My Every Breath

by Brittney Sahin

  I drop to my knees in one fast movement, growing dizzy. My eyesight is hazed by a sheen of emotion, by my soon-to-fall tears.

  Finally . . .

  There’s a rap at the door, and my shoulders flinch. I end the call without saying goodbye. I slide the phone across the floor and under the queen-sized bed.

  “You okay?” Cade’s on the other side. He knocks again.

  I need to pull myself together.

  I need to lie.

  “Yeah, I’m just, uh, emotional about everything. It’s all a bit much,” I say, knowing my broken voice and the pooling in my eyes will give me away once he sees me.

  The knob turns, but the door is locked. “Can you let me in?” he asks in a soft voice.

  My mother’s brown eyes flash into my mind as I stand and let him in.

  His large hands are hidden in his pockets, his head bowed before he lifts his gaze to find mine.

  And something inside me lets go in that moment. Maybe it’s the news from Mya, or maybe it’s something even more.

  I cup a hand to my mouth and stumble forward. He catches me in his arms in one swift movement, holding me tight as I cry. As I let go.

  “Sorry,” I say after pulling back a minute later, wiping at my face.

  “Never apologize.” His brows pull together, and his lips part, but he doesn’t say more.

  I stare at him, curious as to what he’s thinking, and we both stand there, watching each other, but neither of us speaks.

  The muscle in his jaw is clenched tight, the veins noticeable in his neck, and I wonder if this is hard for him—dealing with emotions.

  It’s hard for me.

  I’ve had to bottle up my fear of the McCullens for so long that everything I’ve lived and experienced feels more like memories from some movie and not part of my actual life.

  But the violence, the blood, the pain—it was real. It wasn’t scripted.

  And then my insides start to shake, and a tightening pain in my gut roars to life.

  Guilt. A five-letter word that should be tattooed on the inside of my other arm.

  “I should have gone to the police,” I whisper, closing my eyes. “I’m as guilty as Rory. As my father.” The realization that started gnawing at me in the weapons room now pours into every crevice of my mind, of my soul.

  “What?” He reaches for my hand, but I pull back and head to the window, observing the water as it bleeds onto the sand before retracting.

  “Gia.” He wraps his arms around me, his chin resting on my bare shoulder.

  It’s a sweet moment. Almost too sweet for people like us. But I don’t want him to let go either.

  “I’ve been living a lie, haven’t I? And it took me getting away to realize it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I was silent. I saw and heard things, and I didn’t do anything. I didn’t speak up. I didn’t report my father for murder. I was too afraid.” I close my eyes. “Because of my fear and my desire to live, others died.”

  Cade turns me around to face him now, but I won’t open my eyes. I can’t look at him.

  “It’s like I killed those people myself. Every time my dad took a life—”

  “Stop.” His finger touches my lips.

  My shoulders roll forward, the shame weighing me down.

  “No. It’s true. I’m the one who needs retribution, not you.” My teeth sink into my lower lip as I finally open my eyes and level my gaze with his. I expect—no, need—for Cade to be my judge, juror, and executioner.

  The pad of his thumb glides over my mouth, and then he leans forward and kisses my salty lips, trying to silence my words. But it’s a quick kiss before he says, “Maybe we can help each other find a way back into the light.”

  He doesn’t challenge me. He doesn’t tell me I’m wrong.

  No, he gives me the truth.

  And I fall forward and press my face to his chest.

  Eight years ago I asked this man to save me . . . never expecting him to actually do just that.

  * * *

  “This city is vintage on steroids.” Cade adjusts his shades as we walk through Plaza de Armas. We take in the sights, people, and the architecture.

  Stopping in front of one of the book vendors, I pick up a copy of Little Prince and flip through the pages before returning it.

  “Gracias.” I nod at the old man who observes me from his stool, probably hoping I’ll buy something. I start to turn away, but Cade’s hand captures my wrist, and I still at his touch.

  “I can buy it for you if you’d like,” he says into my ear.

  “Do you have pesos on hand?”

  “Good point, but he might take dollars.”

  “We’re trying to blend in.” Although I doubt Cade or Owen could ever blend in here.

  Everywhere we go they stand out, especially Cade. His confidence, and the way he holds his chin up as he walks, his jaw tight—he could probably part the Red Sea with a look.

  Cade releases me, and I continue to browse before facing the white marble statue at the center of the square. I’m not sure who it is, but I assume he’s someone important. Being here reminds me of home: the culture, the soft tunes floating in the air around us—the bright buildings that jump from one shade to another as we walk by.

  Color.

  My art instructor wanted more color in my life.

  And here it is.

  I just never expected it to be with someone like Cade at my side.

  Owen’s behind Cade now, and I didn’t even realize he’d been gone. “I exchanged some bills for pesos. You guys up for a cup of joe?”

  I smile at Cade. “See.”

  “What? It’s his job to be prepared,” Cade says.

  “Come on. This place is supposed to have the best coffee.” Owen points to a building up ahead.

  “Well, I could definitely use a good cup. My mother used to make the best coffee.” I was too young to drink it. But I knew based on the aroma it had to be the best tasting in all of Brazil.

  Once we have our coffee we sit at a table in front of the café, which is open to the square.

  I cross my legs and lean back and close my eyes, allowing the sun to absorb my problems.

  “This is good,” Owen says, dragging out the last word.

  I open my eyes, and there’s foam on the top of his upper lip from the latte. “You got a little something.” I point to his mouth, and he smiles and wipes it off and licks his finger.

  I don’t know Owen that well, but he seems to enjoy life and have fun. It’s hard for me to picture him ever being military. He doesn’t fit the straight-edge image I have of soldiers. Although, back in that war room, he did start to look the part.

  Of course, my dad was Irish military. And so . . .

  People have layers.

  My eyes go to Cade’s lion tattoo, and the sun splays over his arm, making the red ink flare.

  He has a lot of layers. I never thought I’d get a chance to peel any of them back, but maybe there’s time.

  “What exactly do you do at your company?” I ask him.

  He grumbles and adjusts his sunglasses as if the topic makes him uncomfortable. “Mostly we buy struggling companies and sell them for parts.”

  “Hm.” I take a sip of my drink, relishing the bold flavors that pop in my mouth. “Not sure what to think about that.”

  “There’s a reason both his sis and brother bailed from the business,” Owen says.

  “Listen,” Cade begins while placing his elbows on the round, black wrought-iron table, leaning forward, “every company would have gone out of business, regardless of my interference. And some we saved. But the others, well, they benefited financially from our deals.” He lifts his broad shoulders, defensive. “What we do now, at least, is not as bad as it sounds.”

  I raise a questioning brow to give him a hard time and flick my gaze to Owen, who appears to be loving every minute of Cade’s discomfort.

  Owen fights a laugh. “I don�
��t know, man. Jess says differently.”

  “Yeah, well, Jessica fucking hates me.” Cade scratches the back of his neck.

  “She can’t hate you that much since she’s helping you,” I say, setting my drink on the table.

  “No, she does,” Owen says. “But she used to wish his corpse would rot in hell. It’s a vast improvement.”

  My lips part, but Cade doesn’t seem the least surprised by his words.

  “She’s best friends with his sister. And let’s just say he hasn’t always been brother of the year. Word is he was a major tool.”

  “At least he’s speaking in past tense.” I fight a tremble of laughter that rises in my chest. “At least you’re not a tool now.”

  Cade’s mouth forms a tight-lipped smile. “True.” He removes his sunglasses, which is dangerous for me because I’m not sure if I’ll be able to hide my feelings once he’s looking at me. Every time our eyes connect, it’s as if time stands still. Like we’re dancing alone in the middle of a stage, and a thousand people could be watching, and I wouldn’t even know. I wouldn’t care.

  I suck in a breath as he does just that—look at me in the way only he can. It’s not like he’s undressing me with his eyes. No, it’s like he’s looking right into my soul.

  “So, where’s your brother?”

  Cade’s the one taking a breath now, and for the second time, it looks like he’s uncomfortable. “He’s in Vegas.” His Adam’s apple moves in his throat as he fights to counter whatever emotions are seizing hold of him. I’m learning to read him better, even though he tends to hide behind a six-by-two concrete fence.

  “What’s so bad about Vegas?” I’ve never been, but it can’t be as bad as the Hangover movies, right?

  “He’s racing. Illegally.” Cade rolls his eyes and secures his sunglasses back in place.

  “Why does he do that?” I ask.

  “And that’s the million-dollar question.” Cade raises his palms in the air. “No goddamn idea.”

  Owen pushes away from the table and stands. “It’s obvious. The adrenaline rush.”

  “Of course an adrenaline junkie like you would say that.” Cade starts to rise, but Owen pats the air, motioning for him to stay seated.

  “I’m going to grab us some takeout to bring back to the house. You guys wait here.” Owen nods my way and starts through the plaza, and now Cade and I are finally alone. There’s so much more I’d like to ask him about who he is and what his life has been like, but I hate when people ask me questions, so I decide not to be a hypocrite.

  “My sister’s pregnant.”

  His words, his admission of something so important, catch me off guard. It takes me a second to look up at him. “Congratulations.”

  “She’ll make a great mom. Twin boys.” He reaches for his mug. “And her husband was a SEAL, like Owen. He gave it up for his daughter. Had a rough time adjusting, but Noah seems to make my sister happy.”

  “And if he didn’t, why do I get the feeling you’d break his legs?” I wince at my choice of words. That’s the mob in me speaking.

  “Hell, yes,” he says matter-of-factly.

  Is it strange that I like his response?

  What the hell has living in the world of the McCullens done to me? How have I not realized who I’ve become until I’m away?

  I finish what’s left of my coffee, wondering if he’s thinking about our earlier conversation and my confession of guilt as if he were my priest.

  Speaking of . . . “Are you religious?”

  “My parents never took us to church. I don’t know all that much about it, to be honest.”

  “My mother took me every weekend. We lived in a village outside of Rio, but we still had our own church. I think that, during prayer, she was always asking for God to deliver my father to us.” My hands fall into my lap, and I thread my fingers together. “How could she want to be with him, knowing what he did? My mother was such a good woman.”

  “Sometimes love is complicated,” he says slowly. “I was in love once. I think I was, at least.” He pauses for a moment, and his forehead wrinkles as if he regrets his words.

  His attention is cast down, toward his tattoo. “Samantha and I were polar opposites.”

  “Oh? What happened?” My heart rattles in my chest.

  “I was in college in California, and she was this wild bartender slash tattoo artist.” His chest lifts as he smiles and looks up, but his eyes are hidden by his glasses, and it keeps me from witnessing any real emotion. “She was a couple of years older than me and was always partying and having fun.”

  “Let me guess—you weren’t a partier.” He likes to be in control too much to let loose.

  “I was focused on being valedictorian. The pressure from my father was intense, but she got me to have fun sometimes.”

  “She gave you the tattoo?”

  His fingers rush down the ink, stopping at his wrist. “She said I was a lion. Powerful.” He smiles. “How could I say no to that?”

  I chuckle, but I know there’s a punch coming.

  “Anyway, I was prepping for my final exams, and I wasn’t paying attention to what started happening to her.”

  “Drugs,” I mouth the word, unable to stop it from slipping free when I put two and two together.

  I’ve seen so many people fall captive to drugs at Rory’s hand.

  He nods, slipping a hand beneath his glasses to his temple, pushing two fingers against his flesh as if there’s a sudden throb there. “I found her on graduation morning.”

  The nerves fist in my stomach and my heart breaks for him.

  “I never made it to the graduation ceremony. I went to her apartment to pick her up to bring her with me . . . and I found her on the floor. The tubing was still wrapped around her arm—her eyes open.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “I checked her pulse, I tried to bring her back, and when nothing worked, I called the one person I never should have. Dad was in California for the ceremony.” His forehead has a slight sheen of sweat, and the veins in his forearms darken.

  “Do you know what the prick did?” His voice deepens, hate searing through each of his next words as he says, “He took fucking pictures of her body before calling the police. He threatened that if I ever messed up or hung out with the so-called wrong person again, he’d share the pictures of Samantha with my mom and sister—hell, the whole world.” The chair legs scrape on the concrete. “My father was an asshole who pretended to be a good guy in a suit.” He stands. “At least your father didn’t fake it.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper the words, knowing such an overused phrase probably won’t mean much, and so I stand, too, maneuvering around our table to come before him. I reach for his sunglasses, remove and fold them, holding the black shades in my palm before finding his eyes.

  There’re no tears. But there’s fury, bright and almost toxic, and I can recognize it because I know how it feels to hate someone so much.

  I can see now why he likes to go shooting. His father is his target.

  Because I’m not good at handling situations like this, I say, “I’m still going to give my dad the worst-father-of-the-year award. But”—I gather some of his shirt in the palm of my free hand, tugging him closer to me—“I’m pretty comfortable with giving your dad second place.”

  He stares at me for a long moment, and I wonder if I blew it—I killed the moment when Cade King bared his soul to me.

  But then . . . his shoulders lift, and his head tips back just a touch as rich, velvety laughter flows from his mouth and deep from his stomach.

  After a few seconds, he shakes his head and covers my wrist with his warm, sun-kissed hand. I’m still clinging to the cotton fabric of his T-shirt.

  Cade’s full lips part, about to speak, but then his attention shifts away.

  Owen’s standing there, eyeing us, or more specifically, eyeing my hand clutching Cade’s shirt. “What’d I miss?” The oil is sweating through the brown bag he has tucked und
er his arm.

  “Um.” A gargling sound sputters from my mouth as I attempt to clear my throat, dropping my hand from Cade’s shirt in embarrassment. “I think I have a better idea for food,” I say after I catch sight of the fresh market stands off in the distance.

  Cade steps out of my reach, which makes things a little less awkward in Owen’s presence. He glances back, following my gaze. “I don’t have any idea how to cook.”

  Copying Owen’s signature move, I wink at the both of them once their attention returns to me. “It’s a good thing I do.”

  15

  Cade

  Owen’s standing over Gia’s shoulder, watching her cook, and I’m a couple feet behind taking in the sight.

  My attention keeps drifting down her tan back. She bought a dress at one of the markets when we were out today. It’s killing me that Owen is seeing her in it. It shows off too much skin. It’s silky and thin, with big bright flowers, and almost her entire back is exposed. She’s also not wearing a bra.

  When she bought it, she said she wanted to look the part, to feel Cuban or something. I can’t remember her exact words, because I was too distracted by the little dimple that popped in her right cheek when she smiled so damn big.

  I didn’t know cooking could be sexy. Then again, she does so many things that turn me on: the way her nose pinches together when Owen says something funny, or how she rolls her bottom lip between her teeth when she’s looking at me.

  I still can’t believe I told her about Samantha, that I opened up about my past . . . a past where I let a woman die because I was too busy trying to impress my father.

  I didn’t notice Samantha was in trouble, that she was an addict. I was too self-absorbed to find time to notice anything.

  Until today, no one other than my father knew about her.

  I don’t deserve redemption, but I can relate to what Gia’s going through. Her guilt.

  “So, this special dish you’re making is basically chicken and rice.” Owen grins and faces me.

  I swallow the rest of the Sangria Gia made and head for the pitcher to refill my glass. As much as I wanted Owen as a buffer yesterday, now I’d prefer he disappear. I don’t want to share Gia with anyone. I don’t know how much time we have, and I need to soak in every minute, to kiss every inch of her skin.