Breathe

by C. L. Matthews

  He can’t rule me anymore. Not after what he did, not with how he ruined my life. I refuse.

  When my phone beeps and vibrates in my palm, I peer at the screen, wondering what he wants now. He never gives up. He’s tenacious, even more than he was in high school. Ace Collins scares the living shit out of me.

  He’s my bully, the pain to my ache, and the grim reaper to my murder.

  If I allow it, he’ll end my life.

  I miss you, mon beau. At the text from Range—Ranger Godefroy—my not-so-temporary Paris fling, heat surfaces on my skin, blanketing it in warmth. That’s what Range does, he soothes my aches and promises endless care and a name my father would approve of. I roll my eyes at that. He might be royalty to my French grandparents and my father, but he’s just Range to me. The kindest man I know.

  Miss you too, Range. Visit me this summer?

  Wouldn’t miss it for the world, ma petit. Special occasion?

  Just needing you here. Especially since you haven’t seen my home.

  I’ll book my flights then. He sends and then another message pops through. But, mon beau, I will follow through with that promise. My body flames at that. Where it warms from his sweetness and adoration, it melts with his promise.

  I don’t know what you’re talking about. I lie, wanting to distract myself from the asshole who fucks my head up with every jab he throws my way.

  When I get there, your pussy is mine. Tu comprends, ma petit?

  Yes, sir. I joke, but inside, my body squirms with possibilities. Since the day we’ve met, he’s wanted me. It’s why I never pushed for more. If I gave him what he asked for—my body—maybe he wouldn’t stick around.

  That’s what Ace did.

  Used me.

  Chewed me up.

  Spit me back out.

  I’ve selected the first week of June. See you then, Gray. Don’t miss me too much.

  But I will. So I respond with a winky face and then head to my kitchen, needing to wash the strong kombucha flavor from my tongue. Opening the huge stainless steel fridge that could feed the entire town of Hollow Ridge, I scan for something not so bitter.

  “Guess I know why you’re avoiding me.”

  I screech, banging my elbow on the shelf, knocking it down along with every condiment I’ve ever seen. My eyes connect with the mess. The ketchup bottle’s cap broke, spraying red everywhere, and the mustard did the same. It’s the pickles that made the biggest mess.

  Broken, in a pile of green saltiness, they brine the floor with their potent smell. My gaze focuses on everything but the voice that spoke. Was he watching me? How did he get past the guards again, let alone barge in here?

  “I’m fed up with your silence, Storm. You will kneel for me, and you’ll fucking beg for more.” His hand grips my wrist, and I’m faced with the hate of my life. Love lost itself in the mix, creating a monster that ate at my sanity, driving me crazy as he devoured my soul.

  “Ace,” I whisper, not knowing how to react to the icicle touch on my skin. He’s cold, subhuman, like an insensate vampire who preys on me until I’m weak. I’m not weak anymore. The fragile teen he fucked with and pushed over the edge is dead.

  Just like the love we once shared.

  “Who is he?” he barks, clutching the fridge door as if to keep himself away. He moves, closing it, forcing me to walk backward, all while his boots crush pickles, spreading their juices all over the floor. Delia isn’t going to be happy about cleaning this mess.

  “Who is who?” I play dumb. There’s no way he knows about Range. No way. He’s my best-kept secret. Even Dad thinks he’s just my friend, though mémé was the one who pushed me into his arms.

  “Don’t act like a daft doll, Gray. That’s beneath you,” he hisses. We walk back until my spine connects with the opposing counter, and tingles of heat zip through me. We’re not teenagers anymore. We can almost legally drink, but with him hovering, pushing into me, I feel like that high schooler he ridiculed until I escaped. The one he did unspeakable things to and stole something that wasn’t his.

  “A friend,” I offer. It’s not a lie. It’s not the truth either.

  “A friend,” he mocks. “Do you fuck this friend, Storm?” His chest brushes mine, thick and threaded with muscles. Ace has grown since our last encounter, the one that separated us entirely. Making him the villain and me the loser in our story.

  He towers over me, making my five-foot-five form seem smaller than it is. His palm presses against my pounding chest, and the feral look in his eyes has me unable to breathe. What does he want? Why did one action ruin everything?

  “Has he touched what’s mine, Storm?” The deadly way the question comes out has the hair on the back of my neck rising.

  “Not yours, Ace,” I grit, barely able to grapple the strength to bite back. A cruel smirk curves at his lips, the way it says more than the very few words he said to me in the past five years.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Gray. You’ve been mine since birth,” he enunciates, acting as if I’ve forgotten our origins and how we were born exactly two weeks apart. “You have five years.” He taps his wrist, signaling time. “The clock is ticking.” Then he’s moving away from me, stealing my breath all over again.

  My heart doesn’t know whether to pound or slow as it erratically tries escaping my chest, going in every which direction. His form daunting as it still closes me in. The ringing of my phone has him tilting his head toward it.

  “Looks like Daddy is calling. You should probably answer.” He lifts my phone, unlocking it with the code I never changed. “So predictable.” His fingers glide over my texts, invading every ounce of privacy I thought I had. Instead of getting mad or feeling betrayed, a smile breaks free.

  While Ace believes he’s winning and has the upper hand, it’s me who’ll win. Because unlike he realizes, I’m moving on, pushing past our memories. I’m living. It doesn’t occur to me how angry he is until he’s tossing my cell onto the ground and breaking it with his boot in the next breath.

  My gasp lodges in my throat after he stares at me with dead eyes, intent on ruining everything.

  “Can’t wait to meet him,” he growls, pushing forward to grab my throat. His fingers grip me in a way I’ve dreamed about, handling me in a way that both frightens me and makes my body ache with neediness. For a slight second, his eyes, that have been blacker as of late, seem to soften into the vacant sea ones I grew up loving. One second, he’s rubbing circles into my throat, and the next, he’s biting my lip, scraping his teeth against it.

  A whimper escapes me; he steals it, swallowing it as his mouth devours mine. And when I don’t think I can no longer sustain the emotions bursting through me at such a short and simple touch, he’s gone. Fluttering my eyelashes, I have to wonder if I’ve imagined it all.

  I haven’t.

  The pickles and other liquids are still spilled and scattered, but he’s gone.

  I touch my lips, feeling the swelling and wetness. Dragging my fingers across them again, I notice the blood. He marked me.

  On the floor, surrounded by a mess, my phone is amidst the chaos. It’s cracked, the colors on the screen are wrong, but the light is still on. Picking it up, I notice a slew of messages.

  Won’t be home, mon lapin. Please make sure you eat. And no, cotton candy isn’t a food group. Tears slip down my face as my life feels like a mess. Ace rattles me with every confrontation, and that’s what it is. A battle. Something to win or lose, and while he’s always got the upper hand, this time felt different.

  Is she okay? I respond even though it’s been ten minutes.

  She will be. I’ll make sure of it.

  It makes my heart both swell and crash. There was a time Joey and my dad shared looks that scared me. Not that having a stepmom almost my age was scary, but it just didn’t occur to me it could be my best friend. But as time went on, they proved a kinship that made me jealous. They got along in a way Dad and I have never been able to connect. It was as endearing
as it was infuriating.

  Dad takes care of Joey and Uncle Toby. Their marriage is in shambles, and I feel as if I’m watching Lo and Jase all over again. The difference being Joey’s will to fight. It’s admirable if not stupid. Holding her as her world implodes isn’t easy, but it’s worth it to know she’s still here.

  After the last time I caught her hurting herself, it terrified me for what her future held.

  She thinks I don’t know.

  She thinks I don’t see.

  She thinks I don’t understand.

  I do.

  Just keep breathing, Joey.

  Just keep breathing.

  Chapter Thirty

  Present

  Joey

  Pain.

  Pain.

  More pain.

  My eyes pinch as a drilling digs into my skull. Fucking Christ. This is why I don’t like drinking. Even in the quiet of the room, I can hear whispering. The light noises filtering into my ears sound obnoxiously loud. My head throbs, agony needling into my temples over and over, reminding me that wine is the worst drink to get drunk on. It always makes me feel like death and fate fucked me at the same time. Since no one could win, I got the brunt of the pain.

  My body feels gross. Like when you go to pass out in bed without showering and are still in the day before’s clothing, make-up, and sweat. It’s an unpleasant sheet that seems to stick to every crevasse of me right now.

  Begrudgingly trying to roll over, I nearly fall on my ass. Noticing that I’m not on my bed, but rather the chaise lounge in our spare room. It’s big enough to fit me and Toby... don’t think of him. We spent nights upon nights christening our rooms with our ravenous fucking, this particular piece was Dr. Orgasm Gifter. Sometimes, it was sweet love. Most times, though? With his demanding nature and my need to be controlled in the bedroom, rough fucking was what ended up happening. Toby always gave me so much power by letting me choose to be bound and pushed.

  Now, he doesn’t touch me. Not to hug, kiss, or be intimate in any way. It’s insane how we went from breaking all my walls down and learning so much about each other, to him being unable to look at me. I knew telling him my secret would burst in my face, but I just didn’t realize it’d be the thing to ruin us.

  He says it’s not.

  But we all know it’s the exact reason.

  My body aches as I shuffle around the room, noticing I’m still in my sun dress. Heading to the walk-in closet that has a standing mirror, I nearly break down. My face is full of mascara. It’s smeared and dried in streaks down my face. It’s ugly and grotesque, and I hate it.

  Francis. He came here.

  Shit.

  Walking over to the closed door in the room, I lean my ear against it, hoping to hear better. The voices are less muffled. It sounds like... Toby? My heart races. He came home? Rarely does he show up this soon after leaving. He hates being in the same place we fell further in love.

  Why did I have to meet Loren?

  Why did I push?

  How can he not see I wanted to help?

  Everything spiraled from that moment.

  More so now than before, he hates me. He’s going to ruin me when he finds out the information I discovered. It wasn’t my intention to hurt him. I wanted to build a bridge, get him to love me more, but he ended up hating me in the end. More than he already did.

  “You can’t keep doing this to her,” Francis’s voice strains, talking to what I’m guessing is my husband. They lost their friendship last year. Frankie didn’t stop trying, but Toby flinched every time at the mention of his name.

  “She did this to us. You did this to us,” Toby’s low and lethal tone makes a shiver run up my spine.

  “I told you, we didn’t fool around. She isn’t like that, and I sure as hell am not you or your goddamn brother.” The hiss of Frankie’s words has me uncomfortable. He’s furious, even if his tone sounds lighter than Toby’s. The way his French accent thickens with hatred shows how much he’s ready to explode. “She deserves better than you.”

  “Fuck you. Leave.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone with her. If she saw what you looked like when you showed up last night, the empty bottle, and your clothes... You’re a mess. She doesn’t need to see the fact that you let someone use you last night.”

  Tears prick behind my eyelids, and a whimper escapes me as the words tumble in my mind. Nausea builds up, pinching my insides with a cruel fist. I’m rushing to the bathroom to heave when I hear the door open.

  “Ladybug?” Francis’s soothing tone rings out. I don’t look up to see him when he enters the bathroom. His hands collect my hair, holding it back as my body shakes and tries emptying, but there’s nothing there. It can’t purge itself of disgust and heartbreak. If it could, I’d have left, nothing would have hurt me, and Toby wouldn’t matter. But it doesn’t work that way, and Toby is the only person who can single-handedly destroy me.

  He rubs soothing circles into my back as my body launches several more times. When I finish, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and rise from the floor. Frankie’s eyes are laced with concern, his forehead worrisome. It’s amazing that a man this attractive and kind wasn’t here to be with me but rather to take care of me.

  “You okay, sweetheart?”

  Placing my hands under the running water, I scrub them until they redden. Even then, I rub them more and more until they hurt. Once they’re clean, I try for my face, but the sobs break loose, and I’m a mess. He doesn’t look away or show pity. The only thing he offers is comfort. He’s too nice, and I hate it. Being around someone as cruel as my husband, you get used to not having much kindness directed toward you, so when it’s offered, it’s as polarizing as happiness.

  I’m reduced to the sorrow that haunts me and the love that conquers me.

  He wraps me into his arms and holds me. Bet Toby ran off somewhere. He could never stick around for the tough shit. Unlike he claims, he’s just like the men he hates most. Disloyal. Weak. Childish.

  “It’s going to be okay. You are strong and resilient.” He pulls away enough to lay a kiss on my forehead, and when we pull apart, the venom-filled gaze of my husband interrupts.

  “How fucking charming,” he bites out. His expression is nearly expressionless. The only thing that gives him away is his eyes. They’re always liquid hate when he’s angry. They shine in a dark light, letting me know he’s anything but happy.

  “Ignore him,” Frankie says, not looking back at the man he once called a friend. “He’s in a pissy mood because he fell asleep before he got to shower last night.” It’s then that I look behind him, but he looks like his normal fucked-up self. Clean, fresh pressed pants, and button-up. Nothing new.

  “Worried you’ll see the woman I fucked left on me, Joey?” It’s a taunt, but it’s so much more with the expression he’s wearing. He wants me to know I’m unworthy of him, but that’s not true. It’s him who’s unworthy of me.

  He doesn’t get to be with other women and act like the jealous husband.

  Not anymore.

  “No, I’m worried the man I fucked last night stuck around,” I jab, narrowing my eyes. Today feels different. The battleground between us has opened up a pit, and instead of standing on the sidelines, hoping my guns outmaneuver his, I’m jumping in, hashing it out with my own two hands. He won’t win.

  If he wants me back, he can fucking earn me.

  Toby takes two steps forward, but as Frankie stiffens and moves me out of his reach, I smile, making sure Toby sees he hasn’t won.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” I mock. “I made sure he wore protection.”

  Toby’s nostrils flare and his jaw clenches, and for the first time in a year, I haven’t seen him look more attractive. There’s something arousing about a man who wants to kill the person who has touched what is his. Almost as sexy as a man who takes what is his and never lets go.

  Too bad Toby can’t be the latter. We’d never be in this mess if he’d just listened and too
k what he wanted.

  He turns and leaves, but not before he gives one last scathing glare. That’s more emotion than he’s offered me in ages. It’s almost adrenaline-inducing; something I want more of now I know which buttons to push.

  “That was really fucking stupid,” Francis hisses after the bedroom door slams, more than likely splintering. That door has taken a beating over the last year. I’m lucky it is still attached to its hinges.

  “He had it coming,” I complain, rubbing my temples. The discomfort, nausea, and disappointment laced with the adrenalin release has me in so much agony.

  “You should drink some water, eat some food, and rest, Ladybug.”

  “You’re probably right, but I have to work tonight. And whether or not I got wasted last night, I don’t have a choice.”

  “Going to tell me why you drank your life away? That’s not like you,” he chastises lightly, trying to not sound as disappointed as he must feel.

  “I went and saw Loren.”

  Francis’s face sobers, almost like he knew this would eventually happen. In retrospect, it’s his fault since he’s the one who mentioned her and told me the entire story. Good lord, the story Toby, Lo, and her husband Jase had, it’s pretty insane.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” he remarks, pinching the bridge of his nose. His shoulders sag a bit, and I’m almost regretful that I betrayed his confidence this way. He asked me to promise him I wouldn’t reach out if he told me their story.

  I lied.

  I broke it.

  I regret nothing.

  Well, not nothing. I regret hurting him.

  “I had to. After everything we experienced, I needed to know what made her special. Why did he stick around, love her, care for her, yet abandon me?! What makes her so fucking special!” I hiss, tears pooling once again. I despised how weak love has made me. Hated the fact that Wesley could not have ever hurt me this badly while Toby did so on the daily.

  “She’s off-limits, Josephine,” he growls, showing me just how pissed he is with his eyes. The way he grimaces and bows his head is almost worse than betraying myself by doing it.