The Firsts Series Box Set

by M. J. Fields

  I’m going to fucking jail.

  “I have no interest in a girl who has a childlike crush on a boy who also uses freshman moves and Neanderthal intellect to maneuver his way through love. I’m also going to try not to point out the utter stupidity in you playing grab-ass with a girl for the better part of a semester then blowing her off when, clearly, you are even deeper in lust, or love, or whatever this thing is with the two of you than she is. You need to get your shit together, Links, or you’re going to lose her.”

  “Lose her? Who the fuck do you think you are?” I swear to God my voice just pulled some prepubescent shit on me.

  His suppressed smirk tells me I’m right.

  “I know exactly what I want in a woman. Which means, whoever I choose will want the exact same thing, or I’ll move on. You’d do well to play by the same rule.”

  “You are truly asking for an ass kicking, Reeves,” I snarl.

  “Do what you have to do, Links. I won’t back down. Instead, I’ll give you some more words of advice.” He leans in and whispers, “Try using your words, big guy.”

  I’m two seconds away from pounding his face in.

  “Logan!” I hear Mitch’s voice and look over my shoulder as he nods to the door and walks toward me. “Let’s roll.”

  “Leave her the fuck alone.” I push my finger into Reeve’s chest. Then, unable to stop myself, I reach up and tug his stupid fucking bowtie. “Nice fucking tie.”

  Mitch laughs. “Come on.”

  As I turn to walk away, he has the balls to say, “Nice track pants.”

  I turn to clock him, but Mitch grabs my elbow. “No jail, Links.”

  He’s right. No time for that shit. I need to get home.

  I start for the door when I hear Mitch say, “You even think about going after Jamie next, I’ll tie your nuts up with that thing.”

  “Oddly, I’m not concerned. I’m not sure you’d know how to tie one. I’m even more sure that you’d never get close enough to my nuts,” Reeves replies.

  “You fuck with mine, I’ll make both happen,” Mitch sneers at him.

  Now I’m grabbing him.

  “Mitch!” Reeves yells, and we both look back. “How many licks does it take to get to the center of—”

  “Don’t!” I grab Mitch as he turns to go after him.

  “Are you fucking kidding me, man?” Mitch yells. “You spying on them?”

  “Would never be included in something that I’m not wanted to be included in.” Then the fucker holds his fingers up in a V. “Squad oath.”

  “You mother—”

  The dorm security guard walks out of the bathroom. “Is there a problem?”

  “No problem at all.” Fletcher smiles as he hits the button on the elevator and steps in.

  Reeves turns to face us, fixes his tie, and then looks at his watch. As the doors close, he gives us a little bitch wave.

  I pull Mitch out the door and head to the driver’s side.

  “I can fucking drive,” he snaps.

  “Not gonna happen,” I tell him.

  §

  Sitting on the couch in my old place as the entire team sits around, talking about Jones and Downs, I’m restless. I need to do something. There is a small part of me that feels a bit of guilt for not knowing they were even there, but like Maddox pointed out to the detectives, it’s not possible to know where everyone is to keep them safe at all times. A bigger part of me knows that restlessness, anger, and sadness would not be the only emotion I would be feeling if I had lost her, or if she was lying in that ICU bed at University. I would be wrecked.

  I look at my phone again to see if she’s replied. She hasn’t.

  I look through the messages. Stupid fucking messages, almost meaningless.

  Almost.

  They meant something. They meant we were both thinking about each other.

  When I left for New York City, it was hard as hell. It hurt. The pain reminded me of a sliver under my fingernail that I couldn’t pull out, knowing it would hurt too damn much. I knew if I didn’t mess with it, it really wasn’t that unbearable. But I learned that, when it was left there too long, an infection would begin, and that gnawing pain would be far worse than Dad going at it with a pin and tweezers. Then, well, then it would heal and you forgot about it until the next time it happened.

  The way London and I ended cuddle season was perfect, but that gnawing pain was there with each text, each time I saw her, each time we hid in a closet and dry-fucked until I was going to, or did, come in my fucking pants.

  I didn’t want to be her sliver, her pain, her infection, so the texts stopped.

  Sounds sweet, kind, like a loving gesture. It was somewhat. But I also knew the next time she felt feelings for someone else, like a sliver under her nail, she would be reminded of me, her first kiss. And while we can all lie to ourselves about shit ending “nicely,” we know the reality is we will always remember. We will remember the good and the bad, and then we will think twice about ever putting ourselves in that fucking position again.

  While in New York, I tried really hard to get Mom to “Mom up.” When I realized I had let too much time and distance come between us, I vowed not to make that mistake again.

  Fuck Fletcher. He’s not about to become shit to her.

  Fuck Brody. She’s not a little girl.

  Fuck love and all the shit that can fail, keeping us guarded from the beauty of it.

  Fuck madmen who take the life out of those left living.

  Fuck her for not texting me back.

  And fuck me for not manning up and believing what I feel, what she feels, can work.

  Oh, and fuck those who made me doubt.

  I’m a fucking player, and a game is a game.

  To win the game, you have to know the other players and how to overtake them.

  What I do know about London is she is a helper and seems to gain a whole lot of self-pride from helping others.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and send her another text.

  I need your help.

  And you need mine.

  Immediate bubbles.

  Game on, pretty.

  Is everything okay?

  It will be, I think as I type.

  The team, the community, they’re gonna need something big to help them get past this.

  Jumping bubbles.

  Okay, Logan, focus.

  The bubbles stop. No message. Fuck.

  Well, at least I know the wheels are turning.

  I look at my team and realize they need to be pulled out of this shit, too. None of them have family to fall back on right now like I do, like London does. Hell, even Coach only stayed for about ten minutes before he left. He was barely hanging on.

  “I’m gonna run to the store, grab some candles and poster boards. Jones and Downs deserve that Dome to shine tonight in honor of them.”

  None of them stand. I don’t care. It’s not bullshit. It’s the truth.

  While I put my shoes on, Mitch walks over and puts his on, too. The others end up following one by one.

  Team.

  An hour later, there is a makeshift memorial at Gate A of the Dome. It’s now that I allow all the fucking emotions of the past nineteen hours seize me.

  Twenty-seven candles for twenty-seven lives.

  “Take a knee,” I tell my remaining team.

  They all look at me in confusion.

  “Take a fucking knee!”

  Arms linked, we all kneel in silence, in solace, in unity, and in respect for all those killed last night and for all those fighting for their fucking lives tomorrow.

  I turn away from the illumination, from the names of all those killed, because I’m not sure what the hell is going to happen next. I just nearly lost my shit when they didn’t immediately kneel. What the fuck was that?

  When I turn, I see dozens and dozens of people coming up the hill. My chest tightens and emotions boil.

  What started as a need to get London to step up an
d step out blew up in my face. Everything I want her to feel, because I know damn well she can handle it, is coming at me. I didn’t expect this to happen.

  “Did one of you post on social media?”

  All of them shake their heads.

  I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. It’s a message from London.

  Hey, we’re at University Hospital with Keeka. Logan, she’s having the baby.

  Why?

  London

  When Logan left with Mitch, things seemed weirder than when I was watching him and Dad dance around each other. Rather, watching Logan pretend to dance around Dad, and Dad being very annoyed that his intimidation tactics did not seem to work.

  I excuse myself for the first time all day, needing a break. Actually, I need a breakdown. I need to shower. I need to be...alone to wrap my head around everything, the horror and the beauty that should never be blended together like it was. I feel disgusted with myself that I am fixating on the good, on Logan, but how could I not?

  In the shower, I allow myself to press rewind on today.

  It may have been wrong to offer no explanation to Dad and Mom this morning when they walked in on me in bed with Logan, but if I told them the truth—that I wouldn’t have been able to sleep without him—that would have made things worse. Then I would have to explain that, for the last month and a half of my first semester, I slept with him all the time. That would have them questioning if I was sexually active, and my honest answer of “I’m still a virgin” would have been questioned, as well. And that, that would have made me angry. Always has.

  I mean, in high school I didn’t judge those who, by “male standards,” were considered “promiscuous.” How could I? The man I call Dad was by the world’s standards a “male whore.” Also by the world’s standards, that made him incredibly hot. Whereas, a female doing the same would be a slut. My standards are different. That’s what makes them mine.

  I find it rather amusing that my choice to hold on to my virginity is questioned. Is it a matter of faith? A little bit, yes. Is it a matter of fear? Again, a small amount of fear plays into my decision. I don’t want to be judged because of my physical choices, and I don’t want to give myself to someone who I’m not first connected to on a much deeper level, deeper than skin, maybe even a spiritual level.

  Trust, trust is so important. Can you imagine the scandal that it would bring to my family if I ever ended up in a Kardashian situation? Emma Hines is no Kris Kardashian. She would die from embarrassment before she would ever turn it into a profit.

  I scrub my body and rinse the conditioner out of my hair. When I step out I stand at the sink, I watch the steam on the mirror evaporate, revealing...me.

  I look like hell. Bags are under my eyes and makeup not properly removed streaks down my face. I want to retreat back into the shower where I can think about the trivial things like parents and boy issues, or judgment.

  But I can’t.

  I stand and look at myself, accepting the ugliness.

  Guilt is ugly.

  The guilt I carry because I kissed Fletcher is visible on my lips.

  I grab a washcloth from the pile that Harper, Tessa, or Emma left for us and scrub them. I mean, really? I nearly pounced on him, and it was just to hurt Logan, because he had hurt me. How awful is it to need to hurt someone when you are hurting so what...you’ll feel better or more in control of a situation that you have none in? I did that...to him...to Logan.

  I realize now, last night’s hurt and anger had nothing to do with him. Nor did it have a thing to do with Fletcher.

  Fletcher.

  I need to fix the situation I caused. I need to tell him the truth in a way that will hopefully not hurt him.

  I wrap myself in a towel and walk into the room Logan and I slept in, knowing Ava brought him clothes, because she knew he would use every excuse he could to leave. He didn’t need to be alone. He needed a focus. That’s why I literally pushed him out the door.

  I don’t want him and Dad to be enemies. I know they won’t be, but with emotions heightened, people do stupid things, like me...kissing Fletcher.

  I open his bag and pull out a SU football sweatshirt. Holding it up to my nose, I smell it. It smells like his detergent, but without his scent mixed in. Good enough, I think as I pull it over my head. Then I search through the bag to find pants, but there are only jeans, and I know they won’t fit me. Still, needing to be closer to him, craving the forgiveness I seek—no, need from him—for actions I am responsible for, regardless of the situation, I grab a pair of his black boxers and put them on.

  I walk into the bathroom and grab my bag, pulling out a bra, navy leggings, and a pair of knee-high socks and putting them on.

  I sit on the bed, new phone in hand, and power it up. I don’t find it at all intrusive that my contacts are in the new phone already. It’s actually comforting to know Maddox clearly knew my password and transferred the information. It’s reassuring. However, I will obviously tell him he overstepped, not that he will give a damn, but it’s something I need to do.

  When Fletcher answers immediately with deep concern for all of us, that makes it harder to possibly hurt him by admitting I was wrong. Nevertheless, it’s something that I must do, because I do love Logan Links, and he was right. I’m not a cheater.

  When I tell him I’m sorry about the kiss, I don’t even have to go on.

  “I know what was happening last night, Elle.” He laughs. “I mean, London. I know how you feel about Links. I now know it’s not just a freshmen crush. I wish you luck, my friend.”

  “We’ll still be friends, right?” I ask.

  “Of course. Don’t you let him bully that away either, got it?”

  “Got it,” I answer. “Thank you, Fletcher.”

  “Aside from that, how are you?”

  “Good,” I lie.

  “So, when will you be back here? Tonight?”

  “No, probably not,” I tell him, but I don’t tell him I probably won’t be back at all. I don’t ever want to leave here again.

  Home...family...safety.

  I hang up and lie down on the bed, putting my head on the pillow. Now, now I can smell him. There is also comfort in that.

  Who would have thought the boy I crushed on forever would eventually end up being my first kiss? Not me.

  Who would have thought all those dancing butterflies he caused, still caused, would not be a preconceived weakness in me, in love? Not me.

  Who could take all those beautiful butterflies and make them dance in precision to form a shield guarding me in my time of need? Logan.

  Regardless of what comes of this, this thing we think is love, this thing with conditions, this thing I may possibly have already ruined by acting so very immature in one of my weakest hours, Logan Links was my armor when I needed strength the most. Logan Links was my protector. I will never, ever forget him, and yes, I will always love him.

  Everyone needs a Logan.

  But not everyone has one. If they did, last night would have been so much different. Last night, if the man I now know as Damian Highmore had his equivalent to Logan, he would have never done what he did.

  Tears well in my eyes because it is assumed to be a flaw that I need to know why. Why Damian Highmore did what he did. I feel shame in it, too. I feel shame in knowing his name and not the names of all his victims. They had no choice, and because of him, they are faceless, nameless lives, but his will forever be remembered.

  The reality in my thoughts, the reality that last night wasn’t just a nightmare, is in fact the reality of the world we live in. My heart breaks for all of those who, like me, will try to put themselves back together again after this. I don’t know if it’s even possible.

  The tragedies I have dealt with in the past, albeit horrific, I knew our immediate and extended family would get through them together. We would love and support each other, ensure that whatever anyone needed, they had. This...This is different. These are strangers...God, I hate that word.
..These are human beings with feelings, emotions, pains, pressures, pasts, and loved ones who may not be as strong as my family is.

  How do you give something of yourself—a hug, a kind word, a shoulder, the support they need in times like this when they are that word—to strangers? How?

  I sob into my hands for those whose names I do not know. I do it in private, because some would find it odd that it makes this horrific situation more difficult for me. But I can’t help it. I need a world where questions are answered; where there is a beginning, a middle, and an end. Senseless and random acts of violence don’t give answers; they leave questions.

  “Princess?” Dad walks into the room and sits on the bed.

  “Why?” I cry. “Why would someone do this?”

  He sighs and lies down next to me, hands over his heart, looking up at the ceiling. He doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, I know why he didn’t.

  “Some people are just shit, London.”

  I laugh through tears then sob then laugh some more as he reaches over and hugs me.

  “That’s what he said, Dad.” I sniff back my tears.

  “I think the term is ‘That’s what she said,’ London.”

  “No, that’s what Logan said,” I tell him.

  Silence from him. More tears from me.

  “London, do you remember after your accident, when you were in the hospital, and you told me you hated me?” he whispers.

  I nod. “I was—”

  “I know what you were. You were sad, hurt, in pain, and you lashed out at me because you knew damn well I wasn’t going anywhere. You knew I loved you...more. More than those words, more than your pain, more than anything in my entire world, aside from your mom. In a way, you knew I would shoulder your hurt so you could wrap your brain around the facts. When you did, you apologized and, of course, I accepted.”

  “I’m still regretful and sorry and—”

  He places his finger over my lips. “I know you are, princess, I know that. And you should know I am oddly honored that you trusted me enough to know you could let go of whatever you needed to and I’d still be there.” He takes a deep breath, and I hug him tighter.