Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(67)

“How about chocolates?” Peter Duval suggests.

I shake my head. “Pathetic.”

“Belgian chocolates? Teddy Bears?” he adds.

“Still amateur.”

Across the table, Merkle smiles smugly at me.

“I always knew this day would come.”

“All right, Wonder Woman—I’m asking. How do I make up for all those years that I messed with self-esteem and damaged trust? How do I apologize for something like that?”

She flicks me on the side of the head.

“You just say you’re sorry. Say you’re sorry and mean it. That’s all any of those women will need from you. Tell them you were a selfish little shithead.”

“I was.” I nod.

“And you couldn’t see past the end of your own dick.”

“Jesus, it’s like you’re in my brain right now.”

“I know men.” She shrugs.

Jerry wiggles his eyebrows and nods. “She knows us well.”

I move my finger between them. “I finally get you two now.”

Then I go back to working on my list.



~



At the end of the third week of bedrest, Lainey hits a rough patch. The house is coming along and she seemed okay earlier today when she recorded me putting bookshelves together for the nursery.

But later, when I come out of the shower and slip on a pair of briefs and get into bed—she’s quiet. Sad. Not like herself.

I bet she’s sexually frustrated—I know I would be. Hell, I’m jerking off at least twice a day and I’m still sexually frustrated.

Beside some G-rated cuddling and kissing, things haven’t been real physical between us. She’s banned from any orgasm action, so while a guy can dream, I don’t expect her to help me out in that department. That’s why God gave me a hand. Two, actually, because he really wanted us to use them.

“Hey.” I wiggle her leg. “How are you doing?”

Her voice is listless. “I’m fine.”

“You wanna watch TV?”

“No.”

“Wanna . . . play cards? I’m up for strip poker if you are.”

“No, thanks.” She sighs.

“You want me to play you a song?”

Lainey likes it when I play the drums for her, sing for her—the other night I sang and played the soft beat of “Wonderful Tonight” by Eric Clapton for her. The baby likes the drums too—the little guy or girl in there kicks and stretches when I play, and they get really crazy when I slam out a long, loud solo—so I suspect we may have a future metal-head on our hands here.

Lainey shakes her head, and pushes her hands into her hair, tugging.

“I want to get up, Dean. I can’t stand this—I’m going crazy! I want to move, run, skip—God I miss skipping! Why didn’t I skip more when I had the chance?”

And she looks so cute and miserable, a laugh rumbles in my chest, but I keep it locked down.

“I’m so tired of laying here, and I know that doesn’t make sense. I’m just . . . so bored I could cry.”

I could think of a few ways to keep her occupied. For hours and hours. But—nope—banned, banned, banned.

She needs a distraction. Something she’s not expecting. Spontaneous.

A surprise.

Out of nowhere, I ask, “Why doesn’t anyone play poker in the jungle?”

Lainey looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “What?”

“You heard me—why doesn’t anyone play poker in the jungle?”

“Why?”

“Too many cheetahs.”

She looks deeply confused, but less dejected than she did a minute ago, so I push on.

“How did Darth Vader know what Luke got him for Christmas?”

“How?” Lainey asks hesitantly.

“He felt his presents.”

Her pretty, pouty mouth twitches. We’re getting warmer.

“What’s the difference between a tire and 365 used condoms?” I ask.

A genuine smiles spreads across her lips. “What?”

“One’s a Goodyear. The other’s a great year.”

And that gets a laugh out of her. That beautiful fucking laugh—definitely my favorite sound.

“Want more? I can do this all night. I can do lots of things all night.”

She cuddles in close, resting her head on my chest, and, thankfully, it seems like the great skipping craving has passed.

“Okay.”

“What do you call a herd of cows masturbating?”

“What?”

“Beef strokin’ off.”

Lainey groans, laughing, because that was pretty bad.

“Let me try one,” she says.

I nod. “Go for it. Hit me.”

“Why shouldn’t you write with a broken pencil?”

“Why?”

“Because it’s pointless.”

I chuckle, running my fingers through the silken curls of her hair. And that’s what we do, the rest of the night—crack each other up with terrible jokes. It’s silly and stupid and by the time we turn off the lights to go to sleep, it’s a night I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

In the dark of the bedroom, Lainey’s whispered voice finds me.