Seven
Asher
I looked over to my left, sure that Porter would be sleeping. I hadn’t heard a single thing from him in at least the last ten minutes, and the guy had proved to be a movie talker, chatting through the first hour.
We had ordered a pizza and holed up in his room, using his bed—dressed with new sheets—and the wall as a couch. I sat as close to the corner as possible, and Porter respected my space, even going as far as putting the pizza box between us—assuring me that there was at least twelve inches of space between us.
We were watching “When the Bough Breaks,” which was actually really good—even if some of the scenes left me a little uncomfortable, watching them with Porter right there. But never once did he crack a joke, or make some sexist remark. He was more of a “Shit, she didn’t,” kind of commenter.
His gaze on the television, he must have felt me staring at him because he looked over, offered a smile, and turned back to the movie. I slouched against the wall and tilted my head comfortably, my attention on the TV once again.
Porter, for as much as he harped on and on at IKEA about bed sets, only had a bed frame and the mattress utilized the wall as its headboard. But maybe that was a guy thing.
The movie was ending, and I stifled a yawn.
It was a good movie, but after traveling, the unexpected change in plans, and Porter’s reaction…
I was tired.
I closed my eyes for just a second…
***
I woke with a start.
Something was touching my leg.
I was on my back, in the dark.
In a room I didn’t recognize.
I didn’t sit up, not wanting to draw attention to myself, and moved my eyes. The wall was to my right and to my left…
Porter, I thought with relief.
The day’s events came rushing back at me and I realized I must have fallen asleep during the movie.
The room was dark and Porter lay beside me on his stomach.
Over the covers, that I was somehow under.
His arms were under a bunched pillow and his face was in my direction. It was creepy, watching him sleep, but I’d give myself a few more minutes.
Porter’s face was completely relaxed in sleep. In the dark, I could hardly make out the scar in his eyebrow, or the crease in his cheek where his dimple sat. He slept with his mouth parted ever so slightly, but he didn’t snore.
Which was kind of embarrassing, because I was fairly certain that I did.
I shifted to my side, facing him, but scooted back so I was nearly against the wall. The pizza box was nowhere to be found, but other than his foot having made purchase with my shin, Porter kept a respectable distance between us, even in sleep.
I lay on my side, drawing my legs up to my chest and as my hands stayed under my cheek, and continued to take him in. My showing up unannounced was as much a surprise to him as it was, in the end, to me, but he took it in stride. He didn’t act put-out or upset.
Then again, I learned that the Prescotts were pretty impressive people, so it didn’t really surprise me. I couldn’t help but smile, my cheek pushing against my hands, as I remembered the way he tried to clean up after I had already started.
I’d needed something to do. I didn’t mean to step on toes, but like I said—he took it all in stride. And when he’d shortened my name, when he first saw me…
I sighed quietly and tried to close my eyes, tried falling back to sleep with giddy thoughts of Porter giving me a nickname, but his whisper broke through the silence.
“Why’re you staring at me?”
I popped my eyes back open, my face flushing, but his lids were still closed. Was he talking in his sleep? Surely, he didn’t know…
His lids slowly lifted and the grin he gave me was tired and boyish and so damned handsome. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he said.
“That’s my line,” I whispered back, trying to ignore my pounding heart.
Sure, in the last few months I did a lot of changing on the outside, but the inside changes were only starting to take root. The fact that I was lying in a bed with a guy, and not terrified that he was going to try something?
I thought that was a pretty big step.
But still, the nerves were there and I was trying my hardest to keep them at bay.
“You had a busy day. And the time difference.”
“It’s only an hour.”
“Still, it’s an hour.” Our voices were still whisper-soft and when he winked at me in the dark, I felt my flush start to heat again.
Porter rolled over onto his back, scooting back into the spot he just vacated, and stretched long. The hoodie he still wore rose and his track pants pulled down, and I quickly averted my eyes around the room, finally settling on the space of bed between us.
He finished his stretch and placed his hands on his stomach, turning his head on his pillow to look over at me.
“You sleep okay?”
I nodded. “I did.”
“You were…” He looked up at the ceiling a moment before looking back over at me. “You were having a dream. And still sitting up. I didn’t want you to get a crick in your neck, so I laid you down. I only wanted to be sure you were going to be okay before I took the couch. Sorry.”
I didn’t remember the dream—I didn’t remember many—but decided I was thankful that he watched over me.
“You want to talk?” he asked and I frowned.
“About?”
He shrugged, the sound of his shoulders moving against the pillow a crinkle in the otherwise quiet room. “Anything.” He looked over to his other side before back to me. “It’s five. I have to be up in thirty minutes anyway. I mean, you can sleep, I’ll just get started early.”
I shook my head. “No. It’s okay. We can talk.”
With the darkness in the room and the softness of our voices, this felt like a rather big moment to me. How much could I share with him in the dark?
The dark was where my monsters lived.
But maybe, just maybe, I could find a light in the darkness.
“Mom couldn’t stop talking about your photography skills. She’s impressed.”
I smiled at him. “She’s a good teacher.”
“Do you have an art background?”
I shrugged a shoulder and rolled to my back, getting comfortable again with my left hand on my stomach and bringing my right up under my head. I decided it was a fairly vulnerable position, but realized I was rather comfortable with Porter.
“No?” I heard the grin in his voice and it brought out one of my own.
“I designed my tattoo. I used to draw and paint, but I kept it to myself,” I admitted, my gaze up on the dark ceiling.
“You know, I haven’t gotten a good look at your tattoo. You’ve always got sleeves on.”
“That’s because it’s cold.”
Porter chuckled. “It was easily still seventy when I met you.”
I stayed quiet for the moment. “I’m from Tennessee.” I rolled my head to look at him. “It was a twenty degree drop. It was cold.”
“I thought I heard a drawl.”
I grinned wide and moved my hand from my stomach to hit his side, not realizing I was doing the too-familiar action until it was already done. “I don’t have an accent,” I mumbled, bringing my hand back to my chest, and my gaze back to the ceiling.
“Can I see it? Your tattoo?”
“Do you have tattoos?”
“What, is this going to be a ‘you show me yours’ situation? Start with tattoos, move to piercings?”
I startled. Piercings? I had the ones in my ears, and he had the plugs in his. Did he think I had more…intimate…ones? And did that mean he did? “Maybe,” I finally answered, trying hard to ignore the piercings thought.
Porter chuckled before jackknifing out of bed. I watched him in the shadows move toward his door and I closed my eyes nearly a second too late, as the room flooded with light.
“Mine aren’t all that exciting. I’m sure yours are more interesting,” he said, walking back toward the bed. He folded a leg under him as he sat on the edge of the bed, and I watched as he pulled off his hoodie, and the t-shirt underneath, in one smooth motion, the muscles in his sides and stomach flexing as he did so. He let the material drop to the bed between us but my eyes were focused on the muscle cuts along his side.
And the single bar running through his left nipple.
I found my mouth going dry.
It had been a while since I’d seen a bare-chested guy outside of magazines and movies. Even he had worn his shirt at night.
I shook my head from the memory. I was doing a damned good job keeping that time of my life in the past—where it needed to stay.
Porter was all muscle. At nineteen, his body was absolutely flawless.
“My eyes are up here,” he said, snapping his fingers in front of my face.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurted out, my eyes undoubtedly wild on his.
He just chuckled at me. “No reason to blush. Even though it’s cute.” He held his left arm out, showcasing a large Roman numeral eleven that spanned nearly from his armpit to his elbow. “For my seventeenth birthday, all us kids went to get the eleven put on us. The girls have one—”
“On their wrists,” I finished for him, realization dawning. “I saw Avery’s and was curious.”
He nodded. “Eleven was our dad’s number while playing. It’s even the number Cael and I both play with. And there are eleven years and eleven months and,” he held up a finger with a grin, “eleven days, between Myke, my oldest sibling, and myself, the baby of the group. Totally unplanned but very much an odd family coincidence.”
I pushed myself up to sit in the corner, the wall flanking my sides, and I drew my legs up to my chest. Still, I smiled. “I really like your family,” I said, my voice going quiet once again.
“My family really likes you,” he answered back, just as softly, his eyes locked on mine. I squeezed my knees to my chest and rested my chin on the tops when he finally looked away.
He twisted his body so I could see the left side of his ribs. “And the obligatory ‘mom’ tattoo,” he said, a wistful note in his tone. His brows were drawn down just a fraction and I sensed there was more to it, but just as he respected my past, I was going to respect his.
“Very nice. I’m sure Ryleigh is very proud.”
He chuckled. “Oh, she is.” He reached for his shirts again and pulled them back on before he sat back against the wall, his legs out and crossed at the ankle. “Your turn.”
I ran my tongue over my lower lip before biting down on the corner. It was only fair…
I let go of my knees so I could move them under me, reaching for the hem of my own hooded sweatshirt. I separated the thicker material from the cami I wore underneath and pulled the hoodie off.
“They’re nothing fancy,” I warned as I folded-bunched the sweatshirt into my lap. I rotated my shoulder as I kneeled in front of him, so he could see the full slashes of watercolor.
“Just abstract, more or less,” I said offhandedly.
“Just liked the colors?” I watched as his eyes moved up the length of my arm before meeting mine.
I looked down at my arm, the reasons behind it filtering in and out of my thoughts. Finally, I answered, “The lower colors are earthy tones, to remind me to keep my feet on the ground. But the upper colors are those of a darkened night sky. That it’s okay to dream.” I shrugged my shoulders and moved my gaze from the artwork to his green eyes, incredibly intent on mine. “And the mandala on my shoulder is to filter out the negative.”
“You have stories.” It wasn’t a question.
“I have stories,” I agreed, before turning over my arm, showing him the final piece on my arm, the beautiful arrow with hero making up the shaft. “But I’m the hero of them.”
“Not looking for a hero, ‘ey?” he asked me, and I recognized it for what it was—keeping the mood light when it had the very real possibility of going dark.
I scrunched my nose and shook my head. “Don’t set yourself up for failure that way. The only one who can fail you is yourself, then.”
And even then, sometimes that’s the case.
Porter
When she took off her sweatshirt, I tried extremely hard to keep my eyes on her face, but under her sweatshirt was a thin white tank top, and under that, was a lacy white bra, and I could make out the shadows of her nipples through both layers.
She just turned eighteen, asshole.
Yeah, that and, she had some very real ghosts, I thought, remembering our first conversation. She may say she didn’t, but it was in the unease in her eyes, the way she was always fiddling with her shirt sleeves.
Just once, I wanted to watch her let loose, be happy, laugh.
A picture of her laughing flashed through my mind, the colors in her eyes dancing as she tilted her head back, her hair loose and wild and just as abandoned as she.
When she’d fallen asleep last night, I turned off the movie and watched her for a minute before laying her down. Like I told her, she’d been in some sort of dream. Not a thrashing nightmare, but she’d had a deep frown on her face and when a tear slipped down her cheek? I can’t say I could put a label on my reaction, but it was one I hadn’t ever before experienced. Shortly after, she’d gotten comfortable and slept deeply, her breathing evening out. I stayed to be sure she didn’t get thrown into another dream.
In sleep, she looked very much like the young kid she was. I mean, I knew she was legal now, but when she was sleeping, she lost that hard edge that seemed to grace her.
The tension in her body.
The storms in her eyes.
It was all gone in sleep. She was relaxed and with her mass of hair swirling around the pillows, she was almost…
Angelic.
She didn’t need a hero, no, but I wondered if she would ever let anyone in close enough to help ward off the storms in her mind.
I scoffed at the idea.
You signing up for the job, fucker?
Actually…
Yeah.
Yeah, I would sign up for it in a heartbeat.
And what kind of fucking sap did that make me?
Nineteen, in the career of a lifetime, pussy and tits more than available for me, and I wanted the girl who somehow wound up in my hometown on accident.
Literally.
“You do breakfast?” I asked, needing to get back to reality. I reached for her hoodie, lifting it off her folded knees, and handing it up to her.
Rather than torture myself and watch her chest as she dressed, my mind flashing back to the shadows I knew were there, I got off the bed.
Damn good thing, too, because my dick decided it was a good time to jump to attention. I groaned, pushing on the obtrusion.
This was no morning wood.
This was very much, I’m-attracted-to-the-brunette-in-my-bed, wood.
And track pants did fucking little to hide the evidence.
Before she could answer, I was heading toward my bedroom door. “I gotta piss,” I said, needing some sort of normalcy. It was semi-true though. I was a first-thing-in-the-morning dude, and it would give me a chance to do something about this boner. “When you’re good, meet me in the kitchen. I can make you something.”
Nico may be the one to do pre-game meals, but I was on my own for breakfast. Guy only did protein shakes before practice and I needed something a little more than an eight-ounce glass of milk with thirty grams of protein and whatever the hell else he decided to put in it.
I needed more substance.
I left my room before Asher could say something. With all the blood having rushed to my cock, I couldn’t deal with her sexy, husky voice at the moment. It was a recipe for fucking disaster.
Thank God Nico with his protein shakes didn’t start moving around until an hour before we had to leave, which meant the bathroom was clear for me to use. He wouldn’t be up for another thirty minutes, so we could leave for morning skate by seven.
A couple of us got to the rink early to lift weights, with the optional game-day team skate starting at eight. We’d be off the ice by nine, napping by ten, and back at the rink by two.
This morning was going to go by in a fucking blur.
By the time I got into the bathroom, my erection died down and I could piss in peace, but as I was washing my hands, my thoughts once again turned to Asher.
What the hell was she going to do today?
Would she want to go to the game?
I could get her good seats. Behind our attack zone. Or somewhere on the Plexiglas. She’d maybe get a kick out of that.
Or behind the bench, near the tunnel.
Hm.
Not the best seats in the house but, still—they were still kind of the best seats in the house.
I regarded my reflection.
She may not even want to go, dick face.
But if she did, maybe after, I could take her to dinner or something.
Then I found myself wondering if she brought clothes, other than her long-sleeved shirts and jeans, and suddenly my mind just completely took her out of her clothes.
Just…bam. Down to lace and more lace.
White lace contrasting against her olive skin, the bright colors on her arm…
And fucking just like that, I was hard as a rock again.
God fucking damn.
I hadn’t gotten a damned hard-on like this in a long time—not since probably the last time Mo stripped for me. This was an “I’m-having-sex” kind of boner. My cock was ready and raring to go.
I turned off the water and dried my hands, listening carefully for any sounds coming from the hall. I just needed a few minutes.
Yeah, a few seconds.
Just the thought of her hands, her mouth…
My cock twitched in appreciation.
Yeah, a few seconds was all I was gonna need.