Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(14)
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.
We step out of the pickup truck and Jay and I stand beside each other—taking it all in. There’s an early morning mist drifting off the lake, surrounding the house. The air is silent and a lonely goose drops down from the sky, making a soft ripple on the still water as it touches down.
“So? What do you think?”
Jason glances around, his hazel eyes surveying. “I think it looks like the set of a horror movie.”
In retrospect, letting Jay watch the Friday the 13th slasher film marathon when he was nine was not the wisest mom-call I’ve ever made.
And now that he’s said it—I admit, there is a bit of a Camp Crystal Lake vibe to the property. Plus the dock in the back, as well as the round window on the top attic floor are straight out of Amityville Horror.
“There’s a lot of trees,” Jaybird notices.
Bayonne has an urban landscape, more city than town—and while Lakeside is only a two-hour drive away, it could be a whole other, countrified world.
“Trees are good. You’ll get used to it.” I jiggle the house keys. “Let’s check out the inside and bring this stuff in. I want to set up and record before everyone else gets here.”
When I duck back in to grab a box from the backseat, a wave of nausea washes through me.
I’ve been drinking too much coffee lately and my stomach isn’t happy about it. I take a bottle of ginger oil from the center console and sniff it, then sprinkle a drop on my tongue to settle my stomach. Essential oils are a gift from the gods.
Jason and I plop our boxes in the foyer and give ourselves the tour. It’s a stunning home, with gleaming refinished hardwood floors, an open floor plan and tons of beautiful, natural light. Except for the top-of-the-line appliances in the kitchen, the space is devoid of any furniture—that was the deal. I’ll be designing each room, adding every perfect piece myself. Some will be donated by advertisers in return for product placement—but to make the looks realistically attainable for my viewers, I plan on finding most of the furniture on my yard sale excursions, off Craiglist, or building them from the ground up.
The molding in the house is original, and the sheet-rocked walls new, bare and eggshell-white—totally blank canvases just waiting for me to bring them to life.
I’m Dr. Frankenstein—but prettier—and this house is going to be my monster.
On our way up the curved oak staircase to the second floor, Jason says, “Oh—I balanced the checkbook last night.”
“I told you, you don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “I just like doing it.”
Jason is like an old man in a fourteen-year-old’s body. I used to worry it was because my parents had such a big hand in raising him—but now I understand, he’s just an old soul.
“The first payment came in from Facebook,” he adds. “It’s a nice chunk of change. We should put it into a money market fund, diversify our portfolio—maybe open a 529 for me for college? I’ll do some research.”
And he’s smart—really smart. I don’t know where he gets it from. I did okay in school, but for Jason, academics are his thing. His innate talent.