you, Amsterdam!” Rex cries, and the crowd of ten thousand people answer in furor.

  I stand with the masses, striding to the front and throwing my drumsticks into the crowd. Hands flail to snatch them.

  After bowing, my hair sending droplets of sweat across the stage, I blow a kiss to each and every one of them out there who’ve come to hear us play.

  Man, this doesn’t get old.

  This is my dream on crack.

  We leave the stage, despite the boo’s and demands for another encore, but hell, we’ve played four additional songs after the concert was supposed to be finished, and we’re beat. There’s only so much adrenaline can carry us through, and my biceps are visibly weak with trembles.

  “That rocked. That seriously fucking rocked. Woo!” Still riding the wave, Mason jumps into the air and pumps his arm. He gives high-fives all around as we enter our dressing room.

  “It was unbelievable,” Rex agrees. “How many venues have we played now?”

  “Ten? Thirty? A hundred? Who the fuck cares?” Wyn says. “We’re on top of the world right now. Each time we’ve been sold out.”

  “And you.” Rex turns to me after grabbing a frosted beer bottle from the mini fridge, cracking it open and chugging long and hard. He wipes his mouth with his forearm. “You nailed it tonight. Your best yet.”

  I grin, gesturing for a beer. He tosses me one, and my numb hand catches it as if I haven’t played sixteen songs in a row. “I fuckin’ know it.”

  “You’ve been good the whole time,” Wyn says. “But tonight, it was different. It was like you came back from the dead, bro. Your arm finally workin’ the way it’s supposed to?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I flex my fingers for effect. “It’s like tonight was the night.”

  Mason nods, his shaved head sparkling with sweat. “Nice.”

  “We got one more venue before we go home.” Rex chucks his empty bottle in the open trash can to the side, underneath the hanging records of those that came before us. “Fuckin’ London.” He flashes his teeth, pounds his chest, and roars, “Fuckin’ London!”

  The effect on our bodies after an epic set is unexplainable. It’s like we’ve all taken Molly, or LSD, or a concoction of the two. We woop! with Rex, our drenched arms coming across each other’s shoulders as we huddle together.

  We don’t pray. We commiserate like gorillas.

  Breaking apart, Wyn throws us all towels. “Time
to get back on the bus, buddy-boys.”

  “Sure thing.” I wipe my face with the fragrant cotton, then lay it around the back of my neck as I search for my phone somewhere in the couch cushions. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Once I find it, I spread out on the couch, scrolling through my messages. My head is clogged, the protective ear pieces doing little to protect my ear canals when on stage. I shake my head a few times to get the noise back, but it’s not working as well as it usually does.

  As I read the group texts from Ash, Locke, and Ben, I use the towel to dig into my ears, as if the blockage is tangible.

  I give a brief update to the boys about the madness of the tour, and when I exit out of the group chat, I notice the message thread I’ve saved right underneath.

  Who am I kidding? I always notice. And linger. My thumb hovers over the name, wanting to text her, but ultimately, I don’t. There’s no point. Taryn has probably long forgotten about me, and if she ever found out I kept her texts, however professional she made them, she’d probably be more turned off than she was when I abruptly ended our … whatever it was. Budding relationship? Single date. Unclear, because I’m the moron who spun on his heel and didn’t explore her further.

  For reasons she might one day ultimately understand all too well.

  Ah, fuck. Shake yourself out of it. I pocket my phone and stand.

  I still don’t delete her texts.

  A shower on the bus might help the tunnel of sound in my head. I’ll blame thoughts of Taryn on that instead of the obvious.

  Pulling on a fresh black tee, I follow the path my bandmates took to the back entrance, preparing to sign a few body parts and take a few pics before boarding our tour bus to London.

  * * *

  “I got your apology tour right here.”

  The bus rumbles beneath my ass as I hang out in the booth, nursing a coffee. Spinner Watson slides in across from me and flips his phone so I can see the screen.

  As our manager, Spinner (formally known as George, before he gained the nickname of spinning record deals into gold), was made responsible for the speeches I and the band will be making to New York high schools when we get back. His black hair is slicked back so carefully that each individual comb-mark can be seen. His eyes, ice blue and bloodshot, communicate that he’s had too much coffee this morning, and it’s only 5 AM. The other guys have yet to rouse their asses from their bunks, but I can’t sleep.