Claiming His Labor Day

by Pratt, Lulu

  “So, uh, you’re in,” she said, shifting from side to side, looking uncomfortable beneath my penetrating stare, her own chocolate brown eyes directed to the ground.

  “How’s Jolie and my nephew?” I blurted out before she could make an excuse and leave.

  Shit. I shouldn’t have asked. I knew that it was wrong of me, that I’d struggled the whole conversation to keep the question to myself.

  Fiona met my gaze once more — a challenge. “Please don’t drag me into your beef,” she said quietly. “I always thought it was silly.”

  “I just wanna know how she is.”

  “She’s good. Travis is good,” Fiona allowed through a clenched jaw. Then she relaxed a fraction of an inch and pleaded, “Jagger, why don’t you reach out and talk to her? Not that it’s my business but… hasn’t it been long enough?”

  “You wouldn’t get it, Fiona.”

  “Of course I would! Who else knows this fight better than I do? It’s been years, Jagger. You’re both adults now. Hell, you’re a soldier. Get over your pride and make things right.”

  It was my turn to look away from her piercing stare — that expression told me that she saw way too much of me, more than I wanted anyone to see. It was unnerving, being so known by somebody who wasn’t in my squadron. My fellow Marines, they knew everything about me, even the hard stuff. But a civilian? I couldn’t stand up beneath Fiona’s steady gaze.

  “Never mind,” I said at last, hoping to put the subject to bed. “It was wrong of me to ask. You’re not our family intermediary or anything.”

  “I want to help—”

  “I know,” I replied, cutting her off with a wane smile. “But I think things are too far gone between me and Jolie. She’s gonna be pissed enough to see me at the football game.”

  “You didn’t tell her?”

  “Fiona, we don’t speak. You know that.”

  “It’s just… I thought you would tell her something like that.”

  I shook my head. “Radio silence.”

  “Shit.”

  “Enough about Jolie and me. You’re running the alumni game. That’s incredible. I’m so happy for you.”

  “Thanks, Jagger.”

  “And I can’t wait to play under you tomorrow.”

  “Under me?” she queried with the slightest raise of her eyebrow.

  Fuck, she really did have a dirty brain. When had that happened? I’d been gone too long.

  Picking up her inflection, I returned, “I could also play on top of you, if you’d prefer. Or even behind you.” I moved in just a little, tilting my head down to maintain eye contact. “Would you like that?”

  We were close enough now that I could feel Fiona’s warm, shallow breath on my face, coming in uneven gasps. For a moment, her face moved in, drawn as if on a tethered string. My chest rose and fell as I prepared myself for her touch, my eyelids lowering.

  But then she stopped suddenly and pulled back.

  “I’m Jolie’s best friend,” she said more to herself than me, and without further explanation, continued, “I’ve gotta go.”

  She turned on the short heel of bright blue flats and began to walk the opposite direction.

  “When am I gonna see you again?” I hollered.

  Twisting over her shoulder, she replied, “Last practice, tomorrow morning, six sharp. Meet here.”

  “You’ve gotta—”

  But before I could say deal, she was halfway down the field, practically jogging away from me.

  Well, damn.

  “Little Fiona grew up,” I muttered to myself.

  And what was I prepared to do about it?

  CHAPTER 3

  Fiona

  BY THE TIME I rounded the exit and entered the parking lot, I was nearly running, my skirt flapping around my thighs as I hastened to my car.

  Not until I was inside, the door securely locked, did I lean my head back against the seat and rest my arms on the steering wheel, willing them to stop buzzing with nerves.

  Jagger was back.

  Could it really be? Five years, no contact with a single person here and just like that, he was back? It seemed too good to be true, as though my earlier mention of him had conjured his presence from thin air.

  After all these years, he still had it. It would’ve been easier, had he returned with a beer belly and yellowed eyes. But nope, Jagger remained the hottest man in Little Lane, maybe in the entire Northern Highland area. And that was even when he wasn’t here, which was quite the feat — it’s hard to be the hottest person in a place where you don’t reside. That takes skill.

  I started the car and cranked the radio up on the station that played almost exclusively music from the ’80s.

  It wasn’t fair. You should be able to age out of high-school crushes, like the older you get, the more potency they lose. Seeing Jagger, though, made me feel sixteen again, helpless and totally, swooningly in love. Hell, there was even a moistness between my thighs that came so thick and fast it rocketed me right back to being on the bus home from school and feeling my center pulse with energy at every bump in the road.

  In high school, Jagger was my number-one crush. And, if I was being honest, I still thought about him every now and then, when I was home alone, finished with grading papers, my skin still warm from the shower. But those thoughts were never more than that — just thoughts. In school, Jolie had suspected I had a crush on him, often teasing me about it. As she grew older, though, and their relationship fractured, the taunts had subsided. There was nobody to talk to about my feelings, even in jest. So slowly, I forgot about them.

  That was, until about five minutes ago.

  Now, I was right back where I’d started — hot and bothered.

  “Don’t do this, don’t do this,” I murmured to myself, lifting my crotch up from the seat so that I couldn’t feel the welcome pressure against me.

  Here’s the thing — Jolie and Jagger hadn’t spoken since their parents’ divorce in our senior year of high school. That wasn’t uncommon in a place like Little Lane — the timing of the divorce, that is. Most everybody waited until their kids were out of the house to get divorced, rightly figuring that it would be hard to survive on a single parent’s salary in a town where the average income was thirty-two thousand dollars a year. Feeding hungry mouths was expensive. It had become such a known local phenomenon that people often called senior year the “Separation Year.”

  It had hit Jolie and Jagger hard, though. Their family was tightknit, not plagued by the obvious early signs of an impending separation the way so many families were. They seemed like they might make it through the long haul.

  All I knew about the reasons behind the divorce had been complicated. Even Jolie and Jagger hardly understood what happened.

  So how did they pick sides so firmly? I wondered.

  In the aftermath, Jolie had chosen their mother, while Jagger chose their father. For my part, I couldn’t understand making such a hard and fast decision without more evidence. Maybe that was just the debate coach in me. Perhaps something like “choosing sides” in a family battle comes down to nothing more than pure instinct and complicated, messy love.

  In any case, after Jagger chose their father, he was as good as dead to Jolie. She barely even blinked when he announced that he was going into the Marines. She hadn’t even been there to see him off. Unbeknownst to her, I’d snuck into the airport that morning, submerged in a crowd of Little Laners jumping and clapping around me, shouting well wishes to the high-school quarterback made good. Crushed beneath their towering bodies, I blew him a kiss that I knew he never saw.

  The subject of Jagger had pretty much been taboo ever since. Jolie would mention him now and then — stories from their childhood or to make fun of me, mostly — but even then, he seemed an abstracted concept to her, a cut-out figure in a showboat play, just made to move around the stage on a stick figure stand. It was like she was disassociating from him as being a real, tangible part of her life — her brother. W
e hadn’t had a serious conversation about him since high school. I hadn’t wanted to reopen old wounds. No family is perfect, but to stop talking to your dad and your twin brother was a subject to treat around carefully.

  Which is to say, she certainly hadn’t mentioned how hot he’d remained. Because I know for damn sure I would’ve remembered that.

  I felt trapped beneath by the heat emanating from the lower half of my body, threatening to consume my afternoon. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, reminding myself that, thank God, I had errands to run. That should keep me distracted from the way his arms swallowed his T-shirt whole, how it had been so tight I could almost make out the outline of his abs.

  Errands. Good. Those would be safe.

  I started the car and sped off to the sports supply store.

  By that night, I was exhausted from a day of errands, phone calls, emails and every other form of digital communication. My voice was hoarse from the sheer volume of speaking I’d done — my fingers sore from the amount of texts.

  It was with weary, grateful legs that I traipsed into my house and, at last, collapsed on my fresh sheets. Well, it had been a bitch, but it was done. Everything was set for the big game tomorrow afternoon — the scoreboard, the jerseys, the balls.

  Oh, crap. My uselessly aroused mind snapped back at the thought of balls. Specifically, Jagger’s came to mind.

  I’d cleverly managed to avoid any consideration of him over the rest of the day, instead packing my mind to the brim with tiny tasks and details. I even picked up other people’s responsibilities in a desperate bid for distraction, for fuck’s sake.

  But now, alone in my bedroom, I was alone and horny as hell.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I rolled onto my stomach and ground my crotch into the mattress, something I hadn’t done since my youth. As an adult woman, I had an adult vibrator. The old feeling, combined with the presence of an old flame, immediately lit a fire in my womanhood — I thrust my hips against the mattress, dry-humping its firm surface.

  To my surprise, my muscles began to clench in that familiar orgasmic feeling. Could it be happening so fast?

  Yes. Yes, it was.

  Within two minutes I came with a loud grunt, no artifice about it, clenching my fingers in my linen sheets, before rolling over onto my back and out of the area dampened by my sweat.

  God, that orgasm felt like it used to when I was younger — new, exciting, unexpected. Like every twist of my body was a discovery, like it started in my toes and went all the way to my throat.

  Could the mere sight of Jagger really bring out so much in me? Had he dug out a part that I thought was so long gone?

  This was too complicated, and I was too tired. I leaned back against the pillow, intending to rest for just a moment before my shower.

  I woke up eight hours later to the sun beaming through my window.

  Dammit! Thank God for my internal teacher clock, the one that forced me up at five-thirty every morning or I would’ve been late to the very practice I’d called. As it was, I raced around the room, after my shower, flinging on a pair of sweats, tying my hair back into a loose ponytail and grabbing the remainder of yesterday’s iced coffee from the fridge.

  If I’d woken up, say, five minutes earlier, I’d have had time to put on some makeup and get myself presentable. Normally, I wouldn’t consider myself much of a face paint girl — just the basics was enough for me. But since a certain someone was back in town, yeah, a little mascara didn’t sound bad.

  Ugh, but even thinking that was a problem, even considering what would and would not appeal to Jagger was a dangerous path to walk.

  In high school, besides being known for my stellar grades and my touch of kiss-ass-iness, my closer friends knew me for falling, and falling hard, for guys. Really classic symptoms — doodling our names together in the edges of my notebooks, swooning at them from across the hall, trying to land on them in games of M-A-S-H. It was textbook, but fairly chronic. Though thankfully, I missed the boy-toy celebrity craze, thereby dodging a lust for Justin Bieber.

  But maybe that would’ve been more gratifying — it feels better not winning over a man you didn’t have a chance with in the first place.

  By two minutes to six, I was on the field. My house was two blocks from school, and when I drove fast, I got there in 46 seconds flat — Jolie and I timed it once. All around me, boys — men, I reminded myself — from my high-school class were pulling up into the parking lot with thermoses of black coffee and bags of bagels and schmear.

  A group of them beckoned me over with arching waves of the arm.

  “Yo, Fiona!”

  “Fiona, over here!”

  I smiled and trotted up to them, my lungs breathing in the early morning air.

  It was Mitch, Chuck and Philip, a group of lacrosse bros who’d roamed as a pack back in the day. They’d all turned out about as expected — a local banker, a store manager and a lawyer, in that order. They drank big, partied hard and wore their old varsity letters with pride. And yet, they managed to be big softies at heart.

  “You ready for the game today?” Chuck asked, tugging playfully on my ponytail. “Couldn’t be bothered to brush your hair, huh?”

  I stuck my tongue out at him like I would an older brother. “At least I don’t smell as bad as all your football pads.”

  The other guys enjoyed that barb, elbowing Chuck and cackling at my retort as we walked into the stadium, the rest of the boys — men, I mean, men! — following behind us, catching each other up on their workout routines, protein smoothies and careers.

  “Gimme one sec,” I said, begging off as they arranged their stuff on the benches. “I gotta hit the lights.”

  The electricity panel was hidden around the administrative field entrance. I hurried inside, keyed open the pad and flicked a switch.

  After a moment’s delay, the field was bathed in light, cutting through the early morning mist.

  And oh, how well I’d timed it.

  Because just then, through a dissipating cloud of fog, Jagger entered the field.

  Have you ever seen some seventy grown men go absolutely dead quiet in a split second? If not, I’d recommend you try it sometime. It’s like catching a jungle cat before the pounce.

  “Hey,” Jagger called, his hair damp from the morning dew. “You miss me?”

  That was all they needed — the players pounced, running at him full speed and engulfing him in hugs. But the hugs lasted for just a moment, because in no time, they were hoisting him on their shoulders and hailing his heroics.

  “Jagger! Jagger! Jagger!” they cheered.

  Mitch rejoined, louder than the rest, “Our soldier! Our American hero!”

  Jagger, from atop his high perch, glanced over at me and winked, sending a shudder through my system which ended just below my mound, reminding me of yesterday’s, uh, desires.

  Jesus, did he have to look so delicious? Even from here, I could see the bulge straining through his gray sweatpants. That’s just, like, not playing fair. Couldn’t he have the decency to wear, I dunno, ugly, tatted gym shorts? Or better yet, a monk’s outfit?

  He gently slapped the hands of the guys who were carrying him. “Okay, okay, put me down, I don’t deserve even a fraction of this.”

  “You went to war,” somebody pointed out as our Marine was deposited on the ground. “That deserves a little praise.”

  “Playing a good game will be thanks enough,” Jagger said, ably dodging their compliments, running a hand back and forth over his buzz cut as though he were embarrassed by the welcome.

  Hot, humble and a hero. Can’t a girl get a break?!

  “Oh,” he added as an afterthought, addressing all the men, “I’d also appreciate if you kept my presence a secret, just until this afternoon, until the big game. I haven’t told anyone I’m back yet.”

  The group chorused with nods, everyone clearly happy just to feel like they’d done their small part to help Jagger’s return.

  �
�So,” Martie, a guy who I barely remembered from some AP class, piped up. “How was the war?”

  Christ. Sounded like it was my time to intervene.

  “Um, hey, Jagger?” I called, causing the whole pack to turn to me.

  His eyes glimmered as they moved from the boys’ adoring gazes to my forcibly indifferent one. I could see a laugh sketched around the outline of his mouth, waiting to burst forth. Jagger was, without question, in his element as a down-to-earth god among men.

  “Yeah, Fiona?”

  “Could I get some help with the footballs?” It was a weak excuse — and for the record, I totally could’ve handled them myself — but it seemed necessary just to give him some breathing room.

  “Of course.” He patted a few of the guys on the shoulder, murmuring his appreciation and jogged to me.

  I tried to keep my eyes off his crotch, but frankly, it would’ve been nice if he’d worn some underwear — anything to keep his cock from bouncing against the pants and creating a dick print. Gulp. I didn’t want to speculate too much about a dick I couldn’t see, but based on the size and dimension of those shadows… Jagger was packing serious heat.

  Okay, okay, this was fine. I could handle it. Provided I just didn’t let him get too close, this was manageable.

  Yeah, keep telling yourself that, a voice in my head sneered.

  I didn’t have time to snap back at the internal saboteur because Jagger had fallen into step with my stride, ever the perfect soldier, keeping rhythm with his feet.

  “Thanks for saving me back there,” he said, gratitude seeping from his voice. “I mean, they’re great, of course, I love those guys. It’s just a lot.”

  I turned my head, just enough to see that Jagger looked distant.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded, looking straight ahead, his neck stiff. “It’s just… they think I’m some kind of hero. And it’s weird, because I know that all I did was my job. I get paid, I get benefits, I get help with college. Like, I don’t deserve to be praised for carrying out my responsibilities. If that makes sense.”