by M. J. Fields
“I was so fucked up I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been able to get it up. And chances are, if I wasn’t facedown between her legs, not a damn thing happened, so fuck you, big shot!”
Downs rushed in, pushing his hand against my chest to stop me from going after him. “Dude, he’s gone in a few days.”
“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Trucker screamed at him.
Downs looked at him. “We fuckin’ get you’re stressed, Cohen, but the bullshit you’ve been pulling, we’re done with it. You’ve been a fucking dick!”
I spend the entire time watching the playbacks trying to wrack my brain and figure out if it’s even a possibility.
Christ, I hope not.
Lying in bed, I look at all the pictures in my book, all of them, even the little black and white grainy one, until I fall asleep.
When I went to see JT after school, his foster parents told me that he didn’t want visitors. Fuckers didn’t like me. Going to assume it has something to do with my father, maybe my mother before she bailed. Both were town drunks. But I thanked them anyway, walked down the driveway, got in my truck, and backed out.
When I glanced back at the house, I saw them watching me, which was odd, but whatever.
Driving down the road, I can’t shake the feeling that something is way off, so I pull over and back into the spot where JT and I park and sneak beers, just one, after every win.
Minutes later, I see his foster folks’ SUV whiz by, so I follow.
Thirty minutes later, they pull into a parking garage adjacent to the hospital’s garage, and I’m lucky enough to find a parking spot on the road and a couple of quarters in the console to feed the meter.
My heart in my chest, I walk to the emergency entrance of the garage. I know something terrible is happening. Lilyanne’s words ring louder than the church bell in town, “JT needs you. Don’t be stupid.”
She probably hurt him really bad. Fuck!
I follow from a distance as they walk through the ER, and then watch as they board the elevator. I watch the lightened numbers at the top change, and when it stops on four, I run to the stairwell.
Once up the stairs, I see them talking to the nurse at one of the desks.
“He’s resting now,” she says. “He still doesn’t want to talk to anyone except his sister.”
“We understand,” his foster dad, Rob, says.
“He’s going to be okay, though, right?” Diana asks.
The nurse nods. “His stomach’s been pumped, and his vitals are back to normal. You’re lucky you found him when you did. His caseworker will be here soon to talk to you both. Feel free to have a seat in the family waiting room.”
I slide around the corner and wait, unseen, with his family, because I am just as much, if not more, family to him than they are. And right now, I think I’m going to throw up.
I wake up in a pool of sweat, stomach in knots, panting, and fucking shaking.
I must be sick, I think, as I force myself off the bed, throw my legs over the side, take the three steps it takes to get to the bathroom, where I lean over the toilet and dry heave for what feels like forever.
“Stupid fuck,” I snap at myself. “What the fuck are you thinking?”
A rap on the door makes me stand and look over. It’s Logan.
“You okay, man?”
I walk over and turn on the cold water, splashing some on my face. “Think I caught something. You feeling like shit, too?” Wiping my face with a towel, I turn and look at him.
He huffs, “Yeah, man, symptoms are a constant state of confusion, shot nerves from worrying about fucking up, and involves cold feet.”
I let out a long sigh. “And what the fuck do we do about it?”
“Be real, I suppose.”
“And what’s real?” I ask.
“Knowing that cuddle season is gonna be longer, and we’re gonna both feel worse for the wear when it ends.”
“But being honest about that upfront should be enough, right?”
“Fucking better be or my game’s done.” He nods, turns, and says, “See you in the morning.”
“If I still feel like shit, there’s no way I’m jogging.”
He calls from over his shoulder, “You still feel like shit, and that’s more the reason you need to jog.”
Walking into Saddler, I see her out of the corner of my eye. She looks up, and our eyes meet.
I expect that little bitch feeling to kick me in the junk, but when she smiles and looks down but glances up when I pass by, I can’t help feeling like everything will be just fine.
I look over at Logan and shrug. “She wants me.”
He shakes his head. “She wants your tongue.”
I laugh. “Which is perfect.”
“What’s perfect? Besides SU’s defense at this weekend’s game.” Carla smiles.
Logan and I smile at each other.
“I see. Matters of the heart, not the field.” She chuckles as she loads our plates up with omelets that she must have previously made and bacon.
“Damn, you’re quick.” I chuckle.
She smiles, though it’s forced, annoyed by my language.
Oh fucking well.
She beams at Logan. “You can thank him.”
“Huh?”
“He texted the order.”
“Carla’s my girl.” Logan leans over as my grandmother leans in, and he gives her a peck on the cheek.
I don’t know why it irritates the hell out of me, but it does.
“Cool. Thanks, Carla.”
I grab my tray before Benedict Arnold can preach manners to me and head for the table.
When he gets to the table, he looks at me, and I shake my head.
“No, huh?”
“You’re not the Yoda of relationships, man.”
“Never said I was, but fucking manners, man.”
“How about bro code, Links?” I scowl at him.
“She gives a fuck about you,” he begins, and I start to stand but don’t.
“If I didn’t know your head was a bit up your ass about you-know-who, I’d walk out of here right now, because we don’t do this shit. But, since I’m one hundred percent fucking loyal to those deserving, I’m gonna sit here and break bread with you. But she”—I toss my thumb over my shoulder—“isn’t, so I’m gonna ask you to stop fucking pushing.”
He’s pissed, but I don’t give a damn.
We sit and eat … in silence.
As luck would have it, I have my car parked out back and am not riding with Logan today. I know damn well we’re going to come to blows about this, but not today, I have too much on my mind.
Keeka … I mean, did we fuck? Is it possible I’m her kid’s father? If so, what the fuck do I do? Then Jamie—Flower. Even the thought of her brings a bit of calm, and that’s a luxury I can’t afford.
“Mitchell Wescott Moore,” I hear my name being called from behind me as I head to my car and look back.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper-hiss when I see Carla coming out the back door of the dining hall.
“Give me a minute.”
“Not in a great mood right now.”
“Not asking you to be,” she says, hurrying toward me.
I finally throw my hands in the air and laugh in anger. “I don’t owe you shit.”
“Never said you did, but I did ask you to hear me out.” Standing in front of me, she’s out of breath.
It all comes out in a rush, years and years of pent up anger, frustration, and hurt.
“Fine. Let’s have it. Let’s hear why, when I was five, you couldn’t be bothered to come when I called and asked for help. Let’s hear why, when I was eight, and she left, we never heard from you except on our birthdays until we were in high school. And tell me, Carla, when I was seventeen and needed someone, any-fucking-one who wasn’t a pill-popper like your daughter or a fall down yet functioning alcoholic, and I called you, you didn’t even answer the fucking call?”
&
nbsp; She nods. “I got answers for all them questions. You won’t like ’em, you’ll think they’re excuses, but not one is.”
I start to turn around, and she grabs my elbow. “When you were five, I was dealing with an abusive husband; couldn’t come, because I couldn’t leave. When you were eight, I was still dealing with an abusive husband and a pill-popping daughter who was robbing me blind; couldn’t come, because I was trying to save my girl and feed us, too. I sent cards and what cash I could because I love you and never wanted you to forget it, even though I wasn’t there and it wasn’t much. When you were sixteen, I kicked my husband out. And seventeen, I lost my girl, my Carry, your momma and, with her, my mind. I’m sorry, sweetheart. So sorry. But I’m here now, Mitchell, right here, and I’m not going anywhere, you hear me?”
“Why didn’t you let us see her; say goodbye!” I scream at her as tears form in my eyes.
“Mitchell …” she sighs.
“What?” I throw my hands in the air.
She shakes her head.
“Just say it!”
“When I called your house, Morgan answered the phone. I asked him to let me tell you, and he told me that Carry died when you were four, that Cara didn’t remember either of us and that you had just lost a friend. He told me that you both hated me, to leave you alone, and then he hung up.”
“What did you expect?” I ask in exasperation.
She shakes her head. “Not sure. But, like I said, I’m here now, and I never stopped loving you or your sister. Never will.”
When she turns around and leaves, I fight back anger, rage, sadness, pain, and get in my car.
Jamie
I’m not sure which part of what Carla said to Mitch that I overheard that made me run—maybe all of it—but when I get inside my building, I run into a wall. Looking up from where I’m now sitting on my ass, I see Fletcher Reed.
He holds out his hand. “Please accept my apologies.”
I don’t take his hand. I push myself up and nod. “Accepted.”
I immediately turn around and run out the door.
When I get to the curb, I head in the direction that I had just left and see the Maxima coming toward me. I step to the edge of the sidewalk and hold out my thumb, pretending I’m hitchhiking.
He pulls over, and honking starts up behind him. He reaches across the car and pushes the door open. “Where you heading, Flower?” He smiles, but his eyes have no shine.
I slide in and grab the seatbelt, buckling up. “Wherever you want to take me, Giddy-up.”
He chuckles as he taps the volume on his steering wheel and the dashboard confirms the voice is Post Malone, singing “Take What You Want.”
I reach over and take his hand. He squeezes mine gently, steering with his knee as he pulls his Aviators from his head and then begins weaving in and out of traffic until we get to the 81 North ramp, where he hits the gas and we fly.
Five songs pass, all heavier, harder, angrier than the last. He’s traveling at eighty miles per hour, still holding my hand gently, tapping his big, thick thumb against the steering wheel to the beat of every song that plays.
I reach up and lower the volume. “You wanna slow it down a bit?”
He looks down at the speedometer. “Only going eighty. Sign clearly says eighty-one.” Then he smiles, a genuine smile, and looks at me.
“Hey.” I smile back.
“Hey yourself.” He smirks
“You back?”
“You?”
I nod.
He squeezes my hand again. “Good.”
He turns the volume down further.
“You came looking for me?” he asks as he looks straight ahead.
“You left; I headed to my dorm. When I walked in, I literally ran into Fletcher Reed.”
He glances over at me. “And?”
“I fell on my ass, stood up, saw him, and thought about what you said at Sound.”
“What did I say exactly?” A smile starts to pull at his lips, but he suppresses it.
I laugh. “You know exactly what you said.”
“So, you want my tongue—”
“No!”
“Well, that’s gonna be a problem. ’Cause, as cool as it is kissing your lips till I know they’re good and bruised for at least four days, I also want to be able to have my tongue—”
“The part about not having some guy blowing smoke up my ass.”
“What if I take up smoking, and I wanna—”
“I’d tell you smoking is disgusting.”
“Your ass is smokin’ hot, and it’s far from disgusting.”
“So is yours, but I don’t wanna blow anything up it.”
He laughs out loud from deep inside. “Good to know.”
I can’t help laughing, too.
He slows down and asks, “You thirsty? There’s a stop about two miles up.”
“I could definitely use the bathroom.”
“Me, too.”
After a couple seconds of silence, he squeezes my hand again. “Do me a favor?”
I nod.
“Remember, this only hurts if we let it. I don’t want to hurt you, Flower.”
His words should heed warning. Add to what I witnessed today; I should be running back to Lawrinson. But, somehow, any fear of being used, of looking like a slut, of him hitting up a Jersey Chaser dissipate.
“So, we’re doing this, huh?”
I laugh. “What’s this?”
He laughs now, too. “Not sure, but it feels good.”
He pulls into the rest stop and parks.
“You do realize there’re empty parking spaces about a quarter-mile closer to the actual building, correct?”
He nods as he pushes his glasses up on his head and leans over the console. Dark and intense eyes capturing mine, he swipes his tongue across his lips, wetting them, as he inches his face closer to mine, his sweet, hot breath lulling me in. He reaches over and takes the back of my neck, gently but firmly pulling me closer with those large, calloused hands as he asks, “Do you know how long I’ve been thinking about doing this?”
Without a moment to tell him, me too, his lips are on mine, and he plunges his tongue between my parted lips, a guttural sound escaping from deep inside him as he licks inside my mouth, sweeping against my own needy tongue.
I love the way he tastes me, the way his hand guides my head to allow him to take control. It’s on the cusp of overpowering but never feels like more than a demand. He makes me feel powerless in the most obliging manner. He turns me upside down, yet I never leave the space in which his kiss … our kiss connects.
I open wider, giving him more of what he seeks. Heat spreads throughout me, need swelling in my warm and tingly most private parts.
As if he knows this, he unzips the coat that has kept me warm and blanketed for days in his absence and slides his hand inside.
He pulls his mouth away slowly as if knowing I don’t want to lose the connection, his hand opposing it, as well, as he cups my heavy, aching breasts over my shirt. He sucks on my tongue as he draws away moving his soft, pillow-like lips to my jaw, kissing, licking, sucking his way down my neck as he works his hand—my God, his hands—under my shirt, sliding it up my body to pull down the cup of my bra.
Dipping his head, his silky, dark waves tickle my skin while he licks across my nipple, causing a jolt of pleasure to take me away. He draws me closer by capturing my nipple between his lips, sucking harshly, biting, and pulling me into the space between right and wrong yet not indifferent.
With his other hand, now on the small of my back, he drags it around me until it’s hidden between my legs. He cups me over my leggings, rubs me, toys with me, mouth and hand working my body into a frenzy.
My hands that have unconsciously found their way into his hair, now travel down his body, landing on muscular, thick thighs, skating across his track pants, seeking his hardness.
Teeth clench around my nipple as he growls, “Fuck.”
He sucks th
e ache away, drawing it out, along with my own reaction of a throaty, “Yes.”
Rubbing him through his pants, his warmth welcome yet not enough, I want to feel the hot, soft skin in my bare hand … so I do.
“Fuuuck,” he groans, releasing my nipple from his mouth, hand moving, now pushing down my waistband and inside my panties. “Fucking soaked, Flower.”
Wrapping my hand around him, I begin to stroke him as he uses his finger to split me.
I gasp when he pushes a finger inside of me for the first time, and I take a quick breath and hold it as I absorb the feeling of fullness.
“So tight,” he growls as he curves his finger, hitting a spot that makes my grip tighten and my toes curl.
I push his chest back, wanting to taste him again.
“Did I hurt—”
I shake my head. “Don’t stop.”
I lean down and lick across his flesh, tasting the slightly salty moisture in his tip.
“Fuck, yes.” His hips buck slightly, and his dick thrusts farther into my mouth, causing me to gag a little.
“Sorry, Flower. I just …”
I lick down his shaft.
“Feels so good.”
I lick back up and across his head, wrap my mouth around the tip, flick my tongue over it, and he groans. Taking him deeper, he pulls his hand out of my pants, allowing me to lean in farther to take him in deeper as he rocks in and out of my mouth, slowly at first. Sucking harder, enticing groans of pleasure, stroking faster, his hips move, thrusting up on my downward motion.
He grips one of my braids when I flick my tongue across his head, and growls when I lay my tongue flat against the pulsing vein on the underside of his exceptionally hard and ever-growing cock. His thrust becomes harsher, his grip tighter, and my desire to lead dwindling as he shows me in sounds, in actions, in pleasing praises just what he needs.
“If you don’t stop, I’m gonna make it rain, Flower,” he groans
I glance up at him, see the dark storm in his eyes, and then take him in farther.
“Fuck, yes!” He thrusts. “Fuck, baby. Fuck, fuck, fuuuucccckkk!”
His cock jerks again and again as he fills my mouth.
