Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)

Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)

Emma Chase

Chapter One



Sometimes life surprises you.

I never really understood that expression. I happen to think life surprises us all the time. Every day. In big ways and small ways—awful ways and beautiful ways.

For some—like my Great-Granny Annie—just waking up in the morning was a surprise. “The old ticker’s still tocking. Isn’t that nice?” she would say as she waddled out to breakfast behind her walker.

Until the day she didn’t waddle out to breakfast. Because Great-Granny Annie’s old ticker had ticked its last toc. And even that was surprising, in its own way.

Sometimes it’s the flower we spot growing through the sidewalk crack or the coffee spillage on our white shirt as we drive into work. It’s the awesome sunglasses we thought we’d lost that show up in last year’s coat pocket—or even better—the twenty bucks we didn’t know we had showing up in last week’s jeans. It’s the car accident, the lottery win, the call from an old friend, the Nickelback song we always secretly loved but haven’t heard in forever coming on the radio.

It’s all surprising—every moment. Life can be a bitch . . . but she’s never boring.

A few weeks ago, I got a big surprise. The chance for my life to take a completely unexpected turn—and today is the day I sealed the deal. Signed the papers. Set my feet walking in a whole new direction.

I’m a lifestyle blogger. I post videos about interior design, fashion, skincare. The title of my blog even has my name in it—Life with Lainey. And now my channel has been picked up by Facebook and contracted to do a weekly web series for the next year. It’s the biggest trend in social media entertainment and all the platforms are scooping up content providers, like me, and getting on board.

When I started blogging and posting videos a few years ago—it was a hobby—not a career path or anything I’d thought I could make money doing. But then, I started getting subscribers and followers—a lot of them. Next came advertisers and sponsors. And now, here I am, in this great bar down the Jersey shore with my sister and her boyfriend, celebrating this whole new chapter—this new unexpected adventure—in my life.

Surprise, surprise, surprise.

The best things in life always come along when we’re not looking for them.

“Oh. My. God. How hot is he?” the woman next to me says to her friend.

Speaking of the best things in life…

“Sooooo hot,” her friend sighs back.

They’re talking about the drummer on the stage a few feet away. I know they’re talking about him, because I’d bet my bottom dollar every woman in the bar—except my sister—is talking about him.

Despite the cheesy cover band name—Amber Sound—they’re actually really good. And their drummer is outstanding. He’s singing “She Talks to Angels” by the Black Crowes—singing and playing, which hardly any drummers do because it’s super hard.

But this guy’s a unicorn.

With great hands, a gorgeous mouth, sun-kissed hair and sculpted golden-tan arms that contract lusciously with every move he makes. His voice is warm and rough—like heated sand brushing slowly over your skin. And he’s got an aura around him—the cocky, vibrant kind—that sucks in every woman within a ten-foot radius, like a hot alien tractor beam.

“He’s looking this way!” the woman at the bar whisper-squeals. “He’s looking right over here.”

He is looking over here. Little excited sparks burst in my stomach—because the hot drummer guy has been looking over here a lot.

And I’m not the only one who’s noticed.

“All these do-me gazes between Lainey and the drummer are giving me a second-hand boner.”

My sister’s boyfriend, Jack O’Shay, has picked up on it too.

“You wanna get freaky in the bathroom, Erin? A blow job would be awesome right now.”

Jack has a unique, piggish kind of charm—it grows on you.

“Well, when you ask me like that, how can I resist?” The sarcasm is heavy in my sister’s voice. “You’re so romantic.”

“I know.” Jack grins, playing along. “But I’m storing up the big guns for after the wedding. You want the full Romantic Jack Experience, you need to let me slap a ring on it.”

Erin and Jack have lived together for the last three years. For about half that time, he’s been trying to get her to make an honest man of him. But before they hooked up, he was a dog—the man-ho kind—humping any leg that would let him. Although he’s been the epitome of domesticated devotion ever since, there’s a part of Erin that worries it’s the chase that’s keeping him around. That once she gives in, he’ll lose interest.

Complicating matters more is they work together. Jack is an investment banker at Evans, Reinhart and Fisher, and Erin is the executive assistant to Jack’s friend and the firm’s golden boy, Drew Evans.

I’ve met Drew—he’s a funny guy. Smart, successful . . . almost pathologically self-interested. He wasn’t happy when Jack and Erin’s one-night stand in Vegas didn’t stay in Vegas, but evolved into an actual relationship. Drew made it abundantly clear that should things between them go south—he’s getting custody of Erin.

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.


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

“I’m 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.


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.

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