Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(12)

They broke up when she went away to college, then picked up right where they left off when she blew back to town a few years ago. They’re married now and didn’t waste any time on the procreation front. They have an awesome eighteen-month-old son, Will, who thinks I’m the shit and Baby D number two is already on the way.

Garrett looks up from the papers on his desk. “What do you think, Cal? Can you fit Rockstetter into one of your classes?”

Callie worked for a theater company in the years she lived in San Diego—and now she’s the theater teacher at Lakeside.

“What are you saying? That theater isn’t a real class?” She crosses her arms—a classic female warning sign. The equivalent of a dog showing its teeth, right before it bites you on the ass.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You think it’s an easy A?”

Garrett hesitates. Like any guy who doesn’t want to lie to his wife, but knows if he tells the truth it could be days before he gets another blow job. Possibly weeks.

“Maaaaybe?”

“My class is demanding. It pushes emotional and intellectual boundaries. It gets the kids out of their comfort zone.”

“Of course it does.” Garrett nods. “But . . .”

It’s the “but” that gets us in trouble. Every fucking time.

“. . . they’re just singing and jumping around on a stage. It’s not rocket science.”

“Tossing a ball around on a field isn’t rocket science either.”

“Wait, wait, hold up—what do you mean, ‘tossing a ball’?” He puts his hand over his heart, like he’s trying to keep it from breaking. “Is that what you think I do?”

Callie rolls her eyes. “No, Garrett. I think you are master of gravity and propulsion.”

“Thank you.”

“And your arm is a lethal, precise weapon of victory.”

“Okay, then.” Garrett grins. “Glad we got that straightened out. You had me worried, babe.”

Callie hops off the desk. “I’ll talk to McCarthy. We can put Rockstetter in my fourth period theater class—but he’s got to do the plays. I always need more guys on stage.”

I lift my hand. “And I’ll set him up with some nice, patient, tutors.”

Callie nods, then says to Garrett, “I’m going to head out, pick up Will from your parents and stop at Whole Foods to grab something for dinner.”

“You shop at Whole Foods?” I ask, grinning.

“Yeah, all the time.”

You can tell a lot about a person from where they do their grocery shopping. You got your basic, no-nonsense, working-class grocery-shoppers—teachers, cops, anyone who comes home from work dirtier than when they left. They stick with ShopRite, Krogers, Acme, maybe a Foodtown. Then you got your Wegmenites and Trader Joe-goers—housewives, yoga-class takers, nannies and their whiney charges. And finally, there’s the Whole Foodies. We’re talking hard-core high-maintenance—the vegans, the gluten-frees, artists, people with life coaches and personal trainers, and apparently . . . the Callies.

Garrett pinches the bridge of his nose, ’cause he knows he’s about to get ragged on.

“Do you guys, like, make goo-goo eyes at each other over an organic quinoa avocado salad at the café?” I ask.

Callie’s brow furrows. “Sometimes. Why?”

I look down at my best friend. “That’s adorable, D. Why didn’t you tell me you were a Kombucha-man? Now I know what to get you for your birthday.”

Garrett flips me off.

“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.