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

He tried to put that in writing a few months ago.

The sounds of my sister and Jack debating the romance quotient of a bar-bathroom blow job fades into the background.

Because the drummer is looking at me again.

And I’m looking back—watching him, watch me. His gaze moves from the spiral curls of my honey-blond hair to my shoulders, lingering at my cream bo-ho knit tank-top, before dragging down over my light blue ripped jeans.

Then the corner of his mouth hooks into a sexy, suggestive, grin.

And my vaginal muscles clamp down in a needy clench that would make Dr. Kegel stand up and cheer.

I take a long sip of my drink, fanning myself—’cause Nelly knew what he was talking about—it’s getting hot in here.

A moment later, the lead singer—a dark-haired guy in a leather jacket—thanks everyone for coming out, wishing us all a good night. I watch as the drummer stands up from his kit, talks to his bandmates for a minute—slapping hands and laughing. And then he’s turning, stepping off the stage in loose, easy strides.

Walking straight to me.

And it feels just like an 80s movie—the swoony scene that always comes at the end—when the former plain-Jane-turned-prom-queen finally gets the guy.

“Hi.”

He’s even better-looking up close—his eyes are cerulean with flecks of green and gold. Ocean-blue eyes.

“I’m Dean.”

Dean.

It’s a good name. A player’s name—a hot guy’s name. It fits him.

I feel myself smile, a little giddily, a lot turned on.

“Hi. I’m—”

“Beautiful.” He says it intensely. Like he means it. “You’re really fucking beautiful.”

And just like that I’m a puddle on the floor. Sold. Gone. Done.

His.

It’s not that I’m easy—it’s that Dean, the ocean-eyed drummer, is just that good.

He glances at the almost empty glass in my hand. “What are you drinking?”

“Vodka and sprite.”

“Can I get you another one?”

I forgot about lust. I forgot the power of it—the pulsing, pulling, palpable connection that springs up between two people who are instantly attracted to each other. I forgot the excitement and fun of it. My heart pounds and my palms tingle, and for the first time in a long time, I feel reckless and young.

I feel alive.

“Sure. Another one would be great.”



~



Introductions are made and the four of us hang out for a while, chatting the way strangers in a bar do.

Then, expectedly, my sister yawns and announces, “We’re gonna head home.”

I glance at my phone. “You made it until eleven o’clock. That’s a new record.”

They’re not known for their late-night partying, even on a Saturday night.

“I blame myself.” Jack rubs the back of his red-haired head wearily. “All those years of ragging on Steven about being a homebody little bitch have come back to bite me on the ass.”

I glance up at Dean, and he gazes warmly back with an invitation in his eyes.

“I’ll hang here a while,” I tell Erin and Jack. “I’ll get an Uber home later.”

“Of course you will,” Jack says. “It’s like blue balls—if you don’t get some after all the eye-fucking you two have been doing, you’ll give yourself a migraine.”

Erin covers her forehead with her hand. “Jack—stop talking about eye-fucking. You’re embarrassing my sister.”

Jack snorts. “What’s embarrassing? Eye-fucking is a tried-and-true hook-up tool. It’s how you reeled me in.”

“I reeled you in by pretending like I wasn’t interested.” Erin smirks, lifting her chin and tucking her blond hair behind her ear. “Classic Jedi Mind Trick.”

Jack lifts an eyebrow. “Or maybe, I took your Jedi Mind Trick and Inceptionated that shit by pretending I was only interested because you weren’t interested—when really . . . I was interested all along.”

Erin blinks.

We all blink.

“Did you?” she asks.

He smiles smoothly. “Marry me and I’ll tell you on the honeymoon.”

Erin shakes her head and laughs. Then she turns toward me.

“Do you have your TigerLady?”

A TigerLady is a self-defense device. It fits in your fist, with sharp little spikes sticking out between the knuckles to do serious damage to any dumbass, would-be assailant who wants to get touchy-feely. Erin bought it for me for my thirty-fourth birthday. She’s only eleven months older, but she takes her big-sister role very seriously.

“Of course.” I tap the Louis Vuitton backpack that I found at a yard sale last summer and bought for a tiny fraction of the retail price.

Erin looks at Dean. “No offense, you seem nice and all—but Ted Bundy seemed like a nice guy too.”

He holds up his hands, his expression laidback and amused.

“None taken. Ted Bundy ruined it for all of us.”

Jack steps up closer to Dean, chest out, eyes hard. He points from his forehead to Dean’s face. “Photographic memory, dude.” He tilts his head toward me. “Anything happens tonight that she’s not okay with, I will hunt you down, find you, and literally nail your dick to the wall.”