Wife Number Seven (The Compound, #1)(65)

Porter stopped the engine, removed his key, and looked me in the eye. “Home.”

“What?” I asked, slightly panicked. Had Porter just said we were home? What and where exactly was home?

“Well, mine, anyway. Let me show you.”

Pebbles crunched under my sneakers as we walked through the dirt to approach the porch of the tiny residence.

“But you live in your apartment . . . don’t you?” My heart was racing. I didn’t understand.

He opened the door to reveal an empty living area. Unpainted drywall lined the small room that was about the size of my bedroom at the Cluff house. I could see and smell the wood of brand new kitchen cabinets as Porter led me into the kitchen. The countertops had been installed, but the room hadn’t been painted and there were no appliances yet.

“About a year ago, my boss bought this land, all of this. And then his wife dropped a bomb on him. She wanted a divorce.”

“Okay.”

“He was going to build her dream house. But when she left him, he couldn’t even hear her name, let alone deal with this.” Porter gestured around the house. “So, he offered the land to me. Instead of a bonus. I took it, I mean, who turns down free land?”

“Wow.”

He continued to tell his story as we walked through the small one-bedroom cottage. Pride brightened his expression as he showed me the living room, kitchen with dining area, and a bedroom with an adjoining bath.

“So on Sundays, I come here to clear my head. I bought a bunch of lumber from him, and I’ve been working slowly. And for a while, I didn’t do anything at all.”

“You didn’t? Why not?”

He pursed his lips and shrugged. “Not motivated, I guess. But that all changed when I met you.”

The pumping of my heart accelerated and butterflies swarmed my belly.

“Did you know I’ve been clean for two months?” he asked, taking my hand.

I knew he’d been doing his best, but I’d avoided mentioning timetables for fear of frightening him or setting him up for failure.

“No, I didn’t.”

“That’s because of you, Brin. You’re my motivation.”

My cheeks burned and I squeezed his hand before he continued.

“I’ve been building again, and it’s actually pretty awesome. I come out here, blast my music, and work my ass off, and then I go home to my loser roommates and pass out.” He scratched the back of his neck and laughed. “I can’t stay there. I’ll never stay clean if I do, even with you in my life.”

I flinched. I’d hoped that his feelings for me would and could be motivation enough for him to stop killing himself slowly with drugs.

“It’s the God’s honest truth, unfortunately. They’re a bunch of miserable guys all huddled together eating garbage, playing video games, watching porn . . . and out of sheer boredom, they get high. I know because I was one of them. I have to get out of there.”

“That’s wonderful, Porter. I’m so proud of you. And this place—”

“I know it’s nothing compared to the mansion you live in now. But I have three acres here. One day, it’ll be more than this. It’ll just take time.”

“You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say this place, it’s beautiful. Truly beautiful.”

“It will be.”

? ? ?

Hours later, we were lying on an air mattress as candles flickered, painting shadows on the walls of the bedroom. A half-eaten pizza and an empty wine bottle sat on the floor next to us.

“You know,” Porter murmured, “you’ve become pretty feisty.”

“Feisty?” I asked, shocked. I pushed onto my elbow. “What on earth . . . ?”

“Calm down,” he said, sitting up. “I just mean, you know, you’re not afraid to take control in the bedroom. I like it. I like it a lot.”

I knew what he was talking about.

That night, perhaps influenced by the wine I’d used to wash down my dinner, I’d initiated sex between us. Not only that, though, I’d been on top for the first time. It was exhilarating to have Porter beneath me, his eyes wide, his hands clutching my breasts as I moved above him. He’d given me plenty of orgasms, but that one was pretty spectacular.

“You bring it out in me, I guess.”

“Nah, you’re just a vixen.” He winked.

I was starting to get used to his sense of humor. It was what Leandra would call inappropriate, but to me, the less I judged, the funnier it became.

When I swatted him with the back of my hand, he pretended to flinch as my hand made contact with his bare skin. “And you’re a—a . . .”

“I’m a what?” he pressed. Porter knew that name calling was not something I was used to, or at all comfortable with.

I’d planned to call him a jerk, but instead, I had to tell him what I was really feeling.

It was time.

“You’re a dream.” My cheeks turned hot as I looked down at the blanket draped across my bare chest. His presence in my life was like a light . . . a beacon of hope. The prophet was constantly talking about following the light, following the way of our Lord. But up until meeting Porter, my life was so dark, so dull, and so serious. I was told about light, told about beacons and hope and faith, but had never experienced them.