by K. A. Tucker
Ten Tiny Breaths
K.A.Tucker
Copyright 2012 K.A.Tucker
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Tucker, K. A. (Kathleen A.), 1978-
Ten tiny breaths [electronic resource] / K.A. Tucker.
Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-0-9916860-1-8 (PDF).--ISBN 978-0-9916860-2-5 (MOBI)
I. Title.
PS8639.U325T46 2012 C813'.6 C2012-907108-0
Editing by Tee Tate/Ami Johnson
Cover design by Extended Imagery/Carl Graves
v1
Published by Papoti Books
Smashwords Edition
DEDICATION
~To Lia and Sadie~
May your angels always protect you
~To Paul~
For your continued support
~To Heather Self ~
All the purple and green feathers in the world
Table of Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Prologue
“Just breathe,” my mom would say. “Ten tiny breaths … Seize them. Feel them. Love them.” Every time I screamed and stomped my feet in anger, or bawled my eyes out in frustration, or turned green with anxiety, she’d calmly recite those same words. Every single time. Exactly the same. She should have tattooed the damn mantra to her forehead. “That makes no sense!” I’d yell. I never understood. What the hell does a tiny breath do? Why not a deep breath? Why ten? Why not three or five or twenty? I’d scream and she’d simply smile her little smile. I didn’t understand it then.
I do now.
Stage One ~ Comfortably Numb
Chapter One
A soft hiss ... my heart thumping in my ears. I hear nothing else. I’m sure my mouth is moving, calling out their names … Mom? ...Dad? ... but I can’t hear my voice. Worse, I can’t hear theirs. I turn to my right to see Jenny’s silhouette, but her limbs look awkward and unnatural and she’s pressed up against me. The car door opposite her is closer than it’s supposed to be. Jenny? I’m sure I say. She doesn’t respond. I turn to my left to see only black. Too dark to see Billy, but I know he’s there because I can feel his hand. It’s big and strong and it envelops my fingers. But it’s not moving … I try to squeeze it but I can’t will my muscles to flex. I can’t do anything except turn my head and listen to my heart pound like an anvil against my chest for what feels like an eternity.
Dim lights … voices …
I see them. I hear them. They’re all around, closing in. I open my mouth to scream, but I can’t find the energy. The voices get louder, the lights brighter. A reedy gasp sets my hairs on end. Like a person struggling for their dying breath.
I hear a loud snap, snap, snap, like someone pulling stage light levers; light suddenly pours in from all angles, illuminating the car with blinding power.
The smashed windshield.
The twisted metal.
Dark smears.
Liquid pools.
Blood. Everywhere.
It all suddenly disappears and I’m falling backward, crashing into cold water, sinking further into the darkness, picking up speed as the weight of an ocean swallows me whole. I open my mouth to search for air. A lungs worth of cold water greets me in a rush, filling me inside. The pressure in my chest is unbearable. It’s ready to explode. I can’t breathe … I can’t breathe. Tiny breaths, I hear my mom instruct, but I can’t do it. I can’t get even one. My body’s shaking … shaking … shaking …
“Wake up, Dear.”
My eyes fly open to find a faded headrest in front of me. It takes me a moment to find my bearings, to calm my hammering heart.
“You were gaspin’ for air somethin’ fierce,” the voice says.
I turn to find a lady stooped in the aisle, concern on her deeply wrinkled face, her twisted, old fingers on my shoulder. My body curls into itself before I can stop the knee-jerk response to her touch.
She removes her hand with a gentle smile. “Sorry, Dear. Just thought you should be woken up.”
Swallowing, I manage to croak out, “thank you.”
She nods and shifts back to take her seat on the bus. “Must have been some kind a nightmare.”
“Yeah,” I answer, my usual calm, vacant voice returning. “Can’t wait to wake up.”
***
“We’re here.” I give Livie’s arm a gentle shake. She grumbles and nuzzles her head against the window. I don’t know how she can sleep like that, but she’s managed to, snoring softly for the past six hours. A line of flaky, dry spit snakes down her chin. Super attractive. “Livie,” I call again with an impatient bite in my tone. I need off this tin can. Now.
I get a clumsy wave and pouty “don’t bug me, I’m sleeping” lip.
“Olivia Cleary!” I snap as passengers rustle through the overhead compartments and gather their belongings. “Come on. I’ve got to get out of here before I lose my shit!” I don’t mean to bark, but I can’t help it. I don’t do well in confined spaces. After twenty-two hours on this damn bus, pulling the emergency hatch and jumping through the window sounds appealing.
My words finally sink in. Livie’s eyelids flutter open and half-dazed blue irises stare out at the Miami bus terminal for a moment. “We made it?” She asks through a yawn, sitting up to stretch and scope out the scenery. “Oh, look! A palm tree!”
I’m already standing in the aisle, readying our backpacks. “Yay, palm trees! Come on, let’s go. Unless you want to spend another day going back to Michigan.” That idea gets her body moving.
By the time we step off the bus, the driver has unloaded the luggage from the undercarriage. I quickly spot our matching hot pink suitcases. Our lives, all of our belongings, have been reduced to one suitcase each. It’s all we managed to throw together in our rush out of Uncle Raymond and Aunt Darla’s house. No matter, I tell myself as I throw an arm over my sister’s shoulders in a side hug. We have each other. That’s all that matters.
“It’s hot as Hell,” Livie exclaims at the same time that I sense a trickle of sweat run down my back. It’s late morning and the sun already blazes down on us like a fireball in the sky. So different from the autumn chill we left in Grand Rapids. She pulls off her red hoody, earning a string of catcalls from a group of guys on skateboards, ignorant to the ‘do not enter’ sign in that part of the covered parking lot.
“Picking up already, Livie?” I tease.
Her cheeks explode with pink as she slinks over to hide behind a concrete pillar, out of view.
“You do realize you’re not a chameleon, right? ... Oh! The one in the red shirt is coming over h
ere right now.” I stretch my neck expectantly toward the group.
Livie’s eyes flash wide with terror for a second before she realizes I’m only joking. “Shut up, Kacey!” she hisses, smacking my shoulder. Livie can’t handle being center stage to any guy. The fact that she’s turned into a raven haired knock-out over the last year hasn’t helped her avoid that.
I smirk as I watch her fumble with her sweater. She has no idea how striking she is, and I’m okay with that if I’m going to be her guardian. “Stay clueless, Livie. My life will be so much easier if you’re oblivious for the next, say, five years.”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, Miss Sports Illustrated.”
“Ha!” In truth, some of the attention from those asshats probably is directed at me. Two years of intense kick-boxing has given me a rock-hard body. That, topped with my deep auburn hair and watery blue eyes garners loads of unwanted attention.
Livie is a fifteen year old version of me. Same light blue eyes, same slender nose, same pale Irish skin. There’s only one big difference, and that’s the color of our hair. If you put towels over our hair, you’d think we were twins. She gets her shiny black color from our mother. She’s also two inches taller than at me, even though I’m five years older.
Yup, to look at us, anyone with half a brain can tell we’re sisters. But that’s where our similarities end. Livie’s an angel. She tears up when children cry, she apologizes when someone bumps into her, she volunteers in soup kitchens and libraries. She makes excuses for people when they do stupid things. If she was old enough to drive, she’d slam on the brakes for crickets. I’m … I’m not Livie. I might have been more like her before. But not now. Where I’m a looming thundercloud, she’s the sunshine breaking through.
“Kacey!” I turn to find Livie holding a taxi cab door wide open, her brows raised.
“I hear dumpster diving for food isn’t as fun as it’s cracked up to be.”
She slams the cab door, her face twisting. “Another bus it is.” She gives her suitcase an irritated tug over the curb.
“Really? Five minutes in Miami and you’re already starting with the attitude? Do you want to eat garbage, Livie? I’ve got sweet fuck all left in my wallet to get us past Sunday.” I hold out my wallet for her to inspect.
She flushes. “Sorry, Kace. You’re right. I’m just out of sorts.”
I sigh and immediately feel bad for snapping. Livie doesn’t have an attitude-riddled bone in her body. Yeah, we bicker, but I’m always to blame and I know it. Livie’s a good kid. She’s always been a good kid. Straight-laced, even tempered. Mom and Dad never had to tell her anything twice. When they died and Mom’s sister took us in, Livie went out of her way to be an even better kid. I went in the opposite direction. Hard.
“Come on, this way.” I link arms with her and squeeze her as I unfold the piece of paper with the address. After a long and laborious conversation with the elderly man behind the glass partition—complete with a game of charades and a pencil diagram on a city map circling three transfers—we’re on a city bus and I hope we’re not heading toward Alaska.
I’m glad, because I’m beat. Aside from my twenty minute catnap on the bus, I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours. I’m tired and worried and I’d much rather ride in silence, but Livie’s fidgety hands in her lap kill that idea quickly. “What is it, Livie?”
She hesitates, furrowing her brow.
”Livie …”
“Do you think Aunt Darla called the cops?”
I reach down to squeeze her knee. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll be fine. They won’t find us and if they do, the cops will hear what happened.”
“But he didn’t do anything, Kace. He was probably too drunk to know which room was his.”
I glare at her. “Didn’t do anything? Did you forget about that disgusting old-man hard-on that pushed up against your thigh?”
Livie's mouth puckers like she’s about to vomit.
“He didn’t do anything, because you bolted out of there and came to my room. Don’t defend that asshole.” I’d seen the looks Uncle Raymond gave a maturing Livie over the last year. Sweet, innocent Livie. I’d crush his nuts if he stepped foot inside my room and he knew that. Livie though …
“Well, I just hope they don’t come get us and bring us back.”
I shake my head. “That’s not going to happen. I’m your guardian now, and I don’t care about stupid legal paperwork. You’re not leaving my side. Besides, Aunt Darla hates Miami, remember?” Hate is an understatement. Aunt Darla is a born-again Christian, who spends all of her free time praying and making sure everyone else is praying or knowing that they should be praying to avoid Hell, syphilis, and unplanned pregnancy. She’s certain that major cities are the breeding ground for all evil in the world. To say she’s fanatical would be an understatement. She won’t come to Miami unless Jesus himself is holding a convention.
Livie nods her head. She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Do you think Uncle Raymond figured out what happened? We could get in real trouble for that.”
I shrug. “Do you care if he does?” Part of me wishes I ignored Livie’s pleading and called the cops over Uncle Raymond’s little “visit” to her room. But Livie didn’t want to deal with police reports and lawyers and Children’s Aid and we’d certainly deal with the full gamut. Maybe even the local news. Neither of us wanted that. We’d had enough of that after the accident. Who knows what they’d do with Livie, since she’s a minor? Probably stick her in foster care. They wouldn’t give her to me. I’ve been classified as “unstable” by too many professional reports to trust with someone’s life.
So Livie and I struck a deal. I wouldn’t report him if she left with me. Last night turned out to be the perfect night to run. Aunt Darla was away at an all-night religious retreat so I crushed three sleeping pills and dumped them into Uncle Raymond’s beer after dinner. I can’t believe the idiot took the glass I poured for him and handed to him so sweetly. I haven’t said ten words to him in the last two years, since I found out he lost our inheritance at a black jack table. He didn’t clue in to the deception though. By seven o’clock, he was sprawled and snoring on the couch, giving us enough time to grab our suitcases, clean out his wallet and Aunt Darla’s secret money box under the sink, and catch the bus out that night. Maybe drugging him and stealing their money was a little excessive. Then again, maybe Uncle Raymond shouldn’t have gone all creepy pedophile.
***
“One-twenty-four,” I read the numbers on the building out loud. “This is it.” This is real. We stand side-by-side on the sidewalk outside of our new home—a three-story apartment building on Jackson Drive with white stucco walls and small windows. It’s a neat-looking place with a beach house feel to it, though we’re half an hour from the beach. If I inhale deeply, I can almost catch a whiff of sunscreen and seaweed.
Livie runs a hand through her wild dark mane. “Where’d you find this place again?”
“www.desperateforanapartment.com?” I joke. After Livie stormed into my room in tears that night, I knew we needed out of Grand Rapids. One internet search led to another and I was emailing the landlord, offering him six months’ of rent in cash. Two years of pouring over-priced Starbucks coffee, gone.
And it’s worth every drop of coffee poured.
We climb the steps and walk up to a gated archway. “The picture with the ad looked great,” I say as I grab and pull the gate handle to find that it’s locked. “Good security.”
“Here.” Livie pushes on a cracked, round doorbell to the right. It makes no sound and I’m sure it’s broken. I stifle back a yawn as we wait for someone to pass through.
Three minutes later, my hands are cupped around my mouth and I’m about to yell the landlord’s name when I hear shoes dragging across concrete. A middle-aged man with rumpled clothes and a scruffy face appears. His eyes are uneven, he’s mostly bald on top, and I swear one ear is bigger than the other. He reminds me of Sloth from that old eighties movie my father ma
de us watch, Goonies. A classic, my dad used to say.
Sloth scratches his protruding gut and says nothing. I’ll bet he’s as intelligent as his movie twin.
“Hi, I’m Kacey Cleary,” I introduce myself. “We’re looking for Mr. Tanner. We’re the new renters from Michigan.” His shrewd gaze lingers on me for a while, sizing me up. I silently praise myself for wearing jeans to cover the sizeable tattoo on my thigh in case he dare judge me on my appearance. His focus then shifts to Livie, where it rests too long for my liking.
“You gals’ sisters?”
“Our matching suitcases give it away?” I answer before I can stop myself. Get inside the gates before you let them know what a smart-ass you can be, Kace.
Luckily, Sloth’s lips curve upward. “Call me Tanner. This way.”
Livie and I share a shocked look. Sloth is our new landlord? With a loud clank and creak, he ushers us through the gate. Almost as an afterthought, he turns to me and extends his hand.
I freeze, staring at those meaty fingers, but not moving to take them. How am I unprepared for this?
Livie deftly swoops in and grabs hold of it with a smile, and I ease back a few steps so there’s no illusion that I’m having anything to do with this guy’s hand. Or anyone’s hand. Livie’s great at saving me.
If Tanner notices the maneuver, he says nothing, leading us through a courtyard with mangy shrubs and dehydrated plants surrounding a rusted hibachi. “This here’s the commons.” He waves his hand dismissively. “If you wanna grill, sun tan, relax, whatever, this here’s the spot.” I take in the foot-high thistles and desiccated flowers along the borders and wonder how many people actually find this space relaxing. It could be nice, if someone tended to it.
