Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(13)

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.”