Ten Tiny Breaths (22 page)

The sudden Trent onslaught threw me
completely off my game—all my senses assaulted. But I finally catch
a handle on my wits, enough to will my hands to his chest, my
fingers raking along his abs to hook tight around his belt buckle.
I yank him hard against me until his erection digs into me. “Is
this clear enough?” I growl back. “I’m not the one who wants to
take things slow.”

Trent breaks free, a wild dark look in his
eyes, as if he’s shocked. He pulls me down off the couch and then,
spinning on his heels, he storms out of our apartment, yelling,
“don’t send any more fucking texts like that!”

I’m left standing there, shocked, speechless,
and turned on as hell.
He’s angry? He’s angry!
He’s
fucking angry!
I stomp over to the table and snatch my
phone.

Me:
What the Hell was that?

It takes two minutes but my phone beeps with
a message:

Trent:
You enjoy testing my will power.
Stop torturing me
.

What? Me torturing him? He’s the one with
this stupid, “thou shalt go slow” crap!

Me:
One little text hardly qualifies as
torture.

Trent:
It’s not just the one text.

Me:
Well then come back here.

Trent:
No, I told you we’re taking this
slow.

Me:
I think that ship sailed with your
little stare down game the other morning. According to the very
wise bible, we’re an old married couple.

I smirk with my bible comment. Aunt Darla
would have a coronary if she knew how I was using it to my
advantage. The smile is torn clean off my face when my phone chimes
again.

Trent:
You need help.

I stare at those three words for a long
moment, gritting my teeth. It’s not a surprise to me that he says
it. He’s said it before. Somehow though, seeing it in twelve point
font feels different. Official. I don’t respond.

A minute later …

Trent:
You’ve been through a terrible
ordeal and you’ve bottled everything up. You’re going to explode
one day.

Here we go. I rub my forehead with
frustration. Persistent fool.

Me:
What? You want the gory details about
how I lost my parents, best friend AND boyfriend, all in one night?
Does that kind of thing get you off?

That fire inside me rages again, the same one
from three days ago when he forced me into that therapy session. I
put the phone down and inhale deeply, trying to douse it before it
takes control.

I can’t stop myself from reading the next
text when the phone chimes.

I want you to trust me enough to tell me
about it. Or someone, at least.

Me:
This isn’t about trust! I’ve told you
that already! My past is my past and I need to bury it where it
belongs—In. The. Past.

Trent:
You’re vulnerable and I’m taking
advantage of you by letting things like what just happened,
happen.

I groan with exasperation.

Me:
Please, take advantage of me! I’m
giving you permission!

Trent doesn’t answer. I sigh, deciding to
treat his concerns seriously.

Me:
I’m fine, Trent. Believe me. I’m
better than I’ve been in a long time.

Trent:
No. You just think you are. I think
you’re suffering from a serious case of P.T.S.D.

I fling the phone against the wall that
adjoins our apartment, seething. Metal and plastic sails through
the air as the thing shatters.

Everyone wants to be my personal fucking
shrink.

***

I’m astonished when Trent show up at Penny’s
that night. More so, I can’t keep my mouth from hanging agape as I
watch him sit down by the bar, just like he did before, acting like
we hadn’t just had a nuclear-sized fight. I raise my chin a notch.
I’m not going to apologize. No damn way.

A box with a red bow magically appears in
front of him. He slides it forward, his dimples forcing a smile on
my face whether I like it or not.
Dammit!
Of course I go
over and open it. Who doesn’t love presents?

Inside is a brand new iPhone.

“Wasn’t hard to figure out what that loud
bang was against my wall when you didn’t answer my next text,”
Trent murmurs, an amused smirk on his face.

“Oh yeah?” I slide my tongue over my teeth,
acting all cool and unaffected. Inside, I’m not. I’m
so
not
unaffected by Trent right now. “What’d the text say?”

He shrugs, now feigning indifference as well.
I know he’s faking it too. That twinkle in his eye is his only
tell. “I guess you’ll never know.” He exhales deeply as he holds my
stare. It’s like the afternoon tension doesn’t exist anymore, and I
don’t see how that’s possible because I still feel it. He’s up to
something. I can’t figure out what though.

“Just think, our afternoon could have gone a
completely different direction had you not smashed your phone to
smithereens,” he says, sliding a straw into his mouth. His eyes
blaze with intentions.

Inside, it’s all I can do to stop myself from
leaping over the bar and into Trent’s lap. That’s inside. Outside,
I’m cool as a November chill. “What can I say? I have anger
management issues.”

His mouth twists as if in thought. “You need
to find a way to deal with those issues.”

“I have. It’s called pounding on a bag of
sand.”

His brow arches playfully. “Clearly it’s not
working well.”

I lean forward over the bar, resting my body
on my elbows. “And what would you suggest I pound on instead?”

“Jeez! Would you two just give in already?”
Storm calls out with mock exasperation, a martini shaker in her
hand.

I hadn’t realized how loud we were. Glancing
to my other side, I see Nate’s smirk, and I instantly flush. I
don’t know why, but I do. I’m always flushing lately.

Trent doesn’t answer Storm or me, taking a
long sip of his soda instead, and I delude myself into thinking
that maybe he’s finally given up on pushing me to deal with things
long since buried. Maybe this can work.

***

Over the next few weeks, Trent holds true to
his word about making me smile. Unfortunately, he also holds true
to his word about taking things slow. Only this time, he actually
does. After those few short and hot slip ups, the true unrestrained
Trent is chained and the one who occupies my time gives nothing
more than guarded kisses and hand-holding.

It’s enough to drive me insane.

Each day, I hop onto Trent’s bike, wrap my
arms around his chest, and I let him whisk me off. It always starts
off with the gym, likely because he doesn’t want to see me smash my
phone against the wall again. I’m finding now though that I don’t
have as much desire and focus to run through my drills with him
around. Those take attention and determination and, let’s face it,
bottled up rage. Trent has a dousing effect on my rage. We end up
goofing off and play fighting until we get dirty looks and decide
to leave. By that point I’m usually so hot and bothered by Trent
though that I’m okay with jumping into the shower. I keep hoping
he’ll lose his way and stumble in there. He never does.

The rest of the days are busy. Paint ball
fighting, bike riding along the Miami boardwalk, a Dolphin’s game,
restaurants, cafés, ice cream shops, a Frisbee league. It’s like
Trent’s got a “Make Kacey Smile,” itinerary and it’s jam-packed. By
the time I get to work each night, my face hurts from so much
smiling.

“Don’t you ever work?” I ask him one day as
we walk down the sidewalk.

He shrugs, squeezing my hand. “I’m between
contracts.”

“Huh. Well, aren’t you worried about paying
bills? You’re blowing all your money on me.”

“Nope.”

“Must be nice,” I mutter dryly, but I don’t
press any further. I just walk down the sidewalk, hand in hand with
Trent, letting my body absorb the sun’s warmth.

And I smile.

***

“Why don’t you stay until close?” I murmur
quietly.

Trent’s hand slides across his mouth as if
considering how to answer me. “Because then I’ll have to walk you
home.”

I frown, slightly taken aback. “Yeah, I can
see how that would be horrific.”

“No, you don’t get it.” His gaze slides to my
mouth before lifting back to my eyes. “What do you think will
happen when I walk you to your door?”

I shrug, catching his drift but playing dumb,
just so I can see what he says. He stands up and leans in, reaching
to grab an olive. When he looks at me again, his eyes have that
smoldering quality to them that he can’t hide from me completely,
the one that makes my knees wobble.

“At home, we don’t have Godzilla chaperoning
us.” His head jerks toward Nate, who’s ever watchful of Trent’s
close proximity.

I put on my best confused look. “Well Nate’s
not there when you walk me to my door during the day.”

He chuckles softly. Yup, there they are.
Those deep dimples that I want to run my tongue against. “You know
you’re shit at playing dumb.”

I press my lips together to keep from
smiling.

Trent leans further against the bar, close
enough that I’m the only one who can hear him. “I have a hard
enough time keeping my hands off you all day. I wouldn’t stand a
chance, knowing you’re about to get undressed and climb into
bed.”

I brace myself against the counter as I watch
him slide an olive in his mouth, his tongue curling around it.

So he wants to play dirty …

For the next week, I scavenge Storm’s closet,
picking the shortest, tightest, outfits I can find. I almost take
her sequined stage outfits one night. I make a point of leaning
over in front of Trent often throughout the night, swaying my hips
to the music. When Ben makes a snide comment about me getting ready
for my first stage performance, I nail him in the solar plexus and
continue on my way, earning a deep roar of laughter from Nate.

But I can’t seem to break this new resolve
Trent has. He only watches, resting on his elbows with his hands
folded in front of me. Watching me move. Watching me flirt with
him. Watching me turn myself into a hot mess over him.

Finally, one night, I lose it.

“Dammit, Trent!” I snap, slamming his club
soda on the counter in front of him. He looks taken aback. “What
the hell do I have to do to get your attention? Do I need to get up
there?” I throw an arm toward the stage.

His eyes swell for just a second, in shock.
He reaches forward to hold my hands, but he catches himself in time
and instead folds them across his chest. “Believe me, you have my
full attention.” He gives me a heated look that makes my mouth dry
up instantly. “You always have my attention. It takes every ounce
of my control not to show you how much attention you have.” As
quickly as that look came, it slides off. “I want you to get help,
Kace,” he says softly. “I’m here for you, every day. Always. I’ll
stand by you the entire time, but you need to get help. No human
can bury their past indefinitely. It’s only a matter of time before
you crack.”

“This is sexual blackmail!” I hiss. First, he
tried to force me into talking with that galactic hands free orgasm
and that back-fired. Now he’s withholding completely as a means to
forcing me. Bastard! I stalk away, refusing to look at him for the
rest of the night.

The next shift at Penny’s, Trent is proven
right.

Storm is doing her acrobat thing on stage and I’m watching her,
stealing frequent glances at my new phone for a text from Trent.
Nothing. He’s not here tonight. It’s the first night he hasn’t been
here in a long time and I feel his absence like a missing limb.
Maybe he’s finally given up on me. Maybe he realized I’m a lost
cause and he won’t be getting laid anytime this century if he waits
for me to break down and seek out therapy.

Storm’s feet touch down on the stage to a
raucous round of applause. She bends down to pick up her top,
covering her breasts as best she can with an arm. I’ve seen Storm
topless so many times by now, I don’t bat an eye. In fact, I’m
getting used to naked females all around me. I’m starting to feel
like the weirdo in the trench coat in the middle of a nudist
beach.

Storm’s amazing, I think for the hundredth
time, as the entire place claps and hoots. Everyone except a
scrawny guy in the corner. I see him there, shouting at her, waving
a fist full of money. He refuses to give it to the bouncer
collecting for her. I get the impression that Nate’s about to toss
him out on his skinny ass.

And then I don’t know how it happens, but the
guy somehow scampers past the bouncers and onto the stage,
screaming, “Bitch!” A blade appears. I watch in horror as he grabs
hold of Storm’s hair and yanks her head back. Even from my distant
vantage point, I see his dilated dark pupils. This guy’s on
something.

My jaw drops to scream, but nothing comes
out. Not a sound. With a swing of my arm to clear all the glasses
off the bar, I spring over and run, shoving people out of the way,
kicking and kneeing and punching as I clear a path through. Blood
rushes to my head and my feet pound the ground with each heartbeat
and all I can think is that I’m going to lose her. Another friend,
dead. Mia will grow up without her mother.

This can’t be happening again.

I reach the stage to find a cluster of tight
black shirts hovering. I can’t see Storm. I can’t see anything. I
push and shove and claw, but I can’t get past the wall. My hands
fly to my throat, assuming the worst possible outcome hidden
beneath this horde of bodies.

And I pray.

I pray to whoever decided to keep me alive
that they grant the same grace for Storm, who deserves it far more
than I ever did.

A giant erupts from the crowd bouncers.