Getting Played (Getting Some Book 2)

by Emma Chase

  “We will, huh?”

  He looks into my eyes and brushes his fingertips across my cheek.

  “Yeah. We’re in this together. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

  And everything inside me goes warm and liquid—melty and mushy. Tears spring into my eyes, and clog my throat. Because I’ve never let myself depend on someone else—not really. It’s always been too risky. Too scary. Too hard.

  But Dean’s making it easy. To count on him. Believe in him. . . in us.

  “I think I’m starting to get that,” I tell him softly. “It may take a little time.”

  He tugs me into his arms, across his chest, and the warm feel of his smooth skin surrounds me.

  “If there’s anything I can do to help out with that, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll wait.”

  He tilts my chin up and slowly leans down, pressing his mouth against mine, tracing my lips with the tip of his tongue, making me tingle everywhere. And the taste of him—Dean tastes like hope and home.

  “We’re worth waiting for, Lainey.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dean

  I’ve never lived with a woman before—I mean, not counting Grams. It’s a surprisingly easy transition. And because it’s Lainey, it’s awesome. The intimacy of it, the little things like watching her brush her teeth, sliding into bed beside her, holding her against me through the night, seeing her sleepy-eyed sexy first thing in the morning—can’t be described as anything less than really fucking awesome.

  We talk, laugh, she lets me kiss her, touch her—and sometimes when she thinks I can’t see, she gets this eager, hungry look in her pretty eyes, like she wants to rip my clothes off and screw me stupid.

  And that works for me.

  The downside is, she’s worried about the baby, she’s stressed about her show, she’s grateful for the help everyone is giving but feels bad that she can’t return the favor, and sometimes she gets this guarded look on her face and I know she still hasn’t made up her mind on if she believes me about the “Kelly incident.”

  Jason definitely doesn’t believe me. Our relationship is like a frozen lake—cold and at a standstill. The kid can hold an impressive grudge. But I’m hoping my actions, the things I do every day, will thaw things out between us and he’ll see just how much him and his mom mean to me.

  I was able to convince McCarthy to give Jay another shot at staying in my class. I used every ounce of charm and intelligence I have. I promised to accept full responsibility if Jason acted out in class again, I got sentimental and reminded her that she’s known me since I was fourteen years old—and how I’m so much less of a dumbass now than I was then and I owe it all to her. Turns out, even Miss McCarthy isn’t immune to flattery and desperation.

  Sometimes it feels like the hard moments are a penance, atonement, for my past selfish, dickheaded deeds. And sometimes I’m glad for it, even when it sucks—because the very best things in life don’t come easy. You have to want them, work for them. And if it means in the end I’ll be better, stronger, more worthy of Jay and Lainey and our kid—then it’ll be more than worth it.

  ~ ~ ~

  The following week, the faculty throws me a baby shower in the teacher’s lounge—also known as The Cave—at school. I’ve always been a guest at these work party things, never a guest of honor, and they went all out. I’m touched.

  There are balloons and streamers and a massive pink and blue cake, because these fiends will do anything for a sugar fix.

  And there are presents.

  A daddy diaper bag, little Nerf drum sticks, a football chew toy, and about a hundred diapers—which according to everyone with children should get us through the first three days. Maybe.

  Garrett and Callie give me a jogging stroller, so I can bring the baby when I go running around the lake.

  Alison gives me a huge, gorgeously illustrated book of fairy tales.

  “You might want to pre-read,” she says. “Some of them are pretty dark.”

  Jerry gives me a bottle of double-malt scotch.

  “For those nights when the baby won’t let you sleep—a few glasses of that, you’ll be out cold—and so will the baby, from the fumes.”

  Evan gives me two fluffy, furry stuffed animals—prairie voles—Velcroed together at the paws.

  And Merkle—I don’t know what the fuck Merkle gives me. It’s this weird sling contraption with tubes and . . . nipples.

  I hold it up. “Please tell me this is a sex toy.”

  “It’s a male breastfeeding system. So you can bond with the baby through the joys of breastfeeding.”

  Garrett laughs so hard he almost falls out of his chair.

  “Dude, I am begging you for pictures. Please.”

  I give him the finger.

  That’s not happening. I’ll do diaper duty all day long, I’ll take night shifts, I’ll sing to my kid and tap out every goddamn song I know on their diaper-covered ass.

  But I’m not strapping on a pair of tits. That’s my line in the sand.

  ~ ~ ~

  The next day, I’m in The Cave, eating leftover cake for lunch.

  “What’s that?” Kelly points to the paper in front of me.

  “I’m making a list of all the girls I’ve screwed over through the years.”

  “Like one of the steps in AA except you’re not an alcoholic?” Mark asks.

  “Exactly.” I nod.

  “Why?” Kelly asks.

  “I’ve been thinking about . . . karma. I mean, what if I have a daughter? What if some little douchebag breaks her heart because I was a jerkoff back in the day? And, I just . . . I want to be a better man, you know? Do something tangible to show Lainey that I can be.” I raise my voice and announce to the other teachers in the room, who were listening anyway, “So if anyone has any suggestions on how I can make up for doing these girls dirty—feel free to toss them out there.”

  “How about chocolates?” Peter Duval suggests.

  I shake my head. “Pathetic.”

  “Belgian chocolates? Teddy Bears?” he adds.

  “Still amateur.”

  Across the table, Merkle smiles smugly at me.

  “I always knew this day would come.”

  “All right, Wonder Woman—I’m asking. How do I make up for all those years that I messed with self-esteem and damaged trust? How do I apologize for something like that?”

  She flicks me on the side of the head.

  “You just say you’re sorry. Say you’re sorry and mean it. That’s all any of those women will need from you. Tell them you were a selfish little shithead.”

  “I was.” I nod.

  “And you couldn’t see past the end of your own dick.”

  “Jesus, it’s like you’re in my brain right now.”

  “I know men.” She shrugs.

  Jerry wiggles his eyebrows and nods. “She knows us well.”

  I move my finger between them. “I finally get you two now.”

  Then I go back to working on my list.

  ~ ~ ~

  At the end of the third week of bedrest, Lainey hits a rough patch. The house is coming along and she seemed okay earlier today when she recorded me putting bookshelves together for the nursery.

  But later, when I come out of the shower and slip on a pair of briefs and get into bed—she’s quiet. Sad. Not like herself.

  I bet she’s sexually frustrated—I know I would be. Hell, I’m jerking off at least twice a day and I’m still sexually frustrated.

  Beside some G-rated cuddling and kissing, things haven’t been real physical between us. She’s banned from any orgasm action, so while a guy can dream, I don’t expect her to help me out in that department. That’s why God gave me a hand. Two, actually, because he really wanted us to use them.

  “Hey.” I wiggle her leg. “How are you doing?”

  Her voice is listless. “I’m fine.”

  “You wanna watch TV?”

  “No.”

  “Wanna . . . play cards?
I’m up for strip poker if you are.”

  “No, thanks.” She sighs.

  “You want me to play you a song?”

  Lainey likes it when I play the drums for her, sing for her—the other night I sang and played the soft beat of “Wonderful Tonight” by Eric Clapton for her. The baby likes the drums too—the little guy or girl in there kicks and stretches when I play, and they get really crazy when I slam out a long, loud solo—so I suspect we may have a future metal-head on our hands here.

  Lainey shakes her head, and pushes her hands into her hair, tugging.

  “I want to get up, Dean. I can’t stand this—I’m going crazy! I want to move, run, skip—God I miss skipping! Why didn’t I skip more when I had the chance?”

  And she looks so cute and miserable, a laugh rumbles in my chest, but I keep it locked down.

  “I’m so tired of laying here, and I know that doesn’t make sense. I’m just . . . so bored I could cry.”

  I could think of a few ways to keep her occupied. For hours and hours. But—nope—banned, banned, banned.

  She needs a distraction. Something she’s not expecting. Spontaneous.

  A surprise.

  Out of nowhere, I ask, “Why doesn’t anyone play poker in the jungle?”

  Lainey looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “What?”

  “You heard me—why doesn’t anyone play poker in the jungle?”

  “Why?”

  “Too many cheetahs.”

  She looks deeply confused, but less dejected than she did a minute ago, so I push on.

  “How did Darth Vader know what Luke got him for Christmas?”

  “How?” Lainey asks hesitantly.

  “He felt his presents.”

  Her pretty, pouty mouth twitches. We’re getting warmer.

  “What’s the difference between a tire and 365 used condoms?” I ask.

  A genuine smiles spreads across her lips. “What?”

  “One’s a Goodyear. The other’s a great year.”

  And that gets a laugh out of her. That beautiful fucking laugh—definitely my favorite sound.

  “Want more? I can do this all night. I can do lots of things all night.”

  She cuddles in close, resting her head on my chest, and, thankfully, it seems like the great skipping craving has passed.

  “Okay.”

  “What do you call a herd of cows masturbating?”

  “What?”

  “Beef strokin’ off.”

  Lainey groans, laughing, because that was pretty bad.

  “Let me try one,” she says.

  I nod. “Go for it. Hit me.”

  “Why shouldn’t you write with a broken pencil?”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s pointless.”

  I chuckle, running my fingers through the silken curls of her hair. And that’s what we do, the rest of the night—crack each other up with terrible jokes. It’s silly and stupid and by the time we turn off the lights to go to sleep, it’s a night I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

  In the dark of the bedroom, Lainey’s whispered voice finds me.

  “Dean?”

  “Yeah?”

  “When is your door not actually a door?”

  I’m almost afraid to ask.

  “When?”

  “When it’s ajar.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lainey

  After six weeks, I’m still not used to bed rest. I don’t think it’s something you’re supposed to get used to.

  I have become accustomed to how hard it is—that’s not surprising anymore—the yearning to run and jump and dance is a constant hum, like background noise. That steady familiarity makes it seem like it’s a little bit easier.

  And then there’s the joy—that helps too. Every day that I stayed pregnant was a day closer to my baby being born healthy and strong. And now I’m just four little weeks away from the finish line—there’s a lot of joy in that.

  The nursery is almost done. I sit on the floor, propped against pillows, recording Erin as she arranges things at my direction. Dean painted this room—the cream walls and chocolate-brown accents. He bolted the bookshelves to the wall and set up the rocking chair and changing table just where I wanted them. He’s held off putting the crib together, so as not to jinx us. I’m not usually a superstitious person, but with our little guy or girl so eager to make an appearance, I figured staving off any bad luck where we could wouldn’t hurt.

  Erin hung a framed needle point that I stitched and some pretty black-and-white photos of the lake and the clouds on the wall. And I like that it’s my sister putting these final touches on when I can’t.

  “Those go on the top shelf,” I tell her.

  She gazes down at two white sock-bunnies. “You really made these—from socks?”

  “Yeah, it’s easy. I’ll text you the video.”

  She sets the furry friends on the shelf and then comes and sits beside me.

  “So how are you feeling?”

  “Like Jabba the Hut. No—like if Jabba the Hut and a whale had a baby—it would be me. That’s how I feel.”

  Erin laughs. “You’re a lot prettier than Jabba.”

  “Kind of a low bar, but thanks.”

  Our laughs die down and then, quietly, I tell her what’s really been on my mind.

  “I miss Dean.”

  “Miss him? You’re living with him, Lainey.”

  “I know.” I pick at the fibers of the dark beige throw rug. “But we haven’t been . . .”

  “Getting any? Giving any? Doing it?”

  I chuckle and point to my stomach. “Doing it isn’t an option for me. But no, I haven’t been with Dean like that since the Kelly thing, and I miss it. I miss him.”

  It’s a deep, yearning, painful need. I ache for him. To feel the way his muscles ripple beneath my touch, the way his fingers dig into my flesh because it feels so good and he just can’t help himself, the way he goes hot and hard in my hand, the way he groans my name.

  “I believe him, Erin. Even if he wasn’t doing all the things he’s been doing the last few weeks—I would still believe him. Because I trust him. I’ve trusted him with everything since the moment I met him. It just is. And I’m done being worried about if that makes me stupid.”

  “You could never be stupid.” Erin plays with my hair. “Trust yourself to trust him. And then tell him, and put the guy out of his misery.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Once Erin goes home, I’m on the couch in the living room with Jason. He’s watching TV and I’m planning tomorrow’s projects. I look over at him and I can’t not smile, because he’s growing up so good—strong and handsome and smart. And the move here to Lakeside and everything that’s come after has been wonderful for him—for both of us.

  And that’s when I know we need to have a conversation.

  “Can I talk to you a second?”

  He pauses the television. “Sure. What’s up?”

  I look at my son, and I give it to him straight—like the adult he almost is.

  “I love Dean, Jaybird. I’m in love with him.”

  Jason glances down at his hands and for the first time in his life, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I’m not sure if he even knows. The anger that was so prominent all those weeks ago has faded. And now what seems to remain is a cool, cautious, distrust.

  I cover Jason’s hand with mine, and his eyes rise back to my face.

  “There’s so much about Dean to love. He’s smart and funny and talented—and he’s good, and real, and he cares about us, Jay. You have to see that—he’s doing everything he can to show us, to take care of us . . . all of us. And I think you love him too, and that’s why it hurt so much when it seemed like he’d cheated. But I don’t think he did. I believe him, Jay—I believe that it happened like he said it did. And I think if you take a step back and let go of some of that hurt and really look at everything, you’ll believe it too.”

  I squeeze his hand. “I’m n
ot going to tell you what to do. You have every right to feel what you feel and think what you think. But I don’t want you to go through life afraid to trust yourself or someone else. Afraid to take a chance. I don’t want you to talk yourself out of taking the risk of letting yourself love someone, and of letting them love you.” My voice goes soft and a little choked. “Because love, Jay, real love—the kind of love that slams into you and holds on even when you don’t expect it—it’s so worth it. It’s worth everything.”

  Before he can say anything, the front doorbell rings. Jason goes to answer the door and a few moments later comes back with the last person I thought I’d ever see—it’s Kelly Simmons.

  Surprise, surprise.

  I’d looked up her picture on the school website, but she’s even prettier in person—perfect shape, flawless skin.

  “Hi.” She tucks a blond hair behind her ear and clears her throat. “I’ll make this quick. I don’t do nice. It’s not who I am. When I was younger, nice never got me anywhere, and now my students don’t need nice. They need someone who’s going to push them and fight for them, so that’s what I do.”

  Her eyes move between me and Jason and her voice is firm and distinct as she says, “Nothing happened between me and Dean, you need to know that. I kissed him when he wasn’t expecting it . . . and then he turned me down flat. I’m not telling you this to be nice, I’m telling you because it’s true.”

  Kelly folds her arms. “He’s a good friend and a good guy. Every woman in this town has suspected for a long time that if Dean Walker ever really fell for someone, he would be so much better than good—he’d be incredible at it. And he’s fallen for you—for both of you. If you can’t see that, you’re idiots. And you don’t deserve him.”

  She takes a deep breath, blowing it out as she shrugs. “That’s it—that’s all I came to say. I’m out.”

  And with that, Kelly Simmons turns around and walks out the door.

  ~ ~ ~

  It’s almost ten when Dean gets back from Grams’s. He stopped over to have dinner with her, do some maintenance around the house, make sure she can read all the bills clear enough to pay them.