by Mj Fields
I lay my head back as the ecstasy builds. He brings his hands up to cup my breasts as I quicken the pace. Then Angelo rises up beneath me, somehow delving deeper.
I cry out his name as my body spasms around him. The aftershocks roll through me as he finds his own release.
Falling forward over him, he traces my spine softly with his fingertips.
“Today’s the day, Tatum,” he whispers, and I feel his hesitation mix with my own.
“Angelo, I think I should go to the airport alone.”
He stills, not speaking. His cock is still inside of me, and I feel it pulse.
Leaning up, I look at him. “Goodbyes are hard enough. Let’s just enjoy this moment, and then you go home like usual. I’ll be okay.”
He studies me. “Is that what you really want?”
I can’t speak. The words are caught in my throat. I choke on them. I nod, instead. If I say a single word right now, there is a chance I may not ever leave Detroit. And that would be crazy. I don’t want to taint what we both found of ourselves in each other.
Lifting me effortlessly off him, Angelo slips out of me. Automatically, I feel empty, and not just physically.
Grabbing the sheet and wrapping it around me, I fight my emotions as he places a soft kiss on my lips. Then he grabs my head, pulling me to him for a kiss to my forehead. I exhale.
“If that is what you really want, Tatum,” he says softly, getting up from the bed and getting dressed.
I can’t do this. I can’t say goodbye. I need to remember I have a flight to catch and a life to return to.
He kisses me one more time, slowly, softly, and sensually, before he cups my chin and studies my face before pulling away and leaving.
For a little while, I lie in the bed and fight to compose myself. My phone rings, and I answer without looking, thinking it’s Angelo.
“Hello,” I answer with my heart on my sleeve.
“Tatum, I’ll be at the airport to pick you up. I know things have been busy, but we’ll need to dive right in to edits as soon as possible to make our deadline.”
“Okay, Melanie.” I don’t disguise the somberness in my tone. I want to scream because, really, these deadlines are months out. My heart is bleeding and broken. While I know it’s her job to make sure I’m on track and on time, I can’t help wanting this time to myself.
She ends the call, and then I shower so I can finish packing. An hour later, I’m ready to go back to New York. Annie and Jonathon’s book is practically done, and all that is left is saying goodbye to the city that has given me back my life.
Walking out of my room, I look at the doorway for the stairs and think fondly of closed stairwells. On a smile, I find my way to the elevator. The descent is slow. I can’t help the sadness filling me that this is it.
Walking out the front door, I’m looking for my cab when I see the old pickup truck. Tears spill over when I see Angelo standing by the passenger door with it open and flowers in his hand.
I rush over, dragging my rolling luggage behind me. Reaching him, I roll up on my tiptoes and kiss him. I don’t care that we are in public. Angelo is here.
When I pull away, we are both breathless.
“Thought you weren’t bein’ honest with yourself. You want me, say you want me.”
Oh, the many meanings in that, Angelo.
I decide to be honest because the truth is, as much as I said I didn’t want him to take me to the airport, I do. “Thank you for reading me.”
“Seems like you said one thing and meant another, Tatum. Gotta be honest with each other.”
Inhaling, I memorize his scent. “You’re right.”
On the ride over, I sit beside him on the bench seat, and he wraps an arm around me, driving one-handed. We both seem to need to touch each other.
At the airport, I get out as he unloads my luggage. We stand in front of the doors, and half of me wants to simply pack him up and take him with me, but it’s not realistic.
Looking up, his eyes meet mine, and I know what I need to do for us both.
“Angelo.” His name is barely above a whisper.
“Tatum, I can’t promise you a future.”
“I know, and I don’t want you to. I want to take this feeling—this love—and hold on to it.”
“So, what do we do?” he asks.
I fight back my emotions as I run my fingertips down the side of his face. “We breathe again. We love again. This is where the story ends. Thank you for giving me back my life, Michelangelo Mazzini. Thank you for giving me Annie and Jonathon.”
He studies me like he’s trying to read me again. “Thank you, Tatum Longley, for believing in me. Thank you for helping push back the demons I carry. Thank you for giving me a reason to live again.” He presses his lips to mine, softly, slowly kissing me as we stand there, our emotions wound tight.
Breaking away, it’s my turn to study him. He means it.
“I love you, Angelo. I’ll never forget you, Detroit, or our time together.”
“I love you, Tatum,” he says as I step away. “Breathe again, baby.”
Those are the last words between us as I let the tears fall and make my way to the counter to check my bag.
I don’t look back. No, I won’t look back. I feel his eyes on me, but this is about closure. This is not about looking back or going back. It’s about living again.
The time has come and gone all too soon, but the lessons in love will be with me forever.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Angelo
One Month Later...
When she landed, she sent me a text. My reply was that I was glad she was safe.
She shot me another, asking how I was. My reply was that I would be fine.
We sent several messages that day about feelings before my feelings took a turn for the worse.
I got pissed.
I told her to stop texting me, that my thirty days was up, and now was the time for the cleansing to begin.
Her last message was that she was sorry and she would try... for me.
That pissed me off, and I told her to do it for herself.
The texts ended, and then the hurt set in.
Prison was easier that this shit. There were walls to hide behind when the pain got real. In a sick fucking way, those walls protected me. I could wallow in my shit and no one was any wiser.
Jagger, Buck, and the guys at the gym all asked if I was okay. I shut them down really fucking quick. This is not any of their fucking business. My personal life, choices, and decisions don’t need the fucking exposure. My pain is mine and mine alone... again.
I feel like I am seventeen all over again. This time, however, it isn’t cameras in my face and reporters rapid firing their questions at me.
I remember the first picture I saw of myself after the arrest. It was one of me being taken out of my house in cuffs. I remember the fucking deer-in-the- headlight look on a boy, even then built like a man, when those fucking cameras started flashing. I remember crying like a little bitch in the back of the cop car when I saw the coroner wheeling my sister out on a stretcher and loading her, not in the ambulance, but the coroner’s vehicle. I also remember swearing that no one, not a single soul, would ever see me like that again.
Saint Michael the monster became the headlines, and all the hell that came with it. All of it lies.
I waited for God to step in, but He must have been busy. I waited for the nun’s prayers to reach Heaven itself, but they must have been intercepted or delivered to Hell, instead. Then I waited for Karma. She came in the wrong direction, wiping out the rest of my family, taking my father. Then I waited for death, but he never came.
I’m a man of my word. I gave her my word when I agreed she could use me. I made a promise to breathe again. It hurts so badly. I want to break my promise, but I am not that man. I promised to love again.
I haven’t stopped and love... Love is probably going to be the death of me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
>
Tatum
One Week Later...
Today is five weeks since I last saw the man who breathed life back into my lungs and filled my heart with what I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is love.
I lie on my bed in my New York apartment, looking around. I am home, but I don’t feel like I belong anymore. I left a piece of myself in Detroit.
Wasn’t that the plan? Go to Detroit, fall in love with the city, and wallow in what could have been? If I am honest with myself, that’s what I was doing until Melanie, until romance, and most importantly, until Angelo.
I’m a mess. I have been since I returned. I miss him. I miss the man, the mystery he was, and the muse he came to be. Mostly, it’s the man I miss.
Angelo is not the monster he was painted to be. He was a brother who loved his sister. He was a young man who believed in family. He took a life, but in reaction to feeling helpless. He had to defend himself and his sister. There wasn’t a plan; no malicious intent. In fact, in all the time I spent with Angelo and the things I learned about him, there isn’t a single ounce of ugly inside of him. He is caring, loyal, and giving. He is strong, understanding, and kind.
He is in pain.
I hold on to the hope that, even though our time together was short, he somehow found even a single moment of reprieve in the anguish he lives. For our time together, I can only wish he had his own moment to breathe again.
My bedroom is littered with cardboard coffee cups from the Starbucks and piles of printed manuscripts with edits. His words and mine.
Jonathon and Annie got the typical happily ever after that is expected in the traditional romance world. The novel, Breathe Again, is eighty thousand words of romance at its best. The story is compelling, relatable, the characters are ones the readers can sympathize with and are larger than life.
I had sent Melanie a few chapters at a time while I was in Detroit, and she has been working on the edits as she gets them.
I pushed hard to surpass the typical six-month stale hold that it takes to get a book out and won. Breathe Again is set to publish in a month. Three months is nearly unheard of in this world, but luckily, I have a Melanie who is begging for more from me, but I refuse to give her more unless this does well.
It better do well. Not because of the money or Melanie’s job, but because of the sacrifices to my heart. I feel like I sold my soul for this book.
I have been invested in my work before. Stories, words, they are life to my soul. Breathe Again is my healing, my breaking, and my future all in one.
I sit up and throw the bound manuscript to the floor and hug my knees as I start to shake, silently sobbing and trying to physically hold myself together.
I wasn’t supposed to fall in love. How the hell did it happen?
Tears fall and my chest tightens to the point of physical pain. I know what this is. It’s the same way I felt after I lost Gregory. My heart is breaking.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Angelo
Three Weeks Later...
Two months since a part of me died...again.
I lie in bed, staring at the same spot on my ceiling that I force myself to focus my emotions on. The white ceiling that hasn’t seen paint in probably twenty fucking years has a specific cluster that looks like a jagged heart with a crack running right through the middle.
Hurt, pain, and anger swirl together like a fucking twister on bad days, causing not one damn thing to go right.
One moment, I miss her. She’s the only thing that has been right in my life in years.
Confusion, defeat, and disgust taunt me, and that fucking heart that’s cracked incites rage. I fear I will lose control and need to beat it down. I promised her our time meant something yet, regardless of the fact, she and I will never be again.
The picture of her is etched forever in my memory. She somehow fixed something broken in me, and I did the same. She will live and smile and love again. Those thoughts make me want to tear apart that taunting heart and destroy it and her.
One moment I hate her.
How the hell did I let her use me? Why the fuck did I give in to her? She opened a part of me that I had sealed safely behind armor, and then left it bloody and raw.
Sadness, depression, and dread loom overhead in that heart, and it looks at me with pity, knowing how broken I feel inside. I hurt, I bleed, I am confined in a new way. A way without bars, but nonetheless rendered fucking useless because she used me up and left me empty.
Every moment I love her.
I love her, and it physically pains me.
I have the cage to train men, who I beg to let loose on me physically, yet it’s not enough. No hit, jab, or punch can hurt away the pain caused by her leaving.
Missing her is agony.
When she was here, I didn’t need a fucking pill to sleep. Now, jerking myself off to the thought of her doesn’t tire me. Nothing turns my mind off. Nothing gives me the freedom to breathe again.
When she was here, I slept, ready to face the next day’s challenges, because when she was here, I wanted tomorrows to come again for the first time in so many fucking years. Now, the only reason I want to breathe is because I told her I would.
No pain, no depression, no memory ever hurt as much as the one of her walking through the turn style and not coming back. Nothing besides death was ever as final as that moment.
I feel a wet tongue glide across my hand and look left.
Muttley, a big black shaggy dog I somehow became in charge of, has his big, black head laying on the mattress.
I owed Hendrix Caldwell a favor for making sure Tatum got back to the hotel the night my walk through hell began. Apparently, the favor came in form of taking on a stray male dog who knocked up his female dog, Floyd. Yes, he named his female dog Floyd and gave her a pink collar.
Muttley here is apparently a fan of the pooch.
I told him no. It didn’t matter to him. He walked out of the gym without the fucking dog.
I sit up, and the damn fool starts his morning dance, his nails tapping loudly against the hardwood floor. He has made himself at home here.
Well, I guess I can be happy someone feels comfortable. Since Tatum, I just want to crawl out of my own skin.
I throw my feet over the side of the bed and stand up. I grab a pair of jogging pants off the floor and step into them. With Buck here, I can no longer walk around freely. Putting on clothes to take a piss has become a new part of my day.
Standing at the toilet, I look left, and there is the dog, sitting damn near on my feet.
“You should learn to piss in the toilet. Then I wouldn’t have to freeze my balls off taking you out every damn morning.”
I shove myself back in and grab my toothbrush to clean my teeth before grabbing a hoodie and heading out the door.
Today, we run.
As soon as we step outside, I can tell both of us needed it. I allow him to lead since he is a stubborn fool. The big buffoon heads right toward the place he always does—Hendrix and Livi’s place. I know what he is looking for—the Pit Bull he knocked up and his pups.
He barks once he makes it to the corner, and then the damn fool sits. And he does so firmly in place.
“Mutt, we gots to go.” I give his leash a tug, but he doesn’t move.
I feel bad for the fucker. I know how he feels—wanting something he can no longer have. That doesn’t mean he can just sit here and wait for something that isn’t going to happen. Regardless, I give in to his need to wait while I check my pulse.
When I finish, I pat his big old head and tug him again. “Let’s go.”
We run hard for three miles, and he keeps up, right at my side. When we return to the gym, he’s panting, and so am I.
He walks in, and I unhook his leash. He runs right up to Tatiana, knowing damn well he will get a biscuit, while I walk over to the fridge behind the desk and grab a protein shake, giving my body what it needs.
“Fight night tonight,” Jagger says with a nod.
I nod back. “Tito’s ready, and a couple of the other guys are looking really good, too.”
“Buck’s come a long way,” Jagger says in a huff. “Damn kid hates me.”
“He’ll come around,” I tell him after wiping my mouth.
“He’s a good dog, huh?” Jagger laughs when the mutt sits his big ass on my sneaker.
I shake my head. “He’s something for sure.”
“You doing okay?” he asks. When I raise an eyebrow, he laughs. “That woman loved your ass, Kid.”
“You’re stepping over that line, Caldwell.”
“Always was one to push limits. So let me tell you that I know damn well you’re in love with her, too.” He narrows his eyes at me.
My chest tightens, and I feel my blood boil. “In my world, love’s like everything else—it dies.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, and you know it, Kid. Love never dies.”
I feel my jaw tighten. I’m ready to chew his overstepping ass, when the postal worker walks in to deliver the mail.
“Michelangelo Mazzini?”
I nod.
“Can you sign here?” He holds out some electronic tablet, and I sign. Then he hands me a thick envelope that’s addressed from PRH, Manhattan, NY. There is only one person who would send me anything from New York.
My chest tightens painfully as curiosity mixes with the frustration that she doesn’t seem to simply go away.
I walk to the back of the gym, Muttley hot on my heels, and walk into the office. I sit at the desk and open the thick padded envelope. Pulling out the contents, I fight the urge to dive into the manuscript, aching for her words.
I lean forward and read the first piece of paper.
To: Michelangelo Mazzini
From: Melanie Quinn, Sr. Editor at PRH Publishing LLC.
Enclosed, you will find a document to sign away any rights to the enclosed manuscript.
Miss Longley has been insistent that some things not be changed in the chapters you allegedly assisted her in crafting. In order to avoid a delay in publishing, we would like for you to sign and return the enclosed letter, waiving your rights to this work.
