Breathe

by Lauren Jameson

  “You weren’t out drinking, were you?” Worry gnawed at her gut like acid. A younger sister out until all hours was worrying enough, but Beth had an adverse reaction to alcohol, one that less kind souls could easily take advantage of.

  “I had two beers, Sam.” Beth’s voice sounded flat, and in that moment Samantha felt as if she was talking to her daughter rather than her sister. “I know myself well enough to know when I’ve had too much.”

  “I know.” She didn’t want to nag but, God, she worried. She wondered for the millionth time if moving so far away had been smart, even though she knew that if she hadn’t, she might have lost her tenuous grip on sanity. “I’m sorry. But someone has to check on you.”

  She could hear the rest of her sentence hanging in the air: Because we both know that Mom sure as hell won’t.

  On the other end of the line Beth cleared her throat, and Samantha could see her sister in her mind’s eye raking her fingers through her strawberry blond hair, as if her older sister had used up most of the red gene and left just a hint. She would be pulling her bright purple duvet around her as she snuggled up with the phone.

  “What’s going on?” Beth asked. Samantha frowned.

  “Why do you assume something’s going on? Can’t I just call my sister?” Samantha knew Beth couldn’t claim that she was concerned because she’d called so early, because Samantha rarely had a firm grip on the time, living and working by her own internal clock.

  “I can just tell,” Beth said, and Samantha heard a muffled yawn over the line.

  She bit her lower lip; her sister knew her well.

  “I’m just checking in.” Her mind strayed to the astronomical amount of money that Elijah had offered her and she blanched.

  She wanted it for Beth’s sake, but her upbringing and her . . . relationship, for lack of a better word, with Elijah made accepting the commission a bitter pill to swallow.

  “Did you make the payment on your student loan?” Samantha sucked a finger into her mouth and ran her tongue over a small burn she’d gotten days before. “Did you do it right when I told you to? If you don’t pay before a certain date you get charged interest.”

  “No, I went shopping instead. Bought some lingerie, some killer red shoes.” Beth’s voice was airy, and sincere enough that Samantha’s mouth fell open. Her heart began to pound with anxiety, stuttering back to normal speed when her sister began to laugh.

  “Not funny,” Samantha fumed. She knew Beth rolled her eyes at her a good chunk of the time, but what Beth didn’t understand was how much Samantha actually fretted over these things.

  She’d moved to Mexico to try to give her sister some independence.

  It had worked . . . sort of.

  “Yes, I paid the bill.” Beth’s voice held a note of long suffering, which irritated Samantha, but she held her tongue. “And before you ask, yes, I have enough supplies.”

  “How much of everything do you have?” As well as Beth knew her, Samantha knew that her sister would downplay it if she was short on something, not wanting her older sister to worry about money.

  “I have another month’s worth of insulin. A couple weeks of test strips and syringes.” Beth was an insulin-dependent diabetic, and had been for nearly a decade. “And I have an interview today, so cross your fingers.”

  “Is there a health plan?” Samantha hated the nagging that she heard in her own voice, but she had to know. “I’ll wire you some money anyway.”

  Wiring money from her already slim bank account would mean she’d be eating noodles until she sold another piece. But she’d done it before, and she’d do it again. It was the price she paid to work full-time on her art.

  Beth’s last job had had a great health plan, one that had covered the cost of most of her medical expenses. Since she’d been laid off, Samantha had been sending her money to help while Beth worked odd jobs and job hunted.

  If Beth got a new job with a health plan, then Samantha wouldn’t be in such dire need of quick cash. She wouldn’t have to be like her mother, depending on a wealthy man to get by.

  Elijah was smooth, but she wasn’t an idiot. He clearly appreciated her art, but he appreciated her body more. He wanted her, and if she accepted his offer they would be thrown together for the length of time it took her to create a piece of that magnitude, usually about a month.

  Of course, there was still the student loan that had funded Beth’s college years to pay off.

  “I don’t know if it has a health plan, Sam.” Beth’s voice was testy. “I haven’t even had the interview yet. It seemed a little early to start grilling them about benefits when they called to set up the meeting.”

  Samantha remained silent.

  Clearly sorry that she’d spoken so sharply, Beth’s next words were softer. “I saw Mom yesterday.” Beth sounded hesitant, but then, she had to know full well how Samantha would react. As always, Samantha’s spine stiffened instantly, as if a steel rod had snapped into place.

  “What did she want?” Samantha heard the frosty tone of her voice and knew it would make her sister cringe, but she couldn’t feel sorry for it.

  “I stopped by to make her some supper, Sam,” Beth snapped. Samantha ground her teeth together. Beth had made it clear on more than one occasion that she thought Samantha was too hard on their mother, that their mother was a victim of circumstance.

  Beth had borne the weight of Gemma Collins’s alcoholism just as Samantha had, and both women knew that the alcohol had been Gemma’s escape after the final man in a string of wealthy lovers had discarded her.

  “Did she actually eat what you made her?” Samantha sighed as she spoke. Her sister insisted on seeing the best in everyone. Samantha liked to think of herself as realistic.

  There was a pause.

  “No,” Beth said softly, and Samantha felt her stomach clench. Her mother rarely ate anything, because more often than not she was passed out on the couch with an empty bottle of vodka in her hand.

  “The money I’m going to send is for you, Beth. Not for anything else. Right?” Samantha hated having to reinforce this, but she knew her sister would be their mother’s first target when she ran out of alcohol.

  Beth didn’t answer right away. Samantha knew how torn she was, but still couldn’t muster up any pity for their mother. She knew Beth bought their mom groceries and occasionally paid her bills, but even her kindhearted sister knew better than to pass cash along to their mother.

  And soon enough Stanley would show up again, as he was known to do. He would barge into Gemma’s life, tempt her with his wealth and his lies, make her hope, and then he would leave yet again.

  Samantha couldn’t count how many times the pair had broken it off, only to get back together. She wasn’t even sure it counted as a reconciliation, considering Stanley was married and likely had plenty of mistresses besides her mother.

  “I love you, Beth.” Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Samantha pressed her fingers to her temples, where a headache was beginning to make its nasty presence known.

  This was a point on which she and her sister would never agree, not unless Samantha told her what she knew about Stanley . . . and that was a memory she never intended to visit. Ever.

  “Love you too, Sam,” Beth whispered quietly into the phone. Samantha waited to hear her sister disconnect before she pulled the cell away from her ear.

  Allowing herself to give in to the hurt for one long moment, Samantha put down the phone and rested her head on the scarred surface of her countertop. Closing her eyes, she pressed her cheek against the cool surface.

  Was it any wonder that she wanted a strong man in her life, a man who would simply take control? Samantha had been in charge—had assumed the role that should have been her mother’s—since she was barely a teenager. She’d had enough control to last ten lifetimes.

  She wasn’t about to give up control to a man who had no idea what to do with it, of course. She was a strong woman by necessity, and knew that she would never ben
d to someone who wasn’t every bit as strong as she was. But the possibilities of a man who would make the right decisions, and who would take care of her, would cherish her in return . . .

  No matter how she fought the idea, it had become a deep-seated need, coiled tightly inside her.

  Samantha shifted on the countertop, searching for a cool spot to move her cheek to.

  Elijah Masterson wore dominance the way he wore a suit: as if he’d been born for it. And Samantha suspected that he was the kind of man who took care of what was his.

  Her knee-jerk reaction to refuse his offer to help her explore her sexuality came from her mother’s “career” as a mistress—she knew that. She would have felt the same whether she’d already succumbed to her desire for him or not. But she was so damn tired of being in charge all the time.

  Rising slowly, Samantha inhaled deeply, then stretched as she looked out the window. The sun was rising, a tangerine ball in a brilliant blue sky. She’d always loved Mexico—had felt more at peace here than she had anywhere else. It was the first place that had come to mind when she realized she needed to put some distance between herself and her mother to focus on her art . . . and her sanity. Pouring herself another cup of coffee, she sipped slowly, savoring the taste. She’d thought about submission long enough to know that it was more than a passing fancy for her. And she knew—deep down she knew—that she would work hard for the money that Elijah had offered her, which made it a different situation from Gemma’s entirely.

  But that didn’t mean she had to accept easily. She had a term that she wanted to add to Elijah’s offer, one she’d come up with in the early hours of the morning. One she suspected he would be both suspicious of and eager to accept.

  She’d convince him. And she was very much looking forward to seeing the look on his face when she asked. She just had one thing to do first.

  • • •

  “Preciosa!” Samantha couldn’t hold back the grin as she entered Dos Hermanos, the small café that sat on the edge of San José del Cabo closest to her cottage.

  The man who rounded the counter with his arms open for a hug was only an inch or so taller than she was, but he was thick with muscle. He was handsome in a Latin-lover kind of way and flirted with every woman under the sun, from girls who were newly legal to elderly women with blue hair.

  “Morning, Jorge.” She let herself be enfolded in his hug, inhaling the comforting aroma of peppers and spice. “Got room for one for breakfast?”

  He gestured around the largely empty café, then tilted his head toward the counter. The grill he cooked on was behind it, and those who sat at the counter could watch their food being prepared.

  “Come, sit and talk to me.” He took Samantha’s hand in his as he led her toward the back of the café.

  Samantha sat contentedly on one of the high stools. Jorge was the closest thing she had to a friend in Cabo, and she smiled at him as he placed a steaming cup of coffee and a glass of some sort of juice in front of her.

  “You’ll eat what I make you, yes?” Samantha’s grin at his words melted into a sigh of pleasure as she took a sip of what turned out to be freshly made mango juice.

  She’d never understood why the café wasn’t busier. The thought was only reinforced when Jorge placed a plateful of eggs scrambled ranchero style, with jalapeños and tomato, homemade tortillas, and green sauce in front of her. She dug in eagerly.

  “Still haven’t learned to cook, ah?” Jorge chuckled as he leaned his elbows on the counter and watched Samantha devour her meal. She’d lost track of time since seeing Elijah yesterday . . . In fact, she was pretty sure she hadn’t eaten since before he’d showed up at her house. She cringed. She would have given Beth hell for doing the same thing, so she really didn’t have a leg to stand on.

  Jorge was quiet as Samantha ate, which suited her just fine. She’d always been quiet, a bit of a loner. One of the reasons she preferred him to his brother Angelo, who co-owned the café, was because Jorge just let her be.

  But Angelo was the reason that Samantha was there that morning. She had a very, very big favor to ask of him.

  “Jorge—” She waited until he’d cleared her plate away and refilled her coffee cup. She felt slightly nauseous, but wasn’t sure if that was a result of stuffing her face after unwittingly fasting for twenty-four hours, or if it was because of what she was about to ask. “I have a . . . question to ask about Angelo.”

  “About Angelo?” Jorge wiped the counter in front of Samantha with a white rag, and she caught the scent of lemon cleaner as he moved. “Sí, what is it?”

  “Ah, well . . .” Samantha trained her eyes on the wall behind him as she gathered her courage. She hated that she felt embarrassed to ask about something she truly wanted, but she knew she was about to shock her friend to the core.

  “Preciosa, you can tell me anything. You know that.” Jorge caught one of Samantha’s hands in his and looked into her eyes. She was startled when she found a flicker of something more than friendship reflected in the depths.

  It threw her off guard enough that she blurted out what was circling her mind.

  “Angelo is into BDSM, right?” She cringed when she caught Jorge’s expression. Apart from one drunken night with the two brothers in which Angelo had mentioned that he was a part of the BDSM lifestyle, it wasn’t something they’d talked about. She’d known that she would shock Jorge, but she wasn’t prepared for the heat that crossed his face as well.

  “Sí.” Jorge looked her up and down and Samantha squirmed under the stare. “He is—how do you say?—Dominant. He makes no secret of it. Why are you asking this, Samantha?”

  Samantha picked up her coffee cup and took a long swallow to hide her discomfiture. This next question—this was the hard part.

  “I want to go to Devorar, and I was wondering if he would go with me.” She set her cup down on the counter with a sharp clack, felt the jolt reverberate through her wrist as Jorge studied her face.

  “You are interested in such things?” The sexy Latin man pinned her with that intense stare, and Samantha felt like a fly pinned to a wall. “You have never gone to a club?”

  “I . . . yes.” Samantha wouldn’t soften her true desires just to make them sound less shocking. “Yes, I am very interested. There are things I . . . that I think I might find there. And, no, I’ve never been to a club. That’s why I don’t want to go alone.”

  Jorge cocked his head, still studying her.

  “I do not think you are submissive,” he said finally. Samantha’s pensive expression melted sharply into a scowl.

  Just because she could be outspoken, just because she knew nothing else besides taking charge, didn’t mean she didn’t want to have that control taken away from her.

  “How would you know?” she snapped, irritated enough that she didn’t try to soften her voice. “It’s not your thing, is it? That’s why I asked about Angelo, not you.”

  Jorge nodded, his expression thoughtful. “This is true.” He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “I did not find what I was looking for in the dynamics of such a relationship. That does not mean I am ignorant of the lifestyle, however. My brother has practiced it for over ten years, and I dabbled in it when I was younger.”

  “You?” Samantha eyed the man incredulously, then cursed herself for making assumptions about him just as he had about her. Still, he hadn’t mentioned it the one time they’d spoken of it, nearly a year earlier, so it caught her by surprise.

  Jorge could be a bit domineering, but he’d never made it a secret that he liked bossy women who took charge—women like her, she realized with a sinking sensation in her stomach.

  Oh, she was so blind.

  The hand in which Jorge clenched her fingers tightened. She bit her lower lip nervously and looked up to find that spark of desire out in full force.

  “For you, I would try it again. If that is truly what you want.”

  Samantha sucked in a mouthful of air. How had she not seen this com
ing?

  When she’d first moved to Mexico she’d felt . . . free. But she’d also felt a bit lonely, homebody though she was.

  Jorge had helped to fill that gap. She’d never thought of him as anything but a friend.

  If she wanted to keep that friendship, she knew she needed to be brutally honest.

  “Jorge, I appreciate the offer. I do.” Gently she tugged her hand from his, placing it in her lap and out of reach.

  His eyes followed the movement and resignation spread over his face.

  “I . . . I think I’ve met someone.” Elijah’s image flashed through her mind—she could never forget the power and intensity in his blue eyes when they looked at her. In the space of moments he’d been able to make her feel like the only woman in the world.

  “And this person you’ve met, he is dominant?” Jorge nodded as if in understanding, but Samantha knew her friend well enough to see that he was filing away his own emotions behind those expressive dark eyes of his.

  “He is.” Samantha shivered as she thought about it.

  “You will not pretend to be someone you aren’t for a man.” Jorge was looking at her again, this time with an inscrutable expression. His words were a statement, not a question, because he knew her well enough to know that Samantha didn’t pull her punches.

  “This is something I want.” Samantha’s voice was soft. “I mean . . . I think I want it. That’s why I’d like to go to Devorar first, to get a taste before I . . . before I dive in headfirst.”

  Jorge nodded, pulled his cell phone from the pocket of the apron tied around his hips, and tapped out a text message. A moment later the phone vibrated, indicating a reply had come through.

  “He will go with you.” Jorge slid his phone back into his pocket. “Though he would prefer to go to Pecado here in town. He prefers it there.”

  “Thank you.” It felt as if a weight had been lifted off Samantha’s chest. It was replaced by a heady sense of jittery excitement.

  Finally, she would see if these needs she felt were real. For all she knew, she’d get one look at what happened inside the club and would run screaming into the night.