Breathe
Page 1
Breathe (Hollow Ridge #2)
C.L. Matthews
Table of Contents
Title Page
Breathe (Hollow Ridge, #2)
Special Thanks to Dimples. | Without you, this book would be trash.
Part I | Toxicity
Prologue | Toby
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Part II | Intoxicated
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Part III | Detoxify
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Epilogue One
Epilogue Two
Acknowledgements
© 2020 C.L. Matthews
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Special Thanks to Dimples.
Without you, this book would be trash.
Part I
Toxicity
There’s always a before and an after.
The before tends to be the good times. Everything that occurs before the bad.
The after is the shit that’s dealt.
Whether it’s depression, heartbreak, or losing everything that mattered to you in the “before.”
Both signify a chapter ending.
Both also depict a gnarly picture.
One thing you’ll learn, nothing can change the before like the after, and nothing can change the after without accepting the before.
- Toby
Prologue
Toby
Every day, it’s like this.
Run.
Sweat.
Weightlifting.
Exhaustion.
To distract myself from my problems, I run until I can’t. I work out until my limbs are heavy with exhaustion. I exert myself until my body shuts down. My mind works until it’s a heap of nothingness, too, because that’s easier than accepting the fate I’ve been given. The one I single-handedly served myself on a platter full of blood, guts, and bones, hoping for a better outcome than becoming a meal. But that’s what happens when you hope. You lose, and until you weigh the loss with the outcome, you’re bound to give up more than you bargained for.
My feet stop at the Magic Bean, the shop Lo and I always went to after runs. The craving for a Danish—one I’ve bought her on many occasions—stabs through my stomach, reminding me how little I eat or indulge anymore. As soon as I walk through the door, the heat outside is replaced by a crisp breeze and the scent of my favorite beverage. Black coffee, no sugar.
The clerk behind the counter isn’t someone I recognize, but of course not. A lot has changed in the five years I’ve been gone. Why not take my favorite barista too?
As soon as it’s my turn at the counter, I see Alara. My favorite coffee shop employee comes out from the back, eyeing me almost as if she’s not sure it’s really me. As soon as her mind connects with my face, she smiles and moves the dude clerk away.
“Tobias Hayes, is that you?” she questions in her usual cheery voice.
I grin back, happy to see a friendly face in Hollow Ridge. “Sure is. Can I get my regular?”
“A black coffee?” she jests and laughs.
She used to joke that only psychopaths drink coffee black. It’s not a bad assessment, according to the people around me.
With a nod, I give her my card. As soon as I sign the receipt, giving her a nice tip, I wait for my coffee. Thirty seconds later, I have it gripped in my hand.
When I turn around, my hand slips.
Do you hear that sound? That’s my life fracturing at this moment. The room is silent, yet the coffee cup dropping from my grasp, toppling to the ground and spilling is like a large thump, mimicking my heartbeat. Everyone’s gaze meets mine, making me more aware of where I’m currently residing. Their expressions range from worry and confusion to annoyed and amused.
I ignore them. In the end, they don’t matter.
My eyes go back to what made me drop my coffee, or rather, who.
Years.
It’s been several since I’ve seen her, yet the pain is as fresh as a brutal collision. It’s as real as a moment of disaster in a beautiful package. It’s as damning as an end before it began.
Her short hair is now long again, the tresses hitting the middle of her back like then. But it’s not then. It’s now. It’s bitterness in a glass of whiskey. It’s distaste in a cup of joe with sugar. It’s heartbreak in a room of dead people.
She’s even more beautiful now.
Delicate.
Fierce.
Her eyes light up, but the glossiness isn’t the same. Back then, they were always brimming with tears of heartache, and now, they shine with affection. The vast difference between before and now is stifling.
The affection she offers has everything to do with the russet brown-haired toddler begging for her attention. He can’t be older than four, but something about him triggers something in me.
That single night.
The one that changed it all.
My forehead beads with sweat, my stomach concaving with the possibilities. No. She wouldn’t keep that from me. Even with our past in the air, our pain on repeat, our friendship gone... she wouldn’t keep a child—my child, if that’s the case—away from me.
Right?
She feeds little pieces of a bagel to him, her eyes lighting up as he smiles and giggles. Her eyes, the ones I’ve loved for years, gaze at him as if he created the earth itself. Maybe he did. Maybe he’s godly and ethereal. Maybe, by some chance, he’s a miracle. Our miracle.
I forget about my coffee on the ground, and my steps become more frantic in my haste to get to her. The breath of coffee I inhale reminds me of all the mornings we spent together, enjoying a cup of joe and pastries for her sweet tooth before we’d go for a run.
Then the memories fade, and the pain returns.
I’m only six feet from her table, five steps tops to get to her, to demand answers, but before I make it, a hand on my chest halts me abruptly. I turn to the person stopping me, and my glare is met with lustrous fiery almond eyes.
My heart drops farther, if possible, striking me in another place that hasn’t felt in so long.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Chapter One
Toby
My head rings as my phone’s alarm clock blares Journey, waking me up, while also spearing into my skull repeatedly. How much did I drink last night? How did I get home?
Why can’t I remember anything? I told myself not to drink again since benders don’t benefit me. Change. The six-letter word I’ve been trying to implement into my life. I want change. What the hell have I done now?
The smell of flowers, fresh linen, and something else invades my nose, only further worsening the pounding in my head. Who even likes this mixture? It smells like an old people’s home. You know the floral smell, the one they think old people appreciate but, in reality, hate just as bad as young people?
Is this my house? Wait. I no longer have a house. After everything, it ended up on the market and selling within two months. That’s what happens when you abandon all hope. You realize items are just that... items. They don’t matter and neither does anything else.
My eyes strain to open, forcing my spine erect. My body winces in response, the pain as fresh as the wave of nausea. My gaze scans the white bedroom, the plain walls, the clean white dressers, side tables, and carpet to match. It’s like a wedding room, one where innocence goes to die. And a moment later, someone’s groaning. A woman.
Soft delicate noises are my favorite pastime. They’re infiltrating and caressing, giving me the ease only whiskey offers.
Turning slowly, I remain as quiet as possible, and my eyes land onto a contented form. Usually after a night of partying, I don’t pay attention to someone after they’ve fulfilled my needs, but she’s somehow different. Her cinnamon spice hair fans out around her, making the room seem vacant and colorless in comparison. She’s snuggling her pillow as if it’s the source of all happiness. Her eyes are shut, serene, something I haven’t experienced in a long-ass time.
Peace.
Sleep.
Someone by my side.
The thought of those necessities, the human touch I’ve lacked for years, hits me square in the chest. I miss Lo. My Sparkle. My light. She was a driving force in my life. She made me want to get up in the morning and strive for better. She made me better and sober. She ruined you. And I welcomed that ruin like the alcohol bottle always gripped in my palm.
When we spent time together, it felt like I could conquer the world. Without her, I proved I’d fall. It’s the last thing I wanted, but it’s the reality I live with every day. My inability to staunch my alcohol dependence became clear in the first month without her. Two years later, I’m still a slave to my vices.
Waking up in a pool of vomit with an empty bottle and unabated pain only solidifies that my problems are worsening. That’s my repeat action—binge. Without her, I’m lost. Without her, I’m a shell. Without her, I’m worthless.
I collect my shame, bottling it up in a Mason jar along with my soul.
When will my collection be too much to bear?
My bedmate’s light snoring brings my attention to yet another fateful night from the bottle. Why is this stranger in my bed, or rather a bed I don’t recognize? What happened last night? I was... where the hell am I?
My mind attempts to wrap around last night’s events, but I draw many foggy images. One sticks, though. One of this auburn-haired goddess.
“Toby,” I mumble, my voice hardened. This was supposed to work out in my best interest, not give me a young twenty-something chef who has never held a job before. A year at a renowned restaurant as an intern chef isn’t considered holding a job, even if that’s what she’s proud of.
“Joey,” she responds, her eyes wary. Like me, she doesn’t want to be here either.
Tough shit, Sous.
I shake my head.
A chef. My chef?
Joey.
Who names their female child Joey? If she’s my employee, I wonder how fucked I’ll be when HR gets ahold of this tidbit. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I attempt to shift without waking her, but the bed creaks anyway. She groans as my body finally frees itself from the confines of sheets, feathers, and a comforter.
What did we do last night?
It looks like a cheap remake of that awful Twilight scene. As the image infiltrates my mind, I chuckle at the dumbness, unable to hold back the comparison. Lo always loved the books. Not the movies, but she watched them anyway. Made sure to force me to watch too. My laughter costs me, and her eyes widen. Unlike me, she is up in a flash. Her face wild with fear and confusion. Jesus. She must not remember either.
In the past two years, I’ve slept with so many women I can’t see straight when trying to picture them. But this? Her worried look and uncertainty have me feeling like utter shit. Were we not supposed to sleep together? Did she not want this? Fuck. I’m never this irresponsible. Scratching my head, I try to recall more from last night, scouring my brain for a morsel of truth.
“Never have I ever...” Joey pauses, biting her lip. “Fucked in public.” Her face reddens, scrunching in the most adorable way. Almost like she’s a young teen and I’m an old pervy man with too much experience. It’s not entirely wrong. She loosened up with the drinks she ordered, and it’s enticing to see the fiery girl mellow.
All of us, sans her, take a shot. There was that one situation with a teacher my sophomore year... I nearly forgot. Jase gave me hell for that. It didn’t stop me from fucking her every chance I got.
Mommy issues and all.
I shake my head at the memory. Did I decide to go pre-teen last night? This is so fucked. Who plays never have I ever anymore? High schoolers that want to get tanked and lucky.
My head spins as awareness dawns on me. She’s young...
The pinching to my head doesn’t abate while I try to filter through last night. My memory of her age isn’t hitting me at all. Is she even legal? Joey. This woman, she’s petite and small, nearly half my height, which is saying a lot since I’m six-five. Bitter indifference mars her face, the grimace making a crumpled-up piece of paper seem smooth.
Should I say something, or just soak in this awkward silence?
“Hey,” I mutter lamely, my face feeling hot for some reason. Without meaning to, I reach behind my head, grabbing my neck. Sweat lingers there, perspiring like
a welling pond. What’s wrong with me? Lo always said I did this when discomfort rises inside me. Maybe she’s right. Joey’s eyes meet mine. The fear is gone, but annoyance has risen in its place.
Maybe what they say about redheads is true...
“Hey,” she mocks, her temper flaring, making her cute shortness seem even more adorable.
Adorable.
Cute.
What. The. Hell?
“Want to tell me why you hate me already? It usually takes a lot more than a greeting for that. Usually, after fucking, it’s not hate they’re feeling either.”
She scoffs, her nostrils flaring. Narrowed eyes meet me with malice as though I’m a perpetrator. “Of course. You think you were some fucking glorious god in the sack. If a cliché generator could use someone’s brain as the artificial intelligence, it’d be yours.”
I can’t help but laugh. Damn. What did I do, and why do I even care?
“So you’re saying, I wasn’t good?” The taunt leaves my lips before I think better of it.
Her face goes through a barrage of emotions and feelings, but how it pinks her cheeks is answer enough.
“I was good then,” I murmur, mentally patting my back. Not being able to recall the last time someone didn’t enjoy themselves.
Her. She didn’t. She hated you after.
I close my eyes at that, the memory, the pain, the melancholy. She’s gone. I’m gone. We’re nothing anymore.
“Nope, but nice try. Maybe next time, you should use your mouth for more useful things than speaking,” she rebuts with a raised brow. Her legs wiggle as she tries to shimmy herself back into her jeans. Her hips are generous and so is her ass. I’m stuck watching her struggle to pull them over her plump curves, appreciating every grunt of frustration. An unstoppable smirk tilts my lips, loving how flushed she is from both embarrassment and irritation, but it’s the little growl she lets out as she wiggles that has me chuckling at her expense.
“Need help, Gumby?”
“Gumby? Are you fucking joking? Do I look like a bendy green piece of Play-Doh?” Her voice rises with each word as though it’s an accusation and not a fun way to tease her. She’s wrong. It’s the definition of fun. Her hair—wild, fiery, and twisted in every which way—only makes me unable to take her seriously. I’m enjoying this far too much, especially when she’s only been hostile since I’ve woken her up. “And what are you... fifty? Gumby seems a little past your time.”