Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Ainsley

Visiting my academy is exciting.

"Looking good," I comment while dropping off the check for the latest invoice I received from J&J Construction.

I glance around the entrance of what'll be the main music room. The walls are bare. The renovations are progressing as promised.

"We finished replacing the plumbing yesterday," Mr. Johnson informs me. He's the project manager in charge of the remodeling for my music school.

"This is going faster than I thought."

"The walls will go up tomorrow after the electrician and his team are done with the entire building. Thank you for the check."

"You're welcome. See you next week." Waving at them, I make my way out but not before leaving the hard helmet on the temporary shelves they have next to the main door.

I pick up my umbrella, the one I left leaning against the door as I made my way inside, step outside, and gulp. Porter Kendrick is only a few feet from me, exiting my father's record label.

We haven't spoken since he called me while he was in rehab. He asked for forgiveness as part of his twelve-step program. Forgiveness for subjecting me to a long period of emotional abuse.

The abuse I barely survived. I thought the emotional damage would be like a snake's skin that would shed, but it isn't. It's more like a scar that remains as a reminder of my weakest moments and the mountain I have to climb to find myself, a better me who'll be strong enough to believe in herself.

Nothing prepared me for a face-to-face with Porter. There's that pesky twinge inside my heart, the typical gut pain of fear, and some drumsticks hammering in my head.

The six-foot guy with light-brown hair, chocolate-brown eyes, and sly smile directed at me marches to where I stand. That same melting smile with hypnotizing eyes captivated me for years. The corner of my lip turns up slightly as he gets closer. It's not the joy of seeing him but the joy that my body and my heart aren't reacting to him.

Nope, my heart beats at its regular rhythm. In fact, I think my heart paid more attention to the guy at the coffee shop I went to earlier today than Porter.

This is progress, I cheer .

"Hi, baby," he greets me.

"Ainsley," I remind him. "My name is Ainsley, Porter. How are you?"

"Sorry, it's a force of habit." He lifts one shoulder and drops it as he tilts his head toward the record company. "Just like coming over to the studio when I want to record some shit. Your father kicked me out."

Chris told him not to ever show his face again. According to Dad, he hurt one of the most precious things in his life—his daughter.

"Music is my life." He presses his lips. "I fear Chris will ruin my career—my life ."

"No," I assure him. "Chris wouldn't do that to you. There are plenty of studios around the country. You'll be back on your feet. You have plenty of money."

His head drops, his chin bumping his chest, and he shakes it.

"Porter?" The concern for his well-being overtakes me. I chew on my lip as I think of a way to help—to make it better. Because that's what I do when it comes to him.

"What happened, Porter?"

"Drugs, they cost money—lots of money." He glances away as he mumbles the obvious.

Of course, they do .

"As I said," I repeat. "Any studio will love to give you a hand. Release a single as an indie and go from there. You're smart." I stop listing his qualities because this is what I do best—or worst. Be the person who pumps his morale, and for some reason, he craves it. It's his drug.

I'm his fucking drug.

"Look, Port, I have to go. You'll be fine."

"When can I see you again?"

"Never." The response comes automatically. "This is the best for both of us, Porter."

His eyes flash a hint of anger, but a mask of tranquility overtakes it with a quick blink.

"We're one." His steady voice is mellow. Porter's hand lifts my chin, and his eyes try to connect with mine. He is trying to rekindle our connection. A connection that is no longer possible. I see them—his eyes—but I don't see through them. In fact, I don't give him the chance to look at mine either. I block him because he no longer belongs inside my head, heart, or soul.

"We're meant to be with one another, Ainsley," he informs me as if it's an inevitable fact of life. Like getting old, dying, or the circle of life. "I'm patient. You'll come back. One way or another, today or in a year, we'll end up together, baby."

I take a step back and shake my head. "Good luck, Porter." There's no use getting into an argument about his crazy ideas and some future that will never happen. Not in this lifetime. Instead of heading to my car, I proceed to my father's office. It'll be good to get a hug after this conversation that has my legs wobbling a bit.

As soon as I push the door open to Decker Records my phone chimes. It's a picture of a kitty watching the sunrise.

Mason : Morning!

Nine: A little too late to call it morning, sir. Unless you're in Hawaii, and if you are, you should've taken me with you.

Mase: Maybe I am or maybe I'm in Australia.

Nine: Australia? How's tomorrow looking?

I pause, wondering if I should tell him what just happened. In a way, this was another tie between Porter and me I've broken. Hopefully, the last one, so I can finally be completely free. If someone understands about my years of captivity, it's Mason. He'd understand everything.

Mase: Everything okay with your life?

Nine: Yes, stay safe.

Maybe another day we can talk about it. If we ever see each other again.

Mase: Always. Stay happy!

Ah, Mason, he never fails to send a "cheer me up" text when I need it. He's the kind of guy I wish would promise we belonged together. Not Porter.

"Everything okay?" I look up to find my father's green eyes staring at me. Playful, worried, but bright.

Gabe, my other dad, says that he loves everything about me, but my eyes are special because I have Chris's eyes.

"All is fine, Papa." I walk into his open arms. Warm, safe. It's best to shove Porter's encounter to the side, for now, as well as my thoughts about Mason Bradley. Now that's an impossible wish, because I don't allow myself to even dream it.

"You saw him, didn't you?" I nod as my head presses against his chest. "Anything you want to say?"

"No, I'm totally fine."

"I'm proud of you." He squeezes me."Just keep him away." His voice is solemn. "He's not clean, I can tell. Next time, walk the other way and call me."

I brush that aside. I'm old enough to care for myself. What can Porter do?