Breathe Me (A 'Me' Novel)

by Williams, Jeri

  People came to Diesel to scratch an itch. The clientele ranged from rich men looking for some nameless, fake-tittie bitch to make them forget about their cheating wives at home to the poor middle-class guys who blew their rent drinking away the fact that they had no money. I was here because I knew nothing else. I hadn’t even tried to do the school thing. I had no money, and I damn sure wasn’t getting in on my C-minus grades, and I refused to ask my family for shit, so I did the next best thing—hustled and busted my ass. I wasn’t doing too badly. I had a small shithole to lay my head and fuck, and my baby was in good running condition. I was good. Until that fucking phone call had to go and fuck with my head.

  “You’re late, asshole,” Big Mike said, stating the fucking obvious.

  “I was busy with your grandma on my dick.” I shoved passed him, getting a “fuck you” and middle finger in return. That was all he would dare do. Big Mike may be a big motherfucker, but he couldn’t get with me and he knew it. I was a good fighter. Not bragging, just how it was. Shit, I had to be with how I grew up. My father was a special kind of asshole and showed me how much so on a nightly basis until I started giving him a taste of his own medicine. Dick.

  Throwing my jacket behind the bar, I nodded at Sal, who worked the other side of the bar, then quickly downed a shot of JD to gear up for the night.

  Two hours later, I was standing behind the bar getting eye-fucked by a sexy redhead old enough to be my mother’s best friend. It was a busy night, and my tips were spilling over out of the tip jar. And I was about to partake in a perk. I went over and cleaned the bar top where she had been posted for the last hour, getting nice and lit, giving me her “fuck me” eyes.

  “Can I get another one?” she shouted over the music, holding up her empty tequila sunrise glass. I was pretty sure she should have called it after that last glass, but who was I to tell her about her limits? I reached for her glass, brushing my fingers on the inside of her palm a little bit longer than necessary. I gave her half as much alcohol than normal and set the glass down in front of her with a wink. She wouldn’t even know the difference.

  She gave me the eye—you know, the one that says “meet me in the bathroom in ten minutes”—and I gave her the “hell yes” nod and watched as she downed the drink, then slid off the bar stool and sashayed over to the bathroom.

  “Sal, back in twenty,” I hollered. She gave me a look but didn’t say shit. Sal was used to my perks. It wasn’t like she didn’t benefit from them as well. I always gave her half my tips whenever I skipped out and she had to cover for me.

  I made my way over to the bathroom, stopping at the supply closet and grabbing the Out of Order sign, then I went in and saw Red standing at the sink, waiting.

  “Anyone else in here?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  I hung the sign on the door and locked it, then stood behind Red as she looked at me in the mirror. Her breathing was heavy, causing her chest to rise and fall rapidly. Her eyes were slightly glazed, and the only thing she would remember tomorrow was this moment, this first contact. I slid my hand around her waist and pulled her ass back to grind on my hard cock. She moaned, and I thanked fuck she had on a short-ass dress as I hiked it up around her waist.

  No panties, fuck yes.

  “I’ve heard about you. I’m so hot for you,” she panted as I cupped her sex while rubbing her clit with the pad of my thumb, getting her nice and ready.

  That wasn’t something I hadn’t heard before. They all said shit like that.

  “Well, let me not disappoint my reputation,” I said as I slid two fingers into her wet pussy. Chicks dug it when I acted like an asshole to them. Hell, sometimes it wasn’t an act. I did learn from the best.

  I took my fingers slowly out, and before she could breathe in, I slammed them back in with a force that had her almost on her toes, gripping the sink.

  “You ready for me, Red?” I asked as I repeated the motion, coating my fingers with her slickness and squeezing her breast with my other hand. I fondled her nipple through the fabric of her dress, twisting it slightly, then massaging it with my palm.

  “Oh god, yes, please,” she begged, grinding her ass on my cock.

  No begging needed, Red. This was the part of my job I fucking loved.

  I pulled out a foil wrapper from my back pocket, ripped it open with my teeth, and handed it to her. She wasted no time leaning back and rolling the condom over my hardness. I pumped my fingers in her a few more times, then replaced them with my dick. I slid into her easily, and she cried out, gripping the edge of the sink harder.

  “Bend over. This is going to be fast and hard,” I huffed as I guided her back away from me, grabbed her hips, and started giving her the best twenty-minute fuck she would ever have. I looked at her in the mirror, and her face said she was about to come.

  I’m right there with you, Red.

  Her pussy gripped my dick in a delicious way as I slid almost all the way out and slammed back in. I reached between her legs and pinched her clit slightly and she fell apart, coming hard and babbling incoherently. I pushed into her once more, then stilled as her pulsating sex milked me until the last drop.

  Damn, I needed that.

  I quickly pulled out and gave her a chaste kiss on the lips. “Last drink’s on me,” I said. I tied off the condom and dropped it in the trash before pulling up my pants and heading to the door.

  “Wait. That’s it?” she asked as she pulled her dress down and looked at me expectantly. I hated this part, when we both knew this was not going to lead to something more.

  I stared at her and, after a beat, said, “You can take some pretzels, too.” Then I headed back out to do my job. She did help relieve some of the tension I was harboring ever since that phone call, but I didn’t have time for a “something more.” I never did. I was more into the “something right now,” and that was the way I liked it.

  Chapter 3

  Harley

  I dreaded going home. If you had my life, you wouldn’t rush home, either. So when Tom asked me if I wanted to stay a little later to make up the time I missed this morning for being late, I jumped at the opportunity. Plus, it gave me a perfect excuse not to go out with Em and Matt and Matt’s whoever.

  “You suck.” She pouted when I told her the news.

  “Every night,” I replied. She would never get the self-depreciating sentiment behind that.

  “Well, he’s in town for a while, so don’t think you’re getting off so easily. Matt’s waiting. Call me!” she said, then waved and left.

  Don’t hold your breath, Em. Not that I wouldn’t call her, but I wouldn’t call her for that. I watched her skip into the parking lot and drop a kiss on Matt’s cheek before climbing in and driving off. I wondered what it felt like to have someone waiting for you.

  I busied myself among the rows of books, straightening up what little kids had knocked down in the children’s section and putting magazines back in order. I loved losing myself in my work. It kept my mind off how truly pathetic my life was. I had read enough books to know that my life, or lack thereof, was at most a cry for help. Problem was, I had no one to cry to. I wasn’t some teenager in high school who could go to the guidance counselor and say, “I’m afraid to go home.” No, I was a twenty-three-year-old recluse by force and was afraid of trying at life and failing miserably.

  As I switched sections, I started to entertain the idea of leaving my mother, as I always did—it was my favorite pastime. I thought of moving far away so that she couldn’t find me and living a fabulous life and being happy.

  Truly happy.

  Maybe change my name to something normal, maybe get a goldfish, forget to feed it, and then have a goldfish funeral because that’s what you do.

  Normalness.

  But with these happy thoughts came the bad ones that had been engrained in my brain since, well, forever. The thoughts that my mother instilled came rushing so fast to the forefront of my mind it made me dizzy. It quickly shut do
wn any thoughts of me being happy. I was in such a downward spiral of thinking as I was crouched down to fix a bottom shelf that I didn’t notice the guy right behind me, and as I went to stand up, I slammed right into his chest. At least I thought it was the guy’s chest—it could have been a brick wall wrapped in leather.

  “Fuck, you okay?” Strong arms grasped my elbows to keep me from falling.

  I quickly recovered and stepped back out of his grasp to apologize, but I had trouble finding my voice. We got a certain type of crowd in Bookwormz. Mostly it was either middle-aged women or middle-aged men who almost always turned out to be creepers, so I was shocked by the fact that this guy seemed to be around my age and that he looked like he had just stepped off the pages of some bad-boy biker book. Leather jacket, dark low-slung jeans and all.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” I stammered, closing my mouth so the drool that had started to pool in the bottom of it didn’t escape.

  “Obviously, but now that you have, maybe you could help me.” He smiled and took a quick look in the parking lot behind me. I didn’t dare look away. His presence demanded my full attention.

  Clearing my throat so I could actually appear to be good at my job, I asked, “Sure, what can I help you find?”

  “Which one would you prefer?” He had grabbed two nearby books off the best-sellers shelves and held them up to me.

  Here we go.

  “Well, one is about a dystopian world where kids are basically killing each other,” I said.

  “And the other?” He held the second one up higher, examining the cover. He was standing just close enough that I could smell an intoxicating scent wafting off him. Do all guys smell this marvelous up close?

  “The other is about a dystopian world where kids are killing each other.”

  “Wait, so it’s the same book?” He raised one perfect eyebrow in confusion.

  I didn’t peg him for a reader, so I decided to give him the easy explanation. “No, they are actually different books in different series. While they may have similarities, the story and plots are wholly different. You want guns and knives, or bows and arrows?”

  He studied the books for a minute, then put the second one back on the self. His hands looked rugged and calloused, like he used them often.

  “Good choice.” I smiled my employee-of-the-month smile at him.

  “For the record, the ‘bow and arrow’ book was better than the movie,” he said, then turned and walked up the aisle toward the front of the store.

  Well, shit.

  It may have been his tall, muscular build or his dark hair that was cut boot camp–style short that threw me off, but he totally played me. Chances were, I would never run into Dystopian Biker ever again, unless it was in the pages of one of my books. Damn.

  Ember thought I just worked around books, only having read a few best sellers here and there, when really, I had read almost all the books in the store, and ’wormz was a medium-sized store with shipments of new material every Wednesday. My love of reading coincided with my hatred of my mother. I’d been looking for an escape, and I’d found it in the shelves of my school library. From then on, I was never without a book. Reading was the one thing she let me have. The one thing she didn’t try to ruin. Books were my solace; they didn’t throw things at you or tell you that you were worthless. They loved you back as much as you loved them. They never hurt you purposely or because they could. I loved the smell of the pages and running my hand along all the book spines on my bookshelves at home. Books gave me hope to face another day with a smile.

  I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was quitting time for me, and if Tom wasn’t such a dick about overtime, I would’ve stayed until closing. Sighing, I made my way to the back to punch out, then grabbed my cellphone off the charger where I stuck it during break. Great, three missed calls from Ember and one from home. Just seeing the number caused me to break out in sweats. The message icon was blinking. I prayed the message was from Ember, but deep down I knew it wasn’t. I waited until I got outside the store to listen to it. I didn’t want people to act all concerned if they saw my face change from carefree to “my puppy died.”

  “Where the fuc—”

  I hit delete. I could hear this shit in person; I didn’t need to hear it in a voice mail. I knew what it said: the same thing it always said. I looked at the time. The message was sent two hours ago. Fuuuuck.

  Tonight was going to suck.

  Long ago, I deemed that my mother had two sides. When she was just being her normal albeit cruel self, she was my mother; it was what I was used to. When she wanted to be heartless and cause me years in therapy for the shit she put me through, she became a monster. My own personal monster that I couldn’t escape. This was who I saw more often than not.

  This was who I was guaranteed to see tonight.

  “You look like you got lost in the stacks,” boomed a voice from behind me.

  Turning around, I saw Dystopian Biker. But not on a bike. He was in a car—some restored muscle car, as far as I could tell. I quickly smoothed my face out to that of an off-the-clock employee and smiled his way.

  “Ha, good one,” I smiled politely. Customers always thought themselves witty when they made bookstore-related jokes.

  I turned to walk away, and he yelled, “Thanks for the recommendation, Harley.”

  Whoa. Dystopian Biker knew my name?

  He must have seen the bewildered look on my face even from across two rows of cars because he tapped the left side of his chest and looked at me pointedly. Oh, right. My name tag.

  He was apparently so hot he was making me stupid.

  “Anytime. Let me know how you like it,” I said.

  He nodded and drove away before I could gather why he even thought to thank me. At least someone would go home happy.

  I stopped at the local diner, Patty P’s, to grab some burgers and fries for dinner. It was my mother’s favorite, and by bringing some home for her, hopefully she would leave me alone.

  I apprehensively opened the door to our small, two-bedroom house. I hated not knowing what was going to happen. It was why sometimes in a particularly suspenseful part of a book, I’d skip ahead a few pages to see if everything turned out all right.

  I wished I could skip ahead now.

  The house was dark and quiet, like scary-movie quiet, and I found myself walking lightly across the living room to the kitchen with the food containers in hand.

  I never made it.

  Something heavy slammed into my back, knocking me off balance and causing one of the containers, the top one, to fall and spill onto the floor.

  “You are so fucking clumsy!” she screamed.

  Yeah, because that was my fault.

  She didn’t even give me a chance to reply. She never did. “I waited for you for almost two hours to eat, and now you have spilled it on the floor like the dumbass you are. Pick it up!”

  Ignoring the pain in my back, I got up and, after setting the intact container on the table, started cleaning the mess off the floor. I was afraid to turn my back on her but more afraid of what she’d do if I didn’t clean up the mess fast enough. She watched me the whole time, my heart beating erratically. When I got up to go and put the food in the trash, she stopped me.

  “What are you doing with that?”

  “I…I was putting it in the trash. There is another container.” I gestured over to the table where I had set the other one down.

  “So you are not eating? We don’t have money to waste on food because you can’t hold a bag right.”

  “But it spilled on the floor. It’s trash now,” I said meekly.

  “So? You are what you eat. Come sit and eat. Stop wasting food.” She looked at me expectantly, daring me to challenge her. Of course I wouldn’t. I never did. Fear had rooted me to that spot, and it took her fist connecting with the back of my head to spur me into action.

  I went over and plated her food, then plated my messy burger and fries and set them o
n the table for us. I sat across from her and watched her as she ate. With every bite she took, she gave me a look as if to say, “EAT.”

  “I’m not really hungry. I was going to take this for lunch tomorrow,” I tried and lied. I was starving, but I didn’t want to eat off the floor that I knew hadn’t been cleaned in at least a week.

  “You need to eat. Look at you, straight as a board. Maybe some of that food will go to your breasts and ass, since you don’t have either of those.” She gave me the once-over as she said this. It wasn’t necessary. I knew that at 5'7", I was too tall and awkward and had no curves whatsoever. I found it amazing that I was able to get Ember and everyone else to believe my stories, considering the body I had.

  My mother suddenly slammed her fist down on the table, causing the salt and pepper shakers to topple over. “EAT. I won’t tell you again.”

  With tears stinging in my eyes, I picked up a fry and nibbled it. It wasn’t so bad. They’d probably been cooked in worse. Maybe I could get by with just eating the fries. I never finished my burgers, anyway.

  “Eat the burger. You can’t get an ass with just fries,” she said with such malice in her voice I swore she was enjoying it, which she probably was.

  I looked at the burger. I knew the black flecks on the bun and in the cheese were not sesame seeds, and I almost vomited. I had to do this; otherwise, the outcome would be worse. I had to weigh my options: either suffer a stomachache or a blow to the stomach. Slowly, I picked up the burger, swallowing back the cry in my throat. I didn’t cry. I knew she got off on it, and I hated to give her the satisfaction. I bit into the burger and chewed as fast as I could to swallow it down. She watched me the entire time, taking bites of her own and smiling at me like we were having a normal family dinner and I was telling her about my day. After my last bite, I waited to be excused. And when she finally said I could go, I all but ran to the bathroom and turned on the shower and the sink to mask the sounds of my vomiting.