by M. J. Fields
I nod. “Give me two.”
~~~
As soon as we walk in, I see her, the girl I have talked myself in and out of avoiding for the next two years.
Jamie is here.
“Man-child,” I hear from behind me and look back. Elle and Christy are walking past us.
Lucas, Logan’s dad, laughs. “Too young to be talking about me. Which one of you pissed them off?”
“Pretty sure that would be me,” I admit. Jesus, I was nice to the girl. Certainly didn’t try to get in her panties and then her friend’s, for fuck’s sake.
He looks at me and cocks his head. “Gonna assume the redhead.”
I nod. “Killer instincts.”
He laughs, almost too much.
We follow Lucas, avoiding the line altogether, and head toward a waitress. He stops and looks left, “Is that—”
“Let’s get a table, Dad,” Logan cuts him off.
A loud burp rings through the air, and I look at their table.
“Elle for the win!” Lisa exclaims, and Elle lifts her arms in victory.
I can’t help finding humor in it. “Damn, girl, on a scale of one to ten, that was an eleven.”
And because I want to see if I can make Jamie and the rest of them as uncomfortable as they made me, I wave Lucas and Logan over. “Come meet our new friends, Mr. Links.”
“Sure thing.” Lucas walks over, smiling. “Any friend of yours is a friend of mine.”
“Dad, come on.” Logan rolls his eyes.
“This table is free.” The blonde waitress points at the table next to the girls.
Lucas smiles. “That’s perfect. Right, men?”
“Yeah, it’s good.” Logan scowls at me.
“So, Mitch, how about you introduce us to your new friends?”
“We met these ladies at Sadler the other night.” I look at Jamie and introduce them all, my eyes never leaving hers, just to fuck with her. “Jamie, Lisa, Christy, and Elle. And this is Lucas Links.”
Her eyes snap toward Lucas. “You’re Lucas Links?”
He winks. “I am.”
She smiles brightly. “Number 12, quarterback, one year and moved on to the pros.”
Lucas chuckles and thumbs toward Logan. “Father to this one, number 42. ’Cuse football fan; same as you, apparently.”
“I did my homework,” Jamie admits.
“She did,” I chime in just so she remembers that I’m fucking here. “She knows a whole hell of a lot about Orangemen history.”
She rolls her eyes at me.
What. The. Fuck?
Jamie
Emotions, not at all in check, but wonder and regret compete for first place.
I cringe inwardly as I try to figure out how to deal with the situation at hand.
I mean, imagine yourself in the middle of the desert, have been starving for four years, and suddenly two men appear, each holding a tray. Man number one is hot, so … so hot, and he’s holding a bottle of water that will quench a thirst you’ve suffered for years and a plate full of apples and … hell, I don’t know, but something forbidden and toxic. Man two, also hot in a sexy mature way, is holding a tray, and on it is a book promising to help you get out of the desert, but you have to do the work—read the book—in order to find out how … and it promises to be a riddle.
If ever I wanted a Hannah Montana moment—you know, to have the best of both worlds—it would be now. I’d get as much information from Lucas Links and tell him how amazing I thought he was, and let Mitch apologize to me—or me to him—so this … situation wasn’t so uncomfortable.
Whatever, Jamie, I scold myself, trying to call upon my inner instincts. But, so much is happening right now—hell, all week—that I’ve felt like I was being sucked into a funnel cloud of indecision.
I look back at Elle. I have no idea why, but she has a calming effect. Like she and I are kindred spirits. Like we may fight the same demons. Like she understands. I won’t push, though, and I hope she doesn’t either. I hope she doesn’t see it—the inner battle, the pull in two different directions. I certainly don’t want her to get sucked in with me if she does.
When our waitress starts to pass by our table, I call to her, “Can we get two pitchers please?”
When she looks away from Lucas Links to me, I realize she couldn’t give a shit less about me. She’s looking at hot daddy and at the half-full pitcher on the table.
I reach over, grab the pitcher, and fill Elle’s cup. “Drink up.”
“Nah,” she begins, but I fill it anyway, and then I fill Christy’s and Lisa’s.
“Drank too much the other night, huh?” Mitch jokes and swings his gaze to Lucas. “We took these ladies out, and they got so drunk. This one threw up.”
“Is that so?” Lucas looks at Elle, who visibly sinks lower in her chair.
“God, you’re an idiot.” I glare at him.
“Me?” He laughs haughtily as he glares back. “Damn, did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed today, Jamie?”
I wave him off and look at Lucas. “It happens, Lucas Links.”
“Lucas is just fine, Jamie.” Lucas chuckles and shrugs, “So, you girls are what, juniors?”
“No, we’re—” Christy stops and whispers, “Ouch.”
“Yep,” Lisa answers instead.
Lucas shakes his head. “I remember being a twenty-one-year-old here at SU.”
I smile. “But you left after freshman year.”
“Exactly.” Lucas laughs.
I can’t help smiling back, and then I start talking football.
Lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling, palming my face and thinking that Lucas Links probably waited until we left Dinosaur BBQ, which was a-mazing, to swing by the campus police station to a) warn them about the crazy chick, and b) get a restraining order against me.
When I voiced my concern about Lucas Links to the girls on our Uber ride back, Elle told me that he looked amused, not worried. That it was cute. That he probably appreciated it as much as Logan and Mitch one day would because all men have egos.
Oh, and Mitch, he thought it was amusing to make me jealous by giving Christy a nickname. Well, every time I smiled at Lucas, I caught Mitch’s jaw ticking. A sign he was clearly annoyed.
But, per my luck, he caught me watching him eat ribs more than once and, well, let’s just say he gave oral to a pig rib tonight.
Regardless, I talked too much and didn’t learn who it was Lucas Links was close with but, if he doesn’t avoid me at all costs, I plan to play it way cooler next time.
God, let there be a next time.
When my phone starts playing “I Can Only Imagine,” my heart momentarily hurts, knowing I can’t tell her about my first kiss like I would tell her about the solo I got in chorus or the role I got in a play or musical. Her face lit up with pride in everything I had accomplished, all like they were a first. And I can’t tell her that I truly believe I will find out who my biological father is, even though my dad is and always be will be Tyson.
Maybe someday I can tell her the PG version of my first kiss. If I do, and she deals with it better than I presume she would, maybe it will open up the door, and I can tell her about my search, and she won’t be so upset.
Maybe.
“Hey, Mom,” I say as I roll onto my back.
“How are you, Jamielynn?” I can hear the smile in her voice, and it feels like a hug.
We talk about my roommates, and I tell her that I’m really getting along with them. That her fear about differences in our backgrounds race; social-economic status, and where we came from are no cause for concern. I laugh and tell her that we may be a plethora of colors, but we all seem orange on the inside. She cautions me it’s still early, and I tell her I’ll be careful, for her peace of mind. I already know instinctually that we’re going to be great friends. Hell, we’ve already survived boy drama.
We talk about my schedule being stacked with Monday, Wednesday, and Friday classes, whereas Tuesdays and Thur
sdays are much lighter. I tell her my roommates and I all have our Thursday lab together, and I have two classes with Elle, as well as two with Christy and Lisa.
My first class, on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday is Intro to Theatre at nine in the morning. Next is Vocal Technique One, followed by Piano Techniques. My last class is Studio Writing. She laughs at how early my days start, knowing how hard it is to wake me.
Then we talk about Tuesdays and Thursdays being all dance. Ballet is offered from ten until eleven, followed by a two-hour break, before jazz and tap. Thursdays, we are required to participate in the drama department’s Thursday lab, where we partake in scenes, meet guest artists, talk to alumni, have master classes, and have discussions.
When I hear an alarm, I laugh. “You timed us?”
Before I left for college, Mom and I decided we’d talk once a week for twenty minutes, kind of like when I used to go to summer Bible camp. Only talking once a week kept us “in the moment” and helped me not get homesick.
“I did, Jamielynn.” She chuckles. “More for me than you, I suppose. I miss my girl.”
“And your girl misses her momma.”
And I do.
When I walk out of my room, I see Elle in her bathrobe. “You going to bed already?”
“Yeah, gonna swim in the morning.”
“Swim?” Lisa, Christy, and I ask at the same time.
“Yeah,” she replies, toweling her hair. “Maybe start running again, too. It worked for old Blue Eyes.”
“Sinatra?” Lisa asks.
“Or Lucas Links?” I wag my eyebrows. “Now that’s a DILF.”
“Speaking of DILF”—Christy giggles and turns up the music on the TV—“I would give it up to this man or his son any day of the week.”
“Brody and Maddox Hines,” Lisa swoons.
Elle holds her hand against her belly.
“You okay?”
“Just tired. I’ll see you all in the morning or in class.”
Lisa looks up at her. “Well, get some sleep. We’ll see you in the morning.”
When she slips into her room, I look at Lisa and Christy. “What are we watching tonight?”
A cocktail of recent firsts seems to be serving me up insomnia. Sleep hasn’t come easy at all since my encounter with Mitchell Moore. I’m resigned to not regret the choices I’ve made, even after finding out about the full extent of his player status, but I also know I let things get a little out of hand … again.
Learning experiences often lead to growth … right?
Sighing, I sit up and decide on an evening stroll.
After looking for something warm to wear, since it’s unseasonably cold here and I’ve yet to go shopping for some new winter clothes at the sixth-largest mall in the country, I grab the sweatshirt and pull it on over my head. Then I push my feet into my sneakers, grab a scarf, hat, and mittens, my ID, and very quietly walk out the door.
When I step out into the hall, it’s quiet, and I know I can safely assume I’m the only idiot awake at one in the morning.
Once off the elevator, I walk toward the door, where Norman, the night shift security guard, raises his head from his phone and looks at me.
I nod, and he nods back as I walk out the door.
When the cold air hits me in the face, I welcome it, because I know once I get back to my room, my body temperature will have dropped enough that I’ll finally feel sleepy.
Thirty minutes of vigorous walking, and I should be good.
With no traffic, I easily cross the street and head toward the Dome.
Standing in front of the big marshmallow, I exhale any thought of Mitchell Moore. For the first time, I wonder if my mother felt the same way I did while looking at it. I wonder if she was a Jersey Chaser, too. I can’t imagine it being so, but there is a possibility. One that brought me here. Well, that and a stellar education.
I turn left and begin walking toward Syracuse Stage, where I will be spending a lot of my time over the next few months, learning and growing what my mom calls a blessing—my voice.
When I come to the intersection, I look left and right before crossing and see a group of loud students. It’s not reaching to say they’re drunk.
There are three people, and from a distance, I think the bigger body in the middle is male, while the others are clearly female.
One of them laughs and says, “So, are you gonna tell me why they call you Munch?”
“You must be mistaking me for someone else.” The unmistakable, husky timbre in his voice that once made my stomach feel like butterflies were dancing a ballet choreographed just for me are seemingly replaced by a bunch of drunken moths who took up residence in their place. Their job is to make me feel like I’m going to vomit.
“Like an evil twin, but sexier?” one coos.
He laughs.
I hurry across the intersection, hoping not to be seen when I hear him yell, “Hey, you.”
When I don’t stop or look back, he yells again, “It’s a bad idea to be walking the streets alone this time of night.”
I quicken my steps.
“What the hell?” He sighs, right before I hear feet pounding pavement behind me.
Now I begin to nearly jog.
“I thought you were making sure we got home safe, Moore,” one of the girls' calls.
“Safety in numbers—there are two of you,” he calls back to them.
“Hey, are you—” He steps in front of me, and I attempt to skirt around him, but he steps back, trying to stay in front of me. He grabs my shoulders and stops me. “What the hell are you doing out here, Flow—” The scent of alcohol wafts from his hot breath as he stops talking without finishing his “sentiment.”
“O.M. Goodness, just go away.”
“No, fuck that. Do you know how dangerous it is to walk alone?”
I look him up and down. “I do now. Thanks. Noted.” I push his hands off my shoulders. “Now go back to your friends.”
He reaches for my hands as he squats so we’re eye to eye, and I step back. His brows furrow as he looks between my eyes, the playfulness and confidence now void in his voice as he whispers, “Jesus, Jamie, tell me what the hell I did wrong.”
“Look, I’m not trying to hurt your ego, or pride, or I don’t know … ‘feelings’”—I air quote the last word—“but I will definitely give you a five-star ra—”
I stop, and he cocks his head to the side as his eyes narrow further.
“Oh my goodness, Mitch!” I force a laugh. “It was fun. Now it’s done. Go.” I throw my thumb over my shoulder. “You have some girls who seem to want to be tucked in.”
“Yet, here I am, looking at the one and done, who’s still wearing my hoodie.”
“You want it back?” I say and begin to pull it up.
He grabs my hands and pulls it down. “Don’t be stupid. You clearly want it, or you wouldn’t be wearing it.”
“Don’t go getting all emo on me, Moore. I’m from Mississippi; winter clothes consist of a long-sleeved T-shirt and a scarf. And only a scarf because I look cute in it. I’m only wearing this because it’s cold and I haven’t gotten to the mall to shop—”
“I’ll take you.”
“It’s”—I pull my phone out of my—his—hoodie pocket and look at the time—“one-thirty in the morning. For the love of God, how drunk are you?”
His nose flares, and he inhales. “Not so much that I’ve lost my senses.” He opens his eyes, and they are dark and lust-filled again. “You smell good enough to eat.”
At a loss for words, I stand there, mouth agape.
“I knew you were going to be trouble,” he huffs as he grabs my hand and turns me around. “But I didn’t take you as stupid, and this is stupid. Who the fuck walks the streets alone at one-thirty in the damn morning?”
He doesn’t give me time to reply as he walks, heavy-footed, back in the direction of my dorm.
I have no clue why I’m allowing him to interrupt my walk, or why I’ve yet to drop h
is hand, but … I don’t.
“I’m fucking serious, Jamie; you don’t do shit that’s unsafe. This is unsafe. Real fucking unsafe.”
I have to hurry to keep up with him.
“And heads-up, you may think this is one and done, but I will be having you for dinner again real soon.”
“I don’t think—”
“Good. Keep it that way. I don’t want you to fucking think. I want you laying there, spread out, riding my face, and coming on my tongue.”
“That sounds an awful lot like a commitment, and I—”
“I don’t commit to anything until after the season ends, and that’s a cuddle partner, someone who knows damn well it’s a seasonal position, and then …” He stops and turns to look me dead in the eye. “Then, it’s done.”
“You’re reaching, bud. I have no intention of sleeping with a man who—”
“And I have no intention of committing to any woman ever. If I’m good with this arrangement, you sure as hell should be, knowing exactly what kind of treatment you’ll be getting.”
Neither of us says a thing.
“Tell me, Jamie—and don’t try kidding either of us—how many men have made you come that many times and didn’t expect you to ride their cock?”
Not so sweet baby Jesus, I sigh inwardly.
“Exactly,” he huffs. “And you’re the one who took my cock out of my pants and started licking it like a lollipop, so don’t play with me. You want me. I want you. You wanted me to work for it. I have.”
“I won’t be sucking anything that’s been in every Jersey Chaser’s vagina.”
He rolls his eyes then looks very serious. “And I won’t be licking anything that any one of my teammates has licked, sucked, or fucked. And rest assured, Jamie, I am definitely the MVP at making a woman come.”
“The man with the golden mouth,” I whisper.
I don’t even know if he heard me since I receive no reaction. He simply turns back around and begins his long strides toward my dorm.
“Still fucking working for it,” he mumbles, “which is such fucking bullshit.” Under his breath he whispers, “Voodoo pussy.”
