Rewrite the Stars

“I never made it there,” he clarifies. “I just thought I’d chill here for a while.” He doesn’t elaborate, but I know what he means. Until he cools off. Until the alcohol catches up with his piece of shit dad, and he finally passes out.

Rising on my knees, I blow on the gash above his eyebrow to dry it off a little before applying the Band-Aid. His eyes squeeze shut, and one hand comes up to grip the back of my bare thigh. I freeze, feeling that tightening low in my stomach that only seems to happen when Asher is near.

“It doesn’t look that bad now,” I say quietly, reaching forward to pluck the Band-Aid off the bed next to him. I feel his thumb rub small circles on the back of my thigh, and I try not to gasp. Crazily, I wonder what that hand would feel like between my legs. I shake that thought from my head and smooth the bandage over his cut with my thumbs.

“Head wounds tend to look a lot worse than they really are,” Asher says, clearing his throat and pulling away. I back up, still dazed, as he stands and reaches behind his neck to pull his blood-speckled white tee off his back before balling it up and tossing it to the floor. I think he’s going to take one of Dash’s shirts, but he doesn’t. He plops back down on the bed, exhaling roughly, running a hand through his hair. I gulp watching the way his forearms flex with the motion, and when he lies back on the bed, displaying the muscles on his stomach, I have to look away.

He’s always been magnificent to me, with his onyx hair that hangs in his dark, mismatched eyes. His full lips and slightly pointed nose. The dimples that I didn’t even know existed for an entire year into knowing him, because the boy never really smiles. Smirks, yes. Taunting, mocking, sarcastic grins. But a full-blown Asher Kelley smile is rarer than a blue moon. Now that his shoulders are broader, his chest and arms bigger, and his jaw more chiseled…he’s a man. And he’s perfection. Suddenly, I’m all too aware of my small breasts that visibly harden beneath my tank top and my tiny baby pink sleep shorts. I’m looking every bit of fourteen, feeling so inferior kneeling in front of this young god.

Asher scrubs a hand down his face, and I notice that his knuckles are bloody, too, but the sight is nothing new.

“Do you want ice?” I ask as I stand up, gesturing toward his hands.

“What, this?” he asks, examining his knuckles. “I’m fine.”

“Do you want me to go?” I fidget with the hem of my shorts. His eyes follow the movement, then move up my body until his eyes lock on mine.

“No.” His tone is firm, but he doesn’t elaborate. My stomach flips with nerves, and I nod, biting on the corner of my lip.

“Do you…want to watch a movie?”

A shrug. “Sure.”

“What do you want to watch?”

“You pick.”

I look around for Dash’s remote before finding it underneath a sock and start flipping through the channels. I stand in front of the TV awkwardly, not knowing if I should take my spot on the floor or join him. Asher pats the bed next to him, seeming to sense my hesitation.

“I won’t bite, Bry.”

I sit next to him and settle on one of my favorite movies. No matter how many times I’ve seen it, I always have to watch it when it’s on.

“Really? Tombstone?” Asher cracks a real smile at that.

“Hell yes. It’s my favorite.”

“I’ll be your huckleberry,” he says, quoting the movie.

“Shut up.” I give a weak smile, still feeling helpless in this situation, but I toss a pillow at him in an effort to appear unfazed.

“Shit!” he growls, bringing his hands up to his face.

“Oh my God! I’m an idiot! I’m so sorry!” I say, crawling over to his side of the bed, feeling terrible for already forgetting.

“Are you okay?” I ask, prying his hands away, but when I do, he’s laughing.

“Jerk,” I huff, turning away, but he grasps my wrists and flips me onto my back. His body hovers over mine.

“I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “But you were looking at me like my dog just died. I had to do something to lighten the mood.”

He still has my hands pinned above my head, and he’s close enough that I can smell his spearmint gum and the faint trace of cigarettes.

“I worry about you,” I admit, not making any effort to escape. His eyes clench shut, like it physically pains him to hear those words.

“Don’t,” he says. “The last thing an angel like you should be doing is worrying about a fuck-up like me.”

“You’re not a fuck-up. And I’m no angel.”