Nineteen
Porter
I sat in bed, propped against my pillow and the wall, as the room darkened with the setting sun.
The pizza was long finished, the box now empty on the floor and the television volume on low. I could hear whatever it was Nico was watching in the living room, but I stayed put.
To my right, Asher lay on her side; out for the night, if I had to guess.
This day had its rollercoaster moments, that was for damn sure.
I watched her sleep, as the week played back in my head. Being from such an open family, I knew that Asher holding back things was going to drive me fucking mad.
But I couldn’t even think about letting her go.
Not yet. Not when I was just starting to learn about her.
I turned my attention from her to my phone on the bed beside me, and I pulled up the Rockets WAGs site. Really, it was a blog that was run by no individual person. From what I gathered, and what Nico had explained when I first moved down, it was an open forum for anyone to post anything.
Every one of the Rockets’ players was listed—in roster order. Probably because, to some of these women, we were just a guy in a jersey with a certain number on our back.
I clicked on my name and the page loaded quickly. I clicked the link to put the posts in chronological order and started reading from September on.
The first few posts were filled with the usual whack jobs.
Some of the pictures posted were from high school, including one with Mo. I frowned. I hadn’t heard from her since she came down, not that I deserved it.
After that thought though, I realized that someone on here had access to my Facebook profile, and that I should check my security settings.
Then there were some posts from October. Apparently, I was better about keeping Asher to myself that weekend, because there wasn’t anything posted with her at that point.
December showed pictures from McKenna’s wedding, but some of those pictures were from Ken’s Facebook. Who the hell was friending my entire family?
The very first picture of Asher though, was from this week, and it was at the airport.
I had seen the cameras. I was just too focused on the girl with the braid coming toward me. The girl who this picture captured so perfectly, as she hugged my neck.
Her face was buried in my neck and my beanie looked like it was ready to fall off, but it was a damn good picture.
I saved it before scrolling through the comments.
‘Who’s the girl?’ the caption read.
The anonymous poster added a few more pictures of Asher and I walking toward baggage claim, hand in hand.
Sighing, I turned off my screen and put my phone back down beside me before swinging my legs off the bed. I needed to change.
I looked behind me at Asher sleeping peacefully. I was glad to say she hadn’t had another one of those crying-in-her-sleep moments she had the first weekend she stayed.
I leaned into the bed and, with my fists holding me, I bent down and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
Everything I did with her felt so fucking slow, but I knew—I just knew—that it would be worth it.
That she would be worth it.
I couldn’t explain it, but something clicked the first moment I saw her. I wasn’t kidding when I told her other girls didn’t have a chance once I saw her.
I spent years fighting for what I wanted. I was well-practiced.
I was more than prepared to fight for her—whether it was against her ghosts or against anyone who had an opinion on me being “off the market.”
Now I just needed her to believe it.
Asher
I woke to the door clicking shut.
Shooting up in bed, I stared into the darkness, disoriented.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Porter whispered in the dark. I heard him shuffle toward the bed and I forced my heart to stop racing before he turned on the lamp.
I looked over the bed at him and took him in. “It’s okay.” I had to swallow at the sight he presented. He must have showered, because his hair was wet and his face clean-shaven. All he wore were lounge pajama pants and they rode low on his hips, showcasing the six-pack and V-cut I knew he had.
He walked to his dresser and, this time, I took in his back. At just twenty, he was a lean but muscular beauty. I could only imagine what he’d look like in ten years.
Porter in ten years.
Would I still be around?
Would we still be together?
Would he be like his lookalike brother, and have children? I didn’t think I wasn’t fit to be someone’s mother.
Porter successfully halted the thoughts in my head when he pulled a shirt on over his head, covering up the inspiration for my thoughts. He turned back toward me, running his hand through his damp hair and shaking it at the top.
“I was going to wake you up eventually,” he said, walking to the bed. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to change.”
I was still in my leggings and hoodie and while it had been comfortable during the day, I learned earlier in the week that I got really warm in Porter’s bed.
Even with him on one side and me on the other, I could feel his body heat. The guy emitted it in waves.
“I think I’ll shower, too,” I said, crawling to the end of the bed on my knees. I stepped down and walked to the drawer that housed my clothes—messy now—and rummaged through until I found bike shorts and an oversized tee. Porter stood beside me, not bothering to move. When I turned to head into the bathroom, he put his hands on my face and lifted it up so his lips could come down to mine lightly.
“Thank you for being here this week. And for staying today.”
“Of course,” I said quietly, staring into his eyes. He pecked my lips once more, but when he moved to step back, I held my clothes to my chest and moved a hand to his neck, keeping him in place.
“Happy birthday,” I whispered against his lips and offering what he always started. I kept my lips light and fleeting before sucking, then nibbling, his lower lip. I wasn’t sure what got into me but I liked it.
And apparently Porter did too.
I was pressed against him everywhere, my hand trapped between our bodies, but that did little to stop feeling him everywhere else.
I could feel his heart pounding behind the back of my hand.
I could feel him hardening against my stomach.
My mouth faltered under his at the realization and I stared up at him.
Still Porter.
Only Porter.
“Shower,” he said, his voice thick.
I nodded.
Shower.
***
For the first time in years, I wanted someone.
I wanted Porter with my entire being, and I was equal parts excited and so fucking terrified.
I woke to searing pain.
I felt as he put a cold liquid between our bodies. “Not wet enough, girl.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on now—the hot water cascading down my body, the smell of Porter’s shower gel still lingering in the air.
With a trembling hand, and that last thought of him in my head, I reached between my thighs.
And was shockingly surprised to find myself slick. I bit my lip as I explored, my eyes locked ahead of me on the shower tile. I was swollen and wet. My body was ready.
Shouldn’t surprise you, disgusting girl, my inner demons taunted me.
As much as I tried to block those dark nights, I knew for a fact that while my body liked the act, it hadn’t been ready for it. Surely there was a difference?
The last time I touched myself was easily before the Johnson house. Curiously, I moved my finger past my swollen folds and forward, brushing my clit. I bit down on my lip. I was already hypersensitive.
His thumb rubbed rough circles over me.
I removed my hand and swallowed, squeezing my eyes shut and stepping back under the stream, allowing the water to fall down my front and back, the water submersing me in the way only a shower could.
I held my breath, warding off the memories.
I hoped I could be brave enough for Porter.
I hoped I could move past my seventeenth year of hell, and stop letting my memories turn to fears.
Because there was a really great guy in the next room, and I was afraid of losing him.
Of losing his family, I tried to argue with myself, but it was no use.
I wanted normal, and I wanted normal with Porter Prescott.