Seventeen
Asher leads me upstairs, past the wall of photos I can’t bring myself to look at again.
The house is pin-drop silent, save for the sound of our muffled footsteps on the carpet, despite all the cars still parked in his driveway.
“Are you sure your dad won’t hear us?” I ask, grunting as I step funny and pain shoots through my entire body.
He looks back at me over his shoulder, wincing like he felt it too. “He’s not here. Him and his buddies took a cab to the club not long after you left.”
I frown. “I didn’t know country clubs stayed open this late.”
“They do if Alistair Brooks wants to spend his night there. He must spend thousands at that place every month.”
If I wasn’t hurting so much right now, I’d be rolling my eyes.
“Where’s your mom?”
He stops outside a door at the end of the hall, hesitates a beat before answering. “She’s at a spa,” he says quickly, then opens the door and ushers me inside. “This is my room.”
It’s not what I thought it would be like. The rest of the house feels cold and impersonal, like a museum. But this room, it just screams Asher. The walls are painted an emerald green, just a few shades darker than his eyes, and they’re lined with poster after poster of bands and movies and football players. It’s like getting a glimpse inside his soul, a peek into who he really is. And the smell… Jesus, it’s like he bottled up that scent that is so unique to him and spritzed it all over the place. It’s intoxicating.
I wander around the space, gazing at everything. His desk is cluttered, his laptop practically buried beneath piles of textbooks and notepads and… a potted plant with a watering can next to it.
He catches me looking and ducks his head, but not before I notice the flush painting his cheeks. “I like plants.”
My mouth ticks up and I nod, moving to another section of the room. There’s a shelf in the corner, practically overflowing with books. They’re stacked all the way to the top, some even piled on the floor. I pick one up and examine the cover.
“You read all of these?” I ask, unable to stop the surprise from creeping into my tone.
He huffs. “What, you think that just because I’m a jock that means I can’t read?”
“Oh, I know you can read. You used to leave me all of those threatening notes in my locker, remember?”
It was an attempt to lighten the mood, maybe even make that dimple of his make an appearance. Instead, it just seems to make him feel worse.
He takes me into the attached bathroom and pats the empty space on the counter next to the sink. I hop up, groaning as I do, and lift my arms when he gestures for me to, letting him tug my ruined shirt over my head.
Under this harsh light, I’m sure my injuries look a hell of a lot worse than before. I mean, they feel bad. Like I should definitely be getting checked over at a hospital instead of in Asher’s bathroom. But, I’m not expecting Asher’s sharp intake of breath when he looks at me, or the way he reaches out to touch me then stops abruptly, like he’s afraid I’ll break.
The harsh reality that I could have died tonight hits me again, bringing a fresh onslaught of tears to my eyes. I change the subject, trying to stave away the emotion. “I didn’t see any football awards in there. I’m guessing you have a few.”
“I do. My dad likes to keep them in his office.”
I frown, but don’t question it. Clearly it’s a sore subject, judging by his clipped tone and the muscle popping in his jaw.
After that, there’s no more talking - no more of me putting my foot in my mouth. Asher wets a rag and gently wipes away my dried blood. When he rinses it in the sink and the water turns red, I have to look away. He hunts through the cabinet next to my head, pulling out a first aid kit. He cleans and applies ointment to my cuts with gentle fingers, glancing at my face every few minutes to make sure I’m not in pain.
“Thank you,” I murmur when he’s finished.
He nods once, eyes fixed to the floor.
I swallow, throat aching with the movement. It feels like I’ve swallowed sandpaper, or a thousand shards of glass. I’m lucky he didn’t crush my windpipe.
I wait a beat, wait for Asher to look at me or say something. He doesn’t. He just keeps staring down at the tiled floor beneath his bare feet. He’s changed clothes since dinner, now wearing a t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts. His hair’s all mussed, which isn’t unusual, but it’s sticking up on one side and there’s a pillow crease on his cheek. God, he was asleep. He was asleep and I just barged in here and forced him to play doctor. And now, he won’t even look at me. He doesn’t have to tell me he wants me to leave, I get the message loud and clear.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” I say, planting a hand either side of me to slide off the counter.
“No.” He crowds me, stopping me from going anywhere. “I’m glad you did. I— I hated how we left things earlier.”
“Me too,” I admit quietly.
He pushes a wayward lock of hair off of my forehead, then drags his fingers further up my scalp, massaging. It’s so good, it almost sends me to sleep. I’m practically purring. But when he carries on toward the back of my head, I yelp and he snatches his hand away, his fingers covered in blood. Goddammit. I forgot about that cheap shot with the bottle while my back was turned.
Asher stares down at his fingers, going so still that I’m momentarily worried he’s stopped breathing. Then, he explodes. He sweeps his hand over the counter, knocking the shampoo bottles and tubes of moisturizer to the floor, then tugs at his hair.
“Fuck,” he yells, blowing out breaths hard and fast. He’s still trembling when he approaches me again. “I’m sorry, I just… Jesus, Oakley. You have to tell me who did this to you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I can’t.”
“Why the hell not? Look at you! You’ve got bruises everywhere, your face is all cut-up and you’ve got choke marks around your throat. Even your fucking head is bleeding. Who is it? What do they want?”
“Asher, please. I– I can’t…”
He sighs, a sound that seems to come right from the very depths of him, and leans down until his forehead rests against mine. “Oakley…” he whispers, panting breaths hitting my lips. “Don’t you get it? I would hurt anyone for you. Anyone. All you have to do is tell me who it is.”
The thing is, I know he would. And that’s exactly what I’m afraid of. Asher doesn’t deserve to have his life ruined. Not for me. I don’t know when things went from me not telling him anything because I don’t trust him, to doing it because I want to keep him safe.
Probably around the same time you realized how deep your feelings actually run.
“Is it so wrong for me to want to protect you?”
“No,” I choke out. “It’s not. Because that’s what I’m doing for you, by not telling you.”
His eyes fall shut, shoulders slumping with defeat. “At least tell me you fought back.”
“Oh, yeah. I stabbed the bastard in the side with a piece of glass.”
That makes him crack a smile. “Good.”