Getting Played (Getting Some 2)

“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.