In Control (The City Series) (15 page)

With my nerves on the back burner, we walked to his house. The walk wasn’t long, and a few times, Porter would bump my shoulder purposefully. He would laugh, then I would laugh, then he’d reach his arm out to touch my elbow. He told me all about
Grand Theft Auto
and how he’d beaten it at least five times already. Just to keep from talking about myself, I continued to ask him questions about the game, specifically what the point of it was and why it was sounded so violent. Porter left no detail out, going into specifics of how the character in the game had to rise through the ranks of organized crime and how to progress through the storyline by stealing cars and assassinating other characters. To me, it sounded like a blood bath and something I never wanted to play. Of course, I didn’t let Porter know that.

When we got to his house, I was able to finally see where he had grown up. The light brick home had eight steps leading up to the large front door. There was a balcony with a massive beam holding it up and plants and flowers surrounding the area. I felt completely out of place as I walked up the steps. Once we stepped inside, I went from feeling out of place to feeling like I was an alien. Everything around me looked foreign. High ceilings and painted walls hung with colorful paintings. A fireplace adorned with family photos. The biggest television I’d ever seen, other than what was at the movie theater. Everything inside Porter’s house screamed expensive. I was afraid to move, fearful I’d knock something over.

“Before we get any farther, we need to take our shoes off. My mom doesn’t allow them past the living room. She says they’ll ruin her hardwood floors,” Porter said skeptically.

I took off my sneakers and placed them neatly by the door. I was glad I had thrown on decent socks that morning. I only owned a few pairs that didn’t have holes in them.

Porter led us into the kitchen, where his mom sat at the table. Her blonde hair shined bright in the sun, and when she turned to us, a polite smile framed her cheeks.

“Kingsley,” she sang as she walked toward me and grabbed my hand, “it’s wonderful to meet you. Welcome to our home.”

“Hello. Thank you for having me,” I responded nervously.

“Would you two like something to drink? I’m baking cookies as well.” Mrs. Henning walked to the stove and opened it the slightest bit. “They’re almost done!” She turned back excitedly. “How about some milk?”

“Sure, Mom.”

Porter sat down at the table and I followed, taking the seat next to his. Within minutes, a heaping plate of cookies was set in front of us and the sweet smell of chocolate filled the air. My stomach growled, and since I was banned from eating at the Hendersons’ today, I was thankful to Mrs. Henning for making us snacks. There were ten cookies and I had to refrain myself from reaching out and taking them all. I grabbed one, took a bird-sized bite, and chewed slowly. They were still warm and the chocolate melted right on my tongue. The more I chewed, the hungrier I became.

“These are so good, Mom!” Porter enthused.

“They really are!” I chimed in.

“Great. You two enjoy. I’m going upstairs.”

I had a feeling she didn’t want to impose, but I was also sort of happy she was leaving. With Porter, I could act natural, but if his mom was around, I’d have to try my hardest to seem like I wasn’t the girl from the wrong side of the block.

“Best cookies ever,” Porter raved.

I nodded, my mouth full from a third cookie. For so long, I’d tasted the same things every day—bland oatmeal, leftovers, food that was expired but had to be eaten because it’s all we had. As I chewed on the delicious chocolate chip cookie, I contemplated how I was ever going to eat my oatmeal again without yearning for something better.

Once the plate of cookies was gone (Porter had seven, I had three), I followed him into their living room. A leather sectional took up most of the space, aside from the glass coffee table. There was a bouquet of roses in a pretty vase on top of the table and I wondered if they were a present from Mr. Henning. I became lost in a thought of receiving flowers from Porter. I wouldn’t have anywhere to keep them though, and if the Hendersons saw them, I’d probably be in big trouble. They never told me that I couldn’t date boys, but I’m pretty sure they never thought they’d have to worry about it. I was quiet when I was under their roof. For all they knew, I didn’t have any friends.

“I’m pretty stuffed from those cookies, but I can make us some popcorn still, if you want some,” Porter offered.

“Oh, no, I’m stuffed too.” It was a lie, but I didn’t want him to go through the trouble of making it just for me.

After Porter made a show of trying to figure out how to play a VHS tape, we finally sat down. The couch had to seat at least ten adults, but still, Porter sat right next to me.

“This better be a good movie,” he teased. “Or else.”

“Or else what?” I countered.

“Or else,” he turned toward me slowly and began raising his hands, “I’ll tickle you!”

His hands ran all over my stomach, my arms, my knees, and I fleetingly wondered if he felt the scab on my stomach from where I’d cut myself. I could never tell anyone what I’d done to my body. Not even Porter. His fingers continued moving across my skin, thankfully never stopping long enough to feel the mark I’d made.

“That’s enough,” I begged. “Please!”

Porter stopped, but instead of moving his hands off of me completely, he kept one my knee. We both looked from each other to where his hand was. It was the same knee he touched on the last day of school, only this time it stayed.

As the movie played, I kept looking at his hand and hoping he’d never move it. The skin beneath it was burning, and I wanted so badly to tell Porter how much I liked him. I didn’t realize how long the movie was, until two hours in, he yawned and commented that there was still so much left. I’d told him we could turn it off and put whatever he’d like in, but he just smiled, saying that it was worth it. At one point, Porter’s mother walked into the living room, sat down at the edge of the couch, and mouthed some of the lines from the film. Porter and I both laughed at this, not believing someone could watch such a long movie
so
many times. Mrs. Henning didn’t stay long, and the moment she left the room, Porter’s hand moved back to my knee.

“Kingsley, you should be kissed, and often. And by someone who knows how,” Porter imitated.

“Oh, and I suppose you think you’re the proper person?” I played along.

“I might be,” he whispered as his head moved closer to mine.

His lips inched forward; I’d never felt more nervous for anything in my entire life. He was so close I could smell his woodsy soap. I could see every individual eyelash. I could feel his breath hitting my cheek. I swallowed. Once. Twice. And right before I had the chance to swallow again, he kissed me.

Wren opened the door and my eyes immediately shot up to take in the massively high ceiling. The exposed beams met in the center, each one looking like a piece of art rather than just hunks of stained oak. At the very center of the ceiling, a circular chandelier hung down, vintage glass bulbs lighting the surface.
In between two grand staircases stood a large mirrored table topped with an arrangement of gorgeous white peonies.

“Geez, you’d think royalty lived here,” I joked.

Everything in the house seemed enormous. The staircases, the chandelier, the naked sculpture standing in the corner—
all huge and more imposing than any home I’d ever been in.

“And it’s always nice being greeted by a naked woman.”

Wren laughed. “Her name is Eve. It’s by a French artist named Auguste Rodin.”

“And she’s naked,” I repeated.

“My dad’s an art dealer. This is one of his most prized pieces.”

I studied the sculpture, unable to see the appeal. One of Eve’s arms was covering her breasts, and with the other, she was shielding her face.

“Wren! You’re here!” A woman’s exuberant voice filled the air. She walked past me, straight into Wren’s arms. Once the embrace ended, she turned around. “Kingsley,” she said, taking a step closer to me. “It’s nice to finally meet you. My son has been talking about you for months.”

I politely shook her hand and smiled. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Kavanagh.”

“Call me Evelyn.”

Wren’s mother was exceptionally beautiful. Her jet black hair was swept up elegantly, not a strand out of place, and her petite frame was clothed in a loose-fitting navy dress, a white cardigan, and black leather flats. She smelled like the perfume section of Barney’s, only the richest aromas scenting her skin. Wren shared her sharp features, and for a moment I wondered if I looked like either one of my parents.

She dropped her hand and I could have sworn I saw her wipe it on her pant leg. The silence became awkward. Wren stared at the two of us. His mother looked from me to Wren. I focused on the wood floors. The white wood was in pristine condition and looked as if no one had ever stepped foot on it.

“Where’s Dad?” Wren blurted as if he couldn’t bare the quiet any longer.

“He’s in his office. There was some type of problem at the studio back home.”

I noted the sharp tone in her voice. Her fingers pushed an invisible hair behind her ear and she turned her lively attention toward me.

“Kingsley,” she said with what appeared to be genuine excitement, “I’m very eager to get to know you better. My dear son has avoided a lot of my questions.”

I knew I couldn’t deflect the interrogation, but I wished it didn’t happen within the first five minutes of our introduction. She would most likely ask me the same questions most people did.
Where are you from? What do your parents do?
And the big one:
If you don’t know your parents, who raised you?

“Oh, I’m a very boring person. I promise you wouldn’t find my story any more fascinating than a turtle race.”

With my answer, Evelyn looked at Wren, her eyebrows knitted together. She must have realized she was causing a wrinkle in her perfect face, so she replaced it with a curt smile.

“Everyone has a fascinating story, dear.” She patted my shoulder as if she thought I needed it, and turned back to Wren. “Shall we get your things put away in your rooms?”

Rooms? Please don’t tell me Wren’s parents are stuck in the archaic days...

“Yeah. These bags are breaking my arms. Kingsley must have packed at least thirty outfits,” Wren teased.

His mom gave a tight-lipped smile and began walking up the staircase. I was tempted to go up the other one, but decided against it. Evelyn Kavanagh already thought I was a little odd; I didn’t want her thinking I was rude on top of it.

We walked down a long hallway, the walls decorated with too many pictures of their son. Wren holding up a large Tonka truck. Wren in the bathtub, blowing bubbles into the camera. Wren wearing a red cape and cowboy boots, shooting a play gun at the photographer. Picture upon picture of Wren growing up. The very last photograph before the farthest bedroom was Wren in his cap and gown, holding up his high school diploma. I stopped and studied it. He looked happy on that day, the sun shining down on him and a huge smile on his face. I was so focused on the picture, I didn’t notice that Wren and his mother had stopped when I did.

“K, you coming?” Wren called.

“Hmm? Oh, yes!” I took one last look at the happy boy in the picture and caught up with them.

“Kingsley, this is where you’ll be staying.”

Evelyn opened the door and as I stepped in, I made every effort not to allow my jaw to fall on the ground. The same white floors from the hallway ran into the bedroom, butting up to two accent walls painted light blue, the other two white. There was a white platform bed in the center of the room with a breathtaking light fixture hanging directly above it. It looked like bubbles made of glass, hanging from thin metal rods—it was gorgeous. A massive bookcase stood on the opposite wall, filled with more books than a library. The wall next to the bed wasn’t even a wall, it was all floor to ceiling windows. There were two paintings over the bed that looked like they were from 1800s. It wouldn’t take a brain surgeon to know that this room probably cost more than what Trish pays in rent for the entire year.

My very obvious display of shock had Mrs. Kavanagh giggling in the background. When I turned and looked at her, she stopped and gave a more reserved expression.

“If you’d like to wash up, there’s a bathroom two doors down. Please feel free to use any of the products in there,” Evelyn offered. “Dinner will be ready shortly.” She politely smiled and walked away, leaving Wren and I alone.

“Wow, I don’t think
Evelyn
likes me very much,” I uttered.

“Stop,” Wren stressed. “She likes you. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have given you this guest room.”

“
This
guest room? How many do you have?”

“Four,” Wren answered. He closed the distance between us and began kissing the side of my neck.

“Wren! Your mother is probably lurking around the corner, waiting like a mama lion to jump out and protect her cub.”

He held my face in his hands, causing my lips to jut out. “You’re fucking crazy, and I love you for that.”