by M. J. Fields
When he finishes, I lick him clean, before I sit back in my seat, fix my bra, and look in the visor mirror.
Panting, he says lazily, “Sorry I fucked up your hair.”
I look over to see him completely and totally relaxed, which never seems to be his normal state.
I like it.
“Jesus, Jamie,” he sighs. “I don’t do jealous, but I hate every man who’s had those lips wrapped around him and all those who will after me.”
My heart sinks a bit, but when he looks at me, I try to mask it.
He sits up and grabs the back of my head, pulling me closer. Against my lips, he whispers. “Right now, your licks, as well as you being licked, are you and me. It’s fucking cuddle season, Flower.”
About half the heavy blow to my heart is removed.
“My favorite season to date”—he kisses me softly—“because of you.”
And suddenly, my insides are beaming again.
Walking toward the rest stop, hand-in-hand, feels good. So good that we both stand waiting for the other to let go and walk into the bathrooms. I cave first because I really want to try to make sense of my hair.
After using the toilet, washing my hands, and fixing my braids, I walk out and look around for him.
“Am I that hard to miss?” I hear him say and look across the long corridor as people walk in and out of their perspective bathrooms.
When there is a lull in traffic, I walk toward him, and he snaps a picture of me on his phone.
I smile. “What are you doing?”
“You look better than any porn star I’ve ever seen.”
“You watch that?”
He laughs. “Me, every man, and most women in the world.”
I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. I mean, clearly, it’s not to most people, and having never watched it, it’s not like I know.
“Flower, you just gave me head in the parking lot of a thruway rest stop, and you’re turning red at the idea of porn?”
“Well, don’t get any ideas,” I warn him.
“By saying that, you actually gave me more than one.”
“I could cut my release time in half.” He grabs my hand. “Let’s go grab a burger and drink. You must be thirsty as hell.”
I bat his hand away.
Mitch
Sitting across the table from Jamie, laughing to myself, I’m still staring at her mouth.
She wipes her lips with a napkin … again. “Are you sure there’s nothing on my lips?”
I nod.
“Is that a yes, or is that no?” she huffs.
I smirk. “Both.”
She tosses her napkin at me and stands.
As she starts to walk by, I grab her hand, stopping her.
“Where are you going?”
“To the bathroom to fix my face.”
I stand up and guide her back to her seat. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
She glares at me.
I lean in and whisper, “Just wondering how I can make it through seeing you in the dining hall, at Sound, at games, anywhere actually, and not get hard thinking about how fucking hot it was when you licked my cum off your lips.”
I sit down and watch her soulful, brown eyes widen, her sexy full lips twitch, trying not to smile, as she shakes her head. “You have issues.”
“Knew that from the first time I saw my next need.” I pop a fry in my mouth.
She rolls her eyes. “Your next need, huh?”
I nod.
“Tell me more about you.”
When she asked me that question on the ride back, my Jamie, the induced haze of happiness that had acted like an IG filter over something truly ugly in life lifted.
While trying to figure a way to answer that question, she filled in the dead air between us.
“I guess it’s not important; just didn’t find anything posted on SU …” She stops, and I see her face scrunch up and can’t help laughing.
“I’m not a stalker.”
“Never said you were, but now that you mention it …”
“Ha, ha.”
“Not big on social media.”
Now she laughs. “Says the man who runs an app called Jersey Chasers.”
I grab her hand and squeeze it. “Don’t hate a man for looking outside the box for opportunity.”
She laughs again, and so do I after realizing the double entendre I just slung without even trying.
“Meaning,” I playfully squeeze her hand, “to make money, not to get laid. Not for nothing, but that hasn’t been an issue since I hit the gym when I decided to get off the farm.” I pause and look at her.
“Sorry about the farm boy remark.”
“Don’t be. Hell, I’ve been working my ass off since I can remember to get off the farm and make something of myself.”
“Looks like your hard work has paid off.”
I smile, because she’s not wrong, but having someone say it to you … well, that makes it even more real.
“Thanks, Flower. You, too.”
“Yeah.” She looks out the window and sighs.
I squeeze her hand to get her attention that I would really like back.
She looks over and smiles, sweet as nectar, at me and, fuck, if that doesn’t feel just as good as the words she just stroked the hell out of my ego with.
Aside from her singing, we ride in silence for most of the way back to campus, holding hands and listening to music. I decide that her voice is now tied for first with rain on a tin roof, one my favorite sounds.
“Six fucking weeks? That’s all she gets for almost killing you?” I huff when JT tells me that Lilyanne is coming home … again.
“She hit me a few times. Far from almost killing me.” He laughs.
Of course, he laughs.
I never had the balls to ask him what the fuck would make him try to kill himself. I mean, why ask a question to something you already know the answer to?
Dad’s right, I think. Women are only good for one thing. Well, I think so, anyway. I’ve yet to find out. But, since shedding the weight and growing three inches over the summer, Megan has been checking me out.
“She’s fucking crazy,” I huff.
He shrugs. “Runs in the family I guess.”
“Your mom?”
He nods once.
“Yeah, mine, too.”
We fist bump then walk onto the field.
“Moore,” Coach calls my name. I don’t get all fucking off-balance like I used to. He probably needs someone to refill the fucking water jug again. “You’re playing QB today. Elks is out for the season—torn rotator cuff.”
It doesn’t matter one fucking bit that everyone on the team is mumbling under their breaths, I have JT.
“This is your chance, man.” He grins. “Let’s show them what you got.”
And we do.
Walking off the field, covered in sweat and feeling like I just got run over by a tractor, I am on cloud fucking nine.
I’m starting for the first time in Saturday’s game.
I keep myself in check, don’t let myself show anyone how fucking excited I am. Hell, I try to trick myself into believing I’m not, because I know damn well that proverbial rug can get jacked out from under me in less time it took my dad to kick a woman out of our house after he nailed her.
Three weeks later, and I’m no longer the chubby nothing from nowhere. I’m the quarterback from a school who has one hell of a chance at winning State.
Standing outside my truck, waiting for JT, who’s in Coach’s office, getting his ass reamed because he’s not pulling his weight in class or on the field, Megan Schooney and her girls walk past me.
“Hey, Mitch, you’re looking good on the field.”
I can’t even reply. Not one fucking word comes out of my mouth.
My truck door slams shut, and I look over my shoulder, seeing Lilyanne is inside the cab, giving them the bird.
I climb into the truck. “The fuck is wrong with
you?”
I hear the sound of laughter coming from the group of cheerleaders.
“They didn’t give a fuck about you before so—”
“Crazy bitch,” comes from the crowd, and Lilyanne reaches for the passenger door.
I reach across the cab to stop her from going after them and accidentally grab her hair.
“He snatched her weave!” Laughter erupts from the girls.
I look at Lilyanne, who I know damn well is about to lose her shit all over me, then glance down at the hair in my hand. When I look back up at her, she looks horrified, but that changes really quick.
She turns and slams the door open. “Bitch, you’re about to say that to my face.”
I jump back out of the truck as she takes off after Claire Demonte.
“That was a Dollar Store weave. I’m about to snatch that shit your momma spends her check on tryin’ to make you something she never could be.”
Fuck, I think as I hurry over, and Claire says, “At least my momma’s alive.”
I have no fucking idea what I was thinking when I grabbed Lilyanne and jacked her back, but as Lilyanne told me the next day, when she got hauled into the principal’s office as soon as the three of us walked into school, it was the stupidest thing I ever did.
When I walk into the house, it’s late, and Logan’s the only one awake.
He looks over his shoulder at me. “You get laid yet?”
“Thought you told me you didn’t want to hear about my personal shit?” I laugh as I walk over to the fridge and grab a bottle of water.
“Well, someone should be getting laid around here.”
“You ever think of bowing out? Why fight for something that’s—”
“You think I wanna fuck her?” he asks in anger.
No fucking clue how to answer that shit. I mean, this is Links, that’s what he does—he fucks and plays ball.
“Not sure how to proceed in this conversation without getting my head ripped off, so I’m gonna go with the truth. Dude, I have no fucking idea why you’re so twisted over someone who makes you miserable, but—”
“You may think eating pussy is—”
I hold my hand up, cutting him off. “She gives killer head, too.”
That catches him off guard. He looks confused.
“First night together, and tonight in my car, in a parking lot.” I begin to sit. “Lips wrapped around my coc—”
“Still don’t want to hear about it.” He stands. “Goodnight.”
I laugh. “Dude, we used to chat.”
“You used to chat; I just listened,” he says, walking into his room.
He’s not wrong.
After a shower, I’m lying in bed, scrolling through my phone, wanting to send her a text when I realize I don’t even have her fucking number.
I scroll through Facebook and find her account. It’s private.
I hover over add friend and then decide to clean my shit up a bit before doing that.
I hit my photo app and stare at the picture of her coming out of the bathroom at the rest stop. She’s the epitome of beauty and grace. The way she carries herself screams confidence, even though, at times, I know damn well she’s lacking it. When she’s sucking dick, its not one of those times.
My Flower’s thirsty. Her untapped body begs to be ridden. Thick, tight curves; strong, muscular calves; nice, perky tits, a handful each; and an ass that I could eat. God, how I want to eat that ass. Her hair that is in its natural state of shoulder-length, tight curls—the way I like it best—all pulled back into a tight, braids—my second favorite—showcasing her beautiful face. Those eyes, not scared but soulful; those plush lips; her cheekbones, sharp and beautiful. She has a light around her at all times, figuratively, of course. Well, all except that night in my room. I’m still not convinced she’s not an angel.
Jamie, you’re fucking with my defenses.
I reach under my mattress and pull out the book that puts it all in perspective, and one of the many letters drops out from the hardcover.
YOU! ARE! SUCH! AN! IDIOT!
I’m probably gonna get suspended because of you! Maybe even go back to juvie! And no, that’s not crazy talk, Farmer M.; that’s reality.
Had you let me snatch that bitch’s weave, I would have gotten jumped by all of those heifers, the ugliest one being Megan. (Why you gotta like ugly?!?) And this all would have been swept under the rug. But now my “aggressive display of behavior is cause for grave concern for this school’s staff and students.”
You know who should be in the grave, Farmer M.? YOU for being AN IDIOT!
The asshole principal is going to talk with my stank-breath counselor before deciding if I should be suspended from school and ALL extracurricular activities, including my brother’s games! Oh, and you could be fucking up JT’s chances here. The coach had to beg our foster parents to keep us because, news flash: JT needs me here, and no one else is standing in line to take him in.
I go, so does he.
Great. Fucking. Job.
P.S. You’re an IDIOT!
I smile at Lilyanne’s handwriting and hold the letter to my chest.
Fucking hurts, Lily.
Still fucking hurts.
But it doesn’t smell like you anymore.
The next morning, Carla pushes our plates of eggs, bacon, and has added to it—bowls of fruit—toward us.
“Thanks, Carla.” Logan smiles. “See, we have an addition.”
“Fruit gives you all the vitamins you’re lacking now since it’s cold and the sun isn’t gracing your faces. No need to get those winter woes.”
She looks at me and smiles. “Good morning, Mitchell.”
“Morning.”
I don’t call her Carla, because Logan has an unnatural old lady hard-on for her and gets sideways. And I don’t call her Grandma, because she hasn’t earned it.
“Thank you.”
I take the tray and walk to the table closest to Jamie’s.
After setting my tray on the table, I turn around, lean over her, and place one hand on each side of her, palms down on the table. “I’m gonna need your digits.”
She looks up. “You talking to me?”
I smile and rest my forehead against hers, inhaling her morning scent, and smile. “I am.”
Jamie
Mitch snatches my phone off the table and sends a text to himself. Then he sets it down and walks back to the table he’s sitting at, with Logan.
Unable to contain the smile, I look at Christy and Lisa.
Christy whispers, “You didn’t even have his number until now?”
I shrug. “Never asked.”
“You got game.” Lisa sighs. “Major game.”
I look at Elle, who is frowning while pushing her food around her plate.
“I have confidence,” I project, wishing I could give her some. Hell, I’d even give her all the fake self-confidence that got me into this.
What the hell is this? I internally laugh at myself.
I look down at my vibrating phone and hit the text.
Right there in a gray bubble with black writing is my answer.
Mitch: You smell good. Real good. Good enough to eat.
Me: I know.
I hear Mitch chuckle from behind me and turn around. He winks, I smile, and he turns back around.
Well, I think to myself, it’s an experience.
I see bubbles jumping across and message him to cut him off:
It’s girl time, hot stuff. School is school time. You and me, we’re the in-between.
Mitch: The sheets, the seats … I’ll take you in-between, Flower.
Smiling inside, I make a big show of putting my phone in my bag. Not because I’ve got game, but because I don’t want to get any Moore caught up than I already am.
Mitch and Logan are standing with the DJ at Sound, waiting for their turn to sing.
I look at Elle. “He’s certainly persistent.”
She nods, looking indifferent.<
br />
“He likes you, Elle. Maybe let him off the hook?”
The minute the words leave my lips, I feel like I’ve betrayed my friend.
“I mean, if you like him, then …” I stop when she literally cringes.
When the song starts, the same one he sang last week, “Count On Me” by Bruno Mars, begins I whisper, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine.” She tries to smile. “I need to use the bathroom.”
When Logan is finished, he walks off stage, and Mitch jumps up, like, literally jumps, which gains lots of cheers and catcalls.
I scan the room, seeing twice as many people here as normal.
“The female population doubled this past week,” Elle says. “Maybe he’ll leave me alone now.”
When I start to follow her, Lisa grabs the back of my shirt and jacks me back.
“Girl—”
“Don’t girl me. I’ll go; you stay. He’s singing for you.”
“The moon outside, too bright. Those blinds, yeah, let’s just keep them closed. You know, my hands they know where to go, to find your fingertips, trace them back to your lips …”
“Unholy fuck.” I sigh.
Christy grins. “You don’t know this song, do you?”
“No. Why?”
She smiles bigger. “Wait for it.”
I chuckle. “Wait for what?”
“Make my world go black, hit me like a heart attack …”
“It’s called ‘Black’!” Christy grabs my hand. “He’s singing to you,”—she sighs—“again!”
“You’re so stupid,” I mouth to him.
He winks and continues on, smiling proudly at himself.
“Oh man, he’s totally into you,” Christy cheeses, right before her smile falters. “You really need to give him some voice lessons.”
Standing outside of Sound, Mitch takes my hands. “I really enjoy watching you up there. When are we gonna sing together?”
“You want to sing”—I pause and focus on keeping my voice steady—“with me?”
He laughs. “Fuck yes, I do.”
