Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(61)

“She kissed me!”

Lainey’s eyes dart between mine, and then she laughs—and now she sounds bitter too.

“Do you hear yourself? Are you serious right now?”

I step closer, standing over her. “It’s the truth. You want to hear another truth? You’re just scared. That’s what all this is about.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Bullshit! You’re so scared you can’t see straight. So you go through life, telling yourself you’re easygoing and a free spirit and it’s fine—everything’s fucking fine. I want to walk away, I don’t want to be in the baby’s life—that’s fine. I’m screwing around on you, you can’t trust me—that’s fine too—we’ll just be friends. And it’s all because you’re too fucking scared to take a chance. Jesus, Lainey—you’ll pull an ugly, broken table out of the garbage because you can see how beautiful it could be . . . but you’re so goddamn eager to throw us away. And it’s because you’ve convinced yourself it won’t hurt if you’re the one who walks away first.”

I move forward, lean in toward her, close enough I can feel her panting breath against my throat. And my voice turns aching and desperate.

“But I’m not going anywhere. I’m not walking away from you, ever—why can’t you see that? I’m a chance worth taking, I swear to God.”

When I open my eyes and look down at her, her skin is bleach-white and she’s stone-still—like she’s about to pass out.

“Lainey?”

I brace my hands on her hips.

“What’s wrong?”

She takes a step back, holding her stomach with one hand and lifting the hem of her floral maternity dress with the other—high enough to expose her thighs.

“Dean?”

And my heart, my stomach, my whole being plummets. Because she’s bleeding.





Chapter Fifteen


Dean




There’s a special kind of hell when your child is hurt or in danger—even if they’re not born yet. I didn’t know that, didn’t understand it—one of the many things I didn’t know until I met Lainey Burrows.

But I know it now.

There’s a four-alarm fire burning in my brain as I get Lainey in my car and tell her sisters I’m not waiting for an ambulance, that it’ll be faster to take her to Lakeside Memorial myself.

I’m not panicking. That won’t do dick. Lainey needs me to step up—help her, save her . . . help our baby. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Garrett’s brother, Connor, is a doctor in the ER and I ask for him when they take us in. They whisk us into a curtained area, get her in a gown and take her vitals, a nurse hooks her up to a monitor that measures contractions, and another runs a Doppler, which detects the fetal heart rate, across her abdomen.

The strong, steady, swooshing sound that fills the room calms me more than I ever thought any sound could. A few minutes later, Connor Daniels walks into the room in full-out doctor mode—white coat, solid demeanor, warm and confident.

He meets my eyes. “How’s it going, Dean?”

I swallow hard. “I’ve been better.”

He gives me a nod that says he understands. Then he turns to Lainey.

“Hi, Lainey, I’m Dr. Daniels.”

She smiles weakly, her face streaked with quiet tears.

“You’re Garrett’s brother.”

“His older, smarter, better-looking brother, yeah.”

The smile that rises on Lainey’s lips is less forced.

“You have the same eyes.”

Connor glances down at Lainey’s swollen abdomen.

“So it seems this one is already giving you trouble, huh? Have you been having contractions?”

“Um, yes, there’s been pressure. I thought I was just sore—” she looks at me, like she thinks she owes me an explanation “—from working around the house. Muscle spasms. But now, yeah, they were contractions.”

Connor nods. “I’m going to take a look—see what’s going on, okay?”

“Okay,” Lainey answers, looking scared out of her mind.

I take her hand in mine, holding it tight.

Connor sits on a stool and a young dark-haired nurse in glasses gives him a pair of latex gloves, then spreads gel on his fingers.

And maybe it should feel weird that the guy who’s like a brother to me has his hands between my girl’s legs—but it doesn’t, not even a little. There’s no one else in the world I’d rather have taking care of Lainey and our kid.

Lainey flinches as he examines her.

“Sorry,” he says in a kind voice.

Lainey shakes her head. “It’s okay.”

“How many weeks along are you?”

“Um . . . twenty-five. It’s early.” And then she starts to lose it—her eyes swell with tears and her face crumples. “Dean, it’s really early.”

I brush back her hair, and make a promise I know I can’t keep—but I do it anyway. “It’s going to be okay, Lainey. The baby’s going to be fine, I swear.”

Connor stands and removes the gloves, then moves to the sink to wash his hands.