Ten Tiny Breaths

by K. A. Tucker

  “Tell me where you wear that so I can be there to witness it.” His deep voice startles me again.

  I gasp as my head whips around to see Trent strolling toward me with a laundry bag slung over his shoulder. My breath hitches at the sight of him and those deep dimples he flashes shamelessly. It’s been more than two weeks since I bumped into him here, yet seeing him instantly ignites a fire within me.

  Again, with the laundromat? What are the chances? Inhaling deeply, I force myself to relax. I’m better prepared this time. I won’t act like a space cadet. I won’t let his beautiful face disarm me. I won’t … “Well, well. The Laundromat Lurker strikes again.”

  Trent smirks as his attention grazes over my body, stopping to survey the tattoo on my thigh for a moment before flittering back up to my face. By the time they get there, my pulse is racing and I think I may need to change my underwear. Dammit. Here we go again. “Round two,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

  His eyebrow quirks with surprise as he moves toward the open washer.

  I try not to ogle his body through his fitted white t-shirt, watching him dump a set of white sheets into the wash. “You wash your sheets a lot,” I observe coolly, thinking that’s a fairly innocuous comment.

  Trent’s hands pause for a second and then he continues, chuckling and shaking his head but saying nothing. He doesn’t need to. I’ve clued into what my observation could imply and I groan inwardly, fighting the urge to smack myself in the forehead, my face growing even warmer. Any upper hand I thought I had when he walked in just dissolved into a hot mess at my feet.

  I’m sure his sheets see a lot of action. He’s got to have a girlfriend. Someone like him must have a girlfriend. Or a string of fuck buddies. Either way, now I want to crawl into a hole and hide until he leaves.

  “What can I say? It’s hot in Miami without A/C,” he offers after a moment as if to ease the awkwardness. That’s what I fool myself into thinking anyways, until he throws in, “even without clothes, I wake up boiling,” and deftly layers on to my mortification.

  Trent sleeps naked. My mouth dries as my focus unavoidably latches onto his frame again. On the other side of my living room wall is this god, in a bed, lying naked. Though I thought impossible, my pulse quickens even further.

  I open my mouth to change topics, but I can’t grasp onto anything coherent. Words swim inside my head, stringing into gibberish. I can’t come up with one damn remotely intelligent answer. Not one. Me, who can crack orgy jokes and crush arrogant ball sacks with the best of them, is floored. He has smoothly splintered my defensive shield with nothing but bed sheets and a naked visual.

  And those damn dimples.

  I watch the muscles in his shoulders shift as he pours detergent into the machine. Who knew doing laundry could be sexy. When he turns to me and winks, I jump.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod and try to make an affirmative sound but it comes out sounding like a strangled cat and I’m sure my entire head has caught on fire now.

  He slams the lid on the washer and pushes the coins in to start the wash, then turns to me, leaning in. “To be honest, I saw you walking past me with your laundry and I grabbed the first thing I could think to wash.”

  Wait … what’s he saying? I shake my head to kick the haze out. I think he’s telling me something important.

  He grins as he pushes a hand back through his unkempt hair. I want to do that, I think, involuntarily flexing my fingers. Please let me do that. In fact, I want to do all kinds of things to him. Right here in this dingy basement. On the washer. On the floor. Anywhere. I battle the urge to lunge at him like a rabid animal. Hell, I’m panting like one right now.

  “So, what do people do for fun around here?” he asks, leaning back at bit to give me space, like he can read that I’m about to pass out from his proximity.

  “Uh …” It takes me a moment to find my voice. And my wits. “Hang out in laundromats?” My words come out shaky. Dammit—what is wrong with me?

  He laughs, his gaze settling on my lips. The feel of his eyes there makes me spew out words that my brain hasn’t approved yet. “I don’t know. I just moved here. I haven’t had any fun yet.” Ohmigod Kacey. Shut up! Just shut up! Now you sound like an airhead and a loser!

  With a lopsided grin, he leans against the washer and crosses buff arms over his chest. And then he stares at me. That stare lasts an eternity, until sweat starts to trickle down my back. “Well, we need to change that, don’t we?”

  “Huh?” I croak, heat igniting in my lower belly. He has effectively stripped me bare of my titanium cover again. He’s tossed it to another planet where I have no hope of ever finding it. I am naked and vulnerable and his eyes are boring into my core.

  His body slides across his washer until he’s leaning on mine, his hip nudged up against me, his arm stretched out to the opposite corner of the machine in front of me, effectively invading all personal space. “Change the fact that you’re not having any fun,” he murmurs. My breath snags. I feel like he’s reached into my body and seized my pounding heart. Does he have any idea what he’s doing to me? Am I that obvious?

  His index finger reaches up and runs down my temple, down my cheek, to join the rest of his hand to cup my jaw. He rubs my hanging bottom lip with the pad of his thumb as I gawk up at him. I can’t move. Not a muscle, like his touch has the power to paralyze. “You are so very beautiful.”

  My nerves are a ball of contradictions. His fingertip feels so damn good against my lip and yet that voice is screaming, No! Stop! Danger!

  “So are you,” I hear myself whisper and I instantly curse the traitor within.

  Do. Not. Let.This. Happen.

  He leans in closer and closer until his breath caresses my mouth. I’m paralyzed. I swear he’s going to kiss me.

  I swear I’m going to let him.

  But then he stands up straight, as if remembering something. Clearing his throat, he says with a wink, “See you around, Kacey.” He turns and vanishes up the stairs, his long legs taking two steps at a time.

  “Ye … Yeah. Fo … for sure,” I stutter, leaning against the machine for support as my legs turn to jelly. I’m sure I’m two seconds away from melting into a puddle on the concrete floor. I fight the urge to chase after him. One … two … three … I struggle to shake off the uncomfortable edge that has slinked into my body. Hunching over, I lay my cheek against the machine, my flushed skin reveling in the feel of the cool metal.

  He’s one hell of a player. I’m usually so good at shutting them down. Being a female in a male-dominated gym, I dealt with those juiced up egomaniacs at O’Malleys every day. Hold my bag for me … Dominate me … The comments were never-ending and uncreative. Then, when the lot of them decided that I must be a lesbian because I hadn’t dropped my shorts for anyone, the stupid comments increased tenfold.

  I’ve never had issues resisting the hottest of them. None of them have broken though this masterful wall of self-preservation I’ve constructed around myself. I enjoyed sparring with them. I loved knocking them to their knees. But never had they stirred any interest from me, physical or otherwise.

  But Trent … there’s something different about him, and I don’t have to think hard to see it. Something about the way he takes over a room, the way he looks at me, like he has already identified and can disarm every one of my defense mechanisms with no effort, like he sees through them to the disaster lying beneath.

  And he wants it.

  “Fucking player,” I mutter as I run to the sink. A splash of water temporarily douses the flames in my chest. He’s smooth. Oh so smooth. Way more sophisticated than the asshats I normally deal with. “You’re so very beautiful,” I repeat, followed by a harsh mock of myself saying “so are you.” I’m sure he tells everyone that. Watch, he’ll meet Storm and say the exact same thing. Oh God. My gut spasms, my fists clenching so tight that my knuckles go white. What’ll happen when he meets Storm? He’ll fall in love with her, that’s what. He�
��s a guy. What guy wouldn’t fall in love with Sweet Stripper Barbie? And then I’ll become nothing other than that head case in 1C and I’ll have to watch them cuddle on the couch, and listen to them have wild-stripper sex on the other side of my bedroom wall, and I’ll want to rip Storm’s arms off. Dammit. I crank up the cold water and splash my face again. In no time, this guy has created permanent fissures in my carefully constructed suit of sanity, and I don’t know how to fight against it, to protect myself, to keep him out.

  To keep all of them out.

  Ninety-nine percent of me knows I need to keep him at arm’s length. There’s no point considering him. He’ll get one look at my shit and he’ll run, leaving a bigger mess behind. And yet, as I eye the washer where he just stood, where his bed sheets swirl, I give serious consideration to stealing them and leaving a “come and get it” note in its place. No. I shove angry hands through my thick mane, gripping the back of my head as if to keep it from exploding. I need to stay away from him. He’s going to ruin everything I’ve worked so hard to put in place.

  Suddenly, I can’t get out of that laundromat fast enough.

  ***

  Mia and Livie sit cross-legged on the living room floor with a Chutes and Ladders board game between them. A freshly showered Storm dumps a pot of spaghetti noodles into a pot of boiling water. “I hope you don’t mind veal in your sauce,” she says as I step in without knocking. I figure we’re past the knocking stage. I just touched her thongs, after all.

  “That’d be great. Your clothes are all here.”

  She looks over her shoulder at the hamper and shock twists her face. “Did you fold my underwear for me?”

  “Uh ... No?”

  Turning a bit more to see my face, still drenched from the tap water, she frowns. “What happened to you?”

  How do I explain I had to have a mini-cold shower in the laundromat because that damn smooth-talking neighbor of ours cornered me? I don’t.

  “It was Stephen King’s Maximum Overdrive all over again. The washing machine came to life and attacked me. Laundry and I are officially on no-speaking terms.”

  “I’ve never read that book,” Storm says at the same time that I hear a tiny frightful gasp.

  “I’m not surprised,” I mumble as I head toward the kitchen, catching a scathing glare from Livie for scaring Mia. Our dad made us watch all the movies from his era as a way of keeping the classics alive. Most of the time, no one in my generation has a clue what I’m talking about.

  Storm turns to face me wearing an apron that reads, How’s the sauce? Has anyone seen my Band-Aid? and a big grin. “Hey, so I spoke to my boss. Job’s yours if you want it.”

  “Storm!” My eyes bug out.

  Her long blond locks sway as she tips her head back to laugh, my surprise apparently amusing. I can tell she’s happy to give me the news. I get the impression that she genuinely wants to help us and for no reason other than because she’s just that nice.

  “I haven’t decided yet.” Liar, yes you have. Good money is good money and as long as I don’t have to strip, I can handle standing in the middle of a vagina circus.

  “What job is this?” Livie pipes up, her curiosity peaked.

  “A job with me, where I work,” Storm explains.

  “My mommy gets paid to give people drinks, in a restaurant. Like this!” Mia scrambles to her feet and runs over to grab an empty cup from the counter. “Would you like a glass of lemonade, Madam?” She carries it to Livie with the utmost care and bows.

  “Why, thank you, kind waitress,” Livie gushes theatrically and proceeds to gulp back the imaginary drink like she’s just crossed the Sahara desert, finishing with a wink for Mia. But, when she turns to me, her brow is furrowed with unease. “Serving more than lemonade, I take it?”

  I nod, dropping my focus to re-arrange the cutlery on the table before I can meet her worried gaze again. Her bottom lip is sucked into her mouth. She’s trying hard to stop it from quivering and I know what she’s thinking. She’s afraid I’ll spiral back into that dark place where the tequila is flowing and the one-night-stands are frequent. Even though I’ve promised her a hundred times that that phase is over, she’s still terrified of losing me to it again. I can’t blame her.

  That’s why I’m surprised by her next words. “You should take it, Kacey.”

  My head cocks to the side as I regard her.

  She shrugs. “If you’re serving them, you can cut them off, right?”

  “Right.” I nod slowly, processing that logic. Livie always finds the good in things. I steal a glance at Storm to see her intently focused on stirring her tomato sauce. I know she must have heard that. She’s got to be wondering what dark skeletons these two neighbors of hers have in their closet. As usual, she has the decency not to pry.

  “And there’s good money in tips from what I hear,” Livie adds. “Maybe I can get fake ID and get a job there too!”

  “No!” Storm and I shout in unison and share a silent look. A look that says this is good enough for us, but not for Livie. She’s too good for this world.

  “Mommy? Are you working tonight?” Mia’s tiny voice chirps up, delaying more of Livie’s questions.

  Storm smiles sadly at her daughter. “Yes, honey bear.” It has to be hard, leaving her six nights in a row.

  “Can I stay with Livie? Please, Mommy?” Mia holds her hands together in front of her as if she’s praying.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Mia. I think you’ve monopolized enough of Livie’s time today, don’t you think?”

  “But, noooo … Mommy!’ Mia whines and stomps around the room in a circle, reminding everyone that she is only five years old. She stops in a huff, throwing her arms around herself, and scowls. “I don’t like Mrs. Potterage!”

  “She’s a nice lady, Mia,” Storm says with a sigh, like she’s said it a hundred times before. To me she leans in and whispers, “I don’t blame the poor kid. Potterage smokes like a burning oil field. But I can usually rely on her for at least four nights a week.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Livie jumps in with a pat on Mia’s back.

  “See Mommy? Livie says, yes!”

  Storm cringes. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. In fact, I’m more than happy to watch her every night if you want,” Livie offers with complete seriousness.

  “Oh, Livie. I work six days a week. That’s a lot to ask of a fifteen year old. You deserve to go out and party or, whatever fifteen year olds are doing these days.”

  Livie’s already shaking her head. “No it’s not and I don’t mind.” She pinches Mia’s cheek, as taken by the child as Mia is of her. “I’d love it.”

  There’s a long pause and Storm swallows, considering it. “You’d have to let me pay you for your time. No more arguing.”

  Livie’s hand waves dismissively. “Yeah, fine. Whatever. She’ll be asleep most of the time anyway and Kacey will be at work with you, right? So at least I won’t be alone.”

  All three turn to look at me hopefully.

  I heave a loud sigh. “Just drinks, right? I’m not serving anyone … anything else.”

  Storm’s irises twinkle. “Not unless you want to.”

  “And I don’t have to wear anything revealing?”

  “Well …”

  My head drops back and rolls from one side to the other. “Here we go.”

  “I was just going to say that you’ll make more money showing a bit of cleavage than you will dressed as a Mormon. A lot more money. I’d show a teensy tiny bit of skin, if I were you.”

  I sigh again. “And I can quit if I don’t like it? No hard feelings?”

  “Absolutely, Kacey. No hard feelings,” Storm asserts, holding a wooden spoon in front of her face as if she’s pledging.

  A long pause, just enough to make Storm squirm. “Okay.”

  “Great!” Storm throws her toned arms around me, oblivious that the contact is making my insides churn and the voice in my head scream. She breaks away just as quickly
and moves back to her pot of sauce, allowing me a chance to exhale. “You start tonight, by the way.”

  “Tonight. Fun.” I can’t keep the sarcasm from my voice as butterflies start their mad dash around my belly, killing my appetite. I hug my arms tight to my body, acknowledging that a club’s worth of new people means handshakes and questions about personal shit that are none of anyone’s business. I’m not ready for this. I haven’t prepared … One … two… three … four… By the time I reach ten, I’m freaking out.

  Stage Three ~ Resistance

  Chapter Four

  We pull up to Penny’s Palace in Storm’s Jeep just as the sun is dropping over the horizon. Storm doesn’t even have the thing in park before I jump out. When she walks around to meet me on my side, it’s with a look I’m long since used to—a mixture of surprise and concern. She doesn’t comment though.

  She does comment on me tugging at the short black skirt I borrowed from her. “Stop fidgeting.” She swats my hand away. “I never would have taken you for the nervous type.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re ass isn’t hanging out. I can’t believe I agreed to wear this Band-Aid. I’m going to bend over and show everyone my girl bits.”

  Storm laughs. “Of course you should wear that Band-Aid. It shows those awesome legs of yours off.”

  “It’s showing more than my legs,” I mutter, giving it another tug to cover the bottom of my tattoo. I’m not ashamed of that. I just don’t want to draw more attention to myself than necessary.

  “Good Lord! For such a tough act, you really are a big sissy girl, aren’t you?”

  She’s right. I guess I’m just out of my element here and it’s causing me to second-guess everything. If this were the gym, I’d have no problem in tiny shorts that hug my ass. But this isn’t the gym and I’m not allowed to kick the crap out of anything here.

  I cock my head to the side as I take in Storm. “Did you just call me a sissy girl?”

  She doesn’t miss a beat. “Did you just say ‘girl bits’? This is an adult club, not a day care.”