Breathe

by C. L. Matthews

  Her anger brought me some type of satisfaction. The depraved kind that shouldn’t thrive on such emotions. I can’t help the way it got me hard, knowing she was unreasonably jealous that I cared enough about Lo. I can’t stop that either. It was built into me at a young age. It’s something that lives in me and never died even when our friendship did.

  I hear the water shut off, and a moment later, my wife walks through the door. Her eyes are sunken and red, but for the most part, they’re not teary. She’s such a goddamn mess, and I haven’t seen her look more beautiful. I can’t help the part of me that drives me forward. There’s no resisting the urge to touch her face, cup it, and rub circles. I’m losing. I’m fucking losing this battle with my heart. But she doesn’t look happy or proud. She’s back to being that woman with all the walls, the hardened ice queen who feels nothing. Her scars may be visible, but that thick scar tissue around her heart is as numb as she is.

  If she didn’t remind me so much of Lo, I’d probably care. But I can’t be that guy again. A second choice. I can’t leave either. Not just because of her father’s threats, but because losing her feels like a death wish. She’s vital to me. Not a moment goes by when she isn’t fighting her way into my mind. I love her. I hate her. I wish we were in a better place.

  She deserves better.

  I deserve better.

  This is so fucked up.

  Seeing her with Frankie broke something in me last night. It couldn’t have just been him with her and the chance of them fucking, even if he denies every second of it. It was the fact that my wife was feeling. She was broken and instead of me holding her, fixing her, and being the man she needs, it was him.

  He held her.

  He eased her hurt.

  He fixed what I couldn’t.

  I stood by like a fucking onlooker the entire time and that hurt. No one gets to touch her like that. No one gets what is mine or loves what isn’t theirs to love.

  She’s mine, goddammit.

  “Why are you glaring at me?” she mumbles, her voice wobbly with emotion as I tentatively go to hold her face between my palms. And fuck if that doesn’t ignite something deep inside me. She’s something else. The power she wields over me is unreal.

  “I’m not,” I say, bringing some of my own walls back up. When she shuts down, I have to do the same. If I care when she doesn’t, she hurts me. Since she never feels, I’m always suffering in the pain of being alone. She abandons me every time she escapes into her mind.

  She hurts me more than Lo ever could, and if she knew that she held that much power, maybe she’d destroy me entirely.

  “Are too. You have that big-ass wrinkled forehead and narrowed eyes. It’s how you look at me when you leave and fuck random women.”

  The word fuck and random women shouldn’t be used in the same sentence, coming out of her mouth, no less.

  I drop my hand from her face, knowing that if I continue this physical connection between us, I’ll cave. Why I hold on so unapologetically, I’m not sure.

  I’m just waiting for her to leave me, too.

  That’s what they all do.

  Toss me away.

  Choose better paths. Find something easier. Leave.

  “Why did you meet up with Loren?” I ask, stopping her questioning eyes. Her face scrunches like she’s even worse off than moments ago. I want to hug her and reassure her, but that would only create a false sense of comfort. Lies. I’ve cheated on her. She cheated on me. We’re a hot-ass mess.

  “You’ve always been so obsessed,” she admits, her voice small and uncertain. I did that. I took a strong and fierce woman and turned her into one who doesn’t feel that anymore. How could I ruin such a beautiful part of her?

  “I loved her,” I whisper. The only admission she’ll get.

  “Love,” she corrects. “You love her and always will. I’m not sure why I tried to compare. There’s nothing like a man’s first love, the one who got away, the one they’ll always pine after.” The words are bitter and empty as though she has every feeling toward them but refuses to allow them to filter through. I don’t blame her. For the past year, I’ve used every word of hers against her.

  “I needed to know what made her special. It helps that I work for you, that I’m a chef who went to the same school and had the same professor. It was easy asking for help. Seeing if she had any advice for me to finally leave.”

  My breath comes out ragged, the sharp intake of air as her words hit something vital inside me, warning me I’ve finally lost. She gave up. The battle is no more. The pang of hurt that slices me shouldn’t cut so deep, but it keeps going until it breaks through the bone protecting the lifeless heart that beats inside.

  She wants to leave.

  She plans to leave.

  She’s going to leave.

  The words play on repeat in my head, smashing my thoughts of everything away. She’s not going to fight anymore. What did I expect? For her to live with our choices and keep the agreement to fuck who we want? Obviously, she wants more. Maybe her new fuck buddy showers her with love and orgasms. Maybe his dick is bigger than mine. Maybe he’s what she’s leaving me for.

  Rage blinds me as I cup her face again. My eyes slice into her, needing to get deep, needing to hit it where it matters, no matter the pain. Her chest rises with a quick breath. She worries her lip, and I watch in amazement as her eyes fly to mine. They’re so telling. They give me what I need when I can’t stand her numbness. They melt for me, giving me life when there’s nothing to offer.

  “No one will ever be me, Josephine.”

  The words are harsher than intended, but as I said, pain will come whether I’m opposed to it or not.

  “Heard that one before, Tobias.” She raises her eyebrows. “And guess what? I’m not fucking impressed with what I get from you.”

  Walking us both backward to the chaise lounge, I push her down gently, guiding her body to where mine covers it. “It seems you’ve forgotten how good I am to you when it’s beneficial for me.”

  She smacks my palm away. “That’s the key ingredient, isn’t it? Beneficial for you. I’m done with this shit. Get off me.”

  It hurts to hear those words. But with her past and what’s she experienced, I don’t push. I rise up on my feet and watch as tears gloss her eyes.

  Fuck.

  I can’t believe I pushed her to tears. Did I break her trust again? Did I lose all the progress I finally gained?

  “I’m sorry.” I mean it. It’s sincere. Her trust is something I’d never betray. Her heart, I’ve obviously lost that battle. But her body? Never. That’s hers. It’s her choice.

  “Don’t be... I just...” she sniffles. “You were with someone else last night. Having you that close, I hate it.”

  I swallow back the dryness. She’s right. I’m a prick. “No one is you either, Gumby.”

  Her eyes connect with mine with a ferocity that hurts to see. “Don’t fucking call me that. You lost that right when you stepped out on me.”

  “Stepped out on you?!” I holler, unable to refrain from raising my voice. “You fucked Francis first. You cheated first. I just followed in your footsteps.”

  “Fuck you,” she hisses. “I’m done with this. You’re like a fucking tornado, Tobias. You spin me around and around, leaving a chaotic mess of me, and then when you’re done, you apologize. It’s bullshit. You are bullshit.”

  She heads toward our room, and a few minutes later, I follow. I can’t let her leave like this. Not while she’s upset and angry. I’ve walked away so many times. I’ve hurt her, and now I need to see what makes her stay.

  It’s not my money.

  It’s apparently not my dick.

  It has to be something like her dad threatening her too.

  She’s no Lo.

  She doesn’t stay for love. No one in their right mind would.

  “Go away,” she growls as I close the door behind us. My eyes roam her lithe body. The wide set of her hips, her long legs, and
when she turns, her bare breasts overwhelm me. She’s fucking gorgeous. It’s why I keep my distance when she changes or showers. I need to be strong because seeing her without clothing is too fucking maddening. Not just to my dick, but to my soul. She shreds through me.

  She shouldn’t be allowed to be naked. Not when passions are heavy, especially when they’re the angry kind as it brings me little control.

  She holds all the power. She always has. It’s why I’m not jumping her right now, reclaiming what’s mine and fucking her into submission. But, God, I want to.

  “Fuck,” I breathe, loving that the freckles I’ve fallen in love with still go beyond her cheeks and nose. Her body is a masterpiece. She’s so beautiful and so goddamn mine. Even if we’ve both forgotten that fact.

  “Don’t come any closer.” She sighs, and it’s in those words that I hear the weakness. Either I need to test this limit and touch her, or she needs to smack me.

  My feet move before I can process what’s happening, and she doesn’t stop me. I halt several steps away and wait for her to tell me to leave her. We have that trust. She knows she can tell me no. It’s something I love about us.

  When my feet touch hers, she bites her lip. It’s an expression I’ve missed. Our hatred is turmoil, how it burns and ignites by contact. We’re the gasoline, and the fire is our passion.

  We’re a disaster together, but apart, we’re non-existent. I need her. She needs me.

  “Tell me to stop, Joey. Tell me to fucking stop.” The heat of my words has her licking her lips. There’s something in her expression. It boils beneath the surface, and I want to touch and taste it. See if it burns as much as it looks like it will.

  She doesn’t say anything, but she tilts her head to give me access. I bend and kiss her throat. Fuck. The taste of her is so fresh and lively. She’s a goddamn treat after the staved dryness I’ve experienced. I don’t kiss women. Joey being my only exception.

  Just as going down on them isn’t allowed, kissing isn’t either. My relations with them were strictly meant to hurt Joey. It had no value in connection. It did nothing but make me loathe myself further.

  She can’t hate me any more than I hate myself. Of that, I’m now certain.

  I could die and be at ease, but then she’d have to live with my ruin.

  No one deserves that burden. Even if she asked for it.

  “This means nothing,” she whimpers. “Hate can feel just as good as love.”

  And with those words, she’s walking into our bathroom and leaving me with the hardest erection I’ve had in ages.

  Fuck. That resilience. It’s what drew me to her. It hasn’t ebbed even an ounce. She’s just a good fucking liar.

  So am I.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Past

  Joey

  “I can’t believe you.” I hear Wesley before I see him. Why did the front doorman let him through? Didn’t Francis tell them he wasn’t allowed here?

  He wasn’t allowed to breathe in the same vicinity because no one wanted an STD. Especially when one walks straight through the front door.

  “I’m sorry, you’ve mistaken me for someone who cares about what the hell you’re talking about,” I bite out, gripping the Hollow Ridge Post and reading all the new shit about my dad and Marsha. They’re campaigning for senate. Mayor of Hollow Ridge wasn’t enough, so they had to keep rising higher. Guess the power-hungry whore finally convinced Dad.

  “This, Josey!” he yells, and I don’t spare him a glance. My eyes are stuck on an image where I’m photoshopped in. Literally. No one could say this is me with them. For one, I don’t go home, and two, it’s been weeks since we spoke, and this outfit is the one Marsha wore at dinner that horrible night six weeks ago.

  Those fuckers.

  They knew I wouldn’t campaign with them and make them seem perfect. Why lie for them when they do it much better than me?

  “Stop ignoring me, Joey. Fuck,” Wesley complains. I almost forget he’s here. Folding the newspaper, feeling much older than my nineteen years, I see him standing there right beside me. His hair is disheveled, his eyes red, which for once aren’t because he’s high, and his clothes are in a state of disarray. Seems like our split did way more for me than it did for this loser.

  Rolling my eyes at his disheveled appearance, I set the newspaper down on the coffee nook and stand. “Why are you here?” It comes out more scathing than intended, but he doesn’t deserve anything less. He starts for me, holding some document in his hands, and I’m already bored.

  He doesn’t get to waltz into my new home, one where happiness thrives and cheaters don’t exist.

  Wasted time, that’s all I got from this idiot.

  “This,” he hisses, nearly crumpling the paper in his hands. “What the fuck is it?!” It’s an accusation, but one which makes zero sense.

  How the hell would I know?

  Am I a magician who conjures answers out of my ass? VOILA! Answers.

  No, dipshit. That’s not how any of this works.

  “You ask me as if I’m aware of what you’re going on about. I’m not. So, leave.”

  “That’s just great, Joey. Just fucking superb.” He sets the paper down. “Don’t act like you don’t know that you sent your marriage certificate to my apartment.” Not yours, fuckface. It was in my name.

  Wait. Did he say marriage certificate? Out of all the words he said, those are definitely the strangest. He couldn’t have. I’m not married. Not... married.

  “Did you say marriage certificate?” I balk. The information trickles through my veins like spiderwebs weaving. There’s no—

  “That’s what this says right here.”

  —way.

  My eyes widen, and I feel them trying to pop out of my head as I grip the paper he discarded. The paper, unlike most, is fancy and thick. The watermark of Las Vegas all over it and the holographic emblem on top confirms how not fake this document is.

  What the actual fuck?

  “When did you get married? The week we broke up? Or were you so enamored with this Tobias Hayes that you didn’t wait even a day?”

  I start to interrupt him because there’s no way I would have married anyone, especially Toby.

  “No, let me tell you since the paper shows. This was filed three days after we broke up. Three days, Joey. God, I knew you were in your head while we were together, but it seems this Toby loser was probably seeing you for ages, and I was none the wiser.”

  “Oh, fuck off. I didn’t cheat on you. This must be some joke from Dad. I didn’t get married.”

  He scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. It’s then I notice how gaunt he’s gotten since we broke up. What, did he finally realize how big of a douche he was?

  Only took him two years.

  Too bad it was a little too late for us both. I’m happy here with Gray and Francis. They’re kind and supportive, and they push me to strive for more. Hell, even working at Mi Casa is nice. There are no strings—other than a five-year obligatory contract—that keep me here. I like it.

  Working for someone like Toby was nothing I was prepared for. Unlike his outside demeanor, he’s an amazing manager. His books are perfection, his employees are absolutely wonderful, and he doesn’t belittle me unless it’s in private.

  Which is a daily occurrence, but almost like some creepy thing I expect.

  “Well, thought you should know about this,” he mutters unhappily. “Figured you already knew and celebrated.” He looks around the McMansion and grinds his teeth. “Must be a rich sugar daddy with nice digs—”

  “Do you talk to all women this way, or is Ladybug just special?” Francis scolds, joining the commotion between me and Wes. His eyes are dark and hardened. The usual soft exterior of the man who’s saved me from being homeless is nowhere to be found. He looks two seconds away from ripping Wes apart. If not with his handsomely striking looks, it’d be with the power behind his words.

  “You must be Toby, Josey’s husband.”
>
  My mouth falls agape at the words Wes purposely unloads. Francis’s eyes shoot to mine. Intrigue and betrayal glittering in the pretty gray storms residing there.

  I shake my head, hoping he can read the he’s insane look. It has to be a joke. Has to be.

  “Ah, no. I’m Francis. Her, as you blatantly slurred, sugar daddy.” He adds a thick French accent and directs a saucy look my way. It warms me. Since moving in here, Francis and I decided to stay friends and save Gray the hurt of seeing her best friend and Dad doing more than just talking. I mean, it’d be hot and sensual, no doubt, but Gray means a great deal to me. Him, too.

  Wes’s face is comical, his jaw open and wide. “You really are a whore—” he starts, but Francis stops him.

  “It’s time for you to leave. We don’t appreciate name-calling in this household, especially not from the likes of a beach bum.”

  I smile gratefully at Francis, loving that he said something before I could make an ass of myself and charge Wes. “Goodbye, Wesley. Again. Next time, just don’t.”

  “Josey—”

  “No. This conversation and any remnants of our friendship are over. Leave.”

  He walks out, and I watch as the two guards make sure he’s escorted off the premises. Francis doesn’t let anything slip.

  “What did he mean when he said husband?” His eyebrow hitches up, and it’s almost like he bites the inside of his cheek.

  “Honestly, I don’t know. He gave me this document and said it showed up at his place. It looks legit enough, but I don’t recall ever getting married.” Handing him the piece of paper, I watch as Francis’s eyes widen. Awareness and apprehension lick his features, coating them with disbelief and annoyance. It’s the same expression he had at that dinner with Toby. The one where he fucked me and ran off.

  I thought it’d be different. That we’d hit it off. He called me his, and since then, I can’t tell you how many times my BOB brought me pleasure with him in mind. That night blew my expectations. More. That’s what I want.

  “You married Toby,” he whispers, his voice solemn. The subversiveness hurts to hear. It almost slices through me like my favorite knife does through vegetables.