Getting Played

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.