Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(36)

I always saw myself as more of the fun uncle type of guy, who’d send Garrett’s kids birthday cards full of cash and who’d eventually retire to Florida with a rotating harem of girlfriends half my age.

As far as life plans go, that was the extent of mine. Children, a wife, a family—they were never part of the picture.

“I mean, really, could you see me raising a kid?”

Garrett looks me dead in the face, his brown eyes dark and serious.

“Definitely.”

Connor—who’s opinion I’ve always respected, agrees.

“Absolutely.”

“For real?” I ask.

“Hell, yeah,” Connor says. “I’ve seen you with Will—you’re good with him.”

I jerk my thumb toward Garrett. “Will is his. I can give him back.”

Garrett shakes his head. “But when they’re yours, you don’t want to give them back. Everything they do is amazing. They take a shit and it’s like a miracle.”

Timmy grimaces. “That’s gross, Gar.”

“And yet, still true.” Garrett takes a drink from his beer, looking at me. “You’re great with your students.”

I wave him off. “They’re teenagers.”

“Teenagers and babies aren’t so different. Most of the time, the babies are easier to reason with.”

Connor points at his brother. “This is a fact.”

Connor’s youngest son, seven-year-old Spencer, calls up to his father to come skip rocks with them. Connor got divorced about two years ago—he only gets the boys every other weekend, so when they’re with him—he makes damn sure he’s with them too. He puts his bottle on the table and heads down the steps to the dock.

“There is the baby-momma perk,” Tim throws out thoughtfully. “That shouldn’t be discounted.”

Garrett shakes his head at his youngest brother. “Please don’t frigging help.”

Still I ask, “What’s the baby-momma perk?”

Tim leans forward. “I’m assuming this Lainey chick is good-looking?”

“Gorgeous.” I confirm.

“Well, she’s going to need someone to bang her during the next nine months. It’s not like pregnant girls are big on trolling for hookups, so that duty will more than likely fall on your dick. We’re talking unlimited, easy access booty calls—condom-free—it’s not like you can knock her up twice.”

That is an excellent point. I’m shocked I didn’t think of it myself.

I’ve been dreaming of getting back inside Lainey for months. And now she’s here. Available, eager—I saw the way her eyes roamed over me on conference night and at lunch today—the way her pupils dilated and her nipples hardened. I know when a woman is interested in me, and Lainey is definitely up for a repeat of the summer. Probably several repeats.

I picture how she’ll look a few months from now—her breasts fuller, her stomach rounder and heavier—and yep, it feels slightly wrong, but it’s even more of a turn on.

Tim’s phone rings and he glances at the screen, wiggling his eyebrows. “Speaking of booty calls.” He heads up the steps toward the house as he answers, “Hey, baby,” leaving Garrett and I alone on the deck.

I look out across the lake and take a long drag on my beer.

“I’m just not sure if I can do this, D,” I tell him softly. “What the fuck do I know about being anyone’s dad? I don’t know if I have it in me, you know?”

Garrett nods slowly.

“Yeah, I get that. I really do.”

Even back in high school, Garrett always had his shit together. He was the quarterback—steady, solid, consistent—and I was the risk-taking wide receiver who liked to push the limits and go for the big plays. It’s why we made a good team, why we still do. I could kick his ass on an IQ test, but between the two of us—he’s the wise one.

“But the question you have to ask yourself, Dean, is a year from now . . . five, ten, fifteen years from now—how are you ever going to look at yourself in the mirror again, if you don’t do it?”



~



The next afternoon, I’m in the living room, pulling old dusty photo albums out of Gram’s antique bureau. Looking at pictures I haven’t even thought about, let alone seen, in decades.

There’s a Polaroid of my mother on the day I was born, propped up on pillows, holding me wrapped in a light blue blanket—looking like the baby-faced, dark-haired, sixteen year old girl she was when she had me.

Afterward she dropped out of high school, got her GED, then left me with Grams and took off when I was three. She bounced around the country for a while—I only saw her a handful of times—before she finally settled in Vegas about ten years ago.

I turn the page and it’s the standard toddler fare of messy highchair eating and bare-assed bathtub shots. A few pages after that is a picture of me on my first day of kindergarten. I remember Grams taking this one—next to the tree outside Lakeside Elementary. I grin with a gap-toothed smile, and square glasses and a white button down shirt with a Superman backpack slung across my shoulder.

I was a handsome, nerdy little bastard.

Grams shuffles into the living room, holding Lucy in her arms, rubbing a towel on the beast’s damp black fur. On a good day, the cat hates the world, but on bath days she’s especially vengeful. Grams sits on the couch beside me, and Lucy does a little shimmy in her lap. Then she turns around, lifts her tail and shows me her asshole before flouncing away.