Wife Number Seven (The Compound, #1)(31)

A man wearing a baseball cap was entering the building and, without even thinking, I grabbed the door handle before it shut behind him and locked, and followed him up the staircase. The anticipation built with each step I made toward Porter’s apartment.

When I reached the door, I heard the thumping of loud music. I sighed with relief, knowing he was home.

I knocked.

No answer.

I knocked again.

This time, a slightly familiar face answered the door. It must have been his cousin, Charlie. He took in the sight of me—my pastel blue dress, my 1980s bangs and long braid, my unpainted face. He knew exactly where I was from.

He groaned and rolled his eyes. “Porter!” he shouted over his shoulder.

“What?” Porter yelled back from deep within the apartment. “I’m busy!”

“Whatever,” Charlie grumbled, gesturing for me to enter. “He’s in his room.”

I walked into the apartment and stopped in the living area where several men in their twenties were playing some sort of game on the television. Each of them was holding a small rectangular gadget in their hands with a cord that dangled toward a machine on the coffee table. None of them glanced up at me, their eyes fixed on the bright screen where soldiers were running, shooting, and jumping.

Odd.

I turned to Charlie, not knowing which bedroom belonged to Porter. He rolled his eyes again.

“Second one on the right.”

“Thank you,” I muttered, but he had already focused his attention on the television with the rest of the men in the living room.

The music coming from Porter’s room scared me. It was angry, as if someone was screaming at the top of his lungs. Was this music? It certainly didn’t sound at all like the church hymns we’d sung while growing up. I’d heard music in shops and in Tiffany’s clinic, but nothing like this. It was nauseating.

Despite my extreme distaste for his music, I knocked on the door, knowing I had to see him. I heard him curse, and something heavy seemed to hit the door on the other side of the room. I jumped.

“Charlie, leave me the f*ck alone!” Porter yelled from inside.

“It’s not me, *!” Charlie shouted back from the living room. “Open the door!”

A second later, the door swung open and Porter’s gaze landed on me.

“Holy shit.” Porter ran his hands through his mussed-up hair, his eyes alight with surprise, and the muscles of his chest flexed in response—his shirt nowhere to be seen. “It’s you.”

Aside from his chest, which was quite attractive, he looked awful. His eyes were red, swollen, and looked as painful as the wound on my wrist. Was he having trouble sleeping? He was so pale, his skin as ashen as the day he stole my bag on the street. His eyes were open wide, revealing the whites of his eyes both above and below the irises, and his pupils were dilated, so much so that there wasn’t much left of his normal beautiful blue color. When he crossed his hands over his chest, they shook, and he scratched at them absently.

What was the matter with him?

“I can’t believe you’re here.” He crossed the room and turned off the music, then pulled me into the room and closed the door behind me with a thud.

“I’m sorry it took so long. I couldn’t get away,” I lied.

“I see,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes and scratching his cheeks, which were covered with acne.

“Are y-you all right?” I asked, reaching to touch his elbow. His muscles tensed slightly at my touch.

“Why?” he bellowed. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He began to pace the small room. “I mean, you show up after, like, two f*cking weeks. I thought you were gonna try!”

His eyes were wild and he pulled at the roots of his hair. And then I remembered Tiffany’s words. Be careful. He’s a junkie.

Porter had drugs in his system.

“I was scared.” I closed my eyes, unable to lie to him again. I could lie to Leandra, to Lehi, to Aspen. But for some reason I didn’t understand, lying to him was painful.

“Of what? Of me?” He glowered at me, his hands still shaking as he moved them to his hips. “What the f*ck?”

“Not you, but you and me. Us.”

He was silent, taking in my words, then he nodded. “Look, I get it. Leaving that place isn’t something I wanted. Hell, I would’ve fought it tooth and nail if I could have.”

“You didn’t want to leave?”

“No. But I don’t want to talk about it, all right? I don’t want to tell you my f*cking sob stories. I don’t want you feeling sorry for me.”

“I don’t. I promise.” Again, I reached out to touch his elbow. This time he placed his hand on top of mine, releasing a deep sigh from his chest. “What’s the matter with you, Porter? You don’t look well.”

“It’s nothing.” He shook his head. “I’ve been pissed off, and I needed to let off some steam. I needed to forget about things.”

“Oh. I understand.” I dropped my hand back to my side. When he looked down at his elbow, his lips pursing into an angry scowl, I asked, “Should I leave?”

“Do you think I want you to go?” he snapped, raising his voice to a yell. The deep pitch of his anger reverberated through the tiny room.

“I don’t know.” I shook my head, fighting tears. This wasn’t the reunion I’d hoped for. I turned to grab the doorknob. “But maybe I should—”