Getting Played

“You guys are so weird.” Callie kisses her husband, then sweeps out the door.

I shake my head at Daniels. “You married a Whole Foodie, dude.”

“Yeah, I know.” Garrett tilts his head, looking out his office door, staring at his wife’s ass retreating down the hall—wearing the same goofy smile that’s been stuck on his face since the day Callie Carpenter came back into town. “Best damn thing I ever did.”

~ ~ ~

After checking out my classroom to make sure it’s good to go for the first day, I hop in my car and head home—giving a beep to Oliver Munson when I pass him on Main Street. Ollie’s a fixture around Lakeside. He suffered a brain injury as a kid and now spends his days hanging out on his front lawn, waving to cars and passersby. It’s not as sad as it sounds—Ollie’s happy and he’s cool—and the whole town thinks so.

I pull into the driveway of the Depression-era colonial on 2nd Street that I’ve called home my whole life. It’s old, almost all the houses in Lakeside are old—but I make sure I keep it up—the grass is cut, the roof is solid, and the white paint is clean and unchipped. I walk through the door, toss my keys on the front table—and go completely still.

Waiting. Listening.

For the sound of my prowling archnemesis.

I spot her head peeking around the living room wall—her eyes glowing like two yellow embers, her fur as black as a monster’s soul.

Lucy—or Lucifer for short—is the only pussy I’ve ever met that didn’t like me.

Grams found her a couple Octobers ago, and got duped by her meek meows and pitiful purrs. It’s been a War of the Roses between us ever since—with me doing everything I can to keep her away from my shit and her finding new and creative ways to get into my room so she can shred my pillows and piss in my shoes. And any time Grams isn’t looking, she tries to scratch a chunk out of my ass. The only thing she hasn’t messed with yet is the drum set downstairs in the basement I soundproofed myself. She knows that’s a red line for me—she lays one claw on those drums and it’s a one-way ticket straight to the dog park.

Lucy hisses, baring the double-barrel needles she’s got for teeth.

And I give her the finger—with both hands.

“Is that you, Dean?” a papery voice calls from upstairs.

“Yeah, Grams, I’m home.

I live with my grandmother—or more, these days, Grams lives with me. She raised me, which wasn’t always an easy thing to do, so I make sure she has it easy now. She’s shrunken and wrinkly—but as feisty as ever.

I keep one eye on Lucy and head into the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of orange juice.

“I was just on my way out,” Grams says, shuffling into the kitchen.

“Where are you headed?”

“To the senior center to work out.”

That’s when I notice her black leggings, T-shirt, the Jane Fonda-era leg warmers covering her calves and the tiny, half-pound, hot pink weights clenched in her aged hands.

“Work out?”

“Yes. That nice girl from Workout World is coming to show us how to lift some steel.”

I run my hand across my mouth—because Grams doesn’t appreciate being laughed at. And she may be pushing eighty, but she can still tug on a smartass’s ear like nobody’s business. And that shit hurts.

“You mean pump iron?”

“That too.” Her voice changes to a Hanz and Franz accent from the old Saturday Night Live skit, and she strikes a bodybuilder pose. “She’s gonna pump us up!”

Gram slowly leans over to tie her sneaker, but when it becomes a struggle for her to reach, I crouch down and do it for her.

“I have to keep my girlish figure,” she explains. “The Widower Anderson has been giving Delilah Peabody the eye.”

Lakeside has a very active senior center community—there’s drama, cliques, studs, mean-girls—it’s just like high school. But with pacemakers.

I straighten up. “You tell the Widower Anderson if he breaks your heart, I’ll kick his ass.”

The Widower Anderson is, like, a hundred years old.

“Or . . . steal his cane.”

Gram pats my cheek. “I will, Deany.”

A horn honks outside.

“Ooh! That’s the bus.” Gram picks up her weights and hobbles toward the door.

“I’m going to the store,” I call after her. “Do you need anything?”

“The list is on the fridge.”

I move to the fridge to grab the list, and as soon as the sound of the front door closing reaches the kitchen—Lucy comes out of nowhere—launching herself at my leg with a piercing screech I’ll hear in my nightmares.

But, like I said—I’m quick—so I hop away from the flesh-tearing claws before they can sink into my skin.

“Not today, Lucifer,” I taunt her from the back door. “Not today.”

~ ~ ~

The Stop & Shop at Lakeside can sometimes feel like a high school reunion. Or an impromptu back to school night. You run into students, parents of students, old classmates.

Tonight’s pretty quiet though, and I don’t see anyone, until I’m in the checkout line. When a familiar voice comes from behind me.

“Hey, Jackass.”

Debbie Christianson and I dated for a month our junior year of high school. She was super into me—until she caught me screwing around at the house party she threw while her parents were out of town. With her best friend. In her room. In her bed.

Did I say I was a player in high school? There were times when “prick” would be a more accurate description.

But, you live and learn and grow the hell up.

And it all worked out—after graduation, Debbie went to Rutgers, the same as me, and we ended up being really good friends. The kind without the benefits.

“Debs! How’s it going?” We hug, and I wiggle my finger at the blond toddler in Debbie’s arms. “Hey, pretty lady.”

“Good—we’re good. Wayne got a new job in the city, so I switched to part-time at Gunderson’s so I can have more time home with this one.” She bounces her daughter on her hip. “How about you? You ready for another year at Lakeside? I hear the football team is looking stellar.”

“Yeah.” I nod. “It’s gonna be a good . . .”

My voice trails off. Because something catches my eye at the customer service counter.

Someone.

It’s a woman, one I haven’t seen around town before. Nice legs, great ass, with long, golden spirals that cascade down her back—calling to me—like the ghost of summer’s past.

My hand literally twitches with the remembered feel of those satiny strands sliding through my fingers. And I take a step toward her—this weird, surging feeling filling up my chest.

But then she turns to the side. And I see her profile.

And the surging feeling freezes, cracks, and drops in pieces to the floor.

Because she’s not who I thought she was. Not who some crazy, ridiculous part of me that I don’t even recognize—was hoping she was.

Debs looks from me to the chick at the counter and back again.

“You okay, Dean?”

“Yeah.” I shake it off. “Yeah, it was just . . . it was a weird summer. But I’m all good—you know me.”

“Yeah.” Debbie nods slowly. “I do.”

In college, Debs used to joke that if I ever fell hard for a girl, it was going to be epic. Like watching one of those giant Redwoods in Washington State getting chopped down at the base. Timber! And she’d hoped she had a front-row seat when it happened.

The checkout girl gives me the total for the groceries, and I pay and put the bags in my cart. Then I turn back and give Debbie’s shoulder a squeeze.

“It was good seeing you. Take it easy, okay?”

“You too, Dean.” She waves her daughter’s hand at me, and the cute little girl grins. “We’ll see you around.”

I walk out the automatic sliding door, mentally bitch-slapping myself.

I gotta get this girl out of my head. It was one night. And sure it was a great night, mindblowing—screwing Lainey was like sunshine, and rainbows, and scoring an 80-yard game-winning touchdown—everything fucking is supposed to be.

But it’s not like I’m going to see her again.

I need to let it go. I need to get laid. Everybody knows the best way to get the big head straightened out is to get the little head some action—Confucius said something very similar.

I’ll swing by Chubby’s this weekend—it’s always a lock for a sure thing. Or, I can text Kelly. If her and her husband really are splitting up, hanging out could be just what the doctor ordered for both of us. Just like old times.

Chapter Three

Lainey

August

Even though it’s taken the contractors two months to make the house suitable for human occupancy, moving day creeps up and arrives fast. Early in the morning, when the sun is just peeking over the horizon, Jason and I drive down the long winding road of Miller Street to the end, and pull into the driveway of what will be our home for the next year.

The place is about three hundred years old and was boarded up for a few dozen decades. It’s a three-story colonial with a full wraparound porch. The aged red bricks are now covered with cheerful, butter-yellow siding, and the trim and shutters that frame the floor to ceiling windows have been painted in fresh, pristine white. I’m going for a warm and inviting nautical look, to complement the house’s lakeside location.