Getting Played - Emma Chase Page 0,3

each other.”

He toys with the label on the bottle and I notice his hands—big, strong hands—with clean, neat, nails at the end of long fingers that have just the right amount of girth. And I think about how those hands would feel on me, against my skin—everywhere.

Dean follows my eyes, maybe reads my mind. He takes my hand and opens my palm, lightly tracing my lifeline with the tip of his finger. A little sigh escapes my lips and my eyes close.

Then he taps gently on my hand, on my wrist, in a rhythm—a beat.

“Guess the song,” he says softly.

I open my eyes and he’s smiling. It’s a teasing, playful smile that makes my knees wobbly.

“Guess,” he coaxes, still tapping.

I close my eyes again, concentrating for a minute—and then it comes to me.

“‘Video Killed the Radio Star’!”

“You got it.” He laughs, nodding. “You’re good, Lainey.”

I don’t really have any experiences with one-night stands or meeting guys in a bar. During my prime pick-up years, I was too busy working the night shift at the 24-hour Mini-Mart, and taking care of a boisterous baby boy during the day.

I always imagined a random hook-up would feel sleazy or cheap and awkward. But this—whatever this night is or turns out to be—it feels good. Seamless. Fun.

And for me, that goes down as another wonderful surprise.

I slide my open hand toward him.

“Do it again.”

~ ~ ~

Another hour goes by and the bar is still hopping. The song “Sex and Candy” by Marcy Playground comes from the speakers—and I wonder if there’s a “Marcy” out there somewhere that their lead singer wanted to bump uglies with.

The conversation between me and Dean flows easy—we talk about everything and nothing at the same time.

“If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

He frowns—and even his frown is hot. Possibly hotter than his smile.

“Damn, that’s hard.”

I don’t relent.

“Life’s most crucial questions usually are.”

He tilts his head toward the ceiling, exposing the enticing swell of his Adam’s apple. And there’s something so deliciously manly about it—I want to lean over and lick it.

But then he dips his chin, blocking my move. “Tom Petty’s Greatest Hits.”

“That’s not a song—that’s a whole album.”

“That’s my answer.”

I poke the curve of his bicep—it’s like prodding a warm, sexy, rock.

“That’s cheating.”

“Then I’m a cheater.” He shrugs. “Screw it.”

Later, we delve into each other’s souls . . . kind of.

“Tell me something you hate,” Dean asks, before downing his shot.

“I hate commercials where you have no idea what they’re trying to sell you until the end.”

His head bobs in agreement. “They suck.”

“What about you?”

“I hate people who drive in convertibles with the top down and the windows up. Like dude . . . pick a side.”

And he says it in such a serious, adorable way, I crack up.

Dean watches me, staring at my mouth, his eyes deep-water blue and enraptured.

“That’s a great sound.” He leans in. Closer and closer.

“What sound?”

He takes a curl of my hair, brushing it between his fingers thoughtfully. “Your laugh. It’s a beautiful laugh, Lainey.”

“Thanks,” I say softly. “I work really hard on it every day.”

His lips stretch into a full, chuckling smile. Then he grabs the bottle of vodka on the bar, tosses down a few bills and tilts his head toward the door.

“You want to get out of here?”

And I don’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

~ ~ ~

We shuffle across the back parking lot of the bar—holding hands, taking swigs from the bottle and giggling. Because alcohol is a time machine—it makes you young and silly.

Dean leads me up the steps to an apartment above a detached garage. “This is where we stay when we play at the Beachside Bar. But these days, Jimmy and the guys get hotel rooms with the wives and kids, so it’s just you and me tonight.”

He flicks on the lights revealing a small living room with a couch and television, and a tiny kitchen. It’s sparse, and void of any real personality, but it’s clean.

I follow him through the set of French doors that lead out to a balcony, with two cushioned lounge chairs and a hot tub that overlooks a dark, wooded lot.

I nod, smiling. “Nice.”

“I’m going to take a quick shower. You good here?”

I give him two thumbs-up. “I’m good.”

Dean takes out his phone, fiddles with the buttons and sets it on the table, leaving Amos Lee to sing “Wait Up For Me,” as he goes inside. And I soak it all in—the warm breeze,