Getting Played (Getting Some Book 2)

by Emma Chase

  “I can’t believe you’re here. I’ve been thinking about you. Jesus, you have no idea. I haven’t stopped—”

  My words cut off quick.

  Because that’s when I feel it—when it registers that Lainey’s lower abdomen is pressing against my hip. That it’s different from the flat, tiny waist I worshiped with my tongue and hands four months ago.

  Very different.

  It’s distended. Hard. Round.

  I look down between us. Lainey’s wearing black yoga pants and this tied, layered navy and white shirt number that makes her tits look fantastic, and hugs her tight around the hips—accentuating the unmistakable bulge protruding beneath it.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about you too, Dean,” Lainey confesses in a whisper.

  It’s . . . a bump. That’s what I’m looking at. Maybe she’s bloated—or decided to eat a small soccer ball for dinner? It could happen.

  The downside of being really smart is that it’s almost impossible to delude yourself, no matter how much you want to drown in that ignorant bliss. It takes a nanosecond to discard those theories and recognize the obvious conclusion.

  And when that happens—my brain becomes a ghost town.

  I take a step back. And then I take another one—just in case.

  I point at her stomach. “Is that . . . ?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you . . . ?”

  She nods. “Yeah.”

  Nope, still can’t deal.

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  I point to myself.

  “Is it . . . ?”

  And the whole world slants, like the floor of one of those Tilt-A-Whirl carnival rides we used to ride over and over until we threw up.

  Lainey looks at me gently, her eyes light, her voice tender.

  “Yes . . . it’s yours.”

  When I was seventeen I got slammed by a three-hundred forty pound linemen who got drafted to the NFL the following year. It was a blind hit, I never saw it coming—it knocked my helmet off, knocked the breath out of my lungs, and left me unconscious on the field for four minutes.

  This hits harder.

  “Are you sure?”

  She twists her fingers together in front of the bump.

  “You’re the only person I’ve had sex with in five years.”

  “Damn. That’s pretty sure.”

  “Yeah.” She nods.

  “But we used condoms. We used a whole . . .”

  “A whole box of condoms.” Lainey throws up her hands. “I know! That’s what I said. The sperm and egg apparently didn’t get that message. And there’s this whole ripping the condom open with your teeth statistic that’s gonna blow your mind, but . . . maybe . . . maybe you should sit down, Dean? You don’t look so well.”

  The pregnant woman is telling me to sit down—this is where we are now.

  “That’s probably a good idea.”

  And yet, I don’t move an inch. My central nervous system has been frozen by the shock.

  “I tried to find you,” she explains. “To tell you. But the band doesn’t have a website and the bar was closed and . . .”

  “We don’t advertise.” My words are hollow and flat, answering on autopilot. “Since we only play in the summers, we don’t take on new gigs.”

  Lainey licks her lips, nodding.

  “That’s what I figured.”

  The timer goes off—and I want to chuck it out the window, smash it with my fists like the Incredible Hulk having a really bad day. A second later, a parent—Louis’s dad—sticks his head through the door.

  I hold up my hand before he says a word.

  “I’m going to need another fucking minute here, Larry.”

  My words are harsh and totally unprofessional and I don’t even care.

  Begrudgingly, he closes the door. And I desperately try to pull my shit together.

  But Lainey’s already a step ahead of me.

  “We should talk, Dean, but not here—and obviously not now.” She goes to my desk, writing on a scrap of paper and handing it to me. “Here’s my number. Text or call me when you’re free and we’ll meet up to discuss . . . everything.”

  “Okay, yeah. Sounds like a plan.”

  She shifts on her feet.

  “So . . . how’s Jason doing in math?”

  And I laugh—sounding a little lunatic even to my own ears. I scrub my hand over my face.

  Snap out of it, Walker.

  And it’s like a default setting. Even with the easy, uncomplicated world as I know it disintegrating before my eyes, I’m able to shift into teacher mode.

  “He’s . . . he’s doing awesome. He’s a great kid, Lainey.”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  “He’s gifted.”

  “He’s always been so smart. Really quick when it comes to school.”

  “No, I mean—Jason’s legitimately gifted. There are some college-level programs you should be looking at for him. For his future. We can talk about that later too.”

  This seems to come as a surprise to her, but she rolls with it.

  “Oh. Wow, okay.”

  The door opens again, and I’ve never wanted to knock a parent on their ass as much as I do right this second.

  “Goddamn it, Larry—not yet.”

  When the door is closed again, Lainey moves toward it.

  “I’m going to go. This is—we’ll talk more soon, Dean.”

  But when she puts her hand on doorknob—it’s like there’s a break in the fog—a space of clarity. And I remember there’s something I need to tell her.

  “Lainey!”

  She turns back, her eyebrows lifting and her features supple with curiosity. My feet finally remember how to function and I move closer to her.

  “I should’ve asked for your number—that morning—I wanted to. Later, when I woke up, I was so pissed off at myself for not asking. Because . . . I wanted to see you again.” I look into her eyes and I don’t hold back. “I’ve wanted to see you again since the minute you walked out the door.”

  Lainey blinks those long lashes, taking that in—because she didn’t know. When her smile comes, it’s soft, a little relieved, and so fucking beautiful it hurts.

  “Okay. I’ll see you again soon.”

  Then she walks out the door.

  ~ ~ ~

  I spend the next three hours is a haze of jumbled thoughts. I nod my way through the rest of my conferences, like a zombie who’s just discovered he’s spawned a little zombie. McCarthy will probably get some emails about my distraction, and she’ll ride my ass, but that’s the least of my worries.

  After the last conference is finally over, I head straight to Garrett’s class, but he and Callie are already gone for the night. So I get in my car and drive to their house—it’s only 9:30. And when crazy, monumental stuff happens, guys really aren’t so different from chicks—we talk to our friends about that shit.

  When Garrett opens the door, he’s surprised to see me.

  “Hey, man.”

  I walk in and sit down at the kitchen table before I fall down.

  Callie is there, giving baby Will a snack in his highchair.

  “Hey, Dean.”

  Will holds out his hand and squeaks a saliva-slicked version of my name.

  “Deeen!”

  I smack his palm high-five. “Hey, little man.”

  Callie puts carrot pieces on Will’s tray and looks at me with concerned eyes.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” Garrett comes in beside her. “You look like Brian Pataloo at Kimberly Fletchers’s Sweet Sixteen, right before he puked all over the cake.”

  Callie laughs. “That was literally twenty years ago! I can’t believe you remember that.”

  “It was a lot of puke. I still can’t believe someone puked that much and lived.” Garrett lifts his chin at me. “What’s up?”

  I don’t know how to say it. I literally can’t make my mouth form the words. So, I take
the long way around.

  “Remember the blonde I told you about that I hooked up with in the beginning of the summer? The hot one that I couldn’t get out of my head—Lainey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It turns out, she’s Jason Burrows’s mother. We ran into each other when she came to my room, tonight, for conferences.”

  “I know Lainey Burrows,” Callie says. “I met her at the football game last month.”

  “She was at the game?” I ask in a hollow voice.

  The blonde at the truck . . . that was Lainey. She’s been right here in town all this time.

  “Yeah. She’s really nice—and pretty. And about as pregnant as I am.”

  That trips Garrett up. Because he doesn’t get it yet—neither of them do.

  “Wait a minute.” He looks at me. “You hooked up with a pregnant chick? You didn’t tell me that.”

  “No, babe,” Callie says. “She’s four and a half months along, the same as me. Which means she didn’t get pregnant until . . .”

  And we have a winner.

  Garrett does the math in his head.

  “. . . until the beginning of the summer.”

  Callie pauses crunching on a carrot, mid-chew.

  “Ohhh.”

  Garrett sits down. “Wow.”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “Exactly. Fucking wow.”

  Will looks at each of us with his big, brown baby eyes and agrees with my take on the situation.

  “Ffffuckin’ wow.”

  Chapter Eight

  Dean

  That night, when I’m not tossing and turning in my bed, or punching my pillow or watching the shadow of Lucifer’s padded little paws stalk back and forth outside my bedroom door, I have nightmares. Dark, cloudy dreams about missing gigs with the band because I couldn’t remember the start times and being chained to the radiator at the daycare in the high school—even though Lakeside doesn’t have a daycare.

  My subconscious is a pretty straight shooter, you don’t have to be Freud to figure out what they mean.

  In the morning, I get up and play the drums. Mindless, pounding songs from bands like Slayer and Metallica, to try and get my head on straight. For the first time in my life, it doesn’t help. And when I walk back up the basement steps hours later, I’m just as twisted up inside as when I started.

  I text Lainey and we agree to meet up at Boston Market for lunch, per her request. I get there first and watch as she walks across the parking lot wearing jeans, gray knit boots, a white wife-beater, and this long-sleeved Sherpa jacket that looks like it was made from the wool of a sheared pink sheep. Her long hair is tied up in a high ponytail, with gold aviators covering her eyes.

  It’s an unusual look—kind of mismatched and thrown together—but it works for her.

  Two guys check her out as she comes through the door, and when they turn back for a double-take of her ass, I have the surprising urge to gouge their eyes out with a plastic spork.

  Weird.

  As I move toward her, I notice the small, unmistakable bump of her lower abdomen. And it hits me all over again that this is actually real. This is my life. This is happening.

  Dean Walker is going to be a father.

  Holy fuck me sideways.

  When you start referring to yourself in the third person in your own mind—that’s when you know you’re screwed.

  “Hi, Dean. It’s good to see you. I’m glad you texted me.” Lainey rests her sunglasses on the top of her head. Her smile comes quick and easy.

  And goddamn, she’s pretty.

  Flawless, creamy skin, high cheekbones, big round eyes framed with thick, sooty lashes, pouty lips that seem just on the verge of smiling, stupendous tits, long legs, and the kind of ass you want to grab on to and never, ever let go.

  I mean—I knew she was pretty, I know what she looks like—but somehow between last night and now, between the summer and now—Lainey’s left beautiful behind and moved right into perfect.

  There’s this throbbing, yearning ache in my chest—and my groin—just from looking at her. It’s bizarre and it’s never happened to me before and . . . I don’t think I’m happy about it.

  “Hey. It’s good to see you too.”

  This is good—the exchange of pleasantries—a nice normal conversation, like I’m not freaking the fuck out at all.

  Michael Dillinger, a senior, greets me with a “Hey Coach” from behind the counter, and fills our order. I pay for both our meals and Lainey lets me. The place is empty, so we sit at a table in the corner and the song “Even If It Break Your Heart” by the Eli Young Band plays in the background, keeping things from being too silent.

  Lainey dives into her mashed potatoes and gravy.

  “Mmmm…” She sighs with this blissful little whimper of a moan.

  And I remember that sound.

  It’s the exact noise she makes right after she comes. Breathy and sweet.

  My shameless dick reacts with a vengeance. And I glance down toward my lap admonishingly. So not the time, dude.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet here. I’m like a crack addict lately with their mashed potatoes and mac and cheese. They’re the only foods that don’t give me heartburn.”

  Right.

  Because pregnant women get heartburn. And Lainey is pregnant.

  With. My. Kid.

  The inappropriate dick issue isn’t an issue anymore. Shock and dread don’t mix well with boners.

  But . . . even though I feel like I’m about to yak all over my two-piece meal and biscuit—I can’t stop looking at the bump. My eyes keep dragging over it.

  It’s unreal. Fascinating. Terrifying and surreal—but fascinating.

  “Do you want to feel it?” Lainey asks.

  “Feel it?”

  She nods, dabbing at her lips with the napkin, and standing up.

  “It’s small but it’s there.” She lifts her shirt and pushes the top of her jeans down, then she takes my hand and presses it against her stomach. Her skin is taut and warm over the surprisingly firm swell of the bulge.

  And there’s a fucking baby in there.

  I know I’m repeating myself but I can’t help it—my mind is so blown there should be pieces of skull all over the goddamn floor right now.

  “Wow.” My thumb drags back and forth over that petal soft skin.

  “Wild, right?”

  I shake my head. “It’s crazy.”

  Too crazy not to talk about. To come to a crystal-clear understanding about. To lay down ground rules and expectations. It’s not so different from a math problem—I just need to know the parameters so I can solve this mother.

  I pull my hand away and Lainey sits down across from me, digging back into the mashed potatoes.

  “Okay, so, I don’t want to sound like an asshole, but . . . how do you see this working, exactly?” I ask. “What do you expect from me, Lainey?”

  She gazes back at me with those hazel eyes—a dozen different emotions swimming in their depths. Hope, determination, joy, worry, attraction and lust—it’s all there, swirled together, naked for me to see.

  I don’t think Lainey has a poker face.

  “I don’t expect anything from you. Or . . . I expect everything, if that’s what you want to give.” She puts her fork down, her brow scrunching a bit. “I’ve had time to process this, to think it through. When I thought I wasn’t going to find you, I was prepared to have this baby—to keep it, and raise it and love it. That was my choice, it still is. Now you have a choice to make—you have to decide if being a dad is something you want to do. The rest is just logistics.”

  “Decide if I want to be a dad?” I lift my chin at the bump. “Kind of late for that, isn’t it?”

  “It takes more than knocking someone up to be a dad.”

  My neck goes hot and itchy and my tongue feels swollen, like I’m having an anaphylactic reaction.

  “Yeah, I get that.”

  She goes on to explain about Life with Lainey—her blogging, her
videos, her deal with Facebook.

  “The contract is for one year so Jason and I will be at the lake house until next summer. After that, I was going to get an apartment or rent a house in town so Jay won’t have to change schools again.” She takes a big breath. “Neither of us planned this, Dean. But, we can get to know each other, we can become friends and we can raise this baby together.”

  Her gaze moves down to the table. “Or, if you don’t want that, then that’s okay too.”

  I hold up my hand. “What does that mean ‘that’s okay too’?”

  “I won’t force you to do anything you don’t really want to do. Parenting doesn’t work that way—not for me. It’s too hard and too important. You have to want it, Dean.”

  “So . . . what?” I try to picture how that would work in my head. “You squeeze out the kid and then afterward, we’re strangers? Just two people passing each other at the Bagel Shop on Sunday mornings? Hey, how’s it going, great fucking weather we’re having. How about those Giants?”

  Lainey shrugs, her silky ponytail swaying with the movement.

  “It’ll be what it’ll be.”

  It’s kind of eerie how calm she is about all this. It makes me look for the other shoe—a massive, steel-tipped boot—that’s bound to be painful when it drops.

  “What about child support?”

  “If you decide to be a part of this child’s life, we can talk about how we’ll divide the finances. If not, I don’t want your money. I can take care of myself and my kids.”

  Lainey’s got a stubborn streak. It’s there in the flash of her amber-green eyes, the twitch of her nose and rise of her chin. It’s very, very cute.

  And confusing as hell.

  Because I’ve spent more than half my life being chased by women. They always cared more than I did, were always more invested in the relationship than I was. I’m not saying that to be a douche—it’s just the truth. They wanted the commitment, the promise, the key to the house, the drawer in the dresser, the ring.

  But now, this woman could chain me to her for the rest of our lives. And she’s not. Lainey’s not just putting the ball in my court, she’s laying it at my feet and walking away.