by M. J. Fields
I’m also pretty damn sure he could read my mood because he lagged behind the rest of the run. She invited him along, and he went for the next two runs. Then, well then, I’m damn sure he allowed it to sink in that he wasn’t my favorite person.
Why am I damn sure? Because when I saw him looking at her ass, I called him on it. She wasn’t paying attention, of course.
“I haven’t put a fucking hand on her. You think I’m gonna let you?”
“I wasn’t—” he began to stammer.
“Saw you checking out her ass, so you sure as fuck did. Better not happen again.”
“I won’t...I wouldn’t...I just...”
I didn’t hang out to watch the fucker trip over his tongue, I caught up to London who looked over her shoulder as I came up behind her and laughed.
“You two are worse than two old ladies. Step it up, will ya?”
There was only one bitch here, and it wasn’t her or me. It was Fletcher Reeves.
It’s late September, but feels like August. Indian summer. I lean against the cement wall, waiting for London. I look down at my watch, seeing she’s five minutes late. That’s not like her at all, so I grab my phone and start to dial her number.
“I’m here. Sorry. I’m...” She snickers as she hops toward me, sneaker half on. I reach out, and she grabs my arm to steady herself as she finishes shoving her foot in her shoe. “You ready?”
“Am I ready?” I shake my head as I look at my watch. “You’re the one who’s...”
I stop talking when I hear her feet against the payment as she looks over her shoulder, laughing as she yells, “Last one to the Dome steps buys coffee.”
For a moment, I watch her running. She looks like the little girl who looked at me, through me, smiling at the Cape the first time I saw her. Then, typical London, she returns a wink with a stuck-out tongue.
I don’t know how the fuck I thought all those years her being so young, taking all those hits, watching her heal quickly and settle into her life of being a rock star’s kid so easily, that there was no depth. I have realized over the past few weeks that the girl I always saw London as from day one is far from who she is. I’m not just talking about her body. I’m talking about her emotions that weren’t as shallow as I once thought. Her heart, her soul, her innocence, her smile. I don’t know how it evaded me for as long as it did.
I was wrong about her.
“Hey, I want to win for real,” she yells louder, still smiling.
“You wouldn’t win for real if I went and ate breakfast,” I tell her while grinning and start running.
I don’t run at full pace. I like being behind her, and not just because she has a really nice round ass, but because I like the way she looks back at me to see if I’m still there.
When we are really close to the tunneled stairs leading up to the Dome, I pick up the pace and follow her up. Taking two steps at a time, I catch up quickly.
She squeals, her grin on full display when she looks back then hurries to get ahead.
At the last of three landings, my competitive nature kicks in and I grab her from behind and lift her.
“Don’t you dare!” she yelps.
I toss her over my shoulder, and she grabs my hips, digging her nails in.
“I’ll kill you if you drop me, Logan Links!”
“You’re in luck,” I say, taking the stairs one at a time now, being a little more cautious. “I have a game this weekend, so I can’t die today.”
Once at the top, I set her feet on the ground.
“I win.” I smile, realizing she’s still standing toe-to-toe with me.
“You win.” Her voice quivers a little, and I wonder why she’s not stepping back.
She clears her throat and looks down. Then I fucking realize why. I still have my hand on one of her hips.
Awkward as fuck.
I try to mask my very unwelcome, fucking odd feeling and laugh. “I’ll still buy you coffee.”
She smiles and nods. “Good, because I’m going to beat you to Carnegie Library.”
I stay behind her because, right now, I’m high on stupid and could run circles around her, and yeah, this feels alright.
By the time we get to the Einhorn family walking path, we are side by side and stay that way until we arrive at Sadler.
“Morning, beautiful.” I smile at Carla as she loads my plate with bacon and two egg-white omelets.
“Morning yourself.” She winks as she hands my plate to me. “Where’s my grandson been these past two weeks?”
“Sleeping in,” I tell her.
“You trading him in for the beauty?” She points her tongs at London.
“What? No, of course not,” I say, feeling my face flush.
She chuckles. “Had to ask. I’ve never seen you in here with one girl, let alone the same one three days or more a week.”
Needing to put a cork in this conversation, I wink at Carla. “Not true, Carla. I come to see my favorite girl at least twice a day.”
She fans her face. “You certainly do know how to sweet talk a lady.”
“Him?” London snorts. “Yeah, you sure have to watch out for him. Apparently, the boy has game.”
Carla laughs. “What? He hasn’t had his way with you yet, sweet girl?”
“Pft, I wouldn’t fall for it. Besides, we’re friends. Right, Logan?” She looks up at me and gives me a playful smile.
“Sure, Elle.” I nod.
“I’m telling you, Elle. You gotta watch out for this one. I’ve been married forty years, but those blue eyes, that smile, and if he asked, I may be tempted to leave my husband.”
London leans in. “Would you like to know the secret?”
Carla smiles. “Sure thing, sweet girl.”
London reaches up and grabs my chin, startling me. She turns my head then pokes a finger into my cheek. “Devil dimples,” she whispers as if I can’t fucking hear her.
“Devil dimples, huh?” Carla chuckles.
“I’m sure, for most girls, those things are the portal to heartbreak and hell.”
“Is that so?” Carla continues to chuckle.
“Don’t get too close, Carla. Save your marriage and look away.” London breaks out in laughter and finally releases my face.
“So, what makes you immune?” Carla asks her.
“I know his type.” London winks.
“His type?”
London leans in and throws her thumb over her shoulder at me as she whispers, “They say my friend’s a player.”
Carla gasps. “First time I’ve heard that.”
“Well, you should warn them. Put up flyers, posters, alert the media. Number 42, the guy with devil dimples, he’s a love ’em and leave ’em kind of guy.”
Carla looks at me. “Is this true, Logan?”
I shrug then adamantly shake my head. “Absolutely not.”
“Pft.” London rolls her eyes.
“Never been in love, so pft all you want.”
“One day, Logan, some girl is gonna knock you on your ass,” Carla says, handing London her regular—a spinach omelet a quarter the size of mine and half a grapefruit.
“You two have a wonderful day,” Carla says as she turns around and walks to the next student at the counter. She seems more amused today than ever. I’m sure it’s the London effect.
When we sit down, instead of sitting across from me, London sits next to me.
“She’s amazing,” she says, cutting her omelet into pieces. “I like being your friend, Links. I get these special breakfasts whenever you’re around.”
Links? Did she just call me Links? Yeah, she did. Why the hell does that bother me?
My pause in response makes her look up at me. “What?” she asks before she takes a bite.
“Nothing.” I look away from her and pick up two pieces of bacon, setting them on her plate before she does.
She smiles, yet retorts, “I don’t want this crap.”
“You didn’t want them the othe
r five days either”—I pick up a piece—“yet you took them anyway.”
“I really shouldn’t,” she jokes as she picks up a piece and bites it in half. “Mmm...”
I watch her lick her lips after deep throating half a piece. Then I decide it’s best to move the fuck away.
Not wanting to make it look obvious, I stand up. “Forgot the coffee.”
Jesus L. Christ, I think to myself as I fill up two cups from the pot. I need to get laid.
When I come back, I put the coffee in front of her then push my plate to the other side of the table.
Her brows turn in slightly before she shrugs almost unnoticeably. Then she flashes a smile, an insincere smile. I know the difference now. “Do I smell that bad?”
Yeah, like something that should be spread out in front of me.
“Nah. Just...you know.” I leave it hanging.
“I know?” She takes a bite of her omelet.
“You’re the one who doesn’t want people knowing you because of me,” I remind her.
She looks around. “The three people here at six fifteen in the morning are probably really concerned with you, Links.”
“So, you want me to get up and move next to you?”
She stalls for a minute then shakes her head. “I already got what I wanted from you.” She holds up the bacon and takes a bite. “Bacon.”
When it’s quiet too long, I ask, “You said you get special breakfasts when I’m around. What do you not eat Tuesdays and Thursdays?”
“I don’t eat here. I grab something on my way back from the pool,” she answers, and I glare at her. “Relax, I have a buddy with me.”
“A buddy?”
“Fletcher goes. I guess he doesn’t like running all that much. Prefers swimming.”
Fucker.
“So, what, you and him frolic in the pool the days you’re not with me?” The way I say it has some bite that doesn’t go undetected, if her biting the corner of her lower lip to stop from smiling is any indication.
“I see him every day,” she points out the obvious.
“No kidding.”
“I actually see him on Tuesdays and Thursdays at dance, and Thursday nights at lab, too.”
I look up at her. She’s still trying not to smile.
“Your point?”
She leans forward and whispers, but it’s loud enough for me to hear. “When I decide who I’m going to give myself to, it will be someone deserving. If I feel Fletcher Reeves is deserving, then I’ll give it to him. I won’t be drunk. I won’t be caving in to peer pressure. And I will definitely trust that person wants the same things I want.”
To stop from allowing my jaw to hit the table, I clench my lips shut.
“Furthermore, it will not be a one-night stand, so if I choose to allow Fletcher Reeves to be my first, I will trust that he’s going to be around a lot. You wanna know why, Links?”
“Logan,” I hiss. “My name is Logan.”
Now she does smirk, knowing damn well she’s pushing buttons.
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “I’ll tell you why. I haven’t been kissed, felt up, there have been no fingers inside me—”
“Holy fuck.” I cover my face, trying to act annoyed when I am not fucking annoyed. I’m turned the fuck on.
“Not even my own.”
Dead, I’m fucking dead.
“So, when I have a man who’s trustworthy and willing to take me on—”
“Take you on?” I huff.
“I’m gonna be a whole lot to handle, Links.”
I narrow my eyes at her, and she does it back as she leans in closer.
“Because once this genie is let out of its bottle, there is no way in hell it’s going back in.” She sits back and smiles. “I’m gonna love sex.”
I start to stand, but then I realize I’m in fucking ball shorts, and I am damn sure every motherfucker in here, including her, will know her words just fucked me to near happy ending.
She reaches over and takes another piece of bacon off my tray, deep throats it again, and moans, “Mmm...” as she bites down. Then, she leaves.
Are you fucking kidding me?
Ten minutes later, shit has settled down and I get a text from Dad.
- You give them tickets to the boy yet? Just Tessa and me this time. Dad.
I stand up and walk out to my truck to grab the tickets Dad left. Then I head back to Lawrinson.
When I walk inside, I see that asshole Fletcher turn and walk the other way. Pussy.
“RA,” I yell.
He stops and turns toward me.
I walk up, expecting him to be in a piss puddle, and shove the envelope into his chest. “Make sure Elle and the girls get these.”
He takes them and looks square into my eyes. “Is it too difficult to say please? Maybe thank you?”
I’m shocked. Must be hearing things.
“What did you just say?”
“Manners,” he huffs and walks around me.
Oh, hell no.
When I walk on the field for practice, I’m in a fucking mood.
Mitch laughs at me. “What the hell got to you?”
I sigh and walk past him. “Not a damn thing.”
Jones is looking at me like the asshole he is.
I point at him. “I’m gonna make it hurt today.”
“Bring it on.”
“Consider it brought,” I sneer.
Inside Coach’s office, I am looking at the clock. I know damn well she’s going to be at dinner in twenty minutes, and now, now I have to get an ass-chewing from Coach because Jones is a little bitch baby.
“What the hell are you two fools doing out there?” Coach yells as he walks in and slams the door.
Before I have a chance to say shit, Jones opens his fucking mouth. “He came in with a fucking hard-on.”
“You started your shit weeks ago,” I tell him.
He says not one fucking word.
“You stepped over a line,” I add.
“What the fuck did you say, Jones?” Coach asks him.
“All due respect, Coach, but I know how you feel about him and his old man. This is my time; he had five years. No one picked him up for pros, so why the hell is he still playin’?”
Coach looks at me, and I shake my head.
He looks back at Jones. “You got a problem with the way I run my team?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Now get the hell out of here and come back tomorrow, playing as a team, not the lone fucking ranger.”
As soon as he leaves, Coach looks at me. “You want them to back off, you let me tell them you’ve been asked to play for the fucking New York Giants.”
“I’m not my father. I love the game, but I don’t want it that bad; you know this.”
“I do. That’s the only reason I haven’t told your old man.”
I stand. “And I appreciate it.”
As I am walking to the door, he yells behind me, “I’m proud of the man you’re being, Logan, but I’m damn sure your sister would have understood if you had taken that opportunity.”
Standing at the door, I shrug. “Family first, Coach.” Then I open the door and turn around. “And I hate the fucking Giants.”
He shakes his head. “You’re a chip off the old block.”
Dining Disaster
London
I have worn the most ridiculous smile all day long.
Logan Links, devil dimples, my friend was at a total loss for words today when I left breakfast.
In Studio Writing, Jamie asked what was going on with me, and I told her running in the morning kicks in all my happy endorphins. I did not tell her Logan carrying me up the stairs to the Dome and then leaving his hand on my hip at the top, as if it was supposed to be there, kicked in some other hormone.
God, he is just...perfect when he’s not being...an ass or surrounded by plastic parts.
“You going to dinner?”
I look up to see Fletcher is peeking in
the quad at me.
I close my book and get up off the couch. “Yeah.” I smile at my friend, who I may have used as a tool to drive Logan a little crazy today.
It totally worked.
As I shove my feet in my Tieks, I try not to scold myself for doing so. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Once in the elevator, Fletcher sighs.
“What’s up?” I ask as the doors shut.
“Auditions are this weekend, and I’m just...” He pauses and pushes his hair back. “I really want the lead.”
“We all want the lead; that’s normal.”
I watch as his face contorts, showing different emotions that aren’t easy to read.
“You’re fantastic, Fletcher. You’re going to do amazing.”
The way he looks at me, the gratitude in his eyes, the small smile that forms in the corner of his lips, Fletcher Reeves is so much different than anyone I grew up with.
“Thanks.” He looks down and fidgets with his watch.
“Fancy watch.”
He nods and his lips lift in the corner. “I’m fond of it.”
As the elevator doors open, he waves his hand in front of me. “Ladies first.”
I curtsy and use my best southern accent, “Thank you, kind sir.”
Now his smirk broadens into an actual smile.
I reach up and tap his chin. “You should wear that more often.”
“I’ll try,” he says, again motioning for the exit.
“So, what part do you want the most?”
“The lead,” he answers.
“No, if you could play any character, in any show—your dream character—who would you choose?”
He shakes his head and looks down.
“Spill it,” I coax.
“No judgment?” he asks, and I nod. “Aaron Burr in Hamilton.”
“But he kills—”
He chuckles. “No judgement.”
“Okay, but—”
“None,” he adds.
“Why?”
He opens the door and waves me forward. “I just like his character.”
