Getting Played (Getting Some Book 2)

by Emma Chase

  We step out of the pickup truck and Jay and I stand beside each other—taking it all in. There’s an early morning mist drifting off the lake, surrounding the house. The air is silent and a lonely goose drops down from the sky, making a soft ripple on the still water as it touches down.

  “So? What do you think?”

  Jason glances around, his hazel eyes surveying. “I think it looks like the set of a horror movie.”

  In retrospect, letting Jay watch the Friday the 13th slasher film marathon when he was nine was not the wisest mom-call I’ve ever made.

  And now that he’s said it—I admit, there is a bit of a Camp Crystal Lake vibe to the property. Plus the dock in the back, as well as the round window on the top attic floor are straight out of Amityville Horror.

  “There’s a lot of trees,” Jaybird notices.

  Bayonne has an urban landscape, more city than town—and while Lakeside is only a two-hour drive away, it could be a whole other, countrified world.

  “Trees are good. You’ll get used to it.” I jiggle the house keys. “Let’s check out the inside and bring this stuff in. I want to set up and record before everyone else gets here.”

  When I duck back in to grab a box from the backseat, a wave of nausea washes through me.

  I’ve been drinking too much coffee lately and my stomach isn’t happy about it. I take a bottle of ginger oil from the center console and sniff it, then sprinkle a drop on my tongue to settle my stomach. Essential oils are a gift from the gods.

  Jason and I plop our boxes in the foyer and give ourselves the tour. It’s a stunning home, with gleaming refinished hardwood floors, an open floor plan and tons of beautiful, natural light. Except for the top-of-the-line appliances in the kitchen, the space is devoid of any furniture—that was the deal. I’ll be designing each room, adding every perfect piece myself. Some will be donated by advertisers in return for product placement—but to make the looks realistically attainable for my viewers, I plan on finding most of the furniture on my yard sale excursions, off Craiglist, or building them from the ground up.

  The molding in the house is original, and the sheet-rocked walls new, bare and eggshell-white—totally blank canvases just waiting for me to bring them to life.

  I’m Dr. Frankenstein—but prettier—and this house is going to be my monster.

  On our way up the curved oak staircase to the second floor, Jason says, “Oh—I balanced the checkbook last night.”

  “I told you, you don’t have to do that.”

  “I know.” He shrugs. “I just like doing it.”

  Jason is like an old man in a fourteen-year-old’s body. I used to worry it was because my parents had such a big hand in raising him—but now I understand, he’s just an old soul.

  “The first payment came in from Facebook,” he adds. “It’s a nice chunk of change. We should put it into a money market fund, diversify our portfolio—maybe open a 529 for me for college? I’ll do some research.”

  And he’s smart—really smart. I don’t know where he gets it from. I did okay in school, but for Jason, academics are his thing. His innate talent.

  In Bayonne, he wasn’t bullied—I would’ve been cracking skulls if he had been—but he was…isolated. The other kids didn’t get him. He didn’t have a crew or a tribe. That’s why he was okay with moving to a new town at the beginning of his junior year.

  And it’s why I think this is going to be good for him—that here, in Lakeside, maybe he’ll find his people.

  “Wow—can I have this room?”

  There are five bedrooms in the house—we’re in the back, left corner one, on the opposite side from the master suite. It has its own connecting bathroom, but more importantly to my Jaybird—there’s a built-in window seat that overlooks the lake. Jason’s a reader, a studier, and I can already picture him sitting there with his e-reader and online textbooks for hours.

  I nod, seeing the decorating future in my head.

  “What do you think of colonial-blue for the paint color? And a couple wide oars for shelves, in distressed cream, maybe a rustic ship wheel for there on the wall? There’s a carpenter in town, I was going to swing by his shop to see if he has scrap pieces we can take off his hands to build your headboard, and maybe a desk.”

  Growing up, I was my father’s sidekick. His little helper. And, because money was always short, he’s a handy, resourceful guy. He taught me the ways of power tools, house repair, automotive maintenance . . . and now, I’m handy too.

  My son smiles brightly—and right then and there, my whole day is made.

  “Cool.”

  ~ ~ ~

  It takes me a little over an hour to get the tables and chairs and decorations set up in the backyard. I take several pictures to post later to the Life with Lainey Instagram and Twitter accounts, then I adjust my tripod and set up my phone to film the show’s first live broadcast.

  Some of my videos are prerecorded and edited—but this one, I wanted to do live. So the Lifers can experience this moment with me, feel the authenticity through the camera. That’s what my viewers are looking for—a connection. They want to feel like they’re part of the action, part of the experience, a part of my life. And in a very real way, they are.

  I tuck a blond curl behind my ear, look into the camera, and hit record.

  “Hi, Lifers! The big day has finally arrived! Moving day is here! I’m going to show you the property in a second, but first I wanted to talk about the logistics of moving. Anyone who’s done it knows it’s a nightmare and the cost of a good moving company can be extreme. So, because I’m always looking out for your bottom line, I’m going to show you how to move for less. The key to that is . . . a moving party! You get every friend and family member with a car to get on board and help you move—and label your boxes ahead of time with who’s taking what—to be sure that what everyone is moving will fit in their car. If you promise them a party afterwards, they’ll be more excited to help you out. If you make it fun, they will come.”

  I stand behind the camera and pan the shot across the party area I’ve created on the back patio—and I also keep my eye on the number of viewers watching the post live. I’ve done a pre-launch marketing campaign online, so the viewers watching and liking the live video are already over one hundred thousand and climbing. My advertisers will be pleased.

  I zoom the camera in—focusing on the folding chair and table settings—and talk behind the shot in a voice-over.

  “Remember what I always told you—the only difference between shabby and shabby-chic is looking like you meant to do it. I chose teal-blue and yellow for my color scheme, because these padded folding chairs I found at that garage sale last month are teal-blue. I coordinated them with this fabulous set of mismatched cream dishware, and the yellow from our lemons—” I focus in on the clear glass bowls of lemons strategically placed in the center of the folding table. “—add the perfect pop of color.”

  I swing the camera back to my seat and sit down, picking up the pre-filled glass pitcher of hazy lemonade.

  “I’m a big fan of decorating with fruit. It’s affordable, the colors are great and it’s practical. My refreshments for my moving helpers today are lemonade for the kids, and for the adults—” I gesture to the bottle of vodka on the table, like a showcase showdown girl from The Price is Right “—vodka and lemonade cocktails! Grey Goose generously donated the vodka we’ll be enjoying today, and it’s one of my favorites. Vodka and Sprite, with a squeeze of lime is an amazing drink too.”

  For a split-second I’m distracted by the remembered taste of vodka on my lips. Of where I was and who I was with the last time I drank it.

  It’s like orgasm-PSTD.

  It’s not the first time I’ve thought of Dean—he’s been popping up in my thoughts a lot these last months. But like every time before, I sweep the memories away and push on.

  I smile into the camera. “Another way to set the stage for a successful moving party is ambiance. Decorations. These don�
��t have to be time-consuming or pricey.”

  I take the camera over to the overgrown bushes and trees that surround the patio. They’re strewn with glittering star ornaments and twinkling lights.

  “These are solar string lights from Kendall for just $2.99 a box, and I’ll post the coupon code for you in the comments after this video. And then, we have these little beauties.”

  I zoom in on the golden stars.

  “I picked these up from the dollar store at 75% off—but, if your local store doesn’t carry them, they’re a piece of cake to make.”

  I move back to a tray table in the corner, where my supplies are waiting.

  “You start with a simple star cut out of plain cardboard. And remember—Lifers never pay for cardboard. Your local grocery stores and shops will have some they’re willing to let you take off their hands, if you’re willing to ask. Then, because you guys already know I’m a glitter girl—” I hold up a bottle of golden glitter and a paintbrush “—you paint on your glue and sprinkle your glitter. Make sure you let one side fully dry before working on the other. Then, all you need is a string to tie at the top, and voila!” I hold up the finished shining star ornament. “Instant moving party ambience. These can also be used again for holiday decorations.”

  I put the star on the table and brush off my hands. Then I stand up and hold the camera at face level.

  “And now . . . do you guys want to see the lake?”

  The flurry of hearts and smiley faces that slide up the screen tells me they do.

  I tap a button on my computer on the chair, because mood music is important. And a moment later, the song “Learning to Fly” by Tom Petty fills the air. It’s a great song—uplifting, upbeat.

  And once again, Dean’s gorgeous smile slides into my head.

  “Tom Petty’s Greatest Hits . . . That’s my answer.”

  A little shiver ripples through me at the memory of his rough, beautiful voice, and a longing, yearning ache echoes hollowly in my chest.

  But I shake it off and refocus. Refocus, refocus, refocus. That’s my word of the day—the month—possibly the rest of my life.

  I pan the camera across the lake, capturing the glittering diamonds of the sun on the water’s surface and the group of geese that glide peacefully by in a perfect triangle formation.

  It’s beautiful. Serene. It already feels like a home—one that would be so damn easy to fall in love with. The awe that shadows my next whispered words comes straight from my heart.

  “Can you guys believe I get to live here?”

  I shake my head, laughing, and spinning in a circle as the breeze blows my hair back. Then I wink into the camera.

  “Me neither.”

  I turn my head back toward the water.

  “It’s going to be a great year. We’re going to build a firepit and refinish the dock and turn this place into a dream house.”

  From the corner of my eye, I spot Jason at the back door, waving his arm, then giving me the thumbs-up.

  “Okay, Lifers, Jaybird just gave me the signal that the gang’s all here and it’s time to kick moving day into high gear.”

  I talk about Jason in my videos, but I’ve never shown his face. I figure being a teenager is hard enough without having your picture strewn across social media by your mom.

  I pan the camera across the party setup one last time—with the lake in the background. Then I lean over into the shot.

  “The coupon code and products from this video will be waiting for you in the comments. Otherwise, I’ll see you guys for another live video on Wednesday night when we’ll start working on the kitchen—because that’s the heart of every house. Also, Wednesday is Lifer Self-Care Night—so I’m gonna show you how to mix a homemade honey and sugar foot scrub that’ll knock your socks off. Leave any questions for me in the comments—sharing this video with your friends isn’t expected, but it’s always appreciated. Bye, Lifers.”

  With a wave and a smile, I stop recording. And now it’s time to get my move on.

  ~ ~ ~

  I love my family. They’re nosy and noisy and feel like a hurricane of crazy when they’re all in the same room—but I love them.

  My sisters and I could be a case study in nature vs. nurture. Five girls, with the same parents, same DNA makeup, born on average about two years apart, raised in the same house . . . who couldn’t be more different if we tried.

  “Valentina, Ines—put your galoshes on if you’re going near the water! And don’t get your pants dirty!”

  First, there’s my oldest sister, Brooke. She’s married to a perfect, handsome husband, Ronaldo, with two perfect girls. They live in a four-bedroom house, in an upper class neighborhood, where Brooke presides over school PTA meetings, drinking Chardonnay with the other moms in their tailored slacks, pearls and perfectly matching cardigan sweater sets.

  Things go downhill from her.

  “Where’s the alcohol? I had too much caffeine this morning—I need a shot of something to bring me down.”

  Judith is my next oldest sister. She’s the shortest among us, but what she lacks in height, she makes up for in personality. Jude’s a workaholic CPA, who’s married to Michael—another workaholic CPA. Michael only shows up to the big-holiday family gatherings where he generally gets sloshed before dinnertime and when leaving, tries to kiss everyone goodbye . . . on the mouth. Judith never goes anywhere without her phone, her hair is in a perpetually messy bun and a perfume of freshly brewed coffee surrounds her, like it’s seeping from her pores.

  “Already on it, Jude. The alcohol’s outside. I’ll get you a glass as soon as I finish writing this line down.”

  “It’s nine o’clock in the morning,” Brooke clucks.

  My third oldest sister, Linda-the-middle-child, shrugs. “It’s five o’clock somewhere. Let’s make believe we’re wherever that is.”

  Linda is a bestselling sci-fi author who walks around with a purse full of scribble-filled sticky notes and a pencil stuck in her hair—sometimes several pencils. Linda shares custody of her son, Javen, with her recently exed ex-wife, and the only clothes I’ve ever seen her wear are pajamas, sweatpants and—if she’s feeling fancy—jeans.

  Next is Erin—we’ve covered her pretty thoroughly already.

  And last, there’s me.

  My dad’s a retired sanitation worker, a union guy, and my mom is a retired florist. They’re great parents—affectionate, supportive—and tired. They’ve been tired for as long as I can remember. I guess raising five girls successfully to womanhood will do that to you.

  Two years ago we all pitched in to send Mom and Dad on a cruise through Alaska. When they got home, they showed us the pictures from the trip and they were almost all photos of their stateroom. Because they slept—the whole week.

  For the next few hours, my family unpacks their cars, stacking everything in the den and the garage where my designated work area will be. Because Snow White was right, and whistling—or bopping out to music—while you work is always better, I hook my phone to the Bluetooth speakers installed throughout the house and pull up my moving-day playlist. Songs by Smashmouth, and Tina Turner, “New Fav Thing” by the Danger Twins. It makes the time go faster and it’s funny to see my mom and dad shaking their booties at one another as they carry stuff in.

  Most of the items are raw materials—paints, tools, brushes, fabrics and faux furs I’ll eventually make into curtains, accent pillows and rugs. There are some larger, used furniture items that I’ll refinish and refurbish into new, unique pieces. This is a big house—it’s not going to be easy filling it on a tight budget

  “Did you pull this out of a flood zone?” Judith looks down at the warped, worn side-cabinet she and Linda just dragged in.

  “No—I scooped it up from Mrs. Kumar’s curb on the last heavy pickup day.”

  “What the hell is this for?” Jack, Erin’s boyfriend, gestures towards the rusty, patina coated, penny-farthing, high-wheel bicycle I found at a flea market in Pennsylvania.<
br />
  I gaze at the bicycle warmly—like the treasure it is—because I love what I do.

  “I’m either going to use the big wheel as the base for an accent table—or just hang the whole thing on the wall. I haven’t decided yet.”

  I’ve always been a picker, a dumpster diver, a saver-for-laterer, a recycler. It makes me sad to think of something that was once loved being discarded without a second thought.

  When I was a preteen and outgrew my immense collection of stuffed animals, instead of tossing them like my mother wanted—I sliced them open and gutted them. I used their stuffing to make new pillows and sewed their fuzzy pelts together to make a one-of-a-kind rug for my bedroom floor.

  Morbid? Possibly.

  But it gave a new purpose to the furry companions that had seen me through thunder storms and scary movies and tummy aches.

  I was a lifestyle blogger at heart before the words even existed.

  ~ ~ ~

  After everything’s been moved in, and the den resembles the overstocked junk yard of an owner with fabulous taste, the family enjoys pizza and cocktails on the back patio. I’m with Jack and Erin in the kitchen making more lemonade, both the adult and kid-friendly kind.

  I bend over slightly at the waist, rubbing my breasts covertly with my forearm, wanting to just full-out massage the poor girls. Because they’re aching—a cold, excruciating, throbbing sort of pain—like my nipples have frostbite.

  “You okay?” Erin asks.

  “Yeah—it’s just my boobs are killing me.” I glance at Jack, leaning against the white marble counter. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. Boobs are my second favorite thing to talk about.”

  “What’s the first thing?”

  He wiggles his eyebrows. “You’re sister’s boobs.”

  Erin laughs, then she turns to me, still smiling.