In Control (The City Series) (18 page)

“It’s a little odd hearing you talk like that,” he laughed.

“It’s a little odd saying it.”

“What do you say we go back inside and have some drinks?” Wren suggested.

“I like where you’re going with this.”

When we got back inside, it seemed like the house was deserted. The quietness made the house cold, and a part of me wished we’d stayed outside. We walked past the empty dining room, through the kitchen, and into the hallway. He opened the door and I followed him down the steps into what looked to be like the perfect man cave.

“So this must be where you spent all of your time with Samson and Jay?” I looked around the room, my eyes floating across the walls full of sports memorabilia. “I had no idea you were such a sports fanatic.”

“I’m not,” Wren said, taking my hand and walking to the built in bar. “My father is.”

The bar was as big as the one we frequented in Brooklyn, and the shelves were packed with every high-priced liquor imaginable. I’d died and gone to heaven.

“Holy shit. Things could get really crazy in here!” I walked over to the shelves and scanned the many brands. There had to be at least twenty different brands of whiskey, and I wanted to try each and every one of them. “What’s this taste like?” I asked, pointing to a hardwood box that looked to be older than dirt.

“Good question. My dad is very stingy at letting other people drink his whiskey. That bottle that you’re pointing to is a 1958 single malt. Only 336 bottles were made.”

“Shut up!” I exclaimed. I could feel my mouth began to water, imagining the pleasing burn of 55-year-old alcohol swimming down to my stomach. “We have to try some.”

“We’re not opening my father’s liquor,” Wren declared.

I regarded him with raised brows, sure to give him the sexy smolder that could get me everything I wanted.

“Don’t,” Wren said, turning his head and looking away. He knew he couldn’t resist the look.

“Pretty please?” I ran my index finger up his sleeve, stopping at his lips. “We won’t tell a soul.”

Wren exhaled loudly and gave me a menacing glare. He walked behind the bar and grabbed two small glasses, quietly placing them on the countertop. “If my dad finds out about this, I’m telling him that you forced it down my throat.”

The first time I tried whiskey, I was thirteen. It was a few weeks after high school had started; Porter and I ditched our classes to walk around the city. He said he wanted to spend the day with me rather than sit through boring classes, learning stuff he already knew. I agreed, of course, because at that point in my life, I would have done anything Porter asked. We snuck out of school during lunch, stealthily avoiding teachers. Once we got to the corner, out of sight, we ran. We ran until our lungs felt like they were going to explode. We ran through the streets, weaving our way through pedestrians. When we finally stopped, both of us heaving in exhaustion, Porter suggested we do something else we’d both never done.

“Let’s try it. I see my dad drink it sometimes. Once he left his glass unattended and I tried just a tiny sip,” he confessed.

“How would we even get some? We don’t exactly look of age.” I was too nervous to tell him that I had no desire to try alcohol. I’d seen what effect it had on people in my life. Instead of telling Porter that I was afraid of how it would make me feel, I agreed.

Porter paid a homeless man twenty dollars to go into the liquor store and buy us a bottle of something good. Since he couldn’t remember the name of the stuff his dad drank, he told the man to pick any whiskey from the top shelf. We went back to Porter’s house, knowing that his parents weren’t going to be home for at least another three hours, and ran down to the basement, the brown paper bag clutched in Porter’s arms. He closed the door and pulled out the bottle with a flourish, almost like it was an exclusive prize that only he had won.

“A-are we just going to drink it from the bottle?” I asked. I could feel the forceful nerves reacting in my stomach. I didn’t want to drink the whiskey, but I also didn’t want Porter to think that I wasn’t fun.

He perused the room, checking to see if there were any glasses lying around. There weren’t.

“Yeah, we’ll just drink it from the bottle,” he said, sitting on the couch and patting the space next to him.

When I lifted the bottle to my mouth, at first I didn’t mind the taste. It was sweet and my taste buds actually enjoyed it. Then I swallowed it and it felt like I had lit a fire in my stomach. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing there was something nearby that could extinguish the inferno happening in my belly. Porter noticed my reaction and laughed, saying that it wasn’t even that strong. He acted as if he’d tried every whiskey on the planet and the one we were having couldn’t even get a baby drunk.

Porter coerced me to keep taking sips from the bottle. After three, my head was pounding. I could feel the heat rise in my body, leaving a sheen of sweat on my forehead. Porter took larger sips. I studied him, waiting for him to show the same signs I’d seen in other people; flushed skin, clumsy movements, talking slowly. But he didn’t display any of those. Instead, he opened up about his life and told me things he wouldn’t have otherwise confessed.

Somehow our innocent relationship had escalated from cookies and cupcakes to liquor. From that day on, there wasn’t a time that Porter didn’t want to have a drink. He no longer wanted to just hold hands as we watched a movie, or sit and read stories with me in his backyard. His kisses became more persistent. His hands wanted to explore more of my skin.

At that time in my life, I loved Porter more than I loved anything else, so I went along with everything he said, not knowing in the end that I was only breaking myself.

The memories of that first day of drinking still haunted me. It was the first time I truly felt like Porter loved me. It was the first time in weeks that he didn’t try pushing the boundaries on my body. He didn’t plead with me to let him touch my chest or allow him to see me naked. He reverted back to the old Porter, and that’s when I came to conclusion that I’d rather be drunk with him knowing that there weren’t any expectations.

At least, there weren’t in the beginning.

According to my calendar, it’s been 149 days since Porter and I began dating. The number was written in pink, large enough that I could see it across the room. I liked to keep track of the days; somehow seeing it written in ink made it more real that he was actually my boyfriend. Above the number was an additional note to myself and I read it with a smile.

Today you’re fourteen. One year closer to freedom.

This year, I was actually looking forward to my birthday. I knew I’d be getting the usual from the Hendersons, but what I was really eager about was what Porter would get me.

Yesterday after school, we went to our place, a desolate building we’d been going to for the past two months. It was owned by Porter’s parents, and they had plans to turn it into a yoga studio, but until then, Porter and I used it as our secret place to drink. He’d bring two flasks, one for me and one for him, and we’d sit on the cool concrete, drinking and talking about our dreams. Over time, the whiskey, which was our choice of alcohol, became easier to swallow. No longer did my stomach become angry with the substance. It actually desired it.

“I think I want to be an athletic scout,” Porter said, gripping onto his metal flask. He took a sip and turned to look at me, baring a smile.

“That sounds great. You should do it,” I encouraged.

He nodded, taking another sip of alcohol before placing the flask on the ground. “What do you want to do?”

He asked me this question often, and most times I told him I didn’t know. I knew I wanted to leave the Hendersons’—that much was true. I never revealed what was happening to me once I left him for the night. He didn’t know that Mrs. Henderson took her aggression out on me. He didn’t know that Mr. Henderson came into my bedroom one night. I would never tell him these things because I’d never want someone to feel pity for me, especially Porter.

“I guess I’d like to do something that makes me happy. Maybe I’ll travel with you,” I offered. It was a daring suggestion, but one I’d been thinking about for a long time. Wherever Porter went, I wanted to go.

“You can’t travel with me though. You have to have your own life.”

His comment stung.
He
was my life, and I was about to tell him that when he began speaking.

“I mean, it’s not like I don’t want you around, but we can’t actually predict what will happen between us, ya know?” He took another drink from his flask, this time keeping it to his mouth for four seconds. I counted.

“Right,” I said quietly, trying to disguise my unhappiness. “I guess we’ll see.”

If it were up to me, I’d be with Porter for the rest of my life. Every day we spent together was like another day in heaven, and if that meant following him around like a puppy dog, I’d gladly be his shadow.

Porter turned his body toward me, a small smile on his lips. “I’m just saying that I want you to be able to have your own dreams.” He reached for my hand and held it in his. “Okay, Cherry Berry?”

Hearing the nickname put an instant smile on my face. Even if our adventures now led to an abandoned building where Porter liked to drink and no longer allowed us to explore the city, I was still happy just being with him. My stomach wasn’t being filled anymore with plates of lasagna or chocolate sundaes, but my heart still overflowed with happiness.

“Okay.” I took a large sip from my own flask, immediately feeling better as the alcohol ran down my throat.

“Your birthday is tomorrow.”

I looked at him and knew it wasn’t the alcohol that was making my stomach clench, but the surprise that Porter remembered my birthday. In all the years I’d been alive, no one ever went out of their way to identify it.

“You actually remembered?” I asked excitedly.

“Of course I did.”

Porter pulled on my arm, silently requesting I move closer to him. When his hand cradled my cheek and his lips met mine, my entire body felt like it had been recharged. I deepened our kiss, not caring about the five bruises on my stomach or the three on my shoulder blade. I wanted his bare hands to touch my skin. He lightly bit my lower lip, making my insides twist with a longing I’d never felt before. I was always so apprehensive to allow him to touch me anywhere but my hips or my arms, fearing that they’d feel like Mr. Henderson’s, but this time, when they reached under my shirt and ran up my stomach, I didn’t tense up.

Porter pulled away from our kiss and looked into my eyes. He looked at me like it was the first time. Like I was a girl he’d only seen in his dreams and suddenly appeared right in front of him. He kissed the tip of my nose and the wings in my stomach fluttered alive. “I-I,” he stammered. “I love you.”

His hands were inside my shirt and I could feel his grip on my sides tighten with each passing second of silence. It was the first time in my life that I’d heard those words, and as much as I wanted to shout back those same ones, I also wanted to allow his to sink into every empty crevice that’d ever formed in my heart. I wanted each syllable to enter my soul and wash away all traces of pain I’d ever felt.

When I finally told him I loved him, he kissed me with more urgency than ever before. Our lips stayed locked together for forty mind-numbing seconds, and when our breath ran out, we parted. Porter’s arms were wrapped around my body, and mine brushed along his back, gliding down the length of his spine. His flask was sitting behind him and doubt filled my brain.
Did he really mean it or was it the alcohol that spoke for him?

My past experiences led me to believe that alcohol was the reason behind his words. When people drank, they said things they didn’t mean. They became brave, the liquor giving them the courage to do things they wouldn’t otherwise do.

I slightly lifted his flask without him knowing, shaking it the tiniest bit to see how empty it was. I smiled, noting that it was still mostly full. This meant he wasn’t drunk. This meant he
really
did love me.

“Say it again,” I requested.

Porter laughed. “I love you, Kingsley.”

When I got ready to leave the house this morning, on my fourteenth birthday, the Hendersons and all of the children were eating breakfast. They’d gotten used to my daily schedule, and I’d usually be able to leave without having to talk to any of them. Today though, Mrs. Henderson glared at me from the kitchen table.

“Kingsley, get in here,” she demanded.

I was facing the front door, and couldn’t help but stand there for a second longer, wishing I could disappear. I walked into the kitchen, past Mr. Henderson, past Ashley and Jenny. I left a large amount of distance between myself and Mrs. Henderson’s chair, waiting to hear what I had done wrong.

Andrew swiftly stood up and ran over to me, squeezing my legs with all of his might.

“Happy Birthday, Kingsley!”

His joyous greeting put a smile on my face, and I was surprised that it was already the second smile of the morning.

“Thank you, Drew.” I patted his back softly, removing my hand after only a second.