My Every Breath

by Brittney Sahin

  “Change before Owen comes,” he says over his shoulder while walking to his room.

  “I don’t do well with commands.” Or, more like I don’t want them, now that I’m nearly free. I won’t classify myself as free until I know Rory and my father can’t get to me anymore.

  “Unlucky for you—neither do I.” He shuts the door behind him, and now that he’s out of sight, I can finally breathe.

  I peer around the room, thinking about trying to imitate the moves I saw him do. I hate feeling powerless.

  I should have helped you eight years ago. Cade’s words come back to mind.

  Helped me how? How would our paths have ever crossed? Eight years ago, I was seventeen and forced to work at—

  My hand goes to my mouth as a memory pops into my mind like the crackle of a sparkler.

  No . . .

  Cade would have never been there. No, it’s not possible.

  A man like him?

  He’s a CEO. Why would he ever be caught up in my world?

  But my stomach starts to pinch tight and my shoulders sag as a memory unfolds, one that includes Cade. I think it was him. It was a long time ago, but still . . .

  Maybe everyone’s a potential target for being pulled into the McCullens’ world. I thought Cade was different.

  I guess I was wrong.

  * * *

  “So, the guy has a gun, and he’s hanging on to the hood of my buddy’s car, yelling at us to drive—says that he’s being chased.”

  I take another swallow of the vodka from the mini bottle I’m holding and swipe at the drop of liquid on my lips, waiting for Owen to continue.

  He stretches his legs out in front of him and smiles. “I was under direct orders not to get into any shit while I was there, so I called the cops.”

  “You—be good?” I can’t help but laugh. I’ve been chatting with Owen for two hours now, listening to his stories, and so, I’ve learned this man is a beacon for trouble.

  “Hey, I tried.” He holds his palms up in front of him before running one hand through his disheveled, longish blond hair.

  “Well? You can’t leave me hanging. What happened?” I blink a few times as I realize the alcohol is going to my head now. I’m not sure how many little bottles of liquor I’ve drunk. Owen thought it’d be a good idea for me to relax. He brought me food and then raided the minibar after Cade had sent him to babysit.

  “So, I tell the cop about the gang banger on my car, and the dude says, ‘assess the situation and call us back.’ Can you believe that shit?” He shakes his head and grabs his soda. “Yeah, I assessed the situation all right.”

  “Do I even want to know what happened?” I slide off the couch and sit on the floor next to him.

  “No, you don’t.”

  A smile lights his face, and his hazel eyes shine even more than normal. He has a lot of the color wheel going on in his irises: hints of blue-green with gold flecks and traces of nutmeg brown.

  “Well”—I think back to my life in Brazil, and an all-too-familiar pain settles inside me—“I guess that’s Rio for you.”

  “Brazil is nice, though. You miss it?” He finishes his drink and then reaches for an Oreo.

  How does he eat like he does and stay looking like that? I’m pretty sure he’s met my daily caloric intake in the last twenty minutes.

  “Yes, I do. My, um, mother and I lived in a place outside the city. The community was small and tight-knit. We all kept to ourselves until—” The last memory of my mom comes to mind, and I can’t keep talking. Fresh pain seeps inside of me.

  She was taken because of me . . . because they wanted me.

  “You ever think about going back?” He arches a brow and wipes the crumbs off his jeans, and I’m pulled back to the present and out of the nightmare of my past.

  “Only every hour.” But not for the reasons he probably thinks.

  My lips purse together, and I finish off the rest of the vodka, needing to dull the pain.

  “All that alcohol, and you still look tense. I guess my plan to loosen you up failed.” He shrugs. “I’d offer to massage you, but that’d be fucking awkward, and I don’t really feel like going head-to-head with Cade since it seems to me he’s into you.” He smiles.

  Like Cade, he has a great smile. “Into me?”

  “Well, yeah. I’ve never known a man to do what he’s doing for a woman unless he’s either getting paid or helping family out. You know?”

  I swallow his words and save them for later in the day. Maybe I need to have another drink, even though I’ll probably be married to the toilet later. I’m kind of a lightweight.

  But before I can push up to stand and head to the minibar, there’s a knock at the door.

  “It’s me.” Cade’s rich voice carries through the door. He has the card to come in, but Owen has the chain fastened in place for extra security.

  “Coming, man.” He shoots to his feet and lets him in.

  My palms find the floor, but my knees are too weak to stand.

  Shit. I’m drunk, more so than I thought.

  Cade eyes the empty bottles on the floor by my legs, and then his gaze sweeps to my face. “You’ve been drinking?”

  Owen scratches the back of his neck as if guilty. “Not me, but Gia needed to relax, so I thought—”

  “What? You thought it’d be a good idea for her to get alcohol poisoning?” Cade heads my way and kneels down next to me. He collects all the little blue bottles and tosses them into the waste bin. “I’ve got it from here.”

  “Sure.” He’s not fazed by Cade’s deep, slightly threatening tone. “I’ll be across the way. We’ll be leaving early tomorrow, so be sure to get enough sleep.”

  I finally get to my feet and start for my bedroom once Owen is gone. I’m pretty sure I’m not walking straight, but as long as I can make it to the bed without needing his help, I’ll be good.

  “Gia.” His voice has me pausing in the doorframe, and I prop my hands against the wood to hold myself up. “What?”

  “I don’t think you should be alone. You might get sick and—”

  I look over my shoulder at him, but I do it too fast, and it makes everything spin. The room is tilting, or maybe I am.

  Cade catches me before I fall, his hands swooping beneath my armpits, and then he lifts me and carries me to the bed.

  “Go away.” I roll to my side and pull my knees against my stomach. “I remember you, Cade. I remember meeting you before.” I close my eyes. “So, please, leave me alone.”

  He curses beneath his breath. “Whatever you think—it’s not that bad. Well, probably not that bad.”

  “You were in the McCullens’ underground casino. No one gets in there without being connected to them.” My stomach starts to squeeze. The nausea is hitting hard and fast.

  It’s funny how you can have trouble walking when you’re drunk, but the second you feel like you’re going to throw up—bam, you can sprint like an Olympian to get to a bathroom.

  And in a split second, I’m on my feet, making a woozy beeline for it.

  I barely make it.

  It’s as if my muscles are convulsing, and I keep vomiting until my stomach is empty—and Cade is holding my hair back. Damn him.

  “You okay?”

  I cover my mouth as I sit up a minute later and peer at him over my shoulder. He’s on his knees behind me, and as much as I shouldn’t care, I feel embarrassed that he witnessed that.

  “Please go,” I choke out, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he hands me a wet towel and runs his palm up and down my back.

  I close my eyes and press it to my face, wanting to hide from him. Hell, from the world.

  I try to stand a few moments later, and he holds on to my elbows and helps me up.

  It’s not fair. I want to be mad at him, but he’s making it hard.

  I brush my teeth and rinse the disgusting taste from my mouth before heading back into the room and sinking onto the bed.

&nbs
p; “Take off your clothes,” he says as if it’s the most natural comment in the world. My lips open, and I’m ready to use every ounce of energy I have left to stand and smack him, but he adds, “You should get comfortable and sleep.”

  I relax almost instantly. And because I’m exhausted, I begin lifting the soft V-neck sweater his friend got me over my head.

  His hands rush to mine, covering them, and he pushes the material back down. The muscles in his face lock tight.

  “What?”

  “Are you crazy?” His lips crook at the edges into a half-smile. “I didn’t mean in front of me. I, uh, think me seeing you naked wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  “And why not?”

  He raises a brow and retracts his hands, but he doesn’t answer my stupid question. Instead, he asks, “Can you manage on your own?”

  “Yes.” The alcohol is starting to recede, like water pulling back after the waves crash on the sand. Anger bubbles in its place.

  “We’ll, uh, pick up our conversation after you’ve gotten some sleep. Or maybe at the next hotel.”

  “Or maybe never at all.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” He scrunches his brow and takes a step back.

  “You really expect me to believe anything you say now?” I reach for the hem of my sweater and peel it off, regardless of what he wants. I suddenly want to torture him—to frustrate him. He’s a liar. A fake. A man I can no longer trust, even if my heart freaking sings when he’s in the room. Even if the desire inside of me is like a tight fist in my stomach—pumping relentlessly.

  His eyes darken and drop to my chest, to my bra, where my nipples press against the thin lace fabric. Why did his friend buy such sexy undergarments? These things were made to be seen, not hidden. And Cade is seeing me right now like no man ever has.

  “Gia.” His gaze shifts to my face.

  I stand and move closer to him. My palm rests on his chest, and his heart is beating so quick, matching my own.

  “You’re dirty, Cade. Like the cops, judges, and politicians Rory has on his payroll. You’re just as bad.” I reach around behind my back, prepared to unsnap the bra, but his hands fly to my forearms and stop me, pinning my arms to my sides.

  I can see the pulse in his neck. The controlled but tight strain of his jaw muscle. And we’re so close now I can feel his hardened length against me.

  I should hate how this moment makes me feel right now—the prickly burn of desire between my legs.

  He’s no better than Rory, I remind myself.

  I look up into his eyes, his body still pressed close to mine as he holds me in place.

  “You know, the day I met you was when I got this tattoo.” I pull my right arm up between us and show him my wrist.

  He wraps his hand around my forearm, angling my wrist in his direction for a better view.

  “Who died?” He keeps a hold on me as our eyes meet.

  “My mother. I think so, at least. Well, maybe. I’m not sure.”

  He raises a brow, probably confused by my choice of words, but then he starts to trace his fingers over the angel wings with his other hand. “It was pink and swollen when we met, right?”

  I blink away the memory of my mother and focus on him again. “How can you remember the details now—especially something so specific—when you couldn’t before? Eight years is a long time ago.”

  “My memory’s both a blessing and a curse.” He drops my hand and motions for the bed, but I don’t sit, even though I want to. Even though my body is weak. “I wasn’t myself the night we met, so the details were muffled. But I remember most of that night now.” He swallows. “I remember you.”

  Before I realize it, I’m sitting back on the bed, and I pull the sheets up to cover my chest. Something heavy is coming, and if this man is actually about to open up to me—he’s right, I can’t be standing for it.

  He shoves his hands in his pockets and releases a breath before his eyes cut back to mine. There’s pain there. His blue eyes are darker, more intense. He’s carrying a weight around, and I know how that feels.

  “I’d never done drugs before.” His lips tighten for a moment. “I dated someone once who did, and it didn’t end so well, and I . . . well, I don’t like anything that takes away my sense of control.”

  Figures.

  “But that night in the casino”—he clears his throat—“was the first time my father introduced me to that world. He frequented the place when he needed to make some less-than-legal business deals.”

  “With the McCullens?” My stomach drops, and I don’t think it’s alcohol-related.

  “Not with them. I never met Rory or Richard, but I remember seeing them on occasion from that moment forward—well, until I took over the company and ended such business deals.” He taps a closed fist to his mouth for a moment before continuing, “My father was meeting with a judge to get some permits passed that were being held up by a bunch of red tape. I guess the McCullens were—maybe still are—a middleman.”

  I nod, sort of understanding, but I don’t like the direction this conversation is going. My hand slips under the covers and to my abdomen, where the discomfort continues to grow. “And what does this have to do with drugs?”

  He sinks on the bed near the bottom, and his eyes drop to the tattoo inside his own arm. “I was always desperate for my father’s approval, but I never wanted to be part of anything illegal. I didn’t like the line he was trying to force me to cross that night. I refused to go into the meeting. Instead, I sat down at one of the poker tables and waited.” He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and I can tell he’s angry with himself. Maybe he’s not such a bad guy.

  Or maybe I’m clinging to hope because I need him.

  “Someone offered me something at the card table. It looked like a blunt.” His eyes flash open. “It reminded me of a woman from my past. And something inside me snapped. I became so pissed at everything in that moment, and so I took it. It was probably laced with heroin or something. I don’t know. I was fucking out of it.”

  “You ordered a drink from me. Before you smoked, probably.” The memory is foggy, but it’s there. His face is hard to forget.

  He nods. “I noticed your tattoo as I told you my order, and then I looked up into your eyes—”

  “And I remember thinking you looked like a good guy. And for some naïve reason—and because I was still fairly new to Rory’s world—I thought maybe you’d help me. It was a dumb idea, but I was seventeen and hopeless.” The night comes back to me like a watershed, and emotions dump all over me, raining down in swift, sharp movements.

  As he stands back up, his large hand sweeps up to his face as if ashamed to look at me. “When you handed me the napkin with your note, I was already fucked up, and I honestly thought your request for help was code for you wanting to have sex. And even on drugs, I wouldn’t hook up with a minor. Then my father came out of his meeting and flipped when he realized I was high.”

  He laughs, but I can tell it’s an attempt to hide emotion.

  “My father said he expected that kind of shit from my brother, but not from me . . . and we left.”

  “So you’re not bad?” I sit up higher, feeling more invigorated. Maybe my plan can still work.

  His shoulders slouch as his blue eyes dart to mine. “I did shit I’m not proud of after that night. I did what Dad wanted. Deals I shouldn’t have made. But I’ve been trying to be different from him. I’m looking for—”

  “Redemption?”

  “I don’t know if I believe in redemption.” His gaze falls to the floor. “But I want to do what’s right. I want to help you.”

  I rise without thinking and stand before him. Maybe he’s as broken as I am, but he hides behind a rough shell.

  I forget I’m only in a bra and pants, but he doesn’t even glance at my chest. His eyes find mine as I reach for him and slide my hands up his muscled arms, then grip both his biceps. “That must have been difficult for you.” I p
ress my lips together as I consider my next words. “It’s not easy for someone like you to open up.”

  “Yeah? And how can you tell?”

  “Because I think we’re alike. It’s not exactly easy for me to open up either.” I swallow the emotion in my throat. “So, thank you for telling me the truth and not sugarcoating it.”

  “Don’t do that.” The muscle in his jaw tightens as he shifts back a step, and my arms fall to my sides, like leaves swooshing down in a storm.

  “Don’t do what?”

  He grips his temples with his middle finger and thumb for a brief moment, before catching my eyes again. “Don’t let me off the hook. I don’t deserve it.”

  “Maybe I should be mad at you, but you’re not your father, just like I’m not mine. So, I believe you when you say you want to be different than you were in the past.”

  My hand rests on my abdomen, and I can’t tell if it’s the nausea from the alcohol coming back to bite me or if it’s butterflies.

  “I should let you get some rest.” He turns to leave, but I reach out for him, my hand landing on his hard back, wishing the layer of clothing didn’t separate us.

  He stills at my touch.

  “We’re both a little messed up, aren’t we?”

  “You’re not—not at all. You’re”—he turns to face me, and my arm goes back to my side— “incredible.”

  My lips part in expectation, in need. And he wants me too. I can see it. His brow creases as if unsure, but then he lowers his head, slowly, until our lips are almost touching.

  My eyes close, and my body begins to warm the moment his lips press to mine. It’s a soft kiss.

  Lips to lips.

  My chest rising.

  When his hand finds the small of my back, and he pulls me flush to his body and tips my chin up with his other hand, deepening the kiss, I nearly wilt against him. His hand glides up my back and beneath my bra, but he doesn’t unsnap it. No, he just runs his fingers along my flesh, sending a cascade of shivers over every inch of my skin, right down to my toes.

  The kiss intensifies, and he groans against my mouth, moving even closer to me—so strong and powerful, his kiss, his desire . . . that I fall back onto the bed. His chest rises and falls, his gaze tight on mine as I observe him, waiting for him to come to me, and he does.