Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
“Ash,” I say, already breathless. “We can’t. Your dad.”
He growls, biting the underside of my boob before rolling away.
“Guess I’ll go make sure he didn’t hack up a lung,” Asher grumbles, and I laugh, righting my shirt.
“Don’t be an ass. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Asher reaches over to turn on the lamp on his nightstand before standing and pulling on some thin, mesh basketball shorts. I bite my bottom lip as I take in his lean swimmer’s torso. The sharp V, the two freckles right at the waistband of his shorts that I want to trace with my tongue. I wish we had a place that was ours—just ours—so we could be alone and I could have my fill of him for hours, days, weeks. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of being with him like this. I’ve never felt this desperate, can’t eat, can’t sleep, need you, bleed for you type of addiction before.
“You’re doing it again,” he groans, balling his fists at his sides.
“Doing what?” I ask, batting my eyes innocently. He shakes his head, exasperated, and walks out the door, leaving me to drool at the sight of his shirtless, muscular back.
I take a second to look at the room around me—the glimpse into teenage Asher’s mind that I never got to see. Most everything has been packed into boxes that line the wall, but a few things remain. A couple of posters—Brand New, Underoath, and Thrice. The usual suspects. His window is covered by a black sheet, the same shade as his bedding. A skateboard with a Volcom sticker peeks out of the closet, with one of the trucks missing. I always thought he planned to leave, and it only felt sudden to me, but seeing his room appearing so lived-in has me wondering if it wasn’t planned.
I stand, ignoring the ache between my legs, and reach for my dress that was flung over the box in the early hours of the morning when Asher and I made up for lost time, yet again. I pull the dress over my head, and I can’t help but notice the medals and trophies collecting dust inside. I pick one up and turn the cool, heavy metal in my hand. I wonder why he doesn’t swim anymore. Swimming was his thing. The one thing he seemed to actually enjoy.
I make my way over to his black dresser and hope to God he has some boxers or shorts or something, considering he never gave me my underwear back. I try the top left drawer. Empty, except for a few socks. I try the top right—jackpot! I sift through the drawer, looking for the smallest pair, when I see something stashed underneath. It’s a folded piece of paper. I shouldn’t open it. Asher’s already so private, and I don’t want to do anything to betray his trust. Even if it’s nothing more than a grocery list, he wouldn’t want me looking through his things.
But, curiosity gets the best of me, so I pick it up. It’s heavier and thicker than notebook paper, like the kind that people use to sketch on. I carefully unfold it and gasp when I see what’s inside. It’s a black and white skull with vibrant, colorful succulents and roses around it, covering one half of the face. They kind of look like the ones in my mom’s garden. It’s dark and sad and beautiful all at once. Did Asher draw this?
“What are you doing?”
His voice is cold and curt, and I jump, dropping the picture to the floor. His arms are crossed, stance guarded, eyes suspicious.
“I was looking for some shorts,” I stammer, plucking out the first pair I get my hands on and sliding them up my legs. He eyes the paper on the floor, but doesn’t say anything. Stalking over, he bends over and picks it up, inspecting the art.
“It’s beautiful,” I say honestly. “Did you draw it?”
“No.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s just a tattoo idea. Dare sketched it up for me when I went back.”
I nod, unsure of what to say, rocking on my heels. Ash crumples the paper up and tosses it back into the drawer.
“Come on,” he says. “I’m making us breakfast.”
“You can cook?” I ask, amused, thankful for the subject change.
“I’ve been cooking for myself since before you grew tits.”
“Touché,” I say, rolling my eyes. I guess he would’ve had to learn how to cook at a young age. Between his mom dying and his dad being too busy self-destructing, it was mandatory.
I sit at the old oak table while Asher does his thing in the kitchen. John is firmly planted in his favorite recliner, watching the NFL draft on TV. I haven’t seen him since Asher’s been back, and I’m in this weird place where I feel guilty for not coming by, but also guilty for ever coming in the first place.